JACOB K. HUFF

Deceased

The Philosophy of
Jake Haiden

(Late JACOB K. HUFF)

SELECTED FROM THE COLUMNS OF
THE READING TIMES, READING, PENNSYLVANIA

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL APPRECIATION
BY HIS FRIEND
Henry W. Shoemaker
(President of Reading Times)

“A link is broken that bound us to the infinite.”

Copyright, 1911
The Reading Times Publishing Company

READING, PA.
The Reading Times Publishing Company

Biographical Appreciation

Sudden death, in the midst of productive work, throws into bolder relief a career destined for immortality. The cessation of a train of brilliant and helpful ideas creates a want, and causes a careful examination of all that has been previously done, and a just estimate of its worth. These alone can be the consolations for the taking off of a genius like the late Jacob K. Huff, known to his readers as “Jake Haiden,” “Faraway Moses,” and “Finnicky Finucane.” After a long struggle against obscurity and adverse circumstances he had emerged into an open country where kind words of appreciation and growing fame greeted him on every side. His message, which the modern life in this country, with its growth of class distinctions, a self-constituted aristocracy, a rapidly developing governing class, a contempt for the lowly born, a forgetfulness of gentleness, a striving for self-advancement, and the train of kindred evils, rendered imperative, was checked, but its echoes will be felt through the years. He seemed to be the one voice strong enough and fearless enough to do battle with the injustices of the big world, yet he viewed it all from the porch of a modest cottage in a hamlet where there was no railroad, no trolley, and few strangers ever penetrated. His vision entered palaces of the supercilious rich, into the inner sanctums of capitalists, of cringing editors; into the homes of neglectful parents, undutiful children, designing wives, white slavers, and other evildoers. His kindly words soothed the tired spirits of the unfortunate, and as he never preached, and seldom condemned, he offered a loophole for improvement, rather than promising punishment to the so-called “wicked.” He was always ready to forgive, to lend a helping hand, and though his infinite mind grasped all the depths of sin and sorrow in the world, he believed in the innate goodness of his fellow beings. The modern world was learning to walk along cleaner and better pathways, and he acted like the careful parent, assisting the unsteady youngster in its course. His writings do not contain a single word of rancor; it is amazing that a man who fought so much oppression and crime could do so without descending to invective or abuse. That was the secret of his success. If clergymen could follow in his footsteps many an empty tabernacle would be crowded on the Sabbath.

In a sense, the biography of a writer discloses the hidden springs and motives for the development of his career. It would be difficult for a writer not springing from the people to fight the people’s battles with the pen. A man of the people like Abraham Lincoln represented them thoroughly because he was of them, and at no time in his life did his opportunities or tendencies cause him to forget his original environment. Jacob Huff was born among the “great mass of humanity” and his development came like Lincoln’s through struggles and disappointments, aided by perseverance and hard work, until his voice, clear and sympathetic, was heard above the multitude. Some day an appreciative state will seek out and mark the lowly cabin in the Pennsylvania mountains where he first saw the light. Like Plato and many another wise man of the past, his message will live in his disciples, and grow brighter, and more necessary with the advancement of time. It was in such a cabin that Lincoln was born in the Kentucky wilds that Jacob Huff was ushered into being in Clinton County, Pennsylvania, on January 31, 1851. His father was John Huff, a typical backwoodsman, sturdy, brave, and good natured. His mother was a German girl, Eve Kalmbach, whose parents had left the Rhine country and cleared a homestead high among lonely Pennsylvania hills. His father’s mother was Elizabeth Walker, of Scotch-Irish ancestry, and from her came the strain of humor, and perseverance that did so much to weld his destiny into a successful whole. His mother is described as kindly and intelligent, with a mystic side to her nature, observable in her distinguished son’s traits of sentiment and tenderness. From earliest youth Jacob Huff knew little but the most grinding toil. His first occupation, however, was rather pleasurable, and he always liked to reminisce on the subject. In 1864, Colonel James Williams Quiggle, of McElhattan, directly across the Susquehanna from Jacob’s mountain home, had conceived the idea of starting an “American Tea Industry.” It is a known fact that the Pennsylvania mountains produce a tea plant that rivals in flavor the choicest product of Japan. Thousands of acres of wild lands were either bought or optioned, and a tea house after a Japanese design was erected on a plateau back of the smaller of the two McElhattan mountains. Men and boys in considerable numbers were engaged to pick, sort, and dry the leaves, and little Jacob hearing of the work, tramped down from the high mountains and started for the “tea camp,” his first situation away from home. Darkness had come on soon after he reached McElhattan, and he spent the night with a family who lived at the “X Roads,” there meeting the black-haired, black-eyed young girl with the cameo face who played such an important part in the life of his dear, though older friend in years, the gifted poet, Montgomery Quiggle. He was given a chance at the tea camp, which was often visited by the genial Col. Quiggle. This was probably the first man of education he had met at close range, and his interest and politeness to the small tea-picker lingered as one of the pleasantest of his earlier memories. Col. Quiggle, it may be said, was a fine type of the old fashioned gentleman of Scotch-Irish stock, always brimming over with good humor, but with that undercurrent of seriousness inherent to his race. Winter coming on, the work was suspended, and the merry company back of McElhattan mountain was forced to separate. Once on his own responsibility, the desire to earn money and see the world led the young lad to occupations of various kinds. Once he trudged many miles to Leetonia, having heard of work in a lumber camp, but was rejected because he was too young. He did not idle around the shanties, but immediately started for home. A snowstorm began, and evening closed in on him. He saw what he thought was a huge blackened stump, and leaned against it for much needed rest. There was a grunt and a growl, and a four hundred pound bear shook him off, and he sprawled in the snow. Another time he had worked in a logging camp at the head of Young Woman’s Creek, and with his purse of savings, was on his way to Youngwomanstown, now misnamed North Bend. It was sunset, and he heard a screech like a tormented woman, far up on the steep slope of one of the denuded mountains. His quick eye showed it to come from a panther, skulking along in search of its evening meal. Jacob walked faster, and as he did so the animal quickened its pace. For miles it seemed to trail him, but lacked the courage to come down from the ridge. Finally with the lights of the settlement in sight, it uttered a despairing yell, and was heard from no more. At other times he worked in lumber camps, bark jobs, on railroads, highways, farms, and gardens. Every man or woman he met had a life story that interested him, these were the romances he read. His retentive mind became stored with a mass of unusual facts and impressions, which he thought over and over, figuring out the whys and wherefores when his companions were asleep. He had not gone to school a full term in his life, but his teachers, Charles Hamilton and Benjamin Langdon, were worthy men and he absorbed much from them. Despite his brief schooling he could feel the harmonies of words and sentences like a trained rhetorician. He longed to express himself, but he was too shy for general conversation, and there seemed no opportunity to write. In Lock Haven, the county seat of Clinton County, was a local paper called “The Enterprise.” It had a correspondent in Gallauher Township where Jacob was living, but he fell sick, and the editor looked about for a substitute. Jacob applied for the position, and in February, 1876, in his twenty-fifth year he had the pleasure of seeing his first communications in print. They were well done, even for an old correspondent, and later he made bold to intersperse them with jokes, and pathetic little verses. He was so satisfactory that the regular correspondent never resumed the work, and he continued with increasing reputation, until in 1880 he took up the same task for the “Clinton Democrat,” a Lock Haven paper, which is still a power in the county. About this time love had entered his life, and he married Clara Bryan, a frail, pretty girl of sixteen, of Scotch-Irish stock, the ceremony taking place September 25, 1881. But the happy romance was to be short-lived, a girl baby, whom they called Rena, was born on April 7, 1883, and the young mother’s health failed rapidly afterwards. She died on July 26, the same year, and the motherless infant followed her to the grave on October 7. Jacob Huff never spoke much of this early bereavement, but some of his verses on taking Myron, his son, by his second marriage, to the graves of the first wife and child, are as beautiful and touching as exist in our language. In 1885 that enterprising and widely-read newspaper “Grit,” published in Williamsport, having long noted the humor and pathos of his work, engaged him to write weekly articles. He adopted the nom de plume of “Faraway Moses,” and the results were overwhelmingly successful.

He was a clever artist, like so many writers, and drew the sketches each week for the illustrations. These were “worked up” by the staff illustrators and engravers, and became an important feature of the stories. Jacob Huff as a humorist was inimitable, but his immortality will rest with his serious work, his “human interest” articles. The popularity of “Faraway Moses” soon passed the bounds of the State, and his trite and witty sayings were quoted by staid farmers in their shacks in Kansas and the Dakotas. Meanwhile he established a modest “syndicate” and furnished short stories, verses, and jokes to a number of rural publications under various pen names. He conceived the idea of going West, and his travels took him into many States, where his experiences were varied, though he finally settled in Colorado. The results of this change of abode, which did not last long, found immortality in a small book of verses, published in 1895, by the Grit Company, entitled “Songs of the Desert.” Unfortunately the little book was not fully appreciated at the time, though it is destined to rank with the choicest productions of Eugene Field or James Whitcomb Riley. Meanwhile a great and ennobling influence had come to him, his romance and marriage with Charlotte Crawford, the brilliant daughter of Captain William H. and Priscilla Brown Crawford, of Chatham Run, Clinton County, who also for a short while resided in Colorado. The Crawfords were among the earliest settlers in the West Branch Valley, where they ranked high in social and political life. They had intermarried with the Whites, Allisons, Stewarts, and Quiggles, and each generation had added fresh lustre to the name. Jacob Huff’s marriage to Charlotte Crawford occurred at Grand Junction, Colorado, on October 11, 1892, and soon afterwards the happy couple returned to their beloved Pennsylvania. The influence of his devoted wife was broadening and inspiring, leading him into a wider sphere, and to the association with persons of distinction and rank. He had tasted life in all its bitterness, had mingled with the lowly, henceforth he was to see the brighter phases of existence. He never forgot the past, it had burned itself in too deeply. He saw the injustices and wrongs with an even clearer vision now that he understood how happily it was possible to live.

One son, Myron Reed Huff, named after the great liberal preacher, Myron Reed, whom Jacob warmly admired, was born on June 22, 1895, to bless the union. This boy, who is a happy blend of his talented parents, is himself an artist and author, and now contributes articles to the Reading Times under the name of Jake Haiden, Jr. And now comes the story of his connection with the Reading Times, the last important event of his life, in whose service he was at the time of his untimely demise. Early in May, 1908, the writer of this article received an autograph copy of “Songs from the Desert,” and it quickened the desire, which he later learned was mutual, to meet the famous philosopher. At McElhattan on Memorial Day, of that year, he waded across a muddy road in front of the home of a mutual friend, Mrs. Anna S. Stabley, since deceased, and shook the hand of “Faraway Moses,” Jacob Huff. A long conversation ensued, and they became warm friends. The writer at that time was President of the Daily Record, at Bradford, Pa., and soon after his new associate began contributing short articles of timely interest to that paper. In September of that year, he assumed the same position with the Times, of Reading, and with the first issue under the new management began the celebrated “Jake Haiden” articles. They were instantly successful, and their appeal to all classes, their liberality, their toleration, their humanity, their pathos, made them noted and quoted all over the State. It is pleasant to recollect that Jacob Huff paid several visits to Reading while contributing to the Times. He was there on New Year’s Eve, 1909, and for New Year’s Day prepared an exceptionally strong editorial, for he also wrote many editorials, called simply “1910,” which attracted widespread attention. His last visit was late in January, 1910, when the management of the Times entertained him as guest of honor at a dinner at the Wyomissing Club. The guests included the Times staff, the publishers of the Reading Telegram, Capt. Henry D. and Herbert R. Green, who were always appreciative of his work, John D. Mishler, and others of equal note. There were after dinner speeches of a brief character, and the guest of honor closed the evening with a few remarks which seemed to come directly from his heart. With the early summer, the Times conceived the idea of sending “The Reading Times Philosopher,” as he was becoming generally known, to the far west in order to gain fresh impression for his powerful articles. Accompanied by his loving wife and son, and a close friend Prof. Betts, he started away gaily. From letters and postcards he must have enjoyed himself, and his note-book shows he had jotted down ideas for five hundred and fifty new articles or editorials. The party returned to Chatham Run on July 20, where the philosopher maintained a comfortable home, and on the night of July 31, 1910, he was seized with heart failure and died a few hours later. Prompt medical aid from Dr. Joseph M. Corson, his friend and neighbor, was of no avail, and the giant intellect and friendly spirit returned to its original source. His funeral was the occasion of a tremendous outpouring of people, interment being made at Jersey Shore. The press of the entire State echoed the grief of his relatives and friends and the great loss to the literary world. The religious beliefs of such a man are always interesting. His can be summed up in the final sentence of the little speech he delivered at Reading, “We look around and in everything we see God.” It was the religion of humanity, the creed of helpfulness and good cheer. He lived up to the letter of his faith, for when he died he left a host of friends and no enemies. He had steered his bark through the perilous waters of life without hurting anyone, or sullying himself. It was a beautiful life, but to those who knew him comes the ever recurring regret “Why could not he have been spared a few years longer?” There was so much to do, the world was crying for his help. Maybe the publication of this book containing some of his most characteristic opinions will give renewed energy to his disciples and send them into the thickest of the fight for the betterment of mankind. If he had a motto it must have been “I want to leave the world a little brighter, a little better, a little happier than when I came in it.” Who knows, to what extent he succeeded! Time alone will measure the fulness of his fame, but he should rank as a nature lover with Henry D. Thoreau, as a humanitarian with Theodore Parker, and as a poet with Eugene Field.

It is hoped his friends will get together and erect a memorial fountain or statue to his memory in Lock Haven, Jersey Shore or Williamsport, in the West Branch Valley whose people and scenery he loved so well.

Henry W. Shoemaker.

September 4, 1911.

I PLEAD GUILTY

Before the law I stand a confessed criminal; before God I am only a weak man trying to do good toward my fellow man. I am guilty of helping a convicted man escape the clutches of man-made law. I couldn’t help it. The love I bear humanity welled up, when the young man told his story, and flooded my reason with the sunshine of sympathy; and I helped him get away.

Early one morning I went to my wood shed to get kindling to build the kitchen fire. In the dim light I thought I saw a man crouching in one corner. A second look convinced me that it was true—there was a man crouching there.

At first I was frightened, and thought of flight. It’s the first impulse that comes over me at sight of possible danger. And a strange man, in a strange place for that man to be, is danger enough to startle even a brave man, like my wife, for instance.

But on looking closer, and catching a full glance of the startled eyes, that looked up to me in fear and wild, beseeching hunger for something his heart yearned for, I changed my mind. Fear gave way to curiosity and sympathy. I said, “Good morning, brother—can I do anything for you this morning?”

At the sound of friendly words he stood up, and I recognized in him the young man who was tried and found guilty of forgery, and sentenced to 15 years in prison.

“I’ve escaped from jail, you see,” he said with a quiver in his voice, while his boyish blue eyes looked away down into my soul (if I still had it with me).

“So I see,” I replied. “And now, what are you going to do?”

“You heard me telling my story on the witness stand last week, didn’t you?” I nodded in the affirmative, and he went on. “Well, nobody believed me. They thought I was lying to save myself from prison. I told the court that in my confession, when first arrested and sent to jail, I had plead guilty to the charge of forgery, to save another man, because the father of that other man promised to get me out of prison if I would assume the crime and save the honor of his family.

“Before God that story is true. But the family I was bribed to save has no honor. From the moment that confession was wheedled out of me, I was forsaken, and left to the mercy of a jury whom I could not convince that I was innocent. Not one amongst them would believe that I had honor enough in my soul to assume the crime of another, because I am a cobbler’s son. Neither could I convince them that the rich merchant on B—d street had played false to me.

“I do not blame them. I could not believe it of that merchant myself, were I not the victim of his perfidy.

“This morning I concealed myself in a barrel of ashes and other trash and was hauled out of the jail yard by the darkie who drives the refuse cart. When we got safely away from the jail I rose up out of the trash barrel and scared that black man half to death. I took advantage of his fright and told him if he informed the officials of my escape I would swear that he was guilty of helping me away, for a price, and because I couldn’t pay him he would not let me off. He promised to keep quiet, so I ran through the fog and came here.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Because I know you appreciate life and love humanity. I knew you would believe my story, or at least believe enough of it to awaken your sympathy and think of the long time fifteen years must be—fifteen years taken out of my life! The time is too long, even if I were guilty. Won’t you try to think of how long fifteen years must seem to one so young as I, and then hide me for a day, and then help me get away tonight? Won’t you, for the love you bear humanity? Won’t you do so for my mother’s sake?”

“For God’s sake, stop!” I cried; and then I sat down on the chopping block and buried my face in my arms and tried to think. “Fifteen years is a long, long time to take out of a boy’s life! Fifteen years, without sight of a mother’s face, without flowers or the songs of birds; without sunshine and the dews that fall from heaven for all. Fifteen years shut up between black walls, and away from the smiles of women and little children. God, the sentence is too hard, the punishment too great! We can’t reform men by treating them as wild animals.”

I looked into his frank blue eyes and asked: “Tell me once more, truthfully, are you innocent?” And he answered: “Before God I swear that the story I told you is true!”

I plead guilty to helping a prisoner escape, and I feel no pangs of regret. Fifteen years between black walls is a long, long time, and the boy had a mother.

RELIGION OF HUMANITY

Near my home lived a poor, hard-working, but improvident man. He had a wife and seven children. The oldest was thirteen, and the baby but ten months old. They were poor. The husband and father was working only half time. There is a cause for the dull times, but the man did not know what it was. Those who do know are afraid to tell, for fear it may injure their business. “Great is Diana!”

One month ago the wife and mother was taken suddenly ill, and died in less than twenty-four hours. Everybody was shocked. It seemed so cruel and hard of Providence to remove that poor woman at a time when she was needed most. Many would have blamed Providence of cruelty, but they are afraid to do so.

No one knew the reason why this death was ordered. Some thought it was even a sin to make a study of the case, “lest they offend Providence.”

I was made to feel very sad when I heard of the sudden bereavement. Little eyes of helpless children looked out of the night shadows and made my sleep a nightmare. I looked down a long dark vista leading out into future years, and I saw barefooted and ragged children plodding hopelessly along, bearing burdens that should be carried by full grown men and women. I saw cruel winter lurking only a few weeks off, generating chill blasts of wind to pinch little brown legs and chapped hands, and I wondered what the people would do about it.

While I was wondering what was to be done, my wife and her near neighbor were already solving the problem. Old chests and boxes were ransacked for cast-off clothing—for clothes the children had outgrown, but which were almost as good as new. Neighbors were set to work ransacking chests and boxes and bureau drawers, and many little dresses and pantaloons that brought back tender memories were dug up and cast into the common fund of collected goods.

To this collection was added a few dollars’ worth of new goods, and thread, and the work of reconstruction began. The work was done in my home, while I worked in an adjoining room, and I never heard a more cheerful and happy set of women. Their hearts, their charity, their mother love were all in the work, and these are the tender forces that give inspiration to men and women who believe in the religion of humanity.

In my mind’s eye I could see those orphan children feasting their eyes on the warm flannel petticoats, the bright gingham dresses, the soft underwear and little aprons. I felt that it was good to be near this working gang in the great cause of living humanity, and I seemed to share the inspiration that gave such happiness to the ladies.

The minister’s wife came out and joined the workers, but suggested that they open each sewing session with prayer; to which a majority objected, saying they only had limited time to spare, and they believed the children would be clothed much sooner if the sewing continued uninterrupted.

These good women worked all day cheerfully, and reconstructed a big pile of children’s clothes, and when the meeting was about to break up the minister’s wife suggested that they kneel and return thanks.

“God will accept my weariness of body and contentment of soul,” replied the busiest woman in the bunch. “Prayer is a private business between two—between God and the worshipper; and between these two there are no secrets,” she continued. “Public prayer is the work we do in public, and for the people—for God’s creatures. We have been praying, tenderly and seriously all afternoon, while many who could have joined us in the good work, but refused, will be offering up worded prayers tonight and thanking their God—for what? for escaping real work? for the squandering of a few hours that might have been spent with religious profit in this work of charity? So long as I believe in the religion of humanity, just so long will I believe that a work for the bettering of humanity goes ahead of worded prayer.”

“You may be right, Mary,” replied the minister’s wife. “If all women prayed as cheerfully and willingly with their hands, as you have done this afternoon, humanity would be the better for it. Perhaps, after all, the uplifting of the human race is the greatest work we can perform. Perhaps the bringing of joy and happiness to hearts that have been filled with hopelessness and gloom, is the dearest work we can do for God. I am not a bigot, Mary; only I believe in both work and prayer.”

For a long time after the women left I sat and pondered. The little hungry eyes of the shivering orphans looked out of the gloaming, and I knew what their decision would be. Their hearts would go out to the workers. When the warm skirts and petticoats and little trousers shut out the winter’s blast, the work of the workers would be appreciated.

JOE BAILEY’S RIDE

People who enjoy all the great improvements of the age have not the least idea of the inconvenience and the hardships people endured previous to the discoveries of the telegraph and the telephone. As an illustration of the conditions prevailing previous to the above discoveries, I will relate the story of Joe Bailey’s dangerous trip down the river on an ice floe, and his brother’s exciting ride on horse back from Jersey Shore, Pa., to Northumberland, a distance of fifty miles, to alarm the people and bring them to the rescue of his brother Joe.

The Baileys owned the island just southeast of Jersey Shore, which is still in the hands of the descendants of the Bailey family—Mrs. John S. Tomb, and Mrs. Carrothers. I do not know whether McGinnis, the historian of the West Branch Valley, mentioned this famous ride or not. I got the story from Captain William H. Crawford, who died several years ago at the age of seventy-seven years, and who was a boy at the time Joe Bailey went adrift on the ice floe. Crawford then lived with his father, Hon. George Crawford, two miles west of Jersey Shore.

It was in the spring, when a sudden rise in the river threatened to take the ice out of the streams. The Baileys had a small flat boat in the river which they plied between the island and Jersey Shore. It was still in the river when the early spring freshet came, and was in danger of being carried away with the heavy floe of ice. To save the flat, Joe Bailey and another man took a team of oxen and went to haul the flat out of the stream. While Joe was on the flat fastening a chain to a ring the ice suddenly broke up and crowded down upon the place, tearing the boat from the landing and sending the young man adrift on the ice.

His brother on the Jersey Shore side of the river stood horrified for a moment, and then fully realizing the importance of imminent action, borrowed a fast running horse and set out for Williamsport on a dead run. It was a race for life. Night was setting in and the weather turned suddenly bitter cold.

With horse and rider panting for breath, young Bailey reached Williamsport and alarmed the town. Many rushed to the bridge, but none were prepared to render service to the man going adrift on the ice. They could hear him shouting for assistance, but the flood bore him down upon them before they could secure a rope to drop down for Bailey to lay hold of and be lifted to the bridge.

Knowing that rescue was impossible, one thoughtful man removed his overcoat and dropped it down into the rushing boat, and received the freezing man’s grateful thanks.

Nothing daunted, young Bailey secured a fresh horse and struck out for Muncy, where another bridge spanned the Susquehanna river.

Again young Bailey reached the long bridge too late to secure help. Joe passed under the bridge before the men could lower a rope. But the undaunted brother would not give Joe up to the horrible death that awaited him somewhere down the roaring, rushing, grinding gorge. No human aid could reach him until he came to the bridge at Northumberland, so the brother secured a third horse and dashed away to the rescue again. No other ride through darkness and danger equalled that ride, except the ride of Paul Revere. And poor Joe’s awful ride in the rushing ice gorge could not be surpassed for danger and loneliness by any of the dangerous rides noted by historians and sung of by the poets.

During the ice floe in the West Branch of the Susquehanna river the current is extremely rapid and the brother dashing away on horseback knew full well that no time must be lost if he reached the Northumberland bridge in time to save Joe. This was the last chance. No other bridge could be reached on horseback in time for a rescue. There was no railroad then, no telegraph line, and the most rapid means of communication was by horseback.

Can you blame young Bailey then for urging the horse to the utmost speed? When the animal slowed up young Bailey laid on the lash and urged it to even faster speed. He and the horse could alone rescue the frantic man adrift on the ice floe. All those who knew of Joe Bailey’s peril were left far behind. The people of Northumberland would know nothing until young Bailey arrived. On and on he dashed, arriving at the town exhausted and sore from his long, hard ride.

The town was alarmed, and a score of boatmen and old river men rushed to the bridge, but not forgetting long ropes with nooses prepared at the end. Thank God he had not passed yet! They could hear him calling for help far up the stream. When near the bridge they called to him to be ready and slip the nose of the rope under his arms. Quick! Joe Bailey is safely tied in the loop! Up with the poor fellow! Safe! Thank God! The two brothers clasp each other in their strong arms, the one softly whispering: “Joe! Oh, Joe!”

THE OTHER MAN’S BABY

It’s a very easy matter to give away the other man’s baby, but not so easy when it comes to parting with our own. Organized charity does a whole lot for the unfortunate, but often does it in the wrong way. The mothers who are active in organized charity are too ready to separate parents from their children, never thinking for a moment what a loss it is to both parents and children to be thus separated. The only excuse for separating parents from charity children, is the economy. It is cheaper. Charity using painful economy to a painful extent.

I believe it is better, where it is possible, to allow parents the society of their children, and children the society of their parents, even if charity is asked to step in and keep the wolf from the door. It’s better for the parents, I’m sure. If anything will make a man or woman better, the society of their own children must surely come first in the elevating influence.

In my own individual case I can notice the self-improvement since I have a child to look up to me with trusting eyes and feel the tight clasp of his little hand. “A child shall lead them.” The man who wrote this line had the love and power of a child’s influence in his mind. We are all benefitted and made kindlier and more loving in the society of children—and especially our own children.

Only a few weeks ago an old school-mate of mine lost his wife, leaving him with a family of seven small children, including a baby girl of only ten months. The charitable mothers of the neighborhood took an interest in the poor man’s affairs, and began to collect clothing for the little motherless orphans and fit them out for school. They all thought the bereaved man could get a housekeeper much easier if the baby were out of the way, and they began to look around to secure a good home for her. They all agreed on that point—it was to be a good home for the baby, with kind people.

I was present when the committee of charitable women met at the poor man’s house to inform him that they had found a home for Baby Ruth. I shall never forget the look of pain that flashed into his eyes at the mention of finding a home for his baby. He was too full for words, but he picked the baby up from where she was playing at his feet with a yarn ball and string, and as he pressed her to the bosom of his coarse blouse I saw the tears overflow from his grief stricken eyes and run unrestrained down his rough cheeks.

After a few moments of silence he mastered his feelings and thanked the ladies for taking an interest in his children, but hugged the baby again and said: “But little Ruth is my baby! She was Mary’s baby! The last kisses and caresses of my poor dead wife were given to our baby—her baby. How can I put her away so soon after Mary’s death? She’s so small and dependent—must I begin the separation of my family away down at the bottom—away down with the weakest and smallest—with the baby—the one dearest to the mother who is now dead?”

The spokeswoman of the crowd told him how it would be best for the baby, and for him, to find it a good home, with kind people, who would care for it “and give it all the comforts of life.”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, “I know you mean it all for the best, and I could agree with you if—if it were some other father’s baby we were discussing, and not my baby—Mary’s baby—the last of our family to feel the loving caress of her embrace.

“Is it a crime that I am poor and wifeless, and my children are orphans? Can I cease to love my children because I am poor and they are motherless? They have been a great comfort and pleasure to me. I love their prattling voices; the sound of the little toy cart, as baby drags it across the floor, is sweeter music than the tones of the pipe organ down in the fashionable church.

“Shut your eyes to the squalor and rags you see here, and let your minds go back to your own homes, and recall the sound of the little tin wagon, loaded with tin soldiers and rag dolls, your own children used to pull through the house; and picture yourself standing at the gate after parting with your favorite child. Picture the scene, as the strange person carries your baby away, with her child face turned appealingly towards you, and you make no effort to bring her back to your arms and your heart.

“Would you, my good and kind women, who mean only good towards me and my children—would you call this a picture of civilization—a scene amongst enlightened people, or would you dream of it forever afterward as a picture of hell?”

THE PATHOS OF HUMOR

The average reader of newspapers and magazines imagines that humorous writers are always funny, and always saying funny things. Nothing could be farther from the real facts. The humorous side of humanity while wading through every day events, likewise sees the pathetic side. The pathos of life makes the shade and shadow of life’s picture, while the funny features make the humorous pictures—the cartoons and exaggerations.

I know a little story connected with the work of a humorous writer, so full of pathos that one can but wonder how he could write of the humorous side of life while sitting in the very presence of death.

During the days of his severest struggles for recognition (and bread) his wife’s aged father was taken ill, and the doctor said it was only a matter of a few weeks or days with the kind old man, and then his struggles on the earth would be over. And through all the nursing and watching the young author was obliged to grind out his “stuff” for the publishers who kept the wolf from his door.

One night the faithful daughter could endure the strain and loss of sleep no longer, and was obliged to go to bed, leaving only her author husband to watch at the bedside of the dying father, and to grind out his sketch for the next issue of the paper.

It was hard to forget the man who was passing over the dark stream and concentrate his mind on some ridiculous phase of life, but this he must do, for he needed yet a humorous anecdote to round out the line of argument he was introducing—that men are more truthful than their dreams. He was attempting to prove that men, while in the act of dreaming a lie, would tell the truth, if subject to speaking out loud in their sleep.

But humorous ideas were slow about coming, and he leaned over, with his face buried deep in his hands, and tried to think. All of a sudden he recalled an incident of real life, that would serve to complete his story, but before he could take up his pencil the sick man brightened up and remarked:

“Pretty hard to write scenes from the funny side of life, while waiting on some one to die!”

“’Tis that, father,” replied the young man tenderly; “but I just now recall an incident from the life of old Jim McGrabber that will finish the sketch.”

“Poor fellow!” softly exclaimed the dying man. “I pity you, my boy. It is more than most men are obliged to do. But don’t mind me. Even if I pass away while you are working, I will know that you are only doing your duty. Besides, my boy, it softens death to me to feel that others can forget it while it hovers so near. And in encouraging you to go on with your work, I hope to leave the impression behind that dying men can remain interested in the triumphs and achievements of life, even though they are old and feeble and their heart liable to stop forever without a moment’s warning. Go on with your work, and I will try to sleep.”

And then, after giving the old man a cool sip of water, and fixing his pillow more comfortable, he sat down and wrote the anecdote that was to complete his sketch.

“Timothy McGrabber always kept a private jug in his cellar, but was only allowed two jiggers of whiskey a day. If detected in taking a third or fourth drink, by his good old wife, she proceeded at once to pull his gray hair vigorously until he would promise to do so no more.

“One Sunday morning in mid-summer the good old wife went to church very early, leaving Tim to follow when ready to do so. This was Tim’s opportunity, so instead of two jiggers from the beloved jug, he took four—four big ones, and then followed the old lady to the church, singing softly and gleefully to himself as he walked cheerfully along.

“Arrived at church he sat down near the open window, and his system cleared of waste material and a painful conscience, he soon dropped off to sleep. A young kitten climbed in the window, took an exploring expedition out along the back of the seat, climbed up Tim’s passive arm and began to smell his whiskers. Scenting nothing dangerous, the kitty jumped to the top of his bald head and sat down to observe the house.

“A wasp flew by, and kitty attempted to catch it, lost her equilibrium and was falling backwards when she grabbed at Tim’s straggling locks of hair with both front feet and began to climb back to her lofty perch again; then the congregation was startled by Tim’s loud expostulations:

“‘Hey, Nora! that’s anuff! Pon me sowl oi only tuck four little nips from th’ joog, and bedad yee’r pulling all th’ hair out av me head! And how the divil did yee’s foind it out, anyhow, because oi wint down cellar in th’ dark and drank wid me oyes shut!’”

The author smiled at the bit of humor, and turned to the bed with a sigh of relief—only to discover that the old man had died while he wrote.

THE PINE CREEK TRAGEDY

Love in a lumber camp is as full of romance as love in a king’s court; for wherever love sets up her throne the world must bow down and recognize the Queen of Hearts. Jack Cleveland had been Rhoda Carson’s accepted lover ever since she came to be cook’s assistant in the big camp run by Reuben Harris, and this was her second winter in the camp. They expected to get married when they went back to civilization in the spring.

In January Walter Jackson, of Maine, came to work on the job, and Rhoda was fairly hypnotized by his manly beauty and robust health. Before the first week was out Jack saw how things were going, but still hoped Rhoda would get over her infatuation and come back to her old love. But Rhoda quarreled with Jack deliberately and after due meditation. She even insinuated that she would be happier if he left the job.

Poor Jack was awfully broken up over the affair, and would have gone away with his broken heart, but he was foreman and couldn’t leave his employer until after the drive was out of the creek. For two months previous to the spring flood Rhoda did not speak to Jack, but spent a great many Sundays playing checkers with Walter in the big dining room, and her merry laughter went straight to poor Jack’s heart. He had given her up, but his love for her was greater than ever before.

The day the flood came, and they were starting the big jams of logs far up the creek, Rhoda stood on the high bank near the camp to watch the logs sluice through the narrow channel; for at this point the creek cut through a rise of ground, with banks of red clay on both sides rising as much as twelve feet above the water. It was very exciting to watch the great logs dart through this narrow channel and pitch over the falls 200 feet further down the stream.

While she watched, a great mass of logs came sweeping down the stream and jammed at the head of the narrow channel. Other logs piled up against the jam. Then the men came and boldly walked out on the tumbled jam and tried to pry it loose with their cant hooks. All at once the great jam started, and the men ran back over the logs to a low place in the bank and came ashore. No, not all the men came ashore, for Walter Jackson made a mis-step and fell with one leg pinned between two logs.

It was lucky for Walter that the jam stopped before reaching the falls, for he was unable to extricate himself, and would surely have gone over and lost his life. Even now he must have assistance before the jam started again, which was sure to occur, for the water was rising so fast behind the logs that it must surely break loose in a few minutes. The danger was so great that none of the men would venture on the jam again, and Walter was given up by those who stood helplessly on the bank and waited for the end.

At this moment Jack Cleveland came upon the scene and saw his rival lying helplessly out on the logs. Did a gleam of triumph flash through his heart? No one will ever know, for Rhoda came up to him and shouted in his ear: “Can you save him, Jack?” Ah, did he catch a gleam of the old time love in her blue eyes? And was it this that urged him on?

Taking a cant hook from one of the men, he leaped down upon the creaking and surging logs and carefully walked down to where Walter lay. With a strong pry on the log that pinned his rival fast, he parted the logs, then took hold of the prostrate man and lifted him to his feet. But his leg was injured so badly that Walter could not walk. Dropping his cant hook, Jack picked Walter up and staggered with his heavy load toward the bank. The men reached down and took Walter by the arms and were lifting him to safety when the great jam started. They saved Walter, but Jack was moving on with the logs!

Rhoda saw his danger and ran a few rods further down the stream, threw herself on the ground and reached far down to give Jack her hands. In his desperation he lay hold of them with a firm grasp and Rhoda braced herself for a mighty pull. But she was now too far over the bank to gain her poise again, and, with a scream that sounded above the roar of the water, she pitched down upon the head of her jilted lover, and together they went over the falls. He was holding her in his arms when they went over, and then the terrible jam of logs dashed down upon them, while the horrified men on the bank looked helplessly into each other’s eyes and groaned with mental pain.

In the village graveyard there are two stones standing side by side, where an old woodsman, now bent with age, visits every spring and places a bunch of flowers between the two. It is Walter Jackson. When he goes away the curious people go to the spot and read the card attached to the flowers: “Jack and Rhoda—They died for me. Even the gods could do no greater thing.”

THE HOMESICK BOY

“Way down upon de Suanee river,

Far, far away.

Dah’s whar my heart am turning ebber,

Dah’s whar de ole folks stay.”

Foster surely knew what it was to be homesick when he wrote those lines. He knew the heart-aches of a homesick boy. What difference whether the homesick boy is white or black? The heart-aches are just the same; the longings just as sad, the memories just as sweet, the absent parents just as sacred, the absent brothers and sisters just as dear. That song makes the greatest appeal to human hearts for sympathy of any song ever sung—sympathy for the black or white boy obliged to go away from home and leave those he loves best on earth.

In my mind’s eye I see Foster’s little black boy who is sold into slavery and driven far away from the banks of the Suanee river to the cotton fields of the Southwest. Perhaps not one soul in all the world, besides his mother and little brothers, ever gave the poor slave boy a single thought after he was driven out of sight of the old cabin home. Other boys going away from home—white boys of those days, had all the world before them; but the poor slave boy had only his chains and his broken heart.

I see him lying in his hard bed of straw at night, with the storms howling around the cabin and the fading fire sending out only a few feeble rays of light—I see the homesick lad lying with his face buried in his hands and threading the old paths that lead up to his mother’s cabin through his mind. He sees the dear old river and the wild fowls resting on the bosom of the water. He sees his dear old mother sleeping in the old familiar bed where he lay when a baby. He sees his younger brother sleeping on the bed of straw near the hearth, his black face turned up for the moon beams to write lines of tenderness and love on each well remembered cheek. Outside the humble door the shaggy watchdog watches over the family that owns nothing but their wrongs.

And, with my mind on that homesick boy, I hear him sobbing, while the coarse sleeve of his soiled shirt absorbs the bitter tears that are known only to the great God who has commanded every one to love his neighbor as himself. In his ears the hum of the bees is still heard, and the music of his father’s banjo comes back on the wings of memory, like the odor of funeral-smelling flowers coming back from the grave of his buried hopes. The darkie boy at his saddest best.

The homesick boy of Foster’s song is not the bad nigger, full of nigger gin and hatred and evil intentions. The slave boy in whom you see only centuries of wrongs and oppressions is the picture in Foster’s immortal song.

Oh, the world would be better if every one had experienced a season of homesick longings, and cried themselves to sleep with the image of absent loved ones painted on their mind with the brush of tenderness. Better if all had wrongs to remember, and oppressions to leave scars on their souls that would make them feel kinship towards all the unfortunate who must suffer and bear their burdens alone.

It is a well known sociological fact that those who suffer hardships and privations have more tender feelings for the poor and unfortunate, than those who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and never intermingled with the people of the lower world. Of course, there are exceptions, but they are few. When you find a wealthy person who feels charitable and kind towards all the world, that person has suffered heart-aches, too. He wants the sympathy of those who have suffered like he has. There is a fraternal feeling in his heart for the unfortunate, planted there by his own heart-aches and watered with his own tears. A man who has never known a heart-ache, never gives a single thought to the homesick boy who longed for his Suanee river home.

FRIENDS WHO PASS IN THE DARK

Of late I have found a very good and sincere friend who has, since then been an actual inspiration to me. For many years we knew of each other’s existence, but we did not move in the same orbit, one might say, so we never met to touch and smile as we passed each other in the busy pursuits of life. We seemed to pass each other in the dark, and so far apart that our binnacle lights could only be dimly seen away off in the gloom of the night.

And all the time we were dreaming the same dreams, cultivating the same love, nourishing the same hope, fanning the same laudable ambition, admiring the same poems, worshipping the same God of Nature. And we continued to pass in the dark. I had my struggles and deferred hopes and pinching poverty and unsatisfied desires, mellowed and made smooth, however, with the love of friends and companions who lived with me in the broad daylight of recognition and mental appreciation; and he had his friends and hopes and dreams and slights and heart-affecting episodes and burning ambition and love of humanity—and thus we continued to pass and repass in the dark.

Dimly and intermittingly the thought began to develop and dangle before our mental eyes that some day the lights would grow brighter in our binnacles, the shadows become less opaque and the distance diminish when passing by. The thought waves we were setting in motion as we moved around in our orbits, came together and intermingled and blended in mutual harmony, and moved us together in our wake, drawing us closer together, even when passing in the dark. And our binnacle lights grew brighter and finally dispelled the darkness so much that we no longer passed unrecognized, but too far apart to hail each other on the social sea.

What strange and subtle influence was it that planted the seeds of a mutual desire in each heart, that some day in passing, we could call across the narrow sea and hear the sound of each other’s voice? Was it caused by the thought waves that came over the mysterious dream sea and beat softly on the sides of our spiritual ship? Mutual confessions afterwards revealed the fact that our final meeting was not by accident, but through the individual, independent, unknown designs of each other. We felt the approach of each other’s frail boat while still in the dark distance, and realized that we were soon to meet and touch, with a hand-shake and a heart-ache that would never cease nor diminish until we have accomplished something to light the darkness where other poor mariners on the stormy sea of life pass each other, with no binnacle lights shining out over the troubled water, and no friendly call coming out of the darkness to those in distress.

No man can do successful work alone. We need the help and the moral support and the sincere appreciation of all those whom we know to be in sympathy with souls who are still pulling against the stream and through the darkness of obscurity and neglect. Every one of us have friends who pass us in the dark—friends that we could sincerely love and respect, and who could aid us and cheer us as we pull against the streams of life with the sad realization that sooner or later, we shall all be washed away.

Let us get closer together. Let us flash the binnacle light of love and God speed and good cheer as we pass in the dark. Too often we turn down the light at the approach of an unknown ship, and use our utmost endeavors to pass unseen and unknown. Is it because our mutual thoughts are out of tune?

And would it be thus if we were all mutually working for the uplifting of humanity? Would it be thus if we were all willing to throw out a line to the human boats drifting, without a rudder, down the rapids of poverty and want?

We are all ultimately going out on the unknown sea—why not sail closer together on the sea of life? Soon we will drift so far apart that absolute darkness will hide us from the living world; so, while we live let us avoid passing friends without calling to them over the water.

VOICE OF THE STONE

Passing through a country graveyard one day last summer, and reading the sad stories engraved on the many head stones, I was attracted by the silent voice of one particular stone, erected over the grave of a six-year-old boy: “How Many Hopes Lie Buried Here!” Was it an exclamation, or an interrogation? How many hopes? Only the fathers and mothers can truly tell who have buried hopes in similar graves.

These bereaved parents had pictured their baby boy as a man, going out into the world to accomplish great things and fill their declining years with pleasure and delight.

Often they had pictured their boy in his manly beauty, able to defend himself from the enemies that always cross the path of the successful, and attempt to retard their progress. They had pictured him on the stage of life swaying men with the power of his logic and his persuasive voice. Men were cheering at the bare mention of his name, for he had taught the people to love him and believe in him.

They saw him holding high positions in the social and political world, and always going higher, always gaining more and more, always accomplishing greater things—ah, perhaps holding the highest office in the land—President of the United States!

Or they may have been more modest in their hopes. They may have seen their boy, grown to sturdy manhood, following the plow and reaping the golden grain; and, instead of going out into the world to win glory and fame, they may have pictured him contented in the old home, sitting with them in the evening under the vine clad porch and discussing the modest hopes of the village people.

Great hopes are not always dreams of future glory and fame. The modest life and unostentatious efforts of the humble worker bring greater joys to some hearts than all the glories of political success. So the hopes that are buried with a favorite child are as many and as varied as the flowers of the hills and meadows.

But, whatever the hopes, the heart-aches are ever as deep and pathetic, and the tears as bitter with regret.

HOW MANY HOPES LIE BURIED HERE

How many hopes lie buried here

With our darling, we loved so dear!

When his dear life ended,

The shadows blended

With the darkness so cold and drear.

And the sad refrain,

Again and again,

Tells of a mother’s tears and pain,

Year after year, year after year.

How many hopes? Ah, God alone

Knows how many lie under this stone!

Of the mind well directed,

Of the man they expected—

Death ended all, the spirit has flown.

And that sad refrain,

Again and again,

Tells of a father’s great heart pain,

Always yearning for the boy that is gone.

How many hopes? The breezes sigh,

Softly whispering while passing by:

Fondest hopes of a mother’s breast,

Hopes that pleased the father best,

Reaching from earth to the sun-lit sky.

Now the sad refrain,

Again and again,

Tells of the father’s and mother’s pain—

A great heartache that will never die.

Ask the mother how many tears

To wash that memory from the years?

Ask the gloomy father why

Comes that half-unconscious sigh?

As the sound of a lov’d voice disappears.

Ah, that sad refrain,

Again and again.

Tells the story of grief and pain,

Which the mellow-hearted reader hears.

INGRATITUDE

Ingratitude is the crime of weak, inferior intellects. The man who will eagerly accept favors of another, and not feel grateful towards the donor afterwards, displays the coarse inferiority of the brute. The savages and barbarians are noted for their spirit of gratitude. They never forget a kindness. The genuine superlative ingrate is generally the spectacular white man. The man in whom vanity and self-interest predominates all the finer feelings of the soul.

Very often he is a self-sainted molder of public opinion, standing high in the church and political circles, with an inordinate appetite for public position where he can be observed by the passing world. He is the self-stuffed hypocrite who pretends to love humanity—for the profit it will bring him.

I have in my mind a parasitical vampire in human form who had a friend moving in political circles where railroad passes where supposed to be gifts of friendship. This was before the anti-free pass law came into effect. The parasite begged his friend to secure a pass for him, and it was secured and given to him, midst a shower of profound thanks and pledges of eternal gratefulness. The pass was used to a gluttonous extent, and renewed at its expiration, and again accepted with many obsequious bows and renewed pledges of everlasting friendship.

A few years ago the friend died, and his relatives expected words of kindly remembrance from the parasite. Even the dead man’s enemies spoke kindly of him after death had silenced his tongue and put the eternal chill upon his warm heart. It is one feature of our higher civilization to always speak well of the dead—to overlook the dead man’s faults and remember only his good qualities. To spurn the dead body of one’s fellow man is considered cowardly, dastardly and inhuman. But when a supposed friend turns on the body of one whom he made a victim of his hypocrisy and deceit while living, and stings the dead with the venom of a treacherous viper, the world looks on and blushes for very shame.

This was the case with the parasite I have referred to. No sooner had the breath left the body of the man who had so often befriended him, than he began circulating stories that told how corrupt his dead friend had always been during life.

Did the public applaud the ungrateful parasite? Did he gain favor from even the dead man’s most bitter enemies? Far from it! Those who remembered how the fawning sycophant had groveled at the feet of the dead man for the favors so lavishly bestowed while life lasted, had only feelings of contempt for the cowardly traducer of a dead friend’s character.

The world said: “If the dead man was as bad and corrupt as this false friend paints him, why did he wait until after death has sealed his tongue with the lock of eternal silence? Why did he court the dead man’s society as long as there was a favor within reach? Was it not his sacred duty to reform the corrupt man, instead of sharing gluttonously all the good things with him, with the greed of a vampire sucking the life’s blood from a sleeping child?”

The story he now tells of his dead friend is but the flapping wings of the vampire fanning his new victims to sleep while he sucks favors from the veins of their unsuspecting generosity. Once a parasite, always a parasite, and the attempt to build a character out of abuse heaped upon the memory of a dead friend, is but wasted energy. The public is a pretty good judge of humanity, and the human vampire can not paint his wings and pass for a dove, no odds how saint-like he may “coo” to the other birds of prey.

Another case of ingratitude came to me just the other day: One man asked another for a loan of $200. It was taking great risks to loan the fellow anything, but the friend took chances and loaned him half as much as he asked for. Now the fellow hasn’t a single kind word to speak of the generous lender. This is not only injuring the man who so kindly befriended him, but the abuse may sour the lender against humanity in general, as some day some other honest but unfortunate man may be turned away empty handed, on account of the wound made by the ingratitude of the human parasite.

Those who are not thankful for small favors, are absolutely barren of gratitude, and deserve no favors at all. And where there is no gratitude there are no generous impulses, no spirit of charity, no love for humanity, either dead or alive. And the world is full of them. I have only referred to two cases—two of the most common cases—every reader knows of a dozen other cases. Ingratitude is the white man’s great sin against humanity.

ORPHAN EVA

Sitting at the window one cold frosty morning I saw little Eva Yarnell passing the house with a bundle of clothes under each arm. Eva is a girl of twelve years, and an orphan. Her mother died when she was but six years old. I’ve always been interested in the child because she had been shifted from pillar to post, as the saying goes, one relative keeping the little girl as long as their means lasted, when she would be moved on to another aunt or uncle or cousin or grandmother. Her relatives were all poor, and it seemed as though Providence was forcing little Eva to share all the poverty and want of her relatives.

She has at times been a schoolmate of my boy, so when he came into the room I asked him where little Eva was moving to.

“Oh, she’s all right now, papa!” the boy exclaimed. “She’s going to live with Bingman’s, just above town, on a farm. She’s such a good worker, and I believe Mrs. Bingman will appreciate Eva and make it pleasant for her. The poor child is just about naked, and I’m sure Mrs. Bingman will dress her better than she was ever dressed in her life.”

I caught my boy’s hopeful feeling and inwardly rejoiced over little Eva’s good fortune. But after sitting for a time thinking about the life of orphan Eva, it struck me forcibly about the child’s recommendation. “She’s such a good worker,” my boy said. Working her way through life “at the age of twelve.” “What an age! What a stern life for a girl of twelve! God help you, child, and send you a kind mistress!” I said aloud, as I turned to my desk with a queer sad feeling tugging at my heart.

Lately I had written a sketch describing the heart-aches of Foster’s colored boy, of whom he sang in the tender words of “The Old Folks at Home,”—the far off home on the Suanee river; and I had cried over the boy I had pictured in my mind, because I, too, have suffered with heart-aches and loneliness and soul hunger. But here was a little homeless girl who could never more dream of a mother back in the old home. There was no one at home to wish her back again, not even a home. There was no one waiting with heart-aches to see her, unless there are heart-aches beyond the grave.

I opened the door to catch a last glimpse of the little orphan and saw her bravely trudging up the wet street, occasionally shifting the bundles from one arm to the other, for one of the bundles was much larger than the other—so large that it cramped her chubby arm while holding it close to her body.

“Such a good worker!” The words persisted in coming back to me, leaving a sadness at my heart that could not be shaken off. How long has she been a good worker? When did she first learn how to work? Such an age for such a grand reputation!

I thought of the drones all over the country who never win such a reputation, though they live on the fat of the land, and feel as far above little Eva Yarnell as the gods are supposed to feel above a toad. In whom, I wonder, do the gods feel the most interest—in Eva Yarnell, or in the fat and sleek drones who sit in upholstered chairs and try to mold the opinions of the world.

I do not know—I can not believe that this world is ruled by the hand of love, no odds whether that hand is divine or not. Law is stern, severe and unrelenting; the one side padded with the down of mercy, but the reverse side rough with cruel thorns and painful projections. And the reverse side seems always turned towards the weak and the helpless—towards the motherless orphan I had in my mind—little Eva Yarnell.

“Such a worker!” Such an age! God send her kind mistress and a sheltering home!

LOVING THE WORLD

There is a difference between loving the world for the world’s wealth’s sake, and loving the world for the sake of humanity. There is often this difference between the patriotism of men. Some patriots love the surface of the world where they are located far more than they love the people who share it with them. Some patriots love the wealthy of their neighboring countries, while they are totally indifferent towards the toiling poor of that same country. In America the people who love humanity for humanity’s sake, give their sympathies to the plundered and outraged peasantry of Russia, while those who love the world for wealth’s sake give their sympathies to Emperor Nicholas and the parasitical royalty of that unhappy country.

This is why the United States are not unanimously in sympathy with the oppressed people of all other countries—the reason why the people of this country are not unanimously in sympathy with the toilers of our own land—the difference between loving the world’s wealth, and the world’s people. “Love your neighbor as yourself,” is possible only where worldly interests are mutual and agreeable. Where two men are striving for the dirty dollar in sight, love is sure to dodge out of sight and silently steal away.

Even where men love the world for humanity’s sake, there is a difference in the intensity of that love. Some men love with a hopeful optimistical fervor, dreaming of a day when there shall be no oppression or plundering of the weak by the powerful. They see the millennium of earthly tranquillity and peace in the near future, when all men shall be brothers, and co-operation shall take the place of bitter competition, and motherhood and childhood shall be the great care and protection of the nation, and no one shall go to bed and cry themselves to sleep to forget the pangs of hunger and drown the memory of personal wrongs.

In most cases these hopeful altruists never suffered real hunger or bitter wrongs. They have always had enough of the world’s material wealth to drive the wolf of hunger away from their door, and only see the real poor through their dreams. Once in my life I cried for bread when there was not a crumb in my mother’s house, nor even a single penny to buy bread. It was only for one day, but the horror of that one day pictured poverty to my youthful mind in all its horrible and unrelenting want and squalor. And the old gloom-blistered memory of that one day of unsatisfied hunger haunts me still, like the recollections of the most poignant pain.

I firmly believe that that recollection of absolute poverty in my childhood days is what makes my love for humanity so hopeless and moist with despondent tears. I can not even dream of a day when love and justice will rule the world. Greed, greater than all else, human greed predominates over all the world. “For what will a man not give in exchange for his own life?” This can be carried still lower and made to read, “For what will a man not sacrifice for his own comfort?” And when it comes to a sacrifice, who so easy to offer up as the “helpless poor?”

Abraham hadn’t the remotest idea of offering himself up on the altar he had built. Helpless Isaac would have been the victim, had not the more helpless ram appeared tangled in the bushes, and was substituted for the lad.

The primitive originators of the sacrificial altar had only the weak and helpless and defenseless in mind as the intended sacrifice to their God. The innocence of the lamb and the dove did not appeal to their calloused hearts. They were intent on saving themselves, even though the whole world must be sacrificed.

That spirit is still prevailing where the weak and the strong meet in the struggle for existence, and the weak and innocent do not appeal to sympathetic hearts when they ask for mercy. The business and commercial altars must have a sacrifice for the benefit of the strong. This picture is always before me. My love for the world is like the love of a despondent mother for her sick child.

LOST IN THE SNOW

No one who has never lived near an Indian school has any idea of the loneliness and homesickness that fills the poor little hearts of the Indian youths who have been torn away from the rude Indian home and herded together between gloomy brick walls, so different from the teepee of their semi-savage parents. The government department in charge of these schools talk of abolishing the schools located at a distance from the reservations, and building school houses right in the village, retaining only four such schools as that of Carlisle, Pa., to serve as high schools for the larger youths.

I believe there is much sense and good judgment in this. Civilization should not force painful conditions upon the children of our copper-skinned wards.

I recall to mind the desertion of five little Indian boys from a school near which the writer spent several years, and a more pathetic tale never was told. Like the instinct of bees and animals, these Indian boys knew that their native village lay to the southwest of the school, and when homesickness felt so unbearable that it could not be endured, they stole from their dormitory one dark night in November, swam the river and started to climb the rugged side of the great Rocky Mountains.

Little Jake Hargison was but six years old, and the baby of the deserters, but he struggled through the dark and up the rocky side of the towering mountain with courage stimulated by the hope of seeing home and parents within a few days. Being only boys, they had not provided food for the journey, each lad carrying only a small lunch in his pockets.

At daylight they were far up on the mountain side, half frozen; for they had come to an impassable cliff and so were obliged to wait until the daylight came, not daring to build a fire lest it be seen from the valley where the school buildings were located.

It was past noon when they finally reached the top of the mountain and struck out boldly to cross the broad mesa extending far to the southwest. Far in the distance they could see the mountain range at whose foot nestled the Indian village they called home. They knew it was seventy-five long miles away, but they never flinched or thought of turning back.

Late in the afternoon the sky grew gray with bleak clouds, and the northeast wind chilled them to the bone. There were already four inches of snow on the mesa, and the eldest of the boys knew instinctively that another snow storm was in the air. But they had on stout government shoes, and did not fear the snow.

By dark the snow storm burst on them in all the fury of a Rocky Mountain blizzard, and the boys began to search for a sheltering rock. Fortunately they came to the brow of a great range of mountains, and down below the rim rock they knew there would be shelter from the storm and the winds. Slowly and tortuously the boys climbed down through a crevice in the great rim rock, and 200 feet below they came to a level plateau, where they gathered wood and built a fire close up to the perpendicular wall.

Sitting by the warm fire they ate their lunch, having saved it all through the weary day, and they could hear the storm king howling through the spruce trees and shrieking through the canyons on either side.

And where they had camped the snow was drifting over the cliff and falling upon them very fast. They knew the history of these snow drifts—knew that the snow sometimes stacked up to the depth of fifty feet on the lee side of the rim rock, but it was too late to retreat now.

At midnight their fuel became exhausted, and the snow drift was so deep that they could not get more. Little Jake complained of being sleepy, and his older brother sang an Indian song to keep him awake. The little fellow began to repeat the prayer his teacher taught him, and fell asleep with the words still on his lips. The others soon followed him into dreamland, and all night long the merciless snow drifted over the tall rock and buried them under many feet of spotless robes. The winds howled, the storm shrieked and groaned and higher the snow drift grew upon them.

Late in July a prospecting party found them, the elder brother holding little Jake in his stiffened arms.

A PLEA FOR CHILDHOOD

In the name of humanity, in the name of civilization, and in the name of Him who died for men, I would make a plea for the little children who are born into the world to be landless and homeless through life. Does it seem possible to the thickest headed thinker that a just God would send children into a world already privately owned by previous generations? Are God’s laws similar to the European laws of primogeniture, giving the best of all to the first born—to the first generations, and to be handed down from father to son, to hold and own forever?

I can’t believe that there is any priority handed down to a special few from the God of All. Every sense of common justice rebels at such an idea. If it is our God, and our heaven, and our eternity, it must then surely be our earth, our land, and our oceans, and our mountains, and our air. Will a higher civilization recognize this picture of simple justice? And will we reach a higher state of civilization without giving all an equal share in God and the earth?

I do not know. It might create serious complications to remove the priority claim of the selected few who now claim the natural wealth of the world. The present state and condition of the social world and the industrial world may be exactly as God wishes it to be. Every one must answer this question for himself; for while it is true that God created man, every individual creature has a peculiar way of forming the character and attributes of his God. Men still quote scripture to prove that God believed in human slavery. If this is true, then God surely allowed little innocent babes to be born into slavery, and to be driven by the lash from the cradle to the grave.

If this is true, then child labor in our mills and factories for wages, is not nearly so horrible as chattel slavery, and God must look with approbation at the little consumptive boy or girl dying by inches while watching the shuttles fly back and forth in the loom, of which they are part of the machinery.

These questions each one must settle for himself; but doesn’t it seem more natural and human to decide in favor of the children? When you look into the innocent eyes of the child sitting in its mother’s arms, can you consign that child to the slavery of the factories and mills, and then wash your conscience clean with the wet sponge of tearful prayer? Sit right up straight in your chair at this very minute and decide the case between yourself and the children and your God—did God, or did he not send these helpless and dependent children into the world to become mere slaves, and to live landless and homeless until he calls them hence? Yes?

Within the eyes of each trusting child

That look straight into mine,

There is a plea, so meek and mild,

So humble and supine—

A plea for mercy and human love,

For justice and for right,

For a share in the earth and the God above,

And all the blessings in sight.

Perhaps it was God who planted there

This plea, ere they were born;

This innate plea for an equal share

Of all the meat and corn,

How can men rob them of their right?

And hear their loud demands,

When they see the wealth of the world in sight,

And their father’s empty hands.

I know the sigh of each full grown breast

For a home and an acre of soil;

A vine and a fig tree; to sit and rest,

When weary of work and toil.

Did the God of Nature plant that sigh

In the babe, long ere it smiled?

And this plea, like a rainbow, in the eye

Of the trusting, yearning child?

May the God of heaven pity us all!

But pity the children now!

Let us kiss the spot hurt in each fall

And smooth the troubled brow;

For how shall we, as a little child,

Win back a place in heaven,

If the child is robbed, long ere it smiled

Of the part Great God has given?

THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY

I do not know; yet the longings and yearnings of my soul cry out always for immortality. I seem to hope always that somewhere in the universe there is stored away a great pity that responds to the longings and yearnings of my soul, and stands ready to help me when the earth fades away from sight and the shadows fall thick and deep around me. I do not know. The desire in my soul is father to my trembling hope, and hope may pass away when life goes out into the unknown and my body of clay is left to crumble and decay and disintegrate and go back to the original elements.

There will be a physical change, the light and heat and movement will go out of my body, like the light blown out in a vacant house when the inhabitants move away. But whither goes the inhabitants that now dwell within me when the lights are blown out and the doors locked and sealed with the eternal lock that will not open to the key of time, I do not know.

In my sober contemplation of all that lies before, it seems to me that love and justice and mercy and hope are of ephemeral existence if they last only while the light is in the body. And I ask myself: “Is there no life and light and mercy and hope and pity beyond these things we feel and hear and see? Are we to suffer injustice during life that will never be righted for us? Are we to love, and lose the object of our love, and never find it again? Are these bright minds of ours, so capable of dreaming such beautiful dreams, to be brought to the very highest possible heights of intelligence, and then suddenly be snuffed out, like blowing the lighted flame from a candle, leaving all in darkness and gloom?”

I do not know. The prophets and philosophers were only men, with yearnings and longings like my own, and as weak and helpless to pull aside the curtains and peep into the future as I find myself. And yet I am not satisfied to die forever; for I do know that there is an eternity for all these things existing in space. Space is eternity itself. The human mind can not picture a condition when worlds and planets and space will be no more. Nothing can come from nothing, neither can matter pass into nothing and leave no trace behind. The length of the universe is eternity, and so is the width and the breadth. It can not pass away and leave but a hole, for even a hole must have sides and dimensions.

I do not know; perhaps the ox in the field knows more about immortality than man, perhaps less, perhaps nothing at all. It would not need to know much about it to outstrip me in knowledge on this one particular subject. He may have longings and yearnings, the same as me, for how shall the ox receive his share of justice and equity if he passes away with this life and is known no more?

I do not know; justice must surely mean the same rewards for the ox as it means for man, for how can simple justice discriminate between animals, and still remain simple justice? And the man who is willing to grasp an immortality that discriminates between him and the ox, is neither merciful, charitable, nor just. Immortality must surely embrace all the living creatures, or part of life would be left behind, and immortality would be incomplete and imperfect. God must be the God of all. If the ox is an inferior creature, the fault lies with the creator and not with the created thing. If there is no justice and mercy for the ox, then justice and mercy have limits, and God is not so powerful to save his creatures as he is to create them.

I do not know; my faith in immortality may be the child of my hopes and longings. If I am always to be I always was in existence somewhere. I am positively certain that I know of no evidence to prove a past existence, for hope does not lead backward. Hope points always ahead, from where the winds of the future are always blowing. I know that I desire to live always, to think always, to hope always, to love on and on forever and ever.

TEACH SENTIMENT

Sentiment is a creature of education. A child will naturally imitate its parents. If they are unfeeling and cruel, the child will be the same, at least until it falls under a different influence. Sentiment is not inherited. The average child is cruel and heartless until old enough to imitate the sentimental spirit of old people. Therefore, it should be the first lesson impressed upon the child mind that cruelty and wanton heartlessness is brutal, and does not belong to civilized man.

In my own case I have always been opposed to keeping pet animals or birds confined in a cage—no, not always: When a boy I was always catching birds and squirrels and rabbits to start a menagerie. I remember one time of keeping a red squirrel in a cage for two years. I hadn’t then learned that kindness to the weakest of God’s creatures shows a largeness of the human heart. I was then a lad of fifteen years.

But one day while watching the red squirrel leaping from one side of the cage to the bottom, then bounding to the other side and back again, and on to the opposite side and back again, over and over again, all through the day, and day after day, for the exercise it needed to keep its health—one day while watching the poor imprisoned animal at its daily exercise, the thought came to me that the little animal would be so much happier outside the cage. Then it dawned on me that I was simply keeping the poor thing imprisoned to gratify my own selfish pleasure. Simply to look at and enjoy its efforts to make life tolerable under such distressing conditions. I had actually been enjoying the restless efforts of the squirrel to make prison life healthful; for had the animal sat down to mourn and pout and sorrow for the freedom it once enjoyed, it would have died in a few weeks.

My heart smote me. I saw what a cruel jailor I had been. It’s bad enough to imprison bad men and shut them away from the sunlight and flowers and the smiles of good women and children, just as though darkness and heartaches and misery would make a human being better. But here I was imprisoning an innocent animal simply for the selfish pleasure that comes from the possession of things not justly my own. Like the millionaire who gets a monopoly on the necessaries of life, and forces the people to pay tribute into his coffers for the sole and only pleasure of possessing more dollars than his neighbors.

If he has sentiment enough to use those dollars for the benefit of civilization and to relieve the distress of the people, it is not so bad, but hoarding up for the pleasure that comes from sheer possession, is worse than brutal—it is maniacal.

Well, my conscience smote me on the educated end of my sentiment, and one day I opened the cage and let the squirrel go back to the woods. I had learned a lesson I never forgot. The awakened sentiment in my soul never slumbered again.

Sentiment is contagious. My boy caught the happy mental disorder much earlier than his father did. A few weeks ago, he, too, started a menagerie. He caught two mice and put them in a cage. At the end of two weeks his young heart felt the sentimental pangs of conscience, and he liberated his unwilling prisoners.

The world is growing better. The boy’s sentiment did as much for him in two weeks as mine did for me in two years. The two liberated mice may do me a trifle of damage while at large, but when I consider that the boy let his heart out at the same time he liberated the mice, I knew the world would be the gainer in the end.

THE SOUL OF SORROW

Sorrow is not always gruesome and heart-breaking. It has a lifetime influence, providing the fiber of the soul is strong enough to withstand the strain. Not long ago there was a musical contest in a Pennsylvania city, and one of the young ladies to take part in it had given up the thought of going into the contest, because her mother lay at the point of death the day previous to the departure of the companies who were going to the distant city to show what their town could do in a musical way.

But during the night the mother’s condition changed for the better, and she urged her daughter to go; for on her the town depended to bring back some of the prizes to be given to the sweetest singers of the state.

And so she went, her heart very much lighter since the happy change in her mother’s condition. Anyhow, going out into the world to compete for a prize, with some hope of winning, has a buoyant effect on the heart. Oh, if all the world could but feel a slight hope of winning a prize when starting out in the world, how much happier the world would be! But to most of the average people the world’s prizes are hanging up so distressingly high that only the well prepared have any chance of winning them.

The parents who carelessly or helplessly send their children out into the world uneducated, to compete with college graduates, are sending them into a hard proposition. And the state government that will sleep while one portion of the people are being educated to take care of themselves, and a larger number are growing up in helpless ignorance and sent out into the world to compete with the few educated ones—the state or public that can sleep while such an injustice is being perpetrated on the weakest and most helpless of its subjects, needs to have its conscience touched with the awakening finger of justice. The boasting cry that in this country everybody’s child has an equal opportunity to gain a livelihood, is as false as hell. There are colleges in our so-called free land where the son of a ditch digger or a washerwoman could no more enter than a miserly rich man can enter the kingdom of heaven.

But I have drifted. I can’t help but drift. Every time I try to paint a picture, the injustice of the unjust crowd in and fill the distant perspective, and get painted into the sunset and change the gold into blackened lead.

Just one hour before the young lady was to go on the stage to sing her solo, a dispatch brought the sad and shocking news that her mother was dead. Nobody who knew of the sad news thought for a moment that the bereaved and heartbroken girl would attempt to sing. They were all disappointed, of course, but who could ask her to go on the stage with a sorrow as deep as hers? But she did not break down. Oh, she had been so confident of winning the prize, and her town’s people would be so greatly disappointed if she failed!