Rensselaer Standard, Volume 1, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 June 1879 — TURNED FROM THE DOOR. [ARTICLE]

TURNED FROM THE DOOR.

“No tramps here,” sakl I; and shut the door in his face, I did. The wind blew so I could hardly do it, and the sleet was beating on the panes, and the I are trees were groaning and moaning as if they suffered in the storm. "Na tramps here; I’m a lone woman, and I, am afraid of’em.” . „ \ ' Then the man I hadn’t seen yet, for the dark, went away from the door. < 'hamp, champ, champ, qme the man lack again, and knocked on the door—i knocked not half so loud as he did before— and I opened it, hot-and angry. This time I saw his sac pale ghost nf a sac yellow-brown hair, propped close, and great, staring blue eyes, and he nut his hand against the door and held it open. "How near is the next house, ma’am?” said be. ; “Three miles or more,” said I. • “No,” said I; “no drinks to be got there; it is Miss Mitten’s, and she’s as set agin tramps as I am.’ ( “I don’t wan’t drink,” said the man, “•though Ido want food. You needn’t be afraid to let me in, ma’m. I’ve been Iwounded, and am not able to Walk far, and my clothes are thin, and Mt’s bitter cokL I’ve been trying toget to my parents at Green bank, where I can rest till I’m better; and all my money was stolen from me three days ago. You needn’t be afraid; let me lie just before the tire, and only give me a crust, to keep me from starving, and the Lord will bless you for it.”

And then he looked at me with his mild blue eyes in a way that would have made me do it if it hadn’t been I’d seen so much of these impostors. The war was just over, and every lieggar that came along said he was a soldier traveling, ami had been wounded and robbed. One that 1 had l»een foolish enough to help,’ limped away out of sight as he thought, and tli<<p—for I was at the garret window—shouldered his crutches and tranq>ed with the strongest. “No doubt your pocket is fidl of money,” said L “ami you only want a chance to rob and murder me. Go away with you!” Drusilla, that’s my piece, was baking cakes in the kitchen. Ju»t then she came to the door and motioned with her mouth: “Dolet him stay,auntie;” and if I hadn’t had gtswi sense 1 might, but I knew better than a chick of 16. “Go away with you!” says I, louder than before. “I won’t have tills any longer.” And he gave a kind of a groan, and took his hand from the latch, and went champ, champ, through the frozen snow again; and I thought him gone, when there was once more, hardly with a knock at all—a faint touch, like a child’s now.

And when F opened the door again, he came quite in, and stood leaning on his cane, pale as a ghost, his eyes bigger than ever. - “Weil, of all impudence!'* said I. He looked at me, and he sail: J “Madam. F have a mother at Green lank. I won’t to live to see her. 1 shall not if I try to go any further to night s ** | “They all want tosee their mothers,” and just then it came to my mind that I hoped that my son Charlie, who had been a real soldier, an officer he had come to be, mind you, wanted to see his, and would soon. - “I have been wounded, as you see,” said he. “Don’t go a showing me your hurts,” said I; “they buy ’em, so they me. to go a begging with now. I read the papers, I tell" ye, ami I’m principled, and so is our clergyman, agin giving anything unless it’s through some well-organized society. Tramps are my abomination. And as to keeping you all night, you can’t expect that of decent folks—go!” Drusilla came to the door and said: “Let him stay, auntie,” with her lijie again, but I took no notice.» Bo he went, and this time he did not come back, and I sat down by the fire, ana smelt the baking cakes And the apples stewing, and the tea drawing on the kitchen stove, and I ought to have been very comfortable, but I wasn’t. Something seemed tugging at my heart all the time. I gave the fire a poke, and lit another candle to cheer myself up, and I went to my work-basket to get a sock I hail been knitting Charlie, as I went to get it, I saw something lying on the floor. I picked it up. It was an old tobacco pouch, ever so much like the one I gave Charlie with the fringe around it, and written on it in ink, “From C. F. to R H.;*’ and inside was a bit of tobacco, and an old pipe/and a letter, a rumpled old letter; and when I spread it out I saw on the top, my dear son.” I knew the beggar must have droped it, and my heart gave one thump,

its though it had been turned into a hammer. . Perhaps the story was true and he had a mother. I shivered all over, and the fire and candles and the nice comfortable smells might have been at all. I was cold and wretched. And over and over again had I to say to myself what I heard our pastor say often: “Never give Anything to chance beggars, my dear friends; always bestow you alms on worthy persons, through well organized societies,” before I could get a bit of comfort. And what an old fool I was to cry, I thought when, I found my cheeks wet.

But I did not cry long, for, as I sat there, dash and and crash and Jingle came a sleigh over the road, and it stopped at our gate, and I heard by Charlie’s voice crying, “Halloa, mother!” And out I went to the door, and had him in my arms—my great, tall, handsome brown son. And there he was in his uniform, with his pretty shoulderstra]is, and as hearty as if he had never been through any hardships. He had to leave me to put the horse up, and then I hail by the fire my own son. And Drusilla, who had been upstairs and had been crying—why, I wp'nder? —came down in a flutter —for they were like brother and sister—and he kissed her and she kissed him, and then away she went to set xhe table, and the nice hot things smoked on a cloth as white as snow; and how Charlie enjoyed them! feeling come over me, and I knew I turned pale; for Drusilla said, “What is the matter, Aunt Fairfax?”

‘ I said nothing; but it was this; Kind like the ghost of a step, going champ, champ, over the frozen snow: kind o’ like the ghoat of a voice saying: “Let me lie on the floor before your Are, and give me any kind of a crust;” kind o’ like some that had a mother down on the wintry road, and freezing and starving to death these. This is what it was. Jiut I put it away, and only thought of Charlie. We drew up together by the fire when the tea was done, and he told us things about the war I never heard before—how the soldiers suffered, and what weary marches and short rations they sometimes had. And then he told me his life had been in danger; how he had been set upon by the foe and been badly wounded; and how, at the risk of his own life, a fellow soldier had saved him, and carried him away, fighting his path back to camp. “I would never see you but for him,.’ says Charlie. “And if there’sja man on earth I love, it’s Rob Hadaway—the dearest, best fellow! We've shared each other’s rations and drank from the same canteen many and many a time; and if I had a brother I couldn’t think more of him.” “Why didn’t you bring him home to see your mother, Charles?” said I. “Why, I’d love him too, and anything I could do for him, for the man who saved my boy’s life, couldn’t be enough. Send for him, Charlie.” But Charley shook his head and covered bls face with his hands. “Mother, said he, “I don’t know whether Rob Hadaway is alive or dead to-day. While I was still in the ranks he was taken prisoner. And military prisons are poor places to live in, mother. I’d give my right hand to be able to do him any good;. but I can find no trace of him. And he has a mother, too, and she is so fond of him! She lives at Greenbank —poor old lady. My dear, g«xxl, noble Rob, the preserver of my life. And I saw Charley was nearly i»>KNot to let us see the tears he got up and went to the’ mantle-piece. I did not look around until I heard a cry: “Great heaven ! what is it?” And I turned, and Charlie had the tobacco-pouch the man had dropped, in his hand. “Where did this come, from?” “I feel as though I hail seen a ghost. I gave this to Bob Hadaway the day he saved me. We soldiers had not much to give, you know, and he vowed never to part with it while he lived. How did it come here, mother?”

And I fell back in my chair, white and cold; said 1“ “A wandering tramp left it here. Never your Rob, my dear, never your Rob. He must have been an imposter, I. wouldn’t have turned away a person really in want. Oh, no, no: it’s another pouch, child, or he stole it. A tall fellow with blue eyes and yellow brown hair; wounded, he said, and going to his mother at Greenbank. Not your Rob.” And Charley stood staring at me with clenched hands; and said he: “It was my dear old Rob, wounded and starving! my Rob who saved my life, and von have driven him out ' i such a night as this, my mother. ..(y mother, to use Rob so!” “Condemn me, Charley,” said I, “cmdeinn me if you like; I am afraid (led will. Three times he came back; i.tree/times he asked for only a crust ml place to lie, and I drove him .. »• ajf—l, I—and he’s lying in the road now; Oh! if I had only known!’’ And Charley caught up his hat. • I’ll find him if he’s alive,” said he. “Oh, Rob, my dear friend.” Atid then—rl never saw the girl in such taking. Down went Drusilla on her, knees, as if she was spying her prayers, and says: “Thank God, I dared to do it!” And says she to me: “Oh, aunt, I have been trembling with fright, not knowing what you’d sayjto me. I took him in the kitchen way. I couldn’t see him go faint and hungry, and wounded, and I put him in the spare chamber over the parlor, and-1 have been so frightened all the while.”

“The Lord bless you, Drusilla,” sal 1 Charley. “Amen,” said L And she, getting bolder, went on: “And I took him some hot short cakes and apple sass and tea,” says she, “and I took him a candle, and a hot brick for his feet, and I told him to go to bed in the best chamber, Aunt' Fairfax, with the white counterpane and all, and I locked him in ana put the key in my pocket, and I told him that he should nave one night’s rest, and that no one should turn him out unless they walked over my dead body.” Drusilla said it like an actress in a tragedy, and went off into hysterics the moment the words were out of her mouth. She’d been expecting to lie half murdered, you know, and the girl was 16, always before minded me as if I was her mother. , Never was there any old sinner so happy as I was that night, so thankful

to the good Lord; and it would have done your heart good if you had gone to see the two meet in the morning— Charley and his friend Bob. And Charley, who got so well and a mother who was not so poor either, helped-Rob into business. And he got well over his wounds at last and grew as handsome as a picture, and to-day week he is going to marry Drusilla. “I’d give anything I have,” said I, “and I won’t refuse you even Drusilla,” when he asked me, told me that he loved her ever since she was so kind to him on the night I’ve told you of. And Charley is to stand up with him and I am to give Drusilla away, and Rob’s sister from Greenbank is to be bridesmaid, and I have a guess that some day Charley will bring her home to me in Drusilla’s place. I don’L-drive beggars from the doer now as I used, and no doubt I’m imposed upon; but this is what Isay: “Better be imposed upon always than to be cruel to one who really needs help.” And I’ve read my Bible betterof late, and I know who says: “Even as you have done it unto the least of these ye have done ft unto me.”