A Country Idyl and Other Stories

“Oh, no, Asa!” responded the pale, thin woman, who was cooking dinner for some workingmen who boarded with her. “We shall see better days.”

But her words only were hopeful; the voice showed the weariness of one who was almost tired of the daily struggle.

“I don’t know how it is. I’ve worked hard from a boy. The grocery business didn’t pay, though I never left the store till the last man had gone home. Then the builder I worked for failed, and I lost several months’ wages. I guess I’m unlucky. We had quite a bit of money when we married, didn’t we, Martha? And I never supposed you would come to such hard work as this. My debts have hung like a millstone about my neck. They all say: ‘Asa Scranton, you’re a good fellow. You’ll pay principal and interest,’ and never think that a wife and children have need for food and clothing. Sometimes I’ve a mind to run away, and I would if I didn’t hate a coward. I can’t stand seeing you so pale and hopeless-like. I’d like to try the mines – maybe I’d strike it rich.”

“Oh, Asa, don’t think of such a thing! Only the few make any money in mines, and most are poor to the end of their days. Keep up courage. The children are getting larger, and better days are coming.”

“That’s the old story, Martha. Things are not very even in this world, but I don’t complain. If I had work I wouldn’t care how rich other folks are. But just think, Martha! If I strike a mine, as some people have, how good it would seem for you to have a silk dress, and Alice a hat with a feather, like the little girl on the hill. I always wanted John to go to college, seeing that his father couldn’t go. He maybe would be more lucky than I have been.”

While Martha Scranton mended by the open fireplace that evening, Asa sat still and thought – dreamed dreams, half wildly perhaps, of better days to come. They would never come in his present poverty. He would make one last venture. His family could live without him, for his wife for some time had earned all the money which they used.

He was not an indolent man, not a man who lacked ability, but, like thousands of others, he seemed to be in the current of failure, and was drifting down the stream to despair. He dreamed about the mines of Colorado that night as he slept, and during the many waking hours planned how he could reach the favored land. He could sell his silver watch, and pawn his overcoat, even if the coming winter pinched him with cold.

By morning he had decided. He ate breakfast quietly; patted little John upon the head, with a look of unusual pathos in his blue eyes; told Martha that he was going out to look for work; obtained what little money he could; hurried down the street to the station, wiping, with the back of his hand, the tears from his cheeks as he looked only once toward his home; and took the train for the mines.

For days he ate little, hoarding every cent to keep him from starvation till he should find work. At Granite Camp, on the side of the mountain, all was bustle and confusion. The varied machinery, the eager miners, the enthusiasm, the warm-hearted familiarity, – all excited Asa. He was ready for any kind of work, and soon found it. Mining was hard, – no work is easy, – but he would earn and save, and later prospect for himself, get hold of claims, and “strike it rich.”

Weeks and months passed. No letter came from Martha, for she did not know where Asa had gone. She wept when she found that she was left alone – wept with that half-deadened sense of loss which persons feel who have had the cheer of life taken out of them by the blows of circumstance.

Asa had been kind to her and the children, but in these days she had little time to think of love or loss, for work was never-ending, and rent and fuel were certainties. So she toiled on, and guessed that he had gone to seek his fortune in the mines, and clothed the children as well as she could, and sewed and washed and prayed and waited.

Years came and went. Asa Scranton in the mines and Martha Scranton at home were growing older. The miners liked Asa, though he joined little in their merry-making, and got the name of being miserly. They could not know that he was saving his money to make Martha rich. Sometimes, when he had earned money enough to work a claim, and had gotten other parties interested, he dug for treasure, but always failed. Then the hole was left in the mountain, and Asa went back to his daily digging in the mines.

His hair grew grayer and his form bent. He would write Martha and Alice and John when he had made his fortune, but not now. He lived alone in his little shanty, often weary, always lonely, “forever unlucky,” as he said, but still hoping that better days would come. Every spare moment he searched the mountains, till it was common talk that Asa Scranton knew every vein of silver and lead in the surrounding country. He would make one last effort. He had been to one spot stealthily, from time to time, where, from the surface ore, he felt sure of success.

But how could he interest capital? He had failed in other projects, and the world did not believe in him. In vain he besought men to join him. He hoarded his money, grew thin from lack of food, dressed in ragged clothes, and still dreamed of future success.

Finally a little money was put into the venture, but no veins worth working were found. Asa was sure they would win if they probed further into the mountain. He labored with men in and out of camp to put in more money. The miners said he was crazy. He certainly was cold and hungry, and well nigh frenzied.

At last he found a German, Hans Bochert, who, like himself, had struggled for years, had lost and won, – with many losings to one winning, – but who, out of pity for the old miner, gave nearly his last dollar to push on the work.

Asa seemed in a half delirium. He would not leave the place day or night. Cold or rain did not deter him, though he seemed ill and broken. Finally the good news came that a big body of ore was struck. Asa Scranton’s face gleamed as though the full sunlight poured upon it. “I’m going to my shanty to write to Martha,” he said, and hurried away. He did not come back in the morning, and Hans Bochert and the other men hastened over to know the reason.

Asa sat in his chair with the same halo about his face – dead from an excess of joy. On a paper, on the little table, was the letter he had begun to write to Martha Scranton at Fairport: “Darling Wife: I have struck it rich, and you and the children” —

The pen had fallen from his hand.

FOOD AT THE DOOR

“DON’T FEED him, because others will be sure to come.”

The speaker was a handsome woman who sat at dinner with her husband in one of the beautiful homes of C. She was dressed in a rich garnet satin, with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums at her throat, which accorded with the dark garnet leather of the carved furniture.

All had gone well with Mrs. Heatherstone. Her husband, with hair prematurely gray from his hard financial struggles, had become rich, and his wife and only son were spending the money in fine clothes and stylish equipages.

A servant had just come in to say that an old man was at the door who had had nothing to eat all day, and to ask if she should give him a supper.

Mrs. Heatherstone reiterated her old rule, not to feed anybody at the door, lest other poor people be told of it, and the family be annoyed with tramps. “We never give anything at the door,” she was wont to say, and so in process of time poor people generally passed by the Heatherstone mansion, and she was glad of it.

The poor old man of to-night caught a glimpse of the well-filled table as he passed the window, and he felt hurt and bitter at fate. He was not a drinking man, but he had lost his property by reverses, his wife and children were dead, he was unable to do hard labor, and he could rarely find work that was light or heavy. There was not work enough for all, and the young and vigorous obtained what there was.

The old man slept in a shed that night, and dreamed of the elegant home and the handsome lady in the garnet dress.

“I think you might have given him a supper,” said Mark Heatherstone, a boy of sixteen, with a kind heart, but lacking a strong will, and who had already caused his parents some solicitude.

“When once you begin, there is no end of it,” said the mother. “Let him go to the Associated Charities or to some soup-house.”

“But he will have a heavy heart to-night, besides being hungry,” said the youth.

“I can’t take care of all the suffering in the world, so I shut my eyes to it. We must enjoy ourselves, and leave some money for you also.”

“I don’t mind much about that,” said the boy, who knew nothing of the hardships of life, “but I’d do a little good as I went along.”

Mother and son did not think alike about many things, and after a time the lad left his home and disappeared from the town.

His parents were of course distressed beyond measure. They searched and searched in vain. Mrs. Heatherstone, with all her selfishness and lack of wisdom in rearing her son, was exceedingly fond of him. His absence aged her, and when after some years he did not return, the fine house and elegant clothes lost their attraction. The habit of giving, however, is usually a growth from early life, and closed hands do not unclose easily as we grow older.

Once away from his home, Mark Heatherstone was too proud to go back, if indeed he ever wished to do so. He soon spent what money he had brought away with him, and then learned the hard lessons of poverty. He looked for work, occasionally found some, but oftener was penniless, and, like the old man who had besought alms at his father’s house, slept in sheds or in barns. The increasing habit of drink fastened upon him, and exposure undermined his health.

Early a broken-down man, he determined to go back to his native town, and perhaps seek again the home he had abandoned. He stole a ride on a freight train and reached the city just as the evening lamps were being lighted. A cold sleet was falling.

He was faint from lack of food, and excited with the thought of the old times of boyhood and a possible glad reception at his home. He found the house, passed it, and saw his father and mother at supper. He went up the street and then returned, going to the back door and asking for food.

“We never give anything at the door,” said the well-instructed servant, and shut it in his face. He walked away. The impulse was strong to go back and say that the long-lost son had returned. He hesitated, turned his face back towards home, walked up the familiar pathway to the front door, raised his hand to ring the bell, became dizzy, and fell heavily on the porch.

Mr. and Mrs. Heatherstone were startled at the sound. “What has happened, husband?” she said, and both hastened to the door. “Oh, Mark, Mark!” exclaimed the mother, as she gazed upon the face of her apparently dead son. He was carried into the best apartment and a physician summoned.

“It is a heart attack and he will rally,” said the doctor, “but his living is only a question of time.”

When Mark was partially restored to his former self he told of the struggles he had been through, of some kindness and much indifference and hardness, even being turned away in the rain from his mother’s door because he asked for food. “That nearly broke my heart, mother,” he said. “Don’t let man or dog or cat go away from your door hungry. Who knows but they will die upon somebody’s doorstep?”

Mrs. Heatherstone grew tenderer with the coming months, and when Mark passed away she was a changed woman. She had been made unselfish through a great sorrow.

HOW THE DOG TAX WAS PAID

TWO LITTLE children, Annie and James, were picking up stray pieces of coal near the railroad, to carry to a very poor home. Suddenly they espied a black lump that looked like coal, only it moved. With childish curiosity they crept towards it and found a thin, frightened, hungry dog that had been crippled and beaten by boys.

“Do you dare touch her?” said the girl of nine years. “She might bite.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jimmie, a rugged and alert little fellow of seven. “See, she wags her short tail, and I guess she wants to go home with us.”

“But mother couldn’t take care of her, we’re so poor, and baby Ned and Willie have to eat and have clothes.”

“Oh, I’ll give her some of my bread and milk every night, and Mrs. Martin next door will give her bones, I guess. She hasn’t any boy and she is good to me.”

The girl put her fingers carefully along the black dog’s forehead, and the animal pushed her cold nose against the child’s hand and licked it. She was not used to kind voices, and a girl’s fingers upon her head gave her courage. She half rose to her feet, looked from one to the other and seemed to say, “I will go with you if you will only take me.”

“I wouldn’t pick her up, Jimmie; she’ll follow us.”

“She can’t walk much,” said the boy, “but I’ll help her over the bad places if you’ll carry the basket of coal.”

The dog seemed to realize the conversation, for when the coal was ready to be moved, she was also ready, and hobbled on after the children.

“You must be tired, poor thing!” said Jimmie, taking her up as they crossed a muddy street, and thereby getting his torn jacket stained from her hurt back and bleeding foot.

The dog nestled up to him and seemed happy. When they reached home Jimmie ran ahead, showing his poor bruised friend to his mother.

“Why, Jimmie, what can you do with a dog?”

“Keep her to play with, and to guard the house when you are away washing.”

“I don’t know how we’ll feed her,” said Mrs. Conlon, who looked about as poor as the dog, “but we’ll try. We can keep her warm anyway if you’ll pick up enough coal.”

“We shall love her so,” said the boy, “and the baby will play with her when she gets well. Let’s call her ‘Pet,’ because we never have anything to play with.”

The dog crawled behind the stove and closed her eyes, as though thankful for a place to rest, where at least boys would not throw stones, and men would not kick her with their rough boots.

Days and weeks went by. The black dog, though not having a great supply of food, was living like a prince compared with the starvation of the street. Her bruises healed, her coat became blacker and her eyes brighter. She was indeed the baby’s pet, and the idol of the other children. She went with Annie and Jimmie as they gathered coal. She slept on the floor beside their humble bed at night, and guarded the household when the mother was absent. She shared their food, and would have returned their kindness with her life if need be. The whole family were happier and kinder since she came into it, as is always the case when a pet animal is in the home.

Though poverty was a constant guest at the Conlon abode, with its bare floors, poor clothes, and common fare, yet they were not unhappy. The mother worked too hard to philosophize much about circumstances, and the children were too young to realize what was before them of struggle. A cloud was coming, and a man’s hand brought it. It was the arrival of the tax-gatherer.

A high official in the State found that the treasury was low, and decided that money must be raised in some way. Of course it was generally conceded that the liquor traffic caused so much of the poverty, crime, and sorrow that it would be wise to make it pay for some of its evil results. This was a difficult matter, however, as saloon keepers and their customers had votes. Corporations could be taxed more heavily, but corporations sometimes paid money to help carry elections.

There was at least one class that had no votes, and consequently little influence. Dogs could therefore be taxed. The rich could easily pay the tax, and if the poor could not, their dogs could be killed. Who stopped to think whether money raised through the sorrow of the poor, or the death of helpless animals, might prove a bane rather than a blessing? Who asked whether a dog did not love life as well as his master, and whether, for his devotion and courage and guarding of homes, he was not entitled to the consideration of the city and the State, rather than to be killed because his owner could not or did not pay a tax or a license fee? The dog had done no wrong, and though somebody loved him, as he could not earn the fee himself he must needs be destroyed.

The tax-gatherer, endowed with power by the officials, came to the Conlon home. There was little that could be taken from so poor a place, thought the collector, until he espied the black dog beside the baby’s cradle. “Your dog, madam, must be paid for. The fee is five dollars.”

“I haven’t the money,” said the woman. “Why, I couldn’t raise so much! I can hardly fill these four mouths with food.”

“Well, madam, then you shouldn’t keep a dog.”

“But she guards the children while I work, and she is such a comfort to them!”

“The law doesn’t take sentiment into the account. If you were a man I should arrest you, and shoot the dog. As it is, I will only shoot the dog. Bring the animal out and I will call that policeman over.”

“You wouldn’t shoot her before these crying children?” – for three of them had begun to cry, and were clasping the dog to their hearts, while the baby looked scared, and pressed his lips together, as though he realized that something was wrong.

“As I said before, madam, the law has no regard for sentiment. The State must have money.”

“I wish they would tax the saloons. If my husband hadn’t lost his money in them before he died we should have the money now to pay the tax for our dog. Could you wait a little for the money? I can give you a dollar, and perhaps I can borrow another, but I can’t possibly raise five dollars. Can you come to-morrow?”

“Yes, I’ll give you a trial, but it’s a long walk here. I’m afraid you’ll turn the dog on the street and then say you haven’t any.”

“Oh, no, sir, we are not as mean as that, even if we are poor! Pet would suffer and perhaps starve, and we all love her too much for that.”

After the man was gone Mrs. Conlon put on her faded shawl and bonnet and went to her neighbors, as poor as herself. One loaned her a quarter, another a half, till the whole dollar was secured.

When the assessor came on the following day, being somewhat impressed by the devotion of both family and dog, he took the two dollars and promised to wait a reasonable time for the remaining three.

Various plans were talked over in the Conlon home for the raising of the extra money. There was comparatively little work to be obtained, rent must be met or they would be turned upon the street, and there were five mouths to feed besides that of Pet.

Jimmie declared that a letter to the Governor of the State ought to do good, and Annie should write it. Accordingly a sheet of paper and an envelope were procured that very afternoon, and a letter was penned to that official. It read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Governor:

“We have a beautiful [this was a stretch of the imagination] black dog that we found sick and hurt, and we love her dearly, but can’t pay the tax of five dollars. Mother works, and I take care of the children, but I can’t earn any money for poor dear Pet. The police have killed lots of dogs on our street. One belonged to Mamie Fisher, my best friend, and we went together and found him in a pile of dogs, all dead. Mamie took him up in her arms and cried dreadfully. I helped her carry him, and we dug a grave in their little yard and buried him, and we took five cents that a lady gave me and bought two roses and laid on his grave. He was a big yellow puppy, and was so kind.

“Now, Mr. Governor, would you be willing to lend us three dollars till we can earn it, and pay you back? She has two dollars already. We wish there wasn’t any tax on dogs, for they make us poor children so happy. Perhaps you can stop the law.

“Yours most respectful,“Annie Conlon.”

All pronounced this a proper letter, and Jimmie dropped it into the mail-box. All the family waited prayerfully for the answer.

The Governor was touched as he read this letter from a child. “I will give her the three dollars,” he said to his wife. “I didn’t suppose the enforcement of a dog tax would bring so much sorrow to little hearts and large ones too. I really wish there were no tax on dogs, for they are helpless creatures and most faithful friends to man. But the State needs money.”

“Try to get the tax law repealed,” said the wife. “There are plenty of ways to raise money to pay the expenses of a great State without killing dogs. The tax law is directly responsible for thousands of dogs being turned upon the street to starve: they become ill from hunger and thirst, are supposed to be mad, and then suffer untold misery and even death from thoughtless and excited crowds. I would have no part in enforcing such a law, and would help to wipe it from the statute books.”

“But some of the farmers have their sheep killed by dogs, and they must have their losses made up to them,” said the Governor.

“Let the town pay for the sheep which are killed, and not cause the death of thousands of innocent dogs because a few have done wrong,” replied the wife.

The money was sent to Annie Conlon, and there was thanksgiving in the plain home. Pet wagged her short tail, and looked up into Annie’s eyes, as though she understood that her life had been spared by those three dollars.

THE STORY OF DOUGLAS

DOUGLAS was a shaggy black puppy, one of a family of eleven, all of them yellow and white but himself. His fur, when you pushed it apart, showed its yellow color near the skin, revealing what he really was, – a St. Bernard.

He was the most gentle of all the puppies, and would not fight his way at the dish when the others clamored for their bread and milk, but stood apart and looked up to his mistress with a beseeching and sometimes aggrieved air. From the first he seemed to hunger for human affection, and would cry to be held in one’s lap, or follow one about the house or the grounds like a petted kitten.

When quarrels took place between some members of the large family Douglas never joined, but hastened to tell it by his bark, that the disturbance might be quelled. When finally the puppies went to various homes Douglas became the property of a lady who, not having children, loved him almost as a child.

He followed her up and down stairs and lay at her feet if she read. The house was well furnished, but not too good to be used and enjoyed. Douglas was not put out of doors at night to whine in the rain or sleet, or even into a barn, and wisely, for he saved the house once from very unwelcome intruders.

He gambolled beside his mistress if she walked in the woods, and when she was ill he was constantly at her bedside, refusing to eat, and seeming to suffer in her suffering. When she was unavoidably absent Douglas cried and walked the floor, and if allowed to go out of doors howled and waited on the hillside for her return.

Once when at the seashore he followed her without her knowledge, and plunged into the bay after her steamer. He swam till well-nigh exhausted, his agonized owner fearing every minute that he would sink, while she besought the men to stop the boat. Finally he was rescued, and though he could scarcely move the glad look in his eyes and the wag of his tail told as plainly as words the joy of the reunion.

No amount of money could buy the companionable creature. He never wearied one by talk; he never showed anger, perhaps because no one spoke angrily to him. Some persons like to show authority, even over a dog, and talk loud and harsh, but Douglas’s owner was too wise and too good for this. Kindness begot kindness, and the puppy who longed for love appreciated it none the less when he was grown, and could protect the woman who loved him.

One autumn day, just before leaving her country home for the city, Miss Benson was obliged to return to town for a half day. “Good-by, dear Douglas,” she said in her usual way. “I shall come home soon,” and the unwilling creature followed her with his brown eyes, and whined that he could not go also. Later in the afternoon he was let out of doors, and soon disappeared.

When Miss Benson returned her first word was, “Douglas! Douglas!” but there was no response to her call. He had followed her, had lost the trail, and had gone too far to find his way back to his home. In vain she called for her pet. She left the door ajar, hoping at nightfall she should hear the patter of his feet, or his eager bark to come in, but he did not come. She wondered where he slept, if he slept at all; thought a dozen times in the night that she heard him crying at the door; imagined him moaning for her, or, supperless and exhausted, lying down by the roadside, to wait for the sunrise to begin his fruitless journey.