The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 24, 1904, Page 3

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL And there were American ss the trencheg to y were shak- twelve, thunder of And the they came, far to the the ke in very stroke of the aw rocking Under the sea, to ring s of the hurri- ng land r bands >angled eering and g hymns had s mother’'s soldier "i hymns did Bow t Then some thoughtful s T bex of hard- tack across th hes and the little ke school- pickaninnies as that ds ) around the ¢ sheathed bayonets, si- ouths t far away swaying on e folds of eloved Old ith a strange tway suffering, r that flag ritte 2 born. t he could see, got rest for a while; s the £ Judit Judith that own m n ant Basil kne t even 1o her. and the spirit -coming spirit of God-speed that lowed them six months before; sore smiling faces, cheers, and as time they were many a mother and i not weep when father wept now, that she the was rother went away they were coming home again. They had run the risk of fever and sickness, the real terrors of war. God knew they had done their best to get to the fromt, and the people knew what ac- count they would have given of them- selves had they got their chance at war. They had had all the hardship —the long, long hardship without the one moment of recompense that was the soldier’s reward and his sole oppor- tunity for death or glory. So the peo- ple gave them all the deserved honor that they would have given had they stormed San Juan or the stone fort at Caney. The change that even in that short time was”wrought in the regi- ment, everybody saw; but ly the old ex-Contéderates and Fede: on the street knew the steady, veteran-like swing of the march and felt the solid unity of form and spirit that those few months had brought to the tanned youths who marched now like soldiers indeed. And next the colonel rode the hero of the regiment, who had got to Cuba, who had stormed the hill, and who had met a Spanish bullet face to face and come off oconqueror—Basil, sitting his horse as only the South- erper, born to the saddle, can. How they cheered him, and how the gallant, gen us old colonel nodded and bowed, s though to say: T1 right; that's right Give it give it to him!" lis—her mother and Basil’s moth- g present—shook hands merely asil when she saw him first at d woodland, and Basil blushed a girl. They fell behind as the older people walked toward the audi- and Basil managed to get hold at to him Pt of her han but she pulled it away rather y. She was looking at hin »achfuly, a moment later, when her eyes became suddenly fixed to th k of his blouse, and filled with te She began to cry softly. Why yilis.” P s was giving way, and, there- upon, with her own mother and Basil's looking on, and to Basil's consternation, she darted for band and kissed him on the The throat flushed, and in the at white spot showed—the nouth of a tiny wound where a Mau- ser bullet had hissed straight through. ien the old auditorfum again, and tenden, who had welcomed the Le- gion to camp at Ashland, was out of bed, against the doctor’s advice, to wel- come it home and fireside. And when he faced the crowd—if they cheered Basil, what did they do now? He was startled by the roar that broke against the roof. As he stood there, still pale, erect, modest, two. pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking what none others were—the mother and Judith Page. Others saw him as the soldier, the gen- erous brether, the returned hero. These two looked deeper and saw the \pew man who had been forged from dross by the fire of battle and fever and the fire of love. There was much humility in the face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing—and his bearing had al- ways been proud—a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose. He spoke not a word of himself—not a word of the sickness through which he had passed. It was of the long pa- tience and the patriotism of the Amer- ican soldier, the hardship of camp life, the body-wearing travail of the march in tropical heat. And then he paid his tribute to the regular. There was no danger of the volunteer failing to get credit for what he had done, but the regular—there was no one to speak for him in camp, on the transports, on the march, in tropical heat, and pn the battle-field. He had seen the regular hungry, wet, sick, but fighting still; and he had seen him wounded, dying, dead, and never had he known anything but perfect kindness from one to the other; perfect courtesy to outsider; perfect devotion to officer, and never a word of complaint—never one word of complaint. “Sometimes I think that the regular who has gone will not open his lips if the God of Battles tells him that not vet has he earned eternal peace.” As for the war itself, it had placed the nation high among the seats-of'the mighty. It had increased our national pride, through unity, a thousand fold. 1t would show to the world and to our- selves that the heroic mold in which the sires of the nation were cast is still casting the sons of to-day; that we need not fear degeneracy nor dissolu- or another hundred years—smil- s he said this, as though the r s of Greece and Rome were to be- come realities here. It had put to rest for a time the troublous social problems it had brought together al element in ¢ national oal-heaver and milli re, stu- nt and cowboy, plain man and gen- an, regular and volunteer—had brought them face to face and taught h for the other tolerance, under- ndihg, sympathy, high regard; and had wheeled all into a solid front against a commen foe. It had thus not brought shoulder to shoulder the hers of the North and South, but those brothers shoulder to shoulder with our brothers across thessea. In the interest of humanity, it had freed twelve million people of an alien race and another land, and it had given us a better hope for the alien race in our own. And who knew but that up where France's great statue stood at the wide-thrown portals of the great city of the land, it had not given to the mighty torch that nightly streams the light of liberty across the waters from the New World to the Old—who knew that it had not given to that light a steady, ever-onward reaching glow that some day should illumine the earth? PRy The Cuban fever does not loosen its clutch easily. Crittenden went to bed that day and fay there delirious and in serious dan- ger for more than a fortnight. But at the end a reward came for all the ills of his past and all that could ever come. His long fight was over, and that after- noon he lay by his window, which was open to the rich, autumn sunlight that sifted through the woods and over the pasture till it lay in golden sheens across the fence and the yard and rested on his window-sill, rich enough almost to grasp with his hand, should he reach out for it. There was a little color in his face—he had eaten one good meal that day, and his lbng fight with the fever was won. He did not know that in his delirium he had spoken of Judith—Judith—Judith—and this day and that had given out frag- ments from which his mother could piece out the story of his love; that, at the crigis, when his mother was about to go to the girl, Judith had come of her own accord to his bedside. He did not know her, but he grew quiet at once when the girl put her hand on his forehead. Now Crittendey was looking out on the sward, greed with the curious autumn-spring that comes in that bluegrass land: a second spring that came every year to nature, and was coming this year to him. And in his mood for field and sky was the old, dreamy mistiness of pure delight—spir- itual—that he had not known for many years. It was the spirit of his youth come back—that distant youth when the world was without a shadow; when his own soul had no tarnish of evil; when passion was unconscious and pure; when his boyish reverence was the only feeling he knew toward every. woman. And lying thus, as the sun sank and the shadows stole slowly across the warm bands of sunlight, and the meadow-lark called good-night from the meadows, whence the cows A oo > were coming homeward and the sheep were still browsing—out the quiet and peace and stillness 1 purity and, sweetness of it all came his last vision— the vision of a boy with a fresh open face and no shadow across the mirror of his clear eyes. It looked like B: { him- but it was “the little brother” self coming back at last—com a glad, welcoming smile. The little man was running swiftly across the fields toward him. He had floated light- ly over the fence, and was making straight across the yard for his win- dow; and there he rose and floated in, and with a boy's trustfulness put his small, chubby hand in the big brother’s, and Crittenden feit the little fellow's cheek close to his as he slept on, his lashes wet with tears. The mother opened the door; a tall figure slipped gently in; the door was closed softly after it again, and Judith was alone; for Crittenden still lay with his eyes closed, and the girl's face whit- ened with pity and flamed slowly. as she slowly slipped forward and stood looking down at him. As she knelt down beside him, something that she held in her hand clanked softly against the bed and Crittenden opened his eyes. “Mother!” There was no answer. Judith had buried her face in her hands. A sob reached his ears and he turned quickly. “Judith,” he said: “Judith,” he re- peated, with a quick breath. “Why, my God, you! Why—you—you've come to see me! you, after all—you!"” He raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father's sword, caught tightly in her white hands—the old sword that was between him and Basil to win agd wear—and he knew the meaning of it all, and he had to steady himself to keep back his own tears. “Judith!” His voice choked: he could get no further, and he folded his arms about her head and buried his face in her hair. XV. The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory of many fires shine out among the leaves. Once or twice the breath of winter smote the earth white at dawn. Christmas was coming and God was good that Christmas Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days—and happiness; and high resolve had deepened. Day by day Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved her, as he loved her now. He had given her the locket and had told her the story of that night in the hospital. She had shown no surprise, and but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. And Crittenden, too, was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. It was her secret: she did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. Besides, he had his secrets as well. He meant to tell her some day, and she meant to tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent tozether. It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed, Crittenden back the locket that had\:nme from the stiffened pand of the Rough Rider, Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, un- stamped, addressed to herself, marked on the envelope, “Soldier’s letter,” and countersigned by his captain, “I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Keatucky,” ran the letter, “and that his name was Critten- den. I saw yeur name on a plece cf paper that blew. out of his tent one day. I guessed what was between you two, and I asked him to be my ‘bunkie;’ but as you never told him my name, [ never told him who 1 was. I went with the .Rough Riders, but we have been camped near each other. To-morrow comes the big fight. Our regiments will doubtless advance together. T shall watch out for him as long as I am alive. I shall be shot. It.is no premoni- tion—no fear, no belief. "I know it. I still have the locket you gave me. If I could, I would give it to him: but he would know who I am. and it seems your wish that he should not know. I should like to see you once more, but I should not like you to see me. I am too much changed; I can see it in my own face. Good-night. Good-by.” There was no name signed. The ini- tials were J. P., and Crittenden looked up inquiringly. “His name was not Blackford; it was Page—Jack Page. He was my cousin,” she went on gently. “That is why I never told you. It all happened while you were at college. While you were here, he was usually out West; and people thought we were merely cousins, and that I was weaning him from his unhappy ways. . I was young and fool- ish, but I had—you know the rest.” The tears gathered in her eyes. “God pity him!” iy Crittenden turned ‘from her and walked to and fro, and Judith rose and walked up to him, looking him in the eyes. “No, dear,” she said; “I am sorry for him now—sorry, so sofry! I wish I could have helped him more. That is all. It has all gone—long ago. It never was. I did not know until I left you here at the stiles that night. Crittenden looked inquiripgly into her eyes before he stooped to kiss her. She answered his look. “Yes,"” she said simply; “when I sent him awar.” = Crittenden’s conscience smote him sharply. What right had he to ask such a question—even with a look? “Come, dea he'said; *'T want to tell you all—now But Judith stopped him with a ges- ture. “Is there anything that may your life hereafter—or mine?"” “No, thank God: no.” Judith put her finger on his lips. “I don’t want to know.” cross And God was,good that Christmas. The day was snapping cold, and just a fortnight Before Christmes eve. There had been a heavy storm of wind and sleet the night before, and the ‘wmegroes of Canewood, headed by Bob and Uncle Ephraim, were searching the woods for the biggest fallen gak they could find. The frozen grass was strewn with wrenched limbs, and here and there was an ash or a sugar tree splintered and prostrate, but wily Uncle Ephraim was looking for a yule log that would burn slowly and burn'long; for as long as the fog burned, just that long lasted the holiday of every darky on the place, So the search was careful and lasted till @ vell rcse from Bob, under a cliff by the side of the creek—a yell of triumph that sent the negroes in a rush toward him. Bob stood on the torn and twisted roots of a great oak that wind and ice had tugged from its creek-washed roots and stretched parallel with the water— every tooth showing delight in his find. With the cries and laughter of chil- dren, two boys sprang upon the tree with axes, but Bob waved them back. “Go back an’ git dat cross-cut saw!™ he said. Bob, as ex-warrior, took precedence even of his elders now. “Fool niggers don’t seem to know dar’ll be mo’ wood to burn if we don’t waste de chips!” The wisdom of this was clear, and in a few minutes, the long-toothed saw was singing through the tough bark of the old monarch—a darky at each end of it, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, the muscles of each pow- erful arm playing like cords of elastic steel under its black skin—the sawyers, each time with a mighty grunt, drew the shining, whistling blade to and fro to the handle. Presently they began to sing—improvising: ‘Pull him t'reo! (grunt) Yes. man. . Pyll him t'roo—huh! ' e, G . Saw him to de heart. . . Swine to have Christmas. Yes. man! Gwine to have Christmas. Yes, man! Gwine to have Christmas Long as he can bu'n. L . Burn long, log! Yes, log! Burn long, log! v s, log, Heah me, log. burn long! Gib dig nigger Christma Yes ,Lawd, long Christmas! Gib dis nigger Christmas! O log. burn long! Rt s. And the saw sang with them in per- fect time, spitting out the black, moist dust joyously—sang with them and without a breath for rest: for as two pair of arms tired, another fresh pair of sinewy hands grasped the handles. In an hour the whistle of the saw be- gan to rise in key higher and higher, and as the men slowed up carefully, it gave a little high squeak of triumph. and with a “kerchun dropped to the ground., With more cries and laughter, two men rushed for fence-rails to be used as levers. There was a chorus now: Soak him in de water, Up, now! Soak him in de water, Up, now! O Lawd, soak long! There was a tightening of big, black biceps, a swelling of powerful thighs, a straightening of mighty backs; the severed heart creaked . and groaned, rose slightly. turned and rolled with a spiash into the black, winter water. An. other delighted choru: “Dyar now!"” “Hol' said Bob; and he drove a spike the end of the log, tied cne end of a rope to the spike, and the other to a pliant young hickory, talk- ing meanwhil “Gwine to rain, an’ maybe ole Mister Log try to slip away like a thief in de dark. Don't git away from Bob; no, suh. You be heah now Christmas eve— sho'! “Gord!"” said a little negro with bandy legs. “Soak dat log till Christmas an’ I reckon he’ll burn mo'n two weeks.” God was good that Christmas—good to the nation, for he brought to it vie- tory and peace, and made it one and in- divisible in feeling, as it already was in fact; good to the State, for it had sprung loyaily to the defence of the country, and had won all the honor that was in the effort to be won, and man nor soldier can do more; good to the mother. for the whole land rang with praises of her sons, and her own people swore that to one should be given once more the seat of his fathers in the capitol; but best to her when the bishop came to ordain, and, on his knees at the chancel and waiting for the good old man's hands, was the best beloved of her children and her first born—Clay Crittenden. To her a divine purpose seemed apparent, to bring her back the best of the old past and ail she prayed for the future. As Christmas day drew near, gray clouds marshaled and loosed white messengers of peace and good-will to the frozen earth until the land was robed in a thick, scft, shining mantle of pure white—the first spiritualization on,” into . of the earth for the birth of spring. It was the mother’s wish that her two sons should marry on the same day, and on that day, and Jydith and Phyl- ® : lis ylelded. So early that afternoon she saw together Judith, as pure and radiant as a snow-hung willow in the sunshine, and her son, with the light in his face for which she had prayed so many years—saw them standing gether and clasp hands forever. They took a short wedding trip, and that straight across the erystal flelds, where little Phyllis stood with Basil in udi- form—straight and tall and with new lines, too, but deepened merely, about his handsome mouth and chin—waiting to have their lives made one. And. meanwhile, Bob and lly too wers making ready: for if there be a better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and woman when the man is go- ing to war, it is the mood man and woman when the man has come home from war: and with cries and grunts and great laughter and singing, the negroes were pulling the yule-log from its long bath and across the snowy flelds: and when, at dus’ the mother brought her two sons and her two daughters and the Pages and Stantons to her own roof, the big log. hidden by sticks of pine and hickory, was sputter- Ing Christmas cheer w a blaze and crackle that warmed be and heart and home. That night th nds came from afar and near that night Bob. the faithful, v. Bob, in a dress-suit that was his o and new, and Mrs. Crittenden's o the saucy Molly, robed as n k bride at Canewood ‘was ev: into the dining-rcom. whi serv ants crowded the doors and hallw and the white folk climbed the stairs to give them room. And sol- emn moments, Bob caug in his arms and smacked he y =al, kon I got he and blacks broke into nd the n £ fic rose in the kitchen, w teast for Bob's and Rose, t00, the the stairway tenden and J there was a ly's fr of fiddlers and Mrs. and C) and Mrs. Stanton, and Judith and Basil and none other than Grafton and radi- ant little Phyllis led the way for the opening quadrille. It was an old-fash- foned Christmas the mother wanted, and an cld-fashioned Christmas, w the dance and merriment and the graces of the old days, that the moth had. Over the portrait of the eldest Crittenden. who slept in Cuba, hung the flag of the single star that would never bend its colors again to Spain. Above the blazing log and over the fine strong face of the brave father, who had fought to di ve the Union, hung the stars and bars—proudly. And over the brave brother, who looked down from the north wall, hung proudly the stars and for which he had ng life. Then came toasts after the old fash- ion—graceful toasts—to the hostess and the brides, to the American soldier, regular and volunteer. And at the end, Crittenden, regular, raised his glass and there was a hush. It was good, he sald, to go back to the past: good to revive and hold fast to the ideals that time had proven best for humanity: good to go back to the earth, like the Titans, for fresh sirength; good for the man, the State, the nation. And it was best for the man to go back to the ideals that had dawned at his mother’s knee; for there was the fountain-head of the nation’s faith in its God. man’s faith in his nation—man's faith in his fellow and faith in himself. And he drank te cne who represented his own early ideals better than he should cver realize them for himself. Then he raised his glass, smiling, but deeply moved: “My little brother.” He turned to Basil when he spoke and back again to Judith, who, of all present, knew all that he meant, and he saw her eyes shine with the sudden light of tears. At last came the crack of wheels on the snow outside, the cries of servants, the good-bys and good wishes and con- gratulations from one and all to one and all; the mother’s kiss to Basil and Phyllis, who were under their mother’s wing; the last calls from the doorway; the light of lanterns across the flelds; the slam of the pike gate—and. over the earth, white silence. The mother kissed Judith and kissed her son. “My children!” Then, as was her custom always, she said simply: “Be sure to bolt the front door, my son.” And, as he had done for years, Crit- tenden slipped the fastenings of the big hall door, paused a moment, and looked out. Around the cormer of the still house swept the sounds of merriment from the quarters. The moon had risen on the snowy flelds and white-cowled trees and draped hedges and on the slender white shaft under the bent willow over his father’s and his uncle’s grave—the brothers who had fought face to face and were sleeping side by side in peace, each the blameless gen- tleman who had reverenced his con- science as his king. and, without re- gret for his way on earth, had set his foot, without fear, on the long way lnte the hereafter. For ome moment his mind swept back over the short, flerce struggle of the summer. As they had done, so he had tried to do; and as they had lived, so he, with God’s help, would live henceforth to the end. For a moment he thought of the flag hanging motionless in th& dim drawing-room behind him—the flag of the great land that was stretching out its powerful hand to the weak and op- pressed of the earth. And then with a last look to the willow and the shaft beneath, his lips moved noiselessly: “They will sleep better to-night.™ Judith was standing in the drawing- room on his hearth. looking into his fire and dreaming. Ah, God, to think that it should come to pass at last! He entered so softly that she did not hear him. There was no sound but the drowsy tick of the great clock In the hal!l and the low song of the fire. “Sweetheart!"” She looked up quickly, the dream gone from her face, and in its place the light of love and perfect trust, and she stood still, her arms hanging at her sides—waiting. “Sweetheart!"” God was good that Christmas THE END.