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Sfnuntaitt of (§ih Agf 

JOHN D. HOWE 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE 

AND 

OTHER WRITINGS 



by JOHN D. HOWE 



1908. 



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• Two Copies KeceiveJ 

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Copyright, 1908, 

by JOHN D, HOWE, 

Omaha, Neb. 



FKOM THE PRESS OF 

A. I. ROOT, INCORPORATED 

OMAHA, NEB. 



Preface. 

A few years; s:ineej;.f€€lin§::&at I had earned 
the right to rest from the exactions of a pro- 
fession — said to be "a jealous mistress," — that 
was never really congenial and which I had 
pursued many years under trying physical lim- 
• itations, and, advised that it was best that I 
should live the life of a quietist, I resolved to 

" — plow no more a desert land, 
To harvest weed and tare." 

2 To occupy my mind and fill my time, I 
^^ resorted to reading and writing, as the spirit 
;^ moved me. I turned to that better side of my- 
,e self, that which I do myself most love, and the 
^ fruitage has been much satisfaction — and a few 
h little sketches ! Some of these have been hast- 
^ ily, and, I fear, carelessly, gathered in this lit- 
^ tie volume. 

I have found a grateful diversion in being 

a student of the wayside ! So these lines appeal 

to me : 

"I find letters from God dropped in the street and 
every one is signed by God's name, 

And I leave them where they are, for I know that 
whereso'er I go, 

Others will come punctually forever and ever." 

Fearing that quoting these lines may lead 
the reader to infer that I assume a piety that 



I do not possess, I hasten to say, that I am just 
a sinner ! My creed says, that he who thinks 
he is not one, is Hl^ely to be cold and unsym- 
pathetic — perhaps uncharitable, — a cruelly 
wicked man ! ''Sin" is one of the great sanc- 
tions of the brotherhood of man ! I would speak 
as an evangel of hope to all those who are "in 
bonds" — those who are sinners — "like me ! like 
me !" Holiness has always had its champions. 
Sin has never had justice done it ! (The most 
orthodox will agree with me !) The sinner is 
our neighbor — everyone's neighbor ! 

I originally intended to append to the lead- 
ing article copies of the texts of certain old- 
time curses, but they are too fantastic — too 
horrible ! — for the modern mind. 

It would seem that the "Curse" has proved 
God's best gift to the race ; man, driven out 
of Eden, has built the world ! 



Anent the curse, or anathema, of the Bishop 
of Rochester — which included "the curse 
wherewith Elijah cursed the children !" — says 
Uncle Toby, — "I could not have the heart to 
curse my dog so." 

"I declare," quoth Uncle Toby, "my heart 
would not let me curse the devil himself with 
so much bitterness.' 

"The devil is cursed to all eternity," says 
Dr. Slop. 

iv. 



'1 am sorry for it," quoth my Uncle Toby, 



I have written frequently in the first per- 
son, perhaps unconsciously, because it was 
pre-eminently first to me ! — and because I was 
compelled to, to disentangle these sketches 
from myself. They are the ravelings of the 
"sleeve of care" — just standing for a bit of 
happiness which writing them has afforded me. 



Februarv, 1908. 




Table of Contents. 



Part I. 

Fountain of Old Age 1 

Tramp 33 

Karl 36 

Cathedral Bells 42 

A New Crucifix 44 

The Rescue Home 53 

A Mother's Prayer 57 

Beautiful in Death 60 

The Laundry Woman 61 

The Burros and the Boys Q6 

The Hello Gatherer 77 

The Life and Death of a Fledgling 81 

The Ruxton 87 

Civilization 90 

That Sick Baby 91 

Extracts — 

Nebraska Meadows, Green and Gold. . . . 94 

Sea and Shore 96 

Clouds 98 

The Cottonwood 99 

Sunset 101 



vn. 



Part II. 

A Drama 105 

Little Billee 116 

On the Florence Highway 128 

The Fat-Nosed, Horse 131 

Dining Out . . , 133 

The Dago's Christmas 139 

The Thistle 142 

Put Yourself in His Shoes 144 

A VA'elcome Home 146 



Vlll. 



y^ \^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 

Part I. 
FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

THIS morning at breakfast: bacon and 
eggs. The same lady at the end of the 
table. Large; age, 73. On her head 
a mass of hair, black as raven's wing, her teeth 
are pearly ; her complexion rosy ; her haber- 
dashery and lingerie of the most dainty de- 
scription. Yesterday, I noticed that she passed 
up liver and onions. Ah, she has a lover! 
May he be noble and true, and not take ad- 
vantage of her all too-confiding love. 

I am sure she has bathed in the Fountain 
of Youth. I am a little tired of that fountain 
myself; I don't exactly like the product. 

Last night I dreamed. Dreamed of the 
Fountain of Old Age. I had heard the tradi- 
tion that exists among the Ute Indians, that 
there is such a place near Manitou among the 
well-night inaccessible mountain heights. My 
dream disclosed to me its whereabouts and 
charted out the trail thereto. Tomorrow I will 
go there. My dog, Tramp, must go and I must 
hire a burro' — for the mountain is very steep 
from its foot, which is about three miles out on 
the Ute Pass road. 



2 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

Surely, my dog, Tramp, must go. I will tell 
you how I acquired the honor of his acquaint- 
ance and the prize of his friendship. 

One day, as I sat at the head of the Rain- 
bow Falls, a carryall arrived there and stopped. 
A stranger — a mild-looking man, who im- 
pressed me as a good fellow, — stepped to the 
head of the heated and panting horses and 
patted them upon the head and stroked their 
noses and said kind things to them, whereat 
they looked at him and bowed their heads to 
his kindly hand. I have heard the hack-driver 
say to such a man, while gathering up the 
reins and waiting, "Now, they will drive bet- 
ter !" And I have heard a horsey-looking man 
say, to such a man, ''That is right ; that does 
them good !" Thus the testimony of experts. 
Thereupon, a collie dog came out from under 
the wagon to the man, and, jumping up, placed 
his forepaws upon his breast and licked the 
horse's nose ! Presently, he went under the 
horse's belly and licked the sore on his leg. 

I put out my arm and gathered that dog 
to my breast. 

Said the driver, coarsely, with a laugh, 
"You may have him ; he's yours !" 

Beneath the dog's shaggy hair I counted his 
ribs — they were all there — not one was miss- 
ing — and that is about all there was! He had 
followed that horse day in and day out, licking 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 3 

his nose and licking his sore — and none there 
was to feed him ! Humidity suffused my eyes 
as I read his history, and, since my eyes are 
not glass-eyes, how could it have been other- 
wise? I unlimbered my lunch, provided for 
a long climb, and gave it to him, not half, but 
all of it ; he needed it more than I, for no one 
can count half of my ribs, I'm sure ! 

So the transfer of ownership of Tramp came 
to me — perfected through the power of the 
eminent domain of kindness and love. 

Of course. Tramp must go with me to the 
Fountain of Old Age. When I told him of 
the project, and that I might sometime need 
to bathe in the water. Tramp said : "Surely ; 
I'm no spring chicken myself!" 



Early next morning we repaired to the burro 
corral and bargained for one of those patient, 
sure-footed, slow, tedious, obstinate and pig- 
headed animals. He was "cut out" of a bunch 
accustomed to climb Pike's Peak and many 
another trail, on excursion duty, with a guide 
behind to holler at them and crack his black- 
snake upon their hind legs. We started off 
right merrily, a guide having lashed the beast 
across the hind legs, strictly according to an- 
cient usage, Tramp cheerfully barking and 
wagging his plumy tail. 



4 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

We soon saw the tents of sufferers from the 
great white sickness at a mountain's foot across 
the river. A new house-tent is being built for 
a new arrival, far from home. The invalid 
is sitting on a rock waiting to occupy his abode. 
The carpenter stops work, goes to the spring 
and fetches him a cup of water. 

At night, you may see tents blooming with 
the light of lamps, scattered about the foot- 
hills. Ah, there's a lone occupant in every one ! 

My mind reverts to a visit to Estes Park 
at the foot of Long's Peak. In a camp of 
shelters for the sick, I saw an invalid lying 
on his bed, while other invalids, less desper- 
ately ill, were singing and dancing in his cabin 
to cheer him, to drive away the specter that 
hovered near. Flere a shadowy-looking young 
woman told me that she had received a letter 
whose writer said he had dreamed that he 
saw her in her coffin ! It was written by her 
father. She soon lay in her coffin and he saw 
her there ! 

As we neared the bridge at the edge of the 
village, we saw a vv^retched little camp. A small 
tent, an old covered wagon, a stove, an old 
woman, an old man, an old white horse. Pov- 
erty, almost starvation, was expressed at every 
point. Above it, one could read its name with 
the eye of the spirit ; it was **Camp Nearly All 
In." As we approached, we saw the old woman 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 5 

take the old man, who was feeble and blind, 
by the hand, while he took the old white horse, 
which was lame in three legs, by the halter, 
and the three ambled down to and across the 
road and down the steep bank to the edge of 
the stream — the woman holding the man care- 
fully back down the steep pitch. And the horse 
drank. The blind man, held by the woman, 
waited — he could not watch ! I will not try 
to tell you how the torrent sang. I will not 
try to tell you how its bright surface carried 
down, over rock and through eddy, the photo- 
graph of the placid sky above — nor how many 
a star, the ages past, has been dashed and split 
on the boulders of its bed. The horse drank. 
Thank God, there was enough ! If the poor 
creature days through had had enough of 
anything, it was there. 

Returning, the woman helped the man up 
the bank, and he held the halter. And the 
three, sharing a common trinity of age and 
infirmity, with slow and labored step, retraced 
their way to the tent ! 

Woman, thy name is Fidelity ! Whether 
you ever knew shrine or sacrament, or spoke 
marriage vow, or whether your sins are as 
scarlet, I know not — I ask not ! All is for- 
given ! 

Ah, the wayside — the wayside ! The les- 
sons in compassion, in love, in "God's word," 



6 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

that are taught by the wayside ! The wayside 
is a pulpit preaching to them with the open 
soul ! 

And we traveled on at a snail's pace. We 
soon came upon a party of negroes on burros, 
out for a gala time. There was the aged sire, 
the gray grandam, and all down through the 
grades of the years even unto the dusky pick- 
aninny with her hair in pigtails sticking about 
her ears. Were they happy? Ah, how one 
might envy them the capacity to be made 
happy by the mountain wine of air and sun- 
shine — and a burro ! Were they not riding like 
white folks? Had they not laid aside their 
bonds — had they not entered upon the field of 
freemen — yes, was not their guide a white boy? 
Who- should deny them the honors of station 
— the honor to be free ! Blackville — and it was 
all there — was happy. The chiefest point of 
interest to me was a young, night-black fellow, 
in the pride of his strength, who rode in ad- 
vance and led them all — with white-and-black 
eyes and white teeth set in the black enamel 
of his face, holding an ebony pickaninny in 
front, the blackest and prettiest in the world; 
the pride of fatherhood, as a halo surrounding 
him, glorified the man. But for the Fall of 
Adam, where would be that pickaninny — where 
the pride of fatherhood and motherhood of 
the human race? What in beauty or magnifi- 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. ^7 

cence are all other falls — the Rainbow, the 
Rhmefalls, Niagara ! — as compared with the 
Fall of Adam ! 

Never since, once on a time, an ass bore 
its burden — product of the Fall ! — into Jeru- 
salem — on towards Golgatha, the place of the 
skull ! — has it been more nobly laiden, here, 
on the Ute Pass road, in the Rocky Mountains, 
the Great Divide of America, after two thou- 
sand years, where men are free ! 

Having arrived outside the village, Tomathy 
— for I named the burro Tomathy — began to 
malinger. There was no guide ! There was no 
blacksnake whip and he knew it and knew also 
that his rider was a tenderfoot. Those burros 
are wise. I patiently coaxed and commanded, 
but Tomathy simply flicked his miserable little 
tail and crept along. He minced and minced. 
Tediously an hour passed — two of them ! Im- 
patience ceased to be a vice — impatience be- 
came a virtue ! 

''What now," said I in wrath, after exhaust- 
ing all arguments known to the Sermon on 
the Mount ; "what now ! wait, Tomathy, till 
we get to the foot of Mount 'Don't You Be- 
lieve It' and you'll have to climb ; then you'll 
earn your per diem !" This was an unfortunate 
speech ; I was ignorant of the fact that Tom- 
athy understood English ! 



8 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

We plodded along and finally reached the 
foot of the mountain where our hard work was 
really to begin ; its height and steep sides 
towered above us. 

Here Tomathy stopped stock still. 

"Mike," said he, addressing me, "where's 
the kid?" 

Now, my name is not Michael, or Mike. 
But I replied sweetly : "What kid are you 
alludin' at, Julia?" "Why," said he, "the kid 
that goes along to swipe me across the hind 
legs with his blacksnake whip ; I need in- 
spiration ; I can't stir a peg farther without 
him !" Tramp howled. I turned pale — as pale 
as a paleontologist. "You fraud," said I, turn- 
ing his head towards the village, "go home, 
you dum fool, I'll walk." He trotted away 
towards home and loved ones, one ear turned 
frontwards and one backwards, giving a "haw- 
haw" that made the mountains resound ! 

Now, doubtless, there be some among you 
who will question the veracity of this tale ; 
doubting Tomathy's in fact. No skeptics in 
mine! Go read your Bible. Numbers XX 
11:28; H Peters 2:16. Of course, it's a little 
unusual for asses to speak English, but what 
are we up in this high altitude for? 

You may recall Lawrence Sterne's experi- 
ence. His mule stopped and said he would not 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 9 

go a step further. The rider, dismounting, re- 
torted, I learned long since never to enter into 
an argument with any of your family ! 

Tramp and I pursued our way, the grandeur 
of the scenery soon composing our ruffled 
spirits. A short distance away from the moun- 
tain brook, we came upon some tents where a 
family was camped. We met an old man, 
tanned and lean and stooped ; with thin and 
stringy and sun-burned whiskers ; in his hand 
he held a corn-cob pipe, that had seen years 
of service; upon his knee rested a baby, and 
he was singing a lullaby. He was from a cross- 
roads in Arkansaw. 

Seeing us observing the baby, he said : *'My 
grandchild ; he's lots of trouble but we would 
not take worlds for him !" 

He put his pipe in his mouth and medita- 
tively puffed. His face was wrinkled as it were 
''Mexican drawn-work !" 

"Have you ever heard of the Fountain of 
Old Age?" I asked. 

"Yes," said he, "I have come a thousand 
miles by wagon to go to it — but I reckon I 
can't go up — I can't leave the baby !" 

Forgetting us, he began to sing to the rest- 
less child. We passed on up the mountain 
hearing his voice a long way ; it was a sweet 
voice, a gentle and fresh and youthful — mar- 
velous indeed ! 



10 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

''Wish Beethoven could hear it," said 
Tramp. ''So do I," said I. 

The end and the beginning, I thought; the 
eternal round : Childhood and age, grass and 
hay — and grass again ! Summer and autumn, 
winter and spring. 

After a long and tedious climb, scratched 
and bruised, we came out on top of a precipice ; 
its front stood sheer above the canyon hun- 
dreds of feet. For a few moments my head 
swam upon the dizzy height. Spread out be- 
fore me was a panorama of mountain, valley 
and distant plain. I stood transfixed, as with 
the glory of the Lord ; Tramp sat on his 
haunches and, looking up into my face, his 
ears pricked up, asked, "What is it, master?" 

These lines came to mind and I said them 
aloud : 

"I go to prove my soul! 

I see my path as birds their trackless way — 

I shall arrive! 
What time, what circuit first, 

I ask not! 
In some time, His good time, 

I shall arrive! 
He guides me and the bird — 

In His good time!" 

The height that we must scale towered still 
above us ! 



The day was nearing its close as we over- 
came the last obstacle. We had arrived, worn 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 11 

and tired and hot ! We saw a valley on the 
summit of what once had been a peak. A small 
lake lay there nestled among groves of pines 
and a wilderness of shrubs and of vines carry- 
ing clusters of white flowers ; rocks, small and 
great, were around its shores, and some 
reached upward in immense masses ; a brook 
broken by cascades fell into the reservoir with 
a soothing melody ; and in its midst, large 
volumes of water boiled up, radiating many 
waves that moved to the shore, carrying upon 
their crests each its torch of fire lit at the 
sunset. 



I sank upon a rock to rest and more closely 
scan the scene before me. 

Tramp plunged into the margin of the water. 
I saw a small log cabin standing on a large, 
flat, rocky surface; the door was open. Here 
we may find shelter for the night ! 

Presently, Tramp came out of the water 
and approached ; his hair had turned white ! 

"Tramp," said I, "you look like a big poodle ! 
Now go and get sore eyes and I'll give you to 
some grand lady who rides in an auto !" 

I wearily dragged myself towards the cabin. 
An old man came out of it and stood on the 
broad platform of the rock, leaning lightly 
upon his staff. A noble figure ! His head un- 
covered ; his face unwrinkled, clear and serene ; 



12 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

his eyes kindly, deep and thoughtful. He was 
transfigured in the bright light. 

The High-Priest of the pool ! Baptized with 
snowy hair — consecrated by the laying on of 
the hands of many years faithfully and truly 
lived ! What diviner commission ever held 
high-priest? 

The old man soon discovered us and beck- 
oned us to approach. Seeing how weary I was 
— seeing Tramp holding by the skirt of my 
coat and helping me on ; that my feet stumbled 
and I fainted, he came and met me, and putting 
his arm about me, helped me to his door. 



Two hours later, after we had been fed and 
had rested, we were gathered on the platform, 
watching the ever-changing surface of the pool 
and the many pictures reflected in its waters 
from the sky above and the trees and rocks 
on shore, till the full moon arose. 

Till now, the high priest had with kindly 
delicacy, refrained from asking me questions, 
occupying himself with ministering to the com- 
fort of the travelers ; and little had been said 
by me. 

''Tell me," he said, "what has brought you 
here; is it mere idle curiosity? I have lived 
here a long time and you are the first visitor 
who has come ; others have tried but have 
never succeeded in scaling this mountain." 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 13 

"I must confess," said I, ''that curiosity 
was my motive ; I did not know that the 
Indian tradition of this place was more than 
myth ; tradition does not say that anyone hves 
at the pool. Now that I have arrived, permit 
me to remain awhile. Surely, the Spirit of the 
Fountain of Old Age, must have a message ! 
I pray you let me hear it." 

"Dread of old age," he replied, '' is pre- 
valent among the young but more intensified 
among those of middle life who see the hair 
on the temples grow gray. Age has its com- 
pensations. It is the flower of a well-spent 
life. Poets have said the grave is sweet; age 
is but the ante-room of the grave — and it, I 
know, is sweet ! The hot passions of youth 
have cooled ; the restless ambition of middle 
life, with its false ideals, its sham and pre- 
tense, have gone, by inperceptible shadings, 
into calm and tranquility ; age is sincere ; age 
puts away false pretenses, affectations, and 
weighs the values of life with fairness. The 
shams of life have betrayed many ! Age has no 
room for shams. Happy is the man who has 
done life's stunt well ; who, in the evening 
of his life, may count his gains, achieved in 
honorable endeavor, and find that there is 'not 
a dirty shilling among them !' The poet has 
said : 



14 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

" 'The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
Lets in new light through chinks that time has 
made; 

Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become. 
As they draw near to their eternal home.' " 

*'In the world," I replied, "is a man who is 
giving away millions for monuments to him- 
self who says 'It is a disgrace to die rich.' " 

"He might with very much more truth have 
said, 'It is a disgrace to get rich dishonestly !' 
The element of selfishness may enter into all 
our gifts to good purposes — it is idle to gain- 
say it, — we all love to have our good deeds 
known ; but the man who builds monuments 
to his name — how idle the performance ! That 
is a weak vanity. His vanity will die with 
him." 

"America's richest man is giving away mil- 
lions to educational and other purposes. It is 
said he amassed his fortune through the ruin 
of competitors by unfair means. He is despised 
by many," said I. 

"He should be despised by all. The rising 
generation should be taught contempt for 
wealth — that is, riches for themselves alone. 
They should be taught that the greatest riches 
are a good heart and a well-stored mind. By no 
means should men despise a fair competency 
won by frugality and probity. But riches piled 
up for riches' sake as a life's business, what is a 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 15 

greater waste of manhood — what is a more 
contemptible indecency !" 

"You have heard what special privileges 
and franchises have done for America?" 

'*What a sad picture is America today ! I 
remember when America was a sincere and 
patriotic country. But its popular ideals now 
are hateful ! Commercialism, unrestrained, has 
betrayed America. There is an honesty of the 
sun, another of the moon and another of the 
stars; but commercial honesty is lower than 
any of these." 

"How do you account for this low tone of 
commercial morality?" 

"You have mentioned special privileges and 
franchises. These have been the most fruitful 
source of the corruption of America. The 
special privilege has corrupted the government. 
What an engine for the corruption of the na- 
tion is the conscienceless greed of the franchise ! 
A franchise is a public property or privilege 
transferred to the hands of private owners. In 
private hands it is used to corrupt government. 
A franchise, a governmental thing, a part of the 
common property of all, assigned to private 
parties, becomes the worst enemy of the peo- 
ple, because it corrupts the ballot ; it deals in 
bribery; men accumulate fortunes and claim 
to be respectable simply because they are rich, 
who have got their wealth by defeating honest 



16 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

government for the masses through corrupting 
the ballot and bribery ! A franchise in private 
hands means a perversion of government ; it 
is so through the greed of those who think 
that to be rich is to be respectable. Its most 
harmful power is not in the gains it takes 
directly but in its perversion of government: 
it acquires a sinister force." 

"What remedy have the people?" 

"They have the power of scorn ! They have 
the power of contempt. Men have become 
greedy and dishonest because they believed 
that to be rich is to be respectable. Create a 
new popular sentiment. Create a new popular 
ideal. Teach the rising generation a love of 
honesty ; a hatred of sham ; a contempt for 
wealth acquired otherwise than by honest en- 
deavor ! Teach them the nobility of the simple 
life ; of a good heart — of a well-stored mind ; 
teach them to hate corruption of the ballot, 
bribery, — teach them to drive from all posi- 
tions of respect, whether social or political, 
those who have got rich fraudulently — those 
who have helped to betray America! Teach 
the young to turn their backs upon the dis- 
honest rich, — to visit such with the withering 
scorn of American men and women. Drive 
them out — drive them out in nation and in 
state!" 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 17 

"I am glad to inform you," said I, "that the 
sentiments you express have already taken a 
strong hold upon eighty millions of Americans 
— that that sentiment is growing every day — 
that there is nothing to stop its onward sweep 
— and it will soon carry all before it !'' 

"Thank God for that — thank you for this 
happy assurance !" 

"Do you think, sir," I asked, "that the 
church is blameless in this demoralization of 
the American conscience?" 

"The church? To the extent that it is 
faithful to its fundamental teachings, to the 
'simple life' that Jesus of Nazareth lived and 
preached, it cannot otherwise than help in the 
great struggle for America that is now on !" 

"But," I pressed, "is the church free from 
blame? Is the church a contributary tO' the 
downfall of the old American spirit — the 'old 
American honesty?'" 

The high-priest paused. He looked away to 
the mountain side, thoughtfully ; he looked 
down and exchanged a look of sorrow with 
the dark surface of the pool ; he struck his 
stick with a slight emphasis on the rock. 

"We may trust the church with America — 
I think — I hope ! Its ideals that are truly great, 
are the ideals of America. It will not perma- 
nently depart from its ideals. The progress of 



18 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

the race will control, and that is not towards 
shams." 

''But," I urged, "before the eyes of the ris- 
ing generation, she arrays herself in pomp ; 
she has grown wealthy, too ; she has reared 
great temples, she keeps step with fashion — 
her altars and her vestments are heavy with 
rich and show things ! She blesses the rich 
in their births, in their marriages and in their 
coffins — yes, she puts on all her pomp for the 
rich — for the rich, who are not other or more 
than simply rich ! The church is insincere !" 

The high-priest looked down upon the dark 
waters again ; he did not look at the moun- 
tain side — much less at the sky ; and his eyes 
when torn awa}^ from the water's surface 
brought with them somewhat of its sorrowful 
depths. 

"Protestant?" he asked. 

"Protestant," I replied. 

"Pardon me," he continued, "I cannot be- 
lieve this ! You have mistaken the superficial 
exhibitions for the soulful depths ! I have faith 
in the soulful depths of America — I have of 
the church. The church's depths are greater 
than its dogmas — greater than its hierarchies 
— greater than it knows! To the extent that 
these deeper parts remain unstirred, in the 
church or in America, we may mistake the 
outward show for the hidden within. But the 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 19 

movement of the hearts of the people that is 
now imminent, will blaze forth and all bar- 
riers shall burn away !" 

"But, sir," I persisted, ''in a little village 
I once saw a Protestant bishop with a gilt 
crosier in his hand, clothed in vestments, sur- 
rounded by acolytes, in the service of the 
church." 

The high-priest raised his eyebrows. 

"I have seen, " I continued, "preachers 
dressed in a long coat — a cassock — " 

"A cassock?" 

"With thirty buttons down in front by actu- 
al count," put in Tramp. 

"Tramp !" I exclaimed. 

"Gee," said Tramp, "I'm glad I don't have 
to wear one ; it would take the hired girl all 
morning to button me up !" 

"Tramp !" I exclaimed, "no more of this 
levity." 

"A bright dog," said the venerable man. 

Whereupon Tramp rapped his tail three 
times on the ground, which spells "that's so !" 

"I know of a right reverend Protestant who 
celebrated holy communion in the far north, 
for the first time in that province, in full 
eucharistic vestments !" I insisted. 

I paused. The old man looked at me at- 
tentively. 



20 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

"What are they?" he asked. ''The Lord's 
supper was a simple meal." 

''I don't know," said I. 

''I cite these incidents," I continued, "trifling 
as they may seem, to present to view the drift 
towards superficial show — towards a fashion 
of ostentation — of spectacular imitation — that 
has arisen with the general demoralization of 
America. Jesus, you say, lived and taught the 
simple life !" 

"Softly, softly." 

This is all he said, seeming lost in medi- 
tation. 

I had not disturbed the beautiful poise of 
his mind ! 

"The poor woman has her beads ; they help 
her. Let her have them," he said. 

"But, the showy altars and vestments — " 
I began. 

Again I failed. 

"If they need them, let them have them," 
he added ; " 'except the Lord build the house, 
their labor is but lost that build it.' Not all 
have reached the stature of our civilization. 
We must not forget that." 

"It is a revival of priestcraft; an appeal to 
superstition !" I insisted. 

"It is an involuntary concession to the un- 
American spirit of the times ; an expression 
of weakness," he replied. "Huxley has called 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 21 

it by the harsh name of 'idolatry.' It is super- 
ficial and will be ephemeral. It is an exotic; 
it is not native to our soul !" 

The old man rose. He escorted us within 
and soon sleep claimed us all. 



On the morrow, the morning sun brought 
us a faultless day. The pool and its surround- 
ings every hour asserted a new charm. Tramp 
and I explored the region around, often stop- 
ping entranced by the grandeur or the beauty 
of the place. We rested much to fortify our- 
selves for the journey home, which we pur- 
posed undertaking on the following day. Our 
venerable host spent much of his time sitting 
before his door with a book in his hand — for 
his cabin was supplied with a few of these 
most constant friends of man. Aside from 
some incidental conversation, we were not 
much together, but I hoped, when evening 
came on, to draw farther on the fund of wis- 
dom that he had stored up. 

As we were once more seated together at 
twilight, I began. 

''Your optimistic views are reassuring. I 
wish I felt your calm." 

He smiled and read a passage from the 
book : " 'The belief is nearly universal among 
us that human life is amenable to ideas, that, 
in the government of life by noble ideas, is 



22 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

the only hope of mankind.'* ''Never," he con- 
tinued, "have noble ideas been so widely dis- 
seminated among men as in this age ; they 
have come down to us through the ages from 
all sources, Christian and pagan ; they are 
in our blood : the great conservative power 
in human minds and hearts that will, against 
all tides and ephemeral aberrations, prove the 
salvation of America." 

"Is it these," I asked, "that sustain you here 
where you have neither temple nor altar?" 

"Doubtless so. Here (and he waived his 
hand towards the surrounding scene) I need 
neither temple nor altar ! God is present every- 
where — all place is His temple. We cannot 
glorify God nor magnify Him ; He needs noth- 
ing from us. Religion requires us to build up 
within ourselves character on the model of 
noble ideas. We carry within us the Ark of 
the Covenant — the seraphim, the mercy-seat — 
the shekinah ! Tolstoy says we may say, in- 
stead of 'God,' the word Whole spelled with 
a captital 'W.' He says we are part in a har- 
mony ; that the consciousness we have in the 
relation of our being with this harmony is 
what one calls the religious spirit. That is 
religion in its widest and best sense. 'God is 
All and All is God.' The ancient anthropo- 
morphic conception of God, upon which all 

*Rev. Geo. A. Gordon, Old South Church. 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 23 

orthodox theology is founded, and which held 
universal sway in Christiandom until recent 
times, has now well nigh gone out." 

"What has been," I asked, "the greatest 
cause of the enlightment of the modern mind ; 
the greatest factor in human advancement?" 

"I have stated it ; the old conception of 
God has gone out. The wider our knowledge, 
the deeper our thinking, the better conception 
of God we have." 

"What 'signs of the times' now inspire most 
hope for Christendom?" 

"There are two that impress me. There is 
a great and growing demand in the conscience 
of the time for war to cease as unnecessary; 
faith is abroad that nations may settle their 
differences without resort to this barbarous 
method." 

"And the other?" 

"I have thought of it much. To my mind 
it is an advancement in human thinking and 
in human culture that shows a vast difference 
between this and all preceding ages. The curse 
has gone out !" 

"The curse has gone out !" I exclaimed. 

"In ancient times, the curse, the anathema, 
was the most frequently used of blood-curdling 
weapons in the armory of superstition. All 
through the times of Bible-history this was so ; 
the Bible begins and ends with a curse. And, 



2 4 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

tintil recent ages, the curse was employed 
constantly." 

''And you say it has gone out?" 

"I so read our civilization. Recently — in 
Russia — the czar learned that Tolstoy had 
been cursed from a thousand pulpits ; the 
thought of it staggers Christendom ! The czar, 
the head of the state and church, said in anger, 
'they should have prayed for him !' That 
surely is better ! I learn that, among the strict 
orthodox Jews of Russia, the anathema has 
become obsolete. You will remember the 
dreadful curse that the Jews launched against 
vSpinoza? The world has ceased to fear these 
idle pronouncements and will no longer sub- 
mit to the degradation they imply. Such is 
the development of the laity — such the force of 
its opinion, — that the curse has been relegated 
to history. 

"Take America. There is not a man in the 
whole country who could bring himself to 
deliberately curse another. Imagine Emerson 
deliberately cursing a man ! There is so much 
Emerson in the hearts and minds of the peo- 
ple that they are all, to that extent, like him. 
May the likeness grow !" 

"But, sir, is not the curse or anathema still 
an instrument of some churches?" 

"Singular indeed, and gratifying indeed, it 
is that it has been driven by the civilization 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 25 

of the age into those places, and, equally so, 
that it will never reappear from them ; it ex- 
ists only nominally in them." 

"Do you mean that they would not dare to 
use it?" 

"I do." 

"The last refuge of the curse, the house of. 
God!" I exclaimed. 

After a pause he added : 

"Such is the change that they have no de- 
sire to use it. It is a relic of barbarism. The 
curse has gone out !" 

"But," I urged, "did not Jesus curse a tree 
— a barren fig-tree — and that it died?" 

"Canon Henson renders the account that it 
was once a parable that Jesus cursed a tree." 

"But if He did?" 

"May God forgive Him." 

"Is it your thought that so great an engine 
as public opinion — public scorn, — that has 
doomed the curse, will also' doom the corrup- 
tion of the ballot ; will render hateful the man 
who has acquired riches dishonestly, or by op- 
pressing the people ; will drive faithless serv- 
ants from the public service ; will make honesty 
popular; will rehabilitate America?" 

"Surely. Public opinion is all-powerful. It 
is slow to set. Its judgments are righteous ; 
the gates of hell shall not prevail against them." 



26 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

'Tardon me ! I am dazed ! The curse — 
the curse of all historical ages! — it has gone 
out!" 

"It has. No church would dare to publish 
in the public prints the text of its curses." 



A silence fell upon us. The brook into the 
cataract, and the cataract into the pool, and 
the waters of the pool overflowing down the 
mountain-side — all in harmony and rythm 
which well-nigh rose to song ! But I heeded 
it not. The full-moon's light flooded the ir- 
regular line of the hollow mountain cone, and, 
here and there, dropped off the headland points 
upon the water, landing in a star-like splash, 
and elsewhere, climbing along a branch or 
twig, or jumping from a vine, fell into the 
mystical depths of the Fountain of Old Age. 

Not deeper or darker was the pool, nor 
richer in points of light, than the eyes of its 
high-priest, who, disdaining priesthood, and all 
that it implied, was simply an aged and 
thoughtful and hopeful and kindly man. 

For a space, but for the ripples of the pool 
breaking on the shore, a silence, as the peace 
of sanctuary, held us dumb. 

The old man straightened up ; he stood in 
impressive majesty — "in kind austereness 
clad ;" he cast his dark eyes around the tower- 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 27 

ing peaks ; as one inspired — as a voice crying 
in the wilderness — he spoke : 

"These mountains do not say, 'Thou art ac- 
cursed !' They say, 'Blessed — blessed!' They 
do not say, 'In sin did thy mother conceive 
thee,' but they say, 'Holy, holy, Lord God 
Almighty !' They do not say, 'Every sin de- 
serveth the wrath and curse of God, both in 
this world and in that which is to come.' They 
do not say, 'Without the shedding of blood 
there shall be no remission of sins.' They do 
not say, 'There is only one name under heaven 
whereby men may be saved.' They do not 
say, 'Depart from me into the place of eternal 
torment.' They do not say, 'Thou art guilty 
of sin vicariously committed and can be saved 
only by suffering vicariously endured.' They 
do not say, 'Hell is paved with infants' skulls.' 
They do not say, 'The witch shall be burned.' 
They do not say, 'Believe !' 

"They say, 'Love!' They say, 'Sin binds all 
in the bonds of a common brotherhood — a com- 
mon suffering — a common love. Sin is healed 
as grows the bark on a wounded tree.' They 
say, 'As by no man's disobedience was any 
other made a sinner, so by the obedience of 
one shall no other be made righteous !' They 
say, 'There is no name under heaven by which 
man may be lost!' They say, 'Suffer little 
children ; of such is the commonwealth !' 



28 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

"Neither do they bring us gifts of gold, 
frankincense and myrrh ! Their gift is the 
peace that passeth understanding — the Hberty 
wherewith men shall be free !" 



In silence we turned away. In silence ! In 
silence ! In silence we turned away ! My heart 
was full. "O, Thou God's mariner, heart of 
mine !" 

At the cabin door we stopped to bid good- 
night to the world without. 

"What," said I, laying my hand on his arm, 
"are the sweetest and best thoughts of your 
Hfe?" 

He paused a long time, and, in its midst, 
he seemed the incarnation of the time and 
place ! 

"Three pagans have expressed them," he 
said. "One said, 'it is better to be than to seem. 
To live honestly and deal justly is the meat 
of the whole matter.' Another (who was a 
slave) said, 'he enjoys wealth most who needs 
it least. If thou wilt make a man happy, add 
not unto his riches, but take away from his 
desires.' Another (who was not!) said, 'the 
man of wisdom does not blame anybody for 
anything. His life will be one long pardon ; 
one inexhaustible pity; one infinite love and 
therefore one infinite strength.' " 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 29 

I pressed him farther. 

"When the minister asks me, in the hour 
of death, 'Have you made your peace with 
God?' what shall I say?" 

"A godly man will not ask you that when 
you are sick and weak and dying." 

"But if he does?" 

"What Thoreau said ! — what every man 
may say, whoever and whatever he is ; the 
sublimest answer of all time ! Namely, 'I never 
quarreled with Him!' God never quarrels; 
God loves — God is Love !" 



The morning with its splendors again came. 
Blinded by the light to my physical eyes — 
blinded by the light that had broken upon my 
spiritual sight, we, Tramp and I, stood upon 
the crater's edge. It remained for us to say 
good-bye to the Fountain of Old Age and to 
the spirit of the place who was a man, wise 
and old. He stood near us in simple garb. 
There was a trouble in his eyes, which, in 
mine, was tears. He gave me his hand, which 
was warm and strong. Throwing ofif, with a 
slow shake of the head, emotions, the first 
shown but now too evident to be concealed, 
he said : 

"In parting, I give you these words : 'Love 
of God' — Xove of country.' I must remain. 



30 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

My age binds me. It is in your power to 
speak a word." 

Tramp raised up and placed his paws upon 
the sage's breast and wagged his tail and 
looked eloquently from his eyes ; and the old 
man placed his hand upon his head. 



We wended our way downward — Tramp 
and I. 



Pausing to rest upon a rock hundreds of 
feet below, beside the brook which brought 
us, in ever freshening accents, the song that 
the waters of the Fountain of Old Age sang 
through all time, I brought out the poem which 
was the largess the old man left in my hand; 
its sentiment reaches down into the sweetest 
corners of the human heart ; and it is good 
that the human heart has corners that the 
plummet of a little poem like this may reach : 

Ragged, uncomely, and old and gray, 
A woman walked in a northern town. 

And through the crowd as she wound her way 
One saw her loiter and then stoop down. 
Putting something away in her old torn gown. 

"You are hiding a jewel !" the watcher said, 

(Ah! that was her heart — had the truth been read!) 

"What have you stolen?" he asked again. 

Then the dim eyes filled with a sudden pain. 

And under the flickering light of the gas 

She showed him her gleaning. "It's broken glass," 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 31 

She said: "I hae lifted it up frae the street 
To be oot o' the road o' the bairnies' feet!" 

Under the fluttering rags astir 

That was a royal heart that beat! 
Would that the world had more like her 

Smoothing the road for its bairnies' feet!* 



In due time, we reached the Ute Pass road. 
I was well weary ! Tramp, dragged and droop- 
ing, came and took my hand in his mouth and 
we journeyed on. 

We journeyed on ! The long, lon-g road ! 

As we journeyed on, exhaustion told upon 
me and my mind wandered. Now here, now 
there, now over the hills and far away ! As we 
came near the village in sight of the camp, 
^'Nearly All In," we saw the little white tent 
and the old white horse ; a picture expanded 
itself before my vision and rapt me in ecstacy. 
It was of a woman, worn and torn, leading a 
blind man, old and feeble, who held the halter 
of a decrepit horse, lame before, lame behind, 
down to the stream for it to drink ! 

Tramp, seeing me gazing on that which 
was not, looked up into my face, and said : 

"What is it, master?" 

As one unconscious, my mind captivated by 
what I saw — and saw not ! — I said : 

"Woman, thy name is Fidelity ! Whether 
you ever knew shrine or sacrament, or spoke 

*By Will H. Ogilvie. 



32 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

marriage vow, or whether your sins are as scar- 
let, I know not ! I ask not ! All is forgiven ! Man 
that is born of woman ! Man that is born of 
woman ! Man — that — is — born — of — ^woman — " 
I raised my arms on high and fell upon my 
face, prostrate in the dust! (1905) 




y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 



TRAMP. 

A YEAR has elapsed. Another summer 
has come to call me to these beautiful 
mountains. My first thought was, "1 
must find Tramp." The winter has come and 
gone. Who has fed him? Who has warmed 
him? Who has patted him on the head and 
told him kind words? I walked the streets; 
I looked at every dog. I called here and there, 
''Tramp !" In vain. I asked every dog I met, 
'W/here is Tramp?" I well-nigh despaired. He 
is dead. His faithful spirit is with us no more ! 
In the night I have been awakened by 
noises in the back yard, under my window. 
"Perhaps it is Tramp ; I will get up and see." 
Looking out of the window in the dim light 
I see a dog Vv^ith his forefeet upon the rim of 
a garbage can, reaching down into the depths 
to find a morsel to eat. Is it Tramp? Of the 
many homeless, friendless dogs, that range 
the village to find something to eat, which 
one is this? Is it Tramp? 

One day, after I had given up the search, 
as I passed the mouth of an obscure alley, I 
heard a little, feeble yelp. I turned aside as 
I were shot. "Here he is !" I shouted, forget- 
ful of all the proprieties. I went a few steps 



34 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

into the alley and a dog bounded into the air — 
I felt his tongue on my cheek, — and sank back 
in a heap. The tail wagged, and many a cry 
welcomed me. He licked my feet, — the legs 
of my trousers, — as he lay prone and helpless. 
''Tramp," I cried, "what is the matter?" And 
still he licked my feet, lying prone and help- 
less. I stooped and laid my hand upon him. 
''Starved !" I cried. I counted his ribs — I was 
excited and fear I was not accurate — I counted 
ninety-two and stopped ! 

Stepping back, I said, "Come to me. Tramp !" 
With much struggle he got on his feet, his 
feet and legs crippled with rheumatism, result 
of much exposure and lack of nourishment, 
and crawled towards me, his forefeet dragging 
his hind legs upon the ground, — and licked my 
feet ! 

I shed no tear. "Women must weep" — 
men may not, so it is said. I shed no tear, 
but in the struggle to suppress it, all the mus- 
cles of my face drew themselves together. Had 
I met my mother-in-law thus on the Prado, she 
would not have known me. But I shed no tear ! 

"What shall I do?" I said. Stooping, I gath- 
ered Tramp in my arms, the while he licked 
my face. I carried him past the multitude, 
up the stairs, to my room and laid him on the 
foot of my bed. I fed him. I bandaged his legs. 
I shed no tear, but the muscles of my face 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 35 

were so drawn together that had my mother- 
in-law met me on the Prado she had not 
known me. I shed no tear ! I said I laid Tramp 
on the foot of my bed, but whereso'er he lay 
on my bed, that was the head of the bed ! 

W hen I am admitted to that equal sky, may 
faithful Tramp bear me company ! 



In a few days Tramp was well and strong. 
We went for a walk up Williams canyon, be- 
yond the Temple drive, beyond the gulch, the 
falls, the spring, to within the shadow of the 
rocky bastions, where the tiny stream breaks 
tne solitude of the pines, Tramp often carrying 
my hand in his mouth. 

"Ah, me! from this small, dumb, obedient brute 

One lesson's plain, 
He gives me all he has — his changeless love, 

My own to gain! 
His tongue can't tell a lie, nor can his heart 

Deceitful be — 
That's why our friendship close and closer binds 

My dog and me!" 



^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 



KARL. 

NOTE. — Courbet, the painter, when in exile 
among the mountains near Chillon, painted moun- 
tains exclusively, and said, when asked to paint in 
human figures, "I cannot insert a figure in the pres- 
ence of these grand mountains. It would belittle 
them." Autobiography of Moncure D. Conway. 

With me, I cannot think of mountains that do 
not express a presence, a life, a spirit! They are 
barren indeed if their real, true, ultimate "increase" 
is not a human being — even Karl! 



MOUNTAINS! One mile, two miles, 
three miles, above the level of the sea ! 
Where are these mountains? I do 
not know. They are not the Caucasus, they are 
not the Andes, they are not the Apennines, the 
A'lps, the Rockies, the Alleghanies, they are 
not the rolls of western prairies. If God made 
them, it was not in the Beginning! I made 
them, in my mind, and so, if God made them, 
He made them through me. I can make moun- 
tains — I can move mountains, — in my mind — 
in my mind ! 

No matter where these mountains are ! 

There were snow-caps among some ; there 
were pines among others, there were shrubs 
and flowers among others. Somewhere within 
the commonwealth of these mountains, the 
bravest of the bare peaks, the coldest of the 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 37 

snow-clad, and foothills with their beds of 
violets, was born Karl ! 

He was the first who came among the moun- 
tains to occupy the cradle of a peasant home. 
No one, save they, and God, occupied these 
mountains. It was to tell the lessons of these 
mountains, with their snows and their pines 
and their flowers and their God, that Karl 
became incarnate. 

As the nugget is found in the pocket of 
the mountain ; as the diamond is hid in the 
depths ; as (better than all) Liberty is their 
product, so Karl one day came there. He was 
born ; he had a father and a mother, and they 
were peasants, only one remove above the 
soil on which they fed their sheep and their 
goats, which gave them wool and milk to sus- 
tain them. God and their sheep and their goats 
and their child were all — the world — to them ! 

And Karl, vv^ho came (from vv^here?) was 
the miracle of the whole family, namely, God 
and the mountains, the snows, the pines, the 
flowers, the peasants, the sheep and goats ! 
And Karl has a message for us ; i-faith, what 
does he say? For we are not as they who^ 
having ears, hear not, and eyes, perceive not. 

Upon a great mountain there is displayed a 
cross. Yes! 

Upon many great mountains there is borne 
white snows with millions of crystals sparkling 



38 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

in the sun, each carrying one of many designs 
that spell the word of God, inerrant beyond 
any possible other. Yes ! 

Upon others, pines, dark and green, whose 
leaves are the very literature of the goodness 
and loveliness of the Creator. Yes ! 

Upon others, the flowing sap, extended in 
foliage, and in flowers, and in perfumes, intoxi- 
cating to him who was created in the image 
of God, which is to say, in the image of foliage, 
of flowers, of perfumes. Yes! 

Among such mountains, expression of all, 
and of the burden they bear, came, as the 
crystal to the rock, the nugget to the moun- 
tain pocket, the needle to the pine, the flower 
and the perfume — God knows how ! — to the 
stunted plant on the stony hill, — and to the 
sweet violet whose roots are buried in moss on 
the brink of a song that is called a mountain 
stream, — came, born of human things, called 
peasants (and what are they?), — this product 
— this result — this outcome — this culmination 
— this phenomenon, — Yes ! Karl ! Karl, his 
father called him. We will call him Karl 
Koohinoor, crown jewel and diadem of the 
mountain ranges, delectable and vast, they 
which tell the truth without variableness or 
shadow of turning. 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 3 9 

And what is this along the western heaven ? 
What is that that breaks the sky-Hne? 

The great mountain on which is borne the 
cross? 

Great mountains capped with unmelting 
snows? 

Those on which grow pines, dark and green? 

Those which carry through their million 
conduits the sap that extends itself in foliage, 
in flowers, in perfume, and makes drunk him 
who drinks at these sweet fountains? 

No. There pushes up, above all these, a 
peak whose resplendence, whose massive bas- 
tions, whose everlasting ribs, whose top, min- 
gle with the sky ; on whose root rests a bank 
of violets which to all the world remains un- 
seen save as a brook of mountain water, — 
here found and here also lost ! — sees them, and 
carries the purple of their splendor in its crys- 
tal carriages down to them that dwell in the 
distant plain. A lone peak ! A new-born peak, 
risen above all the rest into the sky-line, prod- 
uct of a power we may surmise but cannot 
know. And the peak's name is Truth ! 

Why should not this mountain rise above 
the other mountains to pierce the sky-line? 
Spectral mountain of spiritual grandeur ! God 
made all — some at one time, the latest and 
best at the latest and best time ! Truth brought 
home, revealed, to humankind, is the Victory 



40 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

of all the centuries ! Their product, the sum 
of their experiences, — joys and sorrows — their 
worth, their valuation. Conception of modern- 
ity — fruition of the race ! 

To a peak, far below, on which stands an- 
other product of those regions which we may 
surmise but cannot know — offspring of peasants 
who tend their flocks of sheep and goats, — it 
says the word : 

"This is my beloved Son in whom I am 
well pleased." 

Karl stood on that peak, far below ! 

He says : ''Mountains tell the truth. They 
alone speak the inerrant v/ord of God, save 
the plains and the valleys — the meadows and 
the brooks, — which also speak the inerrant 
word of God. 

''Save also, wherever nature plants a tree, 
a flower, a growth of moss, a lichen on a rock, 
or inspires a brook to sing, which also, each 
and every and altogether speak the inerrant 
word of God, — and they, together with such 
as they, only, speak that same truthful tongue. 
Scriptures ! Unsearchable riches !" 

He says, interpreting the tree renewing its 
life in the spring, the grass and the flower 
awakening from the sleep of winter, and the 
song of birds long hushed till now : 

"I am the resurrection and the life ; he that 
liveth in me, though he were dead, yet shall 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 41 

he live ; and whosoever Hveth, liveth in me, 
and shall never die." 

He says, "There is one soul — the Over-Soul ; 
there is one life — the Over-Life ; thence we 
came — thither we go. 'The wise silence. The 
Eternal One !' " 

He says : 

"'The soul. 

Forever and forever — longer than soil is 
brown and solid — longer than water ebbs and 
flows.' 

"Longer than these mountains, — the Over- 
Soul — the Over-Life — Everlasting ! Eternal !" 



"All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is and God the soul." — 
Pope. 



"If only we knew how to look around us 
we should not need to look above." — Margaret 
Fuller. 



"My theism is not indeed of the Paine type, 
— I had passed from all dynamic theism to the 
theism evolved from pantheism by the poets." 
— Moncure D. Conway. 



"The true doctrine of omnipotence is that 
God reappears with all his parts in every moss 
and cobweb." — Emerson. 



y^ V- y^ y^ y^ y^ 



CATHEDRAL BELLS. 

I HEAR the chime of the Cathedral bells. 
It says, ''I need Thee, I need Thee, Oh, 
I need Thee, Every hour, I need Thee !" 
It carries me a-field — to a meadow, a ten-acre 
lot, with a fence around it, invention of the 
Evil One! 

In this meadow is growing grass, and not 
much else ; perhaps a butter-cup or two ; per- 
haps a bee or two ; perhaps a bird's-nest or 
two; and just one lark with its liquid note! 
The Cathedral of the ten-acre lot ! 

Cathedral bells tell me of a God who has 
a right hand ; who sits on a throne ; who is a 
judge; who judges the quick and the dead; 
who spends a whole day in judgment! Within 
whose jurisdiction is a heaven of eternal felicity 
and a hell of eternal torment. 

Cathedral bells, you lie ! 

This meadow, with its sap and growing 
grass, with its butter-cup or two; with its 
bee or two; with its bird's-nest or two; and 
just a lark, with its liquid note, — tells me, 
'T need Thee, I need Thee, Oh, I need Thee, 
Every hour, I need Thee," who has no right 
hand or left, who is throneless, who judges 
not either quick or dead, who is Harmony, 



% 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 



43 



whose turf in the field is song and knows no 
other law, who make good and evil one, the 
righteous and the sinful one, lovers and sweet- 
hearts they ! the law of growth and decay, the 
law of health and sickness, the law of curse 
and blessing, all blended in love, that love 
which we call the love of God ! 







^ y^ v^ y^ y^ y^ 



A NEW CRUCIFIX. 

A LOAD of straw in the market place ! 
How beautiful it is ! Take a single 
stalk, pass its sheeny length through 
your fingers, search it for a flaw in its work- 
manship ; you find none, for there is none ! 
It will be strange if it is not almost a look of 
pain that mingles with the puzzled and help- 
less expression of your face as you try to un- 
derstand the amazing height and depth of this 
stalk of straw. Weary of burning and blind- 
ing pavements your mind goes out to the field 
whence it came, where, in the silence and soli- 
tude God wrought this miracle. Five, or ten 
or fifteen miles away, northwardly, among the 
mountains of Omaha, in the Switzerland of 
of Omaha, which separates the Missouri from 
the prairies of the west, and where they inter- 
lace, is a farmstead. By looking at that load 
of straw you may see it. It is inwrought there 
as no picture was ever woven in tapestry. 
Steeps and hillsides, forest and open, fields of 
grass, fields of yellowing corn, fields of stub- 
ble. A small farm house, a barn, yards and 
pens for pigs and chickens, and horses and 
cows. A woman wearing wooden shoes, a little 
girl, and, over all, the autumn reclinins: and 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 45 

sleeping among the ripening harvests. The 
corn fields of row on row ; potato fields of 
row on row; solid patches of stubble. How 
many times along each row and over each field 
have Hans and his horses toiled from daylight 
till dark ! 

From the ridge of the divide spreads out a 
view, grand, bewildering, beautiful, compre- 
hending river and valley and forests, and open 
spaces and sky and clouds, lights and shadows, 
unsurpassed and unsurpassable. Two eyes 
seem not enough. There is no palace, there is 
no castle, there is no king, no feudal lord ; but 
appurtenant to every hilltop for many miles, 
to every acre of land, are greater riches for all 
the senses of man than human art ever created 
for prince or potentate, free to every man, 
woman and child, to every ox and ass, to every 
ear of corn, to every potato in the hill ; and 
toward it all reaches out the wild plum bush 
with its annual bud, blossom and fruit, and, as 
well, the tendril of the wild grape vine ! Beau- 
tiful are the mountains, beautiful are the for- 
ests, beautiful are jungle and chapparel ! 

Hans brought the load of straw to market. 
He left home at daylight. For hours he and his 
team, composed of a very old horse and a 
young one, stopped in the market place. By 
the middle of the afternoon the load was sold 
and delivered, but their fast, the fast of man 



46 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

and horse, remained unbroken. Hans went to 
break his fast, into a saloon ; his horses stood 
at the curb and waited. 



Long hours passed away and the horses 
waited, unfed, unwatered, suffering. Upon the 
body of the old horse was written his autobio- 
graphy. Bone and sinew, sinew and bone ; 
knotted muscles ; the lean neck ; strong ribs 
nearly breaking the skin ; high hip bones ; 
hollows around them ; hollows over tired eyes, 
watery pathways worn by the tears down one 
scalded cheek ; you might see where the tears 
dropped off and made poor, little wet places 
on the pavement. The miles he had pulled the 
plow, the harrow, the cultivator, the load to 
town, hauling his drunken owner home in the 
small hours in the night — were all written in 
his visible personality. And what is that in- 
visible personality? We do not know. He can- 
not talk. We look into his eyes and there we 
see the pain and stress of hunger, of thirst, of 
patience sublime, of forbearance unfathomable, 
of a life of useful service, a life void of evil, a 
life that never saw the resplendent glory that 
is appurtenant to all those hilltops, to all those 
acres he has tilled, to the corn, the potatoes, 
the wheat and oats that he has sowed and cul- 
tivated and reaped and marketed. We may see 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 47 

in them the bare ground on which he has laid 
his bones at night, too tired to eat, too tired 
to drink, and where at dawn he woke to put 
on the harness to pull the load that moved till 
night came again. On his hide we may see 
the marks and welts of the lash ; sticky with 
sweat, uncleaned, unrefreshed, his hairy fet- 
locks, his broken hoofs, his battered head. In 
subduing the earth his work was great, his 
wages small. By his stripes we are fed ! 



Long hours passed away and the horses 
waited, unfed, unwatered, suffering. I saw 
the farmstead in the load of straw ; I read 
the horse. I put myself in his shoes. Horse 
shoes ! Walt Whitman expressed it, ''I am that 
horse." We must go to Walt Whitman to 
find the ultima thule of the golden rule. At a 
late hour, Hans mounted the wagon as best 
he could and the long journey home was be- 
gun. The old horse plodded along. He lifted 
one foot and put it down, he lifted another foot 
and put it down, and so made his weary way. 
The younger horse restlessly pulled and 
plunged, rendered desperate by the extremity 
of his hunger and thirst. For some miles Hans 
rode on in passive somnolence, but as he 
passed the old fort, he aroused himself and 
whipped and swore at the old horse because 



48 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

it could not keep pace with its spirited mate, 
and blood was drawn upon its flanks. It bowed 
beneath its cross and staggered on. The lash- 
ing grew less and less and finally ceased be- 
cause Hans had again been overcome as the 
result of draughts from his bottle and slept. 
The reins relaxed, his hand dropped ; he 
leaned sideways, this way and that, and then 
slipped ofif his seat and fell against the heels 
of the old horse. The old horse stopped ; he 
brought his mate to a stop ; he placed his body 
over against the restless younger horse and 
kept him from tramping on the prostrate man 
who lay in drunken insensibility, and the blood 
dripped from his wounds upon his master's 
head. It would seem as though a beneficent 
providence had brought him opportunity, a 
long delayed one, to pay the accumulated debt 
of long years of abuse and suffering. 

But hours passed and the old horse moved 
not, save to keep his mate quiet and to recover 
his own equilibrium when almost overborne 
by weakness and weariness, hunger and thirst, 
he wavered and tottered to his fall. He kept 
watch and ward. 



We read: "Blessed are the poor in spirit;" 
"Blessed are they that mourn;" "Blessed are 
the merciful ;" "Resist not evil, but whosoever 



\ FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 49 

shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to 
him the other also." "Love your enemies;" 
"Bless them that hate you;" "Do good to them 
that hate you and pray for those that despite- 
fully use you and persecute you." There is 
the first commandment, pre-eminently first, 
and there is the second which is like unto^ it, 
pre-eminently like unto it ! The greatest of 
all parables propounds the question, "Who is 
my neighbor?" The sweetest answer that God 
hath yet vouchsafed in human speech is, "He 
that pitieth him." 



Who taught this horse these things? They 
have been hidden from the wise and prudent 
and revealed unto babes. Denied speech to 
voice his woes ; denied the power to weep ; 
denied the temptations of the wilderness ; have 
these things been revealed also unto this old 
horse? 



We make our crucifix of a cross with a man 
nailed thereon. It stands for those that have 
been crucified — man and woman. In these 
later days, there has been evolved another 
sentiment, kindness to animals; let there be 
a cross to stand for all that have suffered, in- 
cluding the beast of the field. If forsooth, a 
new one is not needed, let us amend the old 
one ! At least give it a larger reading. Such 



50 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

a symbol should stand for the whole capacity 
of suffering, however widely it may be dis- 
tributed. Human nature has been expanded 
to the power to say yes to that. This is a fact 
accomplished. Let it be acknowledged. 



Some pictures remain to complete this story. 
First, as to Hans. I wish I might picture him, 
as in this age and country he might be, as we 
may well expect his descendants will be, rising 
on his farmstead in the morning, putting on 
his vestment, to-wit, his overalls, and with 
his hoe over his shoulder, going out to his 
potato patch to glorify God, a very priest ! 
But he is the product of those hard conditions 
that the centuries have crystalized in older 
lands. He is the European "man with the 
hoe;" he belongs to that age when kindness 
to the dumb brute had not been taught in 
Christendom ! That sentiment has come to us, 
we know not how and from where, we know 
not, but surely "in God's good time." So all 
lofty sentiments have come to the race. We 
have had the golden rule these many centu- 
ries. It was old before Jesus was born. But 
a new rule has come in. Whether it be one of 
"original impression," or only an extension of 
the old, is of small moment, calling only for 
words and names which are empty things. 
It is a like question to that of the old crucifix. 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 51 

The new rule is, ''Put yourself in his place." 
Again is asked the question, ''Who is my 
neighbor?" If so be the horse, the ox, the 
ass is not my brother ; he is my neighbor. 
We that pity him, he that pitieth us — we are 
neighbors. 



Another picture — The little girl on the farm- 
stead. "What had God wrought!" She is a 
June morning. Born here, born in America. 
Perhaps she never heard the name God, but 
she sees Him daily, and all the time, in the 
bending trees, in the grass, the growing fields, 
in wild vine and flower. Go you where her 
life has been spent, deep among the moun- 
tains of Omaha. Here He has built his bunga- 
low. His church. The round of the seasons 
have each brought their lesson. All proclaim 
God and unto Him do cry : 

"Raise the stone and thou shalt find me. 
Cleave the wood and there am I." All insis- 
tently tell of His loving kindness in the morn- 
ing and of his truth in the night season. None 
of them speak of hell, or punishment, or fear. 
A little girl, product of the mountains of 
Omaha, happy and unafraid ! 



A breaking morning — the touch of another 
day is upon the earth. -It is revelation ! The 



52 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

scene is the barnyard in the mountains of 
Omaha. There is the little girl who is a June 
morning, an incarnation of the time and place. 
Whence she came or whither she goeth we 
know not. 

An old horse has arrived, how, heaven 
knows. His burden he dropped when home 
was reached. A water bucket has been drained. 
A little girl lays her hand upon his face. He 
bows his head. She strokes his nose. She had 
compassion on him ! Greater his deed than 
that of the good Samaritan. The old horse 
stretches himself on the ground, his legs 
straight out; his ribs stand up, his head lies 
flat. A noise issues from his depths, humanly 
speaking, a groan. Too tired to stand. 

A little girl gathers an armful of new-mown 
hay and lays it down by his head. He nibbles 
and eats. 




y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ v^ 



THE RESCUE HOME. 

THE 'melancholy days' are here; I will 
go down to the woods lying eastward 
' of B — Street and view the beautiful 

panorama of the Missouri Valley as it is there 
expanded to view." Thus I said. "I have not 
been there this year." 

I got off the car at Tenth and B — ; so did 
a middle-aged couple that I had noticed board- 
ing the car at the railroad station. 

I walked eastward on B — Street. Near the 
end of the street, I heard a man behind me 
enquire of a house-wife, in her door-yard, 
''Where is number , B — Street?" 

I looked back and saw the middle-aged 
couple who had boarded the car at the rail- 
road station. 

''Over there," said the woman ; "Rescue 
Home." 

"R-e-s-c-u-e H-o-m-e !" exclaimed the man. 

As they crossed the street I saw the woman 
holding his arm, droop and droop and bow 
down, insomuch that when she reached the 
door of the Rescue Home, she was nearly 
double and her face was near the ground. So 
have I seen a mother going up the church 



54 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

aisle following the bier of her only son, her 
black draperies dragging the floor. 



A western farmstead. A happy home. Cows 
and horses and chickens. Door-yard with 
flowers, barn-yard with stacks of hay, fields 
and stacks of grain. 

A message comes, "Your daughter is very 

ill at number B — Street, Omaha. Come 

to her." 

Their daughter, who had grown up in the 
innocency of that farmstead, tempted to the 
city from its quiet and hum-drum life, — she 

was very ill at number B — Street, Omaha ! 

Father and mother hurried thitherward. 

This much I heard. This much I saw. 

I passed out of the street into the fields and 
woods beyond. The dead leaves rustled under 
my feet. They were marked with red. Is it 
blood? 

I went on along the path. The leaves rustled 
under my feet. They were marked with red. 
Is it blood? Is it blood! 

On I went to the final hill-top. The pano- 
rama of the valley stretched out before me. 
But it was null and void. Blind was I to the 
splendors of the scene. Deaf was I to the song 
of birds. 

Behind me lay a trail of red, dead leaves, 
over which I had trod. Is it blood? Is it 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 55 

iblood ! My heart had bled so — enough to stain 
all the leaves I had trod on. 

The fields, the woods, the river valley — 
all were void. Is it blood? Is it blood! My 
[heart bled so ! 



This picture haunted me : A western farm- 
■stead. A happy home. Cows and horses and 
chickens. Door-yard with flowers ; barn-yard 
'with stacks of hay; fields and stacks of grain. 
A message comes, "Your daughter is very ill 

at number B — Street, Omaha. Come 

to her." 

Their daughter, who had grown up in" the 
innocency of that farmstead, tempted to the 
city from its quiet and hum-drum life, — she 

was very ill at number B — Street, 

Omaha ! 

i "Where is number B — Street?" 

"Over there," said the woman, "Rescue 
Home." 

"R-e-s-c-u-e H-o-m-e !" exclaimed the man. 

As they crossed the street the woman, hold- 
ing his arm, drooped and drooped and bowed 
down, insomuch that when she reached the 
door of the Rescue Home, she was nearly dou- 
ble and her face was near the ground. 



56 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 



So have I seen a mother going up the church 
aisle following the bier of her only son, her 
black draperies dragging the floor. 



And the leaves that littered the pathway 
behind me were red. Was it blood? Was it 
blood ! My heart bled so ! 




y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 

A MOTHER'S PRAYER. 



Inscribed to Professional Revivalists. 

NOTE. — When I was a boy, my pious mother told 
me that her sister, who had died before I was born, 
was driven nearly crazy by the minister who told her, 
after the death of her unbaptized baby, that hell was 
paved with infants' skulls and that there were skele- 
tons in hell not a span long. My mother spoke as 
though she thought the minister had slandered God. 
She was strictly religious, but I think she believed 
that those who preached a literal hell of fire and 
eternal punishment, slandered God. So, doubtless, 
the mother's heart of the dying Indian squaw; when 
asked by the priest if she did not want to go to 
heaven? She said she did not want to go to heaven, 
she wanted to go to hell, because he told her her 
children were there! 

What more pitiful — or sweeter! — picture, than 
that of the missionary priest who slipped into an 
Indian tepee and clandestinely baptized a dying 
papoose! 

The tale comes to me from an Eastern town of 
a mother lying in her hour of confinement. The 
question has arisen — which life shall be sacrificed by 
the physician — that of the mother or that of the 
unborn child. The physician would save the mother. 
The father is silent. The priest sits there to pro- 
nounce the sentence of the Church. He decrees the 
death of the mother — the unborn child has not been 
baptized! 

Says the mother to the priest: "Father, spare 
my life! Let me live for my children!" 

There were four small children. The Church in- 
terposed between husband and wife — between the 
mother and her helpless children! 

Can it be that God has commanded arbitrarily 
that this, in itself, meaningless rite, shall stand be- 
tween man and his Maker! Man and his "salvation!" 
Hail, modernity! 



58 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

LONG years ago she lived in a New Eng- 
land village, or, rather, just outside the 
village where the road divides, leaving 
a corner for her home. Many years had visited 
her, leaving their cards on her head. Her hus- 
band had been dead forty years, and so the 
babe that for an hour had nursed at her breast, j 
Religion was her consolation, — to her, husband i 
and babe, ever since they died. She often ne- j 
glected her household work to engage in i 
prayer. You might see her tea-table standing j 
uncleared, the dishes unwashed, and the widow j 
upon her knees in the corner of the room. The I 
burden of her prayer was for the babies of the | 
world — the unbaptized babies who were dead. | 
Her own babe died before the minister ar- j 
rived to administer the rite of baptism and he 
had told her — oh ! I cannot tell you what he j 
told her ! — of what it meant for a babe to die | 
unbaptized. Upon this ever dwelt her mind till | 
she was well nigh crazed. | 

She prayed God to vouchsafe His mercy to | 
the millions and hundreds of millions of un- i 
baptized babies that had died in Africa since • 
Jesus came to succor and to save. 

She prayed God to vouchsafe His mercy to 
the millions and hundreds of millions of un- 
baptized babies that had died in India since 
Jesus came to succor and to save. 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 59 

She prayed God to vouchsafe His mercy to 
the milHons and hundreds of millions of un- 
baptized babies that had died in China since 
Jesus came to succor and to save. 

She prayed God to vouchsafe His mercy to 
the millions and hundreds of millions of un- 
baptized babies that had died in Christendom 
land the islands of the seas, since Jesus came to 
.succor and to save. 

And now, as always for fort}^ years, she 
closed her prayer : 

"My baby, my baby! Oh, Lord! be merci- 
ful — be merciful to my baby !" 

She rose to her feet, her gray hair loosened 
and falling, painfully shredded and thin, upon 
her shoulders, and cried : 

"My baby, my baby! Oh, Lord! be merci- 
ful — be merciful to my baby !" 

Throwing her arms above her head appeal- 
lingly, and with a note of joy and hope in her 
voice, she cried : "Oh, Jesus, Thou saidst, 
'Suffer little children to come unto me !' " 

From the unresponsive heavens she turns 
and droops, her arms slowly fall, again she 
ikneels, she lays her face on the floor and her 
gray hair bestrews the carpet. "My baby, my 
baby ! Oh, Lord ! be merciful — be merciful to 
.my baby !" 



y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ v- 



BEAUTIFUL IN DEATH. 

I PICKED up a dead leaf in Florida and | 
spread it upon the palm of my hand, | 
which it covered. There were the blend \ 
and shadings of many bright and delicate I 
colors. It was beautiful in death ! | 

I caught a butterfly and put it under a \ 
glass. It was of a uniform dull-red color. In ■ 
the morning it was dead, but its wings were I 
all spread, disclosing a splendor before unsug- j 
gested. Beautiful in death ! j 

Standing on the mainland, I watched the 
day die in the west over the Gulf of Mexico 
and the intervening keys and the bay ; the 
after-glow, the gorgeous sunset, the islands 
and their palms etched against the background 
of fire, all reflected and multiplied on the placid 
waters of the bay ; beautiful in death ! 

In the pavilion on the dock, sat side by side, 
an elderly couple, "gazing at the brightness in 
the west," and together reading the scriptures 
displayed in the sky. They were silent, serene, 
content, dying day by day. Beautiful in death ! 



^ ^ y^ ^ ^ y::- 



THE LAUNDRY WOMAN. 

A TALL, angular woman, scrupulously 
neat, driving a pair of horses hitched 
to a covered wagon, on whose shin- 
ing black oil-cloth sides was painted the word 
"Laundry." The horses were of a light bay 
color, of medium size, and fat. As I saw them, 
in their daily round in the business district, I 
always called them "those two bologna sau- 
sages." This tall, bony, dreary-looking, gray- 
haired woman looked so thin and worn that 
I wondered if she did not deny herself suffici- 
ent to eat that the horses might be fed! 



After some months, I saw the wagon driven 
by this forlorn, thread-bare, desolate woman 
with only one of the horses — with only one 
bologna sausage. Had one died? Had poverty 
made retrenchment necessary? Surely, the 
woman did not look any poorer — she could not ! 



The other day I saw the wagon at the curb 
on the west side of the City Hall, with a 
strange horse hitched to it. This horse was 
an old white pony. There was a piece of bur- 
lap fastened over its face. Many horses were 



62 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

suffering from sore eyes caused by flies. I lifted 
a corner of the burlap and saw that one eye 
was nicely bandaged with a piece of clean 
white muslin. The loose mesh of the burlap 
permitted the horse to see her way with the 
other eye. I asked myself, has she lost another 
horse? Has poverty pinched her still harder? 
Surely, the woman did not look any poorer — 
she could not ! I will enquire. 1 

Presently, the woman came and got into 
her wagon. For a short time her back was all 
I could see. She was arranging the parcels 
behind the backless seat. When she had turned 
and seated herself and had begun to gather 
the reins, I approached and conversed with 
her. I will not detail what we said. It was 
such a conversation as might often take place 
on life's highway, and bless her who receives 
and him who gives. She did not surprise me? 
when she told me that she lived alone v/ith 
no company except her horse and dog and cat. 
I realized, as she told me that her husband! 
and sister had died, that she did not regard; 
my inquiries as impertinent or unsympathetic- 
The hand lay in her lap relaxed. Her gray eye 
grew soft and dewey. She sat on the seat 
above the level of my head, enclosed almost 
as in a cave in the black covered wagon. A 
long, bony face, with scant gray hair showing 
under her hat, such a face as that of George 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 6 3 

Elliot. No genius, not even that of George 
• Elliot, could make it beautiful or lovely. But, 
as I looked up into this face, I thought I never 
,saw one so beautiful and lovely! Not genius, 
^not anything in all this world could have made 
lit beautiful or lovely except that which did 
^make it beautiful and lovely! And that was 
-Sadness. Sadness softened the eye, it took 
away the rigidity of the muscles and made a 
^twilight out of which eyes looked backward 
[Over a hard and dreary day diligently em- 
. ployed, and a stony road bravely and uncom- 
I plainingly trod ! Sadness beautifies the soul 
j whose transfiguring power no face can conceal. 
We are told that Lincoln's face was ''the liter- 
ature of melancholy." This woman's face was 
the literature of sorrow ! The sorrow of her 
life hallowed it. 

Feeling that I had done a good deed in 
saying a kind word by the wayside to a lone 
woman, I passed on. 



An half-hour later I again passed that way. 
There stood the wagon still ! The woman was 
seated therein, but with her back turned to 
the world. I heard a sob. 

After I had left her she rose wearily, got 
over her seat into the back of her wagon, and, 
in a resolute way, sought to employ her hands 
with the baskets and parcels. She sought to 



64 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

restrain the mood, a kind wayside word, a 
wayside sympathy, that had interrupted her 
dreary life, had aroused. She failed. She sank 
upon her seat. A tear gathered under an 
eye-lid ; it started to roll down ; it went a 
little way ; following the angularities of her 
face, it turned aside for a wrinkle ; it went on 
into a hollow ; it went around upon her bony 
chin where it lingered, and then dropped down 
upon her hands folded in her lap. 



Wrinkled and old are those hands of hers ; 

Hard, and full of the seams 

Of labor and the years ; 

Knotted the knuckles ; 

And creased and crinkled 

The skin on the backs of them ; 

Dark-veined and large, 

With splotches of brown 

Between the drawn tendons 

As if seared by tears ; 

Thick the nails and blunted, 

Rough and with little ridges 

Running the length of them ; 

Callous the palms. 

And lacking all pinkness and prettiness. 

Old are those hands of hers ; 

Wrinkled and hard; 

But, oh, what a story of 

Infinite tenderness 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 



65 



And love 

Could they tell, 

riiose hands of a woman 

Whose three score years and ten 

Have been passed in doing the good 

That women do. 

(Lines by W. J. Lampton.) 




■^W- -i'^Uji^ 



t 



v^ v^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 

THE BURROS AND 
THE BOYS. 

HAVING spent the summers for several 
years in Manitou where the Burro and 
the Boy are so much in evidence, I 
have had good opportunity to study them. 

One season, a burro "corral" was only a 
hundred yards from my window and afforded 
me much food for thought. Here from fifty 
to one hundred of the animals were to be seen 
every day, their small tails and big ears busy, 
many standing saddled and bridled for hours. 

The Rocky Mountains have yielded no Will- 
iam Tell or "liberators." The stranger has 
taken possession. There is upon him no smell 
of the mountain ; none of its savor. 

The mines are ulcers. We look almost in 
vain among the mountains for the offspring 
of the mountains. A few true, brave spirits 
there are ! Their most loyal citizen is the burro. 
He has their rugged honesty. The burro-boy 
is learning from him and copying him, and it 
is refreshing to turn to him from the politi- 
cian, the mine-owner, the mine-worker, and the 
monopolist of the public properties called 
franchises ! 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 67 

The burro stands for patience unspeakable. 
As I have watched him, standing in summer- 
heat, drenched in summer-rain, carrying heavy 
burdens in both, without evidence of impa- 
tience, I have said, ''Ahnost thou persuadest 
me to be a burro !" 

Many of them become pets, which speaks 
well for those who care for them ; their stunted 
souls have the power of love ! 

They are black, white, red, gray, calico, 
blue, lame and sore-backed. 

On the rainy day, they stand in the mud of 
the corral like sphinxes, their heads down, say- 
ing not a word, singing not a note. A flick of 
the tail, or ear, a lifting of a foot and putting 
it down with emphasis — that is all ! 

Patience ! Patience ! Let us become rein- 
carnate in you ! Blessed be the rain that falls 
upon the just — and upon the burro ! It gives 
them rest. 

Sitting on the corral fence, you will see the 
boy, big and little, dressed in sundry unique 
styles, original and odd. Some of the boys are 
in the corral trying to ride the bucking burro 
— some are there practicing with the lasso. 
It is easy to see that the boys love the burros 
and that the burros love them. The little boy 
studies and apes the older one who has become 
expert in taming the unruly, or in throwing 
the lasso, or in following the mountain trail. 



6 8 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

Often the burro and the boy go out in 
company on tourist excursions to thread to- 
gether the defiles and steeps of mountain and 
canyon. And both come home weary and ex- 
hausted. They have shared many hardships, 
share and share ahke. 

They have slept together on the mountain 
side. Hot in the bottom of the gulch — freezing 
cold at night on the peak — they go up and they 
come down. And the burro will perhaps lie 
down after "taps" at night, in the bed of the 
camp-fire. His hide will show the marks of 
the live coals. 

Sitting in my window, I witnessed a water- 
melon feast that the boys had provided for 
themselves; it showed the spirit of the place. 
They gathered aroimd the melon on a low 
roof. One small boy volunteered advice as 
to cutting it. A larger boy said, ''How much 
did you chip in?" And the small boy was 
silenced. Said another to another, ''Where in 
do you come in?" And he too was si- 
lenced. Then I saw two large boys, each with 
a slice three inches thick, cross the corral and 
sit down in a deep trough or manger, which 
brought their knees close up to their chins, 
each with his pocket-knife in his hand. They 
ate, and, I trust, were filled, although I must 
say that I have never found watermelon very 
filling. 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 69 

A little boy with a very big hat is asked, 
"Whose hat you got on?" "Mine," says he, 
"father give it to me." One wears an old gray 
hat, but the "straws," in shape fantastic and 
indescribable, are more common. For varia- 
tion of the monotony, they pitch quoits, i. e., 
horseshoes. 

Here you will see a boy on a burro's back 
with his arms wound about its neck and his 
cheek laid against its cheek. 

Here you will see a burro, sure-footed and 
careful, carrying a baby on its back as tenderly 
as its own mother could have borne it. 

Here you will see a party starting out for 
the top of Pike's Peak, a boy to guide ; includ- 
ing a burro loaded with the "pack." They will 
be gone all night. 

I often follow along the heads of a long 
string of burros, passing my hand down over 
their white velvety noses — for all have white 
velvety noses — till I come to the one who 
touches my hand with his tongue. Then I 
know I have found him — thus have I ascer- 
tained the loving one ! 

Here is the blacksmith shoeing a burro. 
Such tiny feet they have ! They wear number 
ones. The burro squirms and pulls his leg — 
the smithy, a little hasty and passionate, swears 
and threatens to kill him, and I step up and 
say, "Let me reason with the child." Where- 



70 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

Upon, I put my arm over his neck and tell him 
that the 'smith is trying to give him a nice, 
new steel shoe, and that he ought not to kick 
about a little thing like that — such a little 
thing. He calms down and stands like a lamb 
till the work is done ! 

Two white burros stand there — one licks 
the other's shoulder, and the other licks his. 
Sometimes they sing, but I cannot say I enjoy 
their singing. They file their saws ! By and 
by the winter of their discontent, of their suf- 
fering, of their Gethsemane, will come ! 

In studying those boys and the process by 
which they are adapting themselves to their 
environment, by which they are adjusting 
themselves to the mountains, so as to know 
''their master's voice" in the "Call of the Wild," 
I scan the pictures that hang on memory's 
walls which interpret the scene and the process 
before me. I toured Europe years since. I saw 
royal palaces, inside and out, cathedrals the 
same, museums, picture galleries, old masters 
and new ones, and much other such-like hum- 
bugery. The richest and best things I saw, 
those retaining most distinctly their color and 
beauty, are these, that is to say : 

At Genoa, in the "Piazza," or square, front- 
ing a church, stone-paved, I saw a squad of 
soldiers being put through their paces — a sight 
common enough in Italy. Their knapsacks and 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 71 

other equipage were lying nearby, all regularly 
placed according to the manual ! As the line 
wheeled and turned and evoluted, like so many 
automata, I notice some half-dozen little boys 
near the end imitating the maneuvers of their 
elders and aping the officers, apparently to the 
latters' disgust. A sudden turn of the file or 
column, or whatever it was, would scatter the 
boys so that they nearly fall over each other 
in endeavoring to get out of the way ; only 
with laughter, however, to form in line again 
to play soldier. 

The environment of those children, the at- 
mosphere of the region, was moulding them. 
They aspired to be soldiers, to carry knapsacks 
and guns and bullets and powder, and to shoot. 

A much pleasanter sight to a homesick 
American was something else ! Running across 
the square, a plume waiving in the sunlight, 
a friend, a neighbor the world over ! It was a 
yellow dog. 

In Munich is to be seen the Pinakothek. 
The building sets in a large square, enclosed 
with an iron railing two or three rails high, 
which separates the grounds from the side- 
walk and street. Along the fence, at least on 
one side, was a sort of hedge or thicket of 
shrubs and small trees. I entered the enclosure 
at one corner. Soon I heard boys' voices and 
boy's doings within the shrubbery. I advanced 



72 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

and looked. Several boys were present. Two 
small boys in the midst were wrestling. They 
would rush at each other and get a grab-hold 
and tug and tug. Perhaps, after all, it was 
the Graeco-Roman hold ! They had been at 
this business evidently some time, as they were 
dusty and touseled, and variously awry. Then 
something happened. A woman appeared on 
the sidewalk. She clutched an umbrella in her 
hand. She shook it threateningly at the boys. 
They were paralyzed. The woman was dressed 
in dark clothes, a poky bonnet, corkscrew curls 
— a veritable type of the good old puritan 
school-ma'am. But she could not get in — she 
could only pace back and forth and scold. Here 
is where I "fronted." I took the little boys 
in hand, brushed ofif the dust, smoothed their 
hair, arranged their neckwear, all the time 
talking in soothing and encouraging words — 
never a one of which they understood ! Taking 
them by the hand, I led them out into the open 
and bade them be of good cheer and to be 
not afraid. 

Those boys were simply answering the call 
of blood — as their fathers did, so they would 
do; the blood that has made the German a 
sturdy, capable race ! 

In Venice. At the end of the Rialto most 
remote from the piazza San Marco. A tobac- 
conist's. I price some of the products of the 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 7 3 

government monopoly. As I talk to the pagan 
dealer — for the heathen don't understand En- 
glish, — I hear boys back in the dark recesses 
bf the shop snicker. So I talk more English, 
'or my mind goes back to certain delicious 
noments of boyhood when I first heard Ger- 
nan spoken — it was so funny, and we boys 
'mickered and laughed ! The more I talk, the 
nore the boys laugh ; so I talk volubly and 
.mnecessarily, the dealer in the meantime look- 
ng deprecatingly towards the boys, in evi- 
I'ient distress, — but I talk on. The boys got 
t nuch fun out of it — and so did I ! I think I 
jiever gave so much pleasure at so small a 
riet cost. 

The wee "Wie" boy. This is in Switzerland 
^— in the suburbs of Lucerne, in fact. Switzer- 
and is a land where they have mountains; 
hA/'here they have free men — the natural prod- 
|iict of mountains. It is not Colorado, with its 
I'impty mountain sides and shades and stranger 
|:itizenship, — but where the thought is, it is 
lA/'orth while to be free ! 

' Typical of time and place, a wee small boy 
bomes to view, with a slate and book under 
lis arm and a broad brim straw hat. I stop 
•lim and shake hands and ask him how he does? 
He says, '*Wie?" I ask him if he goes to 
■school? He says, "Wie?" I tell him I am glad 



74 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

I 

to see him with his book and that I hope he 
had his lesson well. He said, "Wie?" 

After much such-like talk, I say good-bye 
and he says, "Wie?" He lifts his hat, I lift 
mine, as we part. After a short distance I look 
back; the "Wie" boy is looking back and he 
pulls off his hat; I pull off mine. I look back 
again by and by ; the ** Wie" boy again looks 
back and pulls off his hat — and I pull off mine! 
Here I reach a corner and turning it I see, 
for the last time, the wee ''Wie" boy of Lu- 
cerne, pulling off his hat ! 

And so, of all the pictures of Europe that 
hang on memory's walls, I have portrayed, 
not royal palaces, not cathedrals, not art gal- 
leries, not old masters, not any product of 
oppression, or opulence, won by the extortions 
of power, but the few most vividly present 
with me after eighteen years ; with more oij 
less relevancy, they tell the tale of the univer- 
sal boy and of his amenability to his environs. 

We may cherish the hopeful view that the 
Rocky Mountain burro will build the Rocky 
Mountain man ! 

In winter these faithful servitors seek their 
own food and shelter on the ranch, or range 
the inhospitable mountains. As you climb the 
steeps, or explore the canyons, in lone spots, 
you will now and then come upon a skeleton ; 
a whole one, or a leg, a head, a rib. 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 75 

When you go up Williams' canyon, instead 
of turning up the "Temple Drive" to the top 
of the divide, keep on up the gulch by the 
trail that you will find. At the end of a quarter 
of an hour's climb you will pass around a wa- 
terfall and come upon a spring. Here opens 
a beautiful park ; great bastions of rock rise 
up on its eastern side ; on the west, almost 
inaccessible steeps. This charming valley 
spells solitude. Deep green pines and many 
other forest trees and shrubs render it en- 
trancing. A tiny stream struggles for life 
through glade and glen. 

It was here that I came upon the dead body 
of a burro. I recognized the one that licked 
my hand — the loving one ! In the nearby bed 
of Colorado primroses, I thought I saw the re- 
incarnation of his loving soul. Here I deemed 
it well to sojourn awhile with my friend. Sit- 
ting on a log, I saw a vision. Over the sky- 
line, that defines the top of the stone fortress, 
rises a shadowy trail along a precipice. Care- 
fully treading its path, I see the "astral" bodies 
of those burros whose dead bodies, victims of 
starvation, — of the perils of the storm ! — lie 
scattered in many a fastness ! Spectral popula- 
tion of the wild ! 

Comes first a leg separated from the trunk ; 
then a skeleton-head with showing teeth, the 
skinny lips drawn back, the eyeballs gone ; the 



76 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

procession passes on and on ! Then the burro 
bearing the boy whose arms are wound about 
its neck ; and then the burro bearing upon its 
back a baby as gently as its mother could have 
borne it ; and then, over the peak, with care- 
ful foot, first appearing, one front foot surely 
set down, and then the other, and soon the 
hind feet set in the dizzy trail, then the trunk 
and head — and the burden on its back ! It is 
the pack burro ! 



The mountains should rise and evict the 
trespassers and intruders on their domain ! 
They should grow honesty as they grow their 
pines. They should shed freedom as they shed 
the rains into the brooks and streams and 
rivers. But there they stand; bald, unoccupied; 
the home of no people of their own ; exotics 
and parasites clinging to their sides; subju- 
gated by aliens ! In chains ! 



y^ y^ y^ y^ v- y^ 



THE HELLO GATHERER. 

DID YOU ever go out gathering "hellos?" 
You have gone nutting, berrying, cov^- 
slipping, perhaps, but these pursuits 
take you to woods and fields. Gathering hellos 
takes you to the streets of the town. You will 
meet many a small boy — and some larger ones 
— mostly poor and some dirty, who will be 
glad to exchange an hello with you. While 
it is quite probable that it is blessed to give, 
I tell you that it is also blessed to receive. 
Gather up these hellos and put them in the 
bank that never fails and which never passes 
a dividend. 

Now, a very small and quite dirty boy lived 
down under the hill. He had a railroad in his 
front yard. It was one of his duties to keep 
the babies of the household from getting on 
the track and obstructing traffic. It was a 
pretty numerous family that found an abode 
— perhaps it was a home — in the lowly shack. 
This boy's name was Johnny. 

There was a neighbor's boy who lived in 
the same settlement, a larger boy, and he 
sold papers and had money in his pocket. 
This boy's name was Dan. Now Johnny envied 



78 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

Dan because Dan had money and Johnny had 
never had any. 

Johnny watched Dan to see how he accom- 
pHshed it. Dan used to go up town, so Johnny 
thought he would go up town, too. Watching 
his chance to follow Dan, it was borne in on 
him that Dan's face was clean and that that 
perhaps had something to do with it. So John- 
ny washed his face as well as he could, but not 
knowing just how it ought to be done, I trust 
you will excuse him if he did not succeed very 
well the first time. The dirt was washed off 
the front of his face, but there was a rim of 
soot all around the edge, insomuch that he 
resembled Paddy Whack of Ballyback. Any- 
hovv^, he followed Dan all right. 

He saw Dan standing on a street corner 
selling papers. For each paper sold, Dan got 
a cent. Johnny saw him pull a lot of pennies 
out of his pocket and make change. Johnny 
got close to Dan and watched. He applied his 
heart unto wisdom. To be able to do that, 
and to have some money in his pocket, Johnny 
thought was the thing in all the world most to 
be desired. Dan saw Johnny and understood 
it all ; he tried not to put on airs but he could 
not help swelling with the consciousness that 
he was an envied man. He became more polite 
and gracious to his customers and was careful 
to give each honest measure. And when he 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 79 

lollered "here for the evening papers," there 
was a note of victory that was new in his 
voice. All the more, Johnny realized the 
mighty distance that lay between him and 
Dan. He asked himself, as do many others, 
what can I do without capital ? His face sad- 
dened at the thought ; he looked down on the 
pavement to hold up in his eye a tear that 
else would have fallen on the ground. But 
there came that w^ay just then one of those 
hello gatherers. 

"Hello !" said he to Johnny. 

"Hello !" said Johnny to him, looking up ; 
and lo ! he was transfigured. A smile spread 
out from his mouth and burnt out the unshed 
tear. 

The hello gatherer read it all like print and 
was as one having compassion on a lonely 
child. Now, he owed that boy a debt. He owed 
him for that hello — he owed him for that smile. 
He gave Johnny a dime and said, "run and get 
me a paper!" Johnny ran and bought of Dan. 
Dan gave him nine cents and a paper. My ! 
how much money Dan had ! 

The hello gatherer took the paper and told 
Johnny to keep the change. And so was a 
new enterprise in our community capitalized. 

A mighty few minutes later and Johnny 
stood on another corner with a stock of mer- 



80 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 



chandise under his arm, the Hght of hope in 
his eye, hollering to beat the band. 

That little boy there, wtih a rim aroun(| 
his face like Paddy Whack of Ballvback- 
"that's him." 







v- y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF 
A FLEDGLING. 

Chapter I. "Oh, Mama!" 

SCENE : A bird's nest in a tree in the 
suburbs. Father and mother, being in 
love, labored diligently to build a home. 
Then mother laid some eggs. She was a spar- 
row and it was the law that she should marry 
young and get busy — and keep busy ! The 
world had a great demand for sparrows ! After 
a while, there appeared some young ones, and, 
as incredible as it may seem, they were broth- 
ers and sisters. Father was a hard-working 
bird and had been quite a while the bread- 
winner. Mother now went with him a-glean- 
ing in the fields, leaving us alone. One day, 
mother said : ''Children, it is now time for 
you to get out and make your own way in 
the world — the law requires it. We shall miss 
you very much for a while, but you can al- 
ways get a bite here if there's a thing in the 
buttry." Then mother set us overboard ! I 
fluttered to the ground, frightened nearly to 
death, crying, "Oh, mama !" 



82 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

Chapter II. In Captivity. 

A newspaper man, who lived in that neigh- 
borhood, who sold papers on the streets, age 
about 10, came along and caught me. I tried 
to get away, but he was too strong. He took 
me down-town. While he sold papers with 
one hand, he held me in the other. Sometimes 
he nearly crushed me and sometimes I nearly 
smothered. Then he tried to give me away 
to other boys. He had tired of me but was 
not wicked enough to do me personal violence ; 
he really was puzzled to know what to do 
with me. I heard every word he said. I hoped 
he would take me back to my native village — 
excuse me, I mean my native tree. Then the 
boy saw, near the big hotel, a real nice, good- 
looking, distinguished, benevolent and amia- 
ble gentleman, and said, "Now I will get 
shut of this nuisance — I'll unload on the fine 
old gentleman who is just as green as he is 
good !" So' he assumed a virtue that he didn't 
have, and accosted the gentleman, telling him 
he had brought him a nice present. The old 
gentleman looked at me, "Oh," said he, "a 
little bird! Where did you get it? You ought 
not to carry him around that way ; it will 
soon die. That is not nice !" 

"But, sir," said the young scapegrace, "I 
brought him for you !" "It would have been 
kinder to have left him near the mother bird." 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 83 

The gentleman was compassionate and just 
as nice as he could be. He understood that 
wicked boy but knew that there was thrust 
upon him a duty — it was to save a helpless 
little bird's life. He took me in the hotel and 
got some crackers which he softened in milk. 
Then he fed me. I opened my mouth just as 
wide as I could. I had the biggest mouth in 
the family and was as proud of it as I could be. 
I did my best to show my foster parent that a 
little bird knows when she is well treated. 
So I opened my mouth. 

Chapter III. r. i. p. 

Shakespeare wrote a soliloquy — " to be or 
not to be" — which he plagiarized from Plato. 
Shakespeare was a great student of Plato, al- 
though he found difficulty in writing his own 
name so anybody could read it. This chapter 
becomes the soliloquy of the old gentleman 
mentioned in Chapter H ; it would be quite 
violative of the rules of literary propriety to 
have the little bird tell this chapter, for rea- 
sons that will be sufficiently obvious to the 
intelligent reader when he has finished it. This 
little bird was no Moses, who told of his own 
death. Moses made a record! So help me, 
gracious. 

Sohloquy : Now, this bird is a full vessel. 
That is all very well, but I can't hold him in 



84 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

my hand all day. Ah, I have it. I'll put him 
up on a branch of that small tree. Abraham 
Lincoln once saw a fledgling on the ground 
and he got off his horse and picked it up and 
put it in a tree. He said it made him feel 
better for having done it. Now, there ! the lit- 
tle bird is on the branch of the tree — where 
neither dogs nor cats nor moth nor rust can 
corrupt it. Sho ! the little creature has flut- 
tered to the ground ! it cannot fly. That won't 
do. It will perish there. What a responsibility 
I have undertaken ! I will get it and take it 
up on the top balcony — it can't get out andi 
it will be surely safe there, — where neither 
dog nor cat nor moth nor rust can corrupt, 
nor thief fade it away. 

There ! there it is, with cracker soaked in 
milk enough to last till morning — it is getting 
on towards dark ; yes, enough to give it a 
bite if it should wake up in the night, and 
for breakfast. Meanwhile it can grow. The 
law requires little birds to grow in strength 
and wisdom, and soon it can fly away upon 
its Father's business ! Our common Father 
has business for us all, both great and small. 
If He had not had business for this little bird 
he would not have created the mystery of 
her father and mother, or of the nest in the 
tree, or of the egg in the nest, or of the life 
that broke its shell. He made the mystery 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 85 

''to be" — He made the mystery "not to be" 

—and either is well. 
1 

J 

Morning here ! I must get up. 

Now, I will go around to the balcony and 
see how my foster-child has passed the night. 
Here is the door, here is the balcony — here is 
■ — Ah, woe is me ! Woe is me ! There is the 
little creature on its back, its tiny feet and 
legs, like stiff white wires, sticking up ! Piti- 
ful sight. 

It seems that, during the night, the storm 
came, and the wind blew, and the rain fell, 
and beat upon that balcony and slew that 
harmless, sinless soul ! After all I have done 
to save its life ! Where, then, was that Ear 
that "doth hear the sparrow's call !" 

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing — 
a mite apiece? And one of them shall not 
fall to the ground without your Father ;" is 
not that the promise? 

How has that promise been fulfilled? 

Behold the birds of heaven, that they sow 
not, neither do they reap, nor gather into 
barns ; and your Heavenly Father feedeth 
them. Or this! 



"To be or not to be?" What's the differ- 
ence? Asking this question of ourselves, as 



86 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE.. 

applicable to ourselves, we think there is a 
mighty difference. But we are prejudiced! 
We, in the possession of a conscious ego, are 
too deeply involved to see plainly. 

Taking, however, the case of this fledgling, 
which erstwhile was simply a birds' e^gg, how 
is it? Here we have the question stripped of 
what most embarrasses our judgment as re- 
spects ourselves. We, to the Power that Rules, 
are even less than the fledgling is to us. The 
fledgling is now a part of the one great su- 
preme life ; so she was before ! Differentiated, 
segregated, for a moment, by an almost un- 
conscious hour of personality, what is the 
difference? Millions of birds perish yearly, 
uncounted. What has become of their life — 
where is the loss or gain in the whole sum of 
things? 

I have use the word "Father" for the Power 
that Rules ; it is a pleasing word, but ''Moth- 
er" is more so. Either word means, in such 
connection, what we may choose to read into 
it. It is hard to think, however, that our Moth- 
er could have killed that little bird ! Still, she 
threw it out of the nest! 



^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 



THE RUXTON. 

"The harp at Nature's advent strung 

Has never ceased to play; 
The song- the stars of morning sung 

Has never died away." 

AT THE foot of the "Ruxton," in the vil- 
lage, I meet its torrential waters. I 
become occupied by it — it takes pos- 
session. It compels my obedience. To the 
insistent charm of its melody I yield, and cry, 

"Lead Thou me on !" 

At the top is the summit of Pike's Peak. 
Here crystals fall, — we call them snow-flakes. 
The exquisite designs of their crystallization 
are marvels of beauty. These on the top of 
peaks ! Brought up from the depths, by the 
deep sea dredgings of the "Challenger," from 
the ooze and mud of the ocean's bed, were 
microscopic shells whose designs rivaled in 
beauty the crystals of the snow-flake ! Where, 
oh, Lord, may we seek and not find Thee ! 

These snow-crystals came from the region 
where ever is heard the music of the spheres ; 
they are formed by it, they are charged with 
its strain, they are the outward visible sign 
of its rythm. 

"So nature keeps the reverent frame 
With which her years began.*' 



88 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

These crystals pile up on the peak. The 
approaching summer melts one ; and so a 
mountain stream, a mountain song, begins to 
be. Thence down over steep and precipice, 
over detritus, through a thousand cascades 
hidden in glade and glen, flinging with prod- 
igal hand innumerable crystal fragments, car- 
rying the music of the spheres once crystal- 
lized in the snow-flake — the score written by 
God — down to us, who dwell below ! 

This is the Ruxton. 

Sometimes it happens that a man is bap- 
tized in the waters of the Ruxton and he is 
penetrated with the music of the (spheres. 
There are many Ruxtons — every mountain 
peak plucks them from the skies ! 

Henry Ward Beecher was baptized in the 
Ruxton. He sang its ever refreshing strain — > 
rather, it sang through him. People say he 
"fell !" Perhaps that is the best evidence we 
have that he was baptized in the Ruxton ! It is 
the man who has ''fallen" who tells the story 
of the brotherhood of man and the Father- 
land of God. He ''fell"— that is the story itself! 
Time was when men aspired to be saints and 
angels ; the intellect and conscience of this 
age, with its richer faith, regards saints and 
angels indictable as uncommon nuisances ! 
Who among all of us could neighbor with one? 

Adam fell ! Taking this fable as par truth, 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 89 

what greater service hath God rendered the 
earth than to cause him to fall that we might 
all fall rather than be insipid and useless vege- 
table in a garden ! 

"Sin?" Blessed be sin, since it compels us 
to love and teaches all the world to love a 
lover ! It has taught, as well, that the "hate 
of hate" and the "scorn of scorn" are but other 
expressions of the "love of love." To the saints, 
these things are hidden, to the sinner, revealed. 
"Because of the tender mercy of our God" — 
"To set at liberty them that are bruised." 
Sinners, I sing — "God and sinners reconciled !" 
"Sin" is of divine institution, for the human 
life that has not interpreted it, is null and void, 
and that which has "will be one long pardon, 
one inexhaustible pity." Over the world, here 
and there, are songsters. They sing from on 
high. They have been baptized in the Ruxton ! 




^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

CIVILIZATION. 

A YOUNG eighteen-year-old girl at the 
public telephone ; time 10 p. m. 

"I want to see you ! I want to see 
you !" appealingly, *'I want tO' see you !" The 
tragedy of it ! Love ! Woman and her heart — 
woman and her love — "I want to see you — oh, 
I want to see you !" Love ! Woman and her 
heart — woman and her love ! 

Society needs such to repair its dwindled 
forces. Thus ring daily a thousand telephones ! 



A boyish young fellow, handsome, with aj 
rakish tilt to his hat. Strong, well-sexed, ro- 
bust. He is at the telephone. "I want to see 
you — oh, I want to see you !" the tragedy 
of it ! Man and his heart — man and his love ! 
"I want to see you — oh, I want to see you !" 
Civilization, what do you say to him? What 
have you got to say to him? 

Society needs such to repair its wasted 
forces ! Thus ring daily a thousand telephones ! 



y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 



THAT SICK BABY. 

AND HERE, on the stoop of this humble 
country-side home, is a cradle, and 
there's a baby in it. A weakly, sickly 
thing, looking as though its mother's food- 
supply had failed, or that it had come into the 
world before its time. Death seemed a near 
neighbor. 

Let us forecast its history. 

The baby survived to live a long life. Life? 
It eked out an existence, for nature had scarce- 
ly been kind to it. One of several brothers and 
sisters — the youngest and feeblest of all ; that 
is, physically, for otherwise it was greater 
than all. As the older ones grew up, they 
went away about their business — and forgot! 
All the duties of all to father and mother were 
devolved upon that sick baby ! He grew to 
the size of those duties — they knew he would ; 
he even helped them over the rough places in 
their road through life. He grew that way? 
No, not that exactly; what was in him dis- 
covered itself; displayed itself, in this long, 
anxious, suffering life of his, so void of what 
was his that he never came into his own ; it 
discovered and displayed itself in the unfailing 
and unfaltering discharge of duty — so ample 



92 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

that it covered his and theirs — those of broth- 
ers and sisters — this sick baby ! 

Then he looked up and saw that it was twi- 
Hght ; that night was descending upon the 
world — and upon him. 

The sum of his life — and it was not such 
an uncommon life — not so uncommon as we 
could wish, — what was the sum of his life? 
We may see him in the twilight of his life 
sitting outside the door of the empty house, 
he who had never come into his own but had 
enriched the world as it is given some to do, 
thinking, — and lonely even to tears. 

A ray of sunshine illumined his soul ; it 
was a thought. Said he : 

" *I am a little while the guest of God.' " 



He sat a while, a picture of dejection and 
despair. He lifted a book and opened it at 
random and read : 

"And everyone that hath forsaken houses, 
or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, 
or wife, or children, or lands, for my name's ^ 
sake, shall receive an hundred-fold, and shall 
inherit everlasting life." 

He closed the book and held it in his lap. 

''I have not done that," said he. 

His head dropped low upon his breast. Night 
set in with a stillness and silence that seemed 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 



93 



to efface all created things and was oblivion, 
deep and dire. Sometime he remained therein, 
motionless — alone ! Then he raised his head 
with that bravery and fire with which he had 
assailed the crudest exigencies of his life, that 
it should not be called a lie ! and exclaimed, 
as it were to the black grave before him, ''I 
have not done that — thank God ! — I have not 
done that !" 



"A picket frozen on duty, 

A mother starved for her brood, 

Socrates drinking the hemlock. 

And Jesus on the rood; 

And millions who, humble and nameless, 

The straight, hard pathway trod, — 

Some call it Consecration, 

And others call it God." 




■*^ — r^CTT^ajge^ 



y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 

EXTRACTS. 



NEBRASKA MEADOWS GREEN 

AND GOLD. 

A PHOTOGRAPH; a kinetoscope; a dis- ! 
solving view ! From the Missouri j 
River at 4 p. m. to sundown in Ne- j 
braska in mid-July ! \ 

Green — chlorophyll ! Light to dark green, •; 
all shades, cornfields rich in the deepest shade, \ 
beside fields, yellow with stubble, and stacks ^ 
of garnered grain ! Many and many an oasis — 
each a farmstead, with its grove of trees, vistas 
through them, hollyhocks and a vine on the 
corner of the house ! Sweet meadows, mile on ; 
mile, in valleys, on hillsides — mile on mile ! \ 
From the Missouri to sunset — meadows shot ■ 
with gold, every spear of grass, every leaf, one < 
side green, one side gold ! From the Missouri 
to sunset — meadows, literally, the field of the 
cloth of gold ! On the plains at sunset — sunset 
of gold ! Darkness falls, and on the *'far hori- 
zon," the bloom of the lightening — gold ! 



Morning ! The wide-stretched plains — reach- 
ing to heaven, the whole circumference 'round ! 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 95 

Three little patches of water. In these por- 
trayed the morning, in sweetest picture ; such 
a morning as meets our feet — everyone's feet 
— the world over; the feet of the peasant, the 
feet of the cow that comes to drink, the feet 
of everyone, however high, however low — in 
sweetest picture ! 

In the Rospigliosi gallery, at Rome, on the 
ceiling overhead, is Guido Reni's painting, 
"Aurora" — one of the twelve great paintings 
of the world. Beneath it, on a table, or desk, 
is a mirror ; into this you will look to best 
see the work of the genius displayed over your 
head. How cheap it is ! How futile ! Here, 
in these small patches of water, you may see 
the morning indeed, in sweetest picture, such 
a morning as meets our feet — everyone's feet 
— the world over ! 



On the plains ! A plainsman lies dead in 
Omaha. Many such a view he saw ! Plainsmen, 
now so few, not Argonauts of '49, but of fifty 
years ago, now so few ! What heroic deeds, 
their's ! How long to live ! Pioneering the way 
of civilization ! Their spirits are over these 
plains, to abide always, not as ghosts to haunt 
the earth, but in the minds of men "made bet- 
ter by their presence." Hail ! and farewell ! 



96 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

SEA AND SHORE. 

HERE America comes down to the sea — 
here the sea comes to meet America ! 
The shore grows thin till, where it 
leaves off and the sea begins, is but a thread 
whose sinuosities no one can trace. There is 
a line of light there — now here, now there — 
but just where is not certain or fixed. On the 
shore side is dry grass and green flags and 
cows trying to find food to eat ; trees, some 
large, in one a swing wherein a girl and a boy 
stand, feet to feet, one pushing now, and 
then the other pushing, as they go this way 
and that. On the sea side, a vast expanse 
of blue — light blue — shading into deeper blue, 
baptized with sunshine, boats sitting like 
swans therein, points of land with palms, 
standing as their feet were planted in the 
water, thrust outward into the sea till the 
line that divides them is lost ; the sea and the 
sky, in the distance, melted into an indistin- 
guishable haze, insomuch that where America 
ends and the waters that engulf all lands be- 
neath the sun, divide themselves, no man can 
see. This is the scene that is before me as I 
sit me down in a decrepit chair on the dock 
of a friend I have made ; the shadow of whose 
little house, set above the waters, affords a 
grateful shelter from the blaze of a half-tropi- 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 97 

cal sun. An whole hour I sit scarcely con- 
scious whether I am on shore or sea — scarcely 
conscious whether on land or water; and then 
a door opens and my friend, whether of the 
land or the sea I know not, since his life is 
divided between the two, comes out. Is he 
drunk? What may that mean? For another 
hour he talks to me a talk I never heard before. 
Is it land or sea? One might visit all counting 
rooms, all lawyers' shops, all markets and 
marts, and not hear a syllable of truth so sin- 
cere ; surely, there is a wisdom here on the 
margin of our country where it dove-tails with 
all the sea, worth our while, delightful and im- 
pressed with the sincere, as the wax holds 
the impression of the seal ! I canot report it 
to you, it was too intangible, too fugitive, too 
much like the boundless boundary whose metes 
and monuments, seaward, are not set or ma- 
terial to the eye, to tell what is America and 
what is that medium that floats the ships of all 
the peoples of the world and which has no 
owner save the one whole human race ! Was 
he drunk? What does that mean? The wine 
that is trodden from the press where sea and 
sky commingle, and that trodden from the 
grape, who shall distinguish, who divide? 

As the sun declined, as the long shadows 
pointed eastward — and still farther eastward 
— I withdrew. My friend sat on his dock, his 



98 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

face seaward, asleep ! I left him asleep, look- 
ing seaward — looking towards the whole wide, 
wide world. 



CLOUDS. 

CLOUDY and gloomy days in Manitou ! 
they brought to mind days spent on 
Lake Como. Mists, at times, buried the 
mountains ; at others, the valleys. At times, 
sunlight could be seen bathing the mountain 
tops, near or far. Clouds, at others, detached 
from the mountain sides, slowly rose and 
floated, no one knows whither. The great 
plains were in front and stretched far away; 
over these, clouds and rainbows and sunsets 
floated far away ! Great tufts of cotton stood 
out from the precipitous declivities. Feathery, 
billowy, pillowy, diaphanous, white ! at rare 
intervals, were distributed prismatic tints and 
colors, and, whether gray or black, or violet 
or crimson, beauty indescribable was present. 
God rode the storm ! whether gray or black, 
or violet or crimson — God rode the storm ! 



The mists and clouds and storms of Colo-i 
rado's September brought to mind the old: 
memorandum book carried during my tour of] 
Europe in 1888, and here is what I find written 
therein: 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 99 

"Lucerne, June 28. 

"Switzerland is a cloud factory ! It con- 
verts the avalanche into the thunder cloud, 
transferring it from the mountain to the sky ; 
it makes the pillowy piles of fleece wherein 
angels slumber, and sets the cotton boll, burst- 
ing with ripeness, in the blue field above ! 

"June 26. Today, every mountain in Swit- 
zerland is a shipyard, and every valley a har- 
bor, whence 'the argosies of cloud-land' sail or 
lie at anchor ! From all the ports of the unin- 
habitable mountains their fleets are launched 
for all the ports of the unnavigable seas !" 

THE COTTONWOOD. 

SO I MIGHT tell of the trip up the Missouri 
River, of its sand-bars and wrecks, of 
tieing up at night, torches and darkies 
dancing on deck ; of whole forests of cotton- 
woods on the bare bottom lands, some forests 
an inch high, some two inches high, and some 
three inches high, up to bolls and snags an 
hundred years old ! Later, I saw the cotton- 
wood spread out inland, going hand in hand 
with the homesteader, to build a common- 
wealth ! 

Thou Cottonwood ! A tribute to thee ! Pio- 
neer and saviour tree! Subjugator of the wil- 
derness ! Redeemer of the plain ! Wherever 
a furrow was plowed — a bare spot disclosed, — 

LOFC 



100 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

there thou planted and sowed, and God gave 
the increase ! What hast thou not done, j 
with thy power of quick growth, thy sturdy I 
branches, thy opulent foliage, to shelter the i 
settler's cabin, his dug-out, father and mother \ 
and children, the family cow, the horses that 
pulled the plow ! Cover, under which other 
and rarer trees — even unto the rose-bush ! — 
have been cradled and have come on to sweeten 
struggling lives, to make the bare prairie para- 
disical and fit home for him and her and them, 
who, by sacrifice and hard endeavor, have 
earned the right to rest from their labors ! 
Old Cottonwood tree ! After forty years, thou 
hast presented to a new generation, — superb 
gift ! — Nebraska, beautiful and bountiful ! Fore- 
spent and dying for those thou came to save ! 



(Over forty years ago a party drove from 
the West into the Missouri Valley at Teka- 
mah.) 

The view that broke upon us as we de- 
scended into this valley, I shall never forget. 
The valley was full of the after-glow. Looking 
northwardly, the trees stood in it as things 
apart. What was there that was not ideal and 
fairy-like ! A little way north seemed to be the 
end of things, what you call the horizon. A | 
portal to glory, with trees on the edge, stand- 
ing in the after-glow, as things apart ! And 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 101 

the river sauntering 'round lazily with trees 
on the banks, standing in the after-glow, as 
things apart. Weird and mystical wilderness ! 
The river flowed North that evening, as it has 
ever since to me. It flowed through the after- 
glow into the horizon, up North there ! Any 
clear day now, you may go up on the hill-top 
and see that the river flows North, that it 
flows into the horizon just above Tekamah, 
and, if so be your ears are properly attuned, 
you may hear the roar of the cataract where 
it falls over the edge ! 

SUNSET. 

JULY 28th, 1868. (Forty years ago.) 
I stood upon the shore of a beautiful river 
at sunset. I watched the golden sheen 
resting upon the peaks of the waves till each 
one seemed as though some bird of fire sought 
to ride upon it and lave its plumage in its 
waters. 

The fire and water seemed identified; these 
two hostile elements made one, neighboring 
despite the contrariety of their natures ! 

I watched till I saw the last ray of the dying 
sunset borne in a dark, hearse-like wave, over 
which spray plumes tossed, to a grave upon 
the sloping sands of the shore where twilight 
buried it. With what a soft, low, loving music 
was the broken shaft borne home! — did the 
day end! 



Part II. 



RELIQUARY. 



y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 

A DRAMA. 

(in one-half of one act.) 

SCENE: Heaven. Walls made of India 
rubber with great stretching capacity. 
Hell on the left, fires all out, planted to 
garden truck. Folks moving across the line, 
seemingly good friends, and all comf'able. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

No. 1. The gentleman in charge, forget his 
name. 

No. 2. Rev. Dusenberry, an elderly Cal- 
vinistic preacher who has just arrived from 
Podunkus. 

No. 3. Rev. Lovely, a young Calvinistic 
preacher also from Podunkus. Both having 
been killed by an earthquake that ruthlessly 
destroyed a suburb of the beautiful town in 
question, they arrive on the same train. 

No. 4. Mr. Smith, blacksmith, late of Po- 
dunkus, et al. 



No. 1 — "Welcome, till heaven !' 

No. 2— "This heaven?" 

No. 1—" 'Tis for the prisent." 



106 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

No. 2— "Don't look like." 
No. 1— "What's the matter wid it?" 
No. 2 — "Don't correspond with Revela- 
tions." 

No. 1 — "Don't know nothing 'bout Revela- 
tions. It's the only one in these parts." 
No. 2 — "Who's that person over there?" 
No. 1 — "He was registered in the 'steenth 
ward of Podunkus as John Smith. Up here 
we call him Brer Smith." 

No. 2— "The blacksmith! Why, sir, there's 
some mistake here. You've been imposed on. 
He never got religion. He didn't believe in 
the doctrine of total depravity as taught in 
Holy Writ, nor in election, or the atonement 
or retribution ; he never professed to be will- 
ing to be damned for the glory of God. He 
went to baseball on Sunday. He didn't come 
to communion. According to our divinely re- 
vealed religion, as I preached it for fifty years, 
he ought to be in hell, heated seven times hot, 
this minute. I protest, sir, against his being 
allowed here enjoying all the comforts of the 
elect." 

No. 1— "Oh, well, he's here all right. He 
worked hard. He supported his wife and seven 
children. He was a good citizen, a good neigh- 
bor, a good husband, a good father, he was kind 
to little boys and girls and horses and cows 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 107 

and dogs and everything ! And he voted the 
Democrat ticket." 

No. 2 — "What in thunder does all that 
amount to, so long as he didn't believe in the 
Confession of Faith adopted in 1650, and was 
never baptized ! Why, sir, that sort o' thing 
will discredit all theology. What's hell for, any- 
way? I insist that the revealed will of God as 
plainly shown in the Westminster Confession 
of Faith and the Shorter Catechism, be carried 
out to the letter. I don't want to be made miser- 
able here for fifty million years seeing that sin- 
ner comfortable ! It spoils heaven for me. I 
insist that he be clapped right into hell and the 
fires be stirred up and the same kept a-pop- 
ping, so I can get a little pleasure out of Par- 
adise myself! What d'ye 'spose I preached 
the gospel of glad tidings for?" 

No. 1 — "Don't know anything about the 
Westminster Confession of Faith, or anything 
of that sort. S'pose my early education was 
neglected. We never had any fire in hell; 
there's where we have an old-fashioned kitch- 
en-garden to raise truck for the table, with 
lots of marigolds and sweet williams and tiger 
lilies, catnip, hollyhocks, jonquills, and yellow 
buttercups, set out 'long side the paths. The 
only hell-fire there is, is to be found 'way over 
there beyant, in the bed where we grow red 
peppers and Tobasco sauce. Brother Smith's 



108 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

got a clear fee simple title to his undivided 
share of everything, but I'm sorry you're so 
miserable about it," 

(Business. Here No. 2 raves and tears his hair, 
meaning- the hair that grows around the edges of 
his head, having been born bald. He allows his 
righteous indignation to rise and looks No. 1 in the 
eye with a level, straight look, that portends that 
he don't mean to be trifled with, or have his ortho- 
doxy Questioned.) 

No. 2 — ''Miserable ! What saint wouldn't be 
miserable in heaven seeing sinners saved ! Does 
my whole fifty years' preaching damnation 
go for nothing? That's too much. I won't 
stand any trifling, now ! Just carry out the 
word of God — the promise to the chosen peo- 
ple — smoke up and place us holy men where 
we can get a good view. We told those fel- 
lows a thousand times just what they'd get 
if they didn't believe. Now let the Lord make 
good ! There's hell over there, — not paved with 
infants' skulls — paved with cucumbers ! Cu- 
cumbers ! My God, this is too much !" 

No. 1 — "Dusenberry, be kam." 

No. 2 — "Be kam ! Why, there's the carpen- 
ter, too ! Looks quite comf'able. And the shoe- 
maker, and the butcher, the baker and the 
candle-stick maker — all miserable unbelievers ! 
And, as sure as you're a foot high, their wives 
and children ! Never went to church — you 
don't tell me that they have had their trial? 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 109 

They go with the goats !" 

No. 1 — "Dusenberry, you are oxcited. Go 
over there and sit down under that juniper 
tree and compose yourself, while I talk with 
Rev. Lovely ; he stands over there sorter ne- 
glected, I fear, — but with a smile on his face 
that seems to correspond with his environ- 
ment !" 

(Business. Here Rev. Dusenberry retires to the 
tree in the distance, and Rev. Lovely, answering a 
signal from No. 1, fronts. As Rev. D. moves toward 
the tree he raises his voice in lament.) 

No. 2 — "Out of the deep have I called unto 
Thee, O, Lord ; Lord, hear my voice. O, let 
Thine ears consider well the voice of my com- 
plaint. Why hast Thou forsaken me? And 
art so far from my heart and from the words 
of my complaint ! Oh, that my head were 
waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that 
I might weep day and night ! The ways of 
Zion do mourn. All her gates are desolate !" 



No. 1 — ''Brother Lovely, what's on your 
mind? What are your first impressions of 
heaven? Why do you rub your eyes? Why 
this rubbering?" 

No. 3— ''My dear No. 1, where am I at? This 
place don't correspond with Revelations ! It 
don't seem theological. Is this really heaven?" 



110 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

No. 1 — "It is, sor. This is the terminus! 
Hope you're not disappointed." 

No. 3 — ''Is that really Mr. Smith of the 
'steenth ward of Podunkus, blacksmith and 
Democrat, over there? Do my eyes deceive 
me?" 

No. 1 — "Eyesight's pufifectly good. That is 
Smith. What's the matter with Smith?" 

No. 3 — "Smith was my neighbor and he was 
a good neighbor. He was a good man but I 
thought he was lost ! How I prayed for him 
and his wife and little ones ! But he would 
not believe and I thought he was eternally 
damned." 

No. 1 — "No, oh, no. Look over there beyant 
that lilac bush; do you see Mrs. Smith?" 

No. 3— "Mrs. Smith?" f 

No. 1 — "And all around her legs, don't you 
see the little Smiths?" ,| 

No. 3— "And the children!" 
No. 1— "The hull caboodle is here." 
No. 3— "All saved? Not in hell fire?" 
No. 1 — "No fire on the place. Even the as- 
sessor couldn't find a ton of coal in New Jeru- 
salem." 

(Business. Let Mr. Lovely look sufficiently dazed, 
in fact, puffectly stunned.) 

No. 3— "My dear No. 1, it's too good to be ' 
true! Call him up and let me put my finger 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. Ill 

in the wound in his side and see the prints of 
the nails in his hands !" 

(Business. Mr. Lovely here must begin to loolt 
ecstatic. The light, as it were of an Easter morning, 
must begin to dawn on his face.) 

No. 1— ''Here is Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, 
aren't you Mr. Smith, late of the 'steenth ward, 
Podunkus? Here's neighbor Lovely, of your 
beautiful city." 

No. 4 — "Smith's my name. Podunkus my 
late habitat. Democrat. Raspberry mark on 
my left elbow. Do you mean to say that the 
gentleman with the shining face is my good 
neighbor Lovely, who was so kind to me and 
mine?" 

No. 1 — "According to the Bertillion method, 
he is ! He's a good man anyway, I think. That's 
what counts here." 

No. 3 — "Neighbor Smith ! — Neighbor Smith ! 
Thy hand. Neighbor Smith, for all eternity ! 
Heaven is a good place, for you are here ! 
Surely I was blind that I did not see that a 
good neighbor in Podunkus would make a 
good neighbor in heaven ! Surely God is good 
— better even than I thought !" 

No. 4 — "Brother Lovely ! Here is my hand ! 
The grime of the forge is still on it. It is full 
of 'the muscle of the heart !' Welcome, neigh- 
bor of Podunkus, to be my neighbor in Para- 
dise r 



112 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

(Business. Here they must grip both hands of 
both. Their faces must both shine, as well as be 
transfigured with smiles, the output of serenely 
happy souls. And No. 1, he must smile, too.) 

No. 3 — "I now know that yonder is your 
wife and with her are your babies. I could not 
believe the evidence of my eyes ! Perhaps the 
tears that now flood them make the vision 
clearer ! Bring them up ! I cannot trust my 
legs to carry me to them !" 

(Business. No. 4 goes after his family. Two 
tears, and no more, stand in the eyes of No. 1 — one 
in each. While waiting. No. 3 casts his eyes hither- 
ward and thitherward, and now they rest upon a 
group over by a paw-paw tree.) 

No. 3 — "That group yonder by the paw-paw 
tree, surely one looks like our carpenter of ' 
Podunkus." I 

No. 1—" 'Tis he." 

No. 3— "'Tis he? Indeed! And the others! 
the shoemaker ! the butcher ! the baker and the 
candle-stick maker! Here!" 

No. 1— "It is they. They are all here." 

No. 3— "Blessed be God! Why did I ever 
doubt Thee — ever question Thy love — Thy 
abundance — that Thou wouldst save to the 
uttermost!" 



(Business. And he wept — that is, No. 3, he wept. 
But they must be tears of joy. And now come up 
the redeemed blacksmith and his redeemed wife and 
his seven redeemed children. The children cling to 
No. 3, to his coat and to his legs, while the good 
wife and the good minister hold each other by the 
hand.) 






FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 113 

No. 3— "Let us praise God!" 

(Business. And so, standing there with eyes up- 
lifted in that heavenly environment, suffused with a 
light that ne'er was on sea or shore, this assembly, 
sometime in Podunkus saint and sinner, but now of 
one blood in glory, prayed as with one voice, which 
was the voice of No. 3, and it was low and soft, for 
the throne was hard by and the ear and heart of 
God not far off! The carpenter, the shoemaker, the 
butcher, the baker and the candle-stick maker drew 
nigh. As the song of praise proceeded. No. 1 might 
have been seen slyly uncovering, — taking his halo 
off his head quietly and holding it behind his back, 
for it was paled by the effulgence that centered in 
the midst!) 

No. 3 — "O, sing unto the Lord a new song! 
Let the heavens rejoice and the earth be glad ; 
let the sea make a noise and all that therein is. 
Praise the Lord, O, my soul ; He hath not 
dealt with us after our sins, nor rewarded us 
according to our wickedness. Yea, like a fa- 
ther pitieth his own children ! He that keepeth 
Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. How 
amiable are Thy dwellings, O, Lord of Hosts ! 
Yea, the sparrow hath found her an house, and 
the swallow a nest, where she may lay her 
young; even Thy altars, O, Lord of Hosts, 
my King and my God. O, sing praises, sing 
praises, unto our God; O, sing praises, sing 
praises unto our King. The hill of Zion is a 
fair place! The Lord is good to all and His 
tender mercies are over all his works. Can a 
woman forget her child? Yea, they may for- 
get, yet will I not forget thee, said our God !" 



114 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE, 

(Business. As the song of praise concludes, No. 
1 approaches No. 3 and places his halo upon his 
head, and says:) 



No. 1 — "My brother! Earnest and loving 
soul ! Now art thou converted ! As with many, 

it was needful for thee to come to heaven to i 

see what was revealed unto babes : that God j 

is good ! Thou hast now been born again in I 

that thou apprehendest God. My brother ! I ; 

have a commission for thee. I devolve upon i 

thee this high office — a duty that is mine. ! 

"Under yonder juniper tree, a man weeps. 
His heart is broken. He bleeds from many 
wounds. He was not prepared for heaven. He 
was stifif-necked in his pride of opinion : his 
God was man-made. His heaven, a man's in- 
vention. Go thou, my brother, to him in my 
place. Comfort him. Bind up his wounds. 
Reconcile him to his brother. Tell the old, 
old story of Jesus and His love ! Take with 
you the blacksmith, his wife and little ones, 
and all join in welcoming him to heaven and 
to God ! The name of that juniper tree is 
Theology. Many have sat under it and have 
watered its roots with their tears. It was hard 
for them to learn the goodness of God. That 
tree is an exotic in heaven ; its fruit, odium 
theologicum — hate and bigotry ! It is set there 
as a cross upon which to crucify pride of opin- 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 115 

ion. It has often been reddened with the blood 
of the saints shed through their pores ! 
"Go — all go, — unto our brother !" 



Scene II. Outside the india-rubber walls of 
Paradise. The author stands without, studying 
how he is to finish up this drama. There are 
no cracks to peek through. How is he to find 
out how it winds up ? Reaching up, and stand- 
ing on tip-toe, he is able to lay his fingers on 
the top of the wall. There are no broken bot- 
tles or spikes thereon. He gives a little jump, 
and gracious sakes, he nearly lands inside ! 
Such is the resiliency of the wall ! While in 
the air, he catches a glimpse within. And this 
is what he sees : 

No. 2 and No. 4 are sitting, side by side, in 
the front row. No. 2 rests his hand upon the 
knee of No. 4. And the light of the peace that 
passeth understanding, shines upon their faces ! 
They are singing ''Old Hundred" like sixty. 

The author is satisfied. The play is over. 
The curtain is down. The lights are out. And 
he goeth home joyously through the dark to 
tell them of Podunkus that not one of them 
that sleep is lost — not even one little baby ! — 
that all are saved — and that the New Jeru- 
salem and Podunkus are as one ! Amen. 



y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 

LITTLE BILLEE. 



Chapter L 

ONCE upon a time, twelve months ago, 
there were a lot of boys, black and 
white, dirty and clean, and so forth. 
All were little, and all were in the newspaper 
business, with bootblacking on the side. 

We have to do with only two or three or 
four. There was Sunshine, who was black — 
so black as no fuller's earth could black him. 
Poets and darkies are born, not made. Sun- 
shine was a big feller, and the principal fea- 
tures, those on which his future fame will rest, 
were hung on the ends of his arms. 

There was Jimmy, too. He was white and 
clean. A good mother washed his face and 
darned his clothes. A sweeter face was never 
washed. Jesus at his age was not a bit better 
looking. He was not so big as Sunshine, but 
he was a full pint. 

And now comes the hero of this sketch. 
His size was half pint. He was clean. He 
was not black or beautiful. But he had a 
smile ; it was a two-edged smile ; it smiled 
up and it smiled down, and this way and that 
way and straight ahead ; it was hung on a 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 117 

mouth that stretched across his face, and an 
old hat came down upon it from above, but 
could not extinguish it, nor dim its glory. A 
smile is always beautiful. No matter who 
wears it, it is aurora borealis, sunrise on dew, 
an April shower on the first-born flower, trail- 
ing arbutus, f'rinstance. This was Little Billee. 
His ma had a moggige ; to help lift the little 
end of it was Billee's lofty hope. He came 
among these boys, these newspaper merchants, 
on the day before Christmas with 10 cents 
worth of papers, to-wit, five ; during the day 
he gathered up as many more, wholes and 
parts, today's, yesterday's and forever's ; he 
had more papers than sales. He brought his 
smile with him ; likewise his mouth and the 
ends thereof from the east to west unto the 
going down of the same ; and his old hat on 
top of all. Now, some of the boys were dis- 
posed to put a head on him to keep him from 
dividing up the trade ; but that little smiling 
face brought to his side Sunshine and Jimmie, 
and peace prevailed within his borders and 
pennilessness within his pockets. Comrades ! 
Comrades ! They were podners ! 



The sun had set. Christmas eve has ar- 
rived at the Paxton Hotel. Little Billee, busted 
and discouraged, with his stock in trade, slept. 



118 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

His sleep was sweet, as 'twere on a feather 
bed of ostrich down ; as a matter of fact, his 
bed was the stone steps within the walls. 

And here came the dead sports. As night 
wore on, they came more and more, and fuller 
and fuller. And every one of them dead sports. 
— God bless the same! — woke Little Billee and 
bought all his papers, today's yesterday's and 
forever's — and gave them back to him ! After 
the little fraud had sold them six and seven 
times, total thirteen, and had the tin within, 
you really dort to have heard him snicker 
when a dead sport came along, fuller than any 
fuller's earth could full him, and woke him 
up and proposed to buy a paper, as 'twas Christ- 
mas eve — then buying every one and giving 
them all back to him ! The little fraud ! They 
kept a-coming, as well as a-going, and a-wak- 
ing of him up and a-buying of him out, and 
a-stocking of him up, till really he got no rest. 
Satan began to stir within him ; he felt he was 
a-cheating of them all, that they thought him 
''stuck," whereas (bless a whereas once in a 
while !) they, those jolly dead sports, saw 
through it all, while Little Billee snickered on, 
snickered on, snickered on, his pocket full and 
his stock undepleted. 

The night passed away. Little Billee woke 
the woke of the just, still on his downy couch 
aforesaid. He rose, and, as the sun spread its 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 119 

smile all over the world, he pulled his and 
went out upon the street and hollered and 
hollered and hollered that here was for sale 
the daily papers, carrying under his arm those 
of yesterday and the day afore and never more. 

A large man comes down the street. He 
had commenced life lending money at 5 per 
cent a month, and is now worth twenty-three 
million dollars. He had the day before re- 
ceived a payment of $30,000, which he thought 
he would fail to get by one-tenth of 1 per 
cent, with attorney's fees, notary's fees, rat- 
tage, cribbage and leakage, payable in gold 
at the present standard of weight and fine- 
ness, and he told his wife that morning to 
bring him two nickels with which to buy 
the morning papers. So he had 10 cents on 
this momentous occasion. One 5 cents had a 
hole in it. Being a great financier, he thought 
it good business to get shut of that 5 cents 
with a hole in it at the earliest opportunity. 
Mr. Boolong's grasp on a nickel and his grasp 
of the national financial problem were of the 
same size. He was as gay an old duffer as 
ever shaved a note or scuttled a ship. 

He stops Little Billee and says: "Boy, how 
many for 5 cents?" Billee, being anxious to 
trade, says: ''Sir, two for 5 cents." Says Mr. 
Boolong: ''There's a boy down here who will 
sell me three for 5 cents." "So will I," says 



120 FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 

Little Billee, with a smile that was worth 75 
cents, in gold, and he held up his stock, and 
Mr. Boolong took three and gave him a nickel, 
and passed on with a smile that, if turned on 
goat's milk, would have converted it back into 
hoopskirts. The nickel had a hole in it. 

Billee went up the street, hollering and 
hollering, utterly unconscious of whether it 
was today, yesterday or s'm'other day. Fact 
is, it was Christmas. 

Mr. Boolong went into the Paxton and got 
the best chair, in the coziest corner, and the 
best light, and put on his spectacles and com- 
menced to examine his bargain. After a little • 
the Turk awoke! My, but he was mad! He 

said and several times, 

alone several other times, and alone 

at least twelve times, and other combina- 
tions of divers and sundry other words sacred, 
and profane, too numerous to mention, and-; 
to mention which once would exclude me from} 
good sassiety, whose refining influence I dearly! 
love. 

''The little fraud," said he — referring to 
Billee — "he should be arrested." And the while 
Little Billee, the dreadful little fraud, was a 
hollering, hollering, hollering way up the 
street. 



ft 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 121 

Chapter II. 

This chapter takes us into the interior of 
a shanty on the By Way with a tin roof made 
up of busted bilers and oyster cans spread out. 
Within there is a floor and a little furniture 
and some human beings. A large woman has 
sunk down into a chair, utterly exhausted and 
weary — weary and in despair. Children in 
front of her — children behind her — and on the 
right hand and on the left. She is a large, 
milky, overflowing woman — such as God 
makes for maternity and poverty. Her hus- 
band is dead or drunk, a distinction without 
difference. But in that gloom there is star- 
light ; it doesn't come down through the in- 
terstices of the oyster cans ; it is right down 
there in the midst. Sitting on the floor, his 
legs spread out and his back against the wall, 
holding the baby in his lap that mother may 
rest — by baby meaning the latest — sits a boy ; 
size, half pint ; smile a yard and all wool. He 
is not the one whom the angels named Lenore. 
His parents named him William and an ad- 
miring world little Billee! He sings. Don't 
know what he sings — only do know 'tain't 
"After the Ball."— "Sweeter Song Never Was 
Sung." 

Mother sleeps! On an empty stomach, 
mother sleeps ! 



122 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

Baby sleeps ! On a full stomach, baby 
sleeps ! 



Little Billee, with watchful eye, lays for a 
rat that lays for a hunk of bread in the larder. 
Larder is good ; exceedingly good ; for there 
ain't no lard there — only a hunk of bread. 
Little Billee is its would-be champion and 
defender ; but, alas, he is lashed down — like 
the crushed tragedian, — in other words, baby is 
sitting on him ! 

How do I know? Why I was there! In my 
invisible mackintoshes and galoshes and mous- 
taches, I sat with little Billee on the hotel 
steps, and, as he slept, heard the swish of 
angels' wings — and I could not stir nor catch 
one ; in the same attire I sat and heard little 
Billee sing the sweetest song of songs, and 
heard his mother snore, and saw the rat lay 
for the lone hunk of bread, and could not stir 
or catch it or break its head. 



Chapter III. 

The title of this chapter is ''The Moggige, 
or The Five Cents with a Hole in It." 

The morning following Christmas was all 
bustle in the household to which little Billee 
Barlow belonged. Mrs. Barlow had put on 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 123 

her best dress, but she had no bustle, except 
the bustle above mentioned. This dress was 
nankeen, or bombazine, or benzine, or some- 
thing of that sort, and had been her wedding 
gown two and forty years before, more or less. 
It had no mutton-leg sleeves. She had other 
uses for mutton legs ; neither was she de- 
formed about the arms and shoulders, though 
they were might heavy. 

Billee had counted his wad, and it came to 
$1.97. 

"Billee," says his ma, "the moggige; we 
will go and see the kind gentleman who lent 
us $13.00 on our house and furniture and goats, 
Billy and other, which is the staff of life." Mrs. 
Barlow was a pious woman. 

Now, Billee had allowed that there was 
enough capacity to his wad to warrant a 
square meal for the kids, but his ma said ; 
"No ; not till we have settled with the kind 
gentleman ; then we will buy some meat." 

So they walked a long distance and get on an 
elevator in Boolong's building and go to the 
'steenth story and enter Mr. Boolong's office. 

"Set down," says Mr. Boolong, "set down." 

Then Mr. Boolong got out of his vault three 
cords of collateral and found the moggige. It 
called for thirteen dollars in thirty days, pay- 
able in gold, present standard of weight and 
fineness, interest payable in advance and also 



12 4 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

afterward, also semi-monthly and three times 
a week, with attorney fees, notary fees, ex- 
change, rattage, cribbage and leakage. 

''One dollar and sixty-three cents, mom, if 
you please," said the kind gentleman, "semi- 
weekly interest," he added. 

"I thought," said Mrs. Barlow, "it would be 
only $1.60." 

"Well, mom," says Mr. Boolong, "the gov- 
ernment, mom, has sold one hundred and sixty 
millions of bonds, and bonds come high ; our 
government, mom, sells interest-bearing bonds, 
mom, to back up its currency, and interest 
works twenty-four hours a day, while my hired 
man kicks like a steer because he has to work 
sixteen; yes, mom." 

Now, as Mrs. Barlow had only $1.60 tied 
up in her handkerchief, she had to call on Bil- 
lee to bring forth 3 cents from the fund he had 
reserved for some victuals for the kids and 
to buy a stock of newspapers. Little Billee 
now waltzes to the front and empties his 
pocket on the table of the kind gentleman. 

The kind gentleman thinks he sees some- 
thing familiar in Little Billee. As little Billee 
showed his wad pride swelled his heart and 
his face flashed a smile that burned away the 
cobwebs in the corners of the room — and he 
stood a transfiguration in the midst! His cash 
account showed 37 cents. The kind gentleman 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 125 

ran it over ; he sees the 5 cents with a hole in 
it ! He glares ! His eyes bulge out ; his collar 
button busts ; apoplexy stares him in the face. 
Now, apoplexy did not eventuate, but cholera 
morbus did, and for one I am glad of it. 

"What! Are you that little fraud who sold 
me Christmas morning three old papers? '^ — * 



Each of these stars stands for a constella- 
tion of cuss words. 

"I'll have ye arrested!" 

And he took little Billee by the scufif of the 
neck and held him up. Little Billee's smile 
flashed out — got on to a telegraph wire out- 
side of the window, I suspect, and joined itself 
to the electric current till it found a ground. 
The fact is he was terribly frightened and his 
ma was speechless. "What has Billee done?" 
says she. "Billee is the best boy a mother ever 
had," said she. "It makes it worth while to be 
a mother," said she, "to have a boy like Billee. 
Please, sir, what has he done?" 

"Done ! he cheated me out of 5 cents — sold 
me old papers !" 

Billee wept and said he did not mean to, 
and his ma stood right up for Billee and said 
she knew he did not and that they would now 
return the money. And so the kind gentleman 
took out a 5-cent piece. The 5-cent piece he 
took did not have a hole in it. 



126 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

When the kind gentleman saw how much 
money little Billee had besides the $1.60, to- 
wit, 37 cents, he said that there was some 
rattage, cribbage and leakage and exchange 
that had not yet been settled and that it re- 
quired a trifle more than little Billee had to 
square accounts. When little Billee heard this 
he felt worse than when he was held up by 
the neck, for where would the kids get grub 
to eat and where would he get some papers 
to sell? 

Ma told Air. Boolong what the needs of the 
hour were, but Mr. Boolong said that the finan- 
cial situation was such, the government having 
sold $160,000,000 of bonds, that he thought he 
would really have to call in the whole $13.00 
and foreclose unless that amount should be paid 
in a week. Now, this was a settler on Mrs. 
Barlow. What, take away their home and beds 
and the goats? Where could she go; what 
could she do? Whereat she began to cr}^ and 
wail and disturb the neighbors. Little Billee 
stood stock still, smileless, a gem of rarest 
ray serene hanging on the lid of his right eye 
and of his left. The kind gentleman then said 
not to cry, that as they had been so prompt to 
pay interest and rattage, cribbage, leakage and 
exchange, he really would not disturb their 
home, but would even give Billee 5 cents back 
to buy papers with. 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 127 

And he gave the 5 cents with a hole in it. 

Then Httle Billee and his ma took hold of 
hands and went away, down in the elevator, 
out on the street and down the street, holding 
hands all the time, the heart-beats of one doing 
duty as the heart-beats of the other. And ma 
grew strong and Billee grew strong as they 
went along, though their stomachs sounded 
like a gong beating funeral marches to the 
grave ; she to do as best she might a mothers' 
duty to helpless children and he to be her 
Light of Asia and her Light of the World, her 
joy, her hope, her strength, and, as far as might 
be, acquire meat for the kids. As little Billee 
went along, the plate glass windows in the 
stores shone with the smile of him who was, 
as it were, retransfigured, born again, the 
bright brave boy ! 




y^ y^ >^ y^ y^ y^ 

ON THE FLORENCE 
HIGHWAY. 

HAVING gone over Florence hill and 
found it all spoiled, I reached the dusty 
highway beyond that town. God went 
to a lot of trouble, or I should say pleasure, 
in making that hill. Now, it has gone into 
private ownership and is cut up by barb-wire 
fences. I climbed over, or crawled through, 
or crept under, several of these inventions of 
the devil, to get to the road. I note sorrowfully 
the passing of the hill ! Soon I met a little boy 
and his older sister. It was Saturday and they 
had come out from the city to visit an uncle. 
They were on the way. I spoke to the little 
boy and he stopped and told me all about it. 
I just wanted to know and was glad to find out. 
Did I know his uncle? No, I did not. I had 
to 'fess it ! He was mightily pleased with the 
prospect of the visit and was happy to find 
someone to tell all about it. His sister called 
back to him to come along but he lingered till 
both of us had said all we could think of. I 
was refreshed to see something so joyous ! 
I finally said, "well, good-bye ; I hope you'll 
have a good time !" He said, ''the same to 
you !" and leaped and ran. | 

.J 
A 

\ 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 129 

I 

He went West and I went East. We both 
felt happier for this sweet contact on the 
world's highway. My thought was, how can 
a boy so little in stature be so large in polite- 
ness ! 

I had gone but a few rods when I was over- 
taken by another boy whose feet were bare. 
He was tired, he was sad ; his face told the 
story. Walking by my side, he looked up into 
my face and I looked down into his. He said 
he had walked nine miles that morning. He 
had asked a man to let him ride but had been 
denied. "Are you sure he understood you?" 
I asked. He thought so. I told him I thought 
he must be mistaken. I could not believe that 
the man would not let him ride. 

It seems, he had ridden his bicycle from the 
city out to his father's farm the da}^ before, to 
remain over Sunday. The neighbor's boys had 
punctured the tire of his wheel and now he was 
going to the village to get some things with 
which to mend it. He was a hurt little boy 
that told me this ; but he said no harsh words 
about those other boys. I could only infer that 
perhaps they had no wheel, while he, by work- 
ing in town, had earned one, and — well — boys 
have their share of total depravity ! 

His eyes hung upon my eyes and my eyes 
could not tear themselves away from that piti- 
ful face ! We should sometimes, even semi- 



130 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

sometimes, take on our hearts the sorrows of 
these Uttle folk ! In such wise as God enabled 
me, I comforted him. While I said but little, 
finding but little to say, I'm quite sure I felt 
as badly over his trouble as he did ; there 
seemed a companionship to grow up between 
us, and so, I trust, I helped him to carry his 
burden — so I trust I gave a lift to his load ! 

As we came upon the main street, we en- 
countered a group of boys carrying a ladder, 
pulling and stumbling along, as merry and 
happy as could be. He was recognized by 
them and gladly hailed ; — the sadness fled away 
— he joined them and took hold of the ladder 
where there was room for one more ; — he for- 
got he was tired, — he forgot his wrongs, — 
leaving me to pursue my way, my sorrow not 
so easily assuaged — with no room left for me to 
get hold of the ladder ! I could not so quickly 
let go of the mood that had laid itself upon me. 
And now, after a month, I write it down here 
— and lay it away. Sometime I may come upon 
it, just as I find in the family Bible a pressed 
leaf that m}^ mother placed there fifty years ago. 



I 



y^ y^ y^ y^ V- y^ 



THE FAT-NOSED HORSE. 

A I AHERE was a certain horse who made 
1 her habitat in the alley, between times. 
When you find a fat-nosed horse, 
she loves truly, She does not love you for 
your cand}', your parsnip or your apple, but 
for yourself. 

This one was fed at noon from a shallow 
box placed on the pavement. Her big nose 
pushed the oats overboard, — a fact which the 
birds found out and took advantage of. Many 
birds met there to participate in her dinner, — 
which seemed to meet her entire approval. 
Benevolence beamed from her face. 

Hast ever been to the piazza San Marco, 
Venezia, where the doves have foregathered 
these many centuries to dine with you? 

The fowls of the air fed Elijah (the first) 
but here, the fat-nosed horse of the solid earth 
feeds the birds of the air. 

The wise little leader-bird lights on the old 
mare's ear, but she does not mind. It clutches 
its toes together. She then flicks her ear; and 
the little one hangs on and clutches harder! 
The old horse flicks her ear more spiritedly — 
and all the little birds chipper and laugh, for 



132 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. | 

I 

the more she flicks her ear the more oats are' 
scattered out of the box ! 

Then the man comes and gets up on the' 
seat and says, "get up." The old horse trots 
off, kindness glowing in her eyes ; she leaves 
half her dinner behind ; the birds flock over 
it ; one songster stops eating to fill the air 
with a bright and cheery note, whereat all stop 
and join in a chorus of gladness and joy, and 
the "bravura of birds" falls on the old horse's 
ear as she jogs away ! 

Time and gain have I watched and said, 
"How they do fool that old fat-nosed horse !" 










i 



^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

DINING OUT. 

THIS is Sunday. I am invited to dine at 
my friend's, whose residence is in the 
suburbs. I love peace and quiet — there 
I shall find it. The residence stands upon the 
highest ground in the city ; it overlooks the 
prairie with its endless rolls as far as eye can 
see. Beyond, the west stretches away over 
mountains to sunset seas, I said. Peace and 
quiet reign. 

Shortly after I arrived, as I stood gazing 
entranced about me, I heard the call, "Dinner 
is ready." Presently, my friend, his wife, and 
their four small boys and I, were seated at 
table. Everything was serene and calm. 

My friend, though not an extremely pious 
man, had taught his children to say grace at 
table and prayers at bed-time. 

Dan, who is very young, was designated on 
this occasion to say the grace. 

\¥e all bowed our heads. All "a solemn 
stillness" held. "This is peace," I said. 

Dan began : "Now I lay me down to sleep — " 

"'Taint right!" yelled Dick. 

" 'Tis too!" said Dan. 

"Don't call me a liar!" yelled Dick. 



134 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

*'I will too !" said Dan, firing a biscuit atj 
Dick's head; the biscuit hit Fred. 

"Whatter you throwing a biscuit at me for?'' 
shouted Fred, sliding out of his chair. All the 
others are on the floor in a minute. Then be- 
gan a mix-up and scrap such as is rarely seen. 
All the boys were full of spunk, not one would 
take any back talk. All howled. 

''O, Omnipotent, Omniscient and Omnipres- 
ent," said I to myself, "I thank Thee I am a 
bachelor!" 

"Now, children," said the mother, "go right 
into the bed-room and stay there till you can 
behave !" 

All four were huddled into the bed-room. 

Dinner began and proceeded prosperously. 

Presently the door of the bed-room opened 
and Jim (whose name should be audacity) 
came out and walked to his mother's side as 
she sat at the end of the table. She put her 
arm around him, he whispered to her, and she 
gave him a bit of sweet. 

Again, the bed-room door opened a little 
and Dick stuck his head out. 

"Jim," said he, forgetting that all of us had 
ears, "what did she did to you?" 

"Nawthin'," said Jim. 

Thereupon all the three filed out into the 
dining-room. 

"Now," said the mother, "will you be good?" 



I 



FOUNTAIN OP OLD AGE. 135 

"Yes, ma," said all of them. 

"Well, then, you may take your places at 
the table." 

All composed themselves. 

"This is peace," said I. 

The dinner progressed well for a time. The 
father here produced from his pocket four 
little packages — one for each of the boys. These 
were small tin boxes in the shape of hearts, 
butterflies and the like, and were gaudily deco- 
rated. Each contained candy. Much joy super- 
vened. Mother said to Dan, the smallest, "Now 
go and give each of your brothers some of 
your candy." 

Dan walked 'round the table and offered the 
open box to Jim. Jim took out the biggest 
piece he could find and put back the smallest 
piece his own box contained. 

Dan then offered his box to Dick. Dick 
took out the biggest piece he could find and 
put back the smallest piece his own box con- 
tained. 

Dan then offered his box to Fred. Fred 
took out the biggest piece he could find and 
put back the smallest piece his own box con- 
tained. 

Dan now realized the rank injustice of 
which he had been the victim, his dander rose, 
he swatted his biggest brother, then he swat- 
ted his next biggest brother, and then he swat- 



136 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

ted Dick. Well, my ! All the boys were on 
the floor in a second and the de^dl was to pay. 

They rolled over on the floor and fought f 
and howled. The candy from all the boxes 
was spilled over the carpet. 

"O, Omnipotent, Omniscient and Omnipres- 
ent," said I to myself, '*I thank Thee I am a 
bachelor !" 

"Boys," exclaimed the mother, "stop quar- f 
reling this moment, or I will put you all to 
bed!" 

"Boys," roared the father with the voice 
of a Numidian lion, "do you hear what your 
mother says !" This was necessary to quell 
the riot. Peace was restored. The boys now 
resumed their seats. 

"Fred," asked the father, "do you love your 
little brother?" 

"Yes, daddie," said Fred. 

"Dick," asked he, "do you love your little 
brother?" 

"Yes, daddie," says Dick. 
"Jim," asked he, "do you love your little 
brother?" 

"Yes, daddie," said Jim. 

"Dan," asked he, "do you love your older 
brothers?" 

"Well, daddie," says little Dan, "I dunno 
about that." 



I 



I 

I 

4 



I 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 137 

"You don't know ! How now !" said the fa- 
ther, reaching for his razor-strop, "then I must 
teach you !" 

"Yes, I do, daddie !" says Httle Dan quickly. 

"Really and truly?" asked the father. 

"Really and truly, daddie," said little Dan. 

"Sure, Mike!" interposed the irrespressible 
Jim. 

A heavenly peace now abode upon that 
house. All was smiles and good cheer. Many 
a passage of love and kindn-ess passed between 
the boys. Not a sign of any storm, past, pres- 
ent or to come, could be seen. A beam of 
sunshine penetrated the room, caught the top 
of the cut-glass caraffe, and its splintered rays 
were thrown around upon the table-cloth. 

"This is peace," said I. 

The dinner had now drawn to the point 
where my friend and I lit our cigars. He held 
a burning match in his fingers. 

"Daddie," said Dick, "let me blow out your 
match!" 

"No, sir," said Jim, "it is my turn!" 

" 'Taint neither," said Dick. 

"Daddie," said Fred, "let me blow it out!" 

"Daddie," said Dan, "it is my turn!" 

" 'Taint neither," said Fred. 

By this time all, with one accord, had slid 
off their chairs and the scrap began. They 



138 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

pummeled each other and rolled over in a 
promiscuous heap. 

*'0, Omnipotent, Omniscient and Omnipres- 
ent, I thank Thee I'm a bachelor/' said I to 
myself. 

The father, who was something of a physi- 
cal culturist himself, feeling, apparently, that 
dinner was well over, was carried away with 
the enthusiasm of the cult. Still holding grasped 
in his fingers the burning match, he cried, 
"Look out, Jim"— "ah, there, Dick!" — "wade 
in, Dan!" — "Where are you, Fred?" 

The battle raged furiously, when up jumped 
the father, upsetting his chair, snapping his 
fingers — "Donner and Blitzen!" shouted he, 
and still snapping his fingers and dancing about, 
again he shouted, "Donner and Blitzen !" 

(Mem. "Donner and Blitzen" was not quite 
the equivalent of the English he used, nor yet 
was it the Dutch of it, but it will serve.) 

His wife seized the arnica bottle and fol- 
lowed him into the parlor. In the dining-room 
the fight still continued to decide which should 
blow out the match. 

I seized my hat, clapped it on my head, shot 
out of the door, and cried aloud, "O, Omni- 
potent, Omniscient and Omnipresent, I thank 
Thee I am a bachelor!" 



y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ y^ 



THE DAGO'S CHRISTMAS. 

SCENE : Carloads of evergreens piled up 
here and there about town. 
Children-trees ! Once with possibilities 
of becoming patriarchal trees, beautiful and 
grand ! stolen from government mountains — 
brought into the marts of commerce — thou- 
sands, yes, tens of thousands of them ! How 
many Christmas trees in our town this year, 
loaded with presents and priestly blessings, 
were stolen? That one was stolen as a piece of 
property were a small matter. But stealing a 
child-tree, destined to become a patriarch tree, 
beautiful and grand, is, indeed, grand larceny! 
Priests in sacerdotal vestments, priests in 
chokers only, may bless them, but cannot atone 
the assassination of one of these child-trees. 
Thou shalt not kill ! Preacher ! You ! You can- 
not wipe the stain away. The best you, or 
any householder, can do, is to refuse to buy 
one. Thus worship our God ! You destroy our 
forests, you destroy our rivers ! Forests assas- 
sinated, rivers assassinated ! Little evergreen, 
you ! True priest of forest and river ! True 
friend of ours ! 



There was a dago in our town. He lived 
in a shanty. His wife, several little ones, whom 



140 FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 

he loved. He was poor. Could he give them 
a Christmas tree? With his old horse and 
wagon, again and again he passed by stores of 
evergreens stolen from the mountains — per- 
haps from the government — children assassi- 
nated, never to become patriarchal things of 
beauty and grandeur ! Again and again, I say, 
he passed those stores of evergreen trees. 
Could he have a Christmas tree? 

The government has vast mountain posses- 
sions, reservations, thickly grown with chil- 
dren-trees aspiring to become patriarchs of 
beauty and grandeur. Who has despoiled 
them ? The government has had vast extents 
of lands for homes for the poor. Who have 
exploited them by fraudulent entries, by sub- 
ornation of perjury? A minister of the gospel, 
learned in theology — wise in the ignorance of 
other days — pleads he did not know any bet- 
ter ! 

Railroads, and officials educated in their 
service, rich and powerful, seize public lands 
without title, coal lands also, patrimony of 
the people, and derive from them vast profits 
through fraud and subornation of perjury. So 
men become rich — so vastly rich — so vastly 
respectable ! 



Togni, the dago, one night, thoughtful of 
the wife and children in his shack and of a 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 141 

Christmas tree for them, takes an evergreen 
tree from the store in a vacant lot, pnts it in 
his wagon and takes it home. He will have a 
Christmas tree ! Togni was ignorant, else he 
would not have so prized a Christmas tree. 
A Christmas tree is not necessary to the glory 
of God ! Togni and his wife set up the ever- 
green tree in his little shack, in the midst of 
poverty, in the midst of squalor, in the midst 
of little ones ! They put on it a few little bags 
of popcorn, little bags of candy, little bags 
of nuts, a few tapers. Togni will have a 
Christmas tree — and Christmas eve has come ! 



There's a knock at the door. It is opened. 
An officer is there with a warrant. He takes 
Togni. Togni had stolen a tree. And Togni 
knew better ! He could not plead ignorance ! 
The officer carried him ofif. The wife and the 
children cry. The tapers are never lighted ! 
Togni, on Christmas night — Togni, on Christ- 
mas morn — sits in a cell in jail, because Togni 
has stolen an evergreen tree that was stolen 
from government land, has paid freight to the 
railroads and stands for profit to the merchant. 
Togni knew better! This was Togni's Christ- 



mas. 



y^ y^ y^ V- y^ ^^ 



THE THISTLE. 

WHEN in Scotland I picked a wild thistle- 
blossom ! I brought it home with me. 
I remember I picked it in a field near 
Ayr. It was in Ayr that something occurred. 
It was near a little grocery store with barrels 
and things set out. 

An old crone of a woman came along — 
you see such in Europe. I saw her strike a 
little boy on the hands. He had stolen a potato 
— a raw potato. She took it away from him. 

''Didn't I do right, sir; didn't I do right?" 
she asked of me in a tone that showed she 
was conscious of the rectitude of her act. 
I said ''Yes, you did right," and gave her a 
small bit of mone}^ John Knox would have 
said she did right — and not given her a cent ! 

She returned the potato to its ])arrel and, 
standing in the doorway, called to the pro- 
prietor, "See what the gentleman gave me !" 

Years after, I came upon that thistle flower. 
I recalled the potato incident. I thought I 
would think it over. Why did that little boy 
steal that raw potato? I thought pretty in- 
tensely on the subject. I thought I could see 
the home of a poor family — oh, so wrechedly 
poor! A mother and many children. On the 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 



143 



table a potato — just one; nothing else! and all 
of the children eagerly looking at it ! 

That old crone struck that little boy, and 
took the potato away from him ! — and I gave 
her money for that ! 

I threw the thistle away. 




y^ v^ v^ y^ y^ y^ 

PUT YOURSELF IN HIS SHOES- 
HORSESHOES! 

DID YOU ever put yourself in his shoes, 
meaning horseshoes? I will tell you 
why I ask. Just now I came down the 
alley. There was a span of horses there hitched 
to a coal wagon and the man he was shoveling 
coal. Those horses were big and strong. But 
they looked tired. Their faces were drawn. 
Their eyes expectant. I think they were weary. 
I stopped and gave them ''treatment," having 
put myself in their shoes, which were horse- 
shoes. Having smoothed their noses and 
stroked their eyes and patted their foreheads 
and patted their necks, I saw that the drawn 
look had left their faces, the tension had re- 
laxed, and that that constant look in their 
eyes that they would hear with their ears "get 
ap," was gone. The soft look in place of the 
hard look seemed to me that my treatment — 
not absent but present treatment — had made 
them a bit happier and a bit more fit. I asked 
a man where I could wash my hands ; but 
what better use could hands be put to? 



I turn over memory's leaves where are re- 
corded the incidents attendant upon standing 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 145 

in other's shoes — horseshoes. The perfume of 
them is not of lavender — or Florida water! 
Nor yet of such "sweet savor" as once was 
thought to ascend from altars reeking with 
the blood of oxen, and of goats, and of lambs 
and of doves. Nor from the incense censor. 
I recall Walt Whitman, in the "Song of My- 
self," where he says : 

"Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain, or 
halt in the leafy shade, what is that you ex- 
press in your eyes? 

It seems to me more than all the print I 
have ever read in my life." 

Horses hitched to a coal wagon, or a dirt 
wagon, who rattle your harness, or are halted 
in the alley to unload, what is that you express 
in your eyes? 

It seems to me more than all the print I 
have ever read in my life ! 




w^ v^ w^ v^ v^ y^ 



A WELCOME HOME. 

SOME years age, I, a bachelor, returned 
"home" from a six weeks' absence on 
a summer vacation. I had Hved many 
years in my home-town but I had no home. 
Coming home to the homeless is a sad ex- 
perience ! Often it had been mine — often it 
has been that of others. The name is a mock- 
ery to such. This is the burden of the thought 
of them who are homeless, to them who come 
"home :" "Where shall I lay my head this 
night? Where shall I look for shelter this 
night?" There is no sadder word of tongue 
or pen for him who returns "home" than this : 
"Home ! I have arrived home ; I do not know 
where I shall lay my head this night !" 

As often before, thus oppressed, I sought 
me out, from place to place at home, where 
I should lay my head that night. In due time, 
to my gloomy soul, there came the consola- 
tion, however poor, "I have achieved a place 
to lay my head tonight" — at home! 

Well-nigh broken in spirit, burdened with 
loneliness almost to the breaking-point of my 
heart, a little later, I approached a brick build- 
ing a few rods away, the ground floor of which 
was my destination. As I came near, I heard 



FOUNTAIN OF OLD AGE. 147 

a great clatter on a bay-window overhead, part 
of a flat, a joyous happy laugh, that of a child, 
and I looked up. I looked up, eyes that were 
heavy with unshed tears now shone with the 
light of the heavenly vision ! 

The noise of a child rushing to the stair- 
way, a slammed door, a child tumbling head- 
long down a stairway ! Scarcely conscious of 
what I do, I step to its foot to meet him. The 
child jumps into my arms — he throws his arms 
about my neck, his legs about my waist, and 
kisses me — kisses me ! kisses me ! 



This was no royal welcome ! Royalty, with 
its crown-jewels and diadems — what are they ! 
Compared with this, a sidewalk love ! A little 
boy, dressed in blue overalls, a sidewalk friend, 
— God forgive me, I had forgotten him ! It 
was he who, at sight of me, clattered on the 
window, shouted joyously, slammed the door, 
fell down the stairs to jump into my arms, to 
put his arms about my neck, his legs about 
mv waist, to kiss me ! kiss me ! 



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