"Leon! Leon!"
The cry was low and weak, and the suffering woman fell back upon her pillow. The youth, though asleep, heard, and quickly responded to the call. He had been sitting in the large arm-chair, beside a rude wooden table, upon which stood a common glass lamp, with red wick, whose flickering flame shed but a dim ray across the well-thumbed pages of a book which lay open. While reading under such unfavorable circumstances, the boy had slumbered, his mind drifting slowly toward dream-land, yet not beyond the voice of the sufferer. She had scarcely repeated his name, when he was kneeling beside her, speaking in a voice that was tender and solicitous.
"What is it, mother?" he asked.
"Nothing," was the reply.
"Do you wish to drink?"
"No."
"Are you in pain?"
"Yes. But no matter."
"Will you take your medicine?"
"No. Leon, I want to tell you something."
"Not to-night, mother. You must sleep to-night. To-morrow you may talk."
"Leon, when I sleep to-night, it will be forever."
"Do not talk so, mother. You are nervous. Perhaps the darkness oppresses you. I will turn up the light."
He did so, but the lamp only spluttered, flaring up brighter for a moment, only to burn as dull as before.
"You see," said the old woman, with a ghastly smile, "there will be no more light in my life."
"Indeed there will be."
"I tell you no!" She spoke fiercely, and summoned all her waning energy to her aid, as she struggled to raise herself upon her elbow. Then, extending a bony finger in his direction and shaking it in emphasis of her words, she continued: "I tell you I am dying. Death is here; in this room; I see his form, and I feel his cold fingers on my forehead. Sh! Sh! Listen! Do you not hear? A voice from the darkness is calling—'Confess! Confess!'" Then with a feeble cry she dropped back, moaning and groaning as in anguish.
"Mother! Mother! Lie still! Do not talk so." Leon was much agitated by the scene which had just transpired. The woman was quiet for a time, except that she sobbed, but presently she addressed him again.
"Leon, I must talk. I must tell. But don't call me mother."
"Why not?
How frequently in life do we thus rush ruthlessly upon unsuspected crises in our fates? Leon said these words, with no thought of their import, and with no foreboding of what would follow. How could he guess that from the moment of their utterance his life would be changed, and his boyhood lost to him forever, because of the momentousness of the reply which he invited?
When the woman spoke again, her voice was so low that the youth leaned down to hear her words. She said:
"Leon, you have been a good son to me. But—I am not your mother." Having spoken the words with a sadness in her heart, which found echo in the cadence of her voice, she turned her face wearily away from the youth, and waited for his reply. And he, though astounded by what he had heard, did not at the time fully connect the words with himself, but recognized only the misery which their utterance had caused to the suffering woman. With gentleness as tender as a loving woman's, he turned her face to his, touched her lips with his, and softly said:
"You are my mother! The only mother that I have ever known!" Oh! The weakness of human kind, which, at the touch of a loving hand, the sound of a loving voice, yields up its most sacred principles! This dying woman had lived from birth till now in a secluded New England village, and, imbibing her puritanical instincts from her ancestry, she almost deemed it a sin to smile, or show any outward sign of happiness. She had been a mother to this boy, according to her bigoted ideas; she had been good to him in her own way; but she had kissed him but once, and then he was going upon a journey. Yet now, as overcome by his intense sympathy, his long-suppressed love welled out from his heart toward her, with a happy cry she nestled close within his arms, and cried for joy, a joy that was hers for the first time, yet which might have illumined all her declining days, had she not brushed it away from her.
A long silence ensued, presently broken by the woman, as she slowly related the following story.
"Years ago, no matter how many, I was a pretty woman, and a vain one. I had admirers, but I loved none as I loved myself. But at last one came, and then my life was changed. I loved him, and I began to despise myself. For the more I saw and loved him, the less likely it seemed that he could love me. I used all my arts in vain. My prettiest frocks, my most coquettish glances, were all wasted on him. It seemed to me that I had not even made him see that I might be won, if he would woo. He went away, and I thought that I would never meet him again, for he had been but a summer visitor. My heart was broken, and besides my pride was hurt, for I suffered the bitterness of being taunted with my failure by my sisters. A year later, he came to me again. Several months before, I had gone to live in Boston, but in some way he had found me out. To my surprise, he told me that he knew that I loved him. He said that he had not offered me his love, because he was already married. Then he asked me to do him a favor. I gladly assented, without knowing what he would ask, for I would have sacrificed anything for him, I loved him so. The next day he brought me a beautiful baby boy. He told me it was his, that his wife was ill, and that he wished me to care for the baby for a year, whilst he went to Europe. I undertook the charge, without considering the consequences. I returned to the farm, bound to secrecy as to the child's parentage. Very soon I discovered that my friends shunned me, and then I learned that by taking you, Leon, I had lost my good name. Well! I did not care. You were his baby! You had his eyes, and so my heart grew hard against the world, but I determined to keep the baby whose fingers had already gripped my heart. Then, shut out from all friendships, scorned even by my sisters to whom I had refused to make any explanation, I began to pray that something, anything, would happen so that you should not be taken from me. My wicked prayer was answered, for later I learned that the young mother had died, and I was to continue caring for you. At first my joy was very great, but soon I recognized, that you were mine only because I had prayed for the death of your mother. The Lord had granted my wish, as an everlasting punishment for my sinful longing. Thenceforward, however much I yearned to press you to my heart, I have not dared to do so. I have tried to accept the chastisement of the Lord with meekness of spirit. And so I have had my wish! I have kept you with me, ever to be a reproach for my sin. But I thank the Lord, that at the end he has allowed me to have one full moment of happiness. He has granted me the boon to see that my boy has learned to love me in spite of all my harshness. You have kissed me, Leon, and called me mother. Oh! God! Thy will be done!"
Then with a smile almost of beatitude, she sank down lower, and nestled closer to her long-denied love. Leon stooped and kissed her again, but did not speak. His heart was full, and his emotions rose within his breast, so that he felt a curious sensation of fulness in his throat, which warned him not to essay speech.
In silence they remained so for a time, not computed by either. She was lost in thoughts such as have been aroused in many hearts by the poet's magic words, "It might have been!" This boy was his, and might have been hers, if——! Ah! What chasms have been bridged by these two letters, which form this little, mighty word!
Leon began to grasp, but slowly, all that the future would hold for him with the added knowledge granted to him this night. He pondered over the past, and remembering how stern had been his life, and how austere had been the manner of this woman who had been his mother, and adding up the sum of all, he wondered that he had found such love for her within his heart. For his love had been recognized by himself as suddenly as he had given fervent expression to it, when he embraced that mother who denied her motherhood. If the poet's words which I have quoted conceal a thought of sadness within their meaning, what woe resides within the thought encompassed by those other words, "Too late!" To both of these, the woman and the boy, the recognition of the joys of love, had come too late. As this thought at last penetrated the mind of the dreaming youth, he started, awakening from his abstraction. At the same moment, the lamp flared up, flickered, and went out. Then as darkness enshrouded him, so deep that he almost felt it touch his brow, he shivered, and a long moan escaped him followed by an anguished cry:
"Mother!"
At last he realized what he had heard. In two ways was he to lose what all good men hold dearest on this earth: a mother. First, she denied the relationship; second, she had told him that she was dying. No answer came back to his cry. The woman in his arms made no sound. She did not stir. He leaned his ear against her heart. It had ceased to beat. She was dead. Her spirit had slipped away, unnoticed by the loving boy whose arms encircled her shrivelled form, but whose love full surely lighted her way up among the stars! Up, to that mysterious realm, too vast for human thought, too limitless for human mind; where the sinning and the sinless meet their deserts. However much of wrong or of error there had been in her life, in the moment of death she found true happiness; and I am grateful to her for arousing the thought, that we may all end our lives in peace. And so I leave her.
But the boy? The youth now left to buffet with the world alone? I will ask you to follow him as, with a heart crowded with anguish and resentment, he rushed bareheaded out into the night, and swiftly sped through the wood. For he is well worth following. He has reached an important epoch in his life, a turning point at which he abandons his boyish past and becomes a man.
Could he have been asked why he ran, or whither, he would have found himself bewildered and at a loss for a reply. Yet it is easily explainable. His home-life had never been attractive to him, nor in any way satisfying to his temperament, which, indeed, as we shall see, was such that he was ever in ill-concealed rebellion against the restraints of his surroundings, which threatened to crush his intellectual yearnings. Nevertheless, it was his home, so endeared to him by long association, that the sudden realization of the complex idea, first, that he did love this home, and second that he would now lose it forever, coming to him instantaneously, overwhelmed him.
He felt a dull pain in his breast, which made him almost imagine that some heavy body had been thrust within his bosom, and weighed heavily against his heart, interfering with that vital organ, so that the blood coursed sluggishly, and the lungs were loath to do their duty. Thus stifling, though only in imagination, he was instinctively compelled to rush out into the air, which cooled the fever in his veins. He ran, impelled by a mysterious feeling akin to fear, yet not fear, which exists within the breasts of all mankind, however loudly one individual may declare himself exempt, and which is aroused when one is suddenly brought into the presence of the dead, alone, and for the first time. Leon had never seen death before, although he had of course seen the dead, coffined and made ready for the grave. But he now passed through an entirely new experience. In one moment he held within his arms a living, breathing being whom he loved; and in the next he gazed upon a voiceless, senseless, shocking thing, and loathed it. It was from this thing, and from the house where this thing now lay, that he was running. But, as I have said, he did not know it at the time, and probably would have spurned the suggestion a day later. But, the fact remains that it was true.
Where he was going, is explainable by a simpler course of analysis. He was going to the lake. He was going to his boat. He was going out upon the water away from the companionship of that dead thing on land. He was going out upon the water, to be alone, and to find solace in his loneliness. In this, he but followed involuntarily a habit which he had practised for several years. When his home-life had pressed most hardly upon him at times, he had slipped away from the little farm, and rowed his boat out upon the lake, for self-communion and comfort. So now, without realizing that he had chosen any special direction in his flight, or that he had any fixed purpose in his mind, he ran swiftly along the wood-choppers' path, until at length he stopped panting on a bit of narrow beach. He stood silent for a moment, and then concluded to get his boat and go out upon the lake. Or rather, he thought that he formed this decision at that moment, but really it originated when he turned towards the lake, rather than towards the next neighbor. It was therefore not companionship, but solitude which he sought.
Within five minutes he was rowing lustily across the mirror-like surface of Massabesic, out towards the widest portion. The day had been insufferably warm, it being mid-summer, but in this region the nights are usually cool. This night was balmy. Mars had appeared, a glowing red ball, above the eastern horizon, early in the evening, and an hour later the almost full moon had climbed up high enough to shed her silver rays across the waters. Later still the breeze had died away, and slowly the bosom of the lake grew quiet, as though even the waters had drifted into slumberous repose. When Leon started out in his boat, almost immediately his ruffled soul recognized the influence of the deadly calm surrounding him, for though at first he dipped his oars deep, and rowed vigorously, making the light bark leap upward at every pull, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he stroked his oars with lessening vehemence, and presently, as though thoroughly awed by the stillness, and fearful of creating the noise even of a ripple, he was straining every nerve to dip and withdraw his oars, and to move his boat along without a sound. After a few minutes of this, he slowly raised both oars, letting them rest across the gunwales until the last drop of water had dripped off, and the last series of circles caused thereby had disappeared, and then, with the care and delicacy of one who moves about a chamber where some loved one is asleep who must not be disturbed, he placed his oars gently in the boat, and sat motionless.
Already Mars had almost reached the tops of the trees along the western banks, and, attracted by it, Leon gazed upon the planet until it disappeared. He had been still for ten minutes, and having recognized that all was quiet about him, and having abandoned his rowing, he was now mildly surprised to observe that his boat was in a totally different position; that in fact he had drifted a long distance. This awakened him slightly from his reverie, for here was a new bit of knowledge about a body of water with which he had been acquainted since his earliest recollection. He had never known, nor even suspected, that in a calm there could be a current. He endeavored to calculate by observation how fast he was moving; but the task was difficult. He could readily discern that since abandoning his oars he had moved a hundred yards, but, however intently he gazed upon the shores, he could not detect that he was moving. He pondered over this for a time, and being of a philosophical turn of mind, and fond of speculating, he likened his position at the moment, to life in general. However little we suspect it, there is an unseen but potent energy which urges us forward towards——the grave, and——whatever follows death.
This idea pleased him for a moment, for the analogy was a new one and original with himself, in so far, that he had never head it from another. Quickly, however, returning to the more practical problem, he determined to find a way to ascertain the rapidity with which his boat was moving. Placing a fishing-rod upright before him, and then closing one eye, gazing with the other at a conspicuous object along the horizon, immediately he could see, not only that he was moving, but that the motion was more rapid than he had suspected. Having thus satisfied the immediate and momentary questioning of an inquiring mind, his previous mental state, his loneliness and desolation, returned upon him with redoubled force. A moment later, Nature offered him another abstraction. Looking into the water he saw mirrored there the reflection of the moon. Not the stream of undulating silver over which poets have raved these many years, and which painters have fruitlessly essayed to convey to canvass, but the glorious, full, round orb itself. This he had never seen before, and he wondered why it should be. Almost as though in answer to his thought, a faint zephyr breathed across the surface of the waters, and beginning near the shores, the ripples rolled towards him, and with them brought the shimmering moonlight until all in a moment, the reflected orb had disappeared, and the usual silvery line of light replaced it. Thus he saw, that only water in motion will show the moonbeams, whilst a mirror, whether it be of glass, or the still bosom of the lake, reflects but the moon itself.
Again he returned to the bitterness of his night's experience, and now, no longer attracted by the moon, and not caring how fast or whither he drifted, he lay back in his boat, pillowing his head upon a cushion on the seat in the stern, and gazed up into the sky thus oblivious of the landscape and so without an indication of his progress.
His mind reverted to the house, and the dead woman. She was not his mother. Then who was she? Or rather who was he? She was, or had been, Margaret Grath, and he had thought that he was entitled to the name Leon Grath. But if she was not, or had not been, his mother, then plainly he had no right to her name. On considering this, he concluded that it was his privilege to call himself Leon, but the last name Grath, being obtainable legally only by inheritance, he must abandon. When the word "inheritance" crossed his thoughts, involuntarily a loud mocking laugh escaped him. And when the sonorous echoes laughed with him, he laughed again, and again. The drollery which aroused his mirth, was that, if a name might be inherited, why might not Margaret Grath have bequeathed hers to him? Perhaps she might have mentioned it in her will? But no! A name is a heritage acquired at birth, whilst only chattels are included in an inheritance which follows a death. Evidently he was nameless, except that he might be called Leon, just as his collie answered to the name Lossy. This made him laugh again. For now he thought that his dog had fared better than himself, for he was called "The Marquis of Lossy," after MacDonald's Malcolm. Thus the collie was of noble blood, whilst he was——only Leon, the child of nobody. As he reached this point, the moon dipped down below the western hill, the upper edge shedding its last rays across the boy and his boat, after which he was indeed enshrouded by the night. It seemed colder too, now that the orb had gone, and insensibly he felt in some way more alone. True, there were the stars, still twinkling in the firmament, but they seemed far away, like his own future. Still Leon dreamed on.
As he could not lift the veil which parted him from what was to be, he wandered back in thought, recalling what had been.
The Theosophist says that man has lived before upon this planet, inhabiting many corporeal forms, and drifting through many earthly existences. The Sceptic cries: "Ridiculous! but, granting the postulate, of what advantage is it to have lived before, or to live again, if in each earth-life I cannot recall those that have gone before?" Yet, without arguing for Theosophy, might I not remind this sceptic that he enjoys his life to-day, even though he might find it difficult to recall yesterday, or the day before, or a week, a month, a year ago? How many of us in looking backward over life's path, can summon up the phantoms of more than a few days? Days on which occurred some events of special moment?
The first landmark along his life's path, which stood out conspicuous among Leon's garnered memories, was his first visit to the church. Margaret Grath had dressed him in his brightest frock, curled his hair, and placed upon his head his newest bonnet. His heart had swelled with pride, as he trotted beside the tall, gaunt, New England woman, who walked with long strides, and held his hands, lest he should lag behind. But though his legs grew tired, he offered no rebellion, for he had often looked upon the red brick building, with wondering eyes, and his ears had oft been mystified at the tolling of the bell which swung and sounded, though moved by no hand that he could see, nor means that he could understand. He marvelled at the outside of the building, its steeple marking it a house apart from every other in the village, and he long had yearned to see it from within. On this day, to which his thought now turned, he had his wish. He followed Miss Grath down the aisle, clinging to her skirts, a little frightened at the people sitting straight and stiff, and he was rejoiced when he found himself at last on a comfortable cushion in the pew. The cushion was a treat; being his first experience with such luxury, and confirmed his idea that the church was better than other houses. Presently he began to be accustomed to his surroundings, having viewed all the walls, the roof, the organ, and the pulpit, until his active mind was satisfied so far as concerned the building itself. Then he began to feel the silence, and he did not like it. He longed to speak, but did not dare, because when he timidly looked up, Miss Grath, catching his glance, scowled reproachfully, and looked straight before her. Small and young as he was, he had learned to know this woman with whom he lived, and he needed no more explicit warning to hold his tongue. So he sat still, adding to the silence which oppressed him.
It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the preacher rise, and heard him speak; and it was with a throb of intense joy that his heart warmed as the notes of the organ reached him for the first time in his life. Thenceforward he was interested up to the point where the sermon began. The tiresome monotone in which this was delivered, and the impossibility of his comprehending what was said, soon fatigued his little brain, and then lulled him to sleep.
I may mention parenthetically, what of course did not now enter Leon's mind, for he never knew the subject of that first sermon which had been preached at him. If it had been incomprehensible to the child, the woman had understood well enough, for it had been aimed at her especially. The preacher, I cannot call him a minister, for he truly ministered unto none except himself, the preacher then, was a cold, hard Scotchman, High Church of course. He firmly believed in the damnation of infants, and a Hell of which the component parts would be brimstone and fire in proper proportions. He also believed in the efficacy of prayer, especially of his own. Therefore, it not infrequently happened, that when any one incurred his ill will, which was not difficult, he would offer up a prayer, consigning said individual to the hottest tortures of the world below. He did this so adroitly, that, while there were no plain personalities in his words, his description of the sinner would be so specific, that the party of the second part readily identified himself as the central figure of the excoriation.
Now this saintly preacher had at one time demeaned himself, or so he thought, sufficiently low to offer himself in marriage to Miss Margaret Grath. She had declined the honor, and he had hated her ever after. Like all true women, however, she had kept his secret, so that none of the congregation knowing the relation which existed, or which might have existed, between them, none could read between the lines of his sermons, when he chose to lash her by a savage denunciation of any mild backsliding, of which she might have been guilty, and himself cognizant. Her return to the village with the child, who had no visible father, and no mother, unless the guesses of the gossips were correct, had afforded him opportunity for a most masterly peroration. But he belched forth his greatest eloquence on that Sunday morning, when she had the temerity to bring into the sacred confines of his sanctuary this fatherless boy, for whose sake she had chosen to live a lonely life. If his prayer of that morning proved efficacious, then surely the infant was damned, and the woman's soul consigned to endless Purgatory. Thus the day to which Leon recurred in thought, was a landmark in another life beside his, and I have turned aside for a moment to relate this incident, that the character of Miss Grath may be better comprehended, for in spite of all that she had suffered through the animosity of the preacher, she had never omitted attendance at church, when it was a physical possibility for her to get there. It must be true that some of her determination and will descended from her to the boy, because association means more than heredity.
The next occurrence in his life, which now occupied his thoughts, was a day long after, when he was nearing his twelfth year. He was off on a hunting expedition, and had climbed a mountain. Careless in leaping from crag to crag, he landed upon a loose boulder, which rolled from under his feet, so that he was thrown. In falling, his foot twisted, and a moment later, intense pain made him aware that he could not walk upon it. For four hours he slowly, but pluckily, dragged himself down the mountain, and at last reached home. It so chanced that a celebrated physician from New York was spending a vacation in the neighborhood, attracted perhaps by the brooks, which were full of fish. This man was Dr. Emanuel Medjora, and having heard of the boy's hurt, he voluntarily visited the lonely farm-house, and attended upon him so skilfully that Leon soon was well.
Just why the thought of Dr. Medjora should come to him at this time was a problem to Leon, but one upon which he did not dwell. After that summer, he had seen the Doctor again at various times, two or three years apart, always at vacation-time. But it was now three years since they had met.
Swiftly his thoughts passed along the years of his life, until they stopped for a moment, arrested by an incident worthy of being chronicled. I have said that Leon lay in his boat, face skyward, and allowed his bark to drift whither it would. Thus he had not noted his progress until a crunching sound startled him, and he became aware that his boat had found a landing-place, having grounded amidst the sands of a little cove, sheltered by a high rock and overhanging shrubbery. Forced thus from his abstraction into some cognizance of his whereabouts, Leon, without raising his head, merely became aware of the branches and leaves overhead, and peered through them. Almost in the midst of the green, he saw what seemed to be a brilliant but monstrous diamond, pendent from a branch. In the next instant he recognized that he was gazing upon Venus, the morning star, which had risen during his reverie, and now shone resplendent and most beautiful. It was just at this moment, that the incident occurred to which I have alluded. Suddenly it seemed to him that the whole of his surroundings were familiar. Everything had occurred before. His boat drifting into the cove, the shrubbery overhead, and Venus in the sky; all that he now realized, in the most minute detail, had held a place in his experience before. Such a phenomenon is not uncommon. All of us have been impressed similarly. Indeed, some Theosophists, trying to prove a previous life for man, have reverted to this well-known feeling, and have claimed that here is a recollection of a former visit to this earth. But Leon, young philosopher though he was, would have laughed in scorn at such an argument. He had considered this problem, and had solved it satisfactorily for himself. His explanation was thus. Man's brain is divided into two hemispheres. Usually they act co-ordinately, but it is possible that, at least momentarily, they may operate independently. It is a fact that the phenomenon under consideration seldom, or never occurs, except when the mind is greatly interested or occupied. Something, perhaps in itself the merest trifle, diverts the mind from the intensity of its attention. This diversion leads by a train of circumstances to a long-forgotten memory, and one hemisphere of the brain reverts to a moment in the past, the other continuing intent upon its surroundings. Within an infinitesimal period of time, a period too brief to be calculable, both hemispheres are again acting in unison. The abstraction has been so brief, and the cause of it is so dimly defined, that the mind is oblivious of what has occurred, except that, as the diverted hemisphere again takes cognizance of its previous thoughts, and again recognizes the environment of the present, the phenomenon of a dual experience is noted. Of course the scene is identically the same as that which is remembered, because it is the same scene. And the previous experience will impress the individual as having occurred long ago, in exact proportion to the date of that circumstance to which one hemisphere has reverted.
Therefore, Leon did not, at this time, speculate upon the mystery, which he thought he understood, but he welcomed the advent of a long-sought opportunity, to trace out the cause of such an abstraction, so fleeting in its nature.
He was occupied thus, for half an hour, but at length believed that he had analyzed the experience. The turning-point, at which he had been diverted, was when he first recognized Venus. And now he remembered that occasion when he had gone upon a journey. Away from his home for the first time in his life, he felt many sensations which I need not record here. But one amusement had been to sit at night studying the stars, and from them fixing the position of the buildings on the home farm, in relation to those where he was then abiding. One evening, when watching Venus, then the evening star, he was looking across a pool of water, and trying to imagine himself back on Massabesic, with the same planet setting behind the western hill, when, turning his head, he saw a young and beautiful girl standing near him. As his eyes abandoned the planet for the woman, he was startled by the thought that the goddess had been re-embodied. A moment later, the girl asked him for some information relating to the nearest way to her home, which he gave, and she walked on. He had never seen her since, nor had he thought of her again. But now, having analyzed his thoughts and traced them back from the star to that girl, her face thus summoned seemed to take the place of the planet in the heavens, and to gaze down upon him with an assuring smile, which somehow made him feel that the future might hold something for him after all.
What that something might be, he did not even try to guess. Therefore, you must not adopt the conclusion that Leon thus suddenly fell in love with a girl whose face had been seen by him but once. No idea within his mind, connected with that face, was now coupled with a thought of her as an earthly being. He merely summoned up the image of a lovely being, and felt himself refreshed, and hope returning.
A few moments later the twilight brightened and the first red border of the sun, peeping over the tops of the trees, shed a warming ray upon Leon, thus awakened from his dreamy night into the first day of his manhood.
On a bright, warm morning, a week later, Leon had already arisen, though it was barely past five o'clock, and having wandered off into a secluded spot in the woods, lay on the ground, his head pillowed against a tree trunk. Margaret Grath had been laid away beneath the sod, and the old home was no longer homelike to him, since her two sisters had moved in, to take possession until "the auction" which was to occur on this day.
He had never liked these women, and they had lavished no affection upon him. Consequently he was uneasy in their presence, and so avoided them. They had plainly told him that he was no kith nor kin of theirs, and that though he might abide on the farm till the auction, after that event he would be obliged to shift for himself. They also volunteered the advice that he should leave the town, and added that if he did so it would be a good riddance. To all of these kind speeches Leon had listened in silence, determined that he would earn his living without further dependence upon this family, upon whom he now thought that he had already intruded too long, though unknowingly.
Now, as he lay among the fresh mosses, and inhaled the sweet scents of surrounding blossoms which lifted their drooping heads, and unfolded their petals to the kisses of the newly risen sun, he was musing upon the necessities of his situation, while in a measure taking a last farewell of haunts which he had learned to love.
Presently, a sound of rustling twigs arrested his attention, and he saw a tiny chipmunk looking at him. He smiled, and pursing up his lips emitted a sound which was neither whistle, nor warble, but a combination of both. The little creature flirted his head to one side, as though listening. Leon repeated the call a little louder, and with a sudden dash the chipmunk swiftly sped towards him, as suddenly stopping about ten yards away. Here he sat up on his haunches, and, with his forefeet, apparently caressed his head. Now Leon changed his method, and sounded a prolonged and musical trill, like the purling of a brook. The chipmunk came nearer and nearer, his timidity gradually passing away. And now, in the distance, another rush through the shrubbery was heard, and another chipmunk swiftly came out into the open, presently joining his mate, and approaching nearer and nearer to Leon, in short runs. At length they were quite close to him, and he took some peanuts from his pocket. One at a time he threw this tempting food to the little animals, who quickly nibbled off the outer shell and abstracted the kernels, sitting up, their tails gracefully curled over their backs. As Leon continued his chirping to his wild pets, two searching eyes were gazing with intense interest upon the scene. And the man who owned those eyes thought thus of what he saw:
"He has inherited the power. It is untrained at present, but it will be easily developed."
A few moments later, Leon waved his hand and the chipmunks scurried off, leaving the youth once more to his meditations. But soon again he was interrupted. This time the noise of the approaching creature was readily discernible even while he was yet afar off, and in a few moments there came bounding through the brush a magnificent collie, sable and white, and beautifully marked. This was Lossy, or, rather, "The Marquis of Lossy," to give him his full title. Lossy was truly a perfect collie, with long pointed nose, eyes set high in the forehead, and beaming with human intelligence and a dog's love, which, we all know, transcends the human passion which goes by the same name; his ears were small and, at rest, carried so close to the head that, buried in the long fur they were scarcely discernible, yet, they pricked sharply forward when a sound attracted, giving the face that rakish look so peculiar to the species; and besides a grand coat of long, fine hair, and a heavy undercoat for warmth, he had a glorious bushy tail, carried at just the curve that lent a pleasing symmetry to the whole form. In short, Lossy was a collie that would prove a prize-winner in any company.
But what was better than mere physical beauty, he was an exception in intelligence, even for a collie, and lavished a wealth of love upon his young master. On this morning, Leon had purposely stolen away without the dog, for the pleasure of what now occurred. Lossy, finally awakening from his morning nap, and missing his master, had started after him taking almost the same course pursued by Leon. And now, after his long run, he bounded forward, landing upon Leon's breast with force enough to roll him over, and then, whining with joy at the reunion, the dog kissed his master's face and hands again and again.
This display of affection delighted Leon, and he returned it with unusual demonstrativeness. Rising from the ground, he snapped his fingers, and at the sound Lossy bounded into the air, to be caught in the arms of his master, hugged close to his bosom, and then dropped to the ground. This trick was repeated again and again, the dog responding with increasing impatience for the signal. Sometimes it was varied. Leon turning his back, and bending his body at a slight angle, would give the signal, whereupon Lossy would spring with agility upon his back and climb forward, until, by holding the shoulders with his forepaws, he could reach his head around, seeking to kiss Leon's face. Here the fun was, for as the dog's head protruded over one shoulder, Leon turned his face away, whereupon Lossy would quickly essay to reach his goal over the other. In the midst of this sort of play, Leon was surprised to hear his dog growl. Then Lossy leaped to the ground, his hair rose almost straight along his spine, his ears pricked forward, and again he growled ominously. Before Leon could step forward to investigate, the man who had been silently observing the whole scene stepped out, and Leon recognized Dr. Medjora.
While the two men gaze silently upon each other, I may take the opportunity to say a few words about Dr. Medjora.
Immediately after his trial he left New York for a brief period, very much against the wishes of Madam Corona. She pleaded with him for an immediate marriage, but he firmly adhered to his own plans. The wedding occurred, however, a year later, and he resumed the practice of his profession in the Metropolis. Nineteen years later, at the time when Margaret Grath died, he was counted one of the most eminent practitioners in the country. He had steadfastly declined to adopt surgery, that most fascinating field wherein great reputations are frequently acquired through a single audacious operation, happily carried to a successful termination; but instead, he remained the plain medical man, paying special attention to zymotic diseases. Within this sphere he slowly but no less surely acquired fame, as from time to time the dying were plucked almost from the arms of death, and restored to health and usefulness.
Attracting the admiration and esteem of his patients in a most remarkable degree, he nevertheless aroused in them a certain feeling of almost superstitious awe. People did not say aloud that Dr. Medjora was a partner of the Evil One, but many whispers, not easily traceable, finally resulted in his being commonly known as the "Wizard Doctor" or simply the "Wizard."
On this morning, having come into the vicinity during the week for some trout fishing, and then having learned of the auction sale about to take place, he had determined to be present. He was early on his way to the farm, when, crossing the strip of wood, he had first observed Leon with the chipmunks. Now having shown himself he spoke:
"You are Leon Grath, I believe?" said he.
"If you do, your belief is ill founded," replied Leon, speaking with no ill temper, but rather with a touch of sadness.
"Surely you are Leon——"
"I am Leon, but not Grath. You are Dr. Medjora?"
"Ah! Then you remember me?"
"Certainly! I remember all men, friend or foe. You have been more the former than the latter. Therefore the remembrance is quite distinct."
Hearing the sound of his master's voice, untinged by anger, the collie evidently decided that the newcomer was no enemy, and strolling off a short distance, turned thrice, and lay down, resting his nose between his two forepaws, and eying the twain, awaited developments.
"I am glad that you have pleasant recollections of our brief acquaintance. But now, will you explain what you mean by saying that you are not Leon Grath. I thought that Grath was your name?"
"So did I, Doctor, but I have learned that I was mistaken. I was withMargaret Grath when she died, and she told me——" He paused.
"She told you what?" asked Dr. Medjora, with apparent eagerness.
"That Grath is not my name."
"What then is it? Did she tell you that?"
"No! I am Leon, the nameless!"
There was a touch of bitterness in Leon's voice, and, as he felt a slight difficulty in enunciation caused by rising emotions, he turned away his head and gazed into the deepest part of the wood, closing his jaws tight together, and straining every muscle of his body to high tension, in his endeavor to regain full control of himself. Dr. Medjora observed the inward struggle for mastery of self, and admired the youth for his strength of character. Without, however, betraying that he had noticed anything, he said quietly:
"What will you do about it?"
"I will make a name for myself," was the reply given, with sharp decisiveness of tones, and a smile played around the corners of Leon's mouth, as though the open assertion of his purpose was a victory half won.
Oh, the springtime of our youth! The young man climbs to the top of the first hill, and, gazing off into his future, sees so many roads leading to fortune, that he hesitates only about the choice, not deeming failure possible by any path. But, presently, when his chosen way winds up the mountain-side, growing narrower and more difficult with every setting sun, at length he realizes the difference between expectation and fulfilment. But Leon was now on the top of his first hill, and climbing mountains seemed so brave a task that he was eager to begin. Therefore, he spoke boldly. Almost at once he met his first check.
"You will make a name for yourself!" repeated Dr. Medjora. "How? Have you decided?"
Leon felt at once confronted with the task which he had set himself. Now, the truth was that he had decided upon his way in life; or, rather, I should say he had chosen, and, having made his choice, he considered that he had decided the matter permanently. Yet, the first man who questioned him, caused him to doubt the wisdom of his choice, to hesitate about speaking of it, and to feel diffident, so that he did not answer promptly. Dr. Medjora watched him closely, and spoke again.
"Ah, I see; you think of becoming an author."
"How did you know that?" asked Leon, quickly, very much perplexed to find his secret guessed.
"Then it is a fact? You would not ask me how I know it, were it not true. I will answer your question, though it is of slight consequence. You are evidently a young man of strong will-power, and yet you became awkwardly diffident when I asked you what path in life you had elected to follow. I have observed that diffidence is closely allied to a species of shame, and that both are invariable symptoms of budding authorship. To one of your temperament, I should say that these feelings would come only from two causes, secret authorship and love. The latter being out of consideration, the former became a self-evident fact."
"Dr. Medjora, you seem to be a logician, and I should think that you might be a successful author yourself."
"I might be, but I am not. I could be, only I do not choose to be. But we are speaking of yourself. If you wish to be a writer, I presume that you have written something. Does it satisfy you; that is to say, do you consider that it is as excellent as it need be?"
"I have done a little writing. While thinking, this week, about my future, somehow there came to me a longing to write. I did so, and I have been over my little sketch so many times, that I cannot see wherein it is faulty. Therefore, I must admit, however conceited it may sound, that I am satisfied with it."
"That is a very bad sign. When a man is satisfied with his own work he has already reached the end of his abilities. It is only continual dissatisfaction with our efforts, that ever makes us ambitious to attain better things. You have said that, in your opinion, I could be a successful writer. Then let me read and judge what you have written. You have it with you, I suppose?"
Leon was much embarrassed. He wished that he could say no, but the composition was in his pocket. So he drew it out and handed it to Dr. Medjora, without saying a word. The Doctor glanced at it a moment and then said encouragingly:
"There is a quality in this, as excellent as it is rare. Brevity."
"Ah, Doctor!" said Leon, eagerly. "That is what I have aimed at. I have but a single idea to expound, and I have endeavored to clothe it in as few words as possible. Or, rather, I should say, I have tried to make every word count. Please read it with that view uppermost."
The Doctor nodded assent, and then read the little story, which was as follows:
I am dead!
Have you ever experienced the odd sensation of being present at your own funeral, as I am now?
Impossible! For you are alive!
But I? I am dead!
There lies my body, prone and stiff, uncoffined, whilst the grave-digger, by the light of the young moon, turns the sod which is to hide me away forever.
Or so he thinks.
Why should he, a Christian minister, stoop to dig a grave?
Why? Because minister though he be, he is, or was my master; and my murderer.
Murderer did I say? Was it murder to kill a dog?
For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?
I stupidly tore up one of his sermons, in sport. For this bad, or good deed, my master, in anger, kicked me. He kicked me, and I died.
Was that murder? Or is the word applicable only to Man, who is immortal?
But stay! What is the test of immortality?
The ego says, "I am I," and earns eternity.
Then am I not immortal, since though dead, I may speak the charmed words?
No! For Christianity preaches annihilation to beast, and immortality for Man only. Man, the only animal that murders. Shall I be proof that Christianity contains a flaw?
Yet view it as you may, here I am, dead, yet not annihilated.
I say here I am, yet where am I?
How is it that I, stupid mongrel that I was, though true and loving friend, as all dogs are; how is it that I, who but slowly caught my master's meaning from his words, now understand his thoughts although he does not speak?
At last I comprehend. I know now where I am. I am within his mind. His eagerness to bury my poor carcass is but born of the desire to drive me thence.
But is not mind an attribute of the human soul, and conscience too? And are not both immortal?
Thus then the problem of my future do I solve. Let this good Christian man hide under ground my carcass; evidence of his foul crime. And being buried, let it rot. What care I though it should be annihilated?
I am here, within this man's immortal mind, and here I shall abide forever more, and prick his conscience for my pastime.
Thus do I win immortality, and cheat the Christian's creed.
Having read to the end, Dr. Medjora nodded approvingly to Leon and said:
"For a first composition, you may well rest satisfied with this. It is very subtile. Indeed I am surprised at the originality and thought which you have displayed here. I should like to discuss with you some of the points. May I?"
"With pleasure," Leon replied with ardor, delighted to find his little story so well received.
"The first thought that occurs to me is, that there is a certain amount of inspiration about your essay. I say essay because it is that rather than a story. From this, I deduce a fact discouraging to your ambition, for inspirations are rare, and it is probable that were you to succeed in selling this to some magazine, you would find it difficult to produce anything else as good."
"Why, Doctor," said Leon, anxious to prove his ability, "I wrote that in a few minutes."
"By which statement you mean that with time for thought, you might do better. But your argument is in favor of my theory. The more rapidly you wrote this, the more difficult will it be for you to write another. Let me tell you what I read between the lines here. Miss Grath having died, you were left alone in the world. Her two amiable sisters coming to the farm, probably made your loneliness intensified, and whilst depressed by your mood, your dog showed you some affection, which reaching you when your heart was full, caused it to spill over, and this was the result. Am I wrong?"
"No! You have guessed the circumstances almost exactly. As you say, I was feeling lonely and depressed. I came here for solitude, which is something different from loneliness, and which is as soothing as loneliness is depressing. I was sitting under that tree, thinking bitter things of the world in general, and of the people about me more especially, when without my having heard him approach, my dog, Lossy, dear old brute, pushed his head over my shoulders, placed his paws around my neck, and kissed me. It affected me deeply. It was as though I had received a message from Providence, telling me not to despair. Then like a flash it came to me, that if love is an attribute of the soul, and a dog's love is the most unselfish of all, it must follow logically that a dog has a soul."
"Your deduction is correct, if there be any such thing as soul. But, for the moment, I will not take that up. You have told enough to show that I am right as to the origin of your tale. It is also evident that you cannot hope to be under such emotional excitement at all times, when you might be called upon to write; to write or go without a meal. However, I have faith in you, and do not doubt that we shall find a way for you to earn as many meals as you shall need."
"Do you mean that you will assist me?"
"I will assist you, if I am correct in my present opinion of you. Young men who need and expect assistance, are rarely worthy of help. But I wish to talk about your essay. I like the line 'Was it murder to kill a dog?' and the one which follows, 'For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?' Of course the word murder, strictly applied, means the killing of a man by his fellow. I think I comprehend what you mean here, but I would like you to explain it to me."
"Doctor, you compliment me by taking this so seriously. There is a deeper meaning in the words than might be detected by a superficial reader. As you say, the word murder applies only to the killing of a man, by a man. Or I might change the wording and say, the killing of a human being. Here, human implies the possession of those higher attributes, the aggregate of which is the soul, which by man is arrogantly claimed to exist exclusively in man. And it is the violent separation of this soul from its earthly body, which makes it the heinous crime, murder; while the beast, not possessing a soul, may be killed without scruple, and without crime. Hence I say, 'Was it murder to kill a dog?' and at once, in so few words, I raise the question as to whether the dog has not a soul."
"I follow you. Your explanation is only what I expected. I said that I liked the next line: 'For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?' This time I will show you that I comprehend you. The question here implies much. If the dog is annihilated at death, then this dog ceased to exist when his master slew him. But he is speaking; he realizes that he continues to exist. Therefore, he says most pertinently, 'or may I say, I am?' The question carries its own affirmative, for what is not, cannot question its own existence. The subtilty here is very nice. You convince your reader by presenting what seems to be a self-evident proposition, and if he admits this, he must accord immortality to the dog, for he that after death may say 'I am' is immortal. But the flaw, which you have so well hidden, lies in the fact that you have started with the assumption of that which you have essayed to prove. You make the dead dog speak, which would be an impossibility had he been annihilated."
"I am delighted, Doctor, at the way in which you criticise me. But I am contending that the dog is immortal, hence my assumption at the very start, that though dead, he may record his sensations. I do not really mean to discuss the point, nor to prove it. I merely mean dogmatically to assume it. I picture a dog, who in life believed that death would be his total extinction, but who, when suddenly deprived of life, finds that he is still in existence, and endeavors to analyze his condition. If you will overlook the seeming egotism of pointing out what I think the most subtile idea, I would call your attention to the line where, concluding that he is immortal, he says 'Here I am,' and instantly asks 'Where am I?'"
"Yes. I had already admired that and what follows; but I will ask you to expound it yourself."
"You are very kind," said Leon, pleased, and eager to talk upon his subject. "He asks where he is, and after a moment decides that he is in his master's mind. Then he argues truly that, as mind is but a part, or attribute of the soul, if the soul be immortal, the mind and all that it contains must live on, also. Therefore, being in the man's mind, he needs only to stay there, to escape annihilation. Then he adds, that he will prick the man's conscience forever. Here is something more than a mere dogmatism. None will deny that the wanton killing of a dog can never be forgotten, and if the dog remains in one's mind, is not that a sort of immortality?"
"Sophistry, my boy, sophistry; but clever. The idea is original, and well conceived for the purpose of your narrative. But, like many deductions assumed to be logical, it is illogical, because your premises are wrong. It is not the dog, nor his spirit, that abides in the mind and assails the conscience. What the man tries in vain to forget is the thought of killing the beast, and thought, of course, is immutable; but it does not at all follow that the thing of which we think is imperishable."
"I see your meaning, Doctor, and of course you are right. But do you side with the Christian, and claim that the dog is annihilated, while man is immortal?"
"A discussion upon religious topics is seldom profitable. In reply to your question, I think that you will be satisfied if I admit that the dog is as surely immortal as man. No more so, and no less. The Christian hypothesis, in this respect, is a unique curiosity to a thinking man, at best. We are asked to believe that man is first non-existent; then in a moment he begins to exist, or is born; then he dies, but, nevertheless, continues to exist endlessly. Now it is an evident fact that birth and death are analogous occurrences, and related only to existence on this planet. The body of a man is born, and it dies. It begins, and it ends. As to immortality, if you contend that something abided in that body which continues to exist after death, then it is necessary to admit that it had an existence previous to its entrance into the body, at birth. Nothing can continue to exist in all future time, which began at any fixed moment; it must have being, whether we look forward or backward. Form is perishable. It had a beginning, birth; and it will have an end, death! But the intelligence which inhabits all form will live forever, because it has forever lived. So I repeat, the dog is as immortal as the man."
There followed a silence after this speech, the two men gazing upon one another intently, without speaking. Leon was deeply affected. He felt almost as though listening to himself, and there is no human being who does not find himself entertaining. Leon had grown up without human companionship, for, in his environment, there was no one of temperament congenial to his. But he had not lacked for company. He found that within the covers of those books which he had begged, borrowed, or bought with hard-earned, and more hardly-saved, pennies. Miss Grath had never encouraged him to waste his time "reading those wicked science books," when he should have been studying his Testament. But he had sat alone in his garret room, on many a night, reading by a candle, for he dared not use the oil, which was measured out to last a given time. Thus he had become infatuated with works of divers kinds: Mythology, Sociology, Theology, Physiology, Psychology, and other kindred but difficult subjects. Difficult indeed to the student who is his own teacher. He had come to read his books, imagining that he listened to the authors talking, and, not infrequently, carried away by his interest in his subject, he had caught himself addressing questions aloud to the writer, whom his fancy pictured as present. Now, for the first time, he had heard a man "talk like a book." When he recovered from his pleasurable surprise, he said with emotion and ardor:
"Doctor, if I could be where I might hear you talk, or have you to teach me, I would be the happiest boy in the world."
"Are you in earnest, Leon, or are you merely carried away by an emotion, aroused by something which I have said?"
"I am in earnest, but——" here his voice dropped and his tone became almost sad, "of course I have no right to ask such a favor. Pardon my presumption."
"Leon, if you mean what you have said; if you will be happy with me; if you will accept me as your teacher, and endeavor to learn what I can teach you, your wish shall be gratified."
"What do you mean?" cried Leon, renewed hope stirring within his breast.
"You know me as a doctor, by which you understand that I physic people when they are sick. But the true meaning of doctor, is teacher. I am willing to be that to you, and I know much that I can teach; very much more than other men. I will take you as my student, if you will come."
"You are very kind, Dr. Medjora, and I could wish for no greater happiness than the chance to learn. Knowledge to me is God, the God whom I worship. But I could never repay you for the time and trouble that it will entail."
"Indeed you can. Knowledge is power, but the knowledge of one man has its limitation, for the man will die. I have two things that I must leave at death, money and knowledge. The former I may bequeath to whom I please, and he will get it, unless others squabble over my will until the lawyers spend the estate. With my knowledge it is different. I must impart it to my successor during my life, or it will perish with me. I have labored long and hard, and I have accumulated knowledge of the rarest and most unusual kind. Knowledge which makes me count myself the wisest physician in the world to-day. Knowledge which I can transfer to you, if you will accept it as a sacred trust, and use the power which it will confer upon you for the benefit of your fellows. Have you the courage and the energy to accept my offer? If so, do not hesitate, for I have been seeking for the proper man during several years. If you be he, I ask no other reward for what my task will be, than to see you worthy. Will you accept?"
"I will!"
Leon placed his hand in that of Doctor Medjora, and thus made a compact with one, to whom were attributed powers as potent as Satan's. Side by side, and deeply absorbed in earnest conversation, they started to walk to the farm, to be present at the sale. Lossy, although for the moment forgotten by his master, was on the alert and jumped up to follow, as soon as they started away. For the dog is a faithful friend, and the collie perhaps the most faithful of all dogs, if indeed there be any choice in that respect between purest bred and mongrel.
All the neighboring towns-people knew that the Grath farm was to be sold on this day. The "bills" had been "out" for over two weeks. These were announcements, printed in large letters, on bright-colored paper, and hung up in barber-shops, grocery stores, post-offices and even nailed on trees. One might be driving along an almost deserted road, several miles from any habitation, and suddenly find himself confronted by one of these yellow and black "auction bills," which would notify him that upon the stated date a homestead would be "sold out," in the next county.
Therefore it was not surprising that when Leon and the Doctor reached the farm, several "teams" were already "hitched" along the stone wall that surrounded the orchard.
The auction was advertised to begin at eight o'clock, and by seven over a hundred persons had already arrived, and were "rummaging" about the premises. An auction of this kind differs greatly from an art sale at Chickering Hall. There is no catalogue, numbering the various lots to be offered; nevertheless there is nothing so small, so worthless, so old, so broken, or so rusty, that it will not be put up, and bid for too. Many of the prospective buyers come many miles to attend, and as the sale usually lasts all day, it is expected that the owner will serve dinner promptly at noon, to all who may wish to partake of his hospitality. As these dinners, save in rare cases, usually amount to nothing better than a luncheon, many bring viands with them, thus reinforcing themselves against contingencies of hunger.
By the time that the auction was to begin, the Grath farm looked like a veritable picnic-ground; teams tied to every place that offered, one old man having "hitched" his horse to a mowing-machine, which caused some merriment when that article was sold, the auctioneer announcing that he would "throw in the critter leaning against the machine"; whilst here and there some of the bolder visitors had gathered together tables and chairs, and were keeping guard over them until the eating hour.
One old woman approached Leon and sought information, thus:
"Be you the boy that Marg'ret Grath took offen the county farm?" To which Leon vouchsafed no reply, but turned and walked away. This at once aroused the anger of the irascible old party, who followed him speaking loudly.
"Hoity! Toity! What airs for a beggar's brat! I'd have you to know, young man, that when I ax a civil question, I cac'late to git a civil answer!" Which calculation, however, miscarried.
Over near the barn he met another woman who asked:
"I say! You be the boy as lives here, be'ant you?"
"Yes, I live here," replied Leon.
"Well! I hearn as how Miss Grath hed some white ducks, so nigh as big 's geese, thet a body couldn't tell one from t'other. Now I've sarched the hull place lookin' fer them ducks, but bless me ef I kin find a feather on 'em. I seen a fine flock o' geese in the orchard, but I want you to show me them ducks. I'm jest achin' to see em."
"The flock in the orchard are the ducks; we have no geese," explainedLeon.
"You don't mean it!" rejoined the woman, much astounded. "So them geese is the ducks! Land alive! And I took 'em for geese. Well, I never! To think I couldn't tell one from t'other! I mus' git another peak at 'em." Then she hurried away towards the orchard.
Over by the barn a man was coming out from the horse stalls, with an old leather strap in his hand, when he was suddenly confronted by the stern visage of Miss Matilda Grath, spinster. Before he found words of greeting, she burst forth in wrathful tones:
"Jeremiah Hubbard, whatever do you mean by stealin' other folks' property, right before their very eyes?"
"Stealin', Miss Grath? Me steal? You mus' be losin your senses. Hain't ye?"
"No, I hain't!" snapped back Miss Grath. "An' ef you an't stealin' that strap, I'd like to know what you're doin', takin' it outen the barn, before it's sold?"
"Gosh! Ye don't mean you're goin' to sell this strap?"
"An' why not, I'd like to know? It's mine, an' I kin sell it, I spose, 'thout gittin' your permission?"
"Why, sartin! But 'tain't wuth nothin'."
"Ef 'tain't wuth nothin', I'd have you tell me what you're takin' it for?"
"Well, you see,"—Mr. Hubbard was embarrassed by the question—"it's this way. A bit o' my harness is a leetle weak, and I thought this'd come handy to brace it up till I get to hum."
"Jes' so," answered Miss Grath, with gratification, "an' as 't would come handy, you jes' took it, French leave. Well! Ef you stay till the end o' the auction, mebbe you'll git a chance to buy it. Meanwhile, Mr. Hubbard, it might be 's well to keep your hands offen what don't belong to you."
Mr. Hubbard threw the old piece of strap back in the stall, and pushing his hands deep into his pockets, snarled out:
"I reckon I'll put my hands in my pockets, where my money is, an' keep 'em there too!" With which he strode away, a very angry man. He stayed to the end of the auction, but Miss Grath noticed with regret that he did not bid on anything all day, and she wondered if she had not "put her foot in it," which she undoubtedly had. But there are many, many people, in this curious little world, who hold a penny so close to their eyes that they lose sight of many dollars that might come their way were they not blinded by the love of small gains. Mr. Hubbard, too, was troubled as he rode home, that night; for, aside from the fact that he had been accused, of stealing, and that the stolen property had been "found on him," because of his determination not to let "the old hag" get any of his money he had lost several good opportunities to secure tempting "bargains"; and there is nothing that a true New Englander loves so much as a bargain.
At last there was a commotion in the crowd. Some one had recognized the auctioneer's team approaching, and presently he jumped out of his light wagon, greeting the men and women alike, by their first names, for there were few who did not know Mr. Potter, and there was none whom Mr. Potter did not know.
Mr. Potter himself was a character of a genus so unique that he was perhaps the only living example. If it be true that poets are ever born, then Mr. Potter was born a poet. It was only by the veriest irony of fate that he was an auctioneer, although undoubtedly it is probable that he made more money by the latter calling, than he ever would have gained by printer's ink. And as for fame, that he had, if it please you. For be it known that no farm of consequence in New Hampshire hath passed under the hammer these five and twenty years, but Mr. Potter hath presided at the obsequies. I use that word advisedly, for, truly, though they make a picnic of the event, the selling of an old homestead is a funereal sort of pleasure.
The cause of his success lay in the fact that, with wisdom such as no professional poet has been known to possess, Mr. Potter had combined his business and his pleasure, so that he became known as a poetical auctioneer. Gifted with the faculty of rhyming, and well versed in the poets, he readily would find a couplet to fit all occasions. Sometimes they were quoted entire, sometimes they appeared as familiar lines with a new termination, and not infrequently the verse would be entirely original, provoked by the existing circumstances.
As to his personality, I need but a few adjectives to give you his picture. He was a large man, and a hearty one. Witty, genial, and gallant to the ladies. Above all things, he possessed the rare faculty of adapting himself to his surroundings. Add to this that he was scrupulously honest and fair in his dealing, and you will readily believe that he was popular. His name on a "bill" always assured a large crowd. On this occasion more than the usual throng surrounded him, as he climbed up into an ox-cart and opened the sale with these words:
"My friends, we will begin the morning services by quoting a verse from Dr. Watts, junior:
"Blest is the man who shuns the placeWhere other auctions be,And in his pocket saves his cashTo buy his goods of me."
Then, when the laugh had died away, he offered for sale the cart upon which he stood, reserving the right to stand upon it during the balance of the day. The bidding was spiritless at first, and the cart went for two dollars. Mr. Potter remarking, as he knocked it down:
"Thus passeth my understanding!"
And so the sale progressed, Mr. Potter finding many opportunities which called forth some selection from his store of poetry. There were many sharp sallies from the crowd, for the New Englander is keen of wit, but the auctioneer ever had a ready rejoinder that turned the laugh away from himself, without causing ill-feeling.
After a couple of hours, during which Leon saw many things sold which were associated in his mind with what were now sacred memories, he turned away from the crowd, and went off towards the barn. Lost in thought, he did not notice that the collie followed at his heels, until presently, walking between the bales of new hay, and finding one upon which he could throw himself, Lossy jumped up beside him and kissed him in the face.
"Poor doggy," said the lad; "you know that I'm in trouble, don't you, old boy?" He paused as though he awaited a reply, and the dog, seeming to understand that something was expected of him, sat back on his haunches and offered his paw, tapping his master's arm again and again, until it was taken. Then Leon turned so as to face the dog squarely, and retaining the proffered paw, he spoke again.
"I wonder, Lossy, how you will do in a great city? Will you miss the old place, as I suppose I shall? Will you mind being penned up in a little yard, with strict orders not to come into the grand house? Will you miss going after the cows, and the sheep? Will you miss your swims in the lake?" He paused again, but Lossy was looking away much as a human being would who tried to hide his feelings. For there is little doubt that when a dog acts thus, in some mysterious way he comprehends his master's trouble, and shares it. "Never you mind, old fellow," Leon continued, "you sha'n't be entirely forgotten. I'll look out for you. The nights will be ours, and what fun we shall have. We'll go off together on long walks, and if there is any country near enough, why we'll go there sometimes on Sundays. For we don't care about church, do we, old boy? No, sir! The open fields, with the green grass, and the trees, and the birds, and the bright sunlight is all the church we need, isn't it, old doggy?" He stopped, and as his voice had grown somewhat more cheerful, the dog vouchsafed to look at him timidly. Seeing encouragement, he wagged his tail a few times. "Come, sir," said Leon, "I am talking to you. Don't you hear? Answer my question. Speak, sir! Speak!" "Whow! Whow! Whow-Whow!" answered Lossy, barking lustily. But Leon held up his finger in warning, and he ceased. "What do you mean by all that noise?" said Leon. "Don't you understand that this is a confidential conversation? Now, sir! Answer me again, but softly! softly!"