Atlantic Narratives: Modern Short Stories Part 50

'Well, after a while, G.o.d did have mercy on that poor soul, for he quit pullin' at my hands, and began to die, an' when I came 'round again to him he was gone. But that got me started, an' I left off sayin' that foolishness about the weevily wheat, an' said the little prayer instead.

I said it to myself first, but after a little bit, I found I was sayin'

it out loud. I don't know why, but it seemed like I _had_ to say it every time I gave one of 'em water. Just "G.o.d bless us an' keep us an'

make his face to shine upon us and be merciful unto us." It was somehow like a child's game--like havin' to touch every tree-box goin' along the street, or steppin' over every crack. Each one of 'em had to have the water an' the little prayer, an' then on to the next, or back down to the creek for more. Most of 'em didn't seem to notice, but some of 'em laughed, an' some stared like I was crazy,--an' maybe I was a little,--an' again some of 'em were glad of it.

'So I kep' on an' on, an' the sun went down, an' the dark came, an' it seemed like a kind of a lid had shut us away from all the world. It wasn't right dark, for the stars were shinin'. It was about that time that I found the little officer. He was dyin', off in the wheat all to himself, an' he got me to take down some messages for his folks. I wrote 'em in my diary. I had a pocket flashlight in my bag, an' it made a round eye of light that stared out at every word I wrote. They were the simplest kind of words. Just love, love to mother, and love to father, and Snippy and Peg, an' good-bye to 'em all, an' how he was glad to die for England. But they look mighty strange jumpin' out there in my diary alongside of travel notes about Brussels. It's like something big an'

terrible had smashed its fist right through all the little fancy things.

'But it was funny,' she went on after a minute, 'how sort of like children so many of the men were, so trusting an' helpless. There was one little fella always said the same thing to me every time I came 'round. "They'll sure be around for us soon now, won't they, sister?"

he'd say. An' I'd always answer, "Oh, yes, just in a little bit now."

An' he'd settle back again, so trusting an' satisfied, an' like I really knew. That was the way they all seemed to me--just children. Even the ones that cursed an' screamed at me. An' another funny thing,' she added lifting her grave child's eyes to mine: 'I've never been married--never known what it was to have children--but that night all those men were my children, even the biggest an' roughest of 'em. I felt 'em all _here_'--She held her hands tight against her breast. 'An' I b'lieve I would have _died_ for any one of 'em. I reckon bein' so crazy with pity had stretched me up out of bein' a scary old maid into bein' a mother.

'I recollect there was two loose horses gallopin' about. They were wild with fear, an' they'd gallop as hard as ever they could in one direction, an' then they'd wheel 'round an' come to a stand with their heads up, an' their tails c.o.c.ked, an' nicker, an' snort over what they smelt, an' then take out again. Well, once they came chargin' right down on us, an' I thought sure they were goin' right over the men. I never stopped to think: I ran straight out in front of 'em wavin' my arms an'

hollerin'. They just missed gallopin' right over me. But I didn't care; I b'lieve I'd almost have been glad. It was like I said--I _wanted_ to be hurt too. That was because it was all so lonesome for 'em. Death an'

sufferin' is a lonesome thing,' she stated gravely. 'When they'd scream, I felt like I'd tear my heart out to help 'em. But all I could do was just to stand on the outside like, an' watch 'em sufferin' an' maybe dryin' inside there all alone. That's why it seemed like bein' hurt too would make it easier.

'Well, along late in the night, the guns broke out again awful loud, an'

presently off against the sky I saw red streaks of flame go up in two places, an' I knew they were towns on fire. I just stopped still an'

looked, an' thought what it was like with the folks scurryin' 'round like rats, an' the fire an' the sh.e.l.ls rainin' down on 'em. "That's h.e.l.l--right over there," I says out loud to myself, an' then I went on down to the creek faster than ever. Maybe I was gettin' kind of lightheaded then, an' G.o.d knows it was enough to make anybody so; anyhow, I felt like I had to hold h.e.l.l back. It was loose right over there, an' the only thing that held it off was the cup of water an' the little prayer. So I kept on back an' forth, back an' forth from the creek, faster an' faster. I thought if I missed one of 'em it would let h.e.l.l in on all the rest, so I kept on an' on. The guns were boomin', an'

the flames goin' up into the sky, an' all h.e.l.l was loose, but the little prayer an' the cup of water was holdin' it back. An' then at last, when it commenced to freshen for dawn, I knew I'd won.'

She drew a deep breath, and paused, looking up at me with clear, far-away eyes.

'That was because I knew He was there,' she said.

'_He?_' I questioned, awestruck by her tone.

She nodded. 'Yes, G.o.d,' she answered simply. 'An' after that, that terrible lonesomeness melted all away. I knew that though I had to stand outside an' see 'em suffer, He was inside there with 'em--closer to 'em even than they was to themselves. So I knew it wasn't really lonesome for 'em, even if they were sufferin' an' dyin'. An' I'm right sure that a good many of 'em got to know that, too--anyhow, the faces of some of the ones that had died looked that way when I saw 'em in the mornin'.

Maybe it was because I cared so much myself that I kind of broke through into knowin' how much more G.o.d cared. Folks always talk like He was a father 'way off in the sky, but I got to know that night that what was really G.o.d was something big an' close right in your own heart, that was a heap more like a big mother.

'An' it was all bigger an' sort of simpler than I'd ever thought it would be. Right over there was h.e.l.l an' big guns, an' men killin' each other, but here where we were, were just stars overhead, an' folks that you could do things for, an' G.o.d. I reckon that's the way,' she said with her grave simplicity, 'when things get too awful you suffer through to G.o.d, an' He turns you back to the simplest things--just the little prayer, an' the cup of water for men that were like sick children. This is the cup,' she added, holding it out for my inspection.

'An'--an' that's all, I reckon,' she concluded. 'When daylight came, the stretcher-bearers did get through to us. There was a sort of doctor officer with them, an' I never in my life saw any one look so tired.

'"Who are you, an' what in thunder are you doing here?" he stormed out at me--only I don't say it as strong as he did.

'I reckon I must have looked like a wild woman. I had lost my hat and my hair was all falling down, an' I only had on my short alpaca underskirt, 'cause I'd taken off my dress skirt to make a pillow like I said; but I just stood right up in the midst of all those poor bodies, an' says, "I'm Miss Smithson--Sadie Virginia Smithson--an' I've been holdin' h.e.l.l back all night."

'I knew I was talkin' crazy but I didn't care--like the way you do comin' out of ether.

'He stared at me for a spell, an' then he says, kind of funny, "Well, Miss Sadie Virginia, I'm glad you held some of it back, for everybody else in the world was letting it loose last night."

'He was mighty kind to me, though, an' helped get me to one of the base hospitals, an' from there over to England. But I don't know what happened to the professor an' his party.'

'Well,' I ventured after a long pause, and not knowing quite what to say, 'the Laurel Literary Society will be glad enough to have you belong to it now.'

She flashed bolt upright at that, her eyes staring at me.

'But--but you don't understand,' she cried breathlessly. 'I've been face to face with war an' death an' h.e.l.l an' G.o.d,--I've been born again,--do you reckon any of them little old things matter now?'

I was stunned by the white look of her face.

'What does matter--_now_?' I whispered at last.

'Nothin',' she answered, 'nothin' but G.o.d an' love an' doin' things for folks. That was why I had to tell you.'

MR. SQUEM

BY ARTHUR RUSSELL TAYLOR

'Why do we go on perpetuating an uncomfortable breed?'

The man who was shaving at the mirror-paneled door of the Pullman smoking compartment looked at his questioner on the leather seat opposite.

'Give it up,' he answered. 'Why is a hen?'

The first man rapped his pipe empty on the edge of a cuspidor.

'You answer the question,' he said, 'in the only possible way--by asking another.'

'Right,' answered the shaver; and began to run the hot water.

A closely built man, in a suit so heavily striped as to seem stripes before it was a suit, lurched into the compartment and settled himself to his paper and cigar.

'That monkey-on-a-stick,' he presently broke out, 'is still taking good money away from the a.s.ses who go to hear him rant about G.o.d and h.e.l.l and all the rest, up in Boston. I am so _d.a.m.n_ tired of him, and of that rich rough-neck Freeze. It's the limit.'

'Pretty much,' said the man with the pipe. 'I was reading about the Belgians just before you came in, and when I jumped away from them I lit on some things about Poland. Then I wondered aloud to this gentleman why we go on multiplying--increasing such an uncomfortable breed. Modoc G.o.ds and degenerate millionaires make one wonder more.'

'What is your line, may I ask?' inquired the stripe-suited man.

'Religion.'

'The h.e.l.l--I beg your pardon. If you mean that you're a preacher or something like that, all I've got to say is, you're a funny one. It's your job, isn't it, to be dead sure that everything's all right, or somehow going to be all right--no matter about all the mussed-upness?

Yes, that's certainly your job. Yet here you are, asking why we go on stocking the world with kids. _I_ might ask that,--I'm in rubber tires,--but not you. Yes, I might--only I don't.'

The man who had been shaving had resumed his tie, collar, and coat, and now lighted a cigarette.

'I lay my money,' he said, 'on one thing: that, if men let themselves go, they wind up shortly with G.o.d--or with what would be G.o.d if there were any. You've come to it early--through the _Ledger_. You'd have got to it sooner or later, though, if you'd been talking about hunting-dogs--provided you'd have let yourselves go.'

'Well, now,' asked the closely built man, 'what is _your_ line?'

'Education.'

'High-brow company! Seems to me the pair of you ought to be silencers for a plain business man like me. Rubber is my line--not how the world is run. My opinion on that is small change, sure. Yet I think it ought to be run,--the world, I mean,--even if it's mussed-up to the limit, and I think it's up to us to keep it running. The parson here--if he is a parson--asks why we should; that is, if I get him. And then I think there's a manager of it all in the central office--a manager, understand, though he never seems to show up around the works, and certainly does seem to have some of the darnedest ways. The professor here--if he is a professor--doesn't sense any manager; that is, if I get him straight, with his "if there were any." That was what you said, wasn't it? I'm a picked chicken on religion and education, but, honest, both those ideas would mean soft tires for me--yes, sir, soft tires.'

'Broad Street, gentlemen,' said the porter at the door.