My Monks of Vagabondia 9

My Monks of Vagabondia 9

"Another falsehood. Sullivan, you should always speak the truth." For

the nights were cold and the blankets none too many. And yet since many

prayers are lies, why may not some lies be prayers? "Maybe in your

dark purgatory, my Irish lad, these little falsehoods of yours will be

counted as prayers."

 

One afternoon a letter came for my friend--in a young girl's rather

labored writing--he had received many such, and as I gave it to him I

smiled a little. To him I had always been an indulgent Father--for a

boy and girl will love, even though he or she may be our favorite child.

 

That night when the day's labor was over, Sullivan came to me, asking

if he could talk to me. It was a strange request, for he never seemed

to wish to talk, and I knew that something had moved him deeply.

 

"You know my name is not Frank Sullivan," he asked.

 

"Yes, I know," I answered.

 

"But did you know I was married?" he inquired.

 

"What, a boy like yourself married?" I asked.

 

"Yes, I have been married over two years and have a little girl a year

old. The letters that I have received have been from my wife Josephine.

She and I ran away and were married, but on our return her father

wouldn't accept me. He said I was not worthy of his daughter--and no

doubt he is right. He is wealthy and I could not support her in the way

to which she is accustomed. So I was forced to leave her. But Josephine

and I couldn't forget.

 

"All these months she has been working to interest her father in

me, and now the baby is a year old, he has decided to help me....

We--Josephine and I--knew he would soften in time; you see he, too,

loves Josephine and the Baby. So I want to go to them."

 

"Yes," I said simply, for a sense of approaching loss had robbed me of

my pretty speeches.

 

"When you met me, I didn't know where to go, nor what to do," he said.

 

"Yes."

 

"I have flattered myself I have been some help to you in starting your

work. Tell me have I made good to you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I shall try to make good to Josephine's father."

 

"Yes."

 

Then in a few moments he said:

 

"Now that it is time to go from you, I hate to leave you and the boys."

 

"But you must go," I said, "your wife and child have the first claim."

 

"Josephine wanted me to ask you for two or three rugs that the boys

weave. We want them for our new home."

 

"You may have them."

 

And I took him by the hand, "Good-by, Sullivan."

 

"Not Sullivan anymore, but McLean," he replied.

 

As he turned away he said half regretfully, "It is the Passing of

Sullivan."

 

"I wonder if Richelieu, after all, lost his Friar Philip?" I asked

myself as I waved my hand in farewell to him.

 

[Illustration]

 

 

 

 

WHEN SISTER CALLED

 

 

"O Lord, That which I want is first bread--Thy decree, not my choice,

that bread must be first."--_Sidney Lanier._

 

 

 

 

When Sister Called

 

 

He came--did Jim--highly recommended by two fellows who live by their

wits--one, Lakewood Joe and the other, Corduroy Tom. They are my

friends, for they have told me they were. One of them always comes to

me in the Winter anxious to get work on a farm; the other with a few

broken umbrellas and a railroad spike for a hammer, starts out with the

Springtime on the quest of "anything to mend."

 

Umbrella mending was once a reputable calling, but it has fallen into

disrepute since the introduction of the cheap umbrella. But that

pathetic part of the story should be left for Lakewood Joe to tell, for

it gets him--a humble mechanic--many a hot cup of coffee, many a dime.

 

The recommendation by my two friends was sufficiently strong to nearly

cause me to refuse admission to young Jim. But his manner pleased me

and our reception committee--made up of members of the Family--assured

me that we had no need to fear poor Jim. Anyway he who has nothing can

safely make friends with whomever he chooses.

 

Jim told us that years ago he had been a "cookie"--please note the

"ie"--in a lumber camp in an Eastern State. So when a vacancy occurred

in the culinary department of our home Jim was selected for the place.

 

He proved an excellent assistant and worked for the house--as the

phrase goes--he made the coffee so weak, he made the potato soup go

so far, that I, economical from habit and from necessity, would blush

whenever one of the boys said that he enjoyed the good dinner.

 

I need have had no fear for it was Jim's smile that made us all content

with the simple fare.

 

"A grand cook," the boys would say.

 

"A grand cook," Echo and I would answer.

 

Jim had roughed it for several years and knew a little of the ways of

the road. He had worked when a boy in his father's factory and as some

of the workmen felt they were not being paid properly--the son joined

in with the workmen and went out on a strike against his father.

 

In the excitement of the strike the father had spoken to the son

about his joining in with the strikers. It seemed to the father like

disloyalty--ingratitude. But as for the son, he couldn't analyze

his own psychological state of mind sufficiently to explain why his

sympathy had been with the strikers, but feeling himself no longer

welcome at the old home, he started to roam.

 

Seven years had passed since he had written to the old folks. Once or

twice he had heard indirectly of his father's search for him, but he

could not even bring himself to write, much less to return.

 

He had been with us nearly a month when finally, one evening, as he saw

the other boys writing letters to their homes he decided he himself

would write a letter to his married sister in Pennsylvania. When it was

written and mailed, he half regretted what he had done.

 

Wasn't he a wanderer--a young hobo if you like--and why should he think

of home after all these years, even if the kindly sympathy to be found

at the Colony did recall to him those better days?

 

But the letter was already on its way.... He wondered what his sister

might think, how she might act.... She had always cared for him.

 

The bean soup which he was preparing for supper burned while he was

deep in thought, and he blamed himself for his absent-mindedness.

 

"The boys will have to eat burnt soup just because I got to feeling

sentimental," he said to himself.

 

* * * * *

 

Then a word came that a nicely gowned young lady was coming up the

driveway. There are many visitors at the Tea Room of the Colony House

so it need have caused no excitement. But some one whispered "Look at

Jim!"

 

He had glanced out at the approaching stranger, and he was pale and

trembling. He said to me in a faint voice, "It's my sister. Tell her I

left this morning.... Tell her I got a position."

 

And then the bell rang and he said:

 

"Wait--I will see her."

 

So brushing his hair and arranging his tie he went in to meet his

sister.

 

The homeless outcast lad faced his aristocratic sweet-faced sister!

As the boys saw them they did not know which one to pity the more,

although the sympathy seemed to be pretty largely with Jim.

 

"Is every one well?" the brother asked, trying to relieve the strain of

the situation.

 

"Yes," she answered, "but why have you never written all these years? I

got your letter this morning and left in an hour to get to you for fear

I might lose you again. Father has hunted for you everywhere. He thinks

he was harsh with you when you struck that day with the men--for you

were only a child.

 

"I thought I might get you to come home with me," she continued, "my

husband and I have a splendid home. You are always welcome.... Or why

don't you go back to your old job with Father. He needs you. He is getting older."