Chapter I: Part 1

Deceased]

The Philosophy of
Jake Haiden

(_Late JACOB K. HUFF_)

SELECTED FROM THE COLUMNS OF
THE READING TIMES, READING, PENNSYLVANIA

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL APPRECIATION
BY HIS FRIEND
Henry W. Shoemaker
(President of Reading Times)

“A link is broken that bound us to the infinite.”

Copyright, 1911
The Reading Times Publishing Company

READING, PA.
=The Reading Times Publishing Company=

Biographical Appreciation

Sudden death, in the midst of productive work, throws into bolder relief a career destined for immortality. The cessation of a train of brilliant and helpful ideas creates a want, and causes a careful examination of all that has been previously done, and a just estimate of its worth. These alone can be the consolations for the taking off of a genius like the late Jacob K. Huff, known to his readers as “Jake Haiden,” “Faraway Moses,” and “Finnicky Finucane.” After a long struggle against obscurity and adverse circumstances he had emerged into an open country where kind words of appreciation and growing fame greeted him on every side. His message, which the modern life in this country, with its growth of class distinctions, a self-constituted aristocracy, a rapidly developing governing class, a contempt for the lowly born, a forgetfulness of gentleness, a striving for self-advancement, and the train of kindred evils, rendered imperative, was checked, but its echoes will be felt through the years. He seemed to be the one voice strong enough and fearless enough to do battle with the injustices of the big world, yet he viewed it all from the porch of a modest cottage in a hamlet where there was no railroad, no trolley, and few strangers ever penetrated. His vision entered palaces of the supercilious rich, into the inner sanctums of capitalists, of cringing editors; into the homes of neglectful parents, undutiful children, designing wives, white slavers, and other evildoers. His kindly words soothed the tired spirits of the unfortunate, and as he never preached, and seldom condemned, he offered a loophole for improvement, rather than promising punishment to the so-called “wicked.” He was always ready to forgive, to lend a helping hand, and though his infinite mind grasped all the depths of sin and sorrow in the world, he believed in the innate goodness of his fellow beings. The modern world was learning to walk along cleaner and better pathways, and he acted like the careful parent, assisting the unsteady youngster in its course. His writings do not contain a single word of rancor; it is amazing that a man who fought so much oppression and crime could do so without descending to invective or abuse. That was the secret of his success. If clergymen could follow in his footsteps many an empty tabernacle would be crowded on the Sabbath.

In a sense, the biography of a writer discloses the hidden springs and motives for the development of his career. It would be difficult for a writer not springing from the people to fight the people’s battles with the pen. A man of the people like Abraham Lincoln represented them thoroughly because he was of them, and at no time in his life did his opportunities or tendencies cause him to forget his original environment. Jacob Huff was born among the “great mass of humanity” and his development came like Lincoln’s through struggles and disappointments, aided by perseverance and hard work, until his voice, clear and sympathetic, was heard above the multitude. Some day an appreciative state will seek out and mark the lowly cabin in the Pennsylvania mountains where he first saw the light. Like Plato and many another wise man of the past, his message will live in his disciples, and grow brighter, and more necessary with the advancement of time. It was in such a cabin that Lincoln was born in the Kentucky wilds that Jacob Huff was ushered into being in Clinton County, Pennsylvania, on January 31, 1851. His father was John Huff, a typical backwoodsman, sturdy, brave, and good natured. His mother was a German girl, Eve Kalmbach, whose parents had left the Rhine country and cleared a homestead high among lonely Pennsylvania hills. His father’s mother was Elizabeth Walker, of Scotch-Irish ancestry, and from her came the strain of humor, and perseverance that did so much to weld his destiny into a successful whole. His mother is described as kindly and intelligent, with a mystic side to her nature, observable in her distinguished son’s traits of sentiment and tenderness. From earliest youth Jacob Huff knew little but the most grinding toil. His first occupation, however, was rather pleasurable, and he always liked to reminisce on the subject. In 1864, Colonel James Williams Quiggle, of McElhattan, directly across the Susquehanna from Jacob’s mountain home, had conceived the idea of starting an “American Tea Industry.” It is a known fact that the Pennsylvania mountains produce a tea plant that rivals in flavor the choicest product of Japan. Thousands of acres of wild lands were either bought or optioned, and a tea house after a Japanese design was erected on a plateau back of the smaller of the two McElhattan mountains. Men and boys in considerable numbers were engaged to pick, sort, and dry the leaves, and little Jacob hearing of the work, tramped down from the high mountains and started for the “tea camp,” his first situation away from home. Darkness had come on soon after he reached McElhattan, and he spent the night with a family who lived at the “X Roads,” there meeting the black-haired, black-eyed young girl with the cameo face who played such an important part in the life of his dear, though older friend in years, the gifted poet, Montgomery Quiggle. He was given a chance at the tea camp, which was often visited by the genial Col. Quiggle. This was probably the first man of education he had met at close range, and his interest and politeness to the small tea-picker lingered as one of the pleasantest of his earlier memories. Col. Quiggle, it may be said, was a fine type of the old fashioned gentleman of Scotch-Irish stock, always brimming over with good humor, but with that undercurrent of seriousness inherent to his race. Winter coming on, the work was suspended, and the merry company back of McElhattan mountain was forced to separate. Once on his own responsibility, the desire to earn money and see the world led the young lad to occupations of various kinds. Once he trudged many miles to Leetonia, having heard of work in a lumber camp, but was rejected because he was too young. He did not idle around the shanties, but immediately started for home. A snowstorm began, and evening closed in on him. He saw what he thought was a huge blackened stump, and leaned against it for much needed rest. There was a grunt and a growl, and a four hundred pound bear shook him off, and he sprawled in the snow. Another time he had worked in a logging camp at the head of Young Woman’s Creek, and with his purse of savings, was on his way to Youngwomanstown, now misnamed North Bend. It was sunset, and he heard a screech like a tormented woman, far up on the steep slope of one of the denuded mountains. His quick eye showed it to come from a panther, skulking along in search of its evening meal. Jacob walked faster, and as he did so the animal quickened its pace. For miles it seemed to trail him, but lacked the courage to come down from the ridge. Finally with the lights of the settlement in sight, it uttered a despairing yell, and was heard from no more. At other times he worked in lumber camps, bark jobs, on railroads, highways, farms, and gardens. Every man or woman he met had a life story that interested him, these were the romances he read. His retentive mind became stored with a mass of unusual facts and impressions, which he thought over and over, figuring out the whys and wherefores when his companions were asleep. He had not gone to school a full term in his life, but his teachers, Charles Hamilton and Benjamin Langdon, were worthy men and he absorbed much from them. Despite his brief schooling he could feel the harmonies of words and sentences like a trained rhetorician. He longed to express himself, but he was too shy for general conversation, and there seemed no opportunity to write. In Lock Haven, the county seat of Clinton County, was a local paper called “The Enterprise.” It had a correspondent in Gallauher Township where Jacob was living, but he fell sick, and the editor looked about for a substitute. Jacob applied for the position, and in February, 1876, in his twenty-fifth year he had the pleasure of seeing his first communications in print. They were well done, even for an old correspondent, and later he made bold to intersperse them with jokes, and pathetic little verses. He was so satisfactory that the regular correspondent never resumed the work, and he continued with increasing reputation, until in 1880 he took up the same task for the “Clinton Democrat,” a Lock Haven paper, which is still a power in the county. About this time love had entered his life, and he married Clara Bryan, a frail, pretty girl of sixteen, of Scotch-Irish stock, the ceremony taking place September 25, 1881. But the happy romance was to be short-lived, a girl baby, whom they called Rena, was born on April 7, 1883, and the young mother’s health failed rapidly afterwards. She died on July 26, the same year, and the motherless infant followed her to the grave on October 7. Jacob Huff never spoke much of this early bereavement, but some of his verses on taking Myron, his son, by his second marriage, to the graves of the first wife and child, are as beautiful and touching as exist in our language. In 1885 that enterprising and widely-read newspaper “_Grit_,” published in Williamsport, having long noted the humor and pathos of his work, engaged him to write weekly articles. He adopted the _nom de plume_ of “Faraway Moses,” and the results were overwhelmingly successful.

He was a clever artist, like so many writers, and drew the sketches each week for the illustrations. These were “worked up” by the staff illustrators and engravers, and became an important feature of the stories. Jacob Huff as a humorist was inimitable, but his immortality will rest with his serious work, his “human interest” articles. The popularity of “Faraway Moses” soon passed the bounds of the State, and his trite and witty sayings were quoted by staid farmers in their shacks in Kansas and the Dakotas. Meanwhile he established a modest “syndicate” and furnished short stories, verses, and jokes to a number of rural publications under various pen names. He conceived the idea of going West, and his travels took him into many States, where his experiences were varied, though he finally settled in Colorado. The results of this change of abode, which did not last long, found immortality in a small book of verses, published in 1895, by the Grit Company, entitled “Songs of the Desert.” Unfortunately the little book was not fully appreciated at the time, though it is destined to rank with the choicest productions of Eugene Field or James Whitcomb Riley. Meanwhile a great and ennobling influence had come to him, his romance and marriage with Charlotte Crawford, the brilliant daughter of Captain William H. and Priscilla Brown Crawford, of Chatham Run, Clinton County, who also for a short while resided in Colorado. The Crawfords were among the earliest settlers in the West Branch Valley, where they ranked high in social and political life. They had intermarried with the Whites, Allisons, Stewarts, and Quiggles, and each generation had added fresh lustre to the name. Jacob Huff’s marriage to Charlotte Crawford occurred at Grand Junction, Colorado, on October 11, 1892, and soon afterwards the happy couple returned to their beloved Pennsylvania. The influence of his devoted wife was broadening and inspiring, leading him into a wider sphere, and to the association with persons of distinction and rank. He had tasted life in all its bitterness, had mingled with the lowly, henceforth he was to see the brighter phases of existence. He never forgot the past, it had burned itself in too deeply. He saw the injustices and wrongs with an even clearer vision now that he understood how happily it was possible to live.

One son, Myron Reed Huff, named after the great liberal preacher, Myron Reed, whom Jacob warmly admired, was born on June 22, 1895, to bless the union. This boy, who is a happy blend of his talented parents, is himself an artist and author, and now contributes articles to the _Reading Times_ under the name of Jake Haiden, Jr. And now comes the story of his connection with the _Reading Times_, the last important event of his life, in whose service he was at the time of his untimely demise. Early in May, 1908, the writer of this article received an autograph copy of “Songs from the Desert,” and it quickened the desire, which he later learned was mutual, to meet the famous philosopher. At McElhattan on Memorial Day, of that year, he waded across a muddy road in front of the home of a mutual friend, Mrs. Anna S. Stabley, since deceased, and shook the hand of “Faraway Moses,” Jacob Huff. A long conversation ensued, and they became warm friends. The writer at that time was President of the _Daily Record_, at Bradford, Pa., and soon after his new associate began contributing short articles of timely interest to that paper. In September of that year, he assumed the same position with the _Times_, of Reading, and with the first issue under the new management began the celebrated “Jake Haiden” articles. They were instantly successful, and their appeal to all classes, their liberality, their toleration, their humanity, their pathos, made them noted and quoted all over the State. It is pleasant to recollect that Jacob Huff paid several visits to Reading while contributing to the _Times_. He was there on New Year’s Eve, 1909, and for New Year’s Day prepared an exceptionally strong editorial, for he also wrote many editorials, called simply “1910,” which attracted widespread attention. His last visit was late in January, 1910, when the management of the _Times_ entertained him as guest of honor at a dinner at the Wyomissing Club. The guests included the _Times_ staff, the publishers of the _Reading Telegram_, Capt. Henry D. and Herbert R. Green, who were always appreciative of his work, John D. Mishler, and others of equal note. There were after dinner speeches of a brief character, and the guest of honor closed the evening with a few remarks which seemed to come directly from his heart. With the early summer, the _Times_ conceived the idea of sending “_The Reading Times_ Philosopher,” as he was becoming generally known, to the far west in order to gain fresh impression for his powerful articles. Accompanied by his loving wife and son, and a close friend Prof. Betts, he started away gaily. From letters and postcards he must have enjoyed himself, and his note-book shows he had jotted down ideas for five hundred and fifty new articles or editorials. The party returned to Chatham Run on July 20, where the philosopher maintained a comfortable home, and on the night of July 31, 1910, he was seized with heart failure and died a few hours later. Prompt medical aid from Dr. Joseph M. Corson, his friend and neighbor, was of no avail, and the giant intellect and friendly spirit returned to its original source. His funeral was the occasion of a tremendous outpouring of people, interment being made at Jersey Shore. The press of the entire State echoed the grief of his relatives and friends and the great loss to the literary world. The religious beliefs of such a man are always interesting. His can be summed up in the final sentence of the little speech he delivered at Reading, “We look around and in everything we see God.” It was the religion of humanity, the creed of helpfulness and good cheer. He lived up to the letter of his faith, for when he died he left a host of friends and no enemies. He had steered his bark through the perilous waters of life without hurting anyone, or sullying himself. It was a beautiful life, but to those who knew him comes the ever recurring regret “Why could not he have been spared a few years longer?” There was so much to do, the world was crying for his help. Maybe the publication of this book containing some of his most characteristic opinions will give renewed energy to his disciples and send them into the thickest of the fight for the betterment of mankind. If he had a motto it must have been “I want to leave the world a little brighter, a little better, a little happier than when I came in it.” Who knows, to what extent he succeeded! Time alone will measure the fulness of his fame, but he should rank as a nature lover with Henry D. Thoreau, as a humanitarian with Theodore Parker, and as a poet with Eugene Field.

It is hoped his friends will get together and erect a memorial fountain or statue to his memory in Lock Haven, Jersey Shore or Williamsport, in the West Branch Valley whose people and scenery he loved so well.

HENRY W. SHOEMAKER.

September 4, 1911.

I PLEAD GUILTY

Before the law I stand a confessed criminal; before God I am only a weak man trying to do good toward my fellow man. I am guilty of helping a convicted man escape the clutches of man-made law. I couldn’t help it. The love I bear humanity welled up, when the young man told his story, and flooded my reason with the sunshine of sympathy; and I helped him get away.

Early one morning I went to my wood shed to get kindling to build the kitchen fire. In the dim light I thought I saw a man crouching in one corner. A second look convinced me that it was true—there was a man crouching there.

At first I was frightened, and thought of flight. It’s the first impulse that comes over me at sight of possible danger. And a strange man, in a strange place for that man to be, is danger enough to startle even a brave man, like my wife, for instance.

But on looking closer, and catching a full glance of the startled eyes, that looked up to me in fear and wild, beseeching hunger for something his heart yearned for, I changed my mind. Fear gave way to curiosity and sympathy. I said, “Good morning, brother—can I do anything for you this morning?”

At the sound of friendly words he stood up, and I recognized in him the young man who was tried and found guilty of forgery, and sentenced to 15 years in prison.

“I’ve escaped from jail, you see,” he said with a quiver in his voice, while his boyish blue eyes looked away down into my soul (if I still had it with me).

“So I see,” I replied. “And now, what are you going to do?”

“You heard me telling my story on the witness stand last week, didn’t you?” I nodded in the affirmative, and he went on. “Well, nobody believed me. They thought I was lying to save myself from prison. I told the court that in my confession, when first arrested and sent to jail, I had plead guilty to the charge of forgery, to save another man, because the father of that other man promised to get me out of prison if I would assume the crime and save the honor of his family.

“Before God that story is true. But the family I was bribed to save has no honor. From the moment that confession was wheedled out of me, I was forsaken, and left to the mercy of a jury whom I could not convince that I was innocent. Not one amongst them would believe that I had honor enough in my soul to assume the crime of another, because I am a cobbler’s son. Neither could I convince them that the rich merchant on B—d street had played false to me.

“I do not blame them. I could not believe it of that merchant myself, were I not the victim of his perfidy.

“This morning I concealed myself in a barrel of ashes and other trash and was hauled out of the jail yard by the darkie who drives the refuse cart. When we got safely away from the jail I rose up out of the trash barrel and scared that black man half to death. I took advantage of his fright and told him if he informed the officials of my escape I would swear that he was guilty of helping me away, for a price, and because I couldn’t pay him he would not let me off. He promised to keep quiet, so I ran through the fog and came here.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Because I know you appreciate life and love humanity. I knew you would believe my story, or at least believe enough of it to awaken your sympathy and think of the long time fifteen years must be—fifteen years taken out of my life! The time is too long, even if I were guilty. Won’t you try to think of how long fifteen years must seem to one so young as I, and then hide me for a day, and then help me get away tonight? Won’t you, for the love you bear humanity? Won’t you do so for my mother’s sake?”

“For God’s sake, stop!” I cried; and then I sat down on the chopping block and buried my face in my arms and tried to think. “Fifteen years is a long, long time to take out of a boy’s life! Fifteen years, without sight of a mother’s face, without flowers or the songs of birds; without sunshine and the dews that fall from heaven for all. Fifteen years shut up between black walls, and away from the smiles of women and little children. God, the sentence is too hard, the punishment too great! We can’t reform men by treating them as wild animals.”

I looked into his frank blue eyes and asked: “Tell me once more, truthfully, are you innocent?” And he answered: “Before God I swear that the story I told you is true!”

I plead guilty to helping a prisoner escape, and I feel no pangs of regret. Fifteen years between black walls is a long, long time, and the boy had a mother.

RELIGION OF HUMANITY

Near my home lived a poor, hard-working, but improvident man. He had a wife and seven children. The oldest was thirteen, and the baby but ten months old. They were poor. The husband and father was working only half time. There is a cause for the dull times, but the man did not know what it was. Those who do know are afraid to tell, for fear it may injure their business. “Great is Diana!”

One month ago the wife and mother was taken suddenly ill, and died in less than twenty-four hours. Everybody was shocked. It seemed so cruel and hard of Providence to remove that poor woman at a time when she was needed most. Many would have blamed Providence of cruelty, but they are afraid to do so.

No one knew the reason why this death was ordered. Some thought it was even a sin to make a study of the case, “lest they offend Providence.”

I was made to feel very sad when I heard of the sudden bereavement. Little eyes of helpless children looked out of the night shadows and made my sleep a nightmare. I looked down a long dark vista leading out into future years, and I saw barefooted and ragged children plodding hopelessly along, bearing burdens that should be carried by full grown men and women. I saw cruel winter lurking only a few weeks off, generating chill blasts of wind to pinch little brown legs and chapped hands, and I wondered what the people would do about it.

While I was wondering what was to be done, my wife and her near neighbor were already solving the problem. Old chests and boxes were ransacked for cast-off clothing—for clothes the children had outgrown, but which were almost as good as new. Neighbors were set to work ransacking chests and boxes and bureau drawers, and many little dresses and pantaloons that brought back tender memories were dug up and cast into the common fund of collected goods.

To this collection was added a few dollars’ worth of new goods, and thread, and the work of reconstruction began. The work was done in my home, while I worked in an adjoining room, and I never heard a more cheerful and happy set of women. Their hearts, their charity, their mother love were all in the work, and these are the tender forces that give inspiration to men and women who believe in the religion of humanity.

In my mind’s eye I could see those orphan children feasting their eyes on the warm flannel petticoats, the bright gingham dresses, the soft underwear and little aprons. I felt that it was good to be near this working gang in the great cause of living humanity, and I seemed to share the inspiration that gave such happiness to the ladies.

The minister’s wife came out and joined the workers, but suggested that they open each sewing session with prayer; to which a majority objected, saying they only had limited time to spare, and they believed the children would be clothed much sooner if the sewing continued uninterrupted.

These good women worked all day cheerfully, and reconstructed a big pile of children’s clothes, and when the meeting was about to break up the minister’s wife suggested that they kneel and return thanks.

“God will accept my weariness of body and contentment of soul,” replied the busiest woman in the bunch. “Prayer is a private business between two—between God and the worshipper; and between these two there are no secrets,” she continued. “Public prayer is the work we do in public, and for the people—for God’s creatures. We have been praying, tenderly and seriously all afternoon, while many who could have joined us in the good work, but refused, will be offering up worded prayers tonight and thanking their God—for what? for escaping real work? for the squandering of a few hours that might have been spent with religious profit in this work of charity? So long as I believe in the religion of humanity, just so long will I believe that a work for the bettering of humanity goes ahead of worded prayer.”

“You may be right, Mary,” replied the minister’s wife. “If all women prayed as cheerfully and willingly with their hands, as you have done this afternoon, humanity would be the better for it. Perhaps, after all, the uplifting of the human race is the greatest work we can perform. Perhaps the bringing of joy and happiness to hearts that have been filled with hopelessness and gloom, is the dearest work we can do for God. I am not a bigot, Mary; only I believe in both work and prayer.”

For a long time after the women left I sat and pondered. The little hungry eyes of the shivering orphans looked out of the gloaming, and I knew what their decision would be. Their hearts would go out to the workers. When the warm skirts and petticoats and little trousers shut out the winter’s blast, the work of the workers would be appreciated.

JOE BAILEY’S RIDE

People who enjoy all the great improvements of the age have not the least idea of the inconvenience and the hardships people endured previous to the discoveries of the telegraph and the telephone. As an illustration of the conditions prevailing previous to the above discoveries, I will relate the story of Joe Bailey’s dangerous trip down the river on an ice floe, and his brother’s exciting ride on horse back from Jersey Shore, Pa., to Northumberland, a distance of fifty miles, to alarm the people and bring them to the rescue of his brother Joe.

The Baileys owned the island just southeast of Jersey Shore, which is still in the hands of the descendants of the Bailey family—Mrs. John S. Tomb, and Mrs. Carrothers. I do not know whether McGinnis, the historian of the West Branch Valley, mentioned this famous ride or not. I got the story from Captain William H. Crawford, who died several years ago at the age of seventy-seven years, and who was a boy at the time Joe Bailey went adrift on the ice floe. Crawford then lived with his father, Hon. George Crawford, two miles west of Jersey Shore.

It was in the spring, when a sudden rise in the river threatened to take the ice out of the streams. The Baileys had a small flat boat in the river which they plied between the island and Jersey Shore. It was still in the river when the early spring freshet came, and was in danger of being carried away with the heavy floe of ice. To save the flat, Joe Bailey and another man took a team of oxen and went to haul the flat out of the stream. While Joe was on the flat fastening a chain to a ring the ice suddenly broke up and crowded down upon the place, tearing the boat from the landing and sending the young man adrift on the ice.

His brother on the Jersey Shore side of the river stood horrified for a moment, and then fully realizing the importance of imminent action, borrowed a fast running horse and set out for Williamsport on a dead run. It was a race for life. Night was setting in and the weather turned suddenly bitter cold.

With horse and rider panting for breath, young Bailey reached Williamsport and alarmed the town. Many rushed to the bridge, but none were prepared to render service to the man going adrift on the ice. They could hear him shouting for assistance, but the flood bore him down upon them before they could secure a rope to drop down for Bailey to lay hold of and be lifted to the bridge.

Knowing that rescue was impossible, one thoughtful man removed his overcoat and dropped it down into the rushing boat, and received the freezing man’s grateful thanks.

Nothing daunted, young Bailey secured a fresh horse and struck out for Muncy, where another bridge spanned the Susquehanna river.

Again young Bailey reached the long bridge too late to secure help. Joe passed under the bridge before the men could lower a rope. But the undaunted brother would not give Joe up to the horrible death that awaited him somewhere down the roaring, rushing, grinding gorge. No human aid could reach him until he came to the bridge at Northumberland, so the brother secured a third horse and dashed away to the rescue again. No other ride through darkness and danger equalled that ride, except the ride of Paul Revere. And poor Joe’s awful ride in the rushing ice gorge could not be surpassed for danger and loneliness by any of the dangerous rides noted by historians and sung of by the poets.

During the ice floe in the West Branch of the Susquehanna river the current is extremely rapid and the brother dashing away on horseback knew full well that no time must be lost if he reached the Northumberland bridge in time to save Joe. This was the last chance. No other bridge could be reached on horseback in time for a rescue. There was no railroad then, no telegraph line, and the most rapid means of communication was by horseback.

Can you blame young Bailey then for urging the horse to the utmost speed? When the animal slowed up young Bailey laid on the lash and urged it to even faster speed. He and the horse could alone rescue the frantic man adrift on the ice floe. All those who knew of Joe Bailey’s peril were left far behind. The people of Northumberland would know nothing until young Bailey arrived. On and on he dashed, arriving at the town exhausted and sore from his long, hard ride.

The town was alarmed, and a score of boatmen and old river men rushed to the bridge, but not forgetting long ropes with nooses prepared at the end. Thank God he had not passed yet! They could hear him calling for help far up the stream. When near the bridge they called to him to be ready and slip the nose of the rope under his arms. Quick! Joe Bailey is safely tied in the loop! Up with the poor fellow! Safe! Thank God! The two brothers clasp each other in their strong arms, the one softly whispering: “Joe! Oh, Joe!”

THE OTHER MAN’S BABY

It’s a very easy matter to give away the other man’s baby, but not so easy when it comes to parting with our own. Organized charity does a whole lot for the unfortunate, but often does it in the wrong way. The mothers who are active in organized charity are too ready to separate parents from their children, never thinking for a moment what a loss it is to both parents and children to be thus separated. The only excuse for separating parents from charity children, is the economy. It is cheaper. Charity using painful economy to a painful extent.

I believe it is better, where it is possible, to allow parents the society of their children, and children the society of their parents, even if charity is asked to step in and keep the wolf from the door. It’s better for the parents, I’m sure. If anything will make a man or woman better, the society of their own children must surely come first in the elevating influence.

In my own individual case I can notice the self-improvement since I have a child to look up to me with trusting eyes and feel the tight clasp of his little hand. “A child shall lead them.” The man who wrote this line had the love and power of a child’s influence in his mind. We are all benefitted and made kindlier and more loving in the society of children—and especially our own children.

Only a few weeks ago an old school-mate of mine lost his wife, leaving him with a family of seven small children, including a baby girl of only ten months. The charitable mothers of the neighborhood took an interest in the poor man’s affairs, and began to collect clothing for the little motherless orphans and fit them out for school. They all thought the bereaved man could get a housekeeper much easier if the baby were out of the way, and they began to look around to secure a good home for her. They all agreed on that point—it was to be a good home for the baby, with kind people.

I was present when the committee of charitable women met at the poor man’s house to inform him that they had found a home for Baby Ruth. I shall never forget the look of pain that flashed into his eyes at the mention of finding a home for his baby. He was too full for words, but he picked the baby up from where she was playing at his feet with a yarn ball and string, and as he pressed her to the bosom of his coarse blouse I saw the tears overflow from his grief stricken eyes and run unrestrained down his rough cheeks.

After a few moments of silence he mastered his feelings and thanked the ladies for taking an interest in his children, but hugged the baby again and said: “But little Ruth is my baby! She was Mary’s baby! The last kisses and caresses of my poor dead wife were given to our baby—her baby. How can I put her away so soon after Mary’s death? She’s so small and dependent—must I begin the separation of my family away down at the bottom—away down with the weakest and smallest—with the baby—the one dearest to the mother who is now dead?”

The spokeswoman of the crowd told him how it would be best for the baby, and for him, to find it a good home, with kind people, who would care for it “and give it all the comforts of life.”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, “I know you mean it all for the best, and I could agree with you if—if it were some other father’s baby we were discussing, and not my baby—Mary’s baby—the last of our family to feel the loving caress of her embrace.

“Is it a crime that I am poor and wifeless, and my children are orphans? Can I cease to love my children because I am poor and they are motherless? They have been a great comfort and pleasure to me. I love their prattling voices; the sound of the little toy cart, as baby drags it across the floor, is sweeter music than the tones of the pipe organ down in the fashionable church.

“Shut your eyes to the squalor and rags you see here, and let your minds go back to your own homes, and recall the sound of the little tin wagon, loaded with tin soldiers and rag dolls, your own children used to pull through the house; and picture yourself standing at the gate after parting with your favorite child. Picture the scene, as the strange person carries your baby away, with her child face turned appealingly towards you, and you make no effort to bring her back to your arms and your heart.

“Would you, my good and kind women, who mean only good towards me and my children—would you call this a picture of civilization—a scene amongst enlightened people, or would you dream of it forever afterward as a picture of hell?”

THE PATHOS OF HUMOR

The average reader of newspapers and magazines imagines that humorous writers are always funny, and always saying funny things. Nothing could be farther from the real facts. The humorous side of humanity while wading through every day events, likewise sees the pathetic side. The pathos of life makes the shade and shadow of life’s picture, while the funny features make the humorous pictures—the cartoons and exaggerations.

I know a little story connected with the work of a humorous writer, so full of pathos that one can but wonder how he could write of the humorous side of life while sitting in the very presence of death.

During the days of his severest struggles for recognition (and bread) his wife’s aged father was taken ill, and the doctor said it was only a matter of a few weeks or days with the kind old man, and then his struggles on the earth would be over. And through all the nursing and watching the young author was obliged to grind out his “stuff” for the publishers who kept the wolf from his door.

One night the faithful daughter could endure the strain and loss of sleep no longer, and was obliged to go to bed, leaving only her author husband to watch at the bedside of the dying father, and to grind out his sketch for the next issue of the paper.

It was hard to forget the man who was passing over the dark stream and concentrate his mind on some ridiculous phase of life, but this he must do, for he needed yet a humorous anecdote to round out the line of argument he was introducing—that men are more truthful than their dreams. He was attempting to prove that men, while in the act of dreaming a lie, would tell the truth, if subject to speaking out loud in their sleep.

But humorous ideas were slow about coming, and he leaned over, with his face buried deep in his hands, and tried to think. All of a sudden he recalled an incident of real life, that would serve to complete his story, but before he could take up his pencil the sick man brightened up and remarked:

“Pretty hard to write scenes from the funny side of life, while waiting on some one to die!”

“’Tis that, father,” replied the young man tenderly; “but I just now recall an incident from the life of old Jim McGrabber that will finish the sketch.”

“Poor fellow!” softly exclaimed the dying man. “I pity you, my boy. It is more than most men are obliged to do. But don’t mind me. Even if I pass away while you are working, I will know that you are only doing your duty. Besides, my boy, it softens death to me to feel that others can forget it while it hovers so near. And in encouraging you to go on with your work, I hope to leave the impression behind that dying men can remain interested in the triumphs and achievements of life, even though they are old and feeble and their heart liable to stop forever without a moment’s warning. Go on with your work, and I will try to sleep.”

And then, after giving the old man a cool sip of water, and fixing his pillow more comfortable, he sat down and wrote the anecdote that was to complete his sketch.

“Timothy McGrabber always kept a private jug in his cellar, but was only allowed two jiggers of whiskey a day. If detected in taking a third or fourth drink, by his good old wife, she proceeded at once to pull his gray hair vigorously until he would promise to do so no more.

“One Sunday morning in mid-summer the good old wife went to church very early, leaving Tim to follow when ready to do so. This was Tim’s opportunity, so instead of two jiggers from the beloved jug, he took four—four big ones, and then followed the old lady to the church, singing softly and gleefully to himself as he walked cheerfully along.

“Arrived at church he sat down near the open window, and his system cleared of waste material and a painful conscience, he soon dropped off to sleep. A young kitten climbed in the window, took an exploring expedition out along the back of the seat, climbed up Tim’s passive arm and began to smell his whiskers. Scenting nothing dangerous, the kitty jumped to the top of his bald head and sat down to observe the house.

“A wasp flew by, and kitty attempted to catch it, lost her equilibrium and was falling backwards when she grabbed at Tim’s straggling locks of hair with both front feet and began to climb back to her lofty perch again; then the congregation was startled by Tim’s loud expostulations:

“‘Hey, Nora! that’s anuff! Pon me sowl oi only tuck four little nips from th’ joog, and bedad yee’r pulling all th’ hair out av me head! And how the divil did yee’s foind it out, anyhow, because oi wint down cellar in th’ dark and drank wid me oyes shut!’”

The author smiled at the bit of humor, and turned to the bed with a sigh of relief—only to discover that the old man had died while he wrote.

THE PINE CREEK TRAGEDY

Love in a lumber camp is as full of romance as love in a king’s court; for wherever love sets up her throne the world must bow down and recognize the Queen of Hearts. Jack Cleveland had been Rhoda Carson’s accepted lover ever since she came to be cook’s assistant in the big camp run by Reuben Harris, and this was her second winter in the camp. They expected to get married when they went back to civilization in the spring.

In January Walter Jackson, of Maine, came to work on the job, and Rhoda was fairly hypnotized by his manly beauty and robust health. Before the first week was out Jack saw how things were going, but still hoped Rhoda would get over her infatuation and come back to her old love. But Rhoda quarreled with Jack deliberately and after due meditation. She even insinuated that she would be happier if he left the job.

Poor Jack was awfully broken up over the affair, and would have gone away with his broken heart, but he was foreman and couldn’t leave his employer until after the drive was out of the creek. For two months previous to the spring flood Rhoda did not speak to Jack, but spent a great many Sundays playing checkers with Walter in the big dining room, and her merry laughter went straight to poor Jack’s heart. He had given her up, but his love for her was greater than ever before.

The day the flood came, and they were starting the big jams of logs far up the creek, Rhoda stood on the high bank near the camp to watch the logs sluice through the narrow channel; for at this point the creek cut through a rise of ground, with banks of red clay on both sides rising as much as twelve feet above the water. It was very exciting to watch the great logs dart through this narrow channel and pitch over the falls 200 feet further down the stream.

While she watched, a great mass of logs came sweeping down the stream and jammed at the head of the narrow channel. Other logs piled up against the jam. Then the men came and boldly walked out on the tumbled jam and tried to pry it loose with their cant hooks. All at once the great jam started, and the men ran back over the logs to a low place in the bank and came ashore. No, not all the men came ashore, for Walter Jackson made a mis-step and fell with one leg pinned between two logs.

It was lucky for Walter that the jam stopped before reaching the falls, for he was unable to extricate himself, and would surely have gone over and lost his life. Even now he must have assistance before the jam started again, which was sure to occur, for the water was rising so fast behind the logs that it must surely break loose in a few minutes. The danger was so great that none of the men would venture on the jam again, and Walter was given up by those who stood helplessly on the bank and waited for the end.

At this moment Jack Cleveland came upon the scene and saw his rival lying helplessly out on the logs. Did a gleam of triumph flash through his heart? No one will ever know, for Rhoda came up to him and shouted in his ear: “Can you save him, Jack?” Ah, did he catch a gleam of the old time love in her blue eyes? And was it this that urged him on?

Taking a cant hook from one of the men, he leaped down upon the creaking and surging logs and carefully walked down to where Walter lay. With a strong pry on the log that pinned his rival fast, he parted the logs, then took hold of the prostrate man and lifted him to his feet. But his leg was injured so badly that Walter could not walk. Dropping his cant hook, Jack picked Walter up and staggered with his heavy load toward the bank. The men reached down and took Walter by the arms and were lifting him to safety when the great jam started. They saved Walter, but Jack was moving on with the logs!

Rhoda saw his danger and ran a few rods further down the stream, threw herself on the ground and reached far down to give Jack her hands. In his desperation he lay hold of them with a firm grasp and Rhoda braced herself for a mighty pull. But she was now too far over the bank to gain her poise again, and, with a scream that sounded above the roar of the water, she pitched down upon the head of her jilted lover, and together they went over the falls. He was holding her in his arms when they went over, and then the terrible jam of logs dashed down upon them, while the horrified men on the bank looked helplessly into each other’s eyes and groaned with mental pain.

In the village graveyard there are two stones standing side by side, where an old woodsman, now bent with age, visits every spring and places a bunch of flowers between the two. It is Walter Jackson. When he goes away the curious people go to the spot and read the card attached to the flowers: “Jack and Rhoda—They died for me. Even the gods could do no greater thing.”

THE HOMESICK BOY

“Way down upon de Suanee river,
Far, far away.
Dah’s whar my heart am turning ebber,
Dah’s whar de ole folks stay.”

Foster surely knew what it was to be homesick when he wrote those lines. He knew the heart-aches of a homesick boy. What difference whether the homesick boy is white or black? The heart-aches are just the same; the longings just as sad, the memories just as sweet, the absent parents just as sacred, the absent brothers and sisters just as dear. That song makes the greatest appeal to human hearts for sympathy of any song ever sung—sympathy for the black or white boy obliged to go away from home and leave those he loves best on earth.

In my mind’s eye I see Foster’s little black boy who is sold into slavery and driven far away from the banks of the Suanee river to the cotton fields of the Southwest. Perhaps not one soul in all the world, besides his mother and little brothers, ever gave the poor slave boy a single thought after he was driven out of sight of the old cabin home. Other boys going away from home—white boys of those days, had all the world before them; but the poor slave boy had only his chains and his broken heart.

I see him lying in his hard bed of straw at night, with the storms howling around the cabin and the fading fire sending out only a few feeble rays of light—I see the homesick lad lying with his face buried in his hands and threading the old paths that lead up to his mother’s cabin through his mind. He sees the dear old river and the wild fowls resting on the bosom of the water. He sees his dear old mother sleeping in the old familiar bed where he lay when a baby. He sees his younger brother sleeping on the bed of straw near the hearth, his black face turned up for the moon beams to write lines of tenderness and love on each well remembered cheek. Outside the humble door the shaggy watchdog watches over the family that owns nothing but their wrongs.

And, with my mind on that homesick boy, I hear him sobbing, while the coarse sleeve of his soiled shirt absorbs the bitter tears that are known only to the great God who has commanded every one to love his neighbor as himself. In his ears the hum of the bees is still heard, and the music of his father’s banjo comes back on the wings of memory, like the odor of funeral-smelling flowers coming back from the grave of his buried hopes. The darkie boy at his saddest best.

The homesick boy of Foster’s song is not the bad nigger, full of nigger gin and hatred and evil intentions. The slave boy in whom you see only centuries of wrongs and oppressions is the picture in Foster’s immortal song.

Oh, the world would be better if every one had experienced a season of homesick longings, and cried themselves to sleep with the image of absent loved ones painted on their mind with the brush of tenderness. Better if all had wrongs to remember, and oppressions to leave scars on their souls that would make them feel kinship towards all the unfortunate who must suffer and bear their burdens alone.

It is a well known sociological fact that those who suffer hardships and privations have more tender feelings for the poor and unfortunate, than those who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and never intermingled with the people of the lower world. Of course, there are exceptions, but they are few. When you find a wealthy person who feels charitable and kind towards all the world, that person has suffered heart-aches, too. He wants the sympathy of those who have suffered like he has. There is a fraternal feeling in his heart for the unfortunate, planted there by his own heart-aches and watered with his own tears. A man who has never known a heart-ache, never gives a single thought to the homesick boy who longed for his Suanee river home.

FRIENDS WHO PASS IN THE DARK