My Monks of Vagabondia 8
"You should have thought of all this sooner," I said, with a sternness
that I did not feel, for I knew how easily one can drift from an evil
thought into an evil act.
"I heard you helped boys when they needed it," ventured the young
rascal. "I surely need it now."
"I may help them when I can," I replied, "but I never intentionally
make myself a partner in their wrong doing."
"The judge ought not to give me more than three years," said the boy
thoughtfully, "even that is a long time.... The bicycle wasn't worth
more than five dollars any way. The owner said he would sell it to me
for that amount."
At that moment there was a noise in the next room.
"What was that?" asked the lad, trembling with fear.
"Your conscience is quite wakeful, my boy. That was one of the men
closing the windows for the night."
The boy came over close to me so he could look into my face, and there
was a depth of seriousness in his voice when he said, "So you think I
ought to give myself up and take the consequences?"
"Three years in prison?" I asked, looking straight at the boy. "Three
years in prison!"
The words of Jacob Riis flashed through my mind--"When a boy goes to
prison, a citizen dies."
"If you were in my place you would give yourself up?" he asked me
pointedly.
I passed my hand across my eyes. Unlike the boy I had no cap with which
to brush away the tears.
"My boy," I said, "I will be honest with you--I would not give myself
up."
"What would you do?"
"First, I would make up my mind not to steal any more, then I would
earn money and pay the man for the bicycle."
A new light came into the boy's eyes.
"I did not used to be a thief," he said, "but they made me mad. Ever
since I came from Jamesburg every one watches me. My old boy friends,
my father and mother, the police; someone's eye is always on me. Their
suspicions madden me. Sometimes it seems to me as if they dared me
to take another risk. One day on the ferryboat from New York I met a
detective who had once arrested me. Wherever I went he followed me. I
was afraid, so I left the other boys who were with me and went to the
stern of the boat. I didn't tell anyone, but when I was all alone I put
my hands down into my own pockets so he would know that I didn't have
them in anyone else's.... I'm not very old, but I know that that isn't
the way to make a bad boy into a good one."
After a moment I said to him: "if I can arrange with the owner of the
bicycle so that you can pay for it in small weekly payments, will you
join the Colony and out of the little money you earn settle with the
man you have wronged?"
"If you will help me," returned the lad hopefully, "I will make good to
the man and to you."
The next morning I talked the boy's case over with an elderly attorney
who lives with us, and who knows of his own knowledge the ruin one can
bring upon himself if he does not follow proper methods. The old man
gladly undertook to settle with the owner of the stolen bicycle, and
save the boy from the consequences of his wrongdoing.
The boy worked industriously about the place and in a few weeks had
earned sufficient money to settle satisfactorily for the bicycle. He is
now working on a neighbor's farm and says that he is determined to make
something worth while out of his life.
"Do you know," said the old attorney to me recently, "if anyone ever
charges us with having compounded a felony in the case of this boy and
his bicycle we can defend ourselves on the technical ground that the
bicycle was of such slight value that the stealing of it was only a
petty crime."
"In this case--the saving of a boy from prison"--I answered him, "if
a technicality saves us from a criminal charge which might be brought
against us, I for one am perfectly satisfied with such a defense."
[Illustration]
THE PASSING OF SULLIVAN
"Friar Philip, you are the tuning fork from whence my conscience takes
its proper tone."--_Richelieu._
The Passing of Sullivan
"What's the name that grows
Upon you more and more?"
"Sullivan!"--"That's my name."
"Who's the man who wrote
The opera, Pinafore?"
"Sullivan!"--"That's my name."
"Big Tim, you all knew him;
John L., you know him well.
There never was a man, named Sullivan
Who wasn't a d---- fine Irishman."
--_George Cohan's Song, "Sullivan."_
If you thought it was imperative to change your name and you had access
to all the Literature--Ancient and Modern--to be found in a Carnegie
Library, would you select for yourself the name "Sullivan?"
Evidently our Irish Lad agreed with Cohan--that "it is a d--n fine
name"--for when I recognized in him one of my Family of Homeless Men
as he walked aimlessly along the city streets, and asked him rather
abruptly, what his name might be, his reply--too long considered to be
truthful--was, "Frank Sullivan."
"Pardon me," I said, immediately realizing that I had no right to ask
of him the question and that my thoughtlessness had caused the boy to
answer falsely. The outcast, distrustful of his fellow, frequently
seeks safety in falsehood until friendship disarms suspicion and Love
calls forth the Truth for which it has not asked.
"_Frank Sullivan_," I said. "I, too, like the name."
* * * * *
So upon my invitation he came gladly into our little Family to share
the happy freedom of a peaceful home, where others like himself give
honest work and receive--not in the spirit of organized charity, but in
the true warmth of fraternal love--the hospitality of a welcome guest.
His Irish heart soon caught the meaning of the work, and responded
readily in thoughtful service.... If our Self Master Colony attracted
the attention of some broad-minded man well known in humanitarian work
so that encouraged, it carried me and my dreams of uplift higher and
higher until the stars were our near neighbors--Sullivan, silent and
attentive, followed me in my dreams.
If my work was misunderstood and my best efforts discredited, Sullivan
was at my side silently consoling me with his loyalty and friendship.
He grew into my life. I depended upon him and he did not fail me.
"Richelieu," I would often say, "had his Friar Philip to aid him in his
ambitions and I have my good friend Sullivan."
Then as the months passed, once again, the grass spread its delicate
carpet beneath our feet, the trees blossomed sending a perfumed message
to us, the bluebird and the thrush called through the open windows
until we, busy with our work, were forced to remark that Spring time
had come--the beginning of another year.... Then the Brothers observed
the progress we had made in the twelvemonth.... It seemed so much to
them, so little to the outside world.
"It looks more prosperous now," said Sullivan proudly as he observed
the automobiles stopping at the door, "you make Prince as well as
Pauper do you homage."
"No, Sullivan, not I; it's the Truth that all are hungry for--Pauper
and Prince alike--and while the few may reach it by meditation and the
more by prayer, the most of common clay like you and I must reach it by
service."
"I never quite understand you when you speak," he said, "I never could
read those dry old books however much I tried.... But by the way, I
wonder if we have blankets for the new arrival who just came in."
For the Stranded Sons of the City come often to join our Family and
share our simple hospitality.
* * * * *
"Sullivan," I said one day, "this work is going to grow and grow....
When we have won I want you to share the credit with me--you will
remain, will you not?"
Then receiving no reply, I turned to look and he had gone--gone to
offer his blanket to the new guest.
"Yes," I heard him say, "I have some extra covers on my bed you may have."
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기