Part 7 (2/2)

”Those were wonderful years, Happy, wonderful; and I have the satisfaction o' knowin' that I did them about as much good as they did me. Their hearts had been wrapped up in the boy, and he must have been a fine feller; but just when he had been promoted out o' the grammar grade at the head of his cla.s.s, he had took the scarlet fever an'

died. I wasn't used to kindness when I went there; so I never noticed 'at they kept me out o' the inner circle o' their hearts at first. I called the little woman Mrs. Carmichael for some time; but one day after I'd brought home a good report from school, I called her this, and she spoke to me sharp-I never knew any soft-hearted person in the world who got so much solid satisfaction out of actin' cross as she did. Well, she spoke to me sharp, and sez: 'John Carmichael, why don't you call me Mother?'

”I looked into her face, and it didn't look old any longer, and the sad look had left her eyes, and they were black and snappy an' full o'

life; so I tried it; and we both broke into tears, but they were tears o' joy; and then he insisted that I call him Dad, and we became a family; and about the happiest one in the world, I reckon.

”I rode the hosses bareback, shot hawks with my rifle, picked berries, did a lot o' ch.o.r.es, and worked hard with my books. It was a full, round life with lots of love and happiness in it, and I grew, body and mind and spirit, as free and natural as the big oak trees in the woods pasture.

”Mr. Carmichael had looked up my blood father and had done what he could for him; but it was no use, and one winter's morning he was found frozen in an alley. I didn't learn of it until the next June when he took me down to the city cemetery where my father and mother lay side by side. I did feel downcast as we all do in the presence of death; but it wasn't my real father and mother who were lyin' there beneath the quiet mounds. Fatherhood and motherhood are somethin' more than mere physical processes. The real fathers and mothers are those who put the best part o' their lives into makin' the big, gloomy world into a tender home for _all_ the little ones; and after my visit to the graveyard I felt drawn even closer to Dad and Mother than I had before.

”Children ought to have dogs and hosses and plenty of air and soil about 'em, Happy. We don't learn from preachin', we learn from example; and we can learn a heap from the animals. We talk about our sanitary systems; but we allus mean the sanitary systems outside our bodies. Now, the animals have sanitary systems, but they are inside their own skins, where they rightly belong. Look at the beautiful teeth of a dog-These come from eatin' proper food at the proper time and in proper quant.i.ties. If a dog isn't hungry, the dog won't eat. If a child isn't hungry, it is fed candy in a lot o' cases, and this is downright wicked. Of course the animals find it hard to live, crowded up the way man allus fixes things; but as a rule animals are temperate and clean, patient and honest, wise and strong; and I wish we'd use 'em more as instructors for the young. Most mothers think a dog's tongue is dirty-Why, a dog's tongue is chemically clean, and healin'

in its action; while the human mouth is generally poisonous-ask a dentist.

”And a cow's breath, after she has rolled in with sweetly solemn dignity from the clover field-Ah, that's a pleasant memory! I'll venture to say 'at mighty few monarchs have been as worthy o' bein'

kissed before breakfast, as Nebukaneezer was while he was undergoin'

punishment for his sins. I had gone to that farm with my soul all stunted and gnarly; but it straightened out and shot its little stems up toward the blue, the same as the stalks o' corn did.

”All I had as a start was a love of animals; and this is why I allus try to find the one soft spot in a man's nature-Even if it's a secret vice, it is something to work on. This is what makes such a problem of Tyrrel Jones. I can't find out a single soft place in him; but I'm goin' to get into the heart of him yet, if I can find the way.

”Well, Dad and Mother pa.s.sed away within a week of each other a short time after I had been graduated. I had made up my mind to stay on the farm with 'em as long as they stayed; although all sorts of voices were callin' to me from the big outer world; but their daughter lived in the city, and had been weaned away from the farm, so she sold it, and I started on my pilgrimage.

”They had left me an income of three hundred and fifty dollars a year; and I determined to go to college. When I thought of how rich and full my own life had been made, after its stunted beginning, I wanted to do all I could to make the whole earth like that farm had been, and it seemed to me that the best way was to become a priest of the Lord. I tried my best; but I have been consid'able of a failure, Happy. Now, I hardly know where I stand. I am sort of an outcast now, and just doing what seems best on my own hook.

”A lot of my ideals have been lost, a lot of my hopes have faded, a lot of my work has seemed like sweeping back the waves of the sea; but for all I have lost, new things have taken their place, and I have never lost my faith in the Lord. Now, I am weak in doctrine and a stranger to dogma; and the things for which I fight with all my soul and heart and strength, are kindliness and decency.

”As long as one bein' in the world is cold or hungry or diseased, every other bein' is liable to become hungry and cold and diseased.

What I am fighting for is a world without poverty. Most o' the ills of life spring from poverty, and poverty is the result of selfishness and greed. The earth is reeking with riches, but its bounty is not divided fairly.

”Happy, if I could only hold up the Lord, so that all men might see the beauty and fullness of Him, the glory and grandeur of His simple life and His majestic self-sacrifice, the fleeting cheapness of material things would sink to their real value, and we would all become one great family, workin' together in peace and contentment.

Now, go on to sleep.”

It was purty late by this time sure enough, and I fell asleep soon after this; but I awakened durin' the night and found myself alone. It was cold when I stuck my nose out from under the tarp, but it was a wonderful night, clear and still, with the stars swingin' big and bright just above my reach.

As I lay there, I heard Friar Tuck singin' softly to himself out where the trail dipped down into the valley:

”The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet: I do not ask to see The distant scene,-one step enough for me.”

I had never heard his voice so wonderfully beautiful before; but, my stars, the sadness of it made me choke! It wasn't just a song, it was a cry; and I knew that it came from a lonely, bleedin' heart. I put my head under the covers again, puzzlin' over what was on his mind; but first thing I knew I was awakened by the glad voice of the old Friar Tuck, singin' his favorite mornin' hymn: ”Brightest and best of the sons of the morning”; so I cooked breakfast, and he went his way, and I went mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

<script>