Level 7 Reader 2.1

ai16491012355_Level 7 Reader Cover-PRINT-WE.
pdf 6 4/4/22 1:40 PM
LEVEL SEVEN
Favorite Classics
CM
MY
CY
CMY
SKU 394
© 2017 Jenny Phillips | goodandbeautiful.com
All rights reserved. This book may be printed or copied for use within your home or
immediate family once it has been downloaded directly from goodandbeautiful.com by
the person who will be using it. This file may not be shared electronically or posted on the
internet. Copies that have been printed at home or at a printing company may not be resold.
Greene, Homer. The Blind Brother: A Story of the Pennsylvania Coal Mines.
New York: T. Y. Crowell & Company, 1887.
Ropes, Mary E. The Story of Mary Jones and Her Bible. New York: American
Tract Society, 1892.
Spyri, Johanna. Toni, the Little Wood-carver. Translated by Helen B. Dole. New
York: T. Y. Crowell & Company, 1920.
Spyri, Johanna. Moni the Goat Boy and Other Stories. Translated by Edith F.
Kunz. New York: Ginn & Company, 1906.
Tolstoy, Leo. What Men Live By and Other Tales. Translated by L. and A.
Maude. Boston: The Stratford Company, 1918.
Lewis, Mary Rea. "Dick Whittington" in Entrances and Exits: A Book of Plays
for Young Actors, selected by Phyllis Fenner and Avah Hughes. New York:
Dodd, Mead, and Company, 1961.
Table of Contents
The Blind Brother. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Mary Jones and Her Bible. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Toni the Woodcarver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Rudi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Short Stories by Leo Tolstoy. . . . . . . . . 175
Moni the Goat Boy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
Dick Whittington and His Cat . . . . . . . . . 227

The Blind
Brother
A Story of the Pennsylvania Coal Mines
Written By Homer Greene

Edited by Jenny Phillips
First published in 1887
Text has been modified and updated with

modern-day grammar and spelling
© 2017 Jenny Phillips

Chapter 1
Lost in the Mine
M any years ago there was no busier mine in the Pennsylvania coal
fields than the Dryden Slope Mine. Two hundred and thirty men and
boys went by the slope into it every morning and came out from it every
night. They were simple and unlearned, these men and boys, rugged and
rude, rough and reckless at times, but they were also manly, heroic, and
kindhearted.
At the time this story opens, workers at other mines in the area were on
strike, and they wanted the Dryden miners to strike as well. But the Dryden
miners had no cause of complaint against their employers; they earned good
wages and were content. When persuasion did not work on the Dryden
miners, they were threatened, waylaid, beaten, and sometimes killed.
So the men in the Dryden Mine yielded, and soon, down the chambers
and along the headings, toward the foot of the slope, came little groups
leaving the mine, with dinner pails and tools, discussing earnestly, often
bitterly, the situation of their forced strike.
4 The Blind Brother
Fifteen or twenty departing miners were holding an especially animated

conversation. They were all walking in single file along the route by which
the mine cars went.
Where the route crossed from the airway to the heading, a door had been
placed, to be opened whenever the cars approached and to be shut as soon
as they had passed by.
That door was attended by a boy.
To this point the party had now come, and one by one they filed through
the opening, while Bennie, the door boy, stood holding back the door to let
them pass.
“Ho, Jack, take the door boy with you!” shouted someone in the rear.
The great, broad-shouldered, rough-bearded man who led the procession
turned back to where Bennie, apparently lost in astonishment at this
unusual occurrence, still stood with his hand on the door.
“Come along, lad!” he said.“Come along! You’ll have some play time now.”
“I can’t leave the door, sir,” answered Bennie. “The cars will be coming
soon.”
“You need not mind the cars. Come along with you, I say!”
“But I can’t go until Tom comes, anyway, you know.”
The man came a step closer. He had the frame of a giant. The others who
passed by were like children beside him. Then one of the men who worked
in the mine, and who knew Bennie, came through the doorway, the last in
the group, and said, “Don’t hurt the boy; let him alone. His brother will take
him out; he always does.”
All this time Bennie stood quite still, with his hand on the door, never
turning his head.
It was a strange thing for a boy to stand motionless like that and to look
neither to the right nor the left while an excited group of men passed by,
one of whom had stopped and approached him as if he meant him harm.
It roused the curiosity of “Jack the Giant,” as the miners called him, and
plucking his lamp from his cap, he flashed the light of it up into Bennie’s face.
The boy did not stir; no muscle of his face moved; even his eyes remained
open and fixed.
“Why, lad! Lad! What’s the matter with you?” There was tenderness in
the giant’s voice as he spoke, and tenderness in his bearded face as Bennie
answered, “Don’t you know? I’m blind.”
Lost in the Mine 5
“Blind! And working in the mines?”

“Oh, a body doesn’t have to see to attend the door, you know. All I have to
do is to open it when I hear the cars coming and to shut it when they get by.”
“That’s true, but you did not get here alone. Who helped you?”
Bennie’s face lighted up with pleasure, as he answered, “Oh, that’s Tom!
He helps me. I couldn’t get along without him; I couldn’t do anything
without Tom.”
The man’s interest and compassion had grown as the conversation
lengthened, and he was charmed by the voice of the child. It had in it that
touch of pathos that often lingers in the voices of the blind. He would hear
more of it.
“Sit you, lad,” he said. “Sit you, and tell me about Tom, and about yourself,
and all you can remember.”
Then they sat down on the rude bench together, with the roughly hewn
pillar of coal at their backs, blind Bennie and Jack Rennie, the giant. While
one told the story of his blindness and his blessings and his hopes, the other
listened with tender earnestness, almost with tears.
Bennie told first about Tom, his brother, who was fourteen years old, two
years older than himself. Tom was so good to him, and Tom could see as
well as anybody. “Why,” Bennie exclaimed, “Tom can see everything!”
Then Bennie told about his blindness—how he had been blind ever since
he could remember. But there was a doctor, he said, who came up once
from Philadelphia to visit Major Dryden before the major died, and he had
chanced to see Tom and Bennie up by the mines, and the doctor had looked
at Bennie’s eyes and said he thought, if the boy could go to Philadelphia and
have treatment, that sight might be restored.
Tom asked how much it would cost, and the doctor said, “Oh, maybe a
hundred dollars,” and then someone came and called the doctor away, and
they had never seen him since.
But Tom resolved that Bennie should go to Philadelphia, if ever he could
save money enough to send him.
Tom was a driver boy in Dryden Slope, and his meager earnings went
mostly to buy food and clothing for the little family. But he began now to
lay aside for Bennie the dollar or two that he had been accustomed to spend
each month for himself.
Bennie knew about it, of course, and rejoiced greatly at the prospect in
6 The Blind Brother
store for him, but he expressed much discontent because he, himself, could
not help to obtain the fund which was to cure him. Then Tom, with the aid
of the kindhearted mine superintendent, found employment for his brother
as a door boy in Dryden Slope, and Bennie was happy. It wasn’t absolutely
necessary that a door boy should see. If he had good hearing, he could get
along very well.
So every morning Bennie went down the slope with Tom and climbed
into an empty mine car, and Tom’s mule drew them, rattling along the
heading until they reached, almost a mile from the foot of the slope, the
doorway where Bennie stayed.
Then Tom went on, with the empty cars, up to the new tier of chambers
and brought the loaded cars back. Every day he passed through Bennie’s
doorway on three round trips in the morning, and three round trips in the
afternoon; and every day, when the noon hour came, he stopped on the
down trip and sat with Bennie on the bench by the door, and both ate from
one pail the dinner prepared for them by their mother.
When quitting time came, and Tom went down to the foot of the slope
with his last trip for the day, Bennie climbed to the top of a load and rode
out, or else, with his hands on the last car of the trip, walked safely along
behind.
“And Tom and me together have almost twenty dollars saved now!” said
the boy exultingly. “And we’ve only got to get eighty dollars more, and then
I can go and buy back the sight into my eyes; and then Tom and me, we’re
going to work together all our lives. Tom, he’s going to get a chamber and
be a miner, and I’m going to be Tom’s laborer until I learn how to mine, and
then we’re going to take a contract together and hire laborers and get rich,
and then—why, then Mommie won’t have to work any more!”
It was like a glimpse of a better world to hear this boy talk. The most
favored child of wealth that ever reveled seeing in the sunlight has had no
hope, no courage, no sublimity of faith, that could compare with those of
this blind son of poverty and toil. He had his high ambition, and that was to
work. He had his sweet hope to be fulfilled, and that was to see. He had his
earthly shrine, and that was where his mother sat. And he had his hero of
heroes, and that was Tom.
There was no quality of human goodness or bravery or excellence of any
kind that he did not ascribe to Tom. He would sooner have disbelieved all of
Lost in the Mine 7
his four remaining senses than have believed that Tom would say an unkind
word to Mommie or to him or be guilty of a mean act towards anyone.
Bennie’s faith in Tom was fully justified. No nineteenth century boy could
have been more manly, no knight of old could have been more true and
tender than was Tom to the two beings whom he loved best upon all the earth.
“But the father, laddie,” said Jack still charmed and curious; “where’s the
father?”
“Dead,” answered Bennie. “He came from the old country first, and then
he sent for Mommie and us, and when we got here, he was dead.”
“Ah, but that was awful sad for the mother! Took with the fever, was he?”
“No; killed in the mine. Top coal fell and struck him. That’s the way they
found him. We didn’t see him, you know. That was two weeks before me
and Tom and Mommie got here. I wasn’t but four years old then, but I can
remember how Mommie cried. She didn’t have much time to cry, though,
because she had to work so hard. Mommie’s always had to work so hard,”
added Bennie, reflectively.
The man began to move nervously on the bench. It was apparent that
some strong emotion was taking hold of him. He lifted the lamp from his
cap again and held it up close to Bennie’s face.
“Killed, said you—in the mine—top coal fell?”
“Yes, and struck him on the head. They said he didn’t ever know what
killed him.”
The brawny hand trembled so that the flame from the spout of the little
lamp went up in tiny waves.
“Where—where did it happen—in what place—in what mine?”
“Up in Carbondale. No. 6 shaft, I think it was. Yes, No. 6.”
Bennie spoke somewhat hesitatingly. His quick ear had caught the change
in the man’s voice, and he did not know what it could mean.
“His name, lad! Give me the father’s name!”
The giant’s huge hand dropped upon Bennie’s little one and held it in a
painful grasp. The boy started to his feet in fear.
“You won’t hurt me, sir! Please don’t hurt me; I can’t see!”
“Not for the world, lad; not for the whole world. But I must have the
father’s name. Tell me the father’s name, quick!”
“Thomas Taylor, sir,” said Bennie, as he sank back, trembling, on the
bench.
8 The Blind Brother
The lamp dropped from Jack Rennie’s hand and lay smoking at his feet.
His huge frame seemed to have shrunk by at least a quarter of its size, and
for many minutes he sat, silent and motionless, seeing as little of the objects
around him as did the blind boy at his side.
At last he roused himself, picked up his lamp, and rose to his feet.
“Well, lad, Bennie, I must be going. Goodbye to you. Will the brother
come for you?”
“Oh, yes!” answered Bennie, “Tom always stops for me. He hasn’t come
up from the foot yet, but he’ll come.”
The man turned away, then turned back again. “Where’s the lamp?” he
asked, “Have you no light?”
“No, I don’t ever have any. It wouldn’t be any good to me, you know.”
Once more the man started down the heading but, after he had gone a
short distance, a thought seemed to strike him, and he came back to where
Bennie was still sitting.
“Lad, I thought to tell you; you shall go to the city with your eyes. I have
money to send you, and you shall go. I—I—knew—your father, lad.”
Before Bennie could express his surprise and gratitude, he felt a strong
hand laid gently on his shoulder and a rough, bearded face pressed for a
moment against his own, and then his strange visitor was gone.
Down the heading, the retreating footsteps echoed, their sound swallowed
up at last in the distance, and up at Bennie’s doorway, silence reigned.
For a long time the boy sat pondering the meaning of the strange man’s
words and conduct. But the more he thought about it, the less able was he to
understand it. Perhaps Tom could explain it, though. Yes, he would tell Tom
about it. Then it occurred to him that it was long past time for Tom to come
up from the foot with his last trip for the day. It was strange, too, that the
men should all go out together that way; he didn’t understand it. But if Tom
would only come . . .
Bennie rose and walked down the heading a little way; then he turned
and went up through the door and along the airway; then he came back to
his bench again and sat down.
He was sure Tom would come. Tom had never disappointed him yet, and
he knew he would not disappoint him for the world if he could help it. He
knew, too, that it was long after quitting time, and there hadn’t been a sound
that he could hear in the mine for an hour, though he had listened carefully.
Lost in the Mine 9
After a while he began to grow nervous; the stillness became oppressive;

he could not endure it. He determined to try to find the way out by himself.
He had walked to the foot of the slope alone once, the day Tom was sick,
and he thought he could do it again.
So he made sure that his door was tightly closed, then he took his
dinner-pail and started bravely down the heading, striking the rails of the
mine car track on each side with his cane to guide him as he went along.
Sometimes he would stop and listen for a moment, if, perchance, he
might hear Tom coming to meet him or, possibly, some belated laborer
going out from another part of the mine. Then, hearing nothing, he would
trudge on again.
After a long time spent thus, he thought he must be near the foot of the
slope; he knew he had walked far enough to be there. He was tired, too, and
sat down on the rail to rest. But he did not sit there long; he could not bear
the silence—it was too depressing—and after a very little while, he arose
and walked on. The caps in the track grew higher. Once he stumbled over
one of them and fell, striking his side on the rail. He was in much pain for a
few minutes; then he recovered and went on more carefully, lifting his feet
high with every step, and reaching ahead with his cane. But his progress was
very slow.
Then there came upon him the sensation of being in a strange place. It
did not seem like the heading along which he went to and from his daily
work. He reached out with his cane upon each side and touched nothing.
Surely, there was no place in the heading so wide as that.
But he kept on.
By and by he became aware that he was going down a steep incline. The
echoes of his footsteps had a hollow sound, as though he were in some wide,
open space, and his cane struck one, two, three, props in succession. Then
he knew he was somewhere in a chamber, and knew, too, that he was lost.
He sat down, feeling weak and faint and tried to think. He remembered
that, at a point in the heading about two-thirds of the way to the foot, a
passage branched off to the right, crossed under the slope, and ran out into
the southern part of the mine where he had never been. He thought he must
have turned into this cross heading and followed it, and if he had, it would
be hard indeed to tell where he now was. He did not know whether to go on
or to turn back.
10 The Blind Brother
Perhaps it would be better, after all, to sit still until help should come,
though it might be hours, or even days, before anyone would find him.
Then came a new thought. What would Tom do? Tom would not know
where he had gone; he would never think of looking for him away off
here. He would go up the heading to the door, and not finding him there,
would think that his brother had already gone home. But when he knew
that Bennie was not at home, he would surely come back to the mine to
search for him; he would come down the slope; maybe he was, at that very
moment, at the foot; maybe Tom would hear him if he should call, “Tom!
Oh, Tom!”
The loudest thunderburst could not have been more deafening to the
frightened child than the sound of his own voice as it rang out through the
solemn stillness of the mine and was hurled back to his ears by the solid
masses of rock and coal that closed in around him.
A thousand echoes went rattling down the wide chambers and along the
narrow galleries and sent back their ghosts to play upon the nervous fancy
of the frightened child. He would not have shouted like that again if his life
had depended on it.
Then silence fell upon him; silence like a pall—oppressive, mysterious
and awful silence, in which he could almost hear the beating of his own
heart. He could not endure that. He grasped his cane again and started on,
searching for a path, stumbling over caps, falling sometimes, but on and
on, though never so slowly—on and on until, faint and exhausted, he sank
down upon the damp floor of the mine, with his face in his hands, and wept,
in silent agony, like the lost child that he was.
Lost, indeed, with those miles and miles of black galleries opening and
winding and crossing all around him, and he, lying prostrate and powerless,
alone in the midst of that desolation.
Chapter 2
The burned breaker
F or a long time Bennie lay there pitifully weeping. Then, away off
somewhere in the mine, he heard a noise. He lifted his head. By degrees
the noise grew louder; then it sounded almost like footsteps. Suppose it
were someone coming; suppose it were Tom! The light of hope flashed up in
Bennie’s breast with the thought.
But the sound ceased, the stillness settled down more profoundly than
before, and about the boy’s heart, the fear and loneliness came creeping
back. Was it possible that the noise was purely imaginary?
Suddenly, tripping down the passages, bounding from the walls, echoing
through the chambers, striking faintly, but, oh, how sweetly, upon Bennie’s
ears, came the well-known call, “Ben-nie-e-e-e!”
The sound died away in a faint succession of echoes.
Bennie sprang to his feet with a cry.
“Tom! Tom! Tom, here I am!”
Before the echoes of his voice came back to him, they were broken by the
sound of running feet, and down the winding galleries came Tom, as fast as
his lamp and his legs would take him, never stopping until he and Bennie
were in one another’s arms.
“Bennie, it was my fault!” exclaimed Tom. “Patsy Donnelly told me you
went out with Sandy McCulloch while I was up at the stables, so I went
away home, and Mommie said you hadn’t been there, and I came back to
find you, and I went up to your door and you weren’t there, and I called and
called and couldn’t hear an answer; and then I thought maybe you’d tried to
come out alone and got off in the cross heading and got lost, and . . .”
Tom stopped from sheer lack of breath, and Bennie sobbed out, “I did! I
did get lost and scared, and—and—Oh, Tom, it was awful!”
The thought of what he had experienced unnerved Bennie again, and
holding Tom’s hand, he sat down on the floor of the mine and wept aloud.
“There, Bennie, don’t cry!” said Tom soothingly. “Don’t cry! You’re found
now. Come, jump up and let’s go home; Mommie will be half crazy.”
It was touching to see the motherly way in which this boy of fourteen
consoled and comforted his weaker brother, and helped him again to his
feet. With his arm around the blind boy’s waist, Tom led him down through
the chambers, out into the south heading, and so to the foot of the slope.
It was not a great distance. Bennie’s progress had been so slow that,
although he had, as he feared, wandered off by the cross heading into the
southern part of the mine, he had not been able to get very far away.
They stopped to rest at the foot of the slope, and Bennie told Tom about
the strange man who had talked with him at the doorway. Tom could give
no explanation of the matter, except that the man must have been one of the
strikers. The meaning of his strange conduct he could no more understand
than could Bennie.
It was a long way up the slope, and for more than half the distance it was
very steep, like climbing up a ladder. Many times on the upward way, the
boys stopped to rest. Always when he heard Bennie’s breathing grow hard
and laborious, Tom would complain of being tired himself, and they would
turn about and sit for a few moments on a tie, facing down the slope.
Out at last they went into the quiet autumn night! Bennie breathed a long
sigh of relief when he felt the yielding soil under his feet and the fresh air in
his face.
Ah! Could he but have seen the village lights below him, the glory of the
sky and the jewelry of stars above him, and the half moon slipping up into
the heavens from its hiding place beyond the heights of Campbell’s Ledge,
he would, indeed, have known how sweet and beautiful the upper earth is,
even with the veil of night across it, compared with the black recesses of the
mine.
It was fully a mile to the boys’ home, but with light hearts and willing feet,
they soon left the distance behind them and reached the low-roofed cottage
where their anxious mother waited in hope and fear for the coming of her
children.
“Here we are, Mommie!” shouted Tom as he came around the corner
and saw her standing on the doorstep in the moonlight watching. Out into
the road she ran then and gathered her two boys into her arms, kissed their
grimy, coal-blackened faces, and listened to their oft-interrupted story, with
smiles and with tears, as she led them to her house.
But Tom stopped at the door and turned back.
The Burned Breaker 13
“I promised Sandy McCulloch,” he said, “to go over and tell him if I

found Bennie. He said he’d wait up for me and go and help me hunt him up
if I came back without him. It’s only just over beyond the breaker; it won’t
take twenty minutes, and Sandy will be expecting me.”
And without waiting for more words, the boy started off on a run.
It was already past ten o’clock, and Tom had not had a mouthful of
supper, but that was nothing in consideration of the fact that Sandy had
been good to him and would have helped him, and was, even now, waiting
for him. So, with a light and grateful heart, he hurried on.
He passed beyond the little row of cottages, of which his mother’s was
one, over the hill by a foot path, and then along the mine car track to the
breaker. Before him the great building loomed up, like some huge castle
of old, cutting its outlines sharply against the moon-illumined sky, and
throwing a broad black shadow for hundreds of feet to the west.
Through the shadow went Tom, around by the engine room where the
watchman’s light was glimmering faintly through the grimy window. He
went out again into the moonlight, up, by a foot path, to the summit of
another hill, along by another row of darkened dwellings, to a cottage where
a light was still burning, and there he stopped.
The door opened before he reached it, and a man in shirt sleeves stepped
out and hailed him.
“Is that you, Tom? And did you find Bennie?”
“Yes, Sandy. I came to tell you that we just got home. I found Bennie
down in the south chambers; he tried to come out alone and got lost. So I’ll
not need you, Sandy, but I give you the same thanks as if I did, and good
night to you!”
“Good night to you, Tom! I’m glad the lad’s safe with your mother. Tom,
you’ll not be afraid to be going home alone?”
Tom laughed. “Do I looked scared, Sandy? Give yourself no fear for me;
I’m afraid of nothing.”
Before Sandy turned in at his door, Tom had disappeared below the brow
of the hill. The loose gravel rolled under his feet as he hurried down, and
once, near the bottom, he slipped and fell.
As he rose, he was astonished to see the figure of a man steal carefully
along in the shadow of the breaker and disappear around the corner by the
engine room.
Tom went down cautiously into the shadow and stopped for a moment in
the track by the loading place to listen. He thought he heard a noise in there;
something that sounded like the snapping of dry twigs.
The next moment a man came out from under that portion of the breaker
with his head turned back over his shoulder, muttering, as he advanced
toward Tom, “There, Mike, that’s the last job of that kind I’ll do for all the
secret orders in the world. They put it on to me because I’ve got no wife nor
children, nor anybody to cry their eyes out, and I get in the prison for it. But
I’ve had the heart of me touched today, Mike, and I cannot do the like of this
again; it’s the last time, mind you, the last time. I—Mike!—Why, that’s not
Mike! Don’t you speak, lad! Don’t you whisper! Don’t you stir!”
The man stepped forward, a very giant in size, with a great beard floating
on his breast, and he laid his brawny hands on Tom’s shoulders with a grip
that made the lad wince.
Tom did not stir. He was much too frightened for one thing, much too
astonished for another. For, before the man had finished speaking, there
appeared under the loading place in the breaker a little flickering light,
and the light grew into a flame, and the flame curled around the coal-black
timbers and sent up little red tongues to lick the corner of the long, low
roof. Tom was so astounded that he could not speak, even if he had dared.
But this giant was standing over him, gripping his shoulders in a painful
clutch and saying to him, in a voice of emphasis and determination, “Do
you see me, lad? Do you hear me? Then I say to you, tell a single soul what
you’ve seen here the night, and the life of your’s not worth the dust in the
road. Whisper a single word of it, and the Molly Maguires will take terrible
revenge of you! Now, then, to your home! Run! And don’t you turn your
head or speak, or you shall wish you had been in the midst of the fire
instead.”
With a vigorous push, he sent Tom from him at full speed down the
track. Tom feared the Molly Maguires, a secret society responsible for a
string of violent attacks in the Pennsylvania coal fields.
But the boy had not gone far before the curiosity that overtook Lot’s wife
came upon him, and he turned and looked. He was just in time to see and
hear the sleepy watchman open the door of the engine-room, run out, give
one startled look at the flames as they went creeping up the long slant of
roof, and then make the still night echo with his cry of “Fire!”
Before twenty minutes had passed, the surrounding hills were alive with
people who had come to look upon the burning breaker.
The spectacle was a grand one.
For many minutes the fire played about in the lower part of the building,
among the pockets and the screens, and dashed up against the base of the
shaft-tower like lapping waves. Then the small square windows, dotting
the black surface of the breaker here and there up its seventy feet of height,
began to redden and to glow with the mounting flames behind them; a
column of white smoke broke from the topmost corner, little red tongues
went creeping up to the very pinnacle of the tower, and then from the
highest point of all, a great column of fire shot far up toward the onlooking
stars, and the whole gigantic building was a single body of roaring,
wavering flame.
It burned rapidly and brilliantly, and soon after midnight there was but a
mass of charred ruins covering the ground where once the breaker stood.
There was little that could be saved—the cars in the loading place, the
tools in the engine room, some loose lumber, and the household effects
from a small dwelling house near by—that was all. But among the many
men who helped to save this little, none labored with such energetic
effort, such daring zeal, such superhuman strength, as the huge-framed,
big-bearded man they called Jack Rennie.
@
The strike had become general. The streets of the mining towns were
filled with idle, loitering men and boys. The drinking saloons drove a brisk
business, and the merchants feared disaster. Tom had not told anyone as
yet of his adventure at the breaker on the night of the fire. He knew that
he ought to disclose his secret; indeed, he felt a pressing duty upon him to
do so in order that the crime might be duly punished. But the secret order
of Molly Maguires was a terror in the coal regions in those days; the torch,
the pistol, and the knife were the instruments with which it carried out its
desperate decrees, and Tom was absolutely afraid to whisper a word of what
he knew, even to his mother or to Bennie.
But one day the news went out that Jack Rennie had been arrested,
charged with setting fire to the Valley Breaker; and soon afterward a
messenger came to the house of the widow Taylor, saying that Tom was
wanted immediately in Wilkesbarre at the office of Lawyer Pleadwell.
Tom answered this summons gladly, as it might possibly afford a means

by which he would be compelled to tell what he knew about the fire, with
the least responsibility resting on him for the disclosure. But he resolved
that, in no event, would he speak anything but the truth.
After he was dressed and brushed to the satisfaction of his careful mother,
Tom went with the messenger to the railroad station, and the fast train soon
brought them into the city of Wilkesbarre, the county town of Luzerne County.
On one of the streets radiating from the court house square, they stopped
before a dingy-looking door on which was fastened a sign reading: “James
G. Pleadwell, Attorney-at-Law.”
Tom was taken, first, into the outer room of the law offices, where a man
sat at a table writing. Then, after a few moments, the door into an inner
apartment was opened, and he was called in there. This room was more
completely furnished than the outer one; there was a carpet on the floor,
and there were pictures on the walls; also there were long shelves full of
books, all bound alike in leather, all with red labels near the tops and black
labels near the bottoms of their backs.
At the farther side of the room sat a short, slim, beardless man, with pale
face and restless eyes, whom Tom recognized as having been in the mine
with the visiting strikers the day Bennie was lost; and by a round center
table sat Lawyer Pleadwell, short and stout, with bristly mustache and a
stubby nose on which rested a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
As Tom entered the room, the lawyer regarded him closely, and waving
his hand towards an easy chair, he said,“Be seated, my lad. Your name is—
ah—let me see.”
“Tom—Thomas Taylor, sir,” answered the boy.
“Well, Tom, you saw the fire at the Valley Breaker?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom. “I guess I was the first one that saw it.”
“So I have heard,” said the lawyer slowly. Then, after a pause, “Tom, have
you told anyone what you saw or whom you saw at the moment of the
breaking out of that fire?”
“I have not, sir,” answered Tom, wondering how the lawyer knew he had
seen anyone.
“Do you expect, or desire, to disclose your knowledge?”
“I do,” said Tom. “I ought to have told before; I meant to have told, but I
didn’t dare. I’d like to tell now.”
Tom was growing bold; he felt that he had kept the secret long enough
and that, now, it must come out.
Lawyer Pleadwell twirled his glasses thoughtfully for a few moments;
then he placed them deliberately on his nose and turned straight to Tom.
“Well, Tom,” he said, “we may as well be plain with you. I represent
Jack Rennie who is charged with starting the fire, and Mr. Carolan here
is officially connected with the order of Molly Maguires, in pursuance of
whose decree the deed is supposed to have been done. We have known, for
some time, that a boy was present when the breaker was fired. Last night we
learned that you were that boy. Now, what we want of you is simply this: to
keep your knowledge to yourself. This will be to your own advantage as well
as for the benefit of others. Will you do it?”
To Tom, the case had taken on a new aspect. Instead of being, as he
had supposed, in communication with those who desired to punish the
perpetrators of the crime, he found himself in the hands of the prisoner’s
friends. But his Scotch stubbornness came to the rescue, and he replied: “I
can’t do it, sir; it wasn’t right to burn the breaker, and the man that done it
ought to go to jail for it.”
Lawyer Pleadwell inserted a thumb into the armhole of his vest and
poised his glasses carefully in his free hand. He was preparing to argue the
case with Tom.
“Suppose,” said he, “you were a miner, as you hope to be, as your father
was before you, and a brutal and soulless corporation, having reduced your
wages to the starvation point, while its vaults were gorged with money,
should kick you, like a dog, out of their employ, when you humbly asked
them for enough to keep body and soul together. Suppose you knew that
the laws were made for the rich and against the poor, as they are, and that
your only redress, and a speedy one, would be to spoil the property of your
persecutors until they came to treat you like a human being, with rights
to be respected, as they surely would, for they fear nothing so much as the
torch; would you think it right for a fellow workman to deliver you up to
their vengeance and fury for having taught them such a lesson?”
The lawyer placed his glasses on his nose and leaned forward, eagerly,
towards Tom.
The argument was not without its effect. Tom had long been led to
believe that corporations were tyrannical monsters. But the boy’s inherent
sense of right and wrong was proof against even this misleading plea.
“All the same,” he said, “I can’t make out that it’s right to burn a breaker.
Why,” he continued, “you might say the same thing if it had been murder.”
Pleadwell saw that he was on the wrong track with this clear-headed boy.
“Well,” he said, settling back in his chair, “if peaceful persuasion will not
avail, I trust you are prepared, in case of disclosure, to meet whatever the
Molly Maguires have in store for you?”
“Yes,” answered Tom boldly, “I am. I’ve been afraid of them, and that’s
what’s kept me from telling; but I won’t be a coward anymore; they can do
what they’re a mind to with me.”
The lawyer was in a quandary, and Carolan shot angry glances at Tom.
Here was a lad who held Jack Rennie’s fate in his hands and whom neither
fear nor persuasion could move. What was to be done?
Pleadwell motioned to Carolan, and they rose and left the room together;
while Tom sat, with tumultuously beating heart, but with constantly
increasing resolution.
The men were gone but a few moments and came back with satisfied
looks on their faces.
“I have learned,” said the lawyer, addressing Tom in a voice laden with
apparent sympathy, “that you have a younger brother who is blind. That is a
sad affliction.”
“Yes, indeed it is,” replied Tom. “Yes, indeed!”
“I have learned, also, that there is a possibility of cure, if the eyes are
subjected to proper and timely treatment.”
“Yes, that’s what a doctor told us.”
“What a blessing it would be if sight could be restored to him! What a
delight! What rejoicing there would be in your little household, would there
not?”
“Oh, indeed there would!” cried Tom, “Oh, indeed! It’s what we’re
a-thinkin’ of always; it’s what I pray for every night, sir. We’ve been a-tryin’
to save money enough to do it, but it’s slow a-gettin’ it—it’s awful slow.”
“A—how much—” Lawyer Pleadwell paused, and twirled his eye glasses
thoughtfully. “How much would it cost, Tom?”
“Only a hundred dollars, sir; that’s what the doctor said.”
Another pause; then, with great deliberation,“Tom, suppose my friend
here should see fit to place in your hands, today, the sum of one hundred
dollars, to be used in your brother’s behalf. Could you return the favor by
keeping to yourself the knowledge you possess concerning the origin of the
fire at the breaker?”
The hot blood surged up into Tom’s face; his heart pounded like a
hammer against his breast; his head was in a whirl.
A hundred dollars! And sight for Bennie! No lies to be told—only to
keep quiet—and sight for Bennie! Would it be very wrong? But, oh, to think
of Bennie in the joy of seeing! The temptation was terrible. Stronger, less
affectionate natures than Tom’s might well have yielded.
Chapter 3
The Unquiet Conscience
A nd Tom yielded. The whisperings of conscience were drowned in

the anticipation of Bennie’s joy. The fear of personal violence would
not have conquered him— neither would the fallacious argument of
compensation by destruction have done so. But that vision of Bennie with
eyes that could look into his eyes, with eyes that could see the houses and
the breakers, the trees and the birds and the flowers, that could even see the
far-off stars in the sky at night—that was the vision that crowded out from
Tom’s mind the sharp distinction between right and wrong, and delivered
him over wholly to the tempter.
But he felt the shame of it, nevertheless, as he answered in a choking
voice at last, “Yes, I could. A hundred dollars would give sight to Bennie. I
wouldn’t lie for it, but I’ll keep still for it.”
Lawyer Pleadwell doubled up his glasses, slipped them into a case and
slipped the case into his vest pocket. His object was accomplished.
“Tom,” he said, “you’re a wise lad. If you keep on in this way, you’ll make
a lawyer; and a lawyer with so evenly balanced a conscience as yours will be
a credit to the profession.”
Tom was not quite sure whether this was intended for a compliment or
not, so he simply said, “Yes, sir.”
Pleadwell reached across the table for his high silk hat, motioned to
Carolan to follow him, and went out, saying to Tom as he went, “You stay
here and amuse yourself; we’ll be back shortly.”
Tom sat there alone quite still. His mind was in a tumult. Is it right? Is it
right? Some unseen presence kept crowding the question in upon him.
What would Bennie say to it?
What would Mommie say to it?
Yet there were no lies to be told; he was simply to hold his tongue.
But was it not shielding a criminal from just punishment? Was it not
virtually selling his honor for money? Would it not be better, after all,
The Unquiet Conscience 21
to take back his promise, to do his duty fearlessly, and to work and wait
patiently and with a clear conscience for means to accomplish the desire of
his heart for Bennie?
He was just getting into a state of painful indecision when Carolan came
in alone and closed the door carefully behind him. Without saying a word,
he handed to Tom, one by one, ten crisp, new ten-dollar bills. The boy had
never in his life before seen so much money at one time. To hold it was like
a scene in a fairy story; to own it was to be rich beyond belief. The whispers
of conscience were again untiled in the novelty of possessing wealth with
which such blessings might be bought.
Tom took the money, folded it awkwardly, and placed it in the inside
pocket of his vest. Carolan looked on with apparent satisfaction; then he
went and seated himself in the chair he had formerly occupied, without
having uttered a word.
This man was a marked character in the coal region twenty years ago.
He was known among the miners as “Silent Mike,” was credited with
much native ability and sharpness, and was generally believed to be at the
head, in the region, of the secret order of Molly Maguires. He was always
shrewd enough not to implicate himself in any lawlessness. The fact that
he so controlled the organization as to meet his personal ends caused it,
eventually, to be split with internal dissensions. Then, as a new reign of law
and order came in, and as organized labor began to base itself on higher
principles and to work out its problem with less of vengeance and more of
justice, the order gradually passed out of existence.
Thinking there was nothing more to be said or done, Tom rose to go,
but just then Pleadwell entered, laid his silk hat carefully on the table, and
motioned to him to be seated. Having taken his eye glasses from their case
and adjusted them carefully on his nose, he said to Tom, “It will not be wise
for you to make any large expenditures of money for any purpose until
after the trial; and in the mean time, it will be absolutely unsafe for you to
disclose to anyone the fact of your having money or the means by which it
was obtained. Your own discretion will teach you this. You understand me,
do you not?”
Tom nodded, and Pleadwell continued: “There is one thing more that I
desire to speak of. I have heard that when you reached the foot of the hill on
the night the breaker was burned, you saw a man come from near the point
where the fire broke out, pass by you in the shadow of the building, and
disappear around the corner by the engine room. Is this true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of a looking man was this? Describe him.”
“He was a short man,” Tom replied, “kind of slim, and he didn’t have
any whiskers.” A sudden thought seemed to strike the boy, and looking for
a moment earnestly at Carolan, and then pointing his finger at him, Tom
exclaimed,“Why, he looked just like—just like him!”
Carolan smiled grimly, but Pleadwell laughed aloud.
“Well, Tom,” he said, “we shall not ask you to tell whom he looks like,
but if I should require your presence at the trial and should call you to
the witness stand, you would have no objection, I presume, to giving a
description of the man you saw pass by you in the shadow of the breaker,
just as you have described him to me?”
“No,” replied Tom. “Not so long as it’s true.”
“Oh, I should expect you to say nothing that is not strictly true,” said
Pleadwell. “I would not allow a witness of mine to tell a lie. Well, then, you
are to be in the courtroom here a week from next Tuesday morning at nine
o’clock. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carolan, put Thomas Taylor’s name on that subpoena. You will consider
yourself subpoenaed, Tom. Now,” he said, taking a heavy gold watch from
his pocket and glancing at it, “you will have just time to catch the train
north.” Then stepping to the door between the two rooms and throwing it
open, he said, “Harris, go to the station with this boy, buy his ticket, and see
that he gets the right train.”
Harris was the young man who came down with Tom, and he and the
boy were soon on the street together, walking briskly toward the station.
An hour earlier, when they were coming in, Tom had been very talkative
and inquiring, but now his companion was able to get from him no more
than a simple “yes” or “no,” and that only in answer to questions.
Conversation was impossible to the boy, with his mind so crowded with
perplexing doubts. He could not even take notice of the shop windows or
of the life in the streets but followed blindly along by the side of Harris.
Somehow he felt as though he were walking under a heavy weight, and
that roll of money in his pocket seemed to be burning him where it rested
against his breast. He imagined that the people he met looked at him
suspiciously, as if they knew he had been bribed—bribed!
The word came into his mind so suddenly and with such startling force
that he stopped still in the street and only recovered himself when Harris
turned and called to him.
They were just in time for the train.
Tom found a place in the corner of the car where he would be alone, and
he sat there thinking over what he had done, trying to reason himself into
justification of his conduct.
The conductor came along and punched his ticket and looked at him
so sharply that Tom wondered if he knew. But of course that was absurd.
Then he tried to dismiss the matter from his mind altogether, and give his
attention to what he could see from the car window.
Outside a drizzling rain was beginning to fall on the brown fields
and leafless trees, and the autumn early twilight was fast deepening into
darkness. It was very dismal and cheerless, and not at all the kind of outlook
that could serve to draw Tom’s mind from its task of self-contemplation. It
was but a few minutes, therefore, before this controversy with himself was
going on again, harder than before.
Somehow that strange word “bribed” kept haunting him. It sounded
constantly in his ears. He imagined that the people in the cars were speaking
it—that even the rhythmic rattle of the wheels upon the rails kept singing it
to him with monotonous reiteration, “Bribed! Bribed!”
Tom thought, as he hurried down the street in the gathering darkness,
out upon the plank walk, and up the long hill toward home, that he had
never been so unhappy in all his life before. It was strange, too, for he had
so often dreamed of the great joy he should feel when the coveted hundred
dollars had been saved.
Well, he had it now, every cent of it, rolled up and tucked safely away in
the pocket of his vest; but instead of happiness, it had brought misery.
For the first time within his memory, the thought of meeting his mother
and his brother gave him no pleasure. He would not tell them about the
money that night at any rate; he had decided upon that. Indeed, he had
almost concluded that it would be better that they should not know about
it until after the trial. And then suppose they should not approve! He was
aghast at the very thought.
But Tom was a brave lad, and he put on a bright face before these two,
and told them of his trip, and about what he had seen and heard—about the
law office, about Pleadwell and Carolan, about everything, indeed, but the
bargain and the money.
He tried to eat his supper as if he enjoyed it, though every mouthful
seemed about to choke him, and on the plea of being very tired, he went
early to bed. There he lay half the night debating with his conscience, trying
to make himself believe that he had done right, yet feeling all the time that
he had stooped to dishonor.
He went over in his mind the way in which he should break the news to
Mommie and Bennie and wondered how they would receive it; and always
beating upon his brain, with a regular cadence that followed the pulsation
of his heart, and with a monotonous rhythm that haunted him even after he
had fallen into a troubled sleep, went that terrible word, “bribed”!
The autumn days went by, and still the strike continued. There were no
signs of resumption, no signs of compromise. On the contrary, the breach
between the miners and the operators was growing daily wider. The burning
of the breaker and the arrest of Jack Rennie had given rise to a bitterness of
feeling between the two classes that hindered greatly an amicable settlement
of their differences.
Acts of lawlessness were common, and it was apparent that but little
provocation would be needed to bring on deeds of violence of a desperate
nature. The cry of want began to be heard, and as the winter season was
drawing near, suffering became more frequent among the improvident and
the unfortunate.
The Taylor family saw coming the time when the pittance of twenty
dollars that the boys had saved for Bennie must be drawn upon to furnish
food and clothing for them all. Tom had tried to get work outside of the
mines, but had failed; there were so many idle men and boys, and there was
so little work to be done at that season of the year. But the district school
was open not far from his home, and Tom went there instead.
He was fond of books, and had studied much by himself. He could read
very well indeed. He used to read aloud to Bennie a great deal, and during
these days of enforced idleness, the boys occupied much of their time in that
way; finding their literature in copies of old newspapers which had been
given to them, and in a few old books which had belonged to their father.
Indian summer came late that year, but it was very fair. It lingered day
after day with its still air, its far-sounding echoes, its hazy light and its
smoky distances; and the brooding spirit of nature’s quiet rested down, for a
brief but beautiful season, about the unquiet spirits of men.
On the afternoon of one of its most charming days, Tom and Bennie
sauntered out, hand in hand, as they always went, to where the hill south of
their little mining village rose like a huge, upturned bowl, sloping downward
from its summit to every point of the compass. Over in the little valley to
the south lay the ruins of the burned breaker, still untouched; and off upon
the other side, one could see the sparkling river far up into the narrow valley
where its waters sweep around the base of Campbell’s Ledge, across to the
blue mountains on the west; and down the famous valley of Wyoming, with
its gray stone monument in the middle distance, until the eastern hills crept
in to intercept the view.
It was a dreamy day, and a day fit for dreams. When the boys reached the
summit of the hill, Tom lay down upon the warm sod and silently looked
away to the haze-wrapped mountains, while Bennie sat by his side and
pictured in his mind the view before him as Tom had described it to him
many times, sitting in that very spot.
Poor Tom! These beautiful days had brought to him much perplexity of
mind, much futile reasoning with his conscience, and much, very much,
silent suffering.
Lying there now in the sunlight with open eyes, he saw, in reality, no
more of the beautiful scene before him than did blind Bennie at his side. He
was thinking of the trial, now only three days distant, of what he should be
called upon to do and to say, and of how, after it was all over, he must tell
Mommie and Bennie about the hundred dollars.
Ah, there was the trouble! He could see his way clearly enough until
it should come to that, but how should he ever be able to tell these two a
thing of which he tried to be proud, but of which, after all, he felt guilty and
ashamed?
Then, what would they say to him? Would they praise him for his
devotion to Bennie and for his cleverness in having grasped an opportunity?
Or would they grieve over his lack of manly firmness and his loss of boyish
honor? Alas! The more he thought of it, the more he feared that they would
sorrow rather than rejoice.
But an idea came to Tom as he lay there thinking the matter over: the idea
that perhaps he could learn what Bennie’s mind would be on the subject
without exciting any suspicion therein of what had actually occurred. He
resolved to try.
He hardly knew how best to approach the matter, but after some
consideration, he turned to Bennie and said,“Bennie, do you suppose Jack
Rennie actually set fire to that breaker?”
“I shouldn’t wonder a bit, Tom,” replied Bennie. “Those that know him
says he’s dreadful bad.”
“Well, suppose you had seen—suppose you could see, you know,
Bennie—and suppose you had seen Jack Rennie set fire to that breaker;
would you tell on him?”
“Yes, I would,” said Bennie, resolutely, “if I thought he’d never get
punished for it unless I did tell on him.”
“Well, don’t you think,” continued Tom, reflectively, “that would be siding
with the wealthy and siding against the poor laborer, who ain’t got no other
way to get even justice for himself?”
Tom was using Pleadwell’s argument, not because he believed in it
himself, but simply to see how Bennie would meet it.
Bennie met it by saying, “Well, I don’t care; I don’t believe it’s ever right to
burn up anything that belongs to anybody else; and if I saw anyone doing it,
I’d tell on him if—” Bennie hesitated a moment, and Tom looked up eagerly
“—if I wasn’t afraid of the Molly Maguires. Jack Rennie’s a Molly, you know.”
“But wouldn’t you be afraid of them? Suppose one of them should come
to you and say, ‘Ben Taylor, if you tell on Jack, we’ll cut off your tongue.’
What would you do?”
Bennie thought a moment.
“Well, I believe I’d tell on him anyway; and then I’d get a pistol, and I
wouldn’t let no Molly get nearer to me than the muzzle of it.”
In spite of his great anxiety, Tom laughed at the picture of weak, blind
little Bennie holding a crowd of outlaws at bay with a cocked revolver in his
hand. But he felt that he was not getting at the real question very fast, so he
tried again.
“Well, Bennie, suppose you had seen him start that fire, and he knew it, and
he had said to you, ‘Ben Taylor, if you ever tell on me, I’ll burn your Mommie’s
house down, and I’ll kill your brother Tom!’ then what would you do?”
Bennie hesitated. This was more of a poser.

“Well,” he answered, at last, “if I had believed he had done what he
said—I don’t know—I guess I’d—well, maybe, if I didn’t have to tell any lie, I
just wouldn’t say anything.”
Tom’s spirits rose; he felt that a great point was gained. Here was a matter
in which Bennie would have been even less firm than he himself had been.
Now was the time to come directly to the issue, to ask the final question.
Tom braced himself to the task. He tried to speak naturally and carelessly,
but there was a strange shortness of breath and a huskiness in his voice which
he could not control; he could only hope that Bennie would not notice it.
“Well, then, suppose—just suppose, you know—that I’d seen Jack Rennie
set fire to the breaker and that he knew I was going to tell on him, and that
he had said to me, ‘Tom, you got a blind brother Bennie, ain’t you?’ and I
had said, ‘Yes,’ and he had said, ‘What’ll it cost to get Bennie’s sight for him?’
and I had said, ‘Oh, maybe a hundred dollars,’ and he had said, ‘Here, Tom,
here’s a hundred dollars; you go and get Bennie’s eyes cured and don’t you
say anything about my setting that fire.’ What—what would you have done if
you had been me?”
Tom raised himself to a sitting posture and leaned toward Bennie, with
flushed face and painful expectancy in his eyes.
He knew that for him Bennie’s answer meant either a return to a measure
of the old happiness or a plunging into deeper misery.
The blind boy rose to his feet and stood for a moment as if lost in
thought. Then he turned his sightless eyes to Tom and said, very slowly and
distinctly, “If you had took it, Tom, and if you had used it to cure me with,
and I had known it, and I had got my sight, I don’t believe—I don’t believe
I should ever have wanted to look at you, Tom, or wanted you to see me; I
had been so ashamed of both of us.”
Chapter 4
The Trial
T om turned his head away and covered his face with his hands. This
was cruel. For the first time in his life, he was glad Bennie could not
see him. But he felt that it was necessary for him to say something, so he
stammered out, “Well, I was only just supposing, you know. Of course no
honest fellow would do that, but, if the strike will end, and we can get to
work again, we won’t ask anybody for any hundred dollars. We’ll earn it.”
The beauty of the autumn day died slowly out, and the narrow crescent of
the new moon, hanging over the tops of the far western hills, shone dimly
through the purple haze. Sadly and with few words, the two boys went their
homeward way. A great burden of regret and remorse rested upon Tom’s
heart, and the shadow of it fell upon the heart of his blind brother.
Poor, poor Tom! He knew not what to do. He could never use the money
now for Bennie, and he would not use it for himself. It had occurred to
him once to take the money back to Pleadwell and seek to be released from
his agreement. But a little thought had convinced him that this would be
useless—that the money would not be received. Having accepted a bribe,
he believed he had placed himself in the power of those who had given it
to him and that any wavering on his part, much more any violation of his
agreement, would bring down vengeance and punishment on himself and
trouble and disgrace on those who were dear to him.
“Oh, why!” he asked himself, in bitter thought. “Why did I ever take the
money?”
Tom’s mother attributed his melancholy to lack of work and loss of
earnings. She knew how his heart was set on laying up money to send
Bennie away and how impatient he became at any delay in the progress of
his scheme. So she talked to him very cheerfully and made delicate little
dishes to tempt his appetite, and when the morning for the trial came, and
Tom started for the train to go to Wilkesbarre, dressed in his best clothes
and with the hated hundred dollars burning in his pocket, she kissed him
The Trial 29
goodbye with a smile on her face. She bade him many times to be very
careful about the cars and said to him at parting, “Whatever they says to
thee, lad, tell the truth; whatever they does to thee, tell the truth; fear to
look no man in the eye; be good and honest with yourself, and come back to
Mommie and Bennie when it’s over, hearty and well.”
Sandy McCulloch went down with Tom on the train, and together
they walked from the station to the courthouse. There were many people
standing about in the Court House Square and in the corridors of the
building, and the courtroom itself was nearly full when Tom and Sandy
entered it. They found vacant places on one of the rear benches, but as the
seats were all graded down on a sloping floor to the bar, they could see
without difficulty all that was being done.
Tom had never been in a courtroom before, and he looked with much
interest at the judges on the bench, at the lawyers chatting pleasantly in
the bar, at the entry and departure of the grand jury, and at the officious
constables, each with his staff of office, who kept order in the courtroom.
There were some motions and arguments which Tom could not
understand, being made by the attorneys; the clerk read some lists in a weak
voice, and the time of the court was thus occupied until toward noon.
By and by there was a slight bustle at the side door to the right of the
judges’ bench, and the sheriff and his deputy entered with Jack Rennie.
Head and shoulders above those who accompanied him, his heavily
bearded face somewhat pale from confinement, and stooping rather more
than usual, he moved slowly across the crowded bar, in full view of all the
people in the room, to a seat by the side of his counsel.
The instant Tom’s eyes rested on him, he recognized him as the man
who had threatened him at the breaker on the night of the fire. The buzz
of excitement occasioned by the entrance of the prisoner subsided, and the
voice of the presiding judge sounded distinctly through the room.
“Commonwealth against Jack Rennie. Arson. Are you ready for trial?”
“We are, your Honor,” replied the district attorney, rising to his feet and
advancing to the clerk’s desk.
“Very well,” said the judge. “Arraign the prisoner.”
Rennie was directed to stand up, and the district attorney read, in a
clear voice, the indictment, which charged that the defendant “did, on
the eighteenth day of November last passed, feloniously, willfully and
maliciously set fire to, burn and consume, a certain building, to wit: a coal
breaker.”
Rennie stood, listening intently to the reading of the indictment. When
the question was put, “What say you—guilty, or not guilty?” he replied, in a
deep, chest voice, “If I be guilty, you have but to prove it.”
“Make your plea, sir!” said the judge severely. “Guilty or not guilty?”
“Then I’ll plead not guilty. No man’s guilty until he’s proved guilty.”
Rennie resumed his seat, and the court was soon afterward adjourned for
the noon recess.
In the afternoon the selecting of jurors in the case against Rennie began
slowly and tediously, and long before the twelve jurors had all been selected
and sworn in, the early autumn night had fallen, and the flaring gas-jets
lighted up the space about the bench and bar, leaving the remote corners of
the courtroom in uncertain shadow.
At six o’clock court was adjourned until the following morning, and
Tom went with Sandy McCulloch to a small hotel on the outskirts of the
city where arrangements had been made to accommodate witnesses for the
defence. Notwithstanding his anxiety of mind, Tom was hungry, and he ate
a hearty supper and went early to bed.
But he could not sleep. The excitement of the day had left his brain in
a whirl, and he tossed restlessly about, going over in his mind what had
already occurred and thinking with grave apprehension of what tomorrow
might bring forth. Through it all he until repeated one resolve: whatever
came he would not lie.
With this unsatisfactory compromise with his conscience on his mind, he
fell at last into a troubled sleep.
When court was opened on the following morning, the courtroom was
more densely crowded with idle men than it had been on the previous day.
The case against Rennie was taken up without delay. The district attorney
made the opening address on behalf of the Commonwealth, doing little
more than to outline the evidence to be presented by the prosecution.
The first witness called was a civil engineer, who presented a map
showing the plan, location, and surroundings of the burned breaker.
Following him came two witnesses who detailed the progress of the fire as
they had seen it, one of them being the watchman at the breaker, and the
other the occupant of the dwelling house which had been burned.
The Trial 31
A third witness testified to having seen Rennie at the fire shortly after it broke
out, but he did not know how long Rennie had been there, nor where he came
from. Another swore that he had seen the defendant in a drinking saloon in
town about half an hour before he heard the alarm of fire and had noticed that
he went away, in the direction of the breaker, in company with “Silent Mike.”
Then came a witness who gave his name as Lewis G. Travers: a slightly
built, but muscular man, of middle age, with sharp eyes and quiet manner.
“What is your occupation?” inquired the district attorney, after the man
had been sworn.
“I am a detective.”
“Do you know Jack Rennie, the defendant?”
“I do.”
“Where did you last see him?”
“At a meeting of certain members of the order of Molly Maguires.”
“Are you a member of that order?”
“I have been.”
“Will you relate the circumstances attending your connection with it?”
The stillness in the courtroom was marvelous. On many an expectant
face were mingled expressions of hate and fear, as the witness, with calm
deliberation, related the thrilling story of how he had worked as a common
laborer in the mines in order to gain a standing with the lawless miners
and of how he had then been admitted to the order of Molly Maguires and
had taken part in their deliberations.
As a member of the executive board, he had been present, he said, at
a secret meeting held in Carbondale, at which it was resolved to burn
down the coal breaker and that Jack Rennie was selected to carry out the
resolution, and that Rennie, being present, had registered a solemn oath to
do the bidding of the order.
This was the substance of his testimony, and though the cross-examina-
tion, by Pleadwell, was sharp, rigid and severe, the effect of the evidence
could not be broken.
At this point the Commonwealth rested. The case against Rennie had
assumed a serious phase. Unless he could produce some strong evidence in
his favor, his conviction was almost assured.
Pleadwell rose to open the case for the defence. After some general
remarks on the unfairness of the prosecution and the weakness of the
detective’s story, he declared that they should prove, in behalf of the

defendant, that he was not at or near the breaker until after the fire was well
under way, and that the saving of a large portion of the company’s loose
property from destruction was due to his brave and energetic efforts.
“Furthermore,” continued Pleadwell, earnestly, “we shall present to the
court and jury a most irreproachable witness who will testify to you that he
was present and saw this fire kindled, and that the man who kindled it was
not Jack Rennie.”
There was a buzz of excitement in the courtroom as Pleadwell resumed
his seat, and Tom’s heart beat loudly as he understood the significance of
the lawyer’s last statement. He felt, more than ever, the wrong, the disgrace,
the self-humiliation to which he should stoop by giving his testimony in
support of so monstrous a lie.
But what could he do? The strain on his mind was terrible. He felt an
almost irresistible desire to cry out, there, in the crowded courtroom, that
he had yielded to temptation for the sake of blind Bennie; that he had seen
the folly and the wickedness, and known the awful misery of it already; that
the money that bought him was like rags in his sight; and that his own guilt
and cowardice should save this criminal no longer from the punishment
which his crime deserved.
By a strong effort, he repressed his emotion, and sat, with face flushed
and pallid by turns, waiting for the time when his wretched bargain should
be fulfilled.
The first witness called on the part of the defence was Michael Carolan,
better known as “Silent Mike.”
He testified that Rennie came down from Scranton with him and a
body of strikers on the morning of November 18; that they ate supper with
Caroland’s married sister, who lived in the village just beyond the burned
breaker; that they spent the evening at a miners’ meeting in town; that they
afterwards called at a drinking saloon; and that they were on the way back
to his sister’s house for the night, when they heard the cry of “Fire!”
“At this time,” continued Carolan, “Jack and me were together at the
crossing on Railroad Street, maybe a quarter of a mile away from the
breaker, and when we heard the alarm, we looked up the track and saw the
blaze, and Jack says, says he, ‘Mike, the breaker’s a-fire,’ and I says, says I, ‘It
is, sure;’ and with that we both ran up the track toward the fire.
The Trial 33
“When we were most there we met Sandy McCulloch coming from the
hill beyond, and me and him and Jack went and shoved out the cars from
the loading place that we could get at; and then we went to help with the
furniture at the dwelling house, and we saved everything we could.”
Silent Mike had done well. Few people had ever before heard so many
words come in succession from his lips, and he told his story with such
impressive earnestness that it was easy to believe that he spoke the truth.
Indeed, there was very little in his account of the occurrence that was not
strictly in accordance with the facts. He had simply omitted to state that
he and Rennie had gone, first, up to the breaker and kindled the blaze, and
then returned, hastily, to the crossing where they certainly were when the
first cry of “Fire!” was heard.
Rennie’s case was looking up. There was a recess for dinner, and, when
court was reopened, Sandy McCulloch was put on the witness stand.
He was just getting into bed, he said, when he heard the cry of “Fire!”
He looked out and saw that the breaker was burning, and, hurrying on his
clothes, he ran down the hill.
“When I came to the foot of the hill,” he continued, in answer to
Pleadwell’s question, “I heard something behind me, and I looked around,
and there I saw Jack the Giant and Silent Mike speedings up the track
toward the breaker.
“The fire was burning up brisk by then, and me and Jack and Mike, we
went and pushed some cars out from the loading place, down the track;
and then we saved a bit from the dwelling house, and a bit from the engine
room, and a bit here and there, as we could; and Jack, he worked like he was
possessed, he did, sir; sure he did.”
“What were you doing up so late at night?” was the first question put to
Sandy on cross examination.
“Well, you see, sir, a bit of a lad that works in the mines with us, he had
lost his brother in the slope that day, he had; and I had him promise to help
seek him out, and he came in the evening to say as the lad was not found;
and I was waiting up for him, mind you.”
“Well, did the lad come?” inquired Lawyer Summons, somewhat
sarcastically.
“He did that, and he told me that he had found the brother; and I said
‘good night’ to the lad and started to bed, and the clock struck eleven.”
“Who was the lad that came to your house?”

“Tom Taylor, sir.”
Rennie started in his seat as the name was spoken, and the blood
mounted into his pale forehead as he gazed intently at the witness.
“Did the boy go in the direction of the breaker from your house?”
questioned Summons.
“He did, sir.”
“How long was it after he left you that you heard the cry of fire?”
“Well, maybe the time of ten minutes.”
“Could the boy have got beyond the breaker?”
“He must have, sir, he must have; the grass was not growing under his feet
going down the hill.”
“Do you think Tom Taylor fired that breaker?”
Sandy stared for a moment in blank amazement.
“Why, are you daft? There ain’t a better boy in the round world than Tom
Taylor!” and Sandy broke into a hearty laugh at the very idea of Tom doing
anything wrong.
But Tom, who sat back in his seat and heard it all, was suddenly startled
with the sense of a new danger. Suppose he should be charged with setting
fire to the breaker? And suppose Rennie and Carolan should go upon the
witness stand and swear that they saw him running away from the newly
kindled blaze, as, indeed, they might and not lie, either. How could he
prove his innocence? Yet he was about to swear Jack Rennie into freedom,
knowing him to be guilty of the crime with which he was charged, and, what
was until more despicable, he was about to do it for money.
Looked upon in this light, the thing that Tom had promised to do rose
very black and ugly in his sight, and the poor delusion that he should tell no
lie was swept, like a clinging cobweb, from his mind.
It was while his heart was still throbbing violently under the excitement
of this last thought and fear, that he heard someone call, “Thomas Taylor!”
“Here, sir,” responded Tom.
“Take the witness stand.”
Chapter 5
The Verdict
P ale and trembling, Tom passed out into the aisle and down around the
jury box, and stepped upon the little railed platform.
In impressive tones, the clerk administered to him the oath, and he kissed
the Holy Bible and swore to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth.”
The whole truth!
The words echoed and reechoed through his mind as he looked down
upon the lawyers and jurors and across the bar into the hundreds of
expectant faces turned toward him. For a moment he felt frightened and
dizzy.
But only for a moment; fear gave place to astonishment, for Jack Rennie
had started to his feet, with wild eyes and face, blanched with sudden dread,
and, bending over until his great beard swept Pleadwell’s shoulder, he
whispered hoarsely into the lawyer’s ear, in a tone audible throughout the
room,“You did not tell me who the lad was! He must not be sworn; it’s not
lawful. I’ll not have it; I say, I’ll not have it!”
In another moment Pleadwell had his hand on the man’s shoulder and
forced him into a seat. There was a whispered consultation of a few minutes
between attorney and client, and then, while Rennie sat with his eyes turned
steadfastly away from the witness, his huge hand clutching the edge of the
table, and the expression of nervous dread still on his face, Pleadwell calmly,
as if there had been no interruption, proceeded with the examination.
He asked Tom about his residence and his occupation and about how
blind Bennie lost himself in the mines. With much skill he carried the story
forward to the time when Tom said goodnight to Sandy and started down
the hill toward home.
“As you approached the breaker, did you see a man pass by you in the
shadow?”
“I did,” replied Tom.

“About how far from you?”
“I don’t know; ten feet, maybe.”
“Where did he go?”
“Around the corner, by the engine room.”
“From what point did he come?”
“From the loading place.”
“How long after he left the loading place was it that you saw the first blaze
there?”
“Two or three minutes, maybe.”
“Did you see his face?”
“I did.”
“How did he look? Describe him.”
“He was short and thin, and had no whiskers.”
Pleadwell pointed to Rennie, and asked, “Was this the man?”
“No, sir,” answered Tom.
Pleadwell leaned back in his chair and turned to the jury with a smile of
triumph on his face. The people in the courtroom nodded to each other and
whispered, “That clears Jack.”
Everyone but Jack Rennie himself seemed to feel the force of Tom’s
testimony. The prisoner still sat clutching the table, looking blankly at the
wall, pale, almost trembling, with some suppressed emotion.
But through Tom’s mind kept echoing the solemn words of his oath: “The
whole truth; the whole truth.” And he had not told it; his testimony was no
better than a lie. An awful sense of guilt came pressing in upon him from
above, from below, from every side. Hateful voices seemed sounding in his
brain: “Liar in spirit! Receiver of bribes!”
The torture of his self-abhorrence in that one moment of silence was
terrible beyond belief.
Then a sudden impulse seized him—a bright, brave, desperate impulse.
He stepped down from the witness stand, passed swiftly between chairs
and tables, tearing the money from his breast pocket by the way, and
flinging the hated hundred dollars down before the astonished Pleadwell,
he returned as quickly as he came, stepped into his place with swelling
breast and flaming cheeks and flashing eyes, and exclaimed, falling, in his
excitement, into the broad accent of his mother tongue, “Now I’m free! Do
The Verdict 37
what you will with me! Imprison me, kill me, but I’ll not hold back the truth
longer for any man, nor all the money that only man can give me!”
Men started to their feet in astonishment. Someone back among the
people began to applaud. Jack Rennie turned his face toward the boy with a
look of admiration, and his eyes were blurred with sudden tears.
“He’s the son of his father!” he exclaimed. “The son of his father! He’s a
brave lad, and good luck unto him.”
“Who gave you that money?” asked the district attorney of Tom, when
quiet had been partially restored.
Pleadwell was on his feet in an instant.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t answer that question! Did I give you that
money?”
“No, sir,” replied Tom, awed by the man’s vehemence.
“Did Jack Rennie give you that money?”
“No, sir.”
Pleadwell turned to the court.
“Then if your Honors please, we object to the witness answering this
question. This is a desperate theatrical trick, concocted by the prosecution
to prejudice this defendant. We ask that they be not allowed to support it
with illegal evidence.”
The judge turned to Tom.
“Do you know,” he asked, “that this money was given to you by the
defendant’s authority or by his knowledge or consent?”
“I can’t swear that it was,” replied Tom.
“The objection is sustained,” said his Honor abruptly.
Pleadwell had gained a point; he might yet win the day. But the district
attorney would not loose his grip.
“Why did you just give that money to the attorney for the defence?” he
asked.
Pleadwell interposed another objection, but the court ruled that the question
was properly in the line of cross examination of the defendant’s witness, and
Tom answered, “because I had no right to it, and he knows who it belongs to.”
“Whom does it belong to?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only know who gave it to me.”
“When was it given to you?”
“A week ago last Thursday, sir.”
“Where was it given to you?”

“In Mr. Pleadwell’s office.”
“Was Mr. Pleadwell present?”
“No, sir.”
“How much money was given to you?”
“One hundred dollars, sir.”
“For what purpose was it given to you?”
“To send my blind brother away to get his sight.”
“I mean what were you to do in consideration of receiving the money?”
Before Tom could answer, Pleadwell was addressing the court:
“I submit, your Honor,” he said, “that this inquisition has gone far
enough. I protest against my client being prejudiced by the unauthorized
and irrelevant conduct of anyone.”
The judge turned to the district attorney. “Until you can more closely
connect the defendant or his authorized agent,” he said, “with the giving of
this money, we shall be obliged to restrict you in this course of inquiry.”
Pleadwell had made another point. He still felt that the case was not
hopeless.
Then Summons, the private counsel for the prosecution, took the witness.
“Tom,” he said, “did you tell the truth in your direct examination?”
“I did, sir,” replied Tom, “but not the whole truth.”
“Well, then, suppose you tell the rest of it.”
“I object,” interposed Pleadwell, “to allowing this witness to ramble over
the field of legal and illegal evidence at will. If counsel has questions to ask,
let him ask them.”
“We will see that the witness keeps within proper limits,” said the judge;
then, turning to Tom, “Go on, sir.”
“Well, you see,” said Tom, “it was all just as I told it; only when I got
to the bottom of the hill and saw that man go by me in the dark, I was
surprised, and I stopped and listened. And then I heard a noise in under
the loading place, and then that man,” pointing his trembling forefinger to
Rennie, “came out, a-kind of talking to himself. And he said that was the
last job of that kind he’d ever do; that they put it on him because he hadn’t
anybody to feel bad over him if he should get caught.
“And then I saw a blaze start up right where he came from, and it got
bigger and bigger. And then he turned and saw me, and he grabbed me by
The Verdict 39
the shoulders, and he said, ‘Don’t you speak nor whisper, or I’ll take the life
of you, or something like that; I can’t quite remember, I was so scared. And
then he pushed me down the track, and he said, ‘Run as fast as ever you can,
and don’t you dare to look back.’
“And I ran, and I didn’t look back until the fire was a-burning up awful;
and then I went with the rest to look at it; and he was there, and a-working
desperate to save things, and—and—and that’s all.”
Tom stopped, literally panting for breath. The jurors were leaning forward
in their seats to catch every word, and over among the crowded benches
where the friends of the prisoner were gathered, there was a confused hum
of voices, from which, now and then, rose angry and threatening words.
Rennie sat gazing intently upon Tom, as though fascinated by the boy’s
presence, but on his face there was no sign of disappointment or anger, only the
same look of admiration that had come there when Tom returned the money.
He clutched Pleadwell’s sleeve and said to him, “That settles it, man; that
settles it. The spirit of the dead father’s in the lad, and it’s no use of fighting
it. I’ll plead guilty now and end it, and take my sentence and stand it. How
long do you think my sentence will it be?”
“Twenty years in prison,” answered Pleadwell sharply and shortly.
Rennie dropped back in his chair as though the lawyer had struck him.
“Twenty years!” he repeated. “Twenty years! That’s a most long time. I cannot
stand that; I cannot live through it. I’ll not plead guilty. Do what you can for me.”
But there was little that Pleadwell could do now. His worst fears had
been realized. He knew it was running a desperate risk to place on the
witness stand a boy with a conscience like Tom’s; but he knew, also, that if
he could get Tom’s story out in the shape he desired to, and keep back the
objectionable parts, his client would go free; and he had great faith in the
power of money to salve over a bruised conscience.
He had tried it and failed, and there was nothing to do now but make the
best of it.
He resumed his calm demeanor and turned to Tom with the
question,“Did you ever tell to me the story you have just now told on the
witness stand, or anything like it?”
“I never did,” answered Tom.
“Did you ever communicate to me, in any way, your alleged knowledge of
Jack Rennie’s connection with this fire?”
“No, sir.”
Pleadwell had established his own innocence, so far as Tom’s story was
concerned at least, and he dismissed the boy from the witness stand with a
wave of his hand, which was highly expressive of virtuous indignation.
Tom resumed his seat by the side of Sandy, whose mouth and eyes were
still wide open with surprise and admiration, and who exclaimed, as he gave
the boy’s hand a hearty grip,“Well done, Tommy, my lad! Well done! I’m
proud of you, and Bennie and your mother will be prouder yet of you!”
And then, for the first time since the beginning of his trouble, Tom put
his face in his hands and wept. But he felt that a great load had been lifted
from his conscience and that now he could look any man in the eye.
There were two or three unimportant witnesses sworn in rebuttal, and
the evidence was closed.
Pleadwell rose to address the jury. He denounced Tom’s action
in returning the money to him as a dramatic trick, gotten up by the
prosecution for effect and called particular attention to his own ignorance
of the gift of any such money.
He declared Tom’s story of his meeting with Rennie on the night of
the fire to be improbable and false, and argued that since neither the
prosecution, nor the defence, nor anyone else, had ever heard one word of
it until it came out on the witness stand, it must, therefore, exist only in the
lad’s heated imagination.
He dwelt strongly on the probable falsity of the testimony of the so-called
detective; went over carefully the evidence tending to establish an alibi for
Rennie; spoke with enthusiasm of the man’s efforts and bravery in the work
of rescue; lashed the corporations for their indifference to the wrongs of
the workingmen; spoke piteously of the fact that the law denied to Rennie
the right of being sworn in his own behalf; and closed with a speech that
brought tears into the eyes of half the people in the room.
He had made a powerful speech, and he knew it, but he thought of its
effect only as tending to his own benefit; he had no hope for Rennie.
Mr. Summons addressed the jury on the part of the Commonwealth.
“The unexpected testimony,” he declared, “of one brave and high-minded
boy has placed the guilt of the prisoner beyond the shadow of a doubt; a boy
whose great heart has caused him to yield to temptation for the sake of a
blind brother, but whose tender conscience, whose heroic spirit, has led him
The Verdict 41
to throw off the bonds which this defence has placed upon him.”
Then came the charge of the court; plain, decisive, reviewing the
evidence in brief, calling the attention of the jury to their duty both to the
Commonwealth and to the defendant, directing them that the defendant’s
guilt must be established in their minds beyond a reasonable doubt before
they could convict, but that, if they should reach that point, then their
verdict should be simply “Guilty.”
The jury passed out of the courtroom, headed by a constable, after which
counsel for the defendant filed exceptions to the charge, and the court
proceeded to other business.
Very few people left the courtroom, as everyone supposed it would not be
long before the bringing in of a verdict, and they were not mistaken. It was
barely half an hour from the time the jury retired until they filed back again
and resumed their seats in the jury box.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the clerk of the court, rising, “have you
agreed upon a verdict?”
“We have,” replied the foreman, handing a paper to the clerk, and the
clerk in turn handed it to the presiding judge.
The judges, one after another, read the paper, nodded their approval, and
returned it to the clerk, who glanced over its contents, and then addressed
the jury as follows:
“Gentlemen of the jury, hearken unto your verdict as the court have
it recorded. In the case wherein the Commonwealth is plaintiff and Jack
Rennie is defendant, you say you find the defendant guilty. So say you all?”
The members of the jury nodded their heads, the clerk resumed his seat,
and the trial of Jack Rennie was concluded.
It was what everyone had anticipated, and people began to leave the
courtroom with much noise and confusion.
Rennie was talking in a low tone with Pleadwell and Carolan, while the
sheriff, who had advanced to take charge of the prisoner, stood waiting for
them to conclude the conference.
“I don’t want the lad harmed,” said Rennie, talking earnestly to Carolan,
“him, nor his mother, nor his brother; not a hair of his head, nor a mouthful
of his bread, now mind you—I have reasons—the man that so much as lays
a straw in the lad’s path shall suffer for it, if I have to live a hundred years to
take my vengeance of him!”
The sonorous voice of the court-crier, adjourning the courts until the
following morning, echoed through the now half-emptied room, and the
sheriff said to Rennie,“Well, Jack, I’m waiting for you.”
“Then you need not wait longer, for I’m ready to go with you, and I’m
hungry too.” And Rennie held out his hands to receive the handcuffs which
the sheriff had taken from his pocket. For some reason, they would not
clasp over the man’s huge wrists.
“Oh!” exclaimed the officer, “I have the wrong pair. Simpson,” turning to
his deputy, “go down to my office and bring me the large handcuffs lying on
my table.”
Simpson started, but the sheriff called him back.
“Never mind,” he said, drawing a revolver from his pocket as he spoke,
and grasping it firmly in his right hand, with his finger on the trigger. “It
won’t pay; Jack won’t try to get away from us, will you, Jack?”
“Do you take me for a fool, man?” said Rennie, laughing as he glanced
at the weapon. Then, turning to Carolan and Pleadwell, he continued,
“Goodnight; goodnight and sweet dreams unto you!” Jack had never
seemed in a gayer mood than as when he marched off through the side door
with the sheriff and his deputy; perhaps it was the gaiety of despair.
Carolan had not replied to the prisoner’s cheery “good night.” He had
looked on at the action of the sheriff, with a curious expression in his eyes,
until the trio started away, and then he had hurried from the courtroom at a
gait which made Pleadwell stare after him in astonishment.
It was dark outside, very dark. A heavy fog had come up from the river
and enshrouded the entire city. The street lamps shone but dimly through
the thick mist, and a fine rain began to fall as Tom and Sandy hurried along
to their hotel, where they were to have supper before going on the late train
to their homes.
Up from the direction of the courthouse came to their ears a confusion
of noises: the shuffling of many feet; loud voices; hurried calls; two pistol
shots in quick succession; a huge, panting figure pushing by them and
disappearing in the fog and darkness; by and by excited men hurrying
toward them.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sandy.
And someone, back in the mist, replied,“Jack Rennie has escaped!”
Chapter 6
The Fall
I t was true. Carolan’s quick eye had noticed the opportunity for Rennie
to escape, and his fertile brain had been swift in planning an immediate
rescue. The few members of his order that he could find on the instant were
gathered together; there was a sudden onslaught at a dark corner of the
Court-House Square; the sheriff and his deputy lay prone upon the ground,
and their prisoner was slipping away through the dark, foggy streets with a
policeman’s bullet whizzing past his ears, and his band of rescuers struggling
with the amazed officers.
But the sheriff never saw Jack Rennie again, nor was the hand of the law
ever again laid upon him in arrest or punishment.
As Tom walked home from the railroad station that night through the
drizzling rain, his heart was lighter than it had been for many a day.
True, he was nervous and worn with excitement and fatigue, but there
was with him a sense of duty done, even though tardily, which brought
peace into his mind and lightness to his footsteps.
After the first greetings were had, and the little home group of three was
seated together by the fire to question and to talk, Tom opened his whole heart.
While his mother and Bennie listened silently, often with tears, he told the
story of his adventure at the breaker on the night of the fire, of his temptation
and fall, of his mental perplexity and acute suffering, of the dramatic incidents
of the trial, and of his own release from the bondage of bribery.
When his tale was done, the poor blind brother, for whose sake he had
stepped into the shadow of sin and paid the penalty, declared with laughter
and with tears, that he had never before been so proud of Tom and so fond
of him as he was at that moment; and the dear, good mother took the big
fellow on her lap, as she used to do when he was a little child, and held him
up close to her heart, and rocked him until he fell asleep, and into his curly
hair dropped now and then a tear that was not the outcome of sorrow but of
deep maternal joy.
It was well along in December before the strike came to an end. There
had been rumors for a week of an approaching compromise between the
miners and the operators, but one day there came word that all hands were
to be at the mines, ready for work, the following morning.
It was glad news for many a poor family, who saw the holidays
approaching in company with bitter want; and it brought especial rejoicing
to the little household dependent so largely on the labor of Tom and Bennie
for subsistence.
The boys were at the entrance to the mine the next morning before the
stars began to pale in the east. They climbed into a car of the first trip and
rode down the slope to the music of echoes roaring through galleries that
had long been silent.
The mules had been brought in the day before, and Tom ran whistling
to the mine stables to untie his favorite Billy and set him to his accustomed
task. There came soon a half dozen or more driver boys, and such a
shouting and laughing and chattering ensued as made the beasts prick up
their long ears in amazement.
“All aboard!” shouted Tom.
Away went Tom and Bennie, rattling up the long heading, imitating
alternately the noise of the bell, the whistle, and the labored puffing of
a locomotive engine while the sound waves, unable to escape from the
narrow passage which confined them, rolled back into their ears in volumes
of resounding echoes.
Ah, they were happy boys that morning—happy even though one was
smitten with the desolation of blindness, and both were compelled to labor
from daylight to dark in the grimy recesses of the mine for the pittance that
brought their daily bread; happy, because they were young and free-hearted
and innocent and contented with their lot.
And Tom was thrice happy, in that he had rolled away the burden of an
accusing conscience and felt the high pleasure that nothing else on earth
can so fully bring as the sense of duty done.
Sometimes, indeed, there came upon him a sudden fear of the vengeance
he might meet at Rennie’s hands; but as the days passed by, this fear
disturbed him less and less, and the buoyancy of youth preserved him from
depressing thoughts of danger.
Billy, too, was in good spirits that morning and drew the cars rapidly
The Fall 45
along the heading, swinging around the sharp curves so swiftly that the
yellow flame from the little tin lamp was blown down to the merest spark of
blue. They stopped at last by the door in the entrance where Bennie was to
dismount and sit all day at his lonely task.
Three times Tom went down to the slope that morning, through Bennie’s
door with his trip of loads, and three times he came back with his trip of
lights. The third time he stopped to sit with his brother on the bench and
to eat from the one pail which served them both the plain but satisfying
dinner which Mommie had prepared for them.
Tom was still lighthearted and jovial, but upon Bennie there seemed to
have fallen since morning a shadow of soberness. To sit for hours with only
one’s thoughts for company, and with the oppressive silence broken only
at long intervals by the passing trips, this alone was enough to cast gloom
upon the spirits of the most cheerful.
But something more than this was weighing upon Bennie’s mind, for he
told Tom, when they had done eating, that every time it grew still around
him, and there were no cars in the heading or airway, and no noises to break
the silence, he could hear, somewhere down below him, the “working” of
the mine. He had heard it all the morning, he said, when everything was
quiet, and being alone so, it made him nervous and afraid.
“I could stand most anything,” he said, “except getting caught in a fall.”
“Let’s listen and see if we can hear it now,” said Tom.
Then both boys kept very quiet for a little while, and sure enough, over
in the darkness, they heard an occasional snapping, like the breaking of dry
twigs beneath the feet.
The process which the miners call “working” was going on. The pressure
of the overlying mass of rock upon the pillars of coal left to support it was
becoming so great that it could not be sustained, and the gradual yielding of
the pillars to this enormous weight was being manifested by the crackling
noises that proceeded from them and the crumbling of tiny bits of coal
from their bulging surfaces.
The sound of working pillars is familiar to frequenters of the mines, and
is the well-known warning which precedes a fall. The remedy is to place
wooden props beneath the roof for additional support; and if this is not
done, there comes a time, sooner or later, when the strained pillars suddenly
give way, and the whole mass comes crashing down to fill the gangways and
chambers over an area as great as that through which the working extended,
and to block the progress of mining for an indefinite time.
Tom had been too long about the mines to be ignorant of all this, and so
had Bennie; but they knew, too, that the working often continued weeks,
and sometimes months, before the fall would take place, though it might,
indeed, come at any moment.
That afternoon Tom told the slope boss about the working, and he came
and made an examination and said he thought there was no immediate
danger but that he would give orders to have the extra propping of the place
begun on the following day.
“Jimmie Travis said he seen rats going out of the slope, though, when he
come in,” said Tom, after relating to Bennie the opinion of the mine boss.
“Then it won’t be long,” replied Bennie, “before the fall comes.”
He was simply echoing the belief of all miners, that rats will leave a mine
in which a fall is about to take place. Sailors have the same belief concerning
a ship about to sink.
“And when the rats begin to go out,” added Bennie, “it’s time for men and
boys to think about going out, too.”
Somehow the child seemed to have a premonition of disaster.
The afternoon wore on very slowly, and Bennie gave a long sigh of relief
when he heard Tom’s last trip come rumbling down the airway.
“Give me the dinner pail, Bennie!” shouted Tom as the door closed
behind the last car. “And you catch on behind—Whoa, Billy!” he yelled as
the mule trotted on around the corner into the heading.
“Come, Bennie, quick! Give me your hand; we’ll have to run to catch him
now.”
But even as the last word trembled on the boy’s lips, there came a blast
of air, like a mighty wind, and in the next instant a noise as of bursting
thunder and a crash that shook the foundations of the mines, and the two
boys were hurled helplessly against Bennie’s closed door behind them.
The fall had come.
The terrible roar died away in a series of rumbling echoes, and, at last,
stillness reigned.
“Bennie!”
It was Tom who spoke.
“Bennie!”
The Fall 47
He called the name somewhat feebly.

“Bennie!”
It was a shout at last, and there was terror in his voice.
He raised himself to his feet and stood leaning against the shattered
framework of the door. He felt weak and dizzy. He was bruised and
bleeding, too, but he did not know it; he was not thinking of himself, but of
Bennie, who had not answered his call and who might be dead.
He was in total darkness, but he had matches in his pocket. He drew one
out and stood, for a moment, in trembling hesitancy, dreading what its light
might disclose. Then he struck it, and there, almost at his feet, lay his cap,
with his lamp still attached to it.
He lighted the lamp and looked farther.
At the other side of the entrance, half hidden by the wreck of the door, he
saw Bennie lying on his side, quite still. He bent down and flashed the light
into Bennie’s face. As he did so, the blind boy opened his eyelids, sighed,
moved his hands, and tried to rise.
“Tom!”
The word came in a whisper from his lips.
“Yes, Bennie, I’m here. Are you hurt?”
“No—yes—I don’t know. What was it, Tom?”
“The fall, I guess. Can you get up? Here, I’ll help you.”
Bennie gained his feet. He was not much hurt. The door had given way
readily when the boys were forced against it, and so had broken the severity
of the shock. But both lads had met with some cuts and some severe bruises.
“Have you got a lamp, Tom?”
“Yes. I just found it. Come on, let’s go home.”
Tom took Bennie’s hand and turned to go out, but the first step around
the pillar, into the heading, brought him face to face with a wall of solid rock
which filled every inch of the passage. It had dropped like a curtain, blotting
out in one instant the mule and the cars, and forming an impassable barrier
to the further progress of the boys in that direction.
“We can’t get out this way,” said Tom; “we’ll have to go up through the
airway.”
They went back into the airway and were met by a similar impenetrable
mass.
Then they went up into the short chambers beyond the airway, and Tom
flashed the light of his lamp into every entrance, only to find it blocked and
barred by the roof-rock from the fall.
“We’ll have to go back up the heading,” said Tom, at last, “and down
through the old chambers and out to the slope that way.”
But his voice was weak and cheerless, for the fear of a terrible possibility
had grown up in his mind. He knew that, if the fall extended across the old
chambers to the west wall of the mine, as was more than likely, they were
shut in beyond hope of escape, perhaps beyond hope of rescue; and if such
were to be their fate, then it would have been far better if they were lying
dead under the fallen rock with Billy and the cars.
Hand in hand the two boys went up the heading to the first opening in
the lower wall, and creeping over the pile of “gob” that partially blocked the
entrance, they passed down into a series of chambers that had been worked
out years before.
Striking across through the entrances, in the direction of the slope, they
came at last as Tom had expected and feared, to the line of the fall: a mass
of crushed coal and broken rock stretching diagonally across the range of
chambers towards the heading below.
But perhaps it did not reach to that heading; perhaps the heading itself
was still free from obstruction!
This was the only hope now left; and Tom grasped Bennie’s hand more
tightly in his and hurried, almost ran, down the long, wide chamber and
across the airway and into the heading.
They had gone scarce twenty rods along the heading when that cruel,
jagged wall of rock rose up before them, marking the confines of the most
cheerless prison that ever held a hopeless human being.
When Tom saw it, he stopped, and Bennie said, “Have we come to it,
Tom?”
Tom answered: “It’s there, Bennie,” and sank down upon a jutting rock,
with a sudden weakness upon him, and drew the blind boy to a seat beside
him.
“We’re shut in, Bennie,” he said. “We’ll never get out until they break
a way into us, and, maybe, by the time they do that, it’ll be—It won’t be
worthwhile.”
Bennie trembled and clung to Tom; but, even in his fright, it came
into his mind to say something reassuring; and thinking of his lonesome
The Fall 49
adventure on the day of the strike, he whispered, “Well, it isn’t so bad as it

might be, Tom; it might have been one of us shut up here alone, and that
would have been awful.”
“I wish it had been one of us alone,” answered Tom, “for Mommie’s sake.
I wish it had been only me. Mommie couldn’t ever stand it to lose—both of
us—like—this.”
For their own misfortune, these boys had not shed a tear; but at the
mention of Mommie’s name, they both began to weep, and for many
minutes the noise of their sobbing and crying was the only sound heard in
the desolate heading.
Tom was the first to recover.
A sense of the responsibility of the situation had come to him. He knew that
strength was wasted in tears. And he knew that the greater the effort towards
physical endurance, towards courage and manhood, the greater the hope that
they might live until a rescuing party could reach them. Besides this, it was
his place, as the older and stronger of the two, to be very brave and cheerful
for Bennie’s sake. So he dried his tears, and fought back his terror, and spoke
soothing words to Bennie, and even as he did so, his own heart grew stronger,
and he felt better able to endure until the end, whatever the end might be.
“God can see us down in the mine just as well as He could up there in the
sunlight,” he said to Bennie. “And whatever He’d do for us up there He’ll do
for us down here. And there are those that won’t let us die here, either, while
they’ve got hands to dig us out; and I shouldn’t wonder—I shouldn’t wonder
a bit—if they were digging for us now.”
After a time, Tom concluded that he would pass up along the line of the
fall, through the old chambers, and see if there was not some opening left
through which escape would be possible.
So he took Bennie’s hand again and led him slowly up through the
abandoned workings, in and out, to the face of the fall at every point where
it was exposed, only to find, always, the masses of broken and tumbled rock
reaching from floor to roof.
Yet not always! Once, as Tom flashed the lamplight up into a blocked
entrance, he discovered a narrow space between the top of the fallen rock
and the roof; and releasing Bennie’s hand, and climbing up to it, with much
difficulty, he found that he was able to crawl through into a little open place
in the next chamber.
From here he passed readily through an unblocked entrance into the

second chamber; and at some little distance down it, he found another open
entrance. The light of hope flamed up in his breast as he crept along over the
smooth, sloping surfaces of fallen rock, across one chamber after another,
nearer and nearer to the slope, nearer and nearer to freedom, and the
blessed certainty of life. Then, suddenly, in the midst of his reviving hope,
he came to a place where the closest scrutiny failed to reveal an opening
large enough for even his small body to force its way through. Sick at heart,
in spite of his self-determined courage, he crawled back through the fall,
up the free passages, and across the slippery rocks to where Bennie stood
waiting.
“I didn’t find anything,” he said in as strong a voice as he could command.
“Come, let’s go on up.”
He took Bennie’s hand and moved on. But, as he turned through an
entrance into the next chamber, he was startled to see, in the distance, the
light of another lamp. The sharp ears of the blind boy caught the sound of
footsteps.
“Somebody’s coming, Tom,” he said.
“I see the lamp,” Tom answered, “but I don’t know who it can be. There
wasn’t anybody in the new chambers when I started down with the load. All
the men went out quite a bit ahead of me.”
The two boys stood still as the strange light approached, and, with the
light, appeared, to Tom’s astonished eyes, the huge form and bearded face of
Jack Rennie.
Chapter 7
The Shadow of Death
W hy, lads!” exclaimed Rennie. “Lads!” Then, flashing the light of his
lamp into the boys’ faces, he exclaimed, “What, Tom, is it you—you
and the blind brother? Ah! But it’s very bad for you, brothers, very bad—and
worse yet for the poor mother at home.”
When Tom first recognized Rennie, he could not speak for fear and
amazement. The sudden thought that he and Bennie were alone, in the
power of this giant whose liberty he had sworn away, overcame his courage.
But when the kindly voice and sympathizing words fell on his ears, his fear
departed, and he was ready to fraternize with the convict as a companion in
distress.
“Tom,” whispered Bennie, “I know his voice. It’s the man that talked so
kindly to me on the day of the strike.”
“I remember you, laddie,” said Jack. “I remember you right well.” Then,
turning to Tom, “You were coming up the fall; did you find any opening?”
“No,” said Tom, speaking for the first time since the meeting. “None that’s
any good.”
“And there’s nothing above either,” replied Jack, “so we’ve little to do but
wait. Sit you down, lads, and tell me how you got caught.”
Seated on a shelf of rock, Tom told in a few words how he and Bennie had
been shut in by the fall. Then Jack related to the boys the story of his escape
from the sheriff and how his comrades had spirited him away into these
abandoned workings and were supplying him with food until such time as
he could safely go out in disguise and take ship for Europe.
There he was when the crash came.
“Now you must wait with patience,” he said. “It’ll not be for long; they’ll
soon be coming for you. The miners have strong arms and strong hearts,
and you’ll hear their picks a-tap-tappin’ away in the heading—tomorrow,
maybe.”
“And is it night now?” asked Bennie.
“It must be, lad. I have nothing to mark the time by, but it must be along
in the evening.”
“But,” interrupted Tom, as the thought struck him, “if they find you here,
you’ll have to go back to the jail.”
“I have thought of that,” answered Jack. “I have thought of that, and my
mind’s made up. I’ll go back and fulfill my sentence. I have deserved it. I’d
have no peace of mind wandering over the earth a-keepin’ out of the way of
the law. And maybe, if I lived my sentence out, I could do something that’s
better. But I’ll not hide any longer; I cannot do it!”
Off somewhere in the fall, there was a grinding, crunching sound for a
minute and then a muffled crash. Some loosened portion of the roof had
fallen in.
For a long time Jack engaged the boys in conversation, holding their
minds as much as possible from the fate of imprisonment.
Toward midnight Bennie complained of feeling hungry, and Jack went
down into the old chambers where he had been staying and came back after
a while with a basket of food and a couple of coarse blankets, and then they
all went up to Bennie’s doorway. Tom’s oil was up there, and their lamps
needed filling. It seemed more like home up there too; and, besides that, it
was the point toward which a rescuing party would be most likely to work.
Jack’s basket was only partly full of food, but he thought there would be
enough to last, by economical use, during the following day. He ate none of
it himself, however, and the boys ate but sparingly.
Then they made up a little platform from the boards and timbers of the
ruined door, spread the blankets on it, and induced Bennie, who seemed
to be weak and nervous, to lie down on it and try to sleep. But the lad was
very restless and slept only at intervals, as indeed, did Tom and Jack, one of
whom had stretched himself out on the bench, while the other sat on the
mine floor, reclining against a pillar.
When they thought it was morning, they all arose and walked around a
little, and the boys ate another portion of the food from the basket. But Jack
did not touch it; he was not hungry, he said, and he went off into the new
chambers to explore the place.
After a while he came back and sat down and began telling stories of his
boyhood life in the old country, intermingling with them many a marvelous
tale and strange adventure, and so he entertained the boys for hours.
The Shadow of Death 53
It must have been well on into the afternoon that Tom took to walking
up and down the heading. Sometimes Jack went with him, but more often
he remained to talk with Bennie, who still seemed weak and ill and who lay
down on the blankets again later on and fell asleep.
The flame of the little lamp burned up dimly. More oil and a fresh wick
were put in, but the blaze was still spiritless.
Jack knew well enough what the trouble was. There were places up in the
new chambers where the deadly carbonic acid gas was escaping into the
prison, adding, with terrible rapidity, to the amount produced by exhalation
and combustion. But he said nothing; the boys did not know, and it would
be useless to alarm them further.
Bennie started and moaned now and then in his sleep, and finally awoke,
crying. He had had bad dreams, he said.
Jack thought it must be late in the second evening of their imprisonment.
He took all the food from the basket and divided it into three equal parts.
It would be better to eat it, he thought, before actual suffering from hunger
began. They would be better able to hold out in the end.
Nevertheless, he laid his portion back in the basket.
“I haven’t the stomach for it just now,” he said.
There was plenty of water. A little stream ran down through the airway,
from which the pail had been repeatedly filled.
The night wore on.
The first sound of rescue had not yet been heard.
By and by, both boys slept.
Jack alone remained awake and thoughtful. His face gave token of great
physical suffering. Once he lifted the cover from the basket and looked
hungrily and longingly at the little portion of food that remained. Then he
replaced the lid and set the basket back resolutely on the ledge.
“No! No!” he murmured. “I must not take it out of the mouth of Tom
Taylor’s children.”
For a long time he sat motionless, with his chin in his hands and his eyes
fixed on the sleeping lads. Then, straightening up, there came into his face a
look of heroic resolution.
“I’ll do it!” he said, aloud. “It’ll be better for us all.”
The sound of his voice awakened Tom, who had slept for some hours,
and who now arose and began again his monotonous walk up and down the
heading.
After a while Jack motioned to him to come and sit beside him on the
bench.
“I have something to say to you,” he said. Then, with a glance at the
sleeping boy, “Come you up the airway a bit.”
The two walked up the airway a short distance and sat down on a broken
prop by the side of the track.
“Tom,” said Jack, after a moment or two of silence, “it’s going hard with
us. It’s likely been two days since the fall, and no sound of help yet. No
doubt but they’re a-working, but it’ll take long to get here from the time you
hear the first tapping. The three of us can’t live that long; maybe two can.
You shall be the ones. I have fixed on that from the start. That’s why I have
taken no food.”
“And we’ve had it all!” broke in Tom. “You shouldn’t have done it. The
three of us ought to have fared alike—except, maybe, Bennie; he’s not so
strong, and he ought to be favored.”
“Yes, Tom, the weakest first. That’s right; that’s why I’m a-givin’ my
chances to you lads. And besides that, my life ain’t worth savin’ anyway,
alongside of yours and Bennie’s. You shall share what’s in the basket between
you. It ain’t much, but it’ll keep you up as long as the air will support you.
It’s getting bad, the air is. Do you see the lamp, how dim and lazy-like it
burns? A man’s got to have such strength as food will give him to hold out
long in air like this.”
“I wish you had eaten with us,” interrupted Tom again. “It isn’t right to let
your chances go that way on account of us.”
Paying no attention to this protest, Jack continued, “But I’ve a thing on
my mind, Tom, that I’d feel easier about and fitter for what’s coming if I told
it. It’s about your father, lad; it’s about Tom Taylor.”
Chapter 8
The Father
Y ou’ll not think too hard of me, Tom, will you, when I tell you how your
father died. It was not the fall of top coal that killed him—it was me!
Tom! Lad! Tom! Bear with me a minute! Sit you and bear with me; it will
not be for long.”
The boy had risen to his feet and stood staring at the man in terrified
amazement. Then Jack rose, in his turn, and hurried on with his story. “It
was not by intent, Tom. We were the best of friends; I was his buddy. We
worked in a chamber together in the mine. But one day we quarreled—I
hardly remember what it was even about—we quarreled there in the
chamber, and ugly words passed, and there came a moment when one of us
struck the other.
“Then the fight began—hand to hand, both lamps out, in the dark. Oh,
it was terrible! Terrible! We were down on the floor of the mine, crashing
up against the ragged pillars, struggling and straining like mad—and all of
a sudden, I heard a sharp cry, and I felt him slipping out of my arms and
down to my feet, and he lay there and was still.
“I found my lamp and lit it, and when I looked at him, he was dead.
“I was a coward. I was afraid to say we had been fighting. I was afraid
they’d say I murdered him. So I blasted down a bit of roof and fixed it like
the top coal had fell and killed him, and no one suspected I killed him. But
I could not stay there, and I wandered west, and I wandered east, and I took
to drink and to evil deeds, and at last I came back, and I went in with the
Molly Maguires, and I did desperate work for them—work that I oughtn’t to
be alive tonight to speak about. But I have suffered. Oh, lad, I have suffered!
“Many and many is the night, as often as I have slept and dreamed, that I
have fought over that fight in the dark and felt that body a-slipping, slipping
out of my grasp. Oh, it’s been terrible! Terrible!”
Jack dropped into his seat again and buried his face in his hands.
The man’s apparent mental agony melted Tom’s heart, and he sat down
beside him and laid a comforting hand on his knee.
“I have nothing against you,” he said, and repeated, “I have nothing

against you.”
After a while Jack looked up.
“I believe you, lad,” he said, “and somehow I feel easier for the telling.
But you must not tell the mother about it, Tom; I’ve a reason for that. I’ve a
bit of money here that I’ve saved along through the years, and I’ve neither
friends nor family that’s near now to leave it with—and I want your mother
to have it. If she knew, she might not take it.”
As he spoke, he drew from an inner pocket a folded and wrapped
package and gave it to Tom.
“It’s a thousand dollars,” he continued, “and I’d like—I’d like it if part of it
could be used for getting sight for the blind lad, if he lives to get out. I told
him, one day, that he should have his sight, if money would buy it, and I
want to keep my word.”
Tom took the package, too much amazed and too deeply moved to speak.
The grinding noise of settling rock came up from the region of the fall,
and then, for many minutes, the silence was unbroken.
After a while, Jack said, “Put the money where they’ll find it on you, in
case you—in case you don’t get out in time.”
Then he rose to his feet again.
“You’re not going to leave us?” said Tom.
“Yes, lad, I must go. It’s the way with hunger, sometimes, to make a man
crazy until he’s not knowing what he does. You shall not have that to fear
from me, Tom.” He grasped the boy suddenly by both hands. “Don’t come
up into the new chambers, Tom; promise me!”
Tom promised, and Jack added, “Maybe I shall not see ye again.
Goodbye. Keep up heart; that’s the best thing for both of you—keep up
heart, and never let hope go.”
Then he loosed the boy’s hands, picked up his lamp, and, with a smile
on his face, he turned away. He passed down the airway and out by the
entrance where blind Bennie lay, still sleeping, and stopped and looked
tenderly down upon him, as men look, for the last time in life, on those
whom they love.
He bent over, holding his heavy beard back against his breast and
touched the tangled hair on the child’s forehead with his lips; and then,
weak, staggering, with the shadow of his fate upon him, he passed out on
The Father 57
the heading, and up into the new chambers, where the poisoned air was
heavy with the deadly gas, and the lamp-flame scarcely left the wick; and
neither Tom Taylor nor his blind brother ever saw Jack Rennie again, in life
or in death.
When Tom went back to the waiting place, Bennie awoke.
“I had such a nice dream, Tom,” he said. “I thought I was lying in the little
bed at home, in the early morning. It was summer, and I could hear the
birds a-singing in the poplar tree outside; and then Mommie, she come up
by the bed and kissed me. And then I thought, all of a sudden, I could see.
Oh, Tom, it was lovely! I could see Mommie standing there, and I could see
the sunlight a-coming in at the window, and a-shining on the floor; and I
jumped up and looked out, and it was all just like—just like heaven.”
There was a pause, and then Bennie added, “Tom, do you suppose if I
should die now and go to heaven, I could see up there?”
“I guess so,” answered Tom. “But you aren’t going to die. We’re going to
get out—both of us.”
But Bennie was still thinking of the heavenly vision.
“Then I wouldn’t care, Tom; I’d just as well die—if only Mommie could be
with me.”
Again Tom spoke, in earnest, cheerful tones, of the probability of rescue
and discussed the subject long and stimulated his own heart, as well as
Bennie’s, with renewed hope.
By-and-by the imperious demands of hunger compelled them to eat the
remnant of food. Tom explained that Jack had gone away to be by himself a
while and wanted them to eat what there was in the basket. Bennie did not
question the statement. So the last of the food was eaten.
After this there was a long period of quiet waiting and listening for
sounds of rescue, and, finally, both boys lay down again and slept.
Hours passed by with no sound save the labored breathing of the
sleepers. Then Tom awoke with a prickling sensation over his entire body
and a strange heaviness of the head and weakness of the limbs, but Bennie
slept on.
“He might as well sleep,” said Tom to himself. “It’ll make the time shorter
for him.”
But by and by, Bennie awoke and said that he felt very sick and that his
head was hurting him.
He fell asleep again soon, however, and it was not until some hours later that
he awoke with a start and asked for water. After that, though oppressed with
drowsiness, he slept only at intervals and complained constantly of his head.
Tom cared for him and comforted him, putting his own sufferings out of
sight, sleeping a little and straining his ears for a sound of rescue.
The hours crept on, and the flame of the little lamp burned dim, and the
deadly gas grew thicker in the darkness.
Once, after a longer period of quiet than usual, there came a whisper
from Bennie.
“Tom!”
“What is it, Bennie?”
“Where did Jack go?”
“Up in the new chambers.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Oh, a day or two, I guess.”
“Hark, Tom, is that him?”
“I don’t hear anything, Bennie.”
“Listen! It’s a kind of tapping, tapping—don’t you hear it?”
But Tom’s heart was beating so wildly that he could hear no lesser noise.
“I don’t hear it any more,” said Bennie.
But both boys lay awake now and listened, and by and by Bennie spoke
again, “There it is. Don’t you hear it, Tom?”
This time Tom did hear it: just the faintest tap, tap, sounding, almost, as
though it were miles away.
There was a little crowbar there that had been brought down from the
new chambers. Tom caught it up and hurried into the heading. He beat
half a dozen times on the wall there, and then, dropping the bar from sheer
exhaustion, he lay down beside it and listened.
It was hard to tell if they heard his strokes, though he repeated them
again and again, as his strength would permit.
But the faint tapping ceased only at intervals, and, once in a long while, a
scarcely perceptible thud could be heard.
Tom crept back to Bennie and tried to speak cheerfully as they lay and
listened.
But the blind boy’s limbs had grown numb and his head very heavy and
painful. His utterance, too, had become thick and uncertain, and at times he
The Father 59
seemed to be wandering in his mind. Once he started up, crying out that the
roof was falling on him.
Hours passed. Echoing through the fall, the sound of pick and crowbar
came, with unmistakable earnestness.
Tom had tapped many times on the wall and was sure he had been heard,
for the answering raps had reached his ears distinctly.
But they were so long coming—so long! Yet Tom nursed his hope, and
fought off the drowsiness that oppressed him, and tried to care for Bennie.
The blind boy had gotten beyond caring for himself. He no longer heard
the sounds of rescue. Once he turned partly on his side.
“Yes, Mommie,” he whispered, “yes, I see it; ain’t it pretty!” Then, after a
pause, “O Mommie, how beautiful—how beautiful—it is—to see!”
Tap, tap, thud, came the sounds of rescue through the rock and coal.
Tap, tap, thud. But, oh, how the moments lagged; how the deadly gas
increased; how the sharp teeth of hunger gnawed; how feebly burned the
flame of the little lamp; how narrow grew the issue between life and death!
A time had come when Bennie could be no longer roused to
consciousness, when the brain itself had grown torpid, and the tongue
refused to act.
Tap! Tap! Louder and louder it sounded. They were coming near; men’s
voices could be heard. Thud! Thud! The prison wall began to tremble with
the heavy blows, but the hours went slipping by into the darkness, and,
over the rude couch, whereon the blind boy lay, the angel of death hung
motionless.
“Oh, God!” prayed Tom. “Oh, dear God, let Bennie live until they
come!”
Chapter 9
Out of Darkness
I t was with a light heart that the widow Taylor kissed her two boys
goodbye that morning in December and watched them as they
disappeared into the fading darkness. When they were gone, she went about
her household duties with a song on her lips. She did not often sing when
she was alone, but this was such a pretty little song of a mother and her boy
that, on this happy winter morning, she could not choose but sing it.
Hers were such noble boys, such bright, brave boys! They had given her
heart and life to begin the struggle for bread on that awful day when she
found herself homeless, money-less, among strangers in a strange land;
when, in answer to her eager question for her husband, she had been told
that he had met an untimely death and was already lying in his grave.
But, as she had toiled and trusted, her sons had grown, both in stature
and in grace, until they had become, indeed, her crown of rejoicing.
One thing yet she looked forward to with eager hope, and that was the
time when her blind boy might have the benefit of skillful treatment for his
eyes with the possibility of sight. It might take years of saving money yet,
but every day that they could all work made the time of waiting one day less.
So she was hardly less rejoiced at the renewal of their tasks than were the
boys themselves.
Suddenly there came a jar; the house rocked slightly, the windows rattled,
and a dish on the pantry shelf fell to the floor and was broken.
The widow Taylor started to her feet and stood for a moment, wondering
what it could mean. Then she opened the door of her cottage and looked
out.
Other women were standing by their gates, and men were hurrying past
her in the darkness.
“What’s happened?” she called out to a neighbor.
“A fall,” came back the answer. “It must must have been a fall.”
“Where?”
Out of Darkness 61
She asked the question with a dreadful apprehension settling down upon
her.
“We cannot tell, but most likely it’s in the Dryden Slope. They’re running
that way.”
The widow shrank back into her house and sank weakly into a chair. For
the moment she was overcome, but only for the moment. Hope came to her
rescue. There were a hundred chances to one that her boys were not in the
mine, even if the fall had been there; indeed, it was already time for them to
be at home.
She waited for a few moments in anxious indecision; then, throwing a
shawl about her head and shoulders, she went out into the night.
She knew very well the route by which her boys came from their work,
and she determined to go until she should meet them. There were many
people hurrying toward the slope, but only one man coming from it, and he
was running for a doctor and had no time to talk.
Increasing anxiety hastened the widow’s steps. She could not go fast
enough. Even as it was, people jostled by her in the darkness, and she ran to
keep up with them.
At last, the mile that lay between her cottage and the mine was almost
covered. Up on the hillside, at the mouth of the slope, she saw the twinkling
and glancing of the lights of many lamps. The crowds had grown more
dense. Other women were pushing past her, moaning and lamenting.
She climbed the hill and through the throng to where a heavy rope had
been stretched about the mouth of the slope as a barrier to hold back the
pressing crowd. Clutching the rope with both hands, she stood there and
waited and watched.
She was where she could see into the opening of the mine and where she
could see all who came out.
Some cars were lowered from the slope house to the mouth, and a dozen
men with picks and crowbars climbed into them and went speeding down
into the blackness. It was another rescuing party.
Across the open space before her, the widow saw Sandy McCulloch
coming and cried out to him, “Sandy!”
He stopped for an instant, then, recognizing the woman’s voice, he came
up to her and laid his hands on hers, and before she could speak again, he
said, “You’re looking’ for the lads. They have not come out yet.”
“Sandy—are they safe?”

“We cannot tell. There were many that got to this side of the fall before it
came, and some that got caught in it, and most likely there are some that are
beyond it.”
A car came up the slope, and the body of a man was lifted out, placed on
a rude stretcher, and carried away.
Sandy moved, awkwardly, to get between the dread sight and the woman’s
eyes. But she looked at it only for a moment. It was a man, and those she
sought were not men, but boys.
“They’re a-working,” continued Sandy, “they’re a-working like tigers to
get to them, and we’re a-hoping. That’s all we can do—work and hope.”
The man hurried away and left her still standing there to watch the car
that came up from the blackness at lengthening intervals with its dreadful
load and to hear the shrill cry from some heartbroken wife and mother as
she recognized the victim. But they were always men who were brought out,
not boys.
After a time, a party of workers came up, exhausted, and others went
down in their places. The men were surrounded with eager questioners, but
they had little to say. The work of rescue was progressing—that was all.
By and by Sandy came back.
“You should not stay here, Mistress Taylor,” he said. “When the lads be
found, you shall know it; I’ll bring them to you myself. Most likely they
are behind the fall, and it’ll take time to get them—all night maybe, maybe
longer; but when they’re found, you shall not be long knowing it.”
“O Sandy! You’ll spare nothing; you’ll spare nothing for them?”
“We’ll spare nothing,” he said.
He had started with her towards home, helping her along until the bend
in the road disclosed the light in her cottage window; and then, bidding her
to be hopeful and of strong heart, he left her and hurried back to aid in the
work of rescue.
The outer line of the fall and the openings into it had already been
searched; and all the missing had been accounted for—some living, some
dead, and some to whom death would have been a happy relief—all the
missing, save Tom Taylor and his blind brother.
It was well known that their route to the foot of the slope lay by the new
north heading; and, along this passage, the entire work of rescue was now
Out of Darkness 63
concentrated. The boys would be found, either buried under the fall, or
imprisoned behind it.
At some points in the heading, the rescuing parties found the rock and
coal wedged in so solidly that the opening of a few feet was the work of an
hour; again, the huge blocks and slabs were piled up, irregularly; and, again,
there would be short distances that were wholly clear.
But no matter what these miners met, their work never for one moment
ceased nor lagged. They said little; men do not talk much under a pressure
like that; but every muscle was tense, every sense on the alert; they were at
the supreme height of physical effort.
Such labor was possible only for a few hours at a time, but the tools
scarcely ceased in their motion, so quickly were they caught up by fresh
hands from the exhausted ones that dropped them.
Men do not work like that for money. No riches of earth could charge
nerve and muscle with such energetic fire. It was, indeed, a labor of love.
There was not a workman in Dryden Slope but would have worn his
fingers to the bone to save these lads, or their widowed mother, from one
hour of suffering. The frank, manly character of Tom, and the pathetic
simplicity of his blind brother had made both boys the favorites of the mine.
And beneath the grimy clothes of these rugged miners beat hearts as warm
and resolute as ever moved the noblest of earth’s heroes to generous deeds of
daring.
When the widow Taylor reached home, it was almost midnight. She set
away the supper dishes from the table and in place of them, she put some of
her simple household remedies. She prepared bandages and lint, and made
everything ready for the rest and comfort of the sufferers when they should
arrive.
She expected that they would be weak and wounded, too, perhaps, but
she had not yet thought of them as dead.
Then she lay down upon her bed and tried to sleep, but at every noise she
awakened.
At daybreak a miner stopped, with blackened face and bleeding hands, to
tell her that the work of rescue was going bravely on. He had, himself, just
come from the face of the new opening, he said, and would go back again to
work after he had taken a little food and a little sleep.
The morning went by. Noon passed, and still there were no other tidings.
The monotony of waiting became unbearable at last, and the stricken

woman started on another journey to the mine.
When she came near to the mouth of the slope, they made way for her
in silent sympathy. A trip of cars came out soon after her arrival, and a half
dozen miners lifted themselves wearily to the ground. The crowd pressed
forward with eager questions, but the tired workers only shook their heads.
They feared, they said, that not half the distance through the fall had yet
been accomplished.
But one of them, a brawny, great-hearted Irishman, came over to where
the widow Taylor stood, white-faced and eager-eyed, and said, “It won’t be
long now, ma’am, until we’ll be reaching them. We’re a-hoping every blessed
hour to break through to where the pretty lads are staying.”
“And do you find no signs?” she asked. “Do you hear no sounds?”
“Ah, now!” he said, evading the question. “Never you fear.”
She turned away and went home again, and the long night passed,
and the morning dawned, and it was only the same old story: “They’re
a-working. It can’t be long now.”
But among themselves the miners said that had the lads escaped the fall,
they would perish from hunger and foul air long before the way could be
opened into their prison. To bring their lifeless bodies out for decent burial
was all that could be hoped.
The morning of the fourth day dawned, beautiful and sunny. It was the
holy Christmas Day, the day on which the star-led shepherds found the
Christ-child in the hallowed manger in the town of Bethlehem. White and
pure upon the earth, in the winter sunlight, rested a covering of newly fallen
snow. Pale-faced and hollow-eyed, the mother of the two imprisoned boys
looked out upon it from the window of her desolate home.
The sympathizing neighbors who had kept her company for the night
had gone for a little while, and she was alone.
She knew that there was no hope.
They had thought it a kindness to tell her so at last, and she had thanked
them for not keeping the bitter truth hid from her.
She did not ask anymore that she might see her two boys in life; she only
prayed now that their dear bodies might be brought to her to be robed for
Christian burial.
To this end she began now to make all things ready.
Out of Darkness 65
In the locked cupboard, where the boys should not see them until the time
came, she found the Christmas presents she had thought to give to them this day.
Not much, indeed. A few cheap toys, some sweetmeats purchased
secretly, a book or two, and last of all, some little gifts that her own weary,
loving hands had wrought in the long hours after the children were asleep.
And now the Christmas dawn had come, but the children—
She had not wept before—not since the first jar from the fall had rocked
her cottage, but now, with the sight of these poor, simple Christmas gifts,
there came some softening influence that moved her heart and brought
the swift tears to her eyes, and she sat down in her accustomed chair and
wept—wept long and piteously, indeed, but in the weeping found relief.
She was aroused by a knock at the door. The latch was lifted, the door
pushed open, and Sandy McCulloch stumbled in. He was out of breath, his
eyes were wide with excitement and down each side of his grimy face was a
furrow where the tears had run.
The widow started to her feet.
“Sandy!”
A wild hope had come into her heart.
“They’re found!” he forced out breath enough to say.
“O Sandy, alive or—or . . .”
She could not finish the question; the room seemed whirling round her;
she grasped at the chair for support.
“Alive!” he shouted. “Alive, and they are going to live!”
He started forward, and caught the woman as she fell. The shock of joy
had been too sudden and too great, and for a time nature gave way before it.
But it was indeed true. When the men working at the face of the tunnel
caught the sound of responsive tappings, they labored with redoubled
energy, if such a thing could be; and after another night of most gigantic
effort, they broke through into the prison-house to find both boys
unconscious indeed, but alive, alive.
Medical aid was at hand, and though for a time the spirit of Bennie
seemed fain to leave his wasted body, it took a firmer hold at last, and it was
known that he would live.
In triumphant procession, they bore the rescued, still unconscious boys
in tender haste to their mother’s house; and those who ran before shouted,
“Found! Found!” and those who followed after cried, “Alive! Alive!”
How the women kissed their own children and wept as they saw the lads
borne by! How the men grasped one another’s hands and tried to speak
without a tremor in the voice—and failed. And how wild the whole town
went over the gallant rescue of the widow’s sons!
But Jack Rennie, poor Jack, brave, misguided Jack! They found his body
later on and gave it tender burial. But it was only when the lips of Tom and
Bennie were unsealed, with growing strength, that others knew how this
man’s heroic sacrifice had made it possible for these two boys to live.
Under the most watchful and tender care of his mother, Tom soon
recovered his usual health. But for Bennie, the shock had been more
severe. He gained strength very slowly, indeed. He could not free his mind
from dreadful memories. Many a winter night he started from his sleep,
awakened by dreams of falling mines.
It was not until the warm, south winds of April crept up the valley of
Wyoming, that he could leave his easy chair without a hand to help him,
and not until all the sweet roses of June were in blossom that he walked
abroad in the sunlight as before.
But then—oh, then what happened? Only this: Jack Rennie’s gift was put
to the use he had bespoken for it. Skilled hands in the great city gave proper
treatment to the blind boy’s eyes through many weeks, and then—he saw!
Only this; but it was life to him—new, sweet, joyous life.
One day he stepped upon the train, with sight restored, to ride back to his
valley home. Wide-eyed he was, exuberant with hope and fancy, seeing all
things, talking to those about him, asking many questions.
The full and perfect beauty of late summer rested on the land. The fields
were never more luxuriantly green and golden, nor the trees more richly
clothed with verdure. The first faint breath of coming autumn had touched
the landscape here and there with spots of glowing color, and the red and
yellow fruit hung temptingly among the leaves of all the orchard trees.
The waters of the river, up whose winding course the train ran on and on,
were sparkling in the sunlight with a beauty that, in this boy’s eyes, was little
less than magical.
And the hills; how high the hills were! Bennie said he never dreamed the
hills could be so high.
“Beautiful!” he said, again and again, as the ever changing landscapes
formed and faded in his sight. “Beautiful! Beautiful!”
Out of Darkness 67
Before the train reached Wilkes-Barre the summer evening had fallen,
and from that city, Bennie saw from the car-window only the twinkling of
many lights.
Tom was at the station to meet him. Dear, brave Tom, how his heart
swelled with pride, as, by some unaccountable instinct, Bennie came to him,
and called him by name and put his arms around his neck.
Many were there to see the once blind boy and give him welcome home.
And as they grasped his hand and marked his happiness, some laughed for
joy, and others—for the same reason indeed—others wept.
Then they started on the long home walk, Tom and Bennie, hand in hand
together, as they used to go hand in hand, to find and greet Mother.
She was waiting for them—sitting by the window in her chair as she had
sat that dreadful winter night, but there came now no sudden jar to send a
pallor to her face. She heard, instead, the light footsteps of her two boys on
the walk and their voices at the door; and then—why, then, she had Bennie
in her arms, and he was saying—strange that they should be the very words
that passed his lips that awful hour when death hung over him—he was
saying, “O Mommie! How beautiful—how beautiful—it is—to see!”
THE END
Mary
Jones and
Her Bible
The Story of a Welsh Girl's Faith
Written By Mary Emily Ropes
Edited by Jenny Phillips and Jennifer D. Lerud

Illustrations recreated by Maria Dalbaeva
Text has been modified and updated with

modern-day grammar and spelling

Chapter 1
At the Foot of the Mountain
O Shepherd of all the flock of God,
Watch over Thy lambs and feed them;
For Thou alone, through the rugged paths,
In the way of life can lead them.
I t would be hard to find a lovelier, more picturesque spot than the valley
where nestles the little village of Llanfihangel. Above the village towers
the majestic mountain with its dark crags, its rocky precipices, and its steep
ascents; while stretching away in the distance to the westward, lie the bold
shore and glistening waters of the bay, where the white waves come rolling
in and dash into foam.
And now as, in thought, we stand upon the lower slopes of the valley and
look across the little village of Llanfihangel, we find ourselves wondering
what kind of people have occupied those rude grey cottages for the last
century. What were their simple histories, their habits, their toils and
struggles, their sorrows and pleasures?
To those then who share our interest in this place and events connected
with them, we would tell the simple tale which gives Llanfihangel a place
among the justly celebrated and honored spots of the country of Wales.
In the year 1792, over two hundred years ago, the night shadows had
fallen around the little village of Llanfihangel. The season was late autumn,
and a cold wind was moaning and sighing among the trees, stripping them
of their changed garments, lately so green and gay, whirling them round in
eddies, and laying them in shivering heaps along the narrow valley.
Wan and watery, the moon, encompassed by peaked masses of cloud, had
risen and now cast a faint light across a line of jutting crags, bringing into
relief their sharp, ragged edges against the dark background of rolling vapor.
In pleasant contrast to the night with its threatening gloom, a warm
light shone through the windows of one of the cottages that formed the
village. The light was caused by the blaze of a fire of dried driftwood on the
At the Foot of the Mountain 73
stone hearth, while in a rude wooden stand a candle burned, throwing its
somewhat uncertain brightness upon a loom where sat a weaver at work. A
bench, two or three stools, a cupboard, and a kitchen table—these, with the
loom, were all the furniture.
Standing in the center of the room was a middle-aged woman.
“I am sorry you cannot go, Jacob,” said she. “You’ll be missed at the meeting.
But the same Lord Almighty, who gives us the meetings for the good of our
souls, sent you that wheezing of the chest, for the trying of your body and
spirit, and we must needs have patience until He sees fit to take it away again.”
“Yes, wife, and I’m thankful that I needn’t sit idle but can still work at my
trade,” replied Jacob Jones. “There’s many who are much worse off. But what
are you waiting for, Molly? You’ll be late for the exercises.”
“I’m waiting for that child, and she’s gone for the lantern,” responded
Mary Jones, whom her husband generally called Molly, to distinguish her
from their daughter who was also Mary.
Jacob smiled. “The lantern! Yes,” he said, “you’ll need it this dark night.
‘Twas a good thought of yours, wife, to let Mary take it as you do, for the
child wouldn’t be allowed to attend those meetings otherwise. And she does
seem so eager after everything of the kind.”
“Yes, she knows already pretty nearly all that you and I can teach her
of the Bible, as we learned it, doesn’t she, Jacob? She’s only eight now, but
I remember when she was but a wee child; she would sit on your knee for
hours on a Sunday and listen to the stories of Abraham and Joseph and
David and Daniel. There never was a girl like our Mary for Bible stories, or
any stories, for the matter of that, bless her! But here she is! You’ve been a
long time getting that lantern, child, and we must hurry, or we shall be late.”
Little Mary raised a pair of bright dark eyes to her mother’s face.
“Yes, mother,” she replied, “I was long because I ran to borrow neighbor
Williams’ lantern. The latch of ours won’t hold, and there’s such a wind
tonight that I knew we should have the light blown out.”
“There’s a moon,” said Mrs. Jones, “and I could have done without a
lantern.”
“Yes, but then you know, Mother, I should have had to stay at home,”
responded Mary, “and I do so love to go.”
“You needn’t tell me that, child,” laughed Molly. “Then come along, Mary;
goodbye, Jacob.”
74 Mary Jones and Her Bible
“Goodbye, Father dear! I wish you could come too!” cried Mary, running
back to give Jacob a last kiss.
“Go your way, child, and mind you remember all you can to tell old
father when you come home.”
Then the cottage door opened, and Mary and her mother sallied out into
the cold, windy night.
The moon had disappeared now behind a thick, dark cloud, and little
Mary’s borrowed lantern was very acceptable. Carefully she held it so that
the light fell upon the way they had to traverse—a way which would have
been difficult if not dangerous without the lantern’s friendly aid.
“Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path,” said Mrs.
Jones, as she took her little daughter’s hand in hers.
“Yes, Mother, I was just thinking of that,” replied the child. “I wish I knew
ever so many verses like this one.”
“How glad I should be if your father and I could teach you more, but it
has been years since we learned, and we’ve got no Bible, and our memories
are not as good as they used to be,” sighed the mother.
A walk of some length, and over a rough road, brought them at last to the
little meetinghouse where the church members belonging to the Methodist
body were in the habit of attending.
They were rather late, and the exercises had begun, but kind farmer
Evans made room for them on his bench and found for Mrs. Jones the place
in the psalm-book from which the little company had been singing.
Mary was the only child there, but her manner was so reverent that no
one looking at her could have felt that she was out of place. As Farmer
Evans read from the Bible, Mary hung on the words, and her intelligent
little face held an expression of joy.
“Why haven’t we a Bible of our own, Mother?” she asked as they trotted
homeward after the meeting.
“Because Bibles are scarce, child, and we’re too poor to pay the price of
one. A weaver’s is an honest trade, Mary, but we do not get rich by it, and
we think ourselves happy if we have clothes to cover us. Still, precious as the
Word of God would be in our hands, more precious are its teachings and its
truths in our hearts.”
“I suppose you can wait, Mother, because you’ve waited so long that
you’re used to it,” replied Mary, “but it’s harder for me. Every time I hear
At the Foot of the Mountain 75
something read out of the Bible, I long to hear more, and when I learn to
read, it will be harder still.”
Mrs. Jones was about to answer when she stumbled over a stone and fell,
though fortunately without hurting herself. Mary’s thoughts were so full of
what she had been saying that she had become careless in the management
of the lantern, and her mother, not seeing the stone, had struck her foot
against it.
“Ah, child! It’s the present duties, after all, that we must look after most,”
said Molly as she got slowly up. “And even a fall may teach us a lesson,
Mary. The very Word of God itself, which is a lamp to our feet and a light to
our path, can’t save us from many a tumble if we don’t use it aright and let
the light shine on our daily life, helping us in its smallest duties and cares.
Remember this, my little Mary.”
And little Mary did remember this, and her life afterwards proved that
she had taken the lesson to heart—a simple lesson taught by a simple,
unlearned handmaid of the Lord, but a lesson which the child treasured up
in her very heart of hearts.
Chapter 2
The One Great Need
For this I know, whatever of earthly good
Fall to the portion of immortal man,
Still unfulfillable in him is God’s great plan.
And Heaven’s richest gift misunderstood,
Until the Word of Life—exhaustless store
Of light and truth—be his for evermore.
I n the homes of the poor, the little ones learn to be useful very early. How
often we have known girls of six to take the entire charge of a younger
brother and sister, while many children of that age run errands, do simple
shopping, and make themselves of very real and substantial use.
Such was the case in the family of Jacob Jones. Jacob and Molly were
engaged in weaving wool cloth, so much of which used to be made in Wales.
Thus many of the household duties devolved upon Mary; and at an age
when children of richer parents were amusing themselves with their dolls or
picture books, our little maid was sweeping and dusting and scrubbing and
digging and weeding.
It was Mary who fed the few hens and looked for their eggs, so often laid
in strange, wrong places, rather than in the nest.
It was Mary who took care of the hive and never feared the bees. And it
was Mary again, who, when more active duties were done, would draw a low
stool towards the hearth in winter or outside the cottage door in summer,
and try to make or mend her own little simple garments, singing to herself,
all the while in Welsh, a verse or two of the old-fashioned metrical version
of the Psalms or repeating texts which she had picked up and retained in her
quick, eager little brain.
In the long, light summer evenings, it was her delight to sit where she
could see the majestic form of Cader Idris, with its varying lights and
shadows, as the sun sank lower and lower in the horizon. And in her
childish imagination, this mountain was made to play many a part as she
The One Great Need 77
recalled the stories which her parents had told her and the chapters she had
heard read at chapel.
Now, Cader Idris was the mountain in the land of Moriah where the
patriarch Abraham was sent on his painful mission. Mary would fix her
great dark eyes upon the rocky steeps before her until she fancied she could
see the venerable Abraham and his son toiling up towards the appointed
place of sacrifice, the lad bearing the wood for the burnt offering.
More and more vividly, the whole scene would grow upon the child’s
fancy until the picture seemed to be almost a reality. And she could imagine
that she heard the patriarch’s voice borne faintly to her ear by the breeze that
fanned her cheek—a voice that replied pathetically to his son’s question, in the
words, “My son, the Lord will provide Himself a lamb for the burnt offering.”
Then the scene would change. Night was drawing near, and Cader Idris,
assuming softer outlines, was the mountain where the Savior went to pray.
Leaving the thronging multitude who had been dwelling upon His every
word, leaving even His disciples whom He so loved, there was Jesus—alone
save for the Eternal Father’s presence—praying and refreshing His weary
spirit after the work and trials and sorrows of the day.
“If I’d only lived in those days,” sighed little Mary at times, “how I should
have loved Him! And He’d have taught me, perhaps, as He did those two
who walked such a long way with Him, without knowing that it was Jesus;
only I think I should have known Him, just through love.”
Nor was it only the mountain with which Mary associated scenes from
sacred history or gospel narration. The long, narrow valley, in the upper
end of which Llanfihangel was situated, ran down to the sea at no great
distance by a place called Towyn. And when the child happened to be near,
she would steal a few moments to sit down on the shore and gaze across the
blue-green waters of Cardigan Bay and dream of the Sea of Galilee, fond of
the Savior who walked upon its waters, who stilled their raging with a word,
and who even sometimes chose to make His pulpit of a boat and preach
thus to the congregation that stood upon the shore and clustered to the very
edge of the water, so that they might not lose a word of the precious things
that He spoke. It will be seen, therefore, that a deep and lasting impression
was made upon Mary’s mind by all that she had heard; and child though she
might be in years, there was no lack in her of an earnest, energetic nature,
an intelligent brain, and a warm, loving heart.
It is by the first leaves put forth by the seedling that we discern the nature
and know the name of the plant, and so in childhood, the character and
talents can often be detected in the early beauty of their first unfolding and
development.
One afternoon when Jacob and his wife were seated at their looms and
Mary was sewing a patch into an almost worn-out garment of her own, a
little tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Mrs. Evans, the good
farmer’s wife, a kind, motherly, and, in some respects, superior woman, who
was looked up to and beloved by many of the Llanfihangel villagers.
“Good day to you, neighbors!” she said, cheerily, her comely face all
aglow. “Jacob, how is your chest feeling? Bad, I’m afraid, as I haven’t seen
you out of late. Molly, you’re looking hearty as usual, and my little Mary,
too—Toddles, as I used to call you when you were not much more than a
baby and running round on your sturdy pins as fast as many a bigger child.
Don’t I remember you then! A mere baby, as I said, and yet you’d keep a
deal stiller than any mouse if your father there would make up a story you
could understand, more particularly if it was out of the Bible. Daniel and
the Lions, or David and the Giant, or Peter in the Prison—these were the
favorites then. Yes, and the history of Joseph and his brethren; only you used
to cry when the naughty brothers put Joseph in the pit and then went home
and told Jacob that wicked lie that almost broke the old man’s heart.”
“She’s as fond of anything of that sort now as she was then,” said Jacob
Jones, pausing in his work. “Or rather, she’s fonder than ever, ma’am. I only
wish we were able to give her a bit of schooling. It seems hard, for the child
is willing enough, and it’s high time she was learning something. Why, Mrs.
Evans, she can’t read yet, and she’s eight years old!”
Mary looked up, her face flushing, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh! If I only could learn!” she cried. “I’m such a big girl, and it’s so
dreadful not to know how to read. If I could, I would read all the lovely
stories myself and not trouble anyone to tell them.”
“You forget, Mary, we’ve no Bible,” said Molly Jones, “and we can’t afford
to buy one either, so dear and scarce they are.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Evans, “it’s a great want in our country. My husband
was telling me only the other day that the scarcity of Welsh Bibles is getting
to be spoken of everywhere. Even those who can afford to pay for them get
them with difficulty, and only by ordering them in advance; and poor people
The One Great Need 79
can’t get them at all. But we hope the Society for Christian Knowledge in
London may print some more soon. It won’t be before they’re wanted.
“But with all this talk, Mrs. Jones,” continued the farmer’s wife, “I am
forgetting my errand in coming here, and that was to ask if you had any
new-laid eggs. I’ve a large order sent me, and our hens are laying badly so
that I can’t make up the number. I’ve been collecting a few here and there,
but I haven’t enough yet.”
“Mary knows more about the hens and eggs than I do,” said Molly,
looking at her little daughter, who had not put a stitch into her patch while
the talk about Bibles had been going on, and whose cheeks and eyes showed
in their deepened color and light how interested she’d been in what had
been said.
But now the child started half guiltily from her low seat, saying, “I’ll get
what we have to show you, Mrs. Evans.”
Presently she came in with a little basket containing about a dozen eggs.
The farmer’s wife put them into her bag, then patting Mary’s pink cheeks,
rose to take her leave after paying for the eggs.
“And remember this, little maid,” she said kindly, when she was taking
leave of Mary at the door after saying goodbye to Jacob and Molly,
“remember this, my dear little girl: as soon as you know how to read—if by
that time you still have no Bible—you shall come to the farm whenever you
like and read and study ours; that is, if you can manage to get so far.”
“It’s only two miles. That’s nothing!” said sturdy Mary with a glance down
at her strong little bare feet. “I’d walk farther than that for such a pleasure,
ma’am.” Then she added with a less joyful ring in her voice, “At least I would,
if ever I did learn to read.”
“Never mind, little woman! The likes of you wasn’t made to always sit in
the dark,” replied Mrs. Evans in her cheery, comfortable tones. “The Lord
made the want, and He’ll satisfy it; be very sure of that. Remember, Mary,
when the multitude that waited on the Savior were hungry, the Lord did not
send them away empty, though no one saw how they were to be fed, and
He’ll take care you get the bread of life too, even though it seems so unlikely
now. Goodbye, and God bless you, my child!” And good Mrs. Evans, with a
parting nod to the weaver and his wife and another to Mary, went out and
got into her little pony-cart, which was waiting for her on the road under
the care of one of the farm boys.
Mary stood at the door and watched their visitor until she was out of
sight. Then, before she closed it, she clasped her small brown hands against
her breast, and her thoughts formed themselves into a prayer something like
this:
“Dear Lord, who gavest bread to the hungry folk in the old time, and
didst teach and bless even the poorest, please let me learn and not grow up
in darkness.”
Then she shut the door and came and sat down, resolving in her childish
heart that if God heard and answered her prayer, and she learned to read
His Word, she would do what she could, all her life long, to help others as
she herself had been helped.
How our little Mary kept her resolution will be seen in the remaining
chapters of this simple narrative.
Chapter 3
Coming to the Light
Readiest thy trembling hand, Whose ears are open to welcome
Glad news of a better land; Not always shalt thou be groping,
Night’s shadows are well-nigh past: The heart that for light is yearning
Attains to that light at last.
T wo years had passed away since Mrs. Evans’ visit, and still little Mary’s
prayer seemed as far as ever from being answered.
With the industry and patience of more mature years, the child went
about her daily duties, and her mother depended upon her for many things
which do not generally form part of a child’s occupations. Mary had less
time for dreaming now, and although Cader Idris was still the spot with
which her imagination associated Bible scenes and pictures, she had little
leisure for anything but her everyday duties. She still accompanied her
mother to the meetings, and from so continually coming into contact with
older people rather than with children of her own age, the child had grown
more and more grave and earnest in face and manner and would have been
called an old-fashioned girl if she had lived in a place where any difference
was known between old fashions and new.
It was about this time that Jacob Jones came home one evening from
Abergynolwyn —a village two miles away from Llanfihangel —where he
had been disposing of the woolen cloth, which he and Molly had been
making during the past months.
Jacob had been away the greater part of the day, yet he did not seem tired.
His eye was bright, and his lips wore a smile as he entered the cottage and
sat down in his accustomed place in the chimney corner.
Mary, whose observant eye rarely failed to note the least change in her
father’s face and manner, sprang up and stood before him, regarding his
bright face searchingly.
“What is it, Father ?” she asked, her own dark eyes flashing back the light
in his. “Something pleasant has happened, or you wouldn’t look like that!”
“What a sharp little girl you are!” replied Jacob fondly, drawing the child
nearer and seating her upon his knee. “What a very sharp little woman to
find out that her old dad has something to tell!”
“And is it something that concerns me, Father?” asked Mary, stroking
Jacob’s face caressingly.
“It is something that concerns you most of all, my chick, and us through
you.”
“What can it be?” murmured Mary with a quick, impatient little sigh.
“What is it, Father?” asked Mrs. Jones. “We both want to know.”
“Well,” replied Jacob, “what would you say, Molly dear, to our little
daughter here becoming quite a learned woman, perhaps knowing how to
read and write and cipher, and all a deal better than her parents ever did
before her?”
“Oh, Father!”
The exclamation came from Mary, who in her excitement had slipped
from Jacob’s knee and now stood facing him, breathless with suspense, her
hands closely clasped.
Jacob looked at her for a moment without speaking; then he said
tenderly, “Yes, child, there is a school to be opened at Abergynolwyn, and
a master is chosen already. And as my little Mary thinks nothing of a two
miles’ walk, she shall go and learn all she can.”
“Oh, Father!”
“Well,” rejoined Jacob, now laughing outright, “how many ‘Oh, Fathers!’
are we going to have? But I thought you’d be glad, my girl, and I was not
wrong. You are pleased, dear, aren’t you?”
There was a pause; then Mary’s reply came, low spoken but with such
deep content in its tones. “Pleased, Father? Yes, indeed, for now I shall learn
to read the Bible.”
Then a thought struck her, and a shadow came across the happy face as
she said, “But, Mother, perhaps you won’t be able to spare me?”
“Spare you? Yes, I will, child, though I can’t deny as how it will be difficult
for me to do without my little right hand and help. But for your good, my
girl, I would do harder things than that.”
“Dear, good Mother!” cried Mary, putting an arm about Molly’s neck and
kissing her. “But I don’t want you to work too hard and tire yourself. I’ll get
up an hour or two earlier and do all I can before I start for school.” Then as
Coming to the Light 83
the child sat down again to her work, her heart in its joyfulness sent up a
song of thanksgiving to the Lord who had heard her prayer and opened the
way for her to learn that she might not grow up in darkness.
Presently Jacob went on, “I went to see the room where the school is to be
held, and who should come in while I was there but Mr. Charles of Bala. I’d
often heard of him before, but I’d never seen him, and I was glad to set eyes
on him for once.”
“What did he look like, Jacob?” asked Molly.
“Well, I never was a very good one for drawing a portrait, but I should
say he was between forty and fifty years old, with a fine big forehead which
doesn’t look as though it had unfurnished apartments to let behind it, but
quite the opposite, as though he had done a sight of thinking and meant
to do a great deal more. Still, his face isn’t anything so very special until
he smiles, but when he does, it’s like sunshine and goes to your heart and
warms you right through. Now that I’ve seen him and heard him speak, I
can understand how he does so much good. I hear he’s going about from
place to place opening schools for the poor children who would grow up
ignorant otherwise.”
“Like me,” murmured Mary under her breath.
“And who’s the master that’s to be set over the school at Abergynolwyn?”
asked Molly.
“I heard tell that his name is John Ellis,” replied Jacob. “A good man and
right for the work, so they say, and I hope it’ll prove so.”
“And how soon is the school to open, Jacob?” asked his wife.
“In about three weeks, I believe,” answered Jacob. “And now Mary, my
girl, if you can bring yourself to think of such a thing as supper after what
I’ve been telling you, suppose you get some ready, for I haven’t broke my fast
since noon.”
The following three weeks passed more slowly for little Mary Jones
than any three months she could remember before. Such childishness as
there was in her seemed to show itself in impatience; and we must confess
that her home duties at this time were not so cheerfully or so punctually
performed as usual, owing to the fact that her thoughts were far away, her
heart being set on the thing she had longed for so earnestly.
“If this is the way it’s going to be, Jacob,” said Molly to her husband
one evening, “I shall wish there had never been a thought of school at
Abergynolwyn. The child’s so off her head that she goes about like one in a
dream. What it’ll be when that school begins, I don’t dare to think of.”
“Don’t you fret, wife,” replied Jacob smiling. “It’ll all come right. Don’t
you see that her poor little busy brain has been longing to grow, and now
that there’s a chance of its being fed, she’s all agog. But you’ll find when she
once gets started, she’ll go on all right with her home work as well. She’s
but ten years old, Molly, after all; and for my own part, I’m not sorry to see
there’s a bit of the child left in her, even if it shows itself this way, such a little
old woman as she’s always been!”
But this longest three weeks that Mary ever spent came to an end at last,
and Mary began to go to school, thus commencing a new era in her life.
Fairly hungering and thirsting after knowledge, the child found her
lessons an unmixed delight. What other children call drudgery was to her
only pleasure, and her eagerness was so great that she was almost always at
the top of her class; and in an incredibly short space of time, she began to
read and write.
The master, who had a quick eye for observing the character and talents
of his pupils, soon noticed Mary’s peculiarities and encouraged her in her
pursuit of such knowledge as was taught in the school, and the little girl
repaid her master’s kindness by the most unwearied diligence and attention.
While the brain was being fed, the heart did not grow cold, nor did the
practical powers decline. Molly Jones could not find any fault with Mary’s
performance of her home duties. The child rose early and did her work
before breakfast, and after she returned from school in the afternoon, she
again helped her mother, only reserving for herself enough time to prepare
her lessons for the next day.
At school, she was a general favorite, and never seemed to be regarded
with jealousy by her companions, this being due to her genial disposition and
the kind way in which she was willing to help others whenever she could.
One morning a little girl was seen to be crying sadly when she reached
the schoolhouse, and on being questioned as to what was the matter, she
said that on the way there, a big dog had snatched at the little paper bag, in
which she was bringing her dinner to eat during recess, and had carried it
off, and so she should have to go hungry all day.
Some of the scholars laughed at the child for her carelessness, and some
called her a coward for not running after the dog and getting back her
Coming to the Light 85
dinner, but Mary stole up to the little one’s side and whispered something in
her ear, and dried the wet eyes, and kissed the flushed cheeks, and presently
the child was smiling and happy again.
When dinner time came, Mary and the little dinner-less maiden sat close
together in a corner, and more than half of Mary’s provisions found their
way to the smaller child’s mouth.
The other scholars looked on feeling somewhat ashamed, no doubt,
that none but Mary Jones had thought of doing so kind and neighborly an
action, at the cost of a little self-denial. But the lesson was not lost upon
them, and from that day on, Mary’s influence made itself felt in the school
for good.
She progressed steadily in her studies, and this again gave opportunity
for the development of the helpful qualities by which, from her earliest
childhood, she had been distinguished.
On one occasion, for instance, she was just getting ready to set off on her
two miles’ journey home when she spied in a corner of the now deserted
schoolroom a little boy with a book open before him and a smeared slate
and blunt pencil by its side. The poor little fellow’s tears were falling over
his unfinished task, and evidently he was in the last stage of childish
despondency. He had dawdled away his time during the school hours,
or had not listened when the lesson had been explained, and now school
discipline required that he should stay behind when the rest had gone and
attend to the work which he had neglected.
Mary had a headache that day and was longing to get home, but the sight
of that tearful, sad little face in the corner banished all thought of self; and
as the voices of the other children died away in the distance, she crossed the
room and leaned over the small student’s shoulder.
“What is it, Robbie dear?” said she in her old-fashioned way and tender,
low-toned voice. “Oh, I see, you’ve got to do that sum! I mayn’t do it for you,
you know, because that would be a sort of cheating, but I can tell you how to
do it yourself, and I think I can make it plain.”
So saying, Mary fetched her little bit of wet rag and washed the slate, then
got an old knife and sharpened the pencil.
“Now,” said she, smiling cheerily, “see, I’ll put down the sum as it is in the
book.” And she wrote the sum in question on the slate in clear, if not very
elegant figures.
Thus encouraged, Robbie gave his mind to his task, and with a little help
it was soon done. Mary trotted home with a light heart, which made up for
her heavy head, very glad that what she was learning herself could be of
benefit to others.
Not long after the commencement of the day school, a Sunday school
also was opened, and the very first Sunday that children were taught there,
behold our little friend was there, as clean and fresh as soap and water could
make her, and with bright eyes and eager face, showing the keen interest she
felt and her great desire to learn.
That evening after service in the little meetinghouse, as the farmer’s wife,
good Mrs. Evans, was just going to get into her pony cart to drive home,
she felt a light touch on her arm, while a sweet voice she knew said, “Please,
ma’am, might I speak to you a moment?”
“Surely, my child,” replied the good woman, turning her beaming face on
little Mary. “What have you got to say to me?”
“Two years ago, please ma’am, you were so kind as to promise that when
I’d learned to read I should come to the farm and read your Bible.”
“I did, I remember it well,” answered Mrs. Evans. “Well, child, do you
know how to read?”
“Yes, ma’am,” responded Mary. “And now I’ve joined the Sunday school,
and shall have Bible lessons to prepare, and if you’d be so kind as to let me
come up to the farm one day in the week—perhaps Saturday, when I’ve a
half-holiday—I could never thank you enough.”
“There’s no need for thanks, little woman, come and welcome! I shall
expect you next Saturday; and may the Lord make His Word a great blessing
to you!”
Mrs. Evans held Mary’s hand one moment with a cordial pressure; then
she got into her cart, and the pony started off quickly towards home as
though he knew that old Farmer Evans was laid up with rheumatism and
that his wife wished to get back to him as soon as possible.
Chapter 4
Two Miles to a Bible
Tis written, man shall not live alone,
By the perishing bread of earth; Thou givest the soul a richer food
To nourish the heavenly birth. And yet to our fields of golden grain
Thou bringest the harvest morn; Thine opening hand is the life of all,
For Thou preparest them corn.
F armer Evans' farm was a curious old-fashioned place. The house

was a large rambling building with many queer ups and downs and
with oddly shaped windows in all sorts of unexpected places. And yet
there was an aspect of homely comfort about the house not always to be
found in far finer and more imposing looking residences. At the back
were the out-buildings—the sheds and cow-houses, the poultry pen, the
stables and pigsties; while stretching away beyond these again were the
home paddock, the drying ground, and a small enclosed field, which
went by the name of Hospital Meadow, on account of its being used for
disabled animals that needed a rest.
With the farmer himself we made acquaintance two years ago at the
meeting when he spoke so kindly to Mary; and he was still the same
good, honest, industrious, God-fearing man, never forgetting in the
claims and anxieties of his work what he owed to the Giver of all, who
sends His rain for the watering of the seed and His sun for the ripening
of the harvest.
Nor did he—as too many farmers are in the habit of doing—repine at
Providence and find fault with God’s dealings if the rain came down upon
the hay before it was safely carried, or if an early autumn gale laid his
wheat even with the earth from which it sprang, ere the sickle could be
put into it. Nor did he complain and grumble even when disease showed
itself among the breed of small but active cattle, of which he was justly
proud, and carried off besides some of his fine sheep, destined for the
famous Welsh mutton which sometimes is to be found on English tables.
Two Miles to a Bible 89
In short, he was contented with what the Lord sent and said with Job,
when a misfortune occurred, “Shall we receive good at the hands of the
Lord, and shall we not receive evil?”
Of Mrs. Evans we have already spoken, and if we add here that she was a
true helpmeet to her husband, in matters both temporal and spiritual, that is
all we need say in her praise.
This worthy couple had three children. The eldest was already grown up;
she was a fine girl, and a great comfort and help to her mother. The younger
children were boys who went to a grammar school in a town a mile or two
away. They were manly, high-spirited little fellows, well-trained, and as
honest and true as their parents.
Such, then, was the family into which our little Mary was welcomed
with all love and kindness. She was shy and timid the first time, for the
farmhouse was a much finer place than any home she had hitherto seen;
and there was an atmosphere of warmth, and there were delicious signs
of plenty, which were unknown in Jacob Jones’ poor little cottage, where
everything was upon the most frugal, not to say meager, scale.
But Mary’s shyness did not last long. Indeed, it disappeared wholly soon
after she had crossed the threshold, where she was met by Mrs. Evans with a
hearty welcome and a motherly kiss.
“Come in, little one,” said the good woman, drawing her into the cozy,
old-fashioned kitchen where a kettle was singing on the hob and an enticing
fragrance of currant shortcake, baking for an early tea, scented the air.
“There, get warm, dear,” said Mrs. Evans, “and then you shall go to the
parlor and study the Bible. And have you got a pencil and scrap of paper to
take notes if you want them?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am. I brought them with me,” replied Mary.
For a few minutes she sat there basking in the pleasant, cheery glow of
the firelight; then she was admitted to the parlor, where, on the table in the
center of the room and covered reverently with a clean white cloth, was the
precious book.
It must not be thought from the care thus taken of it that the Bible
was never used. On the contrary, it was always read at prayers, night and
morning. And the farmer, whenever he had a spare half hour, liked nothing
better than to study the sacred book and seek to understand its teachings.
“There’s no need to tell you to be careful of our Bible and to turn over the
leaves gently, Mary, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Evans. “You would do that anyway, I
know. And now, my child, I’ll leave you and the Bible together. When you’ve
learned your lesson for Sunday school and read all you want, come back
into the kitchen and have some tea before you go.”
Then the good farmer’s wife went away, leaving Mary alone with a Bible
for the first time in her life.
Presently the child raised the napkin, and folding it neatly, laid it on one side.
Then, with trembling hands, she opened the book at the fifth chapter of
John, and her eyes caught these words, “Search the scriptures; for in them
ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of Me.”
“I will! I will!” she cried, feeling as if the words were spoken directly to
her by some Divine voice. “I will search and learn all I can. Oh, if I had but a
Bible of my own!” And this wish, this sigh for the rare and coveted treasure,
was the key note to a grand chorus of glorious harmony which, years after,
spread in volume until it rolled in waves of sound over the whole earth.
Yes, that yearning in a poor child’s heart was destined to be a means of light
and knowledge to millions of souls in the future. Thus verily has God often
chosen the weak things of the world to carry out His great designs and work
His will. And here, once more, is an instance of the small beginnings which
have great results—results whose importance is not to be calculated on this
side of eternity.
When Mary had finished studying the scripture lesson for the morrow
and had enjoyed a plentiful meal in the cozy kitchen, she said goodbye to
her kind friends and set off on her homeward journey, her mind full of the
one great longing, out of which a resolution was slowly shaping itself until it
was formed at last.
“I must have a Bible of my own!” she said aloud, in the earnestness of her
purpose. “I must have one if I have to save up for it for ten years!” And by
the time this was settled in her mind, the child had reached her home.
Christmas had come, and with it some holidays for Mary and the other
scholars who attended the school at Abergynolwyn, but our little heroine
would only have been sorry for the cessation of lessons, had it not been that
during the holidays she had determined to commence carrying out her plan
of earning something towards the purchase of a Bible.
Without neglecting her home duties, she managed to undertake little jobs
of work, for which the neighbors were glad to give her a trifle. Now it was
to mind a baby while the mother was at the wash tub, now to pick up sticks
and brushwood in the woods for fuel or to help to mend and patch the poor
garments of the family for a worn, weary mother who was thankful to give a
small sum for this timely welcome help.
And every halfpenny, every farthing (and farthings were no unusual
fee among such poor people as those of whom we are telling) was put into
a rough little money box with a hole in the lid, which Jacob made for the
purpose. The box was kept in a cupboard on a shelf where Mary could reach
it, and it was a real and heartfelt joy to her when she could bring her day’s
earnings—some little copper coins, perhaps—and drop them in, longing
for the time to come when they would have swelled to the requisite sum—a
large sum, unfortunately—for buying a Bible.
It was about this time that good Mrs. Evans, knowing the child’s earnest
wish and wanting to encourage and help her, made her the present of a fine
cock and two hens.
“Nay, nay, my dear, don’t thank me,” said she, when Mary was trying to
tell her how grateful she was. “I’ve done it, first, to help you along with that
Bible you’ve set your heart on, and then, too, because I love you and like to
give you pleasure. So now, my child, when the hens begin to lay, which will
be early in the spring, you can sell your eggs, for these will be your very own
to do what you like with, and you can put the money to any use you please. I
think I know what you’ll do with it,” added Mrs. Evans with a smile.
But the first piece of silver that Mary had the satisfaction of dropping into
her box was earned before she had any eggs to sell, and in quite a different
way from the sums which she had hitherto received. She was walking one
evening along the road from Towyn, where she had been sent on an errand
for her father, when her foot struck against some object lying in the road;
and stooping to pick it up, she found it was a large leather purse. Wondering
whose it could be, the child went on until, while still within half a mile from
home, she met a man walking slowly and evidently searching for something.
He looked up as Mary approached, and she recognized him as Farmer
Greaves, a brother-in-law of Mrs. Evans.
“Ah! Good evening, Mary Jones,” said he. “I’ve had such a loss! Coming
home from market I dropped my purse, and—”
“I’ve just found a purse, sir,” said Mary. “Is this it?”
“You’ve found a purse?” exclaimed the farmer, eagerly. “Yes, indeed, my
dear, that is mine, and I’m very much obliged to you. No, stay a moment,”
he called after her, for Mary was already trudging off again. “I should like
to give you a trifle for your honesty . . . I mean, just some trifle by way of
thanks.”
As he spoke, his finger and thumb closed on a bright shilling, which
surely would not have been too much to give to a poor child who had found
a heavy purse. But he thought better (or worse) of it, and took out, instead, a
sixpence and handed it to Mary, who took it with very heartfelt thanks and
ran home as quickly as possible to drop her silver treasure safely into the
box, where it was destined to keep its poorer brethren company for many a
long year.
But the Christmas holidays were soon over, and then it was difficult for
Mary to keep up with her daily lessons and her Sunday school tasks, the
latter involving the weekly visits to the farmhouse for the study of the Bible.
What with these and her home duties, sometimes weeks passed without her
having time to earn a penny towards the purchase of the sacred treasure.
Sometimes, too, she was rather late in reaching home on the Saturday
evenings, and now and again Molly was uneasy about her. For Mary would
come by short cuts over the hills, along ways which, however safe in the
daytime, were rough and unpleasant, if not dangerous, after dark. And in
these long winter evenings, the daylight vanished very early.
It was on one of these occasions that Molly and Jacob Jones were sitting
and waiting for their daughter.
The old clock had already struck eight. She had never been so late as this
before.
“Our Mary ought to be home, Jacob,” said Molly, breaking a silence
disturbed only by the noise of Jacob’s busy loom. “It’s got as dark as dark,
and there’s no moon tonight. The way’s a rugged one if she takes the
shortcut across the hill, and she’s not one to choose a long road if she can
find a shorter, bless her! She’s more than after her time. I hope no harm’s
come to the child.” And Molly walked to the window and looked out.
“Don’t be fretting yourself, Molly,” replied Jacob, pausing in his work.
“Mary’s out on a good errand, and He who put the love of good things in
her heart will take care of her, in her going out and in her coming in, from
henceforth, even for evermore.”
Jacob spoke solemnly but with a tone of conviction that comforted
his wife, as words of his had often done before. And just then a light step
bounded up to the door, the latch was lifted, and Mary’s lithe young figure
entered the cottage, her dark eyes shining with intelligence, her cheeks
flushed with exercise, a look of eager animation overspreading the whole of
her bright face and seeming to diffuse a radiance round the cottage, while it
shone reflected in the countenances of Jacob and Molly.
“Well, child, what have you learned today?” questioned Jacob. “Have you
studied your lesson for the Sunday school?”
“Ay, father, that I have, and a beautiful lesson it was,” responded the child.
“It was the lesson and Mr. Evans together that kept me so late.”
“How so, Mary?” asked Molly. “We’ve been right down uneasy about you,
fearing lest something had happened to you.”
“You needn’t have been so, Mother dear,” replied the little girl with
something of her father’s quiet assurance. “God knew what I was about, and
He would not let any harm come to me. Oh, Father, the more I read about
Him, the more I want to know, and I shall never rest until I’ve a Bible of my
own. But today I’ve brought home a big bit of the farmer’s Bible with me.”
“What do you mean, Mary? How could you do such a thing?” questioned
Molly in amazement.
“Only in my head, of course, Mother dear,” replied the child; then in a
lower voice, she added, “and my heart.”
“And what is the bit?” asked Jacob.
“It’s the seventh chapter of Matthew. Our Sunday lesson was from the
first verse to the end of the twelfth verse, but it was so easy and so beautiful
that I went on and on until I’d learned the whole chapter. And just as I had
finished, Mr. Evans came in and asked me if I understood it all. And when
I said there were some bits that puzzled me, he was so kind and explained
them. If you like, Mother and Father, I’ll repeat the chapter to you.”
So Jacob pushed away his work and took his old seat in the chimney
corner, and Molly began some knitting while Mary sat down on a stool at
her father’s feet. And beginning at the first verse, she repeated the whole
chapter without a single mistake, without a moment’s hesitation, and with
a tone and emphasis which showed her comprehension of the truths so
beautifully taught and her sympathy with them.
“Mark my words, wife,” said Jacob that night when Mary had gone to bed,
“that child will do a work for the Lord before she dies. See you not how He,
Himself, is leading and guiding His lamb into green pastures and beside
still waters? Why, Molly, when she repeated that verse, ‘Ask, and ye shall
receive,’ I saw her eyes shine and her cheeks glow again, and I knew she was
thinking of the Bible that she’s set her heart on, and which I doubt not she’s
praying for often enough when we know nothing about it. And the Lord, He
will give it her some day, of that I’m moral certain. Yes, Molly, our Mary will
have her Bible!”
Chapter 5
In That Which is Least
Since this one talent Thou hast granted me,
I give Thee thanks, and joy, in blessing Thee
That I am worthy any.
I would not hide or bury it, but rather
Use it for Thee and Thine, O Lord and Father
And make one talent many.
W e may be sure that various were the influences tending to mold

the character of Mary Jones during the years of her school life,
confirming in her the wonderful steadfastness of purpose and earnestness
of spirit for which she was remarkable, as well as fostering the tender and
loving nature that made her beloved by all with whom she had to do.
Her master, John Ellis (who afterwards was stationed at Barmouth),
seems to have been a conscientious and able teacher, and we may infer that
he took no small part in the development of the mind and heart of a pupil
who must always have been an object of special interest from her great
intelligence and eagerness to learn.
But as the years passed, the time came for John Ellis to change his sphere
of labor. He did so, and his place was taken by a man, a sketch of whose story
may perhaps not inappropriately be given here, as it is that of the teacher under
whom Mary Jones was being instructed at the time when a great event occurred
in her history, an event the recounting of which we leave for the next chapter.
The successor to John Ellis was Lewis Williams, a man who, from
a low station in life and from absolute ignorance, rose to a position of
considerable influence and popularity, and from an utterly heedless and
godless life, to be a God-fearing and noble-minded Christian.
He was a man of small size, and from all that we can learn of his intellect
and talents, we can hardly think that they were of any high order. But what
he lacked in mental gifts, he made up in iron resolution, in a perseverance
which was absolutely sublime in its determination not to be baffled.
He was born in the year 1774. His parents were poor, but of them
nothing further is known.
Like other boys at that time and in that neighborhood, he was wild and
reckless, breaking the Sabbath continually and otherwise drawing upon
himself the censure of those with whom he was acquainted.
But when he was about eighteen years old, he chanced on one occasion
to be at a prayer meeting when a Mr. Jones, of Mathafarn, was reading and
expounding the fifth chapter of the Epistle to the Romans.
The word of God, thus made known to Lewis Williams in perhaps a fresh
and striking manner, was the means of carrying home to his hitherto hard
heart the conviction of sin; and a change was observed in him from that
time, which gradually deepened until none could longer doubt that he had
become an earnest and consistent Christian.
On the occasion of his requesting to be admitted to membership in a
little Methodist church at Cwmllinian, he was asked (probably as one of the
test questions), “If Jesus Christ asked you to do some work for Him, would
you do it?” His answer gives us the key to his success, “Oh yes; whatever
Jesus required of me, I would do at once.”
Such was the commencement of the religious life of this most singular man.
Some years after, when in service at a place called Trychiad, near
Llanegryn, he could not but notice the ignorance of the boys in the
neighborhood. And burning with zeal to perform some direct and special
work for his Heavenly Master, he resolved to establish there a Sunday school
and a week-night school besides, if possible, in order to teach the lads to read.
This would have been praiseworthy, but still nothing remarkable in the
way of an undertaking, had Lewis Williams received any sort of education
himself. But as he had never enjoyed a day’s schooling in his life and could
hardly read a word correctly, the thought of teaching others seemed, to say
the least, rather a wild idea.
But how often the old proverb has been proved true: that where there is
a will, there is a way, and this was verified once more in the experience of
Lewis Williams.
Owing to the young man’s untiring energy and courage, his school was
opened in a short time, and he began the work of instruction, teaching, we
are told, the alphabet to the lowest class by setting it to the tune of “The
March of the Men of Harlech.”
In That Which is Least 97
Dr. Moffat, we know, tried the same plan of melody lessons forty years
later with a number of Bechuana children, teaching them their letters to the
tune of “Auld Lang Syne” with wonderful facility and success.
But Lewis Williams, if he set up for a schoolmaster at all, could hardly
confine his instructions to the lowest class in the school; yet in undertaking
the teaching of the older boys, he was coming face to face with an obstacle
which might well have seemed insurmountable to anyone whose will was
less strong or courage less undaunted.
The master could not read, or at least he could neither read fluently nor
correctly, yet he had bound himself to teach reading to the lads in his school.
Painfully mindful of his deficiencies, he used, before commencing his
Sunday school exercises or his evening classes, to pay a visit to a good
woman, Betty Evans by name, who had learned to read well. Under her
tuition he prepared the lessons he was going to give that day or the next, so
that in reality, the master of that flourishing little school was only learning
beforehand what his scholars did by a few hours.
At other times he would invite a number of scholars from an endowed
high school in the neighborhood to come for reading and argument.
With quiet tact and careful foresight, he would arrange that the subject
taken for reading and discussion should include the lesson which he would
shortly have to give.
While the reading and talk went on, he listened with rapt attention. The
discussions as to the meaning or pronunciation of the more difficult words
were all clear gain to him, as familiarizing his mind with what he desired to
know.
But none of these youths meeting thus had an inkling that the man
who invited them, who spoke so discreetly and listened so attentively, was
himself a learner, and dependent upon them for the proper construction
of phrases, or for the correct pronunciation of words occurring in his next
day’s or week’s lessons.
The school duties were always commenced with prayer. And as the
master had a restless, unruly set of lads to deal with, he invented a
somewhat peculiar way of securing their attention for the devotions in
which he led them.
Familiar with military exercises through former experiences in the
militia, he would put the restless boys through a series of these, and when
they came to “stand at ease” and “attention!” he would at once, but very
briefly and simply, engage in prayer.
While Lewis Williams was thus hard at work at Llanegryn, seeking to
win hearts to the Savior and train minds to serve Him, it happened that Mr.
Charles of Bala, intending to preside at a members’ meeting to be held at
Abergynolwyn, arrived at Bryncrug the evening before and spent the night
at the house of John Jones, the schoolmaster of that place.
In the course of conversation with his host, Mr. Charles asked him if he
knew of a suitable person to undertake the charge of one of his recently
established schools in the neighborhood. John Jones replied that he had heard
of a young man at Llanegryn who taught the children both on weeknights
and Sundays. “But,” added the schoolmaster, “as I hear that he himself cannot
read, I can hardly understand how he is able to instruct others.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Charles. “How can anyone teach what he
does not himself know?”
“Still, they say he does so,” replied John Jones.
Mr. Charles at once expressed a wish to see this mysterious instructor
of youth who was reported as imparting to others what he did not himself
possess. The next day, accordingly, summoned by John Jones, our young
schoolmaster made his appearance. His rustic garb and the simplicity of
his manner gave the impression of his being anything but a pedagogue,
whatever might have been said of him.
“Well, my young friend,” said Mr. Charles in the genial, pleasant way
that was natural to him and that at once inspired with confidence all with
whom he had to do, “they tell me you keep a school at Llanegryn yonder, on
Sundays and weeknights, for the purpose of teaching children to read. Have
you many scholars?”
“Yes, sir, far more than I am able to teach,” replied Lewis Williams.
“And do they learn a little by your teaching?” asked Mr. Charles, as kindly
as ever, but with a quaint smile lurking round his mouth.
“I think some of them learn, sir,” responded the young teacher, very
modestly and with an overwhelming sense of his own ignorance — a
consciousness that showed itself painfully both in his voice and manner.
“Do you understand any English?” questioned Mr. Charles.
“Only a stray word or two, sir, which I picked up when serving in the
militia.”
In That Which is Least 99
“Do you read Welsh fluently?”

“No, sir. I can read but little, but I am doing my very best to learn.”
“Were you at a school before beginning to teach?” asked Mr. Charles, more
and more interested in the young man who stood so meekly before him
“No, sir. I never had a day’s schooling in my life.”
“And your parents did not teach you to read while you were at home?”
“No, sir, my parents could not read a word for themselves.”
Mr. Charles opened his Bible at the first chapter of the Epistle to the
Hebrews and asked Lewis Williams to read the opening verses.
Slowly, hesitatingly, and with several mistakes, the young man complied,
stumbling with difficulty through the first verse.
“That will do, my lad,” said Mr. Charles. “How you are able to teach others
to read passes my comprehension. Tell me now by what plan you instruct
the children.”
Then the poor young teacher described the methods to which he had
recourse for receiving and imparting instruction. He gave an account of his
musical ABCs, the lessons given to himself by Betty Evans, the readings and
discussions of the grammar school boys, and the scholars playing at “little
soldiers.”
As Lewis Williams proceeded with his confessions (for such they
appeared to him), Mr. Charles, with the discernment which seems to have
been one of his characteristics, had penetrated through the roughness and
uncouthness of the narrator to the real force of character and earnestness
of the man. He saw that this humble follower of the Savior had earnestly
endeavored to improve his one talent and work with it in the Master’s
service, and that he only needed help in the development of his capacity to
render him a most valuable servant of Christ. He therefore recommended
him to place himself for a time under the tuition of John Jones, and thus fit
himself for efficient teaching in his turn.
During the following three months, Lewis Williams followed the advice
of Mr. Charles, and this was all the schooling that he ever had.
His self-made culture did not, however, cease with the help gained from
John Jones. Every hour he could spare was devoted to study, in order to
fit himself for one of the schoolmasters’ places under Mr. Charles’s special
control and management. And we are told that, in order to perfect himself
further in reading, he used to visit neighboring churches to study the
delivery and reading of the ministers presiding there. His earnest desire was
gratified at last, for in the year 1799—that is, when he was about twenty-five
years of age—he was engaged by Mr. Charles as a paid teacher in one of his
schools. He was removed to Abergynolwyn a year later, and here, among his
pupils, was our young friend Mary Jones.
In his subsequent years of work, he was the means of establishing many
new schools and of reviving others which were losing their vitality. And
at length he even became a preacher, so great was his zeal in his Master’s
service, and so anxious was he that all should know the truth and join in the
work of the Lord.
He died in his eighty-eighth year, followed by the sincere gratitude and
deep love of the many whom he had benefited.
Our story now returns to Mary Jones, who, at the time that Lewis Williams
became schoolmaster at Abergynolwyn, was nearly sixteen years old.
She was an active, healthy maiden, full of life and energy, as earnest
and as diligent as ever. Nor had her purpose faltered for one moment as
regarded the purchase of a Bible. Through six long years she had hoarded
every penny, denying herself the little indulgences which the poverty of her
life must have made doubly attractive to one so young. She had continued
her visits to the farmhouse, and while there studying her Bible lessons for
school, her desire to possess God’s Holy Book for herself grew almost to a
passion.
What joy it would be, she often thought, if every day she could read and
commit to memory portions of scripture, storing her mind and heart with
immortal truths. “But the time will come,” she had added, “when I shall
have my Bible. Yes, though I have waited so long, the time will come.” Then
on her knees beside her little bed, she had prayed aloud, “Dear Lord, let the
time come quickly!”
As may be supposed, Mary was the great pride and delight of her parents.
She was more useful, more her mother’s right hand than ever. And her
father, as he looked into her clear, honest, intelligent dark eyes and heard
her recite her lesson for school or recount for his benefit all the explanations
to which she had that day listened, thanked the Lord in his heart for his
brave, God-fearing child and prayed that she might grow up to be a blessing
to all with whom she might have to do in the future.
Chapter 6
On the Way
A strong, brave heart, and a purpose true,
Are better than wealth untold,
Planting a garden in barren ways,
And turning their dust to gold.
M other! Oh, Father! Only think! Mrs. Evans has just paid me for that
work I did for her, and it is more than I expected, and now I find I
have enough to buy a Bible. I’m so happy, I don’t know what to do.”
Mary had just come from the farmhouse, and now as she bounded in
with the joyful news, Jacob stopped his loom and held out both hands.
“Is it really so, Mary? After six years’ saving! Nay then, God be thanked,
child, who first put the wish into your heart and then gave you patience to
wait and work to get the thing you wanted. Bless you, my little maid.” And
Jacob laid a hand solemnly upon his daughter’s head, adding in a lower tone,
“And she shall be blessed!”
“But tell me, Father dear,” said Mary after a little pause, “where am I to
buy the Bible? There are no Bibles to be had here or at Abergynolwyn.”
“I cannot tell you, Mary, but our preacher, William Huw, will know,”
replied Jacob. “You will do well to go to him tomorrow and ask how you’re
to get the book.”
Acting upon her father’s suggestion, Mary accordingly went the next
day to Llechwedd to William Huw, and to him she put the question so
all-important to her. But he replied that not a copy could be obtained (even
of the Welsh version published the year before) nearer than of Mr. Charles
of Bala, and he added that he feared lest all the Bibles received by Mr.
Charles from London had been sold or promised months ago.
This was discouraging news, and Mary went home downcast indeed,
but not in despair. There was still a chance that one copy of the Scriptures
yet remained in Mr. Charles’s possession; and if so, that Bible should be
hers.
The long distance—over twenty-five miles —the unknown road, the

far-famed, but to her, strange minister who was to grant her the boon she
craved—all this, if it a little frightened her, did not for one moment threaten
to change her purpose.
Even Jacob and Molly, who at first objected to her walking to Bala for
the purchase of her Bible on account of the distance, ceased to oppose their
will to hers. “For,” said good Jacob to his wife, “if it’s the Lord answering our
prayers and leading the child as we prayed He might, it would be ill for us to
go against His wisdom.”
And so our little Mary had her way. And, having received permission
for her journey, she went to a neighbor living near, and telling her of her
proposed expedition, asked if she would lend her a wallet to carry home the
treasure should she obtain it.
The neighbor, mindful of Mary’s many little acts of thoughtful kindness
towards herself and her children, and glad of any way in which she could
show her grateful feeling and sympathy, put the wallet into the girl’s hand
and bade her goodbye with a hearty “God speed you!”
The next morning, a fresh breezy day in spring, in the year 1800, Mary
rose almost as soon as it was light and washed and dressed with unusual
care; for was not this to be a day of days—the day for which she had waited
for years, and which must, she thought, make her the happiest of girls, or
bring to her such grief and disappointment as she had never yet known?
Her one pair of shoes—far too precious a possession to be worn on a
twenty-five mile walk—Mary placed in her wallet, intending to put them on
as soon as she reached the town.
Early as was the hour, Molly and Jacob were both up to give Mary her
breakfast of hot milk and bread and have family prayer, offering a special
petition for God’s blessing on their child’s undertaking, and for His
protection and care during her journey.
This fortified and comforted Mary, and, kissing her parents, she went out
into the dawn of that lovely day—a day which lived in her remembrance
until the last hour of her long and useful life.
She set out at a good pace—not too quick, for that would have wearied
her before a quarter of her journey could be accomplished, but at an even,
steady walk, her bare brown feet treading lightly but firmly along the road,
her head erect, her clear eyes glistening, her cheek with a healthy flush
under the brown skin. So she went, the bonniest, blithest maiden on that
sweet spring morning.
The dear old mountain seemed to gaze down protectively upon her. The
very sun, as it came up on the eastern horizon, appeared to have a smile
especially for her. The larks soared from the meadow until their trilling died
away in the sky, like a tuneful prayer sent up to God. The rabbits peeped out
at her from leafy nooks and holes, and even a squirrel, as it ran up a tree,
stopped to glance familiarly at our little maiden, as much as to say, “Good
morning, Mary. Good luck to you!” And the girl’s heart was attuned to the
blithe loveliness of nature, full of thankfulness for the past and of hope for
the future.
Once a kind cottager gave her a drink of buttermilk as she passed; and as
Mary neared her destination, a farmer’s little daughter offered her a share of
the supper she was eating as she sat on the porch in the cool of the evening.
On arriving in Bala, she followed the instructions that had been given her
by William Huw and went to the house of David Edwards, a much respected
Methodist preacher. This good man received her most kindly, questioned
her as to her motive in coming so far, but ended by telling her it was now
too late in the day to see Mr. Charles.
“But,” added the kind old man, seeing his young visitor’s disappointment,
“you shall sleep here tonight, and we will go to Mr. Charles’ as soon as I see
light in his study window tomorrow morning.”
With grateful thanks Mary accepted the hospitality offered her, and after a
simple supper, she was shown into the little chamber where she was to sleep.
Mary’s deep, dreamless sleep was not broken until her host knocked at
her door at early dawning.
“Wake up, Mary Jones, my child! Mr. Charles is an early riser and will
soon be at work!”
Mary started up, rubbing her eyes. The time had really come, then.
She was soon ready, and David Edwards and his guest proceeded together
to Mr. Charles’ house.
She listened intently as David knocked at the door. There was no answer,
only the tread of a foot across the floor above, but the next moment the door
opened, and Mr. Charles himself stood before them.
“Good morning, friend Edwards! And what brings you here so early?
Come in, do,” said the genial, hearty voice.
On the Way 105
A few words of explanation passed between the old preacher and Mr.
Charles, then Mary was invited to enter the study.
“Now, my child,” said Mr. Charles, “do not be afraid, but tell me all about
yourself, where you live, and what your name is, and what you want.”
At this Mary took courage and answered all Mr. Charles’ questions. Her
voice, which at first was low and tremulous, strengthened as her courage
returned. She told him all about her home and her parents, her longing
when quite a child for a Bible of her own, then of the long years during
which she had saved up her little earnings towards the purchase of a Bible
—the sum being now complete.
Then Mr. Charles examined her as to her Scripture knowledge and was
delighted with the girl’s intelligent replies, which showed how earnestly and
thoroughly she had studied the Book she loved so well.
“But how did you get to know the Bible as you do, my child,” said he,
“when you did not own one for yourself?”
Then Mary told him of the visits to the farmhouse, and how, through the
kindness of the farmer and his wife, she had been able to study.
As she informed Mr. Charles of all that had taken place, and he began
to realize how brave, and patient, and earnest, and hopeful she had been
through all these years of waiting, and how far she had now come to obtain
possession of the coveted treasure, his bright face became overshadowed.
Turning to David Edwards, he said sadly, “I am indeed grieved that this
dear girl should have come all this way to buy a Bible, and that I should
be unable to supply her with one. The consignment of Welsh Bibles that
I received from London last year was all sold out months ago, excepting
a few copies which I have kept for friends whom I must not disappoint.
Unfortunately, the Society which has supplied Wales with the scriptures
declines to print any more, and where to get Welsh Bibles to satisfy our
country’s need I know not.”
Until now, Mary had been looking up into Mr. Charles’ face with her great,
dark eyes full of hope and confidence, but as he spoke these words to David
Edwards, and she noticed his overclouded face, and began to understand the
full import of his words, the room seemed to darken suddenly. Dropping
into the nearest seat, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
It was all over then, she said to herself—all of no use—the prayers, the
longing, the waiting, the working, the saving for six long years, the weary
tramp with bare feet, the near prospect of her hopes being fulfilled, all, all in
vain!
There were a few moments during which only Mary’s sobs broke the
silence, but those sobs had appealed to Mr. Charles’ heart with a pathos
which he was wholly unable to resist.
With his own voice broken and unsteady, he said as he rose from his seat
and laid a hand on the drooping head of the girl before him, “My dear child,
I see you must have a Bible, difficult as it is for me to spare you one. It is
impossible, yes, simply impossible to refuse you.”
In the sudden change of feeling that followed these words, Mary
could not speak, but she glanced up with such a face of mingled rain and
sunshine, such a look of inexpressible joy and thankfulness in her brimming
eyes, that responsive tears gushed to the eyes of both Mr. Charles and David
Edwards.
Mr. Charles turned toward a book cupboard that stood behind him,
opened it, and drew forth a Bible.
Then, laying a hand once more on Mary’s head, he placed the Bible in
her grasp with the other; and, looking down the while into the earnest,
glistening eyes upturned to him, he said: “If you, my dear girl, are glad
to receive this Bible, truly glad am I to be able to give it to you. Read it
carefully, study it diligently, treasure up the sacred words in your memory,
and act up to its teachings.”
As Mary, quite overcome with delight and thankfulness, began once more
to sob, but softly and with sweet, happy tears, Mr. Charles turned to the
old preacher, and said huskily, ”David Edwards, is not such a sight as this
enough to melt the hardest heart? A girl, so young, so poor, so intelligent, so
familiar with scripture, compelled to walk all that distance (about fifty miles
there and back) to get a Bible! From this day I can never rest until I find out
some means of supplying the pressing wants of my country that cries out for
the word of God.”
Half an hour later, Mary Jones, having shared David Edwards’ frugal
breakfast, set off on her homeward journey.
The day was somewhat cloudy, but the child did not notice it; her heart
was full of sunshine. The wind blew strongly, but a great calm was in her
soul, and her young face was so full of happiness that the simple folk she
met on the way could not but notice her as she tripped blithely on, her
On the Way 107
bare feet seeming hardly to press the ground, her eyes shining with deep
contentment, while the wallet containing her newly found treasure was no
longer slung across her back, but clasped close to her bosom.
~ Epilogue ~
Mary’s story does not end here. In fact, her story still goes on today. Her
example inspired Thomas Charles to help establish the British and Foreign
Bible Society in 1804 so more people could get their own Bibles. Over
time, the society distributed over 200 million Bibles and portions of the
Bible. Today, there are also many other Bible societies across the world that
distribute Bibles to those who couldn’t get them otherwise. E. Wyn James
wrote: “In her old age, Mary Jones would enjoy telling the tale of her walk
to Bala to obtain a Bible. She made good use of the Bible she received from
Thomas Charles. She read it from cover to cover four times during her
lifetime. She memorized substantial sections of it, which proved of great
benefit and comfort to her after she lost her sight. And when she died, the
Bible she had bought in Bala over sixty years previously was on the table
by her side.” Her story has been published in over 40 languages and has
undoubtedly inspired countless people. Her Bible, which she obtained in
Bala in 1800, is now kept in the British and Foreign Bible Society’s Archives
in Cambridge University Library.
Toni the
Woodcarver
Written By Johanna Spyri
Translated by Helen B. Dole
Edited by Jennifer D. Lerud and Jenny Phillips
Text has been modified and updated with modern-day

grammar, spelling, and usage

Chapter 1
At Home in the
Little Stone Hut
H igh up in the Bernese Oberland, quite a distance above the mead-

ow-encircled hamlet of Kandergrund, stands a little lonely hut under
the shadow of an old fir tree. Not far away, the wild brook rushes down from
the wooded heights of rock. In times of heavy rains, it has carried away so
many rocks and boulders that when the storms are ended, a ragged mass of
stones is left through which flows a swift, clear stream of water. Therefore
the little dwelling near by this brook is called the stone hut.
Here lived the honest day laborer Toni, who conducted himself well in
every farmhouse where he went to work; for he was quiet and industrious,
punctual at his tasks, and reliable in every way.
In his home he had a young wife and a little boy who was a joy to both of
them. Near the hut in the little shed was the goat, the milk of which supplied
food for the mother and child, while the father received his board through
the week on the farms where he worked from morning until night. Only on
Sunday was he at home with his wife and little Toni. The wife, Elsbeth, kept
her little house in good order. It was narrow and tiny, but it always looked
so clean and cheerful that everyone liked to come into the sunny room; and
the father, Toni, was never so happy as when he was at home in the stone
hut with his little boy on his knee.
For five years the family lived in harmony and undisturbed peace.
Although they had no abundance and little worldly goods, they were happy
and content. The husband earned enough, so they did not suffer want, and
they desired nothing beyond their simple manner of life, for they loved each
other and their greatest delight was little Toni.
The little boy grew strong and healthy, and with his merry ways delighted
his father’s heart when he was at home on Sundays and sweetened all his
112 Toni the Woodcarver
mother’s work on the weekdays when his father was away until late in the
evening.
Little Toni was now four years old and already knew how to be helpful
in all sorts of small ways, in the house, the goat’s shed, and also in the field
behind the hut. From morning until night, he tripped happily behind his
mother, for he was as content as the little birds up in the old fir tree.
When Saturday night came, the mother scrubbed and cleaned with
doubled energy to finish early, for on that day the father was through with
his work earlier than on other days, and she always went, with little Toni
by the hand, part way to meet him. This was a great delight to the child. He
now knew very well how one task followed another in the household. When
his mother began to scrub, he jumped around in the room with delight and
cried out again and again, “Now we are going for Father! Now we are going
for Father!” until the moment came when his mother took him by the hand
and started along.
Saturday evening had come again in the lovely month of May. Outdoors
the birds in the trees were singing merrily up to the blue sky; indoors
the mother was cleaning busily, in order to get out early into the golden
evening; and meanwhile now outside, now in the house, little Toni was
hopping around and shouting, “Now we are going for Father!”
It was not long before the work was finished. The mother put on her
shawl, tied on her best apron, and stepped out of the house.
Toni jumped for joy and ran three times around his mother, then seized
her hand and shouted once more, “Now we are going for Father!”
Then he skipped along beside his mother in the lovely, sunny evening.
They wandered to the brook, over the wooden bridge that crosses it, and
came to the narrow footpath winding up through the flower-laden meadows
to the farm where the father worked.
The last rays of the setting sun fell across the meadows, and the sound of
the evening bells came up from Kandergrund.
The mother stood still and folded her hands.
“Lay your hands together, Toni,” she said.
The child obeyed.
“What must I pray, Mother?” he asked.
“Give us and all tired people a blessed Sunday! Amen!” said the mother
devoutly.
At Home in the Little Stone Hut 113
Little Toni repeated the prayer. Suddenly he shouted, “Father is coming!”

Down from the farm someone was running as fast as he could come.
“That is not Father,” said his mother, and they both went towards the
running man.
When they met, the man stood still and said, gasping, “Don’t go any
farther. Turn around, Elsbeth. I came straight to you, for something has
happened.”
“Oh!” cried the woman in the greatest anguish. “Has something
happened to Toni?”
“Yes, he was with the woodcutters, and he was struck. They have brought
him back. He is lying up at the farm. But don’t go up there,” he added,
holding Elsbeth fast, for she wanted to start off as soon as she heard the
news.
“Not go up?” she said quickly. “I must go to him. I must help him and see
about bringing him home.”
“You cannot help him, he is—he is already dead,” said the messenger
in an unsteady voice. Then he turned and ran back again, glad to have the
message off his mind.
Elsbeth threw herself down on a stone by the way, unable to stand or
to walk. She held her apron before her face and burst into weeping and
sobbing, so that little Toni was distressed and frightened. He pressed close
to his mother and began to cry, too.
It was already dark when Elsbeth finally came to herself and could think
of her child. The little one was still sitting beside her on the ground, with
both hands pressed to his eyes, and sobbing pitifully. His mother lifted him
up.
“Come, Toni, we must go home. It is late,” she said, taking him by the
hand.
But he resisted.
“No, no, we must wait for Father!” he said, and pulled his mother back.
Again she could not keep back the tears. “Oh, Toni, Father will come no
more,” she said, stifling her sobs. “He is already enjoying the blessed Sunday
we prayed for, for the weary. See, the dear Lord has taken him to Heaven. It
is so beautiful there, he will prefer to stay there.”
“Then we will go, too,” replied Toni.
“Yes, yes, we shall go there, too,” promised his mother. “But now we must
first go home to the stone hut.” And without a word, she went with the little
one back to the silent cottage.
The proprietor of the Matten farm sent word to Elsbeth the following day
that he would do everything necessary for her husband, and so she need
not come until it was time for the service, for she would not recognize her
husband. He sent her some money in order that she would not have too
much care in the next few days, and promised to think of her later on.
Elsbeth did as he advised and remained at home until the bells in
Kandergrund rang for the service. Then she went to accompany her
husband to his resting place.
Sad and hard days came for Elsbeth. She missed her good, kind husband
everywhere and felt quite lost without him. Besides, cares came now which she
had known little about before, for her husband had had his good, daily work. But
now she felt sometimes as if she would almost despair. She had nothing but her
goat and the little potato field behind the cottage, and from these she had to feed
and clothe herself and the little one, and besides furnish rent for the little house.
Elsbeth had only one consolation, but one that always supported her
when pain and care oppressed her—she could pray, and although often in
the midst of tears, still always with the firm belief that the dear Lord would
hear her supplication.
When at night she had put little Toni in his tiny bed, she would kneel
down beside him and repeat aloud the old hymn, which now came from the
depths of her heart as never before:
Oh, God of Love, oh Father-heart,

In whom my trust is founded,
I know full well how good Thou art—
E’en when by grief I am wounded.
Oh Lord, it surely can not be

That Thou wilt let me languish
In hopeless depths of misery,
And live in tears of anguish.
Oh Lord, my soul yearns for thine aid

In this dark vale of weeping;
For thee I’ve waited, hoped and prayed

Assured of thy safe keeping.
Lord let me bear whatever thy Love

May send of grief or sorrow,
Until Thou, in thy Heaven above,
Make dawn a brighter morrow.
And in the midst of her urgent praying, the mother’s tears flowed
abundantly. And little Toni, deeply moved in his heart by his mother’s
weeping and earnest prayer, kept his hands folded and wept softly, too.
So the time passed. Elsbeth struggled along, and little Toni was able to
help her in many ways, for he was now seven years old. He was his mother’s
only joy, and she was able to take delight in him, for he was obedient and
willing to do everything she desired. He had always been so inseparable
from his mother that he knew exactly how the tasks of the day had to be
done, and he desired nothing but to help her whenever he could. If she was
working in the little field, he squatted beside her, pulled out the weeds, and
threw the stones across the path.
If his mother was taking the goat out of the shed so that she could nibble
the grass around the hut, he went with her step by step, for his mother had
told him he must watch the goat so that she would not run away.
If his mother was sitting in winter by her spinning wheel, he sat the
whole time beside her, mending his winter shoes with strong strips of cloth,
as she had taught him to do. He had no greater wish than to see his mother
happy and contented. His greatest pleasure was, when Sunday came and she
was resting from all work, to sit with her on the little wooden bench in front
of the house and listen as she told him about his father, and talk with her
about all kinds of things.
But now the time had come for Toni to go to school. It was very hard for
him to leave his mother and remain away from her so much. The long way
down to Kandergrund and up again took so much time that Toni was hardly
ever with his mother any more through the day, but only in the evening.
Indeed he always came home so quickly that she could hardly believe it
possible, for he looked forward with pleasure all day long to getting home
again. He lost no time with his schoolmates, but ran immediately away from
them as soon as school was over. He was not accustomed to the ways of the
other boys, since he had been constantly alone with his quietly working
mother and used to performing definite tasks continually without any noise.
So it was altogether strange to him, and he took no pleasure in it when
the boys coming out of the schoolhouse, set up a great screaming, one
running after another, trying to see which was the stronger, and throwing
one another on the ground, or wrestling so that their caps were thrown far
away and their jackets half torn off.
The wrestlers would often call to him, “Come and play!” And when he
ran away from them, they would call after him, “You are a coward.” But this
made little difference to him; he didn’t hear it long, for he ran with all his
might in order to be at home again with his mother.
Now a new interest for him arose in the school. He had seen beautiful
animals drawn on white sheets, which the children of the upper classes
copied. He quickly tried to draw them with his pencil, too; and at home,
he continued drawing the animals again and again as long as he had a bit
of paper. Then he cut out the animals and tried to make them stand on the
table, but this he could not do. Then suddenly the thought came to him that
if they were made of wood, they could stand.
With his knife he quickly began to cut around on a little piece of wood
until there was a body and four legs. But the wood was not large enough for
the neck and the head, so he had to take another piece and calculate from
the beginning how high it must be and where the head must be placed.
So Toni cut away with much perseverance until he succeeded in making
something like a goat and could show it with great satisfaction to his
mother. She was much delighted at his skill, and said, “You are surely going
to be a wood carver, and a very good one.”
From that time on, Toni looked at every little piece of wood which came
his way to see if it would be good for carving; and if so, he would quickly
put it away in his pockets. He often brought home pockets full of these
pieces, which he then collected like treasures into a pile and spent every free
moment carving them.
Thus the years passed by. Although Elsbeth always had many cares, she
experienced only joy in her Toni. He still clung to her with the same love,
helped her in every way as well as he could, and spent his life beside her,
entirely at his quiet occupation, in which he gradually acquired a quite
gratifying skill. Toni was never so content as when he was sitting in the
little stone hut with his carving while his mother came in and out, happily
employed, always saying a kindly word to him, until she finally sat down
beside him at her spinning wheel.
Chapter 2
A Hard Sentence
T oni was twelve years old in the winter, and now his school days were
over, and the time had come to look about for some kind of work
which would bring him in some money and by which he could learn
something necessary for future years.
Spring had come, and work had begun in the fields. His mother thought
it would be best to ask the proprietor of the Matten farm if he had some
light work for Toni, but every time she spoke about it he would say
beseechingly, “Oh, Mother, don’t do that. Let me be a woodcarver!”
She would have had no objection to this, but knew no way to bring it
about, and she had known the farmer up on the Matten farm ever since her
husband had worked there, and ever since his death. From time to time he
had sent her a little wood or meal.
She hoped that he would employ Toni at first for light tasks in the field, so
that he would gradually learn to do the heavier work.
So on Saturday night after the day’s work was ended and she sat down
with Toni to their scanty supper, she said once more, “Toni, now we must
take a decided step. I think it is best for me to go up to the Matten farm
tomorrow.”
“Oh, Mother, don’t do that!” said Toni quite beseechingly. “Don’t go to
the farmer! If you will only let me be a woodcarver, I will work so hard that
I will earn enough, and you will not have to do so much, and then I can stay
at home with you. Besides you would be all alone, and I can’t bear it if I’ll
always have to be away from you. Let me stay with you. Don’t send me away,
Mother.”
“Oh, you good Toni,” said his mother. “What wouldn’t I give to be able
to keep you always with me! But that really cannot be. I know of no way
for you to be a woodcarver. Someone would have to teach you. And when
you had learned, how should we sell the carvings? You would have to know
A Hard Sentence 119
people and go about, or else your work wouldn’t bring in any money. If only
I could talk with someone who could give me good advice!”
“Don’t you know anyone you can ask, Mother?” said Toni anxiously
and racked his brain to try to think of someone. His mother also began to
consider.
“I think I will go to the pastor who has already given me advice,” said his
mother, delighted to have found a way out of the difficulty.
Toni was quite happy and now was determined that early the next
morning they should go down to the church, and then his mother could go
in to see the pastor, and Toni would wait outside.
Everything was carried out on Sunday morning as planned. His mother
had put two of the little carved animals in her pocket to show the pastor as
examples of her boy’s good ability. The pastor received her very cordially,
had her sit down beside him, and inquired with interest about her affairs,
for he knew Elsbeth and how bravely she had helped herself through all the
hard times.
She told him now the whole story, how Toni from a very early age had
worked at wood carving with so much interest and now wished for nothing
so much as to carry on this work, but how she knew of no way for him to
learn, nor how the work could be sold later on. Finally she showed him the
two little animals as examples of Toni’s skill.
The pastor replied to the mother that the plan would be very difficult to
carry out. Although the two little goats were not badly carved, yet in order
to perform the work right and to earn his bread by it, Toni would first have
to learn from a good carver, because making only little animals or boxes
would not amount to anything or bring in any money, and he would only be
wasting his time.
However, down in the village of Frutigen there was a very skillful,
well-known woodcarver, who made wonderful large works which went far
into the world, even to America. He carved whole groups of animals on
high rocks, chamois and eagles, and whole mountains with the herdsman
and the cows. Elsbeth could talk with this carver. If Toni studied with him,
he could help him to sell the finished work, for he had ways open for it.
Elsbeth left the pastor with gratitude and new hope in her heart. Toni
was waiting in great suspense in front of the house. She told him at once
everything the pastor had said, and when she finally related about the
woodcarver in Frutigen, Toni suddenly stood still and said, “Then come,
Mother, let us go to the place at once.”
However, his mother had not thought it over, so she made many
objections, but Toni begged so earnestly, that she finally said, “We must go
home first and have something to eat, for it is very far away. But we can do
that quickly, and then start off again right away.”
So they hurried back to the house, took a little bread and milk, and
started on their way again. They had several hours to travel, but Toni was so
busy with his plans and thoughts for the future, the time flew like a dream,
and he looked up in great surprise when his mother said, “See, there is the
church tower of Frutigen!”
They were soon standing in front of the woodcarver’s house and learned
from the children before the door that their father was at home.
Inside in the large room sat the woodcarver with his wife at the table,
looking at a large book of beautiful colored pictures of animals which he
would be able to make good use of in his handicraft. When the two arrived,
he welcomed them and invited them to come and be seated on the wooden
bench where he and his wife were sitting and which ran along the wall
around the entire room. Elsbeth accepted the invitation and immediately
began to tell the woodcarver why she had come and what she so much
desired of him.
Meanwhile Toni stood as if rooted to the floor and stared motionless at
a single spot. In front of him, next the wall, was a glass case in which could
be seen two high rocks carved out of wood. On one was standing a chamois
with her little ones. They had such dainty, slender legs, and their fine heads
sat so naturally on their necks that it seemed as if they were all alive and not
at all made of wood. On the other rock stood a hunter, his gun hanging by
his side, and his hat, with even a feather in it, sat on his head—all so finely
carved that one would think it must be a real hat and a real little feather, and
yet all was of wood.
Next to the hunter stood his dog, and it seemed as if he would even wag
his tail. Toni was like one enchanted and hardly breathed.
When his mother finished speaking, the woodcarver said it seemed to
him as if she thought the affair would half go of itself, but it was not so.
If a thing was to be done right, it cost much time and patience to learn.
He was not averse to taking the boy in to teach him, for it seemed to him
that he had a desire to learn; but she would have to pay for his board for
a couple of months in Frutigen, besides paying for his instruction, which
would be as much as his board, and she herself must know whether she
could spend so much on the boy. On the other hand, he would promise that
the boy would be taught right, and she could see there in the glass case what
he could learn to do.
At first Elsbeth was so disappointed and dismayed she was unable to
speak a word. Now she knew that it would be absolutely impossible for
her to fulfill her boy’s greatest wish. The necessary expense of board and
instruction was beyond anything that she could manage, so much so that it
was quite out of the question. It was all over with Toni’s plans.
She rose and thanked the woodcarver for his willingness to take the boy,
but she would have to decline his offer. Then she beckoned to Toni, whose
eyes were still so fastened to the glass case that he paid no attention. She
took him by the hand and led him quietly out of the door.
Outside Toni said, drawing a deep breath, “Did you see what was in the
case? Mother, did you see it?”
“Yes, yes, I saw it, Toni,” replied his mother with a sigh. “But did you hear
what the wood-carver said?”
Toni had heard nothing. All his mind had been directed to one point.
“No, I didn’t hear anything. When can I go?” he asked longingly.
“Oh, it is not possible, Toni, but don’t take it so to heart! See, I can’t do
it, although I would like to so much,” declared his mother. “But everything
would come to more than I earn in a year, and you know how hard I have to
work to manage to make two ends meet.”
It was a hard blow for Toni. All his hopes for many years lay destroyed
before him; but he knew how his mother worked, how little good she herself
had, and how she always tried to give him a little pleasure when she could.
He said not a word and silently swallowed his rising tears, but he was very
much grieved that all his hopes were over, since for the first time he had
seen what wonderful things could be made out of a piece of wood.
Chapter 3
Up in the Mountains
T he next morning, the farmer on the Matten farm sent word to Elsbeth
to come up to see him towards evening, as he had something to talk
with her about. At the right time she laid aside her hoe, tied on a clean
apron, and said, “Finish the hoeing, Toni, then you can milk the goat and
give her some fresh straw so she will have a better bed. By the time you’re
done, I will be back again.”
She went up to the Matten farm. The farmer was standing in the open
barn door, gazing with satisfaction at his beautiful cows wandering in a long
procession to the well. Elsbeth stepped up to him.
“Well, I am glad you have come,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “I
have been thinking about you on account of the boy’s welfare. He is now
at an age to do some light work and help you a little, at least to take care of
himself.”
“I have already been thinking about that and wanted to ask you if you
could give him a little light work in the fields,” replied Elsbeth.
“That is fortunate,” continued the farmer. “I have a little job for him,
healthy and not very hard—that is to say, not hard at all. He can go up to
the small mountain with the cows. The herdsman and his boys are on the
big mountain, and another man comes every morning and evening for
the milking, so the boy will not be entirely alone and will have nothing to
do but watch the cows so that none wander off, or hook each other, or do
anything out of the way. While he sits there on the mountain, he is master
and can have all the milk he wants. A king couldn’t have anything better.”
Elsbeth was a little frightened by the offer. If Toni had been more with
the farm men, and had been with cows, or if he had naturally a different
disposition, wilder and more roving and commanding—but as he was so
quiet and shy, and besides without any knowledge of such things, to be
for the first time all alone for several months, away from home, up on the
mountains, watching a herd of cows, this seemed to her too hard for Toni.
What would the poor boy, who was not particularly strong, do if anything
happened to him or to the herd? She expressed all her thoughts to the
farmer, but it made no difference. He thought it would be good for the boy
to get out for once, and up on the mountain he would be much stronger
than at home, and nothing could happen to him, for he would be given a
horn; and if anything went wrong, he could blow lustily, and immediately
the farm man would come from the other mountain; in a half hour he
would be there.
Elsbeth finally thought the farmer understood it much better than she,
and so it was decided that the next week, when the cows went up to the
mountain pasture, Toni should go with them.
“He shall have a good bit of money and a new suit of clothes when he
comes down. That will be a help for the winter,” said the farmer finally.
Elsbeth thanked him as she said goodbye and turned homeward.
At first Toni was opposed when he heard he would be away so long without
being able to come home a single time. But his mother explained to him how
easy the work would be, and that he would grow stronger up there, and be
able to do better things later on, and that the Matten farmer would give him a
new suit and a good bit of money as pay. So Toni stopped objecting, but said
he would be glad to do something and not let his mother work alone.
Then it occurred to Elsbeth that, if Toni was going to be away the whole
summer, she could perhaps go to one of the big hotels in Interlaken where
so many strangers go for the summer. There she could earn a good sum of
money and meet the coming winter without anxiety. She was already known
in Interlaken, for she had served as chambermaid in one of the hotels for
several summers before her marriage.
When the day came for the big herd of cows to be taken up to the
mountain pasture, Toni’s mother gave him his little bundle and said, “Go
now, in God’s name. Don’t forget to pray when the day begins and when it
ends, and the dear Lord will not forget you. And remember, His protection
is better than that of men.”
So Toni walked away with his little bundle and started up the mountain
behind the herd.
Immediately after this Elsbeth closed her cottage and took her goat up to
the Matten farm. When the farmer had heard she was going to Interlaken, he
Up in the Mountains 125
promised her to take the goat, and thought when Elsbeth came home again,
she would give twice as much milk; and what he made from her, he would give
back to Elsbeth in cheese. So she left the goat and started down to Interlaken.
The herd of cattle had already been climbing the mountain for several
hours. The herdsman turned them off to the left, and the man with Toni
went up towards the right, followed by the smaller herd, which consisted of
fewer cows but many young cattle, for not many cows could be kept on the
small mountain pasture because the milk had to be carried across to the big
one where the herdsman’s hut stood.
They now reached the highest point of the pasture where there stood a
little hut. All around there was nothing but pasture, not a tree, not a bush.
Inside of the hut was a narrow seat fastened to the right hand wall, in front
of which stood a table. On the other side stood a bed of hay. In the corner
was a little round stool, and on this a wooden jug.
Toni and the man stepped inside. The man set down the big wooden milk
pail that he had brought up on his back, took out of it a round loaf of bread
and a huge piece of cheese, laid both on the table and said, “Of course you
have a knife,” to which Tony assented.
Then the man took the wooden jug and the stool, swung the milk pail
onto his back again, and went out. Toni followed him. The man lifted a
wooden basin out of the big pail, seated himself on the little round stool,
and began to milk one cow after another. If one was too far away, he would
call out, “Drive her here!” and Toni obeyed. When the basin was full, he
poured it into the big pail and silently went on until all the cows had been
milked. At the last the man filled the jug with milk, handed it to Toni, took
the pail on his back, the basin in his hand and saying “Good night!” went
down the mountain.
Then Toni was all alone. He put his jug of milk in the hut and came out
again. He looked around on every side. He looked over to the big mountain.
Between that and his pasture was a wide valley so one had to descend in
order to climb up to the big one. But all around both pastures, great dark
masses of mountains looked down, some rocky, gray and jagged, others
covered with snow, all reaching up to the sky, so high and mighty and with
such different peaks and horns, and some with such broad backs, that it
almost seemed to Toni as if they were enormous giants, each one having his
own face and looking down at him.
It was a clear evening. The mountain opposite was shining in the golden
evening light, and now a little star came into sight above the dark mountains
and looked down at Toni in such a friendly way that it cheered him very much.
He thought of his mother, where she was now and how she was in the
habit of standing with him at this time in front of the little cottage and
talking so pleasantly. Then suddenly there came over him such a feeling of
loneliness that he ran into the hut, threw himself down on the cot, buried
his face in the hay and sobbed softly, until the weariness of the day overcame
him and he fell asleep.
The bright morning lured him out early. The man was already outside. He
milked the cows, spoke not a word and went away.
Now a long, long day followed. It was perfectly still all around. The cows
grazed and lay down around in the sun-bathed pasture. Tom went into the
hut two or three times, drank some milk and ate some bread and cheese.
Then he came out again, sat down on the ground, and carved on a piece of
wood he had in his pocket. For although he no longer dared to cherish the
hope of becoming a woodcarver, yet he could not help carving for himself
as well as he could. At last it was evening again. The man came and went. He
said not a word, and Toni had nothing to say either.
Thus passed one day after another. They were all so long! So long! In the
evening when it began to grow dark, it always seemed terrible to Toni, for
then the high mountains looked so black and threatening, as if they would
suddenly do him some harm. Then he would rush back into the hut and
crawl into his bed of hay.
Many days had passed like this, one exactly the same as the other. The
sun always shone in a cloudless sky; always at evening the friendly little
star gleamed above the dark mountain. But then one afternoon, thick gray
clouds began to chase one another across the sky. Now and then blinding
lightning flashed and, suddenly, frightful thunderbolts sounded, which
echoed roaring from the mountains as if there were twice as many. And
then a terrible storm broke. It was as dark as night. The rain beat against the
hut as the thunder rolled with fearful reverberations through the mountains.
Quivering lightning lit up the black, which made the mountains’ frightful
giant forms, which seemed quite specter-like, to come nearer and look down
menacingly. The cattle ran together in alarm and bellowed loudly, and great
birds of prey flapped around with piercing shrieks.
Toni had long since fled into the hut, but the lightning showed him the
frightful forms, and every minute it seemed as if the rolling thunder would
overthrow the hut to the ground. Toni was so alarmed he could hardly
breathe. He climbed up on the table, expecting every minute that the hut
would fall and crush him. The storm lasted for hours, and the man never
came over. Night fell, and still the blinding lightning flashed, and new peals
of thunder rolled, and the storm howled and raged as if it would sweep the
hut away.
Toni stood clinging to the table half the night, stiff with fright and
with no thought, only a feeling of a frightful power, which was crushing
everything. How he reached his bed, he did not know, but in the morning
he lay stretched across the hay, so exhausted he could hardly rise. He looked
anxiously out of the window. How must it look outside after such a night?
Then he went out to see about the cows. The ground was still wet, but the
animals were peacefully grazing.
The sky was gray, and thick black clouds were passing over it. Gloomy
and frightful loomed the high mountains. They had come so near and
looked more threateningly than ever at Toni. He ran back into the hut.
Many days of thunderstorms followed, one after another; and if the sun
came out between, it burned unbearably. And new storms followed so
unceasingly and violent that the herdsman on the other mountain often said
that he had not known such a summer for years, and if it didn’t change, he
wouldn’t make half so much butter as in former summers, because the cows
gave no milk, as they didn’t like the fodder.
During this time, the man-servant chose the most favorable time to come
over to the small pasture. He milked the cows as quickly as possible and
did not look after the boy at all. Only now and then, when he thought Toni
had no more milk, he would bring the jug out quickly, fill it, and put it back
again. He often saw Toni sitting on his bed of hay and would call out in
passing, “You are lazy!”
But then he ran right away in order to get back without being wet, and
did not trouble himself further about the boy.
So June had passed, and already a good part of July. The thunderstorms
had become less frequent, but a thick fog so often enveloped the mountain
that one could hardly see two steps away; and only here and there a
black head appeared, looking gloomily through the mist. The cattle often
Up in the Mountains 129
wandered so far that the man found some of them between the two
mountains and brought them up again. This would not do. He called up to
the boy but received no answer. He ran to the hut and went in. Toni was
sitting on his bed, crouched in the corner, and staring straight before him.
“Why don’t you look after the cows?” asked the man.
He received no answer.
“Can’t you speak? What is the matter with you?”
No answer.
Then the man looked at the bread and cheese to see if Toni had eaten
everything and was suffering from hunger. But more than half the bread
was there and the larger part of the cheese. Toni had taken almost nothing
but milk.
“What is the matter with you, then? Are you sick?” asked the man again.
Toni gave no answer. He seemed not to hear anything and stared so
motionless before him that the man was quite alarmed. He ran out of the
hut. He told the herdsman how it was with the boy, and they decided that
when one of the herdsman’s boys went down with the butter, he must tell
the Matten farmer about it.
Another week passed before the news was brought to the farmer. He
thought the boy would be happy again, that the heavy thunderstorms had
only frightened him a little, but he sent word for the herdsman to go over. The
herdsman had boys of his own and would understand better about this than
the hired man. If anything was wrong with Toni, he must be brought down.
Some days later the herdsman really went over with one of his boys and
found Toni still crouched in the corner just as the man had seen him. Toni
made no sound to anything the herdsman said to him, did not move and
kept staring always before him.
“He must go down,” said the herdsman to his boy. “Go with him right
away, but take care that nothing happens to him, and be good to him; the
boy is to be pitied.” And he looked at Toni with sympathy, for the herdsman
had a good heart and took delight in his own three big, healthy boys. The
one he had with him was a strong, sturdy fellow of sixteen years. He went
up to Toni and told him to stand up, but Toni did not move. Then the lad
took him under the arms, lifted him up like a feather, then swung him
on his back. Holding Toni firmly with both hands, he went with his light
burden down the mountain.
When the Matten farmer saw Toni in such a sad condition, which
remained just the same, he was alarmed, for he had not expected such a
thing. He did not know at all what to do with the boy. His mother was far
away, no relatives were there, and he himself did not want to keep Toni
while in this condition. He could take such a responsibility, but he did not
want to do so. Suddenly a good thought came to him, the same as the people
there in every difficulty, in every need and every trouble, always have first
of all. “Take him to the pastor,” he said to the herdsman’s boy. “He will have
some good advice to give, which will help.”
The lad immediately started off and went to the pastor, who allowed the
boy to tell him as much as he knew about the details of the case, how Toni
came to be in this condition, and how long it had lasted; but the lad knew
very little about it all. The pastor first tried every means to make Toni speak
and asked him if he would like to go to his mother, but it was all in vain.
Toni did not give the least sign of understanding or interest.
Then the pastor sat down, wrote a letter, and said to the herdsman’s boy,
“Go back to the Matten farm and tell the farmer to harness his little carriage
and send it to me. I will see that Toni goes to Bern today. He is very sick—
say that to the farmer.”
The farmer harnessed immediately, glad that further responsibility was
taken from him and he had only to carry Toni as far as the railway. But
the pastor sent down to his sexton, an older, kindly man, who had given
him a helping hand for years in many matters of responsibility. He was
commissioned to take Toni with all care to the great sanitarium in Bern
and to give the letter to the doctor there, a good friend of the pastor’s. A
half hour later, the open carriage with the high seat drove up in front of the
pastor’s house. The sexton climbed up, placed the sick boy beside him, and
held him carefully but firmly. And thus Toni drove out into the world with a
horse for the first time in his life, but he sat there with no sign of interest. It
was as if he were no longer conscious of the outer world.
Chapter 4
In the Sanitarium
T he doctor of the sanitarium was sitting with his family around the
family table, engaged in merry conversation on various subjects.
Even the lady from Geneva, who spent several hours a day with the family,
seemed a little infected by the children’s gaiety today. She had never before
taken so lively a part in the discussions that the school children carried on
about different interests.
This lady’s beloved and gifted son had died not long before. On this
account, she had fallen into such deep sadness that her health had suffered
greatly, and therefore she had been brought to the sanitarium to recover.
The animated conversation was suddenly interrupted by a letter which
was handed to the doctor.
“A letter from an old friend,” said the doctor, “who is sending me a patient
to the sanitarium. He is a young boy, hardly as old as our Max—there, read
it.” Whereupon the doctor handed the letter to his wife.
“Oh, the poor boy,” exclaimed his wife. “Is he here? Bring him in. Perhaps
it will do him good to see the children.”
“I think he is quite near,” said the doctor. He went out and soon came in
again with the sexton and Toni. He led the former into a bay window and
began talking with him in a low tone. Meanwhile the doctor’s wife drew
near to Toni, who on entering had pressed into the nearest corner. She
spoke kindly to him and invited him to come to the table and eat something
with her children. Toni did not move.
Then lively little Marie jumped down from her chair and came to
Toni with a large piece of bread and butter. “There, take a bite,” she said
encouragingly.
Toni remained motionless.
“See, you must do so.” And the little girl bit a good piece from the bread
and held it to him. Then she held it a little nearer so he only needed to
bite into it. But he stared in front of him and made no motion. This silent
resistance frightened Marie, so she drew back quietly.
Then the doctor came, took Toni by the hand, and went out followed by
the sexton.
Poor Toni’s appearance had made a great impression on the children.
They had become perfectly quiet.
Later when they had gone to bed and the two women were sitting alone
together, the doctor came back again. In reply to their urgent questions,
he informed them about what the sexton had told him concerning Toni’s
illness and his life with his mother, and that no one had ever noticed
anything wrong with the boy before, only he had always been a quiet, gentle
child and more slenderly built than any of the other village children.
The women asked how he had come into this condition in the summer
up on the beautiful mountain, and the doctor explained that it was not
so strange if one knew how terrible the thunderstorms were up in the
mountains. “Besides,” he concluded, “a delicate child, such as this boy, all
alone without a human being near, for whole weeks, even months long,
without hearing a word spoken, might well become so terrified through
fear and horror in the awful loneliness that he would become wholly
benumbed.”
Then the lady from Geneva, who took an unusual interest in poor Toni’s
fate, exclaimed in great excitement, “How can a mother allow such a thing
to happen to her child! It is wholly inconceivable, quite incomprehensible!”
“You really can have no idea what poor mothers are obliged to let happen
to their children,” replied the doctor soothingly. “But don’t believe that it
causes them less pain than others. You see how many suffer that we know
nothing about, and how hard poverty oppresses.”
“Will you be able to help the poor young boy?” asked the lady from
Geneva.
“If I can only bring out the right emotion in him so that the spell, which
holds him imprisoned, can be broken,” he replied. “Right now everything in
him is numbed and lifeless.”
“Oh, do help him! Do help him!” begged the sick lady imploringly. “Oh,
if I could do something for him!” And she walked to and fro thinking about
a way to help, for Toni’s condition went deeply to her heart.
It was the second week of August when Toni came to the sanitarium. Day
In the Sanitarium 133
after day, week after week passed, and the doctor could only bring the same
sad news to the two women who waited with great anxiety to hear his report
every morning. Not the slightest change was noticed. Every means was tried
to amuse the boy, to see if he would perhaps laugh. Other attempts were
devised to disturb him, to make him cry. They performed all kinds of tricks
to attract his attention. All, all were in vain. No trace of interest or emotion
was aroused in Toni.
“If he could only be made to laugh or to cry once!” repeated the doctor
over and over again.
When he had been four weeks in the sanitarium all hope disappeared, for
the doctor had exhausted every means.
“Now I will try one thing more,” he said one morning to his wife. “I have
written to my friend, the pastor, and asked him if the boy was very much
attached to his mother, and if so, to send for her right away. Perhaps to see
her again would make an impression on him.”
The two women looked forward in great suspense to Elsbeth’s arrival.
In the first week of September, the last guests left the hotel in Interlaken
where Elsbeth had spent the summer. She immediately started on her way
home, for she wanted to get everything in order before Toni came down
from the mountain. She never thought but that he was still up there, and had
no suspicion of all that had happened. When she reached home, she went at
once to the Matten farm to inquire for Toni and to bring the goat home.
The farmer was very friendly and thought her goat was now by far one of
the finest, because she had had good fodder so long. But when Elsbeth asked
after her Toni, he broke off abruptly and said he had so much to do, she
must go to the pastor, for he would have the best knowledge about the boy.
It immediately seemed to Elsbeth that it was a little strange for the pastor to
know best what happened up on the mountain, and while she was leading
home the goat and thinking about the matter, a feeling of anxiety came
over her and grew stronger and stronger. As soon as she reached home, she
quickly tied up the goat. And without going into the cottage at all, she ran
back the same way she had come, down again to Kandergrund.
The pastor told her with great consideration how Toni had not borne
the life on the mountain very well and they had been obliged to bring him
down. And since it seemed best for him that he should go at once to a good
physician for the right care, he had sent the boy immediately to Bern.
His mother was very much shocked and wanted to travel the next day to
see for herself if her child was very ill.
But the pastor said that would not do, but that she should wait until the
doctor allowed a visit, and she could be sure that Toni was receiving the best
care.
With a heavy heart Elsbeth went back to her cottage. She could do
nothing but leave it all to the dear Lord, who alone had been her trust for so
many years. But it was only a few days later when the pastor sent her word
that she was to go to Bern at once, as the doctor wished her to come.
Early the following day Elsbeth started off. About noon she reached Bern
and soon was standing in front of the door of the sanitarium.
She was led to the doctor’s living room and was here received with great
friendliness by his wife, and with still keener sympathy by the lady from
Geneva, who had so lived in the history of poor Toni and his mother that
she could hardly think of anything else but how to help these two. She had
had only the one child and could so well understand the mother’s trouble.
She had even asked the doctor to allow her to be present when he took the
boy to his mother, in order to share in the joy if the poor boy’s delight at
seeing her again would affect him as they hoped.
Soon the doctor appeared, and after he had prepared the mother not to
expect Toni to speak at the first moment, he brought him in. He led him by
the hand into the room, then he let go and stepped to one side.
The mother ran to her Toni and tried to seize his hand. He drew back and
pressed into the corner, staring into vacancy.
The women and the doctor exchanged sad looks.
His mother went up to him and caressed him. “Toni, Toni,” she said again
and again in a tender voice, “don’t you know me? Don’t you know your
mother any more?”
As always before Toni pressed against the wall, made no motion, and
stared before him.
In tender tones the mother continued mournfully, “Oh, Toni, say just a
single word! Only look at me once! Toni, don’t you hear me?”
Toni remained unmoved.
The mother looked at him, full of tenderness, but only met his staring
eyes. It was too much for poor Elsbeth that the only possession she had on
earth, and the one she loved with all her heart, her Toni, should be lost to
her, and in such a sad way! She forgot everything around her. She fell on her
knees beside her child, and while the tears were bursting from her eyes, she
poured out aloud the sorrow in her heart:
Oh God of Love, oh Father-heart,

In whom my trust is founded,
I know full well how good Thou art—
E’en when by grief I am wounded.
Oh Lord, it surely can not be

That Thou wilt let me languish
In hopeless depths of misery
And live in tears of anguish.
Toni’s eyes took on a different expression. He looked at his mother. She

did not see him and went on imploring in the midst of her tears:
Oh Lord, my soul yearns for thine aid

In this dark vale of weeping;
For Thee I have waited, hoped and prayed,
Assured of thy safe keeping.
Suddenly Toni threw himself on his mother and sobbed aloud. She threw
her arms around him, and her tears of sorrow turned to loud sobs of joy.
The child sobbed aloud also.
“It is won,” said the doctor in great delight to the women, who, deeply
moved, were looking on at the mother and boy.
Then the doctor opened the door of the next room and beckoned Elsbeth
to go in there with Toni. He thought it would be good for both to be alone
for a while. In there after a while Toni began to talk quite naturally with his
mother and asked her, “Are we going home, Mother, to the stone hut? Shan’t
I have to go up on the mountain any more?”
And she quieted him and said she would now take him right home,
and they would stay there together. Soon all Toni’s thoughts came back
again quite clearly, and after a while he said, “But I must earn something,
Mother.”
“Don’t trouble about that now,” said Elsbeth quietly. “The dear Lord will
show a way when it is time.”
Then they began to talk about the goat, how pretty and fat she had grown,
and Toni gradually became quite lively.
After an hour the doctor brought them both back into the living room.
Toni was entirely changed, his eyes had now an earnest but quite different
expression. The lady from Geneva was indescribably delighted. She sat
down beside him at once, and he had to tell her where he had been to
school and what he had liked to study.
But the doctor beckoned to Elsbeth to come to him.
“Listen, my good woman,” he began, “the words which you repeated
made a deep, penetrating impression on the boy’s heart. Did he know the
hymn already?”
“Oh,” exclaimed Elsbeth, “many hundred times I have repeated it beside
his little bed when he was very small, often with many tears, and he would
weep too, when he didn’t know why.”
“He wept because you wept; he suffered because you suffered,” said the
doctor. “Now I understand how he was aroused by these words. With such
impressions in early childhood, it is no wonder he became a quiet and
reserved boy. This explains to me much in the past.”
Then the lady from Geneva came up, for she wanted to talk with the mother.
“My dear, good woman, he certainly must not go up on the mountain
again. He is not fit for it,” she said in great eagerness. “We must find
something different for him. Has he no taste for some other occupation?
But it must be light, for he is not strong and needs care.”
“Oh, yes, he has a great desire to learn something,” said his mother.
“From a little boy he has wished for it, but I hardly dare mention it.”
“There, there, my good woman, tell me right away about it,” said the lady
encouragingly, expecting something unheard-of.
“He wants so much to be a woodcarver, and has a good deal of talent for
it, but the cost of board and instruction together is more than eighty francs.”
“Is that all?” exclaimed the lady in the greatest surprise. “Is that all?
Come, my boy!” And she ran to Toni again. “Would you really like to
become a woodcarver—better than anything else?”
The joy which shone in Toni’s eyes when he answered that he would
showed the lady what she had to do. She had such a longing to help Toni
that she wanted to act immediately that very hour.

“Would you like to learn at once? Go to a teacher right away?” she asked
him.
Toni gladly replied that he would.
But now came a new thought. She turned to the doctor. “Perhaps he
ought to recover his health first?”
The doctor replied that he had been already thinking about that. The
mother had told him that she knew a very good master up in Frutigen.
“Now I think,” he went on to say, “that carving is not a strenuous work, and
one of the most important things for Toni is to have for some time good,
nourishing food. In Frutigen there is a very good inn, if he could only—”
“I will undertake that, Doctor; I will undertake that,” interrupted the lady.
“I will go with him. We will start tomorrow. In Frutigen I will provide for
Toni’s board and lodging, and for everything he needs.” In her great delight
the lady shook hands with both the mother and the boy repeatedly, then
went out to instruct her maid about preparations for the journey.
When the mother with her boy had been taken to their room, the doctor
said with great delight to his wife, “We have two recoveries. Our lady is also
cured. A new interest has come to her; and you will see, she will have new
life in providing for this young boy. This has been a beautiful day!”
On the following morning the journey was made to Frutigen, and the
little company were so glad and happy together that they reached there
before they were aware of it.
At the woodcarver’s, the lady was told everything that would be needed
for the work. And after he had showed them all kinds of instruments, he
thought a fine book with good pictures, from which one could work, would
be useful.
After the lady had charged him to teach Toni everything in any way
necessary for the future, they went to the inn. Here the lady engaged a
good room with a comfortable bed and arranged with the host a bill of fare
for every day in the week. The host promised, with many bows, to follow
everything exactly, for he saw very well with whom he had to deal.
Then Toni and his mother had to eat with the lady in the inn; and during
the meal, she had much more to say. She was going home to Geneva the
next day, she said, where there were large shops in which nothing was sold
but carvings. There she would immediately arrange for Toni to send all his
articles, so he could begin to work with fresh zeal. Moreover, she insisted
that Toni should remain, not two, but three months with the carver, so that
he could learn everything from the foundation. He could go from here to
visit his mother on Sundays, or she could come to him.
Elsbeth and Toni were so full of gratitude, they could find no words to
express it. But the lady understood them and bore home a happy heart, such
as she had not had for a long time.
It came about just as the doctor had foreseen. The lady, who had not been
able to think any more about her home, now desired to return to Geneva.
She had so many plans to carry out there, that she could hardly wait for the
day when she was to go back.
The doctor was delighted to consent to her going soon.
Toni, who had hardly begun with his new teacher, applied himself with so
much zeal and skill to his work, that the carver said to his wife in the fourth
week, “If he goes on like this, he will learn to do better than I can.”
The three months had come to an end, and Christmas was drawing
near. One morning Toni waded through the deep snow up to his home. He
looked round and fresh, and his heart was so happy, he had to sing aloud as
he came along.
But when after a long walk, he suddenly saw the stone hut with the fir
tree thickly covered with snow behind it, tears of joy came to his eyes. He
was coming home, home for all time. He ran to the little house, and his
mother, who had already seen him, hurried out. And which one of the two
was the more delighted, no one could tell; but they were both so happy as
they sat together again in the cottage, that they could think of no greater
fortune on earth. Their highest wish was fulfilled. Toni was a woodcarver,
and now he could carry on his work at home with his mother.
And the dear Lord was still overwhelming them with so many blessings,
besides this! From Geneva, such good things kept coming to Elsbeth that
she no longer had to dread anxious days, and with each package came new
assurance of the ready acceptance of Toni’s work.
Two days later in the stone hut, a Christmas festival was celebrated that
neither Elsbeth nor Toni had ever known before; for the candles which
his mother had lighted shone out upon a quantity of things that Toni had
received to wear, and also a whole set of the most beautiful knives for
carving, and a book with pictures of such a size and beauty that Toni had
never seen before in all his life. His master’s book was a mere child’s toy
beside it. Elsbeth, too, was lovingly provided for. The lady from Geneva had
planned everything, and the bright reflection from it fell back radiantly into
her own heart.
And so the most beautiful deer and huntsman, and the wonderful eagles
on the rock that Toni had carved, which stood in the high show window in
Geneva—which he considered a particularly successful piece—went, not to
the dealer in Geneva, but to the lady for whom Toni preserved a thankful
heart all his life long.
Rudi
Translated by Edith F. Kunz
Edited by Jennifer D. Lerud and Jenny Phillips


Chapter 1
Without a Friend
T he traveler who ascends Mt. Seelis from the rear will presently find
himself coming out upon a spot where a green meadow, fresh and
vivid, is spread out upon the mountain side. The place is so inviting that one
feels tempted to join the peacefully grazing cows and fall to eating the soft
green grass with them. The clean, well-fed cattle wander about with pleasant
musical accompaniment; for each cow wears a bell, so that one may tell by
the sound whether any of them are straying too far out toward the edge,
where the precipice is hidden by bushes and where a single misstep would
be fatal. There is a company of boys, to be sure, to watch the cows, but the
bells are also necessary, and their tinkling is so pleasant to hear that it would
be a pity not to have them.
Little wooden houses dot the mountain side, and here and there a
turbulent stream comes tumbling down the slope. Not one of the cottages
stands on level ground; it seems as though they had somehow been thrown
against the mountain and had stuck there, for it would be hard to conceive
of their being built on this steep slope. From the highway below you might
think them all equally neat and cheery, with their open galleries and little
wooden stairways, but when you came nearer to them you would notice that
they differed very much in character.
The two first ones were not at all alike. The distance between them was
not very great, yet they stood quite apart, for the largest stream of the
144 Rudi
neighborhood, Clear Brook, as it is called, rushed down between them. In

the first cottage all the little windows were kept tightly closed even through
the finest summer days, and no fresh air was ever let in except through the
broken windowpanes, and that was little enough, for the holes had been
pasted over with paper to keep out the winter’s cold. The steps of the outside
stairway were in many places broken away, and the gallery was in such a
ruinous state that it seemed as though the many little children crawling
and stumbling about on it must surely break their arms or legs. But they
all were sound enough in body though very dirty; their faces were covered
with grime and their hair had never been touched by a comb. Four of these
little urchins scrambled about here through the day, and at evening they
were joined by four older ones,—three sturdy boys and a girl,—who were at
work during the day. These, too, were none too clean, but they looked a little
better than the younger ones, for they could at least wash themselves.
The little house across the stream had quite a different air. Even before
you reached the steps, everything looked so clean and tidy that you thought
the very ground must be different from that across the stream. The steps
always looked as though they had just been scrubbed, and on the gallery
there were three pots of blooming pinks that wafted fragrance through the
windows all summer long. One of the bright little windows stood open to let
in the fresh mountain air, and within the room a woman might be seen, still
strong and active in spite of the snowy white hair under her neat black cap.
She was often at work mending a man’s shirt that was stout and coarse in
material but was always washed with great care.
The woman herself looked so trim and neat in her simple dress that one
fancied she had never in her life touched anything unclean. It was Frau
Vincenze, mother of the young herdsman Franz Martin, he of the smiling
face and strong arm. Franz Martin lived in his little hut on the mountain
all summer making cheese and returned to his mother’s cottage only in the
late fall, to spend the winter with her and make butter in the lower dairy hut
near by.
As there was no bridge across the wild stream, the two cottages were
quite separated, and there were other people much farther away whom
Frau Vincenze knew better than these neighbors right across the brook;
for she seldom looked over at them,—the sight was not agreeable to her.
She would shake her head disapprovingly when she saw the black faces and
Without a Friend 145
dirty rags on the children, while the stream of fresh, clean water ran so
near their door. She preferred, when the twilight rest hour came, to enjoy
her red carnations on the gallery, or to look down over the green slope that
stretched from her cottage to the valley below.
The neglected children across the stream belonged to “Poor Grass Joe,”
as he was called, who was usually employed away from home in haying, or
chopping wood, or carrying burdens up the mountain. The wife had much
to do at home, to be sure, but she seemed to take it for granted that so
many children could not possibly be kept in order, and that in time, when
the children grew older, things would mend of their own accord. So she let
everything go as it would, and in the fresh, pure air the children remained
healthy and were happy enough scrambling around on the steps and on the
ground.
In the summer time the four older ones were out all day herding cows; for
here in the lower pasture the whole herd of cows was not left to graze under
one or two boys, as on the high Alps, but each farmer had to hire his own
herd boy to look after his cows. This made jolly times for the boys and girls,
who spent the long days together playing pranks and making merry in the
broad green fields. Sometimes Joe’s children were hired for potato weeding
farther down the valley, or for other light field work. Thus they earned their
living through the summer and brought home many a penny besides, which
their mother could turn to good account; for there were always the four
little mouths to be fed and clothes to be got for all the children. However
simple these clothes might be, each child must have at least a little shirt,
and the older ones one other garment besides. The family was too poor to
possess even a cow, though there was scarcely a farmer in the neighborhood
who did not own one, however small his piece of land might be.
Poor Grass Joe had got his name from the fact that the spears of grass on
his land were so scarce that they would not support so much as a cow. He
had only a goat and a potato field. With these small resources the wife had
to struggle through the summer and provide for the four little ones, and
sometimes, when work was scarce, for one or two of the older ones also.
The father occasionally came home in the winter, but he brought very little
to his family, for his house and land were so heavily mortgaged that he was
never out of debt throughout the whole year. Whenever he had earned a
little money, some one whom he owed would come and take it all away.
146 Rudi
So the wife had a hard time to get along,—all the more so because she
had no order in her house-keeping and was not skillful in any kind of
work. She would often go out and stand on the tumbledown gallery, where
the boards were lying loose and ready to drop off, and instead of taking a
hammer and fastening them down would look across the stream at the neat
little cottage with the bright windows, and would say fretfully, “Yes, it’s all
very well for her to clean and scrub,—she has nothing else to do; but with
me it’s quite different.”
Then she would turn back angrily into the close, dingy room and vent her
anger on the first person who crossed her path. This usually happened to be
a boy of ten or eleven years, who was not her own child, but who had lived
in her house ever since he was a baby. This little fellow, known only by the
name of “Stupid Rudi,” was so lean and gaunt looking that one would have
taken him to be scarcely eight years old. His timid, shrinking manner made
it difficult to tell what kind of a looking boy he really was, for he never took
his eyes from the ground when anyone spoke to him.
Rudi had never known a mother; she had died when he was hardly two
years old, and shortly afterward his father had met with an accident when
returning from the mountain one evening. He had been out in the fields,
and seeking to reach home by a short cut, had lost his footing and fallen
over a precipice. The fall lamed him, and after that he was not fit for any
other work but braiding mats, which he sold in the big hotel on Mt. Seelis.
Little Rudi never saw his father otherwise than sitting on a low stool with
a straw mat on his knees. “Lame Rudolph” was the name the man went by.
Now he had been dead six years. After his wife’s death he had rented a little
corner in Joe’s house for himself and boy to sleep in, and the little fellow
had remained there ever since. The few pennies paid by the community
for Rudi’s support were very acceptable to Joe’s wife, and the extra space in
his bedroom, after the father’s death, was eagerly seized for two of her own
boys, who scarcely had sleeping room for some time.
Rudi had been by nature a shy, quiet little fellow. The father, after the loss
of his wife and the added misfortune of being crippled, lost all spirit; little as
he had been given to talking before his misfortune, he was even more silent
afterward.
So little Rudi would sit beside his father for whole days without hearing
a word spoken, and did not himself learn to speak for a long time. After
Without a Friend 147
his father died and he belonged altogether to Joe’s household, he hardly

ever spoke at all. He was scolded and pushed about by everybody, but he
never thought of resisting; it was not in his nature to fight. The children
did what they pleased to him, and besides their abuse he had to bear the
woman’s scoldings, especially when she was in a bad temper about the neat
little house across the stream. But Rudi did not rebel, for he had the feeling
that the whole world was against him, so what good would it do? With all
this the boy in time grew so shy that it seemed as though he hardly noticed
what was going on about him, and he usually gave no answer when any one
spoke to him. He seemed, in fact, to be always looking for some hole that he
might crawl into, where he would never be found again.
So it had come about that the older children, Jopp, Hans, Uli, and the
girl Lisi, often said to him, “What a stupid Rudi you are!” and the four
little ones began saying it as soon as they could talk. As Rudi never tried
to deny it, all the people in time assumed that it must be so, and he was
known throughout the neighborhood simply as “Stupid Rudi.” And it
really seemed as though the boy could not attend to anything properly as
the other children did. If he was sent along with the other boys to herd
cows, he would immediately hunt up a hedge or a bush and hide behind
it. There he would sit trembling with fear, for he could hear the other boys
hunting him and calling to him to come and join their game. The games
always ended with a great deal of thumping and thrashing, of which Rudi
invariably got the worst, because he would not defend himself, and, in fact,
could not defend himself against the many stronger boys. So he crept away
and hid as quickly as he could; meanwhile his cows wandered where they
pleased and grazed on the neighbors’ fields. This was sure to make trouble,
and all agreed that Rudi was too stupid even to herd cows, and no one
would engage him any more. In the field work there was the same trouble.
When the boys were hired to weed potatoes they thought it great fun to
pelt each other with bunches of potato blossoms,—it made the time pass
more quickly,—and of course each one paid back generously what he got.
Rudi alone gave back nothing, but looked about anxiously in all directions
to see who had hit him. That was exactly what amused the other boys; and
so, amid shouts and laughter, he was pelted from all sides,—on his head,
his back, or wherever the balls might strike. But while the others had time
to work in the intervals, Rudi did nothing but dodge and hide behind the
148 Rudi
potato bushes. So at this work he was a failure, too, and young and old
agreed that Rudi was too stupid for any kind of work, and that Rudi would
never amount to anything. As he could earn nothing and would never
amount to anything, he was treated accordingly by Joe’s wife. Her own four
little ones had hardly enough to eat, and so it usually happened that for Rudi
there was nothing at all and he was told, “You can find something; you are
old enough.”
How he really existed no one knew, not even Joe’s wife; yet he had always
managed somehow. He never begged; he would not do that; but many
a good woman would hand out a piece of bread or a potato to the poor,
starved little fellow as he went stealing by her door, not venturing to look
up, much less to ask for anything. He had never in his life had enough to
eat, but still that was not so hard for him as the persecution and derision
he had to take from the other boys. As he grew older he became more and
more sensitive to their ridicule, and his main thought at all times was to
escape notice as much as possible. As he was never seen to take any part
with the other children in work or play, people took it for granted that he
was incapable of doing what the others did, and they declared that he was
growing more stupid from day to day.
Chapter 2
In the Upper Pasture
O n a pleasant summer afternoon when the flies were dancing gaily in

the sun, all the boys and girls of the Hillside were running about so
excitedly that it was evident there was something particular on hand for that
day. Jopp, the oldest one of them all, was leader of the assembly, and when
all the company had come together he announced that they would now go to
the dairy hut in the upper pasture, for this was the day for a “cheese party.”
But first of all they must decide who was to stay below and watch the cows
while the others went to the party. That was, of course, a difficult question,
for no one was inclined to sacrifice himself for the sake of the others and
stay behind. Uli suggested that they might for once make Rudi take care
of the cows, and in order to keep him mindful of his duties they had best
thrash him beforehand. His suggestion met with approval, and some of
the leaders were already starting off to find the victim, when Lisi’s voice
was heard shrilly screaming above the others: “I think Uli’s notion is a very
stupid one, for we’ll all have to pay for it when we come home and find the
cows strayed off. You don’t suppose that if Rudi is too stupid to watch two
cows he would suddenly be smart enough to take care of twenty! We must
draw lots and three of us must stay here with the cows. That’s the only way.”
Lisi’s argument was convincing. The company took her advice, and three
of the number were sentenced to stay behind, Uli himself being one of those
In the Upper Pasture 151
upon whom the unhappy lot fell. Mumbling and grumbling he turned his
back upon the exultant throng and sat down upon the ground—the other
two beside him—while the rest, with shouts and laughter, went scampering
up the mountain, wild with expectation.
The boys were always notified by Franz Martin of the coming of cheese
day, and they, in turn, never failed to remind him if they thought he might
forget, for it was a gala occasion to them. It was the day when Franz Martin
trimmed his fresh cheeses, after these had been pressed, a soft mass, into
the round wooden forms. When the weight was laid upon it some of the
cheesy mass would be pressed out from the edge of the mold in the form of
a long, snow-white sausage. This was trimmed off, broken into pieces, and
distributed among the children by the good-natured dairyman. The festival
of cheese distribution occurred every two weeks throughout the summer
and was hailed each time with loud expressions of joy.
While the children were settling their plans Rudi had been hiding behind
a big thistle bush. He kept very quiet and did not move until he heard the
whole company racing up the mountain; then he looked out very cautiously.
The three who had been blackballed sat sulking on the ground with their
backs toward him. The others were some distance up the mountain; their
shouting and yodeling rang out merrily from above. Rudi, hearing their
shouts, was suddenly seized with an overwhelming desire to join the cheese
party. He stole out from behind the bush, cast a swift glance over toward
the three grumblers, and then, softly and lightly as a weasel, slipped up the
mountain side.
After scrambling up the last steep ascent he came upon a little fresh green
plateau, and there stood the dairy hut; close beside it Clear Brook went
tumbling down the slope. In the door of his hut stood Franz Martin with
round, smiling face, laughing at the strange capers that the boys and girls
were making in their efforts to get to the feast. They had all reached the hut
and were pushing one another forward in order to be as close as possible
when the distribution should begin.
“Gently, gently,” laughed Franz Martin; “if you all crowd into the hut, I
shall have no room to cut the cheese, and that will be your loss.”
Then he took a stout knife and went to the great round cheese that he
had ready on the table. He trimmed it off quickly and came out with a long,
snow-white roll, and breaking off pieces from it, passed them about here
152 Rudi
and there, sometimes over the heads of the taller ones to the little fellows
who could not push forward—for Franz Martin wanted to be just and fair
in his distribution.
Rudi had been standing in the outermost row, and when he tried to push
forward he got a thump now on one side and now on the other. So he ran
from side to side; but Franz Martin did not see him at all, because some
bigger, stouter boy always crowded in ahead of him. Finally he got such a
fierce blow from big, burly Jopp that he was flung far off to one side, almost
turning a somersault before he got his footing. He saw that the distribution
was almost at an end and that he was not to get even a tiny bit of cheese roll,
so he did not propose to get any more thumps. He went off by himself down
the slope, where some young fir trees stood, and sat down under them. On
the tallest of these trees a little bird was whistling forth gaily into the bright
heavens, as though there were nothing else in the world but blue skies and
sunshine.
Rudi, listening to the glad song, almost forgot his troubles of a moment
ago; but he could not help looking over occasionally to the hut, where the
shouting and laughter continued as the children chased each other about,
trying to snatch pieces of cheese from each other. When Rudi saw them
biting off delicious mouthfuls of the snowy mass, he would sigh and say
to himself, “Oh, if I could only have a little taste!” for he had never had a
single bite of cheese roll; never before had he even ventured so far as to
join a party. But it availed him nothing, even if he summoned forth all his
courage, as he had today, and so he came to the melancholy conclusion
that he would never in his life get a taste of cheese roll. The thought was so
disheartening to him that he no longer heard the song of the little bird, but
sat under the bushes quite hopeless.
Now the feast at the hut was ended and the revelers came down the slope
with a rush, each one trying to get ahead of the others, their eagerness
leading to many a roll and tumble down the steep places. As Hans went
shouting past the group of fir trees he discovered Rudi half hidden under
them.
“Come out of there, old mole! You must play with us!” he shouted. Rudi
understood what he was expected to “play” with them.
He was to stand as block, so that the others might jump over him. He was
usually knocked over at every jump, and he would much rather have stayed
In the Upper Pasture 153
in his little retreat; but he knew what was in store for him if he did not
follow their commands, so he came out obediently.
“How much cheese roll did you get?” Hans yelled at him.
“None,” answered Rudi.
“What a simpleton!” yelled Hans still louder. “He comes up here expressly
to get cheese roll, and then he goes away without any!”
“You stupid Rudi!” they shouted at him from all sides, and the big boys
began jumping over him, so that he had hard work getting on his feet as
fast as they knocked him over. Sometimes he would roll down the hill with
a whole clump of them, and they would all continue rolling until some
chance obstacle brought them to their feet once more. After their boisterous
descent they all ran in different directions, each one to seek his own cows.
Rudi ran off by himself, far away from them all, for now he expected even
worse treatment from the three unfortunates, because he had deserted
them. He slipped down the hill to the swamp hole, and crouched down so
that he could not be seen from above or below.
The swamp hole was a hollow where water gathered in spring and fall and
made the ground swampy. Now it was quite dry,—a pleasant spot, where
fine, dark red strawberries ripened in the warm sun that beat against the
side of the hollow. But Rudi trembled as long as he was in the neighborhood
of houses and herd boys, for the latter might discover him at any moment
and renew their persecutions. He sat there trembling at every sound, for he
kept thinking, “Now they are coming after me.” Suddenly he was filled with
a delightful memory of the little nook under the fir trees and of the whistling
bird overhead. He felt irresistibly drawn to it; he must go back to that spot.
He ran with all his might up the mountain, never stopping once until he
had reached the group of trees and had slipped in under them. The only
opening in this retreat was on the outer side, toward the valley, so he felt
safely hidden. All around him was great silence; no sound came up from
below; only the little bird was still whistling its merry tune. The sun was
setting; the high snow peaks began to glimmer and to glow, and over the
whole green alp lay the golden evening light. Rudi looked about him in
silent wonder; an unknown feeling of security and comfort came over him.
Here he was safe; there was no one to be seen or heard in any direction.
He sat there a long time and would have liked never to go away again, for
he had never felt so happy in his life. But he heard heavy steps coming from
154 Rudi
the hut behind him. It was the herdsman; he was coming along carrying
a small bucket; he was probably going to the stream to fetch water. Rudi
tried to be as quiet as a mouse, for he was so used to having everyone scold
and ridicule him that he thought the herdsman would do the same, or at
least would drive him away. He huddled down under the bushes; but the
branches crackled. Franz Martin listened, then came over and looked under
the fir trees.
“What are you doing in there, half buried in the ground?” asked the
herdsman with smiling face.
“Nothing,” answered Rudi in a faint voice that trembled with fear.
“Come out, child! You need not be afraid, if you have done nothing
wrong. Why are you hiding? Did you creep in here with your cheese roll so
that you could eat it in peace?”
“No; I had no cheese roll,” said Rudi, still trembling.
“You didn’t? And why not?” asked the herdsman in a tone of voice that
no one had ever used toward Rudi before, arousing an altogether new
feeling in him,—trust in a human being.
“They pushed me away,” he answered, as he arose from his hiding place.
“There, now,” continued the friendly herdsman; “I can at least see you.
Come a little nearer. And why don’t you defend yourself when they push
you away? They all push each other, but everyone manages to get a turn,
and why not you?”
“They are stronger,” said Rudi, so convincingly that Franz Martin could
offer no further argument in the matter. He now got a good look at the boy,
who stood before the stalwart herdsman like a little stick before a great pine
tree. The strong man looked down pityingly at the meager little figure, that
seemed actually mere skin and bones; out of the pale, pinched face two big
eyes looked up timidly.
“Whose boy are you?” asked the herdsman.
“Nobody’s,” was the answer.
“But you must have a home somewhere. Where do you live?”
“With Poor Grass Joe.”
Franz Martin began to understand. “Ah! So you are that one,” he said, as
if remembering something; for he had often heard of Stupid Rudi, who was
of no use to anybody and was too dull even to herd a cow.
“Come along with me,” he said sympathetically. “If you live with Joe, no
156 Rudi
wonder you look like a little spear of grass yourself. Come! The cheese roll is
all gone, but we’ll find something else.”
Rudi hardly knew what was happening to him. He followed after Franz
Martin because he had been told to, but it seemed as though he were going
to some pleasure, and that was something altogether new to him.
Franz Martin went into the hut, and Rudi followed. A large black pot
hung in the fireplace, and Rudi could instantly smell the savory-smelling
stew simmering within. To Rudi’s amazement, Franz Martin took a bowl,
dipped it into the pot, and handed Rudi the bowl. Then, taking down a
round loaf of bread from an upper shelf, Franz Martin cut a big slice across
the whole loaf. He went to the huge ball of butter, shining like a lump of
gold in the corner, and hacked off a generous piece. This he spread over the
bread and then handed the thickly buttered slice to Rudi. Never in all his
life had the boy had anything like it. He looked at it as though it could not
possibly belong to him.
“Come outside and eat it; I must go for water,” said Franz Martin, while
he watched with twinkling eyes the expression of joy and amazement on the
child’s face. Rudi obeyed. Outside he sat down on the ground, and while the
herdsman went over to Clear Brook he took a big bite into his bread, and
then another and another, and could not understand how there could be
anything in the world so delicious, and how he could have it, and how there
could still be some of it left,—for it was a huge piece. The evening breeze
played softly about his head and swayed the young fir trees to and fro,
where the little bird was still sitting on its topmost branch and singing forth
into the golden evening sky. Rudi’s heart swelled with unknown happiness
and he felt like singing with the little bird.
Franz Martin had meanwhile gone back and forth several times with his
little pail. Each time he had stood awhile by the stream and looked about him.
The mountains no longer glowed with the evening light, but now the moon
rose full and golden from behind the white peaks. The herdsman came back
to the hut and stood beside Rudi, who was still sitting quietly in the same spot.
“You like it here, do you?” he asked with a smile. “You have finished your
supper, I see. What do you say to going home? See how the moon has come
to light your way.”
Rudi had really had no thought of leaving, but now he realized that it
would probably be necessary. He arose, thanked Franz Martin once more,
158 Rudi
and started off. But he got no farther than the little fir trees; something held
him back. He looked around once more, and finding that the herdsman had
gone into the cottage and could not see him, he slipped in quickly under
the shadowy bushes. Franz Martin was the only person in all the world who
had ever been kind or sympathetic toward him. This had so touched the boy
that he could not go away; he felt he must stay near this good man. Hidden
by the branches, Rudi peeped through an opening to see if he might not get
another glimpse of his friend.
After a little while Franz Martin did come out again. He stood before the
door of his hut and with folded arms looked out over the silent mountain
world as it lay before him in the soft moonlight. The face of the herdsman,
too, was illumined by the gentle light. Any one seeing the face at that
moment, with its expression of peaceful happiness, would have been the
better for it. The man folded his hands; he seemed to be saying a silent
evening prayer. Suddenly he said in a loud voice, “God give you good night,”
and went into his hut and closed the door. The goodnight message must
have been for his old friends the mountains, and the people whom he held
in his heart, though he could not see them. Rudi had been looking on with
silent awe. If Franz Martin attracted everyone who ever knew him by his
serene, pleasant ways, what love and admiration must he have aroused in
the heart of little Rudi, whose only friend and benefactor he was!
When all was dark and quiet in the hut, Rudi rose and ran down the
mountain as fast as he could.
It was late, and there was no light to be seen in the cottage; but he did
not mind, for he knew the door was never locked. He went quietly into the
house and crept into his bed, which he shared with Uli. The latter was now
sleeping heavily, after having expressed his satisfaction at Rudi’s absence by
exclaiming, “How lucky that Rudi is getting too stupid even to find his bed!
I have room to sleep in comfort for once.”
Rudi lay down quietly, and until his eyes closed he still saw Franz Martin
before him, standing in the moonlight with folded hands. For the first time
in his life Rudi fell asleep with a happy heart.
Chapter 3
A Ministering Angel
T he following day was Sunday. The community of Hillside belonged to

the Beckenried church in the valley. It was a long walk to church, but
the children were obliged to go to Sunday school regularly, for the pastor
was stern in insisting that the children must be properly brought up. So on
that day the whole troop wended its way as usual down the hill, and soon
they were all sitting as quietly as possible on the long wooden benches
in church. Other groups had assembled; the pastor got them all settled,
and then began. He said that he had told them the last time about the life
hereafter, and as his glance fell on Rudi, he continued: “Now, Rudi, I will ask
you something that you can surely answer, even if we cannot expect much of
you. Where will all good Christians—even the poorest and lowliest of us, if
we have led good lives—finally be so happy as to know no more sorrow?”
“In the hut of the high pasture,” Rudi replied without hesitating.
But he heard snickering all about him and looked around timidly.
Mocking faces met him on every side and the children all seemed bursting
with suppressed laughter. Rudi bent down his head as though he wished to
crawl into the floor. Of the pastor’s previous lesson he had heard nothing,
because he had been engaged the whole hour in dodging sly attacks from the
rear. Now he had answered the question entirely from his own experience.
The pastor looked at him steadily; but when he saw that Rudi had no
thought of laughing, but was sitting there in fear and mortification, he
shook his head doubtfully and said, “There is nothing to be done with him.”
160 Rudi
When the lesson was over the whole crowd came running after Rudi,
laughing noisily and shouting, “Rudi, were you dreaming of the cheese party
in Sunday school?” and “Rudi, why didn’t you tell about cheese rolls?”
The boy ran away like a hunted rabbit, trying to escape from his noisy
tormentors. He ran up the hill, where he knew the others would not pursue
him, for they meant to pass the pleasant summer afternoon down in the
village.
He ran farther and farther up the mountain. For all his trials he had now
a solace: he could fly to the upper pasture and console himself with the sight
of Franz Martin’s friendly face. There he could sit very quietly in his little
retreat and be safe from pursuit. As he sat there today under the fir trees, the
little bird was again singing overhead. The snow peaks glistened in the sun,
and here and there a clear mountain stream made its way between green
slopes of verdure.
Rudi breathed a sigh of contentment as he looked over the peaceful scene.
He forgot all about his recent tormentors and was conscious only of the one
wish—that he might never have to leave this spot again. Now and then he
got a glimpse of Franz Martin, for whom he was continually watching. Then
he would crouch down and make himself as small as possible, for he had the
feeling that if Franz Martin should find him here again he might think he
had come to get another piece of bread and butter, while really it was only
because this man was the first and only person who had ever been friendly
and kind to him, so that he felt happier in his presence than anywhere else
in the world. The herdsman did not discover him, and Rudi sat in his little
nook until the stars came out and Franz Martin stepped forth from his hut
again and said, “God give you good night.”
Then at last Rudi ran home. It was late, as on the evening before, when
he found his bed; but tonight he was hungry, for he had had nothing since
morning. He did not mind it very much, though, he had been so happy on
the mountain.
So a whole week passed. Whenever Rudi thought no one was watching
him he ran up the alp and slipped in his hiding place. There he would
observe the doings of the herdsman from moment to moment, and never
would he leave his hiding place until Franz Martin had said, “God give you
good night.” It seemed to him now as though the evening blessing were
meant for him, too.
A Ministering Angel 161
The days that followed were exceptionally warm. The sun rose each
morning in a sky as cloudless as that in which it had sunk the night before.
The pasturage was especially fine, and Franz Martin got such rich milk from
the cows that he turned out most excellent cheeses. That pleased him, and his
happy whistle could be heard from earliest dawn to evening as he went about
his work. On Saturday of this week he was at work even earlier than usual,
for this was one of the days when he was to carry three or four of the cheeses
down to the lake and have them shipped. Soon he had them packed and
strapped to his back and was trudging in happy mood down the mountain,
mountain staff in hand. It was the hottest day of the whole summer.
The farther down he went the more he was oppressed by the excessive
heat, and many times he said to himself, “Oh, how glad I shall be to get back
to my hut this evening in the cool upper air! Down here it is like an oven.”
He reached the landing place just as the boat came in that was to carry
the cheese. His business was quickly settled, and then he stood a moment
thinking whether he should go right back up the mountain or stop for
something to eat. But he had no appetite; his head was hot and heavy and
he wished only to get back. Then some one touched his arm. It was one of
the ship hands who had just helped load the boat.
“Come, Franz Martin; it is a warm day; we’ll go in the shade and have a
glass of wine,” he said, as he drew the herdsman toward the tavern where
the big trees stood.
Franz Martin was hot and thirsty and was not averse to sitting down a
little while in the shade. He emptied his glass at one draught; but in a few
moments he rose, saying that he felt quite oppressed by this heavy lower air,
and that he was used to cold milk and water and not to wine. He took leave of
his companion and started off with long strides up the mountain. But never
had he found the ascent so difficult. The noonday sun beat upon his head, his
pulse throbbed, and his feet were so heavy that he could scarcely lift them.
But he kept on resolutely. The steeper the alp the longer grew his strides, and
he spurred himself on with the prospect that now there was only an hour,
now a half hour, and at last only a quarter hour of hot climbing before him;
then he would be at home and could lie down to rest on the fresh hay.
Now he had reached the last steep ascent. The sun burned like fire on his
head; suddenly all grew dark before his eyes; he swayed and fell heavily to
the ground—he had lost consciousness.
162 Rudi
When the milker came in the evening he found that Franz Martin had
not yet returned. He set the milk down in the corner and went away; he
never thought of looking about for the dairyman. But there was some one
else there who had been looking for Franz Martin for a long time, and that
was Rudi. The boy had been sitting in his retreat for several hours. He knew
every step the herdsman had to make and how his duties followed one
after another; he was very much surprised to see how long Franz Martin
left the milk standing today, for he had always poured it immediately into
the various vessels. Some of it, for buttering, was poured into the big round
pans and left to stand until all the cream rose to the top in a thick layer; the
rest of it was poured into the cheese kettle. All this Rudi had seen from day
to day through the open house door.
Still the herdsman did not come. The boy began to feel that there was
something wrong. He came out very softly from his hiding place and went
toward the hut. Here all was still and deserted, in the lower room as well
as in the hayloft above. There was no fire crackling under the kettle; not a
sound was to be heard; everything seemed dead. Rudi ran anxiously around
the outside of the hut, up and down, and in all directions. Then, suddenly,
down on the path he spied Franz Martin lying on the ground. He ran toward
the spot. There lay his friend with closed eyes, groaning and languishing in
great distress. He was fiery hot and his lips were dry and hard. Rudi stood
and stared for a moment, pale with fright, at his benefactor. Then he ran
down the mountain as fast as he could run.
Franz Martin had been lying on the ground unconscious for many hours;
a terrible fever had come upon him. He was tortured by awful thirst. Now
and then it seemed to him in his fever that he was coming to water and was
about to bend over and drink. In his efforts to get at the water he would
wake up for a moment, for it had only been delirium. Then he found himself
still lying on the ground, unable to move, and longing in vain for a drop of
water. He would lose consciousness again and dream he was lying down
in the swamp where he had seen the fine strawberries as he passed this
morning. There he saw them hanging still. Oh, how he longed for them!
He put out his hand, but in vain,—he could not reach them. But presently
he had one in his mouth; an angel was kneeling beside him and had given
it to him,—one, and another, and another. Oh, how good the juice tasted
in his parched mouth! Franz Martin licked and smacked his lips over the
164 Rudi
refreshing morsel. He awoke. Was it really true? was he really awake? It

was no dream; there knelt the angel beside him and laid another big, juicy
strawberry in his mouth.
“Oh, you good angel, another one!” said Franz Martin softly; but not
just one—five, six, the angel put into his mouth, and Franz Martin eagerly
devoured them. Suddenly a look of pain shot over his face; he laid his hand
on his forehead and could only murmur, “Water,” before he became quite
unconscious again; he could not even eat the last strawberry.
He dreamed most horrible things: his head grew as big as his very largest
ball of butter, and then grew still larger and so very heavy that he thought
in terror, “I shall not be able to carry it alone; they will have to hold it up
with props,—like an overloaded apple tree.” And then he felt quite plainly
that his head was full of gunpowder; someone had lighted it from behind,
and now it was burning with awful fury and soon would blow everything to
pieces. Then suddenly Clear Brook came running down over his brow, cool
and invigorating, then over his whole face and into his mouth; and Franz
Martin swallowed and swallowed, and awoke to consciousness.
It was quite true,—shower after shower of icy water ran over his face;
then he felt something at his mouth like a little bowl, and he greedily drank
the cool water.
Over him were the twinkling stars. These he could see plainly, and also
that he was still lying out on the open ground. But it could not be Clear
Brook that was flowing over him and giving him drink. He could not make
out what it was, but it felt very good and refreshing, and he murmured
gratefully, “O blessed Father, how I thank you for your kindness and for this
ministering angel!”
At last he felt something on his brow, so cool and comforting that he said,
“Now the fire cannot get through,” and contentedly fell asleep and dreamed
no more.
Chapter 4
As Mother Wishes It
T he sun was rising in splendor from behind the high peaks when
Franz Martin opened his eyes and looked around him confusedly.
He shivered a little—he felt chilly. He wanted to sit up, but his head was
heavy and dull. He put his hand to his brow; it seemed as though there was
something lying on it. And he was not mistaken; sixfold, wet and heavy, his
big kerchief that he had left in the hut lay upon his head. He pushed it away,
and as the cool morning breeze played across his brow he felt so refreshed
and strengthened that he sat up quickly and looked about him. He met a
pair of big, serious eyes fixed steadfastly upon him.
“Are you here, Rudi?” he asked in surprise. “How did you get up so early?
But now that you are here, come closer, so that I can lean on your shoulder;
I am dizzy and cannot get up alone.”
Rudi sprang up from his seat and went close to the herdsman. He braced
his feet on the ground with all his might so that Franz Martin would have
a firm support in him. In the toilsome ascent to the hut the herdsman, still
leaning on the boy’s shoulder, began to recall one thing after another that
had occurred to him; but there were various incidents for which he could
not account. Perhaps Rudi could help him out.
On reaching the hut Franz Martin sat down on one of the three-legged
stools and said: “Rudi, bring the other stool and sit down by me. But first
get down the big jar and we will have a good drink of cold milk together, for
I cannot make a fire yet. There is a little bowl beside it; see—” He stopped
166 Rudi
and looked about in surprise. “But what has become of it? I always set it up
there; I don’t know what has happened to me since yesterday.”
Rudi’s face turned fiery red; he knew well enough who had taken down
the little bowl. He said timidly, “It is down there on the ground,” and ran
and fetched it; then he brought the milk jar, and set them both down before
Franz Martin.
The latter shook his head in perplexity. As long as he had lived he had
never set his bowl on the ground there by the door. He drank his milk
silently and thoughtfully, filled the bowl afresh, and said: “Come, Rudi, you
drink, too. You have done me a good service in coming up so early. Did you
think there might be cheese rolls today, and you would be here first?”
“No; truly I did not,” protested Rudi.
“Well, tell me this,” continued the herdsman, who had been looking now
at the wet cloth that lay on the table, now at the little water pail that stood
waiting at the door as if ready to start out. “Tell me, Rudi, did I have the
cloth on my head when you came up early this morning?”
Rudi turned scarlet, for he thought that if Franz Martin heard all that he
had done perhaps he would not be pleased; but the man was looking him so
earnestly in the eyes that he had to tell all. “I laid it on your head,” he began
bashfully.
“But why, Rudi?” asked the herdsman in surprise.
“Because you were so hot,” answered Rudi.
Franz Martin was more and more astonished. “But I was awake at
sunrise. When did you come up?”
“Yesterday at five, or perhaps four, o’clock,” stammered Rudi timidly. “The
milker did not come until long afterward.”
“What! you were up here all night? What did you do or want here?”
But the herdsman saw that Rudi was quite terrified. The visions of the
night recurred to him, and with fatherly kindness he patted the boy’s
shoulder and said encouragingly, “With me you need not be afraid, Rudi.
Here, drink another glass of milk and then tell me everything that happened
from the time that you got here.”
Cheered thus, Rudi took new courage. He drank the milk in long gulps; it
tasted delicious to the hungry, thirsty boy. Then he began to relate: “I came
up here to sit in the bushes a little while, but only as I did every day, not on
account of the cheese rolls. And then, after the milker had brought the milk
As Mother Wishes It 167
and you did not come for so long, I looked for you, and I found you on the
ground, and you were red and hot and seemed thirsty. So I ran down quickly
to the swamp and got all the big strawberries I could find and brought them
up to you, and you were glad for them. But you pointed to your head and
wanted water on it. I fetched the little bowl out of the hut, and the pail, and
filled them at the brook, and poured the water over your head and gave
you to drink, for you were very thirsty. Whenever the pail was empty I
went to the brook and filled it; but because the water ran off your head so
fast I thought a heavy cloth would keep wet a long time. So I got the cloth
out of the hut and laid it thick and wet on your head and dipped it in the
pail whenever it got dry and hot; and then at last you awoke when it was
morning, and I was very glad. I was afraid you might get very sick.”
Franz Martin had been listening with earnest attention. Now everything
that he had gone through in the night was plain to him,—how he thought an
angel had come to him with strawberries, and how he afterward enjoyed the
water of Clear Brook as the real water of life. Franz Martin sat and gazed at
Rudi in dumb amazement, as though he had never seen a boy before. Such
a boy as this he had certainly never seen. How was it possible, he said to
himself, that this boy, whom everyone, young and old, never called anything
but “Stupid Rudi,” had been clever enough to save his life, which had
certainly been in great danger?—for what a fever had been consuming him
the herdsman knew perfectly well. Had Rudi not quieted this fever with his
cooling showers, who knows what might have developed by morning? And
how could this boy, whom no one thought worthy of a friendly word, be
capable of such self-sacrifice that he would sit up and care for him all night?
Tears came to the eyes of the big, stalwart man as he looked at the timid,
despised little fellow, and thought this all over. Then he took the boy by the
hand and said: “We will be good friends, Rudi; I have much to thank you for
and I shall not forget it. Do me one more favor. I am so weak and shaky that
I must lie down and rest. You go down to my mother and tell her to come
to me. Say that I am not quite well. But you must come back with her, for I
have much to talk over with you today. Don’t forget.”
In his whole life Rudi had never been so happy. He ran down the
mountain, leaping and skipping for joy. Franz Martin himself had told
him to come again, and now he need no longer hide, but might walk right
into the hut, and, better still, Franz Martin had said that he would be good
168 Rudi
friends with him. At each new thought Rudi leaped high into the air,
and before he knew it he had reached the Hillside. Just as he was coming
down from above in jumps toward the neat little cottage with the shining
windows, Frau Vincenze came up from below in her Sunday clothes, prayer
book in hand. The boy ran toward her, but for several moments could say
nothing; he was quite out of breath with running.
“Where do you come from?” said the proper little woman disapprovingly,
as she looked the boy over from head to foot. She thought that Sunday
should be fittingly observed, and Rudi presented anything but a holiday
appearance in his little, old, ragged trousers and shirt. “I think I have seen
you across the stream,” she said; “you must belong to Poor Grass Joe?”
“No, I am only Rudi,” the boy replied very humbly.
Then it occurred to the woman that Joe’s wife had a foolish boy in her
house, who would never be of any use, people said. This was probably the
boy. “But what do you want of me?” she asked in growing astonishment.
Rudi had found his breath again and now delivered his message clearly
and correctly. The mother was very much alarmed. Never before had her
sturdy Franz Martin had any illness, and that he should now send for her,
instead of coming down himself, was to her a very bad indication. Without
saying a word she went into the house, carefully packed everything that she
thought they might need, and in a few moments came out with a big basket
on her arm.
“Come,” she said to Rudi; “we will start right up. Why must you go back?”
“I don’t know,” he answered shyly, and then added hesitatingly, as though
he were afraid it might be something wrong, “Must I not carry the basket?”
“Ah, yes! I understand,” the mother said to herself; “Franz Martin thought
that I should be bringing all sorts of remedies, and the boy was to carry
them for me.”
She gave Rudi the basket. Silently she walked beside him up the
mountain, for her thoughts were troubled. Her son was her pride and joy;
and was he really ill,—perhaps dangerously so? Her alarm increased as she
approached the hut. Her knees trembled so that she could hardly keep up.
She entered the hut. There was no one there. She looked all about, then
up into the hayloft. There lay her son buried in the hay; she could hardly see
him. With beating heart she climbed the ladder. Rudi remained respectfully
standing outside the door after he had shoved the basket inside. As the
mother bent anxiously over her son he opened his blue eyes, cheerily stretched
forth his hand, and sitting up, said: “God bless you, mother! I am glad you
have come. I have been sleeping like a bear ever since Rudi went away.”
The mother stared at her son, half pleased, half terrified. She did not
know what to think.
“Franz Martin,” she said earnestly, “what is wrong with you? Are you
talking in delirium, or do you know that you sent for me?”
“Yes, yes, mother,” laughed Franz Martin; “my mind is clear now and the
fever is past. But my limbs were trembling; I could not come down to you,
and I wanted so much to talk to you. My knees are shaky even now, and I
could not get very far.”
“But what is it? What was it? Tell me about it,” urged the mother, sitting
down on the hay beside her son.
“I will explain it all to you, Mother, just as it happened,” he said quietly, as
he leaned back against the hay; “but first look at that poor, gaunt, little boy
down there, who hasn’t a decent garment to his name, whom no one thinks
worthy of a kind word, and who is known only as ‘Stupid Rudi.’”
The mother looked down at Rudi, who was watching the herdsman with
much concern to see whether he was going to faint again.
“Well, and then?” asked the mother intently.
“He saved my life, mother. If it had not been for this little boy, I should
still be lying out on the ground in deadly fever, or it might even be all ended
with me by this time.”
Then Franz Martin told her everything that had happened since the
afternoon before—how Rudi had stayed with him all night and had cared
for him and relieved him from the consuming thirst and fever, and had
cooled the fire in his head. The cleverest person in the world could not have
done it better, and perhaps no other person would have done it for him.
Again and again the mother had to wipe away her tears. She thought to
herself, what if her Franz Martin had lain out there all alone and forsaken in
his agony of thirst, and had been quite consumed by the fever, and no one
had known anything about him!
Then such joy and gratitude rose in her heart that she cried aloud: “God
be thanked! God be thanked!”
And for little Rudi she suddenly felt such a heart full of love that she
exclaimed eagerly: “Franz Martin, Rudi shall not go back to Joe’s wife! The
170 Rudi
boy has probably been only half fed, and she has let him run about in dirt
and rags. This very day he shall go with me, and tomorrow I will make him
some decent clothes. He shall not fare poorly with us; we will not forget
what he has done for you.”
“That is exactly what I wanted, mother, but of course I had to find
out what you would say to it; now you have the same plan as I, and have
thought it all out in the best possible way. There is nothing in the world like
a mother, after all!”
And Franz Martin looked at her so lovingly and happily that it warmed
her to her heart’s core, and she thought to herself, “Nor is there anything in
the world like a manly, virtuous son.” Then she said: “Now you must eat and
get strong again. I have brought fresh eggs and wheat bread, and I will go
and start the fire. Take your time about coming down”; which Franz Martin
found that he was really obliged to do, for he was still weak and trembling.
But he finally succeeded. When he got down he beckoned to Rudi, who had
been looking in through the door all this time, to come and sit at the table
beside him.
“Rudi,” he said, smiling into the boy’s eyes, “do you want to grow up to be
a dairyman?”
A look of joy came over Rudi’s face, but the next moment it disappeared,
for in his ears rang the discouraging words that he had heard so many,
many times. “He will never amount to anything,” “He can’t do anything,”
“He will never be of any use,”—and he answered despondently, “I can never
be anything.”
“Rudi, you shall be a dairyman,” said Franz Martin decisively. “You have
done very well in your first undertaking. Now you shall stay with me and
carry milk and water and help me in everything, and I will show you how to
make butter and cheese, and as soon as you are old enough you shall stand
beside me at the kettle and be my helpmate.”
“Here, in your hut?” asked Rudi, to whom the prospect of such happiness
was almost incomprehensible.
“Right here in my hut,” declared Franz Martin.
In Rudi’s face appeared an expression of such radiant joy that the
herdsman could not take his eyes from him. The boy seemed transformed.
The mother, too, noticed it, as she set on the table before them the big plate
of egg omelet that she had just prepared. She patted the boy’s head and said,
172 Rudi
“Yes, little Rudi, today we will be happy together, and tomorrow, too; and
every day we will thank the good God that he brought you to Franz Martin
at just the right time, although no one may know why it was that you came
up here.”
The happy feast began. Never in his life had Rudi seen so many good
things together on a table; for besides the omelet the mother had set out
fresh wheat bread and a big, golden ball of butter and a piece of snow-white
cheese, while in the middle of the table stood a bowl of creamy milk. Of
each dish there was a generous portion for Rudi, and when he had finished
one helping there was another ready for him.
When the mother was preparing to go home in the evening she said,
“Franz Martin, I have changed my mind. Rudi shall stay up here with you
until you are strong. He can fetch things and be useful to you. I will arrange
matters with Joe’s wife.”
Franz Martin was satisfied, and Rudi’s happiness knew no bounds. Now
he was really at home with Franz Martin. That night, when the evening
blessing was said, he was not crouching under the fir trees, but stood beside
his friend under the starry sky, as the latter folded his hands and said,
“Come, Rudi, we will say our evening prayer.”
Reverently he, too, folded his hands, and when at the close the herdsman
said, “God give you good night,” Rudi’s heart was so full of joy that he
wanted to call out the blessing to everybody in the world. “God give you
good night!”
That very evening the mother went over to Joe’s wife. The latter was
standing before her house with the three boys and Lisi, and was trying to
make out what they were telling her. They were all talking at once, and all
she could understand was that it was something about Franz Martin, whose
illness the milker had told them about. When Frau Vincenze explained why
she had come and said that she and her son had agreed to take Rudi as their
own child, the woman made a great ado, assuring her that they would do far
better to take one of her three boys, who would be much more help to Franz
Martin, a hundred times more, than Stupid Rudi.
And the boys all shouted at the top of their voices, “Me! Me! Me!” for they
well knew how kind Franz Martin was, and what good things there were
to eat in the hut on the mountain. But all their begging and clamoring was
in vain. Frau Vincenze said very quietly that she was determined to have
Rudi, that she knew him, and that he had more heart and sense than many
another who called him “Stupid Rudi.” Moreover, she wanted to warn the
boys to be careful henceforth about their jeering and gibing, or they would
have to settle with Franz Martin and his strong arm. When she left them
they all stared after her, dumb and stupefied, and each one of the children
thought in his heart, “I wish I were Rudi! He’ll have fine times—like a king,
up in Franz Martin’s hut.”
From that day on, whenever the boys saw Rudi anywhere, they ran after
him and each one wanted to be his best friend, for they all remembered the
last cheese party when Rudi was so badly treated. But now he would surely
have all the cheese rolls to himself, and so it would be a good thing to be his
friend. And later they did find it a good thing, for Rudi took great delight
in dividing the rich harvest of cheese rolls among them all. He never ceased
wondering at the way all the children had changed toward him, and at their
not jeering or laughing at him any more.
When he got over being afraid of people, it turned out, to the surprise
of all, that he was a very apt, nimble little fellow, of whom everyone said,
“Either he is not the same boy, or else we were all wrong in calling him
‘Stupid Rudi.’”
Short Stories
by
Leo Tolstoy
Original illustrations by Blake E. Davis
© 2017 Jenny Phillips (stories and illustrations)

A Just Judge
A n Algerian king named Bauakas wanted to find out whether or not it

was true, as he had been told, that in one of his cities lived a just judge
who could instantly discern the truth, and from whom no rogue was ever
able to conceal himself. Bauakas exchanged clothes with a merchant and
went on horseback to the city where the judge lived.
At the entrance to the city a cripple approached the king and begged alms
of him. Bauakas gave him money and was about to continue on his way, but
the cripple clung to his clothing.
“What do you wish?” asked the king. “Haven’t I given you money?”
“You gave me alms,” said the cripple, “now grant me one favor. Let me
ride with you as far as the city square, otherwise the horses and camels may
trample me.”
Bauakas sat the cripple behind him on the horse and took him as far as the
city square. There he halted his horse, but the cripple refused to dismount.
“We have arrived at the square, why don’t you get off?” asked Bauakas.
“Why should I?” the beggar replied. “This horse belongs to me. If you are
unwilling to return it, we shall have to go to court.”
Hearing their quarrel, people gathered around them shouting:
“Go to the judge! He will decide between you!”
Bauakas and the cripple went to the judge. There were others in court,
and the judge called upon each one in turn. Before he came to Bauakas and
the cripple he heard a scholar and a peasant. They had come to court over a
woman: the peasant said she was his wife, and the scholar said she was his.
The judge heard them both, remained silent for a moment, and then said:
“Leave the woman here with me, and come back tomorrow.”
When they had gone, a butcher and an oil merchant came before the
judge. The butcher was covered with blood, and the oil merchant with oil. In
his hand the butcher held some money, and the oil merchant held onto the
butcher’s hand.
178 Short Stories by Leo Tolstoy
“I was buying oil from this man,” the butcher said, “and when I took out my
purse to pay him, he seized me by the hand and tried to take all my money
away from me. That is why we have come to you-I holding onto my purse,
and he holding onto my hand. But the money is mine, and he is a thief.”
Then the oil merchant spoke. “That is not true,” he said. “The butcher came
to me to buy oil, and after I had poured him a full jug, he asked me to change
a gold piece for him. When I took out my money and placed it on a bench,
he seized it and tried to run off. I caught him by the hand, as you see, and
brought him here to you.”
The judge remained silent for a moment, then said: “Leave the money here
with me, and come back tomorrow.”
When his turn came, Bauakas told what had happened. The judge listened
to him, and then asked the beggar to speak.
A Just Judge 179
“All that he said is untrue,” said the beggar. “He was sitting on the ground,
and as I rode through the city he asked me to let him ride with me. I sat him
on my horse and took him where he wanted to go. But when we got there he
refused to get off and said that the horse was his, which is not true.”
The judge thought for a moment, then said, “Leave the horse here with me,
and come back tomorrow.”
The following day many people gathered in court to hear the judge’s
decisions.
First came the scholar and the peasant.
“Take your wife,” the judge said to the scholar, “and the peasant shall be
given fifty strokes of the lash.”
The scholar took his wife, and the peasant was given his punishment. Then
the judge called the butcher.
“The money is yours,” he said to him. And pointing to the oil merchant he
said: “Give him fifty strokes of the lash.”
He next called Bauakas and the cripple.
“Would you be able to recognize your horse among twenty others?” he
asked Bauakas.
“I would,” he replied.
“And you?” he asked the cripple.
“I would,” said the cripple.
“Come with me,” the judge said to Bauakas.
They went to the stable. Bauakas instantly pointed out his horse among the
twenty others. Then the judge called the cripple to the stable and told him to
point out the horse. The cripple recognized the horse and pointed to it. The
judge then returned to his seat.
“Take the horse, it is yours,” he said to Bauakas. “Give the beggar fifty
strokes of the lash.”
When the judge left the court and went home, Bauakas followed him.
“What do you want?” asked the judge. “Are you not satisfied with my
decision?”
“I am satisfied,” said Bauakas. “But I should like to learn how you knew
that the woman was the wife of the scholar, that the money belonged to the
butcher, and that the horse was mine and not the beggar’s.”
“This is how I knew about the woman: in the morning I sent for her and
said: ‘Please fill my inkwell.’ She took the inkwell, washed it quickly and deftly,
and filled it with ink; therefore it was work she was accustomed to. If she had
been the wife of the peasant she would not have known how to do it. This
showed me that the scholar was telling the truth.
“And this is how I knew about the money: I put it into a cup full of water,
and in the morning I looked to see if any oil had risen to the surface. If the
money had belonged to the oil merchant it would have been soiled by his oily
hands. There was no oil on the water; therefore, the butcher was telling the truth.
“It was more difficult to find out about the horse. The cripple recognized
it among twenty others, even as you did. However, I did not take you both
to the stable to see which of you knew the horse, but to see which of you the
horse knew. When you approached it, it turned its head and stretched its neck
toward you; but when the cripple touched it, it laid back its ears and lifted one
hoof. Therefore I knew that you were the horse’s real master.”
Then Bauakas said to the judge: “I am not a merchant, but King Bauakas, I
came here in order to see if what is said of you is true. I see now that you are a
wise judge. Ask whatever you wish of me, and you shall have it as reward.”
“I need no reward,” replied the judge. “I am content that my king has
praised me.”
Three Questions
I t once occurred to a certain King, that if he always knew the right time
to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to,
and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the most
important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed
throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to anyone who
would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were
the most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most
important thing to do.
Learned men came to the King, but they all answered his questions
differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time for
every action, one must draw up in advance, a table of days, months and
years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could
everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it was impossible
to decide beforehand the right time for every action; but that, not letting
oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all that
was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others, again, said that
however attentive the King might be to what was going on, it was impossible
for one man to decide correctly the right time for every action, but that he
should have a Council of wise men, who would help him to fix the proper
time for everything.
But then again others said there were some things which could not wait
to be laid before a Council, but about which one had at once to decide
whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must
know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know
that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action, one
must consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said, the
people the King most needed were his councilors; others, the priests; others,
the doctors; while some said the warriors were the most necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation:
some replied that the most important thing in the world was science. Others
said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was religious worship.
All the answers being different, the King agreed with none of them, and
gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to his
questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he rarely left, and he received none but
common folk. So the King put on simple clothes, and before reaching the
hermit’s cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his bodyguard behind,
went on alone.
When the King approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front
of his hut. Seeing the King, he greeted him and went on digging. The hermit
was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the ground and
turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.
The King asked, “I have come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer
three questions: How can I learn to do the right thing at the right time?
Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I, therefore, pay more
attention than to the rest? And, what affairs are the most important, and
need my first attention?”
The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing. He just spat on
his hand and recommenced digging.
“You are tired,” said the King, “let me take the spade and work awhile for
you.”
“Thanks!” said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the King, he sat down
on the ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and repeated his questions.
The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for the
spade, and said: “Now rest awhile and let me work a bit.”
But the King did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour
passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the King
at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said: “I came to you, wise man,
for an answer to my questions. If you can give me none, tell me so, and I will
return home.”
“Here comes someone running,” said the hermit, “let us see who it is.”
Three Questions 183
The King turned round, and saw a bearded man come running out of
the wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood
was flowing from under them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting
on the ground moaning feebly. The King and the hermit unfastened the
man’s clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The King washed
it as best he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel
the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and the King again
and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and
rebandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased flowing, the man
revived and asked for something to drink. The King brought fresh water
and gave it to him.
Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So the King,
with the hermit’s help, carried the wounded man into the hut and laid
him on the bed. Lying on the bed the man closed his eyes and was
quiet; but the King was so tired with his walk and with the work he had
done, that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep—so
soundly that he slept all through the short summer night. When he awoke
in the morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or who
was the strange bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him
with shining eyes.
“Forgive me!” said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the
King was awake and was looking at him.
“I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for,” said the King.
“You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who
swore to revenge himself on you, because you executed his brother and
seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I
resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did not
return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and I came upon your
bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from
them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I
wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you wish
Three Questions 185
it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the
same. Forgive me!”
The King was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and
to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said he
would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised
to restore his property.
Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King went out into the
porch and looked around for the hermit. Before going away he wished once
more to beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit was outside,
on his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.
The King approached him, and said: “For the last time, I pray you to
answer my questions, wise man.”
“You have already been answered!” said the hermit, still crouching on his
thin legs, and looking up at the King, who stood before him.
“How answered? What do you mean?” asked the King.
“Do you not see,” replied the hermit. “If you had not pitied my weakness
yesterday, and had not dug those beds for me, but had gone your way, that
man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not having
stayed with me. So the most important time was when you were digging
the beds; and I was the most important man; and to do me good was your
most important business. Afterwards when that man ran to us, the most
important time was when you were attending to him, for if you had not
bound up his wounds he would have died without having made peace with
you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for him was your
most important business. Remember then: there is only one time that is
important—now! It is the most important time because it is the only time
when we have any power. The most necessary man is he with whom you
are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with anyone else:
and the most important affair is, to do him good, because for that purpose
alone was man sent into this life!”
How Much Land Does
a Man Need?
PART I
A n elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country. The elder
was married to a tradesman in town, the younger to a peasant in the
village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking, the elder began to boast of
the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably they lived there, how
well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore, what good things
they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre, promenades, and
entertainments.
The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparaged the life of a
tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant.
“I would not change my way of life for yours,” said she. “We may live
How Much Land Does a Man Need? 187
roughly, but at least we are free from anxiety. You live in better style than
we do but though you often earn more than you need, you are very likely to
lose all you have. You know the proverb, “Loss and gain are brothers twain.”
It often happens that people who are wealthy one day are begging their
bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant’s life is not a fat one, it
is a long one. We shall never grow rich, but we shall always have enough to
eat.”
The elder sister said sneeringly: “Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the
pigs and the calves! What do you know of elegance or manners! However
much your goodman may slave, you will die as you are living—on a dung
heap—and your children the same.”
“Well, what of that?” replied the younger. “Of course our work is rough
and coarse. But, on the other hand, it is sure; and we need not bow to
anyone. But you, in your towns, are surrounded by temptations; today all
may be right, but tomorrow the Evil One may tempt your husband with
cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don’t such things happen
often enough?”
Pahóm, the master of the house, was lying on the top of the oven, and he
listened to the women’s chatter.
“It is perfectly true,” thought he. “Busy as we are from childhood tilling
mother earth, we peasants have no time to let any nonsense settle in our
heads. Our only trouble is that we haven’t land enough. If I had plenty of
land, I shouldn’t fear the Devil himself!”
The women finished their tea, chatted a while about dress, and then
cleared away the tea things and lay down to sleep.
But the Devil had been sitting behind the oven, and had heard all that
was said. He was pleased that the peasant’s wife had led her husband into
boasting, and that he had said that if he had plenty of land he would not fear
the Devil himself.
“All right,” thought the Devil. “We will have a tussle. I’ll give you land
enough; and by means of that land I will get you into my power.”
PART II
Close to the village there lived a lady, a small landowner, who had an
estate of about three hundred acres. She had always lived on good terms
with the peasants, until she engaged as her steward an old soldier, who took
to burdening the people with fines. However careful Pahóm tried to be, it
happened again and again that now a horse of his got among the lady’s oats,
now a cow strayed into her garden, now his calves found their way into her
meadows —and he always had to pay a fine.
Pahóm paid up, but grumbled, and, going home in a temper, was rough
with his family. All through that summer, Pahóm had much trouble because
of this steward; and he was even glad when winter came and the cattle had
to be stabled. Though he grudged the fodder when they could no longer
graze on the pasture-land, at least he was free from anxiety about them.
In the winter the news got about that the lady was going to sell her land,
and that the keeper of the inn on the high road was bargaining for it. When
the peasants heard this they were very much alarmed.
“Well,” thought they, “if the innkeeper gets the land, he will worry us with
fines worse than the lady’s steward. We all depend on that estate.”
So the peasants went on behalf of their Commune and asked the lady not
to sell the land to the innkeeper offering her a better price for it themselves.
The lady agreed to let them have it. Then the peasants tried to arrange for
the Commune to buy the whole estate so that it might be held by them all
in common. They met twice to discuss it, but could not settle the matter;
the Evil One sowed discord among them, and they could not agree. So they
decided to buy the land individually, each according to his means; and the
lady agreed to this plan as she had to the other.
Presently Pahóm heard that a neighbor of his was buying fifty acres, and
that the lady had consented to accept one half in cash and to wait a year for
the other half. Pahóm felt envious
“Look at that,” thought he, “the land is all being sold, and I shall get none
of it.” So he spoke to his wife.
“Other people are buying,” said he, “and we must also buy twenty acres or
so. Life is becoming impossible. That steward is simply crushing us with his
fines.”
So they put their heads together and considered how they could manage
to buy it. They had one hundred rubles laid by. They sold a colt, and one
half of their bees; hired out one of their sons as a laborer, and took his
wages in advance; borrowed the rest from a brother-in-law, and so scraped
together half the purchase money.
Having done this, Pahóm chose out a farm of forty acres, some of it
wooded, and went to the lady to bargain for it. They came to an agreement,
and he shook hands with her upon it, and paid her a deposit in advance.
Then they went to town and signed the deeds; he paying half the price
down, and undertaking to pay the remainder within two years.
So now Pahóm had land of his own. He borrowed seed, and sowed it on
the land he had bought. The harvest was a good one, and within a year he
had managed to pay off his debts both to the lady and to his brother-in-law.
So he became a landowner, ploughing and sowing his own land, making
hay on his own land, cutting his own trees, and feeding his cattle on his own
pasture. When he went out to plow his fields, or to look at his growing corn,
or at his grass meadows, his heart would fill with joy. The grass that grew
and the flowers that bloomed there, seemed to him unlike any that grew
elsewhere. Formerly, when he had passed by that land it had appeared the
same as any other land, but now it seemed quite different.
PART III
So Pahóm was well contented, and everything would have been right if
the neighboring peasants would only not have trespassed on his corn fields
and meadows. He appealed to them most civilly, but they still went on: now
the Communal herdsmen would let the village cows stray into his meadows;
then horses from the night pasture would get among his corn. Pahóm turned
them out again and again, and forgave their owners, and for a long time he
forbore from prosecuting anyone. But at last he lost patience and complained
to the District Court. He knew it was the peasants’ want of land, and no evil
intent on their part, that caused the trouble; but he thought: “I cannot go on
overlooking it, or they will destroy all I have. They must be taught a lesson.”
So he had them up, gave them one lesson, and then another, and two or
three of the peasants were fined. After a time Pahóm’s neighbors began to
bear him a grudge for this, and would now and then let their cattle on to his
land on purpose. One peasant even got into Pahóm’s wood at night and cut
down five young lime trees for their bark. Pahóm passing through the wood
one day noticed something white. He came nearer, and saw the stripped
trunks lying on the ground, and close by stood the stumps, where the trees
had been. Pahóm was furious.
“If he had only cut one here and there it would have been bad enough,”
thought Pahóm, “but the rascal has actually cut down a whole clump. If I
could only find out who did this, I would pay him out.”
He racked his brains as to who it could be. Finally he decided: “It must be
Simon—no one else could have done it.” So he went to Simon’s homestead
to have a look round, but he found nothing, and only had an angry scene.
However, he now felt more certain than ever that Simon had done it, and he
lodged a complaint. Simon was summoned. The case was tried, and re-tried,
and at the end of it all Simon was acquitted, there being no evidence against
him. Pahóm felt still more aggrieved, and let his anger loose upon the Elder
and the Judges.
“You let thieves grease your palms,” said he. “If you were honest folk
yourselves, you would not let a thief go free.”
So Pahóm quarreled with the Judges and with his neighbors. Threats to
burn his building began to be uttered. So though Pahóm had more land, his
place in the Commune was much worse than before.
About this time a rumor got about that many people were moving to new
parts.
“There’s no need for me to leave my land,” thought Pahóm. “But some
of the others might leave our village and then there would be more room
for us. I would take over their land myself, and make my estate a bit
bigger. I could then live more at ease. As it is, I am still too cramped to be
comfortable.”
One day Pahóm was sitting at home, when a peasant, passing through the
village, happened to call in. He was allowed to stay the night, and supper
was given him. Pahóm had a talk with this peasant and asked him where
he came from. The stranger answered that he came from beyond the Volga,
where he had been working. One word led to another, and the man went
on to say that many people were settling in those parts. He told how some
people from his village had settled there. They had joined the Commune,
and had had twenty-five acres per man granted them. The land was so good,
he said, that the rye sown on it grew as high as a horse, and so thick that five
cuts of a sickle made a sheaf. One peasant, he said, had brought nothing with
him but his bare hands, and now he had six horses and two cows of his own.
Pahóm’s heart kindled with desire. He thought:
“Why should I suffer in this narrow hole, if one can live so well
elsewhere? I will sell my land and my homestead here, and with the money
I will start afresh over there and get everything new. In this crowded place
one is always having trouble. But I must first go and find out all about it
myself.”
Towards summer he got ready and started. He went down the Volga on a
steamer to Samára, then walked another three hundred miles on foot, and
at last reached the place. It was just as the stranger had said. The peasants
had plenty of land: every man had twenty-five acres of Communal land
given him for his use, and anyone who had money could buy, besides, at two
shillings an acre as much good freehold land as he wanted.
Having found out all he wished to know, Pahóm returned home as
autumn came on, and began selling off his belongings. He sold his land at a
profit, sold his homestead and all his cattle, and withdrew from membership
of the Commune. He only waited till the spring, and then started with his
family for the new settlement.
PART IV
As soon as Pahóm and his family arrived at their new abode, he applied
for admission into the Commune of a large village. He stood before the
Elders, and obtained the necessary documents. Five shares of Communal
land were given him for his own and his sons’ use: that is to say—125 acres
(not all together but in different fields) besides the use of the Communal
pasture. Pahóm put up the buildings he needed, and bought cattle. Of the
Communal land alone he had three times as much as at his former home,
and the land was good corn land. He was ten times better off than he had
been. He had plenty of arable land and pasturage, and could keep as many
head of cattle as he liked.
At first, in the bustle of building and settling down, Pahóm was pleased
with it all, but when he got used to it he began to think that even here he
had not enough land. The first year, he sowed wheat on his share of the
Communal land, and had a good crop. He wanted to go on sowing wheat,
but had not enough Communal land for the purpose, and what he had
already used was not available; for in those parts wheat is only sown on
virgin soil or on fallow land. It is sown for one or two years, and then the
land lies fallow till it is again overgrown with prairie grass. There were many
who wanted such land, and there was not enough for all; so that people
quarreled about it. Those who were better off, wanted it for growing wheat,
and those who were poor, wanted it to let to dealers, so that they might raise
money to pay their taxes. Pahóm wanted to sow more wheat; so he rented
land from a dealer for a year. He sowed much wheat and had a fine crop, but
the land was too far from the village; the wheat had to be carted more than
ten miles. After a time Pahóm noticed that some peasant-dealers were living
on separate farms, and were growing wealthy; and he thought:
“If I were to buy some freehold land, and have a homestead on it, it would
be a different thing altogether. Then it would all be nice and compact.”
The question of buying freehold land recurred to him again and again.
He went on in the same way for three years: renting land and sowing
wheat. The seasons turned out well and the crops were good, so that he
began to lay money by. He might have gone on living contentedly, but he
grew tired of having to rent other people’s land every year, and having
to scramble for it. Wherever there was good land to be had, the peasants
would rush for it and it was taken up at once, so that unless you were sharp
about it you got none. It happened in the third year that he and a dealer
together rented a piece of pasture land from some peasants; and they had
already plowed it up, when there was some dispute, and the peasants went
to law about it, and things fell out so that the labor was all lost.
“If it were my own land,,” thought Pahóm, “I should be independent, and
there would not be all this unpleasantness.”
So Pahóm began looking out for land which he could buy; and he came
across a peasant who had bought thirteen hundred acres, but having got
into difficulties was willing to sell again cheap. Pahóm bargained and
haggled with him, and at last they settled the price at 1,500 rubles, part in
cash and part to be paid later. They had all but clinched the matter, when
a passing dealer happened to stop at Pahóm’s one day to get a feed for his
horses. He drank tea with Pahóm, and they had a talk. The dealer said that
he was just returning from the land of the Bashkírs, far away, where he
had bought thirteen thousand acres of land, all for 1,000 rubles. Pahóm
questioned him further, and the tradesman said: “All one need do is to make
friends with the chiefs. I gave away about one hundred rubles, worth of
dressing-gowns and carpets, besides a case of tea, and I gave wine to those
who would drink it; and I got the land for less than twopence an acre. And
he showed Pahóm the title-deeds, saying:
“The land lies near a river, and the whole prairie is virgin soil.”
Pahóm plied him with questions, and the tradesman said: “There is more
land there than you could cover if you walked a year, and it all belongs to
the Bashkírs. They are as simple as sheep, and land can be got almost for
nothing.”
“There now,” thought Pahóm, “with my one thousand rubles, why should
I get only thirteen hundred acres, and saddle myself with a debt besides. If I
take it out there, I can get more than ten times as much for the money.”
PART V
Pahóm inquired how to get to the place, and as soon as the tradesman
had left him, he prepared to go there himself. He left his wife to look after
the homestead, and started on his journey taking his man with him. They
stopped at a town on their way, and bought a case of tea, some wine, and
other presents, as the tradesman had advised. On and on they went until
they had gone more than three hundred miles, and on the seventh day
they came to a place where the Bashkírs had pitched their tents. It was all
just as the tradesman had said. The people lived on the steppes, by a river,
in felt-covered tents. They neither tilled the ground, nor ate bread. Their
cattle and horses grazed in herds on the steppe. The colts were tethered
behind the tents, and the mares were driven to them twice a day. The
mares were milked, and from the milk kumiss was made. It was the women
who prepared kumiss, and they also made cheese. As far as the men were
concerned, drinking kumiss and tea, eating mutton, and playing on their
pipes, was all they cared about. They were all stout and merry, and all
the summer long they never thought of doing any work. They were quite
ignorant, and knew no Russian, but were good-natured enough.
As soon as they saw Pahóm, they came out of their tents and gathered
round their visitor. An interpreter was found, and Pahóm told them he had
come about some land. The Bashkírs seemed very glad they took Pahóm
and led him into one of the best tents, where they made him sit on some
down cushions placed on a carpet, while they sat round him. They gave him
tea and kumiss, and had a sheep killed, and gave him mutton to eat. Pahóm
took presents out of his cart and distributed them among the Bashkírs, and
divided amongst them the tea. The Bashkírs were delighted. They talked a
great deal among themselves, and then told the interpreter to translate.
“They wish to tell you,” said the interpreter, “that they like you, and that
it is our custom to do all we can to please a guest and to repay him for his
gifts. You have given us presents, now tell us which of the things we possess
please you best, that we may present them to you.”
“What pleases me best here,” answered Pahóm “is your land. Our land
is crowded, and the soil is exhausted; but you have plenty of land and it is
good land. I never saw the like of it.”
The interpreter translated. The Bashkírs talked among themselves for a
while. Pahóm could not understand what they were saying, but saw that
they were much amused, and that they shouted and laughed. Then they
were silent and looked at Pahóm while the interpreter said:
“They wish me to tell you that in return for your presents they will gladly
give you as much land as you want. You have only to point it out with your
hand and it is yours.”
The Bashkírs talked again for a while and began to dispute. Pahóm asked
what they were disputing about, and the interpreter told him that some of
them thought they ought to ask their Chief about the land and not act in his
absence, while others thought there was no need to wait for his return.
PART VI
While the Bashkírs were disputing, a man in a large fox-fur cap appeared
on the scene. They all became silent and rose to their feet. The interpreter
said, “This is our Chief himself.”
Pahóm immediately fetched the best dressing-gown and five pounds of
tea, and offered these to the Chief. The Chief accepted them, and seated
himself in the place of honor. The Bashkírs at once began telling him
something. The Chief listened for a while, then made a sign with his head
for them to be silent, and addressing himself to Pahóm, said in Russian:
“Well, let it be so. Choose whatever piece of land you like; we have plenty
of it.”
“How can I take as much as I like?” thought Pahóm. “I must get a deed to
make it secure, or else they may say, “It is yours,” and afterwards may take it
away again.”
“Thank you for your kind words,” he said aloud. “You have much land, and
I only want a little. But I should like to be sure which bit is mine. Could it not
be measured and made over to me? Life and death are in God’s hands. You
good people give it to me, but your children might wish to take it away again.”
“You are quite right,” said the Chief. “We will make it over to you.”
“I heard that a dealer had been here,” continued Pahóm, “and that you
gave him a little land, too, and signed title-deeds to that effect. I should like
to have it done in the same way.”
The Chief understood.
“Yes,” replied he, “that can be done quite easily. We have a scribe, and we
will go to town with you and have the deed properly sealed.”
“And what will be the price?” asked Pahóm.
“Our price is always the same: one thousand rubles a day.”
Pahóm did not understand.
“A day? What measure is that? How many acres would that be?”
“We do not know how to reckon it out,” said the Chief. “We sell it by the
day. As much as you can go round on your feet in a day is yours, and the
price is one thousand rubles a day.”
Pahóm was surprised. “But in a day you can get round a large tract of
land,” he said.
The Chief laughed. “It will all be yours!” said he. “But there is one
condition: If you don’t return on the same day to the spot whence you
started, your money is lost.”
“But how am I to mark the way that I have gone?”
“Why, we shall go to any spot you like, and stay there. You must start from
that spot and make your round, taking a spade with you. Wherever you
think necessary, make a mark. At every turning, dig a hole and pile up the
turf; then afterwards we will go round with a plow from hole to hole. You
may make as large a circuit as you please, but before the sun sets you must
return to the place you started from. All the land you cover will be yours.”
Pahóm was delighted. It was decided to start early next morning. They talked
a while, and after drinking some more kumiss and eating some more mutton,
they had tea again, and then the night came on. They gave Pahóm a feather-bed
to sleep on, and the Bashkírs dispersed for the night, promising to assemble the
next morning at daybreak and ride out before sunrise to the appointed spot.
PART VII
Pahóm lay on the feather-bed, but could not sleep. He kept thinking
about the land.
“What a large tract I will mark off!” thought he. “I can easily do thirty-five
miles in a day. The days are long now, and within a circuit of thirty-five
miles what a lot of land there will be! I will sell the poorer land, or let it to
peasants, but I’ll pick out the best and farm it. I will buy two ox teams, and
hire two more laborers. About a hundred and fifty acres shall be plow land,
and I will pasture cattle on the rest.”
Pahóm lay awake all night, and dozed off only just before dawn. Hardly
were his eyes closed when he had a dream. He thought he was lying in that
same tent, and heard somebody chuckling outside. He wondered who it
could be, and rose and went out and he saw the Bashkír Chief sitting in
front of the tent holding his sides and rolling about with laughter. Going
nearer to the Chief, Pahóm asked: “What are you laughing at?” But he saw
that it was no longer the Chief, but the dealer who had recently stopped at
his house and had told him about the land. Just as Pahóm was going to ask,
“Have you been here long?’ he saw that it was not the dealer, but the peasant
who had come up from the Volga, long ago, to Pahóm’s old home. Then
he saw that it was not the peasant either, but the Devil himself with hoofs
and horns sitting there and chuckling, and before him lay a man barefoot,
prostrate on the ground, with only trousers and a shirt on. And Pahóm
dreamt that he looked more attentively to see what sort of a man it was that
was lying there, and he saw that the man was dead and that it was himself!
He awoke horror struck.
“What things one does dream,” thought he.
Looking round he saw through the open door that the dawn was
breaking.
“It’s time to wake them up,” thought he. “We ought to be starting.”
He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping in his cart), bade him
harness; and went to call the Bashkírs.
“It’s time to go to the steppe to measure the land,” he said.
The Bashkírs rose and assembled, and the Chief came too. Then they
began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahóm some tea, but he would
not wait.
“If we are to go, let us go. It is high time,” said he.
PART VIII
The Bashkírs got ready and they all started: some mounted on horses,
and some in carts. Pahóm drove in his own small cart with his servant, and
took a spade with him. When they reached the steppe, the morning red
was beginning to kindle. They ascended a hillock (called by the Bashkírs a

shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their horses, gathered in one
spot. The Chief came up to Pahóm and stretching out his arm towards the
plain:
“See,” said he, “all this, as far as your eye can reach, is ours. You may have
any part of it you like.”
Pahóm’s eyes glistened: it was all virgin soil, as flat as the palm of your
hand, as black as the seed of a poppy, and in the hollows different kinds of
grasses grew breast high.
The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it on the ground and said:
“This will be the mark. Start from here, and return here again. All the
land you go round shall be yours.”
Pahóm took out his money and put it on the cap. Then he took off his
outer coat, remaining in his sleeveless under-coat. He unfastened his girdle
and tied it tight below his stomach, put a little bag of bread into the breast
of his coat, and tying a flask of water to his girdle, he drew up the tops of his
boots, took the spade from his man, and stood ready to start. He considered
for some moments which way he had better go—it was tempting everywhere.
“No matter,” he concluded, “I will go towards the rising sun.”
He turned his face to the east, stretched himself and waited for the sun to
appear above the rim.
“I must lose no time,” he thought, “and it is easier walking while it is still
cool.”
The sun’s rays had hardly flashed above the horizon, before Pahóm,
carrying the spade over his shoulder went down into the steppe.
Pahóm started walking neither slowly nor quickly. After having gone a
thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole, and placed pieces of turf one on
another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now that he had
walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a while he dug another
hole.
Pahóm looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the sunlight,
with the people on it, and the glittering tires of the cart-wheels. At a rough
guess Pahóm concluded that he had walked three miles. It was growing
warmer; he took off his undercoat, flung it across his shoulder, and went on
again. It had grown quite warm now; he looked at the sun, it was time to
think of breakfast.
“The first shift is done, but there are four in a day, and it is too soon yet to
turn. But I will just take off my boots,” said he to himself.
He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them into his girdle, and went on.
It was easy walking now.
“I will go on for another three miles,” thought he, “and then turn to the
left. This spot is so fine, that it would be a pity to lose it. The further one
goes, the better the land seems.”
He went straight on for a while, and when he looked round, the hillock
was scarcely visible and the people on it looked like black ants, and he could
just see something glistening there in the sun.
“Ah,” thought Pahóm, “I have gone far enough in this direction, it is time
to turn. Besides I am in a regular sweat, and very thirsty.”
He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up pieces of turf. Next he
untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply to the left. He went on
and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot.
Pahóm began to grow tired: he looked at the sun and saw that it was noon.
“Well,” he thought, “I must have a rest.”
He sat down, and ate some bread and drank some water; but he did not
lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall asleep. After sitting a little
while, he went on again. At first he walked easily: the food had strengthened
him; but it had become terribly hot, and he felt sleepy; still he went on,
thinking: “An hour to suffer, a life-time to live.”
He went a long way in this direction also, and was about to turn to the
left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: “It would be a pity to leave
that out,” he thought. “Flax would do well there.” So he went on past the
hollow, and dug a hole on the other side of it before he turned the corner.
Pahóm looked towards the hillock. The heat made the air hazy: it seemed to
be quivering, and through the haze the people on the hillock could scarcely
be seen.
“Ah!” thought Pahóm, “I have made the sides too long; I must make this
one shorter.” And he went along the third side stepping faster. He looked at
the sun: it was nearly half way to the horizon, and he had not yet done two
miles of the third side of the square. He was still ten miles from the goal.
“No,” he thought, “though it will make my land lop-sided, I must hurry back
in a straight line now. I might go too far, and as it is I have a great deal of land.”
So Pahóm hurriedly dug a hole, and turned straight towards the hillock.
PART IX
Pahóm went straight towards the hillock, but he now walked with
difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet were cut and bruised,
and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it was impossible if he
meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits for no man, and it was
sinking lower and lower.
“Oh dear,” he thought, “if only I have not blundered trying for too much!
What if I am too late?”
He looked towards the hillock and at the sun. He was still far from his
goal, and the sun was already near the rim
Pahóm walked on and on; it was very hard walking, but he went quicker
and quicker. He pressed on, but was still far from the place. He began
running, threw away his coat, his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept only
the spade which he used as a support.
“What shall I do,” he thought again, “I have grasped too much, and
ruined the whole affair. I can’t get there before the sun sets.”
And this fear made him still more breathless. Pahóm went on running,
his soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him, and his mouth was parched. His
breast was working like a blacksmith’s bellows, his heart was beating like
a hammer, and his legs were giving way as if they did not belong to him.
Pahóm was seized with terror lest he should die of the strain.
Though afraid of death, he could not stop. “After having run all that way
they will call me a fool if I stop now,” thought he. And he ran on and on, and
drew near and heard the Bashkírs yelling and shouting to him, and their
cries inflamed his heart still more. He gathered his last strength and ran on.
The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in mist looked large, and red as
blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The sun was quite low, but he was
also quite near his aim. Pahóm could already see the people on the hillock
waving their arms to hurry him up. He could see the fox-fur cap on the
ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on the ground holding
his sides. And Pahóm remembered his dream.
“There is plenty of land," thought he, “but will God let me live on it? I
have lost my life, I have lost my life! I shall never reach that spot!”
Pahóm looked at the sun, which had reached the earth: one side of it had
already disappeared. With all his remaining strength he rushed on, bending
his body forward so that his legs could hardly follow fast enough to keep
him from falling. Just as he reached the hillock it suddenly grew dark. He
looked up—the sun had already set! He gave a cry: “All my labor has been
in vain,” thought he, and was about to stop, but he heard the Bashkírs still
shouting, and remembered that though to him, from below, the sun seemed
to have set, they on the hillock could still see it. He took a long breath and
ran up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached the top and saw the
cap. Before it sat the Chief laughing and holding his sides. Again Pahóm
remembered his dream, and he uttered a cry: his legs gave way beneath him,
he fell forward and reached the cap with his hands.
“Ah, that’s a fine fellow!” exclaimed the Chief. “He has gained much
land!”
Pahóm’s servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw that
blood was flogging from his mouth. Pahóm was dead!
The Bashkírs clicked their tongues to show their pity.
His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahóm
to he in and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was all he
needed.
Moni the
Goat Boy
Translated by Edith F. Kunz


Chapter 1
Moni is Happy
I t is a long, steep climb up to the Bath House at Fideris, after leaving the
road leading up through the long valley of Prättigau. The horses pant
so hard on their way up the mountain, that you prefer to dismount and
clamber up on foot to the green summit.
After a long ascent, you come first to the village of Fideris, which lies
on the pleasant green height; and from there you go on farther into the
mountains until the lonely buildings connected with the Baths appear,
surrounded on all sides by rocky mountains. The only trees that grow up
there are firs, which cover the peaks and rocks, and it would all look very
gloomy if the delicate mountain flowers with their brilliant coloring were
not peeping forth everywhere through the low pasture grass.
One clear summer evening two ladies stepped out of the Bath House and
went along the narrow footpath, which begins to mount not far from the
house and soon becomes very steep as it ascends to the high, towering crags.
At the first projection they stood still and looked around, for this was the
very first time they had come to the Baths.
“It is not very lively up here, Aunt,” said the younger, as she let her
eyes wander around. “Nothing but rocks and fir woods, and then another
204 Moni the Goat Boy
mountain and more fir trees on it. If we are to stay here six weeks, I should
like occasionally to see something more amusing.”
“It would not be very amusing, at all events, if you should lose your
diamond cross up here, Paula,” replied the aunt, as she tied together the red
velvet ribbon from which hung the sparkling cross. “This is the third time I
have fastened the ribbon since we arrived. I don’t know whether it is your fault
or the ribbon’s, but I do know that you would be very sorry if it were lost.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Paula, decidedly, “the cross must not be lost, on any
account. It came from my grandmother and is my greatest treasure.”
Paula herself seized the ribbon and tied two or three knots, one after the
other, to make it hold fast. Suddenly she pricked up her ears: “Listen, listen,
Aunt, now something really lively is coming.”
A merry song sounded from far above them; then came a long, shrill
yodel; then there was singing again.
The ladies looked upwards, but could see no living thing. The footpath
was very crooked, often passing between tall bushes and then between
projecting slopes, so that from below one could see up only a very short
distance. But now there suddenly appeared something alive on the slopes
above, in every place where the narrow path could be seen, and louder and
nearer sounded the singing.
“See, see, Aunt, there! Here! See there! See there!” exclaimed Paula with
great delight, and before the aunt was aware of it, three—four goats came
bounding down, and more and more of them, each wearing around the
neck a little bell so that the sound came from every direction. In the midst
of the flock came the goat boy leaping along and singing his song to the very
end.
Then he sounded a frightful yodel and immediately with his flock stood
right before the ladies, for with his bare feet, he leaped as nimbly and lightly
as his little goats.
“I wish you good evening!” he said as he looked gaily at the two ladies,
and would have continued on his way, but the goat boy with the merry eyes
pleased the ladies.
“Wait a minute,” said Paula. “Are you the goat boy of Fideris? Do the goats
belong to the village below?”
“Yes, to be sure!” was the reply.
“Do you go up there with them every day?”
Moni is Happy 205
“Yes, surely.”
“Is that so? And what is your name?”
“Moni is my name—”
“Will you sing me the song once more that you have just sung? We heard
only one verse.”
“It is too long,” explained Moni. “It would be too late for the goats. They
must go home.” He straightened his weather-beaten cap, swung his rod
in the air, and called to the goats which had already begun to nibble all
around: “Home! Home!”
“You will sing to me some other time, Moni, won’t you?” called Paula
after him.
“Surely I will, and good night!” he called back, then trotted along with
the goats; and in a short time, the whole flock stood still below, a few steps
from the Bath House by the rear building, for here Moni had to leave the
goats belonging to the house, the beautiful white one and the black one with
the pretty little kid. Moni treated the last with great care, for it was a delicate
little creature, and he loved it more than all the others. It was so attached
to him that it ran after him continually all day long. He now led it very
tenderly along and placed it in its shed. Then he said, “There, Mäggerli, now
sleep well. Are you tired? It is really a long way up there, and you are still so
little. Now lie right down, so, in the nice straw!”
After he had put Mäggerli to bed in this way, he hurried along with his flock,
first up to the hill in front of the Baths, and then down the road to the village.
Here he took out his little horn and blew so vigorously into it that it
resounded far down into the valley. From all the scattered houses the
children now came running out. Each rushed upon his goat, which he knew
a long way off; and from the houses nearby, one woman and then another
seized her little goat by the cord or the horn, and in a short time the entire
flock was separated, and each creature came to its own place. Finally Moni
stood alone with the brown one, his own goat, and with her he now went
to the little house on the side of the mountain, where his grandmother was
waiting for him in the doorway.
“Has all gone well, Moni?” she asked pleasantly, and then led the brown
goat to her shed and immediately began to milk her. The grandmother was
still a robust woman and cared for everything herself in the house and in
the shed, and everywhere kept order. Moni stood in the doorway of the
shed and watched his grandmother. When the milking was ended, she went
into the little house and said, “Come, Moni, you must be hungry.”
She had everything already prepared; Moni had only to sit down at the
table. She seated herself next him, and although nothing stood on the table
but the bowl of cornmeal mush cooked with the brown goat’s milk, Moni
hugely enjoyed his supper. Then he told his grandmother what he had done
through the day; and as soon as the meal was ended, he went to bed, for in
the early dawn he would have to start forth again with the flock.
In this way Moni had already spent two summers. He had been goat boy
so long and become so accustomed to this life and grown up together with
his little charges that he could think of nothing else. Moni had lived with
his grandmother ever since he could remember. His mother had died when
he was still very little; his father soon after went with others to military
service in Naples, in order to earn something, as he said, for he thought he
could get more pay there. His wife’s mother was also poor, but she took her
daughter’s deserted baby boy, little Solomon, home at once and shared what
she had with him. He brought a blessing to her cottage, and she had never
suffered want.
Good old Elizabeth was very popular with everyone in the whole village,
and when, two years before, another goat boy had to be appointed, Moni
was chosen with one accord, since everyone was glad for the hard-working
Elizabeth that now Moni would be able to earn something. The pious
grandmother had never let Moni start away a single morning without
reminding him:
“Moni, never forget how near you are up there to the dear Lord, and that He
sees and hears everything, and you can hide nothing from His eyes. But never
forget, either, that He is near to help you. So you have nothing to fear, and if
you can call upon no human being up there, you have only to call to the dear
Lord in your need, and He will hear you immediately and come to your aid.”
So from the very first Moni went up, full of trust, to the lonely mountains
and the highest crags, and never had the slightest fear of dread, for he
always thought, “The higher up, the nearer I am to the dear Lord, and so all
the safer whatever may happen.”
So Moni had neither care nor trouble and could enjoy everything he did
from morning till night. It was no wonder that he whistled and sang and
yodeled continually, for he had to give vent to his great happiness.
Chapter 2
Moni’s Life on the Mountain
T he following morning Paula awoke earlier than ever before. A loud

singing had awakened her out of sleep. “That is surely the goat boy so
soon,” she said, springing out of bed and running to the window.
Quite right. With fresh, red cheeks there stood Moni below, and he had
just brought the old goat and the little kid out of the goat shed. Now he
swung his rod in the air, the goats leaped and sprang around him, and then
he went along with the whole flock. Suddenly Moni raised his voice again
and sang until the mountains echoed.
“Today he must sing his whole song for me once,” said Paula, for Moni
had now disappeared, and she could no longer understand the words of his
distant song.
In the sky the rosy morning clouds were disappearing and a cool
mountain breeze rustled around Moni’s ears as he climbed up. This he
thought just right. He yodeled with satisfaction from the first ledge so lustily
down into the valley that many of the sleepers in the Bath House below
opened their eyes in amazement, then closed them again at once, for they
recognized the sound and knew that they could have an hour longer to
sleep, since the goat boy always came so early. Meanwhile Moni climbed
with his goats for an hour longer, farther and farther up to the high cliffs
above.
The higher up he mounted, the broader and more beautiful became the
view. From time to time he looked around him, then gazed up into the
bright sky, which was becoming bluer and bluer, then began to sing with all
his might, louder and louder and more merrily the higher he came.
The sky had now become a deep blue. Above were the high mountains
with peaks towering to the sky and great ice fields appearing; and far away
down below, the green valley shone in the morning light. Moni lay there,
looking about, singing and whistling. The mountain wind cooled his warm
face, and as soon as he stopped whistling, the birds piped all the more
lustily and flew up into the blue sky. Moni was indescribably happy.
From time to time Mäggerli came to Moni and rubbed her head around
on his shoulder, as she always did out of sheer affection. Then she bleated
quite fondly, went to Moni’s other side and rubbed her head on the other
shoulder. The other goats also, first one and then another, came to look at
their keeper, and each had her own way of paying the visit.
Thus the sunny morning had passed. Moni had already taken his
midday meal and now stood thinking as he leaned on his stick, which he
often needed there, for it was very useful in climbing up and down. He
was thinking whether he would go up to a new side of the rocks, for he
wanted to go higher this afternoon with the goats, but the question was, to
which side? He decided to take the left, for in that direction were the three
Dragon-stones, around which grew such tender shrubs that it was a real
feast for the goats.
The way was steep, and there were dangerous places in the rugged wall of
rock; but he knew a good path, and the goats were so sensible and did not
easily go astray. He began to climb, and all his goats gaily clambered after
him, some in front, some behind him, the little Mäggerli always quite close
to him. Occasionally he held her fast and pulled her along with him when
he came to a very steep place.
All went quite well, and now they were at the top; and with high bounds
the goats ran immediately to the green bushes, for they knew well the fine
feed which they had often nibbled up here before.
“Be quiet! Be quiet!” commanded Moni. “Don’t push each other to the
steep places, for in a moment one of you might go down and have your
legs broken. Swallow! Swallow! What are you thinking of?” he called full
of excitement up to the goat, for the nimble Swallow had climbed up to the
high Dragon-stones and was now standing on the outermost edge of one of
them and looking quite impertinently down on him. He climbed up quickly,
for only a single step more and Swallow would be lying below at the foot of
the precipice. Moni was very agile. In a few minutes he had climbed up on
the crag, quickly seized Swallow by the leg, and pulled her down.
“Now come with me, you foolish little beast, you,” scolded Moni as he
dragged Swallow along with him to the others. He held her fast for a while,
Moni's Life on the Mountain 209
until she had taken a good bite of a shrub and thought no more of running
away.
“Where is Mäggerli?” screamed Moni suddenly, as he noticed Blackie
standing alone in a steep place and not eating, but quietly looking around
her. The little young kid was always near Moni or running after its mother.
“What have you done with your little kid, Blackie?” he called in alarm
and sprang towards the goat. She seemed quite strange, was not eating, but
stood still in the same spot and pricked up her ears inquiringly. Moni placed
himself beside her and looked up and down. Now he heard a faint, pitiful
bleating. It was Mäggerli’s voice, and it came from below so plaintive and
beseeching. Moni lay down on the ground and leaned over. There below
something was moving. Now he saw quite plainly, far down Mäggerli was
hanging to the bough of a tree which grew out of the rock, and was moaning
pitifully; she must have fallen over.
Fortunately the bough had caught her, otherwise she would have fallen
into the ravine and met a sorry death. Even now if she could no longer hold
to the bough, she would fall into the depths and be dashed to pieces.
In the greatest anguish he called down: “Hold fast, Mäggerli, hold fast to the
bough! See, I am coming to get you!” But how could he reach there? The wall
of rock was so steep here, Moni saw very well that it would be impossible to
go down that way. But the little goat must be down there somewhere near the
Rain-rock, the overhanging stone under which good protection was to be found
in rainy weather. The goat boys had always spent rainy days there, therefore the
stone had been called from old times the Rain-rock. From there, Moni thought
he could climb across over the rocks and so bring back the little kid.
He quickly whistled the flock together and went with them down to
the place from which he could reach the Rain-rock. There he left them to
graze and went to the rock. Here he immediately saw, just a little bit above
him, the bough of the tree, and the kid hanging to it. He saw very well that
it would not be an easy task to climb up there and then down again with
Mäggerli on his back, but there was no other way to rescue her. He also
thought the dear Lord would surely stand by him, and then he could not
possibly fail. He folded his hands, looked up to heaven and prayed: “Oh,
dear Lord, help me, so that I can save Mäggerli!”
Then he was full of trust that all would go well, and he bravely clambered
up the rock until he reached the bough above. Here he clung fast with both
Moni's Life on the Mountain 211
feet, lifted the trembling, moaning little creature to his shoulders, and then
climbed with great caution back down again. When he had the firm earth
under his feet once more and had saved the terror-stricken kid, he was so
glad he had to offer thanks aloud and cried up to heaven:
“Oh, dear Lord, I thank Thee a thousand times for having helped us so
well! Oh, we are both so glad for it!” Then he sat down on the ground a
little while and stroked the kid, for she was still trembling in all her delicate
limbs, and comforted her for enduring so much suffering.
As it was soon time for departure, Moni placed the little goat on his
shoulders again, and said anxiously: “Come, you poor Mäggerli, you are
still trembling; you cannot walk home today, I must carry you.” And so he
carried the little creature, clinging close to him, all the way down.
Paula was standing on the last rise in front of the Bath House, waiting
for the goat boy. Her aunt had accompanied her. When Moni came down
with his burden on his back, Paula wanted to know if the kid was sick, and
showed great interest. When Moni saw this, he at once sat down on the
ground in front of Paula and told her his day’s experience with Mäggerli.
The young lady showed very keen interest in the affair and stroked the
little rescued creature, which now lay quietly in Moni’s lap and looked very
pretty with its white feet and the beautiful black pelt on its back. It was very
willing to be stroked by her.
“Now sing your song again for me, while you are sitting here,” said Paula.
Moni was in such a gay frame of mind that he willingly and heartily began
and sang his whole song to the end.
This pleased Paula exceptionally well, and she said he must sing it to
her often again. Then the whole company went together down to the Bath
House. Here the kid was laid in its bed, Moni said farewell, and Paula went
back to her room to talk with her aunt longer about the goat boy, whose
merry morning song she had enjoyed again.
Chapter 3
A Visit
T hus many days passed by, one as sunny and clear as the other, for it
was an unusually beautiful summer, and the sky remained blue and
cloudless from morning till evening.
Every morning, early, without exception, the goat boy, singing lustily,
went by the Bath House. Every evening he came back again singing lustily.
All the guests were so accustomed to the merry sound that not one would
have willingly missed it.
More than all the others, Paula delighted in Moni’s joyfulness and went
out almost every evening to meet him and talk with him.
One sunny morning Moni had once more reached the Pulpit-rock and
was about to throw himself down, when he changed his mind. “No, go on!
The last time you had to leave all the nice little plants because we had to go
after Mäggerli; now we will go up there again, so that you can finish nibbling
them!”
The goats all leaped with delight after him, for they knew they were going
up to the lovely bushes on the Dragon-stones. So the whole morning passed
before Moni noticed, from his own hunger, that it had grown late before he
was aware of it. But he had left his luncheon below near the Pulpit-rock, in
the little hole, for he had intended to return again at noon.
“Well, you have had your fill of good things, and I have had nothing,” he
said to his goats. “Now I must have something too, and you will find enough
more down below. Come along!” Whereupon he gave a loud whistle, and
the whole flock started away.
Meanwhile, Moni coming down from above and another goat boy
coming up from below, they met at the same spot and looked at each other
in astonishment. But they were well acquainted, and after the first surprise
greeted each other cordially. It was Jörgli from Küblis. Half the morning he
A Visit 213
had been looking in vain for Moni, and now he met him up here, where he
had not expected to find him.
“I didn’t suppose you came up so high with the goats,” said Jörgli.
“To be sure I do,” replied Moni, “but not always. Usually I stay by the
Pulpit-rock and around there. Why have you come up here?”
“To make you a visit,” was the reply. “I have something to tell you.
Besides, I have two goats here that I am bringing to the landlord at the
Baths. He is going to buy one, and so I thought I would come up to see you.”
“Are they your own goats?” asked Moni.
“Surely, they are ours. I don’t tend strange ones any longer. I am not a goat
boy now.”
Moni was very much surprised at this, for Jörgli had become the goat boy
of Küblis at the same time he had been made goat boy of Fideris, and Moni
did not understand how Jörgli could give it up without a single murmur.
Meanwhile the goat boys and their flocks had reached the Pulpit-rock.
Moni brought out bread and a small piece of dried meat and invited Jörgli
to share his midday meal. They both sat down on the Pulpit-rock and
ate heartily, for it had grown very late and they had excellent appetites.
When everything was eaten and they had drunk a little goat’s milk, Jörgli
comfortably stretched himself at full length on the ground and rested his
head on both arms, but Moni remained sitting, for he always liked to look
down into the deep valley below.
“But what are you now, Jörgli, if you are no longer goat boy?” began
Moni. “You must be something.”
“Surely I am something, and something very good,” replied Jörgi, “I am
egg-boy. Every day I carry eggs to all the hotels, as far as I can go. I come up
here to the Bath House, too. Yesterday I was there.”
Moni shook his head. “That’s nothing. I wouldn’t be an egg-boy. I would a
thousand times rather be goat boy. It is much finer.”
“But why?”
“Eggs are not alive. You can’t speak a word to them, and they don’t run
after you like the goats which are glad to see you when you come, and are
fond of you, and understand every word you say to them. You can’t have any
pleasure with eggs as you can with the goats up here.”
“Yes, and you,” interrupted Jörgli, “what great pleasure do you have up
here? Just now you have had to get up six times while we were eating, just
on account of that silly kid, to prevent it from falling down below—is that a
pleasure?”
“Yes, I like to do that! Isn’t it so, Mäggerli? Come! Come here!” Moni
jumped up and ran after the kid, for it was making dangerous leaps for
sheer joy.
When he sat down again, Jörgli said, “There is another way to keep
the young goats from falling over the rocks, without having to be always
jumping after them, as you do.”
“What is it?” asked Moni.
“Drive a stick firmly into the ground and fasten the goat by the leg to it.
She will kick furiously, but she can’t get away.”
“You needn’t think I would do any such thing to the little kid!” said Moni
quite angrily, and he drew Mäggerli to him and held her fast, as if to protect
her from any such treatment.
“You really won’t have to take care of that one much longer,” began Jörgli
again. “It won’t come up here many times more.”
“What? What? What did you say, Jörgli?” demanded Moni.
“Bah, don’t you know about it? The landlord will not raise her; she is
too weak. There never was a more feeble goat. He wanted to sell her to my
father, but he wouldn’t have her either. Now the landlord is going to have
her killed next week, and then he will buy our spotted one.”
Moni had become quite pale from terror. At first he couldn’t speak a
word, but now he broke out and complained aloud over the little kid: “No,
no, that shall not be done, Mäggerli, it shall not be done. They shall not slay
you, I can’t bear that. Oh, I would rather die with you. No, that cannot be!”
“Don’t do so,” said Jörgli angrily, and pulled Moni up, for in his grief he
had thrown himself face down on the ground. “Stand up! You know the kid
really belongs to the landlord, and he can do what he likes with her. Think
no more about it! Come, I know something. See! See!” Whereupon Jörgli
held out one hand to Moni, and with the other almost covered the object
which Moni was to admire. It sparkled wonderfully in his hand, for the sun
shone straight into it.
“What is it?” asked Moni when it sparkled again, lighted up by a
sunbeam.
“Guess!”
“A ring?”
A Visit 215
“No, but something like that.”

“Who gave it to you?”
“Gave it to me? Nobody. I found it myself.”
“Then it does not belong to you, Jörgli.”
“Why not? I didn’t take it from anybody. I almost stepped on it with my
foot; then it would have been broken, so I can just as well keep it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Down by the Bath House, yesterday evening.”
“Then someone from the house below lost it. You must tell the landlord,
and if you don’t, I will do it this evening.”
“No, no, Moni, don’t do that,” said Jörgli beseechingly. “See, I will show
you what it is, and I will sell it to a maid in one of the hotels, but she will
surely have to give me four francs; then I will give you one or two, and
nobody will know anything about it.”
“I will not take it! I will not take it!” interrupted Moni, hotly, “and the
dear Lord has heard everything you have said.”
Jörgli looked up to the sky. “Oh, so far away,” he said skeptically, but he
immediately began to speak more softly.
“He hears you still,” said Moni, confidently.
It was no longer Jörgli’s secret. If he didn’t know how to bring Moni to his
side, all would be lost. He thought and thought.
“Moni,” he said suddenly, “I will promise you something that will delight
you, if you will not say anything to a human being about what I have
found—you really don’t need to take anything for it, then you will have
nothing to do with it. If you will do as I say, I will make my father buy
Mäggerli, so she will not be killed. Will you?”
A hard struggle arose in Moni. It was wrong to help keep the discovery
secret. Jörgli had opened his hand. In it lay a cross set with a large number
of stones, which sparkled in many colors. Moni realized that it was not a
worthless thing which no one would inquire about. He felt exactly as if he
himself should be keeping what did not belong to him if he remained silent.
But on the other hand was the little, affectionate Mäggerli that was going to
be killed in a horrible way with a knife, and he could prevent it if he kept
silent. Even now the little kid was lying so trustfully beside him, as if she
knew that he would always keep it. No, he could not let this happen, he
must try to save it.
“Yes, I will, Jörgli,” he said, but without any enthusiasm.

“Then it is a bargain!” And Jörgli offered his hand to Moni, that he might
seal the argument, as that was the only way to make a promise binding.
Jörgli was very glad that now his secret was safe; but as Moni had become
so quiet, and he had much farther to go to reach home than Moni, he
considered it well to start along with his two goats. He said goodnight to
Moni and whistled for his two companions, which meanwhile had joined
Moni’s grazing goats, but not without much pushing and other doubtful
behavior between the two parties, for the goats from Fideris had never
heard that they ought to be polite to visitors, and the goats from Küblis did
not know that they ought not to seek out the best plants or push the others
away from them when they were visiting. When Jörgli had gone some
distance down the mountain, Moni also started along with his flock, but he
was very still and neither sang a note nor whistled all the way home.
Chapter 4
Moni Can No Longer Sing
O n the following morning Moni came up the path to the Bath House,
just as silent and cast down as the evening before. Moni could no
longer be merry; he didn’t know himself exactly why. He wanted to be glad
that he had saved Mäggerli, and he wanted to sing, but he couldn’t do it.
Today the sky was covered with clouds, and Moni thought when the sun
came out it would be different and he could be happy again.
When he reached the top, it began to rain quite hard. He took refuge
under the Rain-rock, for it soon poured in streams from the sky.
Moni thought over what he had promised Jörgli, and it seemed to him
that if Jörgli had taken something, he was practically doing the same
thing himself, because Jörgli had promised to give him something or do
something for him. He had surely done what was wrong, and the dear Lord
was now against him. This he felt in his heart, and it was right that it was
dark and rainy and that he was hidden under the rock, for he would not
even have dared look up into the blue sky, as usual.
But there were still other things that Moni had to think about. If Mäggerli
should fall down over a steep precipice again, and he wanted to get it, the dear
Lord would no longer protect him, and he no longer dared to pray to Him about
it and call upon Him, and so had no more safety. And what if he should then
slip and fall down with Mäggerli deep over the jagged rocks, and both of them
should lie all torn and maimed! Oh, no, he said with anguish in his heart, that
must not happen anyway. He must manage to be able to pray again and come to
the dear Lord with everything that weighed on his heart; then he could be happy
again, that he felt sure of. Moni would throw off the weight that oppressed him.
He would go and tell the landlord everything—but then? Then Jörgli would not
persuade his father, and the landlord would slaughter Mäggerli. Oh, no! Oh, no!
He couldn’t bear that, and he said: “No, I will not do it! I will say nothing!”
Moni Can No Longer Sing 219
He started home at evening as silent as he had come in the morning.

When he found Paula standing near the Bath House, and she sprang quickly
across to the goat-shed and asked sympathetically, “Moni, what is the
matter? Why don’t you sing any more?” he turned shyly away and said, “I
can’t,” and as quickly as possible made off with his goats.
The next day Moni again climbed up the mountain, silent and sad and
without singing. The rain had now ceased, but thick fog hung around on the
mountains, and the sky was still full of dark clouds. Moni again sat under
the rock and battled with his thoughts. About noon the sky began to clear;
it grew brighter and brighter. Moni came out of his cave and looked around.
The goats once more sprang gaily here and there, and the little kid was quite
frolicsome from delight at the returning sun and made the merriest leaps.
Moni stood on the Pulpit-rock and saw how it was growing brighter and
more beautiful below in the valley and above over the mountains beyond.
Now the clouds scattered, and the lovely light blue sky looked down so
cheerfully that it seemed to Moni as if the dear Lord were looking out of
the bright blue at him, and suddenly it became quite clear in his heart what
he ought to do. He could not carry the wrong around with him any more;
he must throw it off. Then Moni seized the little kid that was jumping
about him, took it in his arms, and said tenderly, “Oh, Mäggerli, you poor
Mäggerli! I have certainly done what I could, but it is wrong, and that must
not be done. Oh, if only you didn’t have to die! I can’t bear it!”
And Moni began to cry so hard that he could no longer speak, and the
kid bleated pitifully and crept far under his arm, as if it wanted to cling to
him and be protected. Then Moni lifted the little goat on his shoulders,
saying, “Come, Mäggerli, I will carry you home once more today. Perhaps I
can’t carry you much longer.”
When the flock came down to the Bath House, Paula was again standing
on the watch. Moni put the young goat with the black one in the shed, and
instead of going on farther, he came toward the young lady and was going
past her into the house. She stopped him.
“Still no singing, Moni? Where are you going with such a troubled face?”
“I have to tell about something,” replied Moni, without lifting his eyes.
“Tell about something? What is it? Can’t I know?”
“I must tell the landlord. Something has been found.”
“Found? What is it? I have lost something, a beautiful cross.”
“Yes, that is just what it is.”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Paula in the greatest surprise. “Is it a cross
with sparkling stones?”
“Yes, exactly that.”
“What have you done with it, Moni? Give it to me. Did you find it?”
“No, Jörgli from Küblis found it.”
Then Paula wanted to know who he was and where he lived, and to send
someone to Küblis at once to get the cross.
“I will go as fast as I can, and if he still has it, I will bring it to you,” said
Moni.
“If he still has it?” said Paula. “Why shouldn’t he still have it? And how
do you know all about it, Moni? When did he find it, and how did you hear
about it?”
Moni looked on the ground. He didn’t dare say how it had all come
about, and how he had helped to conceal the discovery until he could no
longer bear it.
But Paula was very kind to Moni. She took him aside, sat down on the
trunk of a tree beside him, and said with the greatest friendliness, “Come,
tell me all about how it happened, Moni, for I want so much to know
everything from you.”
Then Moni gained confidence and began to relate the whole story, and
told her every word of his struggle about Mäggerli and how he had lost all
happiness and dared no longer look up to the dear Lord, and how today he
couldn’t bear it any longer.
Then Paula talked with him very kindly and said he should have come
immediately and told everything, and it was right that he had told her all
now so frankly, and that he would not regret it. Then she said he could
promise Jörgli ten francs, as soon as she had the cross in her hands again.
“Ten francs!” repeated Moni, full of astonishment, for he knew how Jörgli
would have sold it for much less. Then Moni rose and said he would go
right away that very day to Küblis, and if he got the cross, he would bring it
with him early the next morning. He ran along and was once more able to
leap and jump, for he had a much lighter heart, and the heavy burden no
longer weighed him down to the ground.
When he reached home, he only put his goats in, told his grandmother
he had an errand to do, and ran at once down to Küblis. He found Jörgli at
Moni Can No Longer Sing 221
home and told him without delay what he had done. At first the boy was
very angry, but when he considered that all was known, he took out the
cross and asked, “Will she give me anything for it?”
“Yes, and now you can see, Jörgli,” said Moni, indignantly, “how by being
honorable you will receive ten francs, and by being deceitful only four. The
ten francs you are going to have now.”
Jörgli was very much amazed. He regretted that he had not gone
immediately with the cross to the Bath House after he had picked it up in
front of the door, for now he had not a clear conscience, and it might have
been so different! But now it was too late. He gave the cross to Moni, who
hastened home with it, for it had already grown quite dark.
Chapter 5
Moni Sings Again
P aula had given orders to be wakened early the next morning, for she
wanted to be on the spot when the goat boy came. She was anxious to
deal with him herself. That evening she had held a long conversation with
the landlord and had then come out of his room quite happy, so she must
have planned something delightful with him.
When the goat boy came along with his flock in the morning, Paula was
already standing in front of the house, and she called out: “Moni, can’t you
sing even now?”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t. I am always wondering how much
longer Mäggerli will go with me. I never can sing any more as long as I live,
and here is the cross.” Whereupon he handed her a little package, for the
grandmother had wrapped it carefully for him in three or four papers.
Paula took out the cross from the wrappings and examined it closely. It
really was her beautiful cross with the sparkling stones, and it was quite
unharmed. “Well, Moni,” she said now very kindly, “you have given me a
great pleasure, for if it had not been for you, I might never have seen my
cross again. Now, I am going to give you a pleasure. Go take Mäggerli there
out of the shed; she belongs to you now!”
Moni stared at the young lady in astonishment, as if it were impossible to
understand her words. At last he stammered, “But how—how can Mäggerli
be mine?”
“How?” replied Paula, smiling. “See, last evening I bought her from the
landlord and this morning I give her to you. Now can’t you sing once more?”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Moni and ran like mad to the shed, led the little
goat out, and took it in his arms.
Then Moni sang his song and went on up the mountain with the goats,
and his jubilant tones rang down into the valley.
Moni Sings Again 223
The whole day long Moni shouted for joy, and all the goats caught his
spirit and jumped and sprang around as if it were a great festival. The sun
shone cheerfully down out of the blue sky, and after the great rain, all
the little plants were so fresh, and the yellow and red flowers so bright, it
seemed to Moni as if he had never seen the mountains and the valley and
the whole world so beautiful before. And with resounding singing and
yodeling Moni came down again at evening; and after he had led the black
goat to her shed, he took the little kid in his arms, for it was now coming
home with him. Mäggerli did not look as if it would rather stay there, but
pressed close to Moni and felt that it was under the best protection, for
Moni had for a long time treated it better and more kindly than its own
mother.
But when Moni came near his grandmother’s with Mäggerli on his
shoulders, she didn’t know at all what to make of it. And although Moni
called from a distance: “She belongs to me, Grandmother, she belongs to
me!” she didn’t understand for some time what he meant. But Moni couldn’t
explain to her yet. He ran to the shed, and there right next to Brownie, so
that it wouldn’t be afraid, he made Mäggerli a fine, soft bed of fresh straw,
and laid it down, saying, “There, Mäggerli, now sleep well in your new
home! You must always have this; every day I will make you a new bed!”
Then Moni came back directly to his wondering grandmother, and while
they sat together at their supper, he told her the whole story from the very
beginning about his three days so full of trouble, and the happy ending
today.
The grandmother listened very quietly and attentively and when he
came to the end, she said earnestly, “Moni, you must remember what has
happened to you now, as long as you live! While you were having so great
trouble with wrong-doing in order to help the little creature, the dear
Lord had already found a way to help it and make you happy as soon as
you would do what was right in His sight. If you had done right at once,
and trusted in God, all would have gone well at first. Now the dear Lord
has helped you beyond all you deserved, so that you will not forget it your
whole life long.”
“No, I will surely never forget it,” said Moni, eagerly assenting, “and will
always truly think, the first thing: I must only do what is right before the
dear Lord. He will take care of all the rest.”
But before Moni could lie down to sleep, he had to look into the shed
once more to see if it was really possible that the little kid was lying out
there and belonged to him.
Jörgli received the ten francs according to the agreement, but he was not
allowed to escape from the affair so easily as that. When he returned to the
Bath House, he was brought to the landlord, who took the boy by the collar,
gave him a good shaking, and said threateningly:
“Jörgli! Jörgli! Don’t you try a second time to bring my whole house into
bad repute! If anything like this happens a single time again, you will come
out of my house in a way that will not please you! See, up there hangs a very
sharp willow rod for such cases. Now go and think this over.”
Moreover, the event had other consequences for the boy. From this
time on, if anything was lost anywhere in the Bath House, all the servants
immediately exclaimed, “Jörgli from Küblis has it!” And if he came
afterwards into the house, they all pounced on him together and cried,
“Give it here, Jörgli! Out with it!” And if he assured them he had nothing
and knew nothing about it, they would all exclaim, “We know you already!”
and “You can’t fool us!”
So Jörgli had to endure the most menacing attacks continually, and
had hardly a moment’s peace any more, for if he saw anyone approaching
him, he at once thought he was coming to ask if he had found this or that.
So Jörgli was not at all happy, and a hundred times he thought: “If only I
had given back that cross immediately! I will never in my whole life keep
anything else that doesn’t belong to me.”
But Moni never ceased singing and yodeling the whole summer long, for
there was hardly another human being in the world as happy as he was up
there with his goats.
THE END
Dick
Whittington
and His Cat
a Play by Mary Rea Lewis
Only slight modifications have been made in spelling

and grammar

Characters
DICK WHITTINGTON
APPLE-MAN
MAN
COOK
MR. FITZWARREN
ALICIA
CAPTAIN KENT
FIRST MAID
SECOND MAID
KING
QUEEN SERVANT
JOHN
Dick Whittington
Dick Whittington lived during the last part of the thirteenth and the first
part of the fourteenth century. The story of his early years is lost in legend,
but we do know that he lived and died and lies buried near the Tower of
London; that he was four times Lord Mayor of London; was knighted by
King Henry V; and was a very, very rich man, leaving a vast fortune to
charities.
The story of Dick Whittington and his cat has always been a great favorite
with children . . . the eternal success story of the poor boy who reached the
top through his own goodness and efforts.
Act 1
Scene 1
On the road to London—a clearing in the woods. Enter DICK,
discouraged and tired.
DICK [seeing a log on the road side]: At Last! A place to rest. [Sits down
wearily, rubs feet and ankles.] I must have traveled more than twenty miles
today. My feet ache so. I wish there was a stream nearby; cold water would
make them feel better. [Pushes hair back from face.] It wouldn’t do any
harm to my face, either. I’ll rest here for a moment before I go further. It will
soon be nightfall and I want to be out of the woods before darkness comes.
[Looks in knapsack for food.] Not even a crumb left! Oh, I’m so hungry. I
don’t know whether I can go on any further—it’s such a long journey. I’ve
wondered often this day why I ever ventured away from my own village. Of
course, there is no reason why I should have stayed there. For weeks I’ve
tried to find a means to earn my way. I’ve begged on the streets and along
the water front, but I got so few coins. Everyone was a poor as I—no one
could spare even a halfpenny for a homeless boy. I shiver now when I think
of those cold wintry nights that I spent sleeping in doorways. Whenever I
passed the houses that were lighted and warm, I’d just stand and stare and
stare at them. Once an officer was going to put me in prison for peeping
into the windows of a grand house. It was such a lovely house—I couldn’t
go past it. When the officer seized me, I let out a cry. I was so frightened.
An old gentleman heard me and before the officer could hurry me away,
he came over to us. “What’s the trouble officer?” he asked. “Just another
thieving waif,” he replied. “No, no!” I cried, “I’m not a thief. I may be dirty
and ragged; I may have no home, or I may be terribly, terribly hungry; but
I never steal.” That old gentleman believed me, for he got me free from the
officer. Then he gave me two shillings and told me to go on my way. That
night I bought a sugared bun-and oh, it was so good! Ever since that night
I’ve wanted to be a grand gentleman so I could help other people. That’s why
I’m going to London Town now. I know there’s a change there for me—if—I
ever get there. [Looks around]. I wonder how much farther it is. If I follow
this road—is it the shortest way? [Gets up and looks off stage.] There are
230 Dick Whittington and His Cat
wheel marks going on and on down the road. It must lead to the city. [As
DICK talks, an APPLE-MAN approaches from the opposite side.]
APPLE-MAN: What ho, my lad! Are you lost?

DICK: Oh, sir, you frightened me! No, I don’t think I’m lost. I’m on my way
to London Town. This is the road, isn’t it?
APPLE-MAN: Yea, and that it is. If you follow it to the edge of the clearing,
you’ll come right to the high road. Follow that and soon you’ll be in London
Town.
DICK: Is it far, sir?
APPLE-MAN: I hear it is. I’ve never been there, but friends of mine were
there once. It’s a grand city, I hear, [Confidentially] And do you know, lad,
I’m told that it’s the richest place in the world. It is rumored that even the
streets are paved with gold.
DICK: Gold? Oh, sir, surely not in the streets!
APPLE-MAN: That’s what I hear; mind you, though I’ve never seen it—just
heard about it.
DICK: [Starts off, turns to APPLE-MAN]: Thank you, sir, for telling me
this. I’ll come back some day with some of the gold and share it with you.
APPLE-MAN: I’ll be waiting—if you’re not too long in getting back. [DICK
starts off again.] Lad! [DICK turns back.] You’ve got a kind heart and noble
spirit; but I think ‘twill need more to make a grand gentleman of you.
DICK: What do you mean, sir?
APPLE-MAN: You look so worn and hungry now that I doubt you’ll ever
get to London. It’s a long trip, you know. When did you eat last?
DICK [Hesitating]: Oh—not long ago.
APPLE-MAN: Not long ago! That could be hours—or—maybe a day ago!

And what did you eat? [DICK hangs head.] I thought so! [Reaches into
bag.] I haven’t much left from the day at the market, but here! I’ll share with
you! A half loaf from my lunch—and—two nice red apples!
Act 1 231
DICK: Oh, sir, I couldn’t take them! [Looks at them longingly.]
APPLE-MAN: No? Well, I’ll bargain with you. You take the food and when
you’re a rich and grand gentleman, you can pay me for them. You’ll come
back dressed in fine cloth and lace—drawn in a magnificent coach, and stop
at the square to ask the whereabouts of Jack, the apple-man. And I’ll step
forward and say, unconscious—like, “Oh, my young friend, Lord— “But
who’ll you be?
DICK: Not a lord, friend; just plain Dick Whittington.
APPLE-MAN: Nay, not plain Dick Whittington—Lord Dick Whittington!

[Bows low.]
DICK: You jest with me! [Looks at food.] It’s a bargain, sir. I’ll take your
food in exchange for my promise to pay you many times over when I make
my fortune. [Both laugh heartily. Unseen approaches the WAGONER.]
WAGONER: Fortune must have smiled on you this day, Jack, the
apple-man. [DICK and APPLE-MAN turn, astonished.]
APPLE-MAN: Oh, my friend, ‘tis indeed true. Fortune in the form of Lord
Whittington. [Bows low.]
[WAGONER glances critically at DICK.]
WAGONER: This stripling—this is Lord Whittington?
APPLE-MAN: No other, my friend. He’s on his way to London Town to

claim his fortune.
WAGONER: And your coach, my Lord—does it wait on the high road?
DICK: Nay, sir. I have neither coach nor steed—nor am I a nobleman. Just
Dick Whittington, homeless, penniless-a wayfarer on his way to London
Town.
WAGONER: You’ve heard the tale of gold, then—how ‘tis so plentiful that
it’s used to pave the streets. Even the wayfarer can fill his purse as he goes
about the city.
DICK: The apple-man has just told me about it; but I know that such a
report lacks truth. If it were true, then all the world would go to London,
and there would be too little left for another fortunate.
WAGONER: ‘Tis the way I’m thinking, too, lad. But if it’s not a fortune you
seek, why go you there?
DICK: ‘Tis a fortune I seek, sir, but not by picking it from the streets. I seek
work and a chance to grow into useful manhood.
WAGONER: I hear that London’s a busy mart: many may find work there.
But you—why you’re but a lad. What can you do?
DICK: Many tasks, sir, if I have the opportunity to prove myself. That is all I
ask. But I must be on my way now. [Turns to APPLE-MAN.] Many thanks,
sir, to you. I shall not forget our bargain. [To WAGONER.] Could you direct
me, sire, to the shortest way?
WAGONER: Follow this road to the edge of the clearing—that’s the high
road ahead. Follow it. London’s at the end.
DICK: Thank you, sir. [Starts off, stops and turns to the two men talking
together.] And the distance, sire? Is it less that one day’s journey?
WAGONER: Not unless you have wings. I’d say that, if you walk fast and
waste not time along the wayside, you’d be in London Town by tomorrow
night. [Continues conversation with APPLE-MAN.]
DICK: [Disappointed.]: Tomorrow night! [Stops thoughtfully.] “tis much

further than I thought. I’m already exhausted— [Looks in knapsack.] and
I have but little food-[Stops.] I can’t go. I’ll return! I’ll find some way— [In
whisper.] There are those bells again—what are they saying? Listen! [Slowly.]
“Turn again, Dick Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!” What do
they mean? Why do they echo my name? [Turns again to WAGONER and
APPLE-MAN.] Pardon, sirs, those bells, sirs, what do they say?
APPLE-MAN [Listening]: Night—again; —night’s come again—night—

again—all’s well!
WAGONER: Aye, right again. I must be on my way. Good night, my friend.

My horse has had a long rest this afternoon—he’ll think I’ve deserted him.
[Starts off.] Good night! [Turns to DICK.] If you’re leaving now, lad, I could
Act 1 233
take you to the high road in my wagon.
DICK: Oh, thank you, sir. That I should appreciate so much.
WAGONER: Well, come then, with me. It’s no royal coach I have—just a
small wagon.
DICK: Thank you, sir. [WAGONER and DICK start off. DICK turns to
APPLE-MAN.] Lose not patience, my benefactor, I shall not forget you nor
your kindness.
[Exit.]
APPLE-MAN: Good fortune to you, lad. You’re a brave boy and true.
Act 2
Scene 1
A street in London
[DICK enters slowly—picks up pebble from street.]

DICK: Not gold! Just a pebble. I’ve traveled along many streets this day but
no gold anywhere. [Sits on a doorstep and takes a piece of bun from his
knapsack. Munches on it. A man passes and almost falls, as he stumbles
over DICK’S feet.]
MAN: What means this? Who are you? What do you mean by taking
possession of Mr. Fitzwarren’s doorway? What did you try to throw me?
[DICK jumps to his feet.]
DICK: Your pardon, sir, I did not mean—
MAN: [Angrily]: Then what did you mean?
DICK: I just sat here a moment to rest, sir. I’m very tired. For three days I
haven’t had much rest.
MAN: And why not? [Looks critically at DICK.] You haven’t seen much
water, either. I’ve never seen a dirtier little rogue. Go home at once, or . . .
DICK: I have no home, sir.
MAN: Well, get on your way then, before Fitzwarren’s cook sees you. [DICK
starts off dejectedly, meets the COOK, and holds out his ragged cap.]
DICK: A penny, mistress, if it please you.
COOK: Please me! Indeed, it does not please me, you impudent little
beggar. I work hard for my money and I have no intention of parting with it
at every beggar’s cry. Away now, before I thrash you.
DICK: But mistress, I’m so hungry I can’t go any further. If I had a penny, I
could buy some food. Then I wouldn’t bother you.
COOK: There’s nothing but beggars in this town. Every time I go on the
Act 2 235
street some lazy urchin thrusts his cap at me crying, “A penny mistress, only
a penny!” Why don’t they work as honest people do?
DICK: I’d gladly work for you if you’d let me.
COOK: I wouldn’t allow such filth in my kitchen! Take yourself off at once
before you spoil the doorstep.
[Enter MR. FITZWARREN and ALICIA.]
MR. FITZ: What have we here, Cook?
COOK: Another lazy beggar, sir. I found him causing a disturbance, on your
doorstep.
DICK: Sir, I meant no harm. I was walking along—oh, so tired—I couldn’t

walk any further. Your doorstep looked so inviting. I—just—sat—down.
ALICIA: Father, I believe the lad is hungry.
MR. FITZ: Nonsense, Alicia, I believe he’s a worthless little beggar just as
Cook says.
ALICIA: [Sitting beside DICK]: What’s your name?
DICK: [Trying to rise]: Dick, mistress, Dick Whittington.
ALICIA: Where’s your home, Dick?
DICK: I have no home.
ALICIA: Then where do you live?
DICK: Any place I can find shelter.
MR. FITZ: You see, Alicia, it’s just as I said. He’s a worthless beggar, playing
on your sympathy.
ALICIA: No Father, I do not believe that. [To DICK.] Why do you not work,
Dick? You look old enough to work.
DICK: That I would gladly do, mistress, but no one will have me. I’ve tried
and tried—oh, so many times, to do anything to earn a penny. Everyone
pushes me aside. I’ve tried to beg occasionally, but in three days all I’ve
received is a halfpenny.
ALICIA: Poor Lad! [Looks in purse hanging on belt.] Here, Dick, is a coin.
DICK: Thank you for your kindness, mistress, but I could not take it from
you. ‘Tis all you have.
ALICIA: [To her FATHER]: Father, can’t you help Dick in some way?
MR. FITZ: Perhaps, Alicia, perhaps. [To COOK.] Cook, aren’t there some
odd jobs about the house that his lad could do?
COOK: We-eell!
MR. FITZ: See to it that he goes to work at once. [To DICK.] Do whatever
she bids, lad.
ALICIA: But, Father, he’s hungry.
MR. FITZ: Cook, first take this lad to the kitchen and give him a good
dinner. Set him some tasks to do—running errands, fetching wood, drawing
water—you know best how he can help you.
DICK: Oh, thank you, sir. I’ll work hard, sir. I’ll do my best.
MR. FITZ: I know you will. Do whatever Cook asks and I’m certain you will
succeed.
DICK [To Alicia]: Thank you, Mistress Fitzwarren, for interceding for me.
ALICIA [Smiling]: You deserve help, I think. [To FATHER.] Thank you,
Father.
MR. FITZ: And Dick-
DICK: Sir?
MR. FITZ: There’s an empty room in the garret. You shall sleep there.
DICK: Oh, sir, you are so kind—I’m so excited that I’ve forgotten my
hunger.
MR. FITZ: Cook will soon attend to that. Come, Alicia, we must continue
on your way. Cook, attend to the lad’s needs at once.
[Exeunt ALICIA and MR. FITZWARREN.]
COOK [Gingerly holding DICK’S shoulder]: So you want to work hard?

Well, I’ll see to it that you do. Come along, now. [Exit.]
Act 2 237
Scene 2
In the kitchen
[COOK is busy. DICK cleans floor.]
COOK: Hurry, you rascal. All day you’ve dawdled over your work. [DICK
yawns.] That’s right! Yawn in my face! Rudeness-base rudeness is what I call
that! [Rushes toward DICK, who begins to scrub furiously.]
DICK: Cook, I’ve done all my work except this corner of the kitchen, and
it’ll be finished before you finish the pudding.
COOK: Finish your work! [Inspects kitchen.] Why it’s only half done. What
about the scullery?
DICK: I cleaned every inch of it.
COOK: Humpf! And the pans—I suppose they’re all scoured?
DICK: Pans scoured and kettles polished until you can see yourself in them!
COOK: Be nimble then, and hurry, too, for I want you to fetch more wood
for the fires.
DICK: [Muttering to himself]: Nimble! Fetch! Carry! That’s all she knows.
COOK: And what are you grumbling about now? I’ll teach you respect.
[Starts after DICK with a broom.] The master told me to take care of you
and I intend to do it
DICK [Pleading]: Please, Cook—
COOK: And what do you think the master will say? —
[Enter ALICIA.]
ALICIA: [To COOK]: I think he’ll say that Dick does his work very well.
Why are you so unkind to him?
COOK: Unkind? Why, Mistress Alicia, if you but knew how I have to drive
him to finish his work!
ALICIA: With a broom? Here, give that to me. [Takes broom.] I don’t think
my father would approve of your abuse of Dick. He’s always busy. And you
heard Father say only yesterday that he never has to tell Dick a second time
to do anything. He’s learning very quickly.
DICK: I try so hard to please the master—and you, too, Mistress Alicia.
ALICIA [To DICK]: We are both pleased with your work. Father told me to
ask you about your room in the garret. Do the mice still bother you?
DICK: Oh, no, mistress, not since—
COOK: Not since you brought that cat here, I suppose. I’m telling you for
the last time that you must get rid of it. Dirty thing! [To ALICIA.] Would
you believe, mistress, that this thankless creature carries all the food from
the kitchen to the garret to feed that prowling beast? What will the master
say?
ALICIA: Enough of your scolding, Cook. Dick will not get rid of his cat,
and that’s my order. Do you understand?
DICK: She’s a great comfort to me, mistress. She never prowls about, even
though Cook says she does. All day she sleeps on the window ledge and
never, never leaves the garret. As for food, I only take her scraps from my
own dinner.
COOK: It would be better for you if you ate your food yourself, then you
wouldn’t be so tired all the time.
DICK: It’s not food that I need to make me less tired. Before Puss came I
never could sleep at night because the mice in the garret kept me awake.
Since I’ve had her, she keeps the mice away and I’m beginning to sleep
again. Soon she’ll have killed them all and I’ll get the rest I need.
ALICIA: I’m glad that you have her, Dick. She’s yours and no one will take
her from you. Don’t worry any more about Cook’s threats.
DICK: Thank you, mistress.
[Exit ALICIA.]
COOK: Aren’t you the fine gentleman, sniffling and crying to Mistress
Alicia. Do you suppose she could ever admire such a weakling? And mind
Act 2 239
you! Even though she threatens me, I’m warning you that that cat must
not—it will keep you from doing your full share of work so long as I am
Cook in this household. [Pauses.] I’m going to the garden now to find John.
When I get back, I shall expect to find this kitchen in perfect order.
[Exit COOK.]
DICK: Crosspatch! If it weren’t for you, I’d be so happy here. [Finishes

scrubbing.] There, that’s finished! [Takes pail.] There’s only one thing left to
do. I must fill the log baskets so that, if it turns cold, Master can have a fire
in the room. Then to the garret to tell Puss that she has a real home here
with me and that no one will ever, ever, chase her away. [Exit.]
Scene 3
Mr. Fitzwarren’s Office
MR. FITZ: And now, Daughter, I believe we have everything in readiness to

conclude the business of preparing for the voyage of the Unicorn. Captain
Kent and I have planned the trip carefully and our trading—ship is ready
to sail tomorrow. [To CAPTAIN KENT.] You know, sir, it is my custom to
allow each person in my household to contribute a share to our cargo. We
entrust it to you to barter with the natives of the far-away countries, hoping
that, as heretofore, you will bring back to each one a generous profit from
his undertaking.
CAPTAIN: That’s noble of you, sir. If all goes well on this voyage, I believe
that I can and will bargain well with the natives. As you know, they lack
many of the goods which we have in great quantity here in England. Often
their rulers are attracted by some unusual article, and from the great
fortunes, these rulers often pay fabulous sums, either in money or goods,
just to own what we consider a commonplace article. If your household can
profit from such deals, it is my honor to act for them as I would for you, sir,
in like matter.
ALICIA: [To CAPTAIN] What is your first port of call, Captain?
CAPTAIN: I hope to sail directly for the rich coast of Barbary.
ALICIA: Isn’t that a barbarous country, sir?

MR. FITZ: Enough of this questioning, Alicia. Call the servants—they must
be ready this time.
[Exit ALICIA—Mr. Fitz enters almost immediately, followed by SERVANTS.

MR F. AND CAPTAIN K. engage in quiet conversation.]
MR. FITZ [To SERVANTS]: As you know, Captain Kent sails tomorrow
with a cargo of my goods to trade with peoples in faraway countries. Each
of you may have among your treasures some things which you also may
wish to entrust to him. You may contribute from your savings, if you prefer,
and Captain Kent will do his best for you on this trip.
MAN: Here, Captain Kent, is part of my profit from your last trip. [Gives
purse to CAPTAIN.]
CAPTAIN: If all goes well on this trip, my man, you will double this amount.
1st MAID: Here, sir, is a lovely linen cloth which my grandmother wove for
me several years ago. I stitched it myself during the past years.
MR. FITZ: That is a treasure, my girl, which may attract the eye of some fair
maid. If she is as good as housekeeper as you, she will reward you for your
work. [MAID curtseys.]
2nd MAID: I have here, sir, a pitcher which I bought last year at the fair. I
should like you to take it with you.
ALICIA: If fortune favors you, Jane, you may buy more than one pitcher at
next year’s fair.
2nd MAID: I trust so, Mistress. [Curtseys.]
MR. FITZ: Now, Cook, what will your share be?
COOK: Well, sir— [Hesitates.]
ALICIA: Some grand surprise, I’ll venture!
COOK: I haven’t much sire, for I’ve not been able to save much money from
my earnings.
MR. FITZ: Surely, Cook, you do not wish the Unicorn to sail without a
contribution from you.
Act 2 241
COOK: Would the lovely green feather from my last year’s bonnet be
worthy, sir?
CAPTAIN: A colored feather once brought a rich prize to its owner. A

chief ’s wife saw it among our goods and would have nothing else. The chief
gave me a packet of stones in exchange for it. Those stones turned out to be
jewels. Thus the owner of the feather received a generous fortune and was
able to buy a feather for every bonnet she wore.
ALICIA: Hurry and get it, Cook. We’ll all be hoping that you will have equal
good fortune.
COOK: I’ll wrap it carefully and give it to the Captain’s man.
MR. FITZ: That accounts for all of your, does it not? [Looks over goods.]
ALICIA: Oh, Father, you’ve forgotten Dick.
MR. FITZ: That I have—sorry, my lad, but I did not see you. Were you
hiding?
DICK: No, sir, but I haven’t a thing in the world to contribute. You know I
possess nothing of my own. I wish I had just one small coin to contribute,
sir. I’d gladly give it, with no thought of profit, just in gratitude for all the
happiness you’ve brought me.
ALICIA: But Dick, you do have something.
DICK [Puzzled]: What, mistress?
ALICIA: Puss!
DICK: Oh, I couldn’t let her go, mistress. Besides, who would want to buy a
cat?
CAPTAIN: That is the chance you take, lad. If you send her with me, I shall
try to get a fair price for her. If I am not successful, I shall bring her back to
you. Besides, we can always use a cat on the ship.
MR. FITZ: Fetch your cat, Dick. I think she will bring good fortune to all of us.
DICK: Think you, Captain, that you will return within the year?
CAPTAIN: If we have fair winds, I believe we will make the trip in that
time. We’re undertaking a long and perilous voyage; but if we have patience
and exercise skill, I hope for a safe and successful trip.
MAN: What route will you follow, sir?
CAPTAIN: We will sail down the Spanish coast, through the gates of
Hercules and thence into the stormy Mediterranean. Eventually, we will
reach the coast of Barbary, where we will barter our goods and gold in
native markets and in the courts of native rulers.
ALICIA: I have heard that that country is wealthy and prosperous.
CAPTAIN: True, Mistress, and only too eager to secure our goods.
[Enter DICK with cat.]
DICK: Here, Captain, is my only treasure. I love her dearly and I shall be
very lonely without her. [Pats cat.] Oh, Puss, what shall I do without you? I
don’t want to let you go.
ALICIA: Perhaps, Dick, we may be able to secure another cat for you to take
Puss’s place.
DICK: But another cat wouldn’t be Puss. [Pauses and then relinquishes cat.]
Be kind to her, sir, please. [Wipes away tears.]
CAPTAIN: You may be assured that I will. [DICK rushes out.]
MR. FITZ: That concludes our business; I believe you may now return
to your duties. [Exeunt SERVANTS.] Come with me, Alicia, while we
accompany the Captain to the door. A final wish of success for the voyage
from you will speed him happily on his way.
[Exeunt ALICIA, MR. FITZWARREN, CAPTAIN KENT and SAILORS.]

Act 3
Scene 1
Interior of Palace of King of Barbary
KING [To SERVANT]: It is our understanding that the English trading ship
has already anchored in our waters. Soon the Captain will come to our court
to show his wares. As soon as he arrives, bring him to us at once, for we are
eager to examine his cargo. Likewise, it is our wish to talk with the seamen
about the long voyage they have undertaken, for we would learn from them
the customs and ways of those who live in far-away lands.
QUEEN [To KING]: But first, Your Majesty, let us examine their goods.
Always they bring such unusual merchandise, such wares of exquisite
beauty.
SERVANT: Already the brave Captain and his men have arrived, Your
Majesty. Even now they unpack their wares in the courtyard.
KING: Bring them to us at once.
[Exit SERVANT.]
KING [To QUEEN]: I trust that these traders have stopped at no other ports
before they reached our shores. Our enemy tribesmen along the coast may
have selected the best of their cargo and there will be little of value left for us.
QUEEN: We shall soon know when they show us their goods. If there
be little of value, then we may know that we have little chance of trading
further with our own subjects. But, let us not be too concerned, for I hear
the approach of our guests.
[Enter SERVANT, followed by CAPTAIN KENT and SAILORS.]
KING [To CAPTAIN]: Welcome to our court; very seldom are we so

honored by the presence of such brave seamen. We trust that your voyage
was pleasant.
CAPTAIN: Your hospitality is a source of great satisfaction to us, Your

Majesty. Our voyage was long and perilous; many times did we fear that
we would have to seek shelter in some unknown land. Our skilled seamen,
however, held to the course of your hospitable shore.
QUEEN: How long were you at sea?
CAPTAIN: It is many months since we left England. In that time we have

not touched land until we arrived at your shores.
[QUEEN looks knowingly at KING.]
KING: We trust that you have brought with you such wares and
merchandise as we may trade successfully with you.
CAPTAIN: Our cargo is assembled in the courtyard. You will find quantities
of grain from the fields of far-away England, bags of wool for your robes,
rolls of cloth already woven, a variety of seeds which will grow plenteously
in your fields, and works from the hands of our best artisans.
KING: That is well. [To SERVANT.] Command the Royal Treasurer to view
these wares at once. If they meet with his pleasure, we shall require all of
the cargo. Command him to send payment for the English goods which he
selects.
[Exit SERVANT.]
CAPTAIN: Your Majesty’s generosity is unequaled. In return for your trust,

we bring to you and to your gracious Queen gifts from our master merchant
in London.
[Hands gift to KING.]
KING: A rare and splendid gift. Carry to your master my expression of

gratitude.
[CAPTAIN hands gift to QUEEN.]
QUEEN: So exquisite a gift requires more than words of gratitude. Carry to

your master this packet of jewels in return for his great kindness.
[CAPTAIN bows.]
CAPTAIN: As is our custom, we brought lesser goods from the household

of our master, trusting that we may barter with you and your court for such
goods as are too little known in our own land.
Act 3 245
KING: Display these wares for our consideration. [SEAMEN bring goods.
KING and QUEEN examine them carefully.]
KING [To QUEEN]: Do they please your taste?
QUEEN: They are most beautiful. Gladly shall I exchange from my own
treasures a payment for all of these. The artisans of our court cannot
produce the like.
[Enter SERVANT, who speaks quietly to KING.]
KING: ‘Tis well, then, Captain, we shall require all of your cargo.
Tomorrow, our slaves shall carry to your ship quantities of copper and
beaten brass and fifty of our finest rugs. The remainder of the price will be
made in gold. And, now, it is our pleasure to extend the hospitality of our
court to you so long as you remain guests in our land. We have prepared for
your pleasure a royal feast—
[Off-stage cries of fright. “The mice! The mice!” QUEEN excitedly rises
and claps her hands—a SERVANT enters and drops on her knees at feet of
QUEEN.]
SERVANT: Your Majesty—Your gracious Majesty!
QUEEN: What means this confusion?
SERVANT: The mice, Your Majesty—they have come again.
KING: Pray, sir, pardon this discourtesy.
QUEEN: We are disgraced in the presence of our guests!
KING: These offensive creatures overrun the palace and bring great
misfortune to our court.
CAPTAIN: That is indeed unfortunate.
KING: I would gladly give half of my treasure to be rid of them. But what
can I do? The insect men of our kingdom cannot help us.
QUEEN: We are constantly plagued with them. At night, the royal

chambers must be guarded to keep out these invaders.
CAPTAIN: Can you not kill them?

KING: But how?
CAPTAIN: I have on my ship a creature that will kill them.
[CAPTAIN murmurs to a SAILOR, who leaves stage.]
KING: You have? Then pray bring it to us at once. If it has such magical
power, gladly will I give you twice its weight in gold in exchange for it.
QUEEN: And I will add equal weight in jewels. No matter how fierce it is, it
will be the most honored member of our court.
CAPTAIN: This creature will soon drive the mice away. The mere scent of it
will frighten them into the sea, for it is the sworn enemy of all mice.
[Enter SAILOR with Puss.]
CAPTAIN: Here, Your Majesty, is Puss.
KING: Puss? Never have I known or heard about such a creature.
CAPTAIN: Puss is her name. She is a cat.
QUEEN: So small a creature!
CAPTAIN: Small, indeed, but a mighty hunter of the pest which disturbs
your palace.
KING: I must have this cat. [Claps hands at SERVANT.] Bring my chest of
gold and the Queen’s jewel chest at once.
QUEEN: Is she fierce?
CAPTAIN: Nay, Your Majesty, she is gentle and kind to humans. [Puts cat in
QUEEN’S lap.] Stroke her fur.
QUEEN: Oh, she is so soft and warm.
[Enter SERVANT with chest.]
KING: Here, Captain, is the price we promised you.
CAPTAIN: I dislike to part with her, Your Majesty, but I know your need is
great, so I am happy to give her to you. Send her at once to your kitchen. Ere
morning comes, you shall be rid of the mice.
Act 3 247
KING: Such a happy occasion demands more ceremony. We shall escort our
Queen herself to the kitchen and there release the cat for her noble work.
[SERVANTS carry chests as they lead procession.]
Scene 2
Six months later
ALICIA: [Rushing in]: Father, John has just reported that Captain Kent and
his men are coming now.
MR. FITZ: Then, my child, tell the servants to be ready when I call for
them.
ALICIA: No need for that, Father, they’ve been waiting and ready all morning.
John has told them the news by this time. If you were to go to the kitchen,
you’d find them all waiting nervously to hear the glad tidings he has for them.
[Knock at door.]
MR. FITZ: Enter!
[Enter CAPTAIN and SAILORS—CAPTAIN shakes hands with MR.

FITZWARREN and bows to ALICIA.]
Welcome, welcome, Captain Kent! We are doubly glad to see you, for
disturbing rumors about your safety had reached our ears.
CAPTAIN: For that reason, I hastened here as fast as I could. I, too, heard
some of these tales when we anchored. We had a most dangerous return
voyage; but never did we lose confidence that we would weather all perils
and return to our home land.
ALICIA: How long did the voyage require, sir?
CAPTAIN: We should have made it in four months. Instead, we have sailed

six months since we left the Barbary coast.
MR. FITZ: What extended the time, Captain?
CAPTAIN: Contrary winds and rough seas caused most of our troubles. We
had to alter our course several times, to escape the pirates who were driving
all trading ships into their own secret ports. We carried such valuable cargo
that I feared we should be attacked by them. Fortunately, we were able to
elude them.
ALICIA: How exciting, Captain! Do tell us more about the pirates.
MR. FITZ: Later, my child. The Captain has other and more important
matters to attend to first. [To CAPTAIN.] Tell me, sir, how did you fare with
the trading?
CAPTAIN: Most prosperously, sir. Barbary was our only port of call, for the
King of that rich country bought our entire cargo. He was most generous
to us, too. The goods which we obtained through barter are still aboard
the Unicorn and will be unloaded at your orders. Here, sir, is the gold in
payment for the goods we sold. [Presents bag.]
MR. FITZ: Summon the servants, Alicia, for I know that Captain Kent
has equally favorable news for them. [Exit ALICIA.] I’m very grateful to
you, Captain Kent, for undertaking so successfully this trading voyage.
Tomorrow, I shall go down to the Unicorn and direct the unloading of the
goods. [SERVANTS following ALICIA have entered during the above
conversation and stand listening eagerly.]
MR. FITZ: I have summoned you to hear from Captain Kent’s own lips the
result of the undertaking he assumed for all of you. Come, Captain, tell
them whether they are richer or poorer by your trading.
CAPTAIN [Taking small bags from SAILOR]: In these bags are the rewards
you’ve won from bartering with the people of Barbary. [Gives one to each—
DICK gets none.] In addition, the servants of the royal court sent each of
you a small token from their own treasures. [Hands rolls or packets to all
but DICK.]
MAID [Examining bag]: This is more than I’d hoped for, sir.
JOHN: My small offering is more than doubled. I thank you, sir.
MAID: I never thought my woven cloth had such great value. [Curtseys.]
COOK: Mr. Fitzwarren spoke aright about the worth of my great green
feather. Now, I’ll be able to wear two feathers in my new bonnet.
Act 3 249
MR. FITZ: Captain Kent appreciates your expressions of gratitude, and I

am happy to see you so richly rewarded. And this concludes our business, I
presume, Captain?
ALICIA: But what of Dick? Is there nothing for him?

CAPTAIN: Nothing, Miss Alicia [Teasingly], nothing but this old box.
[SAILORS bring large box.]
MR. FITZ: Now what can the lad do with that?
ALICIA: Heed them not, Dick, I think it’s a beautiful box. [Tries to lift
it.] But Dick, it is so heavy. Open it—hasten—it must be filled with some
mysterious surprise.
[DICK approaches slowly—raises lid and gasps—all gather round him,

exclaiming.]
DICK: But, Captain, this cannot be mine. For what reason do I receive such
a gift?
CAPTAIN: It is not a gift, it is your just payment for the merchandise you
sent on the Unicorn.
DICK: You jest with me, sir. I sent no merchandise. So again I ask you, for
what is this payment?
CAPTAIN: It is the price of one small cat.
DICK: But she is just an ordinary cat, not of the value of anyone but me.
ALICIA: Father said that Puss would bring success to the voyage.
MR. FITZ: You are a man of great wealth now, Dick, so may I be the first to
congratulate you upon your good fortune?
DICK: Sir, all that I have received or have grown to be I owe to you and to Cap-
tain Kent. It is my desire that I should share my good fortune with both of you.
MR. FITZ: Nonsense, my lad; both Captain Kent and I are wealthy men.
What you have received is yours and yours alone to do with as you wish.
DICK: Then I should like to share with those who work with me. [MR.
FITZWARREN nods affirmatively.] Here, John, add these coins to those
Captain Kent gave you.
JOHN: Thank you, sir. I shall ever remember my association with you.
DICK [To MAIDS]: Two strands of golden chain will be yours.
1st MAID: Thank you, oh thank you. In days to come, we will have reason
to wear these chains with pride.
DICK [To COOK]: What choice is yours, Cook?
COOK [Whimpering]: Oh, Master Whittington, I deserve none of your

favors. I have often been very hard on you [changes tone to scolding] but
it was all for your own good! You’ve been industrious, that’s true, but if I
hadn’t kept you in line, perhaps you’d not have done so well. [Goes to chest.]
If it is your mind that I should have a part of your treasure—I’ll choose this
beautiful scarf.
DICK: Certainly, Cook; and with it goes my appreciation for your scoldings
and your nagging. I’ve learned much from you.
MR. FITZ: Now, be off, all of you! [SERVANTS exit.] Cook, as a reward for
your good fortune, all of you may have a half holiday. But before you go off
to celebrate, see that a lunch is placed for us.
COOK: This is wonderful. Thank you, Master; all shall be done as you
request. [Exit.]
MR. FITZ: Are you not curious, Dick, about the conditions under which
you received this great fortune?
DICK: That I am, sir, but I hesitate to ask.
CAPTAIN: Let me tell you. Briefly, here is how it came about. We were
received with great honor by the King of Barbary, who had invited us to
be his guests while we were in port. Just before the royal feast was to have
been served, servants rushed in to the throne room, frightened and crying.
They reported that the royal palace was overrun with mice. The King offered
great treasure to the one who could get rid of them. So I bartered your cat
to chase the mice away. Puss fulfilled all that I had promised. The King and
Queen were so grateful that they both contributed to the chest of gold and
jewels which I brought for you.
Act 3 251
DICK: I cannot believe that such good luck should come to me! And
to think that Puss is responsible for it. How was she, sir, before you left
Barbary?
CAPTAIN: She was very happy and content. And she should be, for she
has become a great pet of the Queen, who has ordered that she must be the
favored one of the court. You need have neither fear nor worry about Puss’s
future.
DICK: Oh, that is wonderful, sir.
MR. FITZ: During these years that you have spent in my household,
Dick, I have watched you with growing interest. You worked faithfully
and industriously, never complaining nor asking favors. You have been
rewarded most generously. [Hesitates.] I have no son to carry on my work,
but I will gladly have you work with me. I shall teach you all I know of
foreign trade. In time, you will take my place and carry out my plans.
DICK: This is indeed an honor, sir. Your interests and wishes shall always
come first with me.
MR. FITZ [To CAPTAIN]: Come, Captain, we must turn to our accounting,
so that we may pay the crew the wages we’ve agreed upon. [To ALICIA and
DICK.] Join us soon, and we shall have some refreshment and hear further
details of Captain Kent’s voyage.
[Exeunt MR. FITZWARREN, CAPTAIN and SAILORS.]
ALICIA: You are your own master now, Dick. Soon you’ll be leaving us to
establish your own residence in London.
DICK: But I shall never forget the debt I owe to you and to your father.
ALICIA: To me?
DICK: Yes, to you, for you made it possible for me to keep Puss in my
garret. It was you, also, who protected me time and time again from Cook’s
anger.
ALICIA: We’ve both been interested in you from the moment you set foot
in our house. Now, both of us shall watch with equal interest your progress
as a trading master.
DICK: I shall always try to merit the confidence you have in me. I wonder
what lies ahead! [Stops and muses for a moment.] If you will not laugh at
me, I would like to tell you something strange that happened to me before I
came to London.
ALICIA: Do tell me, what was it? I shall not laugh.
DICK: You remember the first day I came to your door? Well, I had walked
for several days before my arrival and I was tired and discouraged. Twice
I decided to turn back and not continue on to London. Then, through the
clear air, I heard the evening bells from Bow Church. It seemed to me that
they were speaking to me. Over and over again they kept saying, “Keep on,
keep on, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.” Well, I did keep on. And
now [pointing to gold] this has happened! Isn’t it strange?
ALICIA [Breathlessly]: Lord Mayor of London! Think how grand it will be!
[Bows.] The Lord Mayor of London rides about the city in a magnificent
coach, clad in silken robes, and wearing a golden collar around his neck.
[Takes chain from box, placed it around DICK’S neck.] No, Dick, it’s not
so strange as it sounds. Perhaps there are even greater honors in store for
you. Can’t you see the great Abbey filled with people? Gay banners adorn its
walls. The trumpet sounds. The King steps down from his throne. You come
forward and kneel before him [DICK kneels.] and he says [Taps him on the
shoulder.]: “For all your deeds of bravery and for your loyalty, we dub thee
Knight. Arise, Sir Richard!” [Both laugh.] Then comes the gay procession—
as you ride through the city in your gilded coach—
DICK: But look! Who is that sitting beside me in the coach of state!
ALICIA: Yes, I see someone sitting beside you; but I do not quite recognize her.
DICK [Placing coronet from box on her head]: It’s—why I believe—yes, it

must be—Lady Alicia Whittington!
ALICIA [Laughing]: Why, so it is!
[DICK, with courtly gesture, bends to kiss her hand. He rises, and taking
her hand, leads her grandly from the stage.]
Curtain
ai16491012355_Level 7 Reader Cover-PRINT-WE.pdf 6 4/4/22 1:40 PM
LEVEL SEVEN
Favorite Classics
CM
MY
CY
CMY
SKU 394

Level 7 Reader 2.1

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Description:

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Level 7 Reader 2.1

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

ai16491012355_Level 7 Reader Cover-PRINT-WE.

pdf 6 4/4/22 1:40 PM

Mary Jones and Her Bible. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Toni the Woodcarver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

Short Stories by Leo Tolstoy. . . . . . . . . 175

Moni the Goat Boy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201

Dick Whittington and His Cat . . . . . . . . . 227

Written By Homer Greene

First published in 1887

Text has been modified and updated with

© 2017 Jenny Phillips

Fifteen or twenty departing miners were holding an especially animated

“Blind! And working in the mines?”

After a while he began to grow nervous; the stillness became oppressive;

“I promised Sandy McCulloch,” he said, “to go over and tell him if I

Tom answered this summons gladly, as it might possibly afford a means

A nd Tom yielded. The whisperings of conscience were drowned in

Bennie hesitated. This was more of a poser.

detective’s story, he declared that they should prove, in behalf of the

“Who was the lad that came to your house?”

“I did,” replied Tom.

“Where was it given to you?”

He called the name somewhat feebly.

adventure on the day of the strike, he whispered, “Well, it isn’t so bad as it

From here he passed readily through an unblocked entrance into the

“I have nothing against you,” he said, and repeated, “I have nothing

“Sandy—are they safe?”

The monotony of waiting became unbearable at last, and the stricken

Written By Mary Emily Ropes

Edited by Jenny Phillips and Jennifer D. Lerud

First published in 1892

Text has been modified and updated with

© 2017 Jenny Phillips

F armer Evans' farm was a curious old-fashioned place. The house

W e may be sure that various were the influences tending to mold

“Do you read Welsh fluently?”

The long distance—over twenty-five miles —the unknown road, the

Translated by Helen B. Dole

Edited by Jennifer D. Lerud and Jenny Phillips

First published in 1920

Text has been modified and updated with modern-day

© 2017 Jenny Phillips

H igh up in the Bernese Oberland, quite a distance above the mead-

Little Toni repeated the prayer. Suddenly he shouted, “Father is coming!”

Oh, God of Love, oh Father-heart,

Oh Lord, it surely can not be

Oh Lord, my soul yearns for thine aid

For thee I’ve waited, hoped and prayed

Lord let me bear whatever thy Love

Oh God of Love, oh Father-heart,

Oh Lord, it surely can not be

Toni’s eyes took on a different expression. He looked at his mother. She

Oh Lord, my soul yearns for thine aid

that she wanted to act immediately that very hour.

Written By Johanna Spyri

Translated by Edith F. Kunz

Edited by Jennifer D. Lerud and Jenny Phillips

First published in 1906

Text has been modified and updated with modern-day

© 2017 Jenny Phillips

neighborhood, Clear Brook, as it is called, rushed down between them. In

his father died and he belonged altogether to Joe’s household, he hardly

O n a pleasant summer afternoon when the flies were dancing gaily in