'Guide me, O thou great Jehovah!Pilgrim through this barren landI am weak but thou art mighty'
His voice broke and trembled and sank into silence.
I had business of my own to look after—perhaps I had no time to lose—and I went about it calmly. I had no strength to move and began to feel the nearing of my time. The rain was falling faster. It chilled me to the marrow as I felt it trickling over my back. I called to the man who lay beside me—again and again I called to him—but got no answer. Then I knew that he was dead and I alone. Long after that in the far distance I heard a voice calling. It rang like a trumpet in the still air. It grew plainer as I listened. My own name! William Brower? It was certainly calling to me, and I answered with a feeble cry. In a moment I could hear the tramp of someone coming. He was sitting beside me presently, whoever it might be. I could not see him for the dark. His tongue went clucking as if he pitied me.
'Who are you?' I remember asking, but got no answer.
At first I was glad, then I began to feel a mighty horror of him.
In a moment he had picked me up and was making off. The jolt of his step seemed to be breaking my arms at the shoulder. As I groaned he ran. I could see nothing in the darkness, but he went ahead, never stopping, save for a moment, now and then, to rest I wondered where he was taking me and what it all meant. I called again, 'Who are you?' but he seemed not to hear me. 'My God!' I whispered to myself, 'this is no man—this is Death severing the soul from the body. The voice was that of the good God.' Then I heard a man hailing near by.
'Help, Help!' I shouted faintly.
'Where are you?' came the answer, now further away. 'Can't see you.' My mysterious bearer was now running. My heels were dragging upon the ground; my hands were brushing the grass tops. I groaned with pain.
'Halt! Who comes there?' a picket called. Then I could hear voices.
'Did you hear that noise?' said one. 'Somebody passed me. So dark can't see my hand before me.
'Darker than hell!' said another voice.
It must be a giant, I thought, who can pick me up and carry me as if I were no bigger than a house cat. That was what I was thinking when I swooned.
From then till I came to myself in the little church at Centreville I remember nothing. Groaning men lay all about me; others stood between them with lanterns. A woman was bending over me. I felt the gentle touch of her hand upon my face and heard her speak to me so tenderly I cannot think of it, even now, without thanking God for good women. I clung to her hand, clung with the energy of one drowning, while I suffered the merciful torture of the probe, the knife and the needle. And when it was all over and the lantern lights grew pale in the dawn I fell asleep.
But enough of blood and horror. War is no holiday, my merry people, who know not the mighty blessing of peace. Counting the cost, let us have war, if necessary, but peace, peace if possible.
But now I have better things to write of, things that have some relish of good in them. I was very weak and low from loss of blood for days, and, suddenly, the tide turned. I had won recognition for distinguished gallantry they told me—that day they took me to Washington. I lay three weeks there in the hospital. As soon as they heard of my misfortune at home Uncle Eb wrote he was coming to see me. I stopped him by a telegram, assuring him that I was nearly well and would be home shortly.
My term of enlistment had expired when they let me out a fine day in mid August. I was going home for a visit as sound as any man but, in the horse talk of Faraway, I had a little 'blemish'on the left shoulder. Uncle Eb was to meet me at the jersey City depot. Before going I, with others who had been complimented for bravery, went to see the president. There were some twenty of us summoned to meet him that day. It was warm and the great Lincoln sat in his shirt-sleeves at a desk in the middle of his big office. He wore a pair of brown carpet slippers, the rolling collar and black stock now made so familiar in print. His hair was tumbled. He was writing hurriedly when we came in. He laid his pen away and turned to us without speaking. There was a careworn look upon his solemn face.
'Mr President,' said the general, who had come with us, 'here are some of the brave men of our army, whom you wished to see.
He came and shook hands with each and thanked us in the name of the republic, for the example of courage and patriotism we and many others had given to the army. He had a lean, tall, ungraceful figure and he spoke his mind without any frill or flourish. He said only a few words of good plain talk and was done with us.
'Which is Brower?' he enquired presently.
I came forward more scared than ever I had been before.
'My son,' he said, taking my hand in his, 'why didn't you run?'
'Didn't dare,' I answered. 'I knew it was more dangerous to run away than to go forward.'
'Reminds me of a story,' said he smiling. 'Years ago there was a bully in Sangamon County, Illinois, that had the reputation of running faster and fighting harder than any man there. Everybody thought he was a terrible fighter. He'd always get a man on the run; then he'd ketch up and give him a licking. One day he tadded a lame man. The lame man licked him in a minute.
'“Why didn't ye run?” somebody asked the victor.
'“Didn't dast,” said he. “Run once when he tackled me an I've been lame ever since.”
“How did ye manage to lick him?” said the other.
'“Wall,” said he, “I hed to, an' I done it easy.”
'That's the way it goes,' said the immortal president, 'ye do it easy if ye have to.
He reminded me in and out of Horace Greeley, although they looked no more alike than a hawk and a handsaw. But they had a like habit of forgetting themselves and of saying neither more nor less than they meant. They both had the strength of an ox and as little vanity. Mr Greeley used to say that no man could amount to anything who worried much about the fit of his trousers; neither of them ever encountered that obstacle.
Early next morning I took a train for home. I was in soldier clothes I had with me, no others—and all in my car came to talk with me about the now famous battle of Bull Run.
The big platform at Jersey City was crowded with many people as we got off the train. There were other returning soldiers—some with crutches, some with empty sleeves.
A band at the further end of the platform was playing and those near me were singing the familiar music,
'John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave.
Somebody shouted my name. Then there rose a cry of three cheers for Brower. It's some of the boys of the Tribune, I thought—I could see a number of them in the crowd. One brought me a basket of flowers. I thought they were trying to have fun with me.
'Thank you!' said I, 'but what is the joke?'
'No joke,' he said. 'It's to honour a hero.'
'Oh, you wish me to give it to somebody.'
I was warming with embarrassment
'We wish you to keep it,' he answered.
In accounts of the battle I had seen some notice of my leading a charge but my fame had gone farther—much farther indeed—than I knew. I stood a moment laughing—an odd sort of laugh it was that had in it the salt of tears—and waving my hand to the many who were now calling my name.
In the uproar of cheers and waving of handkerchiefs I could not find Uncle Eb for a moment. When I saw him in the breaking crowd he was cheering lustily and waving his hat above his head. His enthusiasm increased when I stood before him. As I was greeting him I heard a lively rustle of skirts. Two dainty, gloved hands laid hold of mine; a sweet voice spoke my name. There, beside me, stood the tall, erect figure of Hope. Our eyes met and, before there was any thinking of propriety, I had her in my arms and was kissing her and she was kissing me.
It thrilled me to see the splendour of her beauty that day; her eyes wet with feeling as they looked up at me; to feel again the trembling touch of her lips. In a moment I turned to Uncle Eb.
'Boy,' he said, 'I thought you...' and then he stopped and began brushing his coat sleeve.
'Come on now,' he added as he took my grip away from me. 'We're goin' t' hev a gran' good time. I'll take ye all to a splendid tavern somewheres. An' I ain't goin' to count the cost nuther.
He was determined to carry my grip for me. Hope had a friend with her who was going north in the morning on our boat. We crossed the ferry and took a Broadway omnibus, while query followed query.
'Makes me feel like a flapjack t'ride 'n them things,' said Uncle Eb as we got out.
He hired a parlour and two bedrooms for us all at the St Nicholas.
'Purty middlin' steep!' he said to me as we left the office. 'It is, sartin! but I don't care—not a bit. When folks has to hev a good time they've got t' hev it.
We were soon seated in our little parlour. There was a great glow of health and beauty in Hope's face. It was a bit fuller but had nobler outlines and a colouring as delicate as ever. She wore a plain grey gown admirably fitted to her plump figure. There was a new and splendid 'dignity in her carriage, her big blue eyes, her nose with its little upward slant. She was now the well groomed young woman of society in the full glory of her youth.
Uncle Eb who sat between us pinched her cheek playfully. A little spot of white showed a moment where his fingers had been. Then the pink flooded over it.
'Never see a girl git such a smack as you did,' he said laughing.
'Well,' said she, smiling, 'I guess I gave as good as I got.'
'Served him right,' he said. 'You kissed back good 'n hard. Gran sport!' he added turning to me.
'Best I ever had,' was my humble acknowledgement.
'Seldom ever see a girl kissed so powerful,' he said as he took Hope's hand in his. 'Now if the Bible said when a body kissed ye on one cheek ye mus' turn if other I wouldn't find no fault. But ther's a heap o differ'nce 'tween a whack an' a smack.
When we had come back from dinner Uncle Eb drew off his boots and sat comfortably in his stocking feet while Hope told of her travels and I of my soldiering. She had been at the Conservatory, nearly the whole period of her absence, and hastened home when she learned of the battle and of my wound. She had landed two days before.
Hope's friend and Uncle Eb went away to their rooms in good season. Then I came and sat beside Hope on the sofa.
'Let's have a good talk,' I said.
There was an awkward bit of silence.
'Well,' said she, her fan upon her lips, 'tell me more about the war.
'Tired of war,' I answered; 'love is a better subject.
She rose and walked up and down the room, a troubled look in her face. I thought I had never seen a woman who could carry her head so proudly.
'I don't think you are very familiar with it,' said she presently.
'I ought to be,' I answered, 'having loved you all these years.
'But you told me that—that you loved another girl,' she said, her elbow leaning on the mantel, her eyes looking down soberly.
'When? Where?' I asked.
'In Mrs Fuller's parlour.'
'Hope,' I said, 'you misunderstood me; I meant you.
She came toward me, then, looking up into my eyes. I started to embrace her but she caught my hands and held them apart and came close to me.
'Did you say that you meant me?' she asked in a whisper.
'I did.'
'Why did you not tell me that night?
'Because you would not listen to me and we were interrupted.
'Well if I loved a girl,' she said, 'I'd make her listen.'
'I would have done that but Mrs Fuller saved you.'
'You might have written,' she suggested in a tone of injury.
'I did.'
'And the letter never came—just as I feared.'
She looked very sober and thoughtful then.
'You know our understanding that day in the garden,' she added. 'If you did not ask me again I was to know you—you did not love me any longer. That was long, long ago.
'I never loved any girl but you,' I said. 'I love you now, Hope, and that is enough—I love you so there is nothing else for me. You are dearer than my life. It was the thought of you that made me brave in battle. I wish I could be as brave here. But I demand your surrender—I shall give you no quarter now.
'I wish I knew,' she said, 'whether—whether you really love me or not?
'Don't you believe me, Hope?
'Yes, I believe you,' she said, 'but—but you might not know your own heart.
'It longs for you,' I said, 'it keeps me thinking of you always. Once it was so easy to be happy; since you have been away it has seemed as if there were no longer any light in the world or any pleasure. It has made me a slave. I did not know that love was such a mighty thing.
'Love is no Cupid—he is a giant,' she said, her voice trembling with emotion as mine had trembled. 'I tried to forget and he crushed me under his feet as if to punish me.
She was near to crying now, but she shut her lips firmly and kept back the tears. God grant me I may never forget the look in her eyes that moment. She came closer to me. Our lips touched; my arms held her tightly.
'I have waited long for this,' I said—'the happiest moment of my life! I thought I had lost you.
'What a foolish man,' she whispered. 'I have loved you for years and years and you—you could not see it, I believe now.'
She hesitated a moment, her eyes so close to my cheek I could feel the beat of their long lashes.
'That God made you for me,' she added.
'Love is God's helper,' I said. 'He made us for each other.
'I thank Him for it—I do love you so,' she whispered.
The rest is the old, old story. They that have not lived it are to be pitied.
When we sat down at length she told me what I had long suspected, that Mrs Fuller wished her to marry young Livingstone.
'But for Uncle Eb,' she added, 'I think I should have done so—for I had given up all hope of you.'
'Good old Uncle Eb!' I said. 'Let's go and tell him.
He was sound asleep when we entered his room but woke as I lit the gas.
'What's the matter?' he whispered, lifting his head.
'Congratulate us,' I said. 'We're engaged.
'Hey ye conquered her?' he enquired smiling.
'Love has conquered us both,' I said.
'Wall, I swan! is thet so?' he answered. 'Guess I won't fool away any more time here in bed. If you childen'll go in t'other room I'll slip into my trousers an' then ye'll hear me talk some conversation.
'Beats the world!' he continued, coming in presently, buttoning his suspenders. 'I thought mos' likely ye'd hitch up t'gether sometime. 'Tain't often ye can find a pair s'well matched. The same style an gaited jest about alike. When ye goin' t' git married?
'She hasn't named the day,' I said.
'Sooner the better,' said Uncle Eb as he drew on his coat and sat down. 'Used to be so t'when a young couple hed set up 'n held each other's han's a few nights they was ready fer the minister. Wish't ye could fix it fer 'bout Crissmus time, by jingo! They's other things goin' to happen then. S'pose yer s'happy now ye can stan' a little bad news. I've got to tell ye—David's been losin' money. Hain't never wrote ye 'bout it—not a word—'cause I didn't know how 'twas comin' out.
'How did he lose it?' I enquired.
'Wall ye know that Ow Barker—runs a hardware store in Migleyville—he sold him a patent right. Figgered an' argued night an' day fer more 'n three weeks. It was a new fangled wash biler. David he thought he see a chance if put out agents an' make a great deal o'money. It did look jest as easy as slidin' downhill but when we come slide—wall, we found out we was at the bottom o the hill 'stid o' the top an' it wan't reel good slidin. He paid five thousan' dollars fer the right o'ten counties. Then bym bye Barker he wanted him t'go security fer fifteen hunderd bilers thet he was hevin' made. I to!' David he hedn't better go in no deeper but Barker, he promised big things an' seemed to be sech a nice man 'at fin'ly David he up 'n done it. Wall he's hed 'em t' pay fer an' the fact is it costs s'much if sell 'em it eats up all the profits.
'Looks like a swindle,' I said indignantly.
'No,' said Uncle Eb, ''tain't no swindle. Barker thought he hed a gran' good thing. He got fooled an' the fool complaint is very ketchin'. Got it myself years ago an' I've been doctorin' fer it ever sence.
The story of David's undoing hurt us sorely. He had gone the way of most men who left the farm late in life with unsatisfied ambition.
'They shall never want for anything, so long as I have my health,' I said.
'I have four hundred dollars in the bank,' said Hope, 'and shall give them every cent of it.
'Tain' nuthin'if worry over,' said Uncle Eb. 'If I don' never lose more'n a little money I shan't feel terrible bad. We're all young yit. Got more'n a million dollars wuth o' good health right here 'n this room. So well, I'm 'shamed uv it! Man's more decent if he's a leetle bit sickly. An' thet there girl Bill's agreed t'marry ye! Why! 'Druther hev her 'n this hull city o' New York.
'So had I,' was my answer.
'Wall, you am'no luckier 'n she is—not a bit,' he added. 'A good man's better 'n a gol'mine ev'ry time.
'Who knows,' said Hope. 'He may be president someday.
'Ther's one thing I hate,' Uncle El continued. 'That's the idee o hevin' the woodshed an' barn an' garret full o' them infernal wash bilers. Ye can't take no decent care uv a hoss there 'n the stable' they're so piled up. One uv 'em tumbled down top o' me t'other day. 'Druther 'twould a been a panther. Made me s'mad I took a club an' knocked that biler into a cocked hat. 'Tain't right! I'm sick o' the sight uv 'em.
'They'll make a good bonfire someday,' said Hope.
'Don't believe they'd burn,' he answered sorrowfully, 'they're tin.
'Couldn't we bury 'em?' I suggested.
'Be a purty costly funeral,' he answered thoughtfully. 'Ye'd hev to dig a hole deeper n Tupper's dingle.
'Couldn't you give them away?' I enquired.
'Wall,' said he, helping himself to a chew of tobacco, 'we ve tried thet. Gin 'em t'everybody we know but there ain't folks enough' there's such a slew o'them bilers. We could give one to ev'ry man, woman an' child in Faraway an' hex enough left t'fill an acre lot. Dan Perry druv in t'other day with a double buggy. We gin him one fer his own fam'ly. It was heavy t'carry an' he didn't seem t' like the looks uv it someway. Then I asked him if he wouldn't like one fer his girl. “She ain't married,” says he. “She will be some time,” says I, “take it along,” so he put in another. “You've got a sister over on the turnpike hain't ye?” says I. “Yes,” says he. “Wall,” I says, “don' want a hex her feel slighted.” “She won't know 'bout my hevin' 'em,” says he, lookin' 's if he'd hed enough. “Yis she will,” I says, “she'll hear uv it an' mebbe make a fuss.” Then we piled in another. “Look here,” I says after that, “there s yer brother Bill up there 'bove you. Take one along fer him.” “No,” says he, “I don' tell ev'ry body, but Bill an' I ain't on good terms. We ain't spoke fer more'n a year.”
'Knew he was lyin',' Uncle Eb added with a laugh, 'I'd seen him talkin' with Bill a day er two before.
'Whew!' he whistled as he looked at his big silver watch. 'I declare it's mos' one o'clock They's jes' one other piece o' business to come before this meetin'. Double or single, want ye to both promise me t'be hum Crissmus.
We promised.
'Now childern,' said he. ''S time to go to bed. B'lieve ye'd stan' there swappin' kisses 'till ye was kner sprung if I didn't tell ye t' quit.
Hope came and put her arms about his neck, fondly, and kissed him good-night.
'Did Bill prance right up like a man?' he asked, his hand upon her shoulder.
'Did very well,' said she, smiling, 'for a man with a wooden leg.
Uncle Eb sank into a chair, laughing heartily, and pounding his knee. It seemed he had told her that I was coming home with a wooden leg! 'That is the reason I held your arm,' she said. 'I was expecting to hear it squeak every moment as we left the depot. But when I saw that you walked so naturally I knew Uncle Eb had been trying to fool me.
'Purty good sort uv a lover, ain't he?' said he after we were done laughing.
'He wouldn't take no for an answer,' she answered.
'He was alwuss a gritty cuss,' said Uncle Eb, wiping his eyes with a big red handkerchief as he rose to go. 'Ye'd oughter be mighty happy an' ye will, too—their am'no doubt uv it—not a bit. Trouble with most young folks is they wan' to fly tew high, these days. If they'd only fly clus enough t'the ground so the could alwuss touch one foot, they'd be all right. Glad ye ain't thet kind.
We were off early on the boat—as fine a summer morning as ever dawned. What with the grandeur of the scenery and the sublimity of our happiness it was a delightful journey we had that day. I felt the peace and beauty of the fields, the majesty of the mirrored cliffs and mountains, but the fair face of her I loved was enough for me. Most of the day Uncle Eb sat near us and I remember a woman evangelist came and took a seat beside him, awhile, talking volubly of the scene.
'My friend,' said she presently, 'are you a Christian?
'Fore I answer I'll hev to tell ye a story,' said Uncle Eb. 'I recollec' a man by the name o' Ranney over 'n Vermont—he was a pious man. Got into an argyment an' a feller slapped him in the face. Ranney turned t'other side an' then t'other an' the feller kep' a slappin' hot 'n heavy. It was jes' like strappin' a razor fer half a minnit. Then Ranney sailed in—gin him the wust lickin' he ever hed.
'“I declare,” says another man, after 'twas all over, “I thought you was a Christian.”
“Am up to a cert in p'int,” says he. “Can't go tew fur not 'n these parts—men are tew powerful. 'Twon't do 'less ye wan' to die sudden. When he begun poundin' uv me I see I wan't eggzac'ly prepared.”
''Fraid 's a good deal thet way with most uv us. We're Christians up to a cert'in p'int. Fer one thing, I think if a man'll stan' still an' see himself knocked into the nex' world he's a leetle tew good fer this.'
The good lady began to preach and argue. For an hour Uncle Eb sat listening unable to get in a word. When, at last, she left him he came to us a look of relief in his face.
'I b'lieve,' said he, 'if Balaam's ass hed been rode by a woman he never 'd hev spoke.'
'Why not?' I enquired.
'Never'd hev hed a chance,' Uncle Eb added.
We were two weeks at home with mother and father and Uncle Eb. It was a delightful season of rest in which Hope and I went over the sloping roads of Faraway and walked in the fields and saw the harvesting. She had appointed Christmas Day for our wedding and I was not to go again to the war, for now my first duty was to my own people. If God prospered me they were all to come to live with us in town and, though slow to promise, I could see it gave them comfort to know we were to be for them ever a staff and refuge.
And the evening before we came back to town Jed Feary was with us and Uncle Eb played his flute and sang the songs that had been the delight of our childhood.
The old poet read these lines written in memory of old times in Faraway and of Hope's girlhood.
'The red was in the clover an' the blue was in the sky:There was music in the meadow, there was dancing in the rye;An' I heard a voice a calling to the flocks o' FarawayAn' its echo in the wooded hills—Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!O fair was she—my lady love—an' lithe as the willow tree,An' aye my heart remembers well her parting words t' me.An' I was sad as a beggar-man but she was blithe an' gayAn' I think o' her as I call the flocks Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!Her cheeks they stole the dover's red, her lips the odoured air,An' the glow o' the morning sunlight she took away in her hair;Her voice had the meadow music, her form an' her laughing eyeHave taken the blue o' the heavens an' the grace o' the bending rye.My love has robbed the summer day—the field, the sky, the dell,She has taken their treasures with her, she has taken my heart as well;An' if ever, in the further fields, her feet should go astrayMay she hear the good God calling her Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!
I got a warm welcome on Monkey Hill. John Trumbull came to dine with us at the chalet the evening of my arrival. McGlingan had become editor-in-chief of a new daily newspaper. Since the war began Mr Force had found ample and remunerative occupation writing the 'Obituaries of Distinguished Persons. He sat between Trumbull and McGlingan at table and told again of the time he had introduced the late Daniel Webster to the people of his native town.
Reciting a passage of the immortal Senator he tipped his beer into the lap of McClingan. He ceased talking and sought pardon.
'It is nothing, Force—nothing,' said the Scotchman, with great dignity, as he wiped his coat and trousers. 'You will pardon me if I say that I had rather be drenched in beer than soaked in recollections.
'That's all right,' said Mr Opper, handing him a new napkin. 'Yes, in the midst of such affliction I should call it excellent fun, McClingan added. 'If you ever die, Force, I will preach the sermon without charge.
'On what text?' the obituary editor enquired.
'“There remaineth therefore, a rest for the people of God,”' quoth McClingan solemnly. 'Hebrews, fourth chapter and ninth verse.
'If I continue to live with you I shall need it,' said Force.
'And if I endure to the end,' said McClingan, 'I shall have excellent Christian discipline; I shall feel like opening my mouth and making a loud noise.
McGlingan changed his garments and then came into my room and sat with us awhile after dinner.
'One needs ear lappers and a rubber coat at that table,' said he.
'And a chest protector,' I suggested, remembering the finger of Force.
'I shall be leaving here soon, Brower,' said McGlingan as he lit a cigar.
'Where shall you go?' I asked.
'To my own house.
'Going to hire a housekeeper?
'Going to marry one,' said he.
'That's funny,' I said. We're all to be married—every man of us.
'By Jove!' said McClingan, 'this is a time for congratulation. God save us and grant for us all the best woman in the world.
For every man he knew and loved Mr Greeley had a kindness that filled him to the fingertips. When I returned he smote me on the breast—an unfailing mark of his favour—and doubled my salary.
'If he ever smites you on the breast,' McClingan had once said to me, 'turn the other side, for, man, your fortune is made.'
And there was some truth in the warning.
He was writing when I came in. A woman sat beside him talking. An immense ham lay on the marble top of the steam radiator; a basket of eggs sat on the floor near Mr Greeley's desk All sorts of merchandise were sent to the Tribune those days, for notice, and sold at auction, to members of the staff, by Mr Dana.
'Yes, yes, Madame, go on, I hear you,' said the great editor, as his pen flew across the white page.
She asked him then for a loan of money. He continued writing but, presently, his left hand dove into his trousers pocket coming up full of bills.
'Take what you want,' said he, holding it toward her, 'and please go for I am very busy.' Whereupon she helped herself liberally and went away.
Seeing me, Mr Greeley came and shook my hand warmly and praised me fer a good soldier.
'Going down town,' he said in a moment, drawing on his big white overcoat, 'walk along with me—won't you?
We crossed the park, he leading me with long strides. As we walked he told how he had been suffering from brain fever. Passing St Paul's churchyard he brushed the iron pickets with his hand as if to try the feel of them. Many turned to stare at him curiously. He asked me, soon, if I would care to do a certain thing for the Tribune, stopping, to look in at a shop window, as I answered him. I waited while he did his errand at a Broadway shop; then we came back to the office. The publisher was in Mr Greeley's room.
'Where's my ham, Dave?' said the editor as he looked at the slab of marble where the ham had lain.
'Don't know for sure,' said the publisher, 'it's probably up at the house of the—editor by this time.
'What did you go 'n give it to him for?' drawled Mr Greeley in a tone of irreparable injury. 'I wanted that ham for myself.
'I didn't give it to him,' said the publisher. 'He came and helped himself. Said he supposed it was sent in for notice.
'The infernal thief!' Mr Greeley piped with a violent gesture. 'I'll swear! if I didn't keep my shirt buttoned tight they'd have that, too.
The ham was a serious obstacle in the way of my business and it went over until evening. But that and like incidents made me to know the man as I have never seen him pictured—a boy grown old and grey, pushing the power of manhood with the ardours of youth.
I resumed work on the Tribune that week. My first assignment was a mass meeting in a big temporary structure—then called a wigwam—over in Brooklyn. My political life began that day and all by an odd chance. The wigwam was crowded to the doors. The audience bad been waiting half an hour for the speaker. The chairman had been doing his best to kill time but had run out of ammunition. He had sat down to wait, an awkward silence had begun. The crowd was stamping and whistling and clapping with impatience. As I walked down the centre aisle, to the reporter's table, they seemed to mistake me for the speaker. Instantly a great uproar began. It grew louder every step I took. I began to wonder and then to fear the truth. As I neared the stage the chairman came forward beckoning to me. I went to the flight of steps leading up to that higher level of distinguished citizens and halted, not knowing just what to do. He came and leaned over and whispered down at me. I remember he was red in the face and damp with perspiration.
'What is your name?' he enquired.
'Brower,' said I in a whisper.
A look of relief came into his face and I am sure a look of anxiety came into mine. He had taken the centre of the stage before I could stop him.
'Lathes and gentlemen,' said he, 'I am glad to inform you that General Brower has at last arrived.
I remembered then there was a General Brower in the army who was also a power in politics.
In the storm of applause that followed this announcement, I beckoned him to the edge of the platform again. I was nearer a condition of mental panic than I have ever known since that day.
'I am not General Brower,' I whispered.
'What!' said he in amazement.
'I am not General Brower,' I said.
'Great heavens!' he whispered, covering his mouth with his band and looking very thoughtful. 'You'll have to make a speech, anyway—there's no escape.
I could see no way out of it and, after a moment's hesitation, ascended the platform took off my overcoat and made a speech.
Fortunately the issue was one with which I had been long familiar. I told them how I had been trapped. The story put the audience in good humour and they helped me along with very generous applause. And so began my career in politics which has brought me more honour than I deserved although I know it has not been wholly without value to my country. It enabled me to repay in part the kindness of my former chief at a time when he was sadly in need of friends. I remember meeting him in Washington a day of that exciting campaign of '72. I was then in Congress.
'I thank you for what you have done, Brower,' said he, 'but I tell you I am licked. I shall not carry a single state. I am going to be slaughtered.
He had read his fate and better than he knew. In politics he was a great prophet.
The north country lay buried in the snow that Christmastime. Here and there the steam plough had thrown its furrows, on either side of the railroad, high above the window line. The fences were muffled in long ridges of snow, their stakes showing like pins in a cushion of white velvet. Some of the small trees on the edge of the big timber stood overdrifted to their boughs. I have never seen such a glory of the morning as when the sun came up, that day we were nearing home, and lit the splendour of the hills, there in the land I love. The frosty nap of the snow glowed far and near with pulsing glints of pale sapphire.
We came into Hillsborough at noon the day before Christmas. Father and Uncle Eb met us at the depot and mother stood waving her handkerchief at the door as we drove up. And when we were done with our greetings and were standing, damp eyed, to warm ourselves at the fire, Uncle Eb brought his palms together with a loud whack and said:
'Look here, Lizbeth Brower! I want to hev ye tell me if ye ever see a likelier pair o' colts.
She laughed as she looked at us. In a moment she ran her hand down the side of Hope's gown. Then she lifted a fold of the cloth and felt of it thoughtfully.
'How much was that a yard?' she asked a dreamy look in her eyes. 'Wy! w'y!' she continued as Hope told her the sum. 'Terrible steep! but it does fit splendid! Oughter wear well too! Wish ye'd put that on if ye go t' church nex' Sunday.
'O mother!' said Hope, laughing, 'I'll wear my blue silk.
'Come boys 'n girls,' said Elizabeth suddenly, 'dinner's all ready in the other room.
'Beats the world!' said Uncle Eb, as we sat down at the table. 'Ye do look gran' to me—ree-markable gran', both uv ye. Tek a premium at any fair—ye would sartin.'
'Has he won yer affections?' said David laughing as he looked over at Hope.
'He has,' said she solemnly.
'Affections are a sing'lar kind o' prop'ty,' said Uncle Eb. 'Hain't good fer nuthin till ye've gin em away. Then, like as not, they git very valyble.
'Good deal that way with money too,' said Elizabeth Brower.
'I recollec' when Hope was a leetle bit uv a girl' said Uncle Eb, 'she used to say 'et when she got married she was goin' to hev her husban' rub my back fer me when it was lame.
'I haven't forgotten it,' said Hope, 'and if you will all come you will make us happier.
'Good many mouths if feed!' Uncle Ebb remarked.
'I could take in sewing and help some,' said Elizabeth Brower, as she sipped her tea.
There was a little quiver in David's under lip as he looked over at her. 'You ain't able t' do hard work any more, mother,' said he. 'She won't never hev to nuther,' said Uncle Eb. 'Don't never pay if go bookin' fer trouble—it stew easy if find. There ain' no sech thing 's trouble 'n this world 'less ye look for it. Happiness won't hey nuthin if dew with a man thet likes trouble. Minnit a man stops lookin' fer trouble happiness 'II look fer him. Things came puny nigh's ye like 'em here 'n this world—hot er cold er only middlin'. Ye can either laugh er cry er fight er fish er go if meetin'. If ye don't like erry one you can fin fault. I'm on the lookout fer happiness—suits me best, someway, an don't hurt my feelin's a bit.
'Ev'ry day's a kind uv a circus day with you, Holden,' said David Brower. 'Alwuss hevin' a good time. Ye can hev more fun with yerseif 'n any man I ever see.'
'If I hev as much hereafter es I've hed here, I ain't a goin'if fin' no fault,' said Uncle Eb. ''S a reel, splendid world. God's fixed it up so ev'ry body can hev a good time if they'll only hev it. Once I heard uv a poor man 'at hed a bushel o' corn give tew him. He looked up kind o' sad an' ast if they wouldn't please shell it. Then they tuk it away. God's gin us happiness in the ear, but He ain't a goin' t' shell it fer us. You n 'Lizabeth oughter be very happy. Look a' them tew childern!
There came a rap at the door then. David put on his cap and went out with Uncle Eb.
'It's somebody for more money,' Elizabeth whispered, her eyes filling. 'I know 'tis, or he would have asked him in. We're goin't lose our home.
Her lips quivered; she covered her eyes a moment.
'David ain't well,' she continued. 'Worries night 'n day over money matters. Don't say much, but I can see it's alwuss on his mind. Woke up in the middle o' the night awhile ago. Found him sittin' by the stove. “Mother,” he said, “we can't never go back to farmin'. I've ploughed furrows enough if go 'round the world. Couldn't never go through it ag'in.” “Well,” said I, “if you think best we could start over see how we git along. I'm willin' if try it.” “No, we re too old,” he says. “Thet's out o' the question. I've been thinkin' what'll we do there with Bill 'n Hope if we go t'live with 'em? Don't suppose they'll hev any hosses if take care uv er any wood if chop. What we'll hev if do is more'n I can make out. We can't do nuthin; we've never learnt how.”
'We've thought that all over,' I said. 'We may have a place in the country with a big garden.
'Well,' said she, 'I'm very well if I am over sixty. I can cook an wash an' mend an' iron just as well as I ever could.'
Uncle Eb came to the door then.
'Bill,' he said, 'I want you 'n Hope if come out here 'n look at this young colt o' mine. He's playful 's a kitten.
We put on our wraps and went to the stable. Uncle Eb was there alone.
'If ye brought any Cnssmus presents,' he whispered, 'slip 'em into my hands. I'm goin' if run the cirkis t'morrow an' if we don't hev fun a plenty I'll miss my guess.
'I'll lay them out in my room,' said Hope.
'Be sure 'n put the names on 'em,' Uncle Eb whispered, as Hope went away.
'What have ye done with the “bilers”?' I enquired.
'Sold 'em,' said he, laughing. 'Barker never kep' his promise. Heard they'd gone over t' the 'Burg an' was tryin' t' sell more territory. I says if Dave, “You let me manage 'em an' I'll put 'em out o business here 'n this part o' the country.” So I writ out an advertisement fer the paper. Read about this way: “Fer sale. Twelve hunderd patented suction Wash Bilers. Anyone at can't stan' prosperity an' is learnin' if swear 'll find 'em a great help. If he don't he's a bigger fool 'n I am. Nuthin' in 'em but tin—that's wuth somethin'. Warranted t' hold water.”
'Wall ye know how that editor talks? 'Twant a day 'fore the head man o' the biler business come 'n bought 'em. An' the advertisement was never put in. Guess he wan't hankerin' to hev his business spilt.
Uncle Eb was not at the supper table that evening.
'Where's Holden?' said Elizabeth Brower.
'Dunno,' said David. 'Goin' after Santa Claus he tol' me.
'Never see the beat o' that man!' was the remark of Elizabeth, as she poured the tea. 'Jes' like a boy ev'ry Crissmus time. Been so excited fer a week couldn't hardly contain himself.'
'Ketched him out 'n the barn t'other day laffin' like a fool,' said David. 'Thought he was crazy.'
We sat by the fire after the supper dishes were put away, talking of all the Christmas Days we could remember. Hope and I thought our last in Faraway best of all and no wonder, for we had got then the first promise of the great gift that now made us happy. Elizabeth, sitting in her easy-chair, told of Christmas in the olden time when her father had gone to the war with the British.
David sat near me, his face in the firelight—the broad brow wrinkled into furrows and framed in locks of iron-grey. He was looking thoughtfully at the fire. Uncle Eb came soon, stamping and shaking the snow out of his great fur coat.
'Col'night,' he said, warming his hands.
Then he carried his coat and cap away, returning shortly, with a little box in his hand.
'Jes' thought I'd buy this fer fun,' said he, holding it down to the firelight. 'Dummed if I ever see the like uv it. Whoa!' he shouted, as the cover flew open, releasing a jumping-jack. 'Quicker n a grasshopper! D'ye ever see sech a sassy little critter?
Then he handed it to Elizabeth.
'Wish ye Merry Christmas, Dave Brower!' said he.
'Ain't as merry as I might be,' said David.
'Know what's the matter with ye,' said Uncle Eb. 'Searchin' after trouble—thet's what ye're doin'. Findin' lots uv it right there 'n the fire. Trouble 's goiti' t' git mighty scurce 'round here this very selfsame night. Ain't goin' t' be nobody lookin' fer it—thet's why. Fer years ye've been takin' care o' somebody et I'll take care 'o you, long's ye live—sartin sure. Folks they said ye was fools when ye took 'em in. Man said I was a fool once. Alwuss hed a purty fair idee o'myself sence then. When some folks call ye a fool 's a ruther good sign ye ain't. Ye've waited a long time fer yer pay—ain't much longer to wait now.'
There was a little quaver in his voice, We all looked at him in silence. Uncle Eb drew out his wallet with trembling hands, his fine old face lit with a deep emotion. David looked up at him as he wondered what joke was coming, until he saw his excitement.
'Here's twenty thousan' dollars,' said Uncle Eb, 'a reel, genuwine bank check! Jist as good as gold. Here 'tis! A Crissmus present fer you 'n Elizabeth. An' may God bless ye both!'
David looked up incredulously. Then he took the bit of paper. A big tear rolled down his cheek.
'Why, Holden! What does this mean?' he asked.
''At the Lord pays His debts,' said Uncle Eb. 'Read it.'
Hope had lighted the lamp.
David rose and put on his spectacles. One eyebrow had lifted above the level of the other. He held the check to the lamplight. Elizabeth stood at his elbow.
'Why, mother!' said he. 'Is this from our boy? From Nehemiah? Why, Nehemiah is dead!' he added, looking over his spectacles at Uncle Eb.
'Nehemiah is not dead,' said the latter.
'Nehemiah not dead!' he repeated, looking down at the draft. They turned it in the light, reading over and over again the happy tidings pinned to one corner of it. Then they looked into each other's eyes.
Elizabeth put her arms about David's neck and laid her head upon his shoulder and not one of us dare trust himself to speak for a little. Uncle Eb broke the silence.
'Got another present,' he said. 'S a good deal better 'n gold er silver.' A tall, bearded man came in.
'Mr Trumbull!' Hope exclaimed, rising.
'David an' Elizabeth Brower,' said Uncle Eb, 'the dead hes come to life. I give ye back yer son—Nehemiah.'
Then he swung his cap high above his head, shouting in a loud voice:
'Merry Crissmus! Merry Crissmus!'
The scene that followed I shall not try to picture. It was so full of happiness that every day of our lives since then has been blessed with it and with a peace that has lightened every sorrow; of it, I can truly say that it passeth all understanding.
'Look here, folks!' said Uncle Eb, after awhile, as he got his flute, 'my feelin's hev been teched hard. If I don't hev some jollification I'll bust. Bill Brower, limber up yer leather a leetle bit.'