My Monks of Vagabondia 5

My Monks of Vagabondia 5

"In the west," he explained. Then the boys turned and laughed without

restraint.

 

"An ordinary sunset and a most ordinary joke," I said, rather icily.

But they continued to laugh, first looking at my companion and then at

me.

 

"Not so ordinary," said another boy. "If you could see it from where we

are you could understand."

 

"I understand you only too well," I answered.

 

Then the two boys who were on the Reception Committee came over to us

and took my German friend in hand. There were no more remarks until we

reached the house and the man himself was quite out of hearing.

 

"Why did you bring out a man like that?" the cook questioned me soon

after I reached the house, and every one looked up from the evening

paper he was reading anxious to have his little laugh.

 

But years have taught me somewhat of the ways of men. Did not Moses,

when the children of Israel attempted to entangle him in argument,

make his contention invulnerable by stating, "God spake unto Moses,

saying,----"

 

After that there wasn't much chance for argument. The best thing they

could do at such a time was to quietly line up in the ranks. And there

is an answer that will always check the hilarity of homeless men and

make them as sympathetic as children.

 

"Why did you bring him out with you?" the cook repeated.

 

"Why?" I said, simply, "the man is hungry."

 

Each boy frowned at the cook and turned back to his reading. And

the cook made no answer, except he served the new-comer with double

portions.

 

That night the German slept with his bed between the two beds of the

Reception Committee, and I heard nothing from him until they came to

report to me in the morning.

 

"Father," said one of the committee, "I don't like that old party you

brought out with you yesterday. All night long in his sleep he was

muttering: 'Down with the millionaire; curse the capitalist'--that man

is an anarchist."

 

A moment later the second member of the committee came in.

 

"Mr. Floyd, you know that wooden box that 'Whiskers' brought with him?"

he asked, nervously; "I put my ear down to it and listened. I could

hear something inside going tick, tick, tick, as plain as day."

 

"You are excited," I said. "After breakfast send the man to me."

 

In my room the German and myself talked a long time.

 

I asked him about the University of Heidelberg, the influence of

the student in German politics and of the world-wide socialistic

movement--had he ever read the works of Karl Marx, the great Socialist?

 

No, he never had.

 

Had he ever read La Salle, the anarchist?

 

No.

 

Or, in his travels, had he ever seen that little pamphlet entitled,

"Dynamite as a Revolutionary Agency?"

 

No.

 

But despite the denial, it was plain to see that my old German was

the anarchist that my committee had decided him to be. So I sent out

word that the boys should redouble their kindness to their half-crazed

friend. It was an opportunity to try our simple methods upon a man who

felt that the sad old world and its many peoples were as utterly lost

as a man may become who believes that there is no good within himself.

Men who feel themselves to be evil, they work evil.

 

Hardly had a fortnight passed before our good anarchist caught the

spirit of the place and began to feel that kindly sympathy that dwells

even in the hearts of stranded men. The young men grew really fond of

him.

 

At night he was the last man to knock at my door to see that everything

had been given attention; in the morning he was the first to ask what I

wished done.

 

It was a cheery "good night" and a cheery "good morning." After several

months our anarchist succeeded in finding his brother's address in

Philadelphia. The brother offered him a home and a chance to work, so

it was arranged for our friend to go to him.

 

As he was bidding me "adieu" he said: "When we first met, you

asked me if I had read any anarchistic writings, and I answered

you untruthfully. I have read the authors you mentioned, and in my

desperation I do not know to what extreme I might not have gone, for I

had lost faith in all men.

 

"But to see these young men at the Colony, forgetful of their own

troubles, trying to help me to a renewal of courage, gave me a clearer

viewpoint of life--the blood I see now in my dreams is not that of the

capitalist done to death by a communistic mob--it is the blood of the

gentle Christ, who said:

 

"'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'"

 

[Illustration: MAIN BUILDING FROM THE BUNGALOW]

 

 

 

 

A BASHFUL BEGGAR

 

 

 

 

"Faint heart ne'er won fair lady."

 

 

 

 

A Bashful Beggar

 

 

"It is his diffidence," the good lady told me, "that has caused the

young man to fail dismally in this strenuous age of materialism. His is

a gentle spirit!"

 

At their first meeting, she told me, when he called at her home and

asked for something to eat, he appeared so shy and embarrassed that she

was immediately interested in him. He blushed and stammered in a most

pitiable way, and after he had eaten heartily of the roast beef and

potatoes placed before him he wanted to hurry away, hardly having the

courage to remain and thank his benefactor.

 

The good lady told me all this in such a serious manner that I felt

I must accept it seriously, and when she suggested that I drive over

to a neighboring village to meet the boy at the train, because, being

unaccustomed to travel, he could never find his way alone to the

Colony, I arranged to meet him.

 

There are simple-minded men--mental defectives--who are oftentimes

helpless as children, and I was inclined to put this boy in that class.

 

But the lad whom I found waiting for me at the station came out to meet

me in a manner so self-possessed that for the instant I was startled.

The report of him seemed to be much in error.

 

"I ought not to have put you to all this trouble," he said, in ready

apology.

 

"The letter," I replied, "stated that you might not be able to find

your way."

 

He gave me a sly, shrewd glance, and then, confident that he was

understood, he said simply, "Indeed?"

 

"Naturally you did not confide in the lady who sent you, that you had

freighted it through most States as far as the railroads go?"

 

"No, I did not approach her as a penitent at confessional," he

answered, "but rather as a panhandler at the side door. Confession may

help to advance a man spiritually, but to a man living on the material

plane, would you advise it?"

 

"Is it true," I asked, "that you stammered and blushed when our friend

offered you roast beef and potatoes?"

 

"It is my best canvass," he replied.

 

We had driven some distance while this conversation was in progress,

and coming to cross-roads, I was uncertain of the direction.

 

"Go in to that farmhouse, please," I said to my companion, pointing to

a cheerful looking home a short distance from the road, "and inquire

the way?"

 

He alighted quickly and went around to the side door out of my sight.

I waited, every moment expecting him to return with the desired

information, and was growing impatient when he came out to me, his face

beaming with the enthusiasm that follows a successful interview.

 

"This is your share," he said, holding out a generous portion of hot

apple pie to me. "The lady who lives here is a motherly soul--very

proud of her cooking, and the pie did smell most tempting--I could not

resist."

 

"Did you use your usual 'blush and stammer' method to solicit this

pastry?" I questioned him.

 

"No, she was as hungry for my compliments as I was for her apple pie,

so we simply made a fair exchange."

 

"And the directions back to the Colony?"

 

"The direction?" and he felt extremely stupid. "I felt all the time

that--in my sub-conscious mind--there was a thought trying to assert

itself."

 

"But the strength of a bad habit," I remarked, "held back the thought:

habit is a strong force for good or evil, for it perpetuates itself by

a form, as it were, of auto-suggestion. You know all suggestions are

powerful."

 

"It is good pie, isn't it?" he asked, irrelevantly.