Greenfield Evening Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 2 November 1895 — Page 4

By JOHir HABBERTON.

te [Copftight, 1896, by the Author.] i®* Snch was the question which every light hearted inhabitant of New Rochesw- lei* had asked himself about Sam Minney a:, many times during the twenty odd years had elapsed sine*? New Hcch^'tor was first settled. In Rochester proper, from which the colonists of the new 'A town had labored through several hun--dred miles of wilderness, it had been 4h3j common impression that Sam was ?.* made to be either a preacher, a lawyer

At a member of congress. Both his par®0|ts were, intellectual, and their only & «hiidhad inherited their talents so complefoly that when he'was 4 years of age

Ji« occasionally stood upon a table in b, Hie minister's parlor and read aloud "Paradise Lost" with evident feeling

And appreciation, although greatly to the disgust of many larger boys, who liad been dragged away from their fair TOrite sports to behold this model for

Rochester youth. As he grew in years «nd intelligence, and his parents were loo poor to complete his education, some wealthy persons supplied the money Which enabled Sam to graduate, at 19, from an eastern college.

After he graduated, however, Sam did not at once begin to give practical -Evidences of the ability which he was supposed to possess. In fact, he developed no special ability at all, except as a .©cpaoiK rur in smoking tobacco. The ministers all liked him, for he enabled them to recall their own college days, tmt the other citizens began to remark to each other that Sam Minney wasn't doing much. At last, after receiving several hints on the subject of unused talents, oum became clerk in a store.

All his customers liked him exceedingly, perhaps because he was too good matured to stand out against an ordiuarily vigorous beating down. His peculiar sort of ability gained Sam an early release from the thraldom of the counter, but no lawyer stood ready to seize him as a student and prospective partner. Not even a Rochester editor seemed anxious to secure Sam as an assistant. "He ought to go west," was the final decision of Rochester. He needed something to stir him up, and in the west he could get it. So Sam joined a party of colonists who were to leave Rochester for the far west—i. e., Indiana. As every other man was obliged to desigBate his occupation Sam called himself a land .surveyor and actually traded away a great many books for a secondhand theodolite. Experience proved that he had reasoned rightly, for his services were not required more than an hour in a week during the first year of the colony, while the schoolmaster who was employed by the people in the following year proved as capable a surveyor as Sam and a great deal more trustworthy in point of time.

What Sam did after that it is doubtful whether lie himself could tell. He seemed to ct a sudden start in the world when anew and well to do storekeeper employed him as private tutor to his half dozen largo children. We say advisedly that this employment gave him a sudden start, for it enabled :,• him to obtain a much needed suit oi clothes on credit, an achievement which would shortly before have been impossibfe. The merchant\s children made considerable progress, but hardly in the direction contemplated by their parents.

The boys learned more college songs than mathematics, while the oldest daughter found Sam so agreeable that .she exhibited symptoms oi falling in love with him.

For along time after Sam's discharge by the merchant his only business ef5 forts consisted in running debt for his board. As $1 per week was the price of board at New Rochester in those days 6 his transactions in this line were not large, but he could conscientiously say that in this respect at least he did his best. But, after receiving notices to quit from every one at New Rochester who ever took boarders, Sam conceived a desire to visit the sunny south, in which land he understood existence might, be maintained without labor. He embarked for New Orleans on a flatboat, or rather he became one of the crew of such a boat, and for five weeks told jokes in the little cabin and grumbled when he was called on duty. After he parted from his mates at New Orleans the citizens of New Rochester heard no more of him for a year, when suddenly he reappeared just after an upward bound steamer had left New Rochester. His clothing was not overneat, and the shoulders of his coat were rubbed through in the manner peculiar to the "roustabout" (deckhand). He brought no baggage aslioro with him and ma/le no secret of the fact that he had been very hard up and had learned to work.

But the good hearted storekeeper who employed Sam immediately on hearing the ex-surveyor's story soon found that his new clerk had forgotten the excellent habit he had learned, but had not been so successful with certain other acquired accomplishments. He had learned to drink, and he parted with not a fragment of his knowledge on this subject. He had learned to make palatable beverages from raw materials, and he freely imparted his knowledge to the customers of the single liquor seller -who had Crept into New Rochester. He had profited so liberally by the free lunch attachment to the southern barrooms that he suggested the idea of free lunches to the liquor dealer, and the experiment resulted so profitably that, the grateful barkeeper made Sam welcome whenever he called. Later, when Sam's patronage seemed rather expensive, the vender of poisons remembered that Sam bad never been suspected of theft, so he employed him as barkeepc*. Brar 8am was already so far gone that he could not understand why, after his taking this new position, the nondrinking inhabitants ceased to recognize him rejpcctfully. But he had his revenge, alihough he had not the slightest idea of

taking any. "if? y- antifnl store of jokes and hL firie *njent oZ funny songs drew into the back dcor of the liquor shop many likely young'men whose parents suppoped their sons were visiting their neighbors 3ai liters.

last

8am became too much of a

drunkard to mix liquors oorrectly, so he lost his professional position. Snt Eayne, his late employer, was not a man to c?o bfi/'k on his friend so he Sam sleep on the bar at night, fed him with his own hired man and woman and occasionally gave him castoff clothing, in return for which kindness Sam took down and put up the shutters, made the' fire, chopped wood and made himself incidentally useful in other ways. His principal occupation, however, consisted in rambling about aimlessly and chatting in a desultory manner to whoever would listen to him.

All the ministers tried thefr hands on Sain, and ho cordially agreed with every proposition they advanced. Once, in the midst of an earnest sermon by the Methodist pastor, the subject being, "Our Home In Heaven," poor Sam burst out crying, and his conversion, which took place soon after, was the precursor of a mighty revival. But the brethren were so busy in rejoicing over the reclaiming of Sam's soul that they forgot all about the needs of his body, until one of that peculiar class of benevolent people who must be satan's especial darlings offered him his board in return for a steady job of wood chopping. The new doctor took it upon himself to visit some of the fbithful and say that Sam's system could not meet the demands made upon it, and that he must return to his cups if something were not done for him, but the new doctor, besides being a sort of an interloper, was not a religious man and could not be expected to understand the things of the Spirit. So his prophecy was permitted to be fulfilled.

After this relapse Sam went to the dogs. To be sure, the New Rochester dogs never lacked food. Sam hung about sugar camps, loggers' huts, soap boilings and other places where small services would earn a full meal and abed of leaves. Sam appeared at every temperance meeting and always signed the pledge, and no one who looked into his eyes when he did it could ever accuse him of insincerity. A curious citizen once gave Sam a quarter to publicly put himself under the fingers of a lecturing phrenologist, and the lecturer said something about congenital lack of vitality and imperfect nourishment in early years. For a few moments all good people in the audience thought that something should be done for Sam. Then they wondered what it should be.

The only business to which Sam devoted himself with any earnestness was that of catching sawlogs. About twice a year White river would be suddenly filled by a freshet, and then, with the driftwood, fence rails and other wood which the waters found on the bank, would be an occasional fine log which had been cut for the sawmill, but which the cutter had been unable to get to his raft. These were claimed by whoever could find them adrift, and they brought $1 each at any mill on the river. The catching of these logs was work which exactly suited Sam. It consisted in sitting in a skifi behind a point where there was dead water and looking up the surface of the stream. When a log appeared in sight, he rowed into the stream, drove into the log a spjko fastened by a rope to the stern of the boat and towed it to shore. The active exertion required per diem to catch several logs did not consume an hour. The time thus left for smoking, drinking and reflection was considerable. Then the same freshets were the signal and the only means for the start of many flatboats for the south, and it was a poor boat which, on being boarded, could not supply comfort to a thirsty man.

As Sam was log catching during a spring freshet he saw coming down the river a very queer looking little craft, which seemed to be manned by only a single very small person. The rapid current soon brought the craft near enough for him to see that it. was a small bridge, made of two logs and several planks, and that the occupant was a little girl, who was crying piteouslv, and when she saw Sam she held out. her hands appealingly. Sam had her in his arms in an instant and exclaimed: "Where did you come from, littlo dear?" "Way oft' to Raysvillc," she sobbed, "and I want to go back to mamma." "Well, don't cry," said Sam. "Raysville is only two miles up the river, and I'll take you home in the skiff right away after I've towed the bridge ashore. How did you get afloat?" "Why, papa caught the bridgo," she laid, "and 'twas tied near to the fence Where the river was overflowed, and I

She held out her hands appealingly.*' was playing house on it, and then the next thing I knew it was broke loose and floating off again, and papa'll be awful sorry to lose the bridge, too, 'eause be said it was worth 0-bits." "Well, he shall have the bridge again if he'll come after it," said Sam, "but he shall have his little girl first.'"'

Sam had hardly noticed where his heavy prize

Was

oausing him to drift to

xnd when he looked ahead he saw he uras a half mile below his lookout place

and opposite a portion of the bank which was overflowed. To tow the bridge against the current would be an impossibility, so gam .pul led toward, the shore with.all his might, desirous of tying the brto some ono of t£.e trees on t.io jMnt: theui, pu»r*i \j*f all i&i'ge pyctniores oi i.*..*' rv/cods, nbc.ui which Saia ecm-i not eas'ly put s.v»»— v.-ui» v*fort to throw the end of a rope around one of the trees, his' boat" careened'so much that botk the occupants were thrown into the waieiv The. child screamed, bni Sam seizetTher in "ah, insist and Was delighted to find that'the writer was "only waist:deep. But in the meantime the bridge. and boat were both moving away/With the currant, and, as is always the case with drift in a freshet, mOting toward the center of the river.': V•'This is a bad fix to be in," remarked Sam, holding the child above water, "but I'll wade to where there's dry ground, and then we'll find Bome house where we can dry ourselves."

But Sam did not find it easy to reach dry ground. Behind him the top of a small canebrake showed above water, indicating that the ground there was lower than that on which he stood. He moved cautiously down stream, but was stopped by what seemed to be a small ditch or hollow running at right angles with the river. Then he retraced his steps and moved toward the littlo point beyond which he always established his lookout, but a thicket of young cottonwoods, eight or ten feet high, barred his way. "I'll tell you what we'll have to do," said he. "I'll stand in front of the trees and put you up on my shoulders and we'll hail the first flatboat that comes along. There's been two gone by already this morning, and there will be plenty more "Let's climb a tree," suggested the child, "and then you won't be in the water. I can climb as good as Brother Ben."

Sam looked about him. Probably the weight of a healthy child even so small as this one was a severe tax upon his feeble body, already chilled by the water. "There's no tree small enough to climb," said he. 'Tw.ould take two men to reach around any one of them.:' "Then let's hello," said the little girl. "That's the way folks do when they want the ferryman to come over. "That's a first rate notion," exclaimed Sam, and he at once delivered several vigorous and, prolonged howls. Then the little girl gave vent to some shrill shrieks, but no one answered. Sam began to tremble and bend under the weight of the child, and the child, perceiving his.uneasiness, exclaimed: "I wish the water wasn't so deep, so I could stand up in it and not hurt you," said she. "Oh, you don't hurt," said he. "Can you sing?" "Oh, yes—lots of things," answered the child promptly. "What do you like the best—'Tommy Green' or 'Happy Land?' "Well, whichever is liveliest," replied Sam, shifting the child to the other shoulder, while she sang "Tommy Green" with the best spirit a soaked child could command. "Tlia-at sounds clie-ery," said Sam. "Why, how funny you talk!" said ishe. "What makes you say things so shakylike?" "Oh, I just felt cold for a minute," replied Sam very hastily. "Wouldn't it bo nice if we could warm the water somehow?" "To think of warming all tlio water in a big river,'' said she. How funny!'' 'Tisnonsensical, isn't it?" Sam admitted. "Well, 'twould be nice if somebody was making soap and we were standing by the fire, wouldn't it? What was the biggest fire you ever saw?" 'Twas old Bretzger's barn," said she promptly. "It burned way up to the sky and made my face warm way off on the fence, as far as from here across the river." "Did it roar and crackle and look red and comfortable?" asked Sam. "Yes, indeed!" said the child. Sam shifted her from one shoulder to the other again, and once more gave vent to several calls, but no one responded. There was dead silence for a little while, and then the child remarked: "It's kinder lonesome here. Why don't you say something?" "I—I'm kind o' sleepy," said Sam, straightening himself a little. "Why, it's early in the morning," exclaimed the child. "The idea of being sleepy!" "I guess I was up very late last, night," said Sam in explanation. "Aren't you glad I caught the bridge and kept you from floating way down the river—nobody knows how far?" "Oh, ain't I!" replied the little girl. "Then couldn't you give me a kiss?" asked the rescuer. "I'll give you a thousand," said the child impetuously as Sam lifted her off his shoulder and in front of him carefully, holding her so high that her feet should not get wet "Why, how blue you look!" she exclaimed as she saw his face. "It's the reflection of the water, makes one look that way," explained Sam, pressing her tightly to his breast and kissing her many times. "But you think I'm good for something, don't you?" "You're gooder than anybody in the world but my papa," replied the child. "That's a darling," said Sam, putting her back on his shoulder. Then he took from his pock's- a long piece of a "trotline," a heavy fishing line made to hold 40 or 50 hooks a yard apart, and managed to throw the end around the tree by which he stood and catch it again. "Now hold tight to'my head," said he. "I want to ugp both hands a moment* Why didn't I think of this line when the skiff floated off? I might have caught it. O God!" "Oh, you swear!" exclaimed the ihild.

*1Not—exactly,'' said Sam hesitatingly, though he did not explain. He tied tlieTtiSe agA'tly around hls'^ody, so that ji© wfit^ faBtened against --the tree, with his face toward the river. Then he bent hip head forward and said: "m-vo J- tit "T: Kirfe now, f, 'j! e?r *»n _.i' til tl'j CliOtildew."

T.-

"uu, jubc iijco a chair, with the big tree for a back. It's awful comfortable!" "We,11, wheji.I £0 to sleep," said Sam, "you can sit there without my holding you. Do you see?" "Yes,"replied tbechild, "but Idon't want you to go to sleep.1 I'll be so lonesom'e.'" "5h, no! You can keep a lookout for boats," said Sam. "flave you got a huitdkcrolnef?" "No." "Then wave my hat and hello if you see a boat. Do you understand?"

Yes I understand.'' Two or three moments passed in silence, which the child broke by asking: "What are you whispering about?" "1 was thinking about the only friend I've got left, and I was whispering just what I'd say if I saw him," said Sam, not over loud. "Do you ever say prayers?" "Oh, yes every night and morning. "Can't you say a little prayer for me? I don't like to go to sleep without pray-

"Thank you," said Sam hoarsely. ing, and the Lord might hear two people better than one. Do you ever tell lies?" "No—not never at all. "Then you ask the Lord to let me wake up in the right place. "When the boat comes, you mean?" "Yes, and ask him to let the ferryman take me where my mother is."

The child was silent for a moment. Then she said: "Dear Lord, let the man that's been so good to me wake up in the right place when the boat comes and bo took right to where his mother is and let her love him awful much for taking me off the bridge. And I'll be a real good girl if you will. For Christ's sake. Amen!" "Thank you," said Sam hoarsely, reaching up a wet hand and clasping the child's little fingers. "Now sing 'Happy Land.' And don't—forget—to wave—the hat and—hello.

The child began to sing, and Sam's head drooped. It fell lower and lower, until, when the song was finished, the singer had a good broad seat. "Don't it hurt yon to lean over so?" she asked. But she. received no response.

On the same morning, as the cook, for tho day, of the flatboat Rough and Ready was taking a doomed chicken from a coop on deck, he heard a shrill scream, and, looking up, saw a little girl sitting upon something where the bank should be. He hastily called up one of the crew, took the boat's skiff and rowed off to the child. She was glad enough to be released from her position and begged the men to wake up the dear good man who had taken her off the bridge. "Who tied him that way?" demanded the old man who was the cook's companion. "He did himself," said the child. "He said ho was so sleepy, and ho tied himself so'snot to fall in the wator and drown us both. And then he went to sleep." "I hope," said the old man, who was a Methodist class leader, "that he fell asleep in Jesus, for he'll never wake again in this world.

The flatboat was worked ashore at the next town, and the dead man was soon identified. It was proposed by some of the residents to leave the remains, under suitable guard, in a barn not far irom the river until the coroner should arrive, but when the wife of the owner of the barn heard how Sam came to lose his Lfo who caused him to be laid upon the be?t bed^in her house, and she, with her own 1 *Vds, throw a snowy spread over the dead man. The coroner soon came, with all New Rochester at his heels, and sifter the crowd came Bosier's hearse, with Bosier himself, the well to do cabinet maker, driving. The coroner's jury rendered the only verdict which was possible under tho circumstances, and then Sam was escorted back to New Rochester by a procession which would have done his soul good to see could he have sat up in the hearse and looked through its glass sides. Everybody at New Rochester went to the funeral. There was some objection made to tho appearance of Bayne, the liquor dealer, in the church, but when he reminded the faithful that he had been the only person in the town who had been practicsilly kind to Sam the objectors were silenced. As for the Presbyterian pastor who preached the funeral sermon, he was so moved by Sam's conduct that he twisted the passage, "Who gave himself a ransom," into a text appropriate to the occasion, and he spent do much time in calling attention to Sam's heroism that he was unable to warn young men against Sam's ruinous babits of life.

THE END.

1895 November. 1895

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