CHAPTER XXXIX.THE PREACHER AND THE SALOONKEEPER.
MY heart is so broke that I hardly know how to rite. This is March 3d, and yisterday arternoon they put me out.
I had about give up their comin, and was tryin to feel better, when all of a suddint I heerd a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood three strange men.
Said the one who acted as leader: “Is this where the Gaskinses live?”
Says I: “One of them is stayin here, and the Lord only knows where the other one is.”
“I am a deputy sheriff,” says he, “and have orders to set you out.”
Says I: “Where is Mr. Richer?”
“In Washington,” says he.
“Where is his agent—his lawyer?” says I.
“In town,” says he.
“Well, dont they have to be here to put me out?” says I.
“No,” says he; “the law puts you out for them.”
“Well, Mistur,” says I, “couldent you let me stay a little longer? Jobe’s gone to hunt work and a place to move to. If you will let me stay, as soon as he finds it Ile go out without your botherin.”
“I cant do it, Mrs. Gaskins,” says he; “the law must be inforced. The law is no respecter of persons.”
Says I, pleadin like: “You see, I am a old woman, and not stout. Jobe is away, and I am here alone. If the law is no respecter of persons, why should it come hereand put me out of a home that we have paid over $3,800 toward, jist to please the man that we have paid the money to?”
He shook his head.
“Where are you a goin to put me?” says I.
“I am goin to put you out,” says he; “out in the big road yonder, off these premises.”
Says I: “Mistur, please dont be so cruel as that. It would kill me to sleep out there all nite. Please let me stay a little longer—jist a little longer.”
“No use a talkin,” says he. “Ile have to do as the law says. Its not me a puttin you out, Mrs. Gaskins—its not me that is cruel. It is the law, the law, that is doin it.”
“Come on, men,” says he, speakin to the other fellers.
So they come right into the house, the house I had loved so well, walkin over the floor I have scrubbed on my hands and knees thousands of times, and begin to tear up my things and carry them out in the big road.
I jist felt so queer I could hardly breathe.
They tore down my stove and tore up my carpet, and carried out fust one thing, then another, and sot them down beside the road, till all I had was out there.
When they got it all out, the deputy come in and says:
“Why dont you go out there where your things are? You have no right here. You must git out, so I can lock up the house.”
Says I: “Mistur, is Congressman Richer a goin to move in to-nite?”
Says he, sneerin like: “Why, Lord no; Mr. Richer wouldent live in sich a house as this—he lives in Washington; he lives in afinehouse.”
“Well, then, Mistur, let me stay in here till I hear from Jobe.”
“No,” says he, “you must git out.”
“They pulled me away from the winder.”
“They pulled me away from the winder.”
“They pulled me away from the winder.”
Says I, chokin like: “Mistur, Icantgo.”
“Well, youvegotto go,” says he. “Are you a goin?”
“I cant,” says I.
“Here, men,” says he, “take her out of here and out yonder, where she belongs.”
So one of them big men took hold of one arm, and the other hold of the other arm, and pulled me away from the winder where I was standin (the same one where I was standin the mornin Jobe left), and pulled me out of that dear old kitchen door and across the yard and out into the big road, where they had piled my things, and sot me down on a chair.
The sheriff had locked the house and follered them out.
When he came out he says, as though he wanted to be friendly: “Where do you think of goin to, Mrs. Gaskins?”
I looked at him to see if he was crazy or what, but I couldent speak, I was so full.
Says he: “Do you want the boys to put up your bed for you?”
I nodded my head.
They set my bed up and put two jints of pipe on my stove, and then got in their buggy and went to town. It was nearly sundown when they left me.
Soon arter they had gone Tom Osborne come a ridin by and brought me a letter.
As soon as he said “letter” my heart leapt. I knew it was from Jobe.
Tom said he was sorry to see me out here in the road, and the man really shed tears. He lives some eight miles from here, and wanted me to go home with him for the nite. But I jist couldent go. So he rode on.
Arter he was gone I got a lamp and sot down by the fire I had built in the stove, with some quilts around me, to read poor Jobe’s letter. And every word seemed to be another knife stuck in my heart.
Poor Jobe he is havin it hard too. I jist cried like my heart would break as I read what he writ. I send it to you to read. I want you to return it, as it is from the only person in the world that cares for me. Here it is—you can read it for yourself. You see it was writ at different times and places.
JOBE’S FIRST LETTER.Elyria, O., Feb. 22, 1896.To Betsy Gaskins.My Dear Wife:—I have put off ritin to you thinkin I would be able to rite you somethin to make you happy, but to date I cant.I got into Lorain the third day arter leavin you. I found a big iron works there and lots of men at work, but on the sides of the door to their office and at all the gates around the big fence they have signs stuck up, readin:NO HELP WANTED HERE.I went into their office, and asked them if they couldent give me something to do.They said: “No, we have all the men we need.”I told them how I wanted somethin to do at any price; of our bein foreclosed and havin to git out and all. They shook their head and said they “had to turn away hundreds of men every day,” and told me to “look around,” I “might find work somewhere else.”So I left and went from one place to another, and everywhere I went I saw them signs and was told the same thing.I found lots of men huntin work.On nearly every street, and down along the river and over by the lake, were men a campin and a sleepin in railroad cars and outdoors; cookin by fires built along the banks and on the shore; “waitin,” they said, “till they could git a job.”I got my supper with three fellers that nite that done their cookin that way. They seemed to be nice fellers. They was from different parts of the country.“At all the gates around the big fence they had signs stuck up.”That nite I got a bed for fifteen cents, and had forty-three cents left.The next day I walked and walked and walked to find work, but couldent.At nite I had twenty-four cents left. Not wantin to git clear out of money, I got into an empty box-car and slept the best I could. It was cold, and most of the nite I hadto walk from one end of the car to the other, back and forth, to keep myself warm.So this mornin I come down here to Elyria, and have been from one end of the town to the other tryin to find work; but nobody seems to want to hire me.I find men stayin out around town here too. They say they have been all over the country, and cant find work anywhere. I dont know what I will do. Ile go over to Berea and see if I cant find somethin there. I will not send this letter till I git there.Cleveland, O., Feb. 26, 1896.Box-car 1406, Valley Railway.“I asked him for something to eat.”Betsy:—I am here. I will finish my letter. God only knows what it is to be out of work, out of money and out of home. I am not well. Ive had to sleep outdoors, in cars and barns and around lumber piles so much that I have abad cold. I have not had anything to eat since yisterday mornin. This cold weather has nearly used me up. I got one day’s work cuttin ice, and got a dollar for it. That nite I got me a warm supper and slept in a bed.I run out of money at Elyria, and come from there to Berea.The first beggin I done was from the farmers on the way. I got one warm meal and a cold lunch. I was in Berea a whole day and nite without anything to eat, so I jist had to go to beggin agin. I went to the Methodist preacher’s house one of them real cold mornins. I knocked, and the preacher come to the door. I asked him for somethin to eat. He called to the hired girl and told her to hand me a lunch, and went in, shut the door, and sot down by the fire. I could see him a settin there a readin the ClevelandLeader, with his feet restin on a plush foot-stool, and while that girl was a gittin that lunch and I was a standin out there in thewind a lookin at that good big fire I thought I would freeze. My teeth shook.When the girl brought that lunch I was so cold that I could hardly take it. It was two pieces of cold bread, with some cold beef shaved off and laid between.I was hungry and tried to eat it; the bites seemed to stick in my throat, it was so dry and cold. What I did swallow seemed like chunks of ice in my stomach, and made me colder. I shook from head to foot. I couldent eat it, I was so cold. So I put what I couldent eat in my pocket, thinkin I would eat it when I got warmer.I thought Ide die with cold. No matter how fast I walked, I dident get warm. I went on and on till I got down where the bizness houses were. I could smell coffee and warm meat a fryin. It jist seemed as though I had to go in and take some, but I knew I darent. It seemed to make me colder. Finally I saw a sign sayin:FREE HOT SOUP.When I got up to it a man opened the door, a sweepin. I stopped, told him I had no money and was cold, and asked him if I could go into his place and warm.“Certainly,” says he, “go right in. Ile be in in a minit.”I went in—yes, Betsy, went into a saloon, the fust time in my life. Dont blame me. I had to—I was so cold. The stove was red-hot. When the feller come in and saw how I was shakin, says he:“Old man, this is pretty cold weather to be out.”“Yes,” says I, shiverin.He brought me a chair and told me to set down. Then he felt my hands and ears and says:“Why, you are nearly froze.”I told him about havin to stay out all nite, and about not havin anything warm for breakfast, the best I could, I shook so.He went and got a big woolen cloth, held it to the stove till it got hot, and wrapped my ears up. Then he went and got a little glass full of liquor, and told me to drink it and it would warm me up. I told him I hadent any money, and had never drank a drop of liquor in my life.“Well,” says he, “I know you have no money, and, if you had, a old man like you, in your condition, shouldent pay for it. If you dont wish to drink it I wont insist, but I thought it would warm you up.”So he set the glass down on the counter and says:“Ile make you a hot cup of coffee, and then I think you will feel better.”When the saloonkeeper set the glass of whiskey down and went to gittin me some hot breakfast, I seemed to git colder inside as I got warmer outside. So, Betsy, I jist made up my mind that Ide drink that glass of whiskey if it killed me. And I did. Soon after I drank it I felt a warm feelin inside; and as I sot there it jist seemed as though I could feel myself a thawin out, with that big fire outside and that glass of whiskey inside. I sot there till the feller had my coffee and breakfast ready. It was the best coffee I ever tasted,—though, Betsy, I always loved the coffee you made,—and the fried eggs and the ham and the hot cakes jist seemed to melt in my mouth.Well, arter I had my breakfast the saloonkeeper came around and sot down and asked me all about myself, and you too.“‘Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.’”And as I told all our trouble, about our foreclosin and sellin out, and my huntin work and not findin it, big tears would every now and then leave his big blue eyes and rolldown his cheeks, and he kept a swallerin every little bit. When I had told him all, says he:“Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.”So, when I got ready to go, he shook my hand and wished me good luck in findin work; and when he took hold of my hand I felt somethin hard in his, and when he let go I had a silver dollar in mine. I handed it back to him, and told him I dident know as I could ever return it to him.“No matter, pap,” says he, “keep it. If you are never able to return it, all right, and if you are able and never see me, ‘do unto some other human brother as I have done unto you,’ and the debt will be paid. Times are hard, and I have sich high taxes to pay that it makes money scarce with me, or I would give you more. I hate to see you go out in this cold; you are welcome to stay if you wish.”But, Betsy, I was so anxious to find work and git a place for you that I couldent stay. So that day and nite I made it to here. This is a big town, but so far I have found no work.Your lovin husband,Jobe Gaskins.
JOBE’S FIRST LETTER.
JOBE’S FIRST LETTER.
JOBE’S FIRST LETTER.
Elyria, O., Feb. 22, 1896.
To Betsy Gaskins.
My Dear Wife:—I have put off ritin to you thinkin I would be able to rite you somethin to make you happy, but to date I cant.
I got into Lorain the third day arter leavin you. I found a big iron works there and lots of men at work, but on the sides of the door to their office and at all the gates around the big fence they have signs stuck up, readin:
NO HELP WANTED HERE.
NO HELP WANTED HERE.
NO HELP WANTED HERE.
NO HELP WANTED HERE.
I went into their office, and asked them if they couldent give me something to do.
They said: “No, we have all the men we need.”
I told them how I wanted somethin to do at any price; of our bein foreclosed and havin to git out and all. They shook their head and said they “had to turn away hundreds of men every day,” and told me to “look around,” I “might find work somewhere else.”
So I left and went from one place to another, and everywhere I went I saw them signs and was told the same thing.
I found lots of men huntin work.
On nearly every street, and down along the river and over by the lake, were men a campin and a sleepin in railroad cars and outdoors; cookin by fires built along the banks and on the shore; “waitin,” they said, “till they could git a job.”
I got my supper with three fellers that nite that done their cookin that way. They seemed to be nice fellers. They was from different parts of the country.
“At all the gates around the big fence they had signs stuck up.”
“At all the gates around the big fence they had signs stuck up.”
“At all the gates around the big fence they had signs stuck up.”
That nite I got a bed for fifteen cents, and had forty-three cents left.
The next day I walked and walked and walked to find work, but couldent.
At nite I had twenty-four cents left. Not wantin to git clear out of money, I got into an empty box-car and slept the best I could. It was cold, and most of the nite I hadto walk from one end of the car to the other, back and forth, to keep myself warm.
So this mornin I come down here to Elyria, and have been from one end of the town to the other tryin to find work; but nobody seems to want to hire me.
I find men stayin out around town here too. They say they have been all over the country, and cant find work anywhere. I dont know what I will do. Ile go over to Berea and see if I cant find somethin there. I will not send this letter till I git there.
Cleveland, O., Feb. 26, 1896.Box-car 1406, Valley Railway.
Cleveland, O., Feb. 26, 1896.Box-car 1406, Valley Railway.
Cleveland, O., Feb. 26, 1896.Box-car 1406, Valley Railway.
Cleveland, O., Feb. 26, 1896.
Box-car 1406, Valley Railway.
“I asked him for something to eat.”
“I asked him for something to eat.”
“I asked him for something to eat.”
Betsy:—I am here. I will finish my letter. God only knows what it is to be out of work, out of money and out of home. I am not well. Ive had to sleep outdoors, in cars and barns and around lumber piles so much that I have abad cold. I have not had anything to eat since yisterday mornin. This cold weather has nearly used me up. I got one day’s work cuttin ice, and got a dollar for it. That nite I got me a warm supper and slept in a bed.
I run out of money at Elyria, and come from there to Berea.
The first beggin I done was from the farmers on the way. I got one warm meal and a cold lunch. I was in Berea a whole day and nite without anything to eat, so I jist had to go to beggin agin. I went to the Methodist preacher’s house one of them real cold mornins. I knocked, and the preacher come to the door. I asked him for somethin to eat. He called to the hired girl and told her to hand me a lunch, and went in, shut the door, and sot down by the fire. I could see him a settin there a readin the ClevelandLeader, with his feet restin on a plush foot-stool, and while that girl was a gittin that lunch and I was a standin out there in thewind a lookin at that good big fire I thought I would freeze. My teeth shook.
When the girl brought that lunch I was so cold that I could hardly take it. It was two pieces of cold bread, with some cold beef shaved off and laid between.
I was hungry and tried to eat it; the bites seemed to stick in my throat, it was so dry and cold. What I did swallow seemed like chunks of ice in my stomach, and made me colder. I shook from head to foot. I couldent eat it, I was so cold. So I put what I couldent eat in my pocket, thinkin I would eat it when I got warmer.
I thought Ide die with cold. No matter how fast I walked, I dident get warm. I went on and on till I got down where the bizness houses were. I could smell coffee and warm meat a fryin. It jist seemed as though I had to go in and take some, but I knew I darent. It seemed to make me colder. Finally I saw a sign sayin:
FREE HOT SOUP.
FREE HOT SOUP.
FREE HOT SOUP.
FREE HOT SOUP.
When I got up to it a man opened the door, a sweepin. I stopped, told him I had no money and was cold, and asked him if I could go into his place and warm.
“Certainly,” says he, “go right in. Ile be in in a minit.”
I went in—yes, Betsy, went into a saloon, the fust time in my life. Dont blame me. I had to—I was so cold. The stove was red-hot. When the feller come in and saw how I was shakin, says he:
“Old man, this is pretty cold weather to be out.”
“Yes,” says I, shiverin.
He brought me a chair and told me to set down. Then he felt my hands and ears and says:
“Why, you are nearly froze.”
I told him about havin to stay out all nite, and about not havin anything warm for breakfast, the best I could, I shook so.
He went and got a big woolen cloth, held it to the stove till it got hot, and wrapped my ears up. Then he went and got a little glass full of liquor, and told me to drink it and it would warm me up. I told him I hadent any money, and had never drank a drop of liquor in my life.
“Well,” says he, “I know you have no money, and, if you had, a old man like you, in your condition, shouldent pay for it. If you dont wish to drink it I wont insist, but I thought it would warm you up.”
So he set the glass down on the counter and says:
“Ile make you a hot cup of coffee, and then I think you will feel better.”
When the saloonkeeper set the glass of whiskey down and went to gittin me some hot breakfast, I seemed to git colder inside as I got warmer outside. So, Betsy, I jist made up my mind that Ide drink that glass of whiskey if it killed me. And I did. Soon after I drank it I felt a warm feelin inside; and as I sot there it jist seemed as though I could feel myself a thawin out, with that big fire outside and that glass of whiskey inside. I sot there till the feller had my coffee and breakfast ready. It was the best coffee I ever tasted,—though, Betsy, I always loved the coffee you made,—and the fried eggs and the ham and the hot cakes jist seemed to melt in my mouth.
Well, arter I had my breakfast the saloonkeeper came around and sot down and asked me all about myself, and you too.
“‘Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.’”
“‘Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.’”
“‘Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.’”
And as I told all our trouble, about our foreclosin and sellin out, and my huntin work and not findin it, big tears would every now and then leave his big blue eyes and rolldown his cheeks, and he kept a swallerin every little bit. When I had told him all, says he:
“Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.”
So, when I got ready to go, he shook my hand and wished me good luck in findin work; and when he took hold of my hand I felt somethin hard in his, and when he let go I had a silver dollar in mine. I handed it back to him, and told him I dident know as I could ever return it to him.
“No matter, pap,” says he, “keep it. If you are never able to return it, all right, and if you are able and never see me, ‘do unto some other human brother as I have done unto you,’ and the debt will be paid. Times are hard, and I have sich high taxes to pay that it makes money scarce with me, or I would give you more. I hate to see you go out in this cold; you are welcome to stay if you wish.”
But, Betsy, I was so anxious to find work and git a place for you that I couldent stay. So that day and nite I made it to here. This is a big town, but so far I have found no work.
Your lovin husband,Jobe Gaskins.
Your lovin husband,Jobe Gaskins.
Your lovin husband,Jobe Gaskins.
Your lovin husband,
Jobe Gaskins.
When I got done readin that letter I was cryin out loud. Poor Jobe. I wonder where he was last nite.
Oh, how I love that man that took Jobe in and warmed him and fed him!
I love him though he is a saloonkeeper. I could throw my arms around his neck and cry on his shoulder with love for him and for his kindness toward Jobe.
Well, this mornin the world seems strange to me. Last nite arter I had gone to bed and could look up in the clear sky at the bright stars, it jist seemed to me, while I laid there in my bed beside the big road, that every star was a eye lookin down on me with pity. And, thinkin that theylooked that way, I was not a bit afraid and went to sleep, and slept till daylite.
Hopin God will forgive them for makin and havin laws to put sich people as me out of home, I am
Your troubled and homelessBetsy Gaskins.
Your troubled and homelessBetsy Gaskins.
Your troubled and homelessBetsy Gaskins.
Your troubled and homeless
Betsy Gaskins.