CHAPTER XIII.
A LYRIC STRAIN.
The impulse which had sent Ned and me headlong toward Jimmy's home as soon as we heard of the accident, found itself exhausted when we reached the gate. As if by concert, we both came to a dead halt.
"What shall we do?" said Ned. "If Jimmy was alive, we could whistle and call him out; or we might even go and knock at the door. But I don't know how to go into a house where somebody's dead. I wish we had gone first and asked Jack-in-the-Box what was the right way to do."
"Perhaps Jimmy isn't dead," said I. "There's no black crape on the door."
"That doesn't prove it," said Ned; "for Jimmy's folks might not have any crape in the house."
While we were still debating the question, the front door opened, and Jack-in-the-Box came out.
"You're the very boy—I mean man—I wanted to see," said Ned, running up to him, and speaking in a whisper.
"That's fortunate," said Jack. "Tell me what I can do for you."
"Why, you see," said Ned, "we came right over here as soon as we heard about Jimmy. But we don't know the right way to go into a house where anybody's dead. We never did it before."
"Jimmy isn't dead," said Jack.
Ned literally gave a great bound. I suppose he felt as if he had been suddenly acquitted of a serious charge of murder.
"Oh, Jack, how lovely!" said he, and threw his arms around Jack's neck. "But I suppose he must be hurt, though?"
"Yes," said Jack, "he's pretty badly hurt."
"Still, if he's alive, we can do something for him," said Ned.
"Oh, certainly!" said Jack. "A great deal can be done for him—a great deal has been done already. But I think you'd better not go in to see him just yet. Wait a few days, till he gets stronger," and Jack hurried away.
We still lingered before the house, and presently a little girl came out, eyed us curiously, and then went to swinging on the chain that supported the weight which kept the gate shut.
"You don't seem to go along," said she, after a while.
We made no answer.
"Did you want to know about my brother Jimmy?" said she, after another pause.
"Yes," said I, "we'd be glad to hear all about him."
"Well, I'll tell you all about it," said she. "Jimmy's hurt very bad—because he was runned over by a wagon—because he got in the way—because he didn't see it—because a gentleman wanted a paper on the other side of the street—because Jimmy was selling them—because he wanted to get money—because he had to pay a great lot of it to a naughty, ugly boy that lives over that way somewhere—because he just touched one of that boy's old things, and it fell right to pieces. And he said Jimmy'd got to pay money for it, and shouldn't come in his house any more. And Jimmy was saving all his money to pay; and he's got two dollars and a half already from the papers, besides a dollar that Isaac Holman gave him to write a poem for him. And that makes almost five dollars, I guess."
"Let's go home," said Ned.
But I lingered to ask one question of the voluble little maiden.
"What poem did Jimmy write for Isaac Holman?"
"I don't know," she answered. "It's the only poem Jimmy ever wouldn't read to me. He said it was very particular, and he mustn't let anybody see it."
A literary light dawned in upon me, as we slowly walked away.
Ned was silent for a long time. At last he spoke.
"I feel sick," said he.
"What's the matter?" said I.
"The matter is," said he, "that everybody seems to be trying to make out that it's all my fault that Jimmy got hurt."
"Patsy Rafferty and Jimmy's sister are not everybody," said I.
"Of course not; but they only talk what they hear other people say."
"I suppose you were a little to blame," said I.
"Perhaps I was," said Ned, "and I wish I could do something for him. I'd get any amount of money out of Aunt Mercy—if money would do him any good."
As our way home led us past Jack's box, I suggested that we should stop and consult him about it.
"Jack," said Ned, "please tell us exactly how it is about Jimmy."
"The poor boy is fearfully hurt," said Jack. "One leg is broken, and the other badly bruised."
"Do you know of anything we can do for him?"
"What do you think of doing?" said Jack.
"If money was wanted," said Ned, and the tears started in his eyes, "I could work on Aunt Mercy's feelings and get him any amount."
Jack drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair, and said nothing for some minutes. Then he spoke slowly.
"I doubt if the family would accept a gift of money from any source."
"Couldn't I, at least, pay the doctor's bill?" said Ned.
"You might," said Jack.
"Yes, of course," said Ned; "I can go to the doctor privately, and tell him not to charge them a cent, and Aunt Mercy'll pay him. That's the way to do it. What doctor do they have?"
"Dr. Grill."
"Dr. Grill!" Ned repeated in astonishment. "Why, Dr. Grill doesn't know anything at all. Father says somebody said if a sick man was made of glass, and had a Drummond light in his stomach, Dr. Grill couldn't see what ailed him."
"We don't need a Drummond light to see what ails Jimmy," said Jack, quietly.
"Still," said Ned, "he ought to have a good doctor. Can't you tell them to get Dr. Campbell? Father says he has tied the croaking artery nineteen times. Dr. Campbell is the man for my money! But how queer it must feel to have nineteen hard knots tied in your croaking artery. Do you think Jimmy's croaking artery will have to be tied up, Jack? If it does, I tell you what, Dr. Campbell's the man to do it."
Jack laughed immoderately. But Ned was not the only person who ever made himself ridiculous by recommending a physician too enthusiastically.
"I don't see what you're laughing at," said he. "It seems to me it's a pretty serious business."
"I was only laughing at a harmless little mistake of yours," said Jack. "When you said 'the croaking artery,' I presume you meant the carotid artery—this one here in the side of the neck."
"If that's the right name of it, that's what I meant," said Ned.
"And when your father said Dr. Campbell had tied it nineteen times," continued Jack, "he didn't mean that he had tied nineteen hard knots in one person's, but that he had had occasion to tie the artery in nineteen different persons."
"And will Jimmy's have to be tied?" said Ned.
"As the carotid artery is in the neck, and Jimmy's injuries are all in his legs, I should say not," said Jack.
"Of course not; I might have thought of that," said Ned. "But you see, Jack, I don't know much about doctor-things anyway, and to-day I don't know what I do know, for everybody's been saying I'm to blame for Jimmy's hurt, and making me feel like a murderer. I'll do whatever you say, Jack. If you say run for Dr. Campbell, I'll go right away."
"I think Dr. Grill will do everything that ought to be done," said Jack. "There's nothing you can do now, but perhaps we can think of something when Jimmy begins to get well."
"Then you think he will get well?" said Ned.
"I hope he will," said Jack.
"I tell you what 'tis," said Ned, as we continued our walk toward home, "that Jack-in-the-Box is the nicest fellow that ever waved a flag. Sometimes I think he knows more than Father does."
A day or two later, Ned went to see his aunt, and I went with him.
"Aunt Mercy," said he, "one of the best boys in this town has got badly hurt—run over down by the depot—and his folks are so awful poor I don't see what they're going to do."
"Yes, I heard about it," said Aunt Mercy. "It was that wretched, brutal brother of yours who was to blame for it all."
"Oh no, Aunty, Fay had nothing at all to do with it," said Ned.
"Don't tell me, child; you needn't try to shield your wicked brother; I know all about it. Miss Pinkham came to call on me, and told me the whole story. She said the poor little fellow tipped over a type or something, and one of those Rogers boys drove him away, and swore at him dreadfully, and made him go and sell papers under the wheels of the cars and omnibuses, to get money to pay for it. Of course I knew which one it was, but I did not say anything, I felt so deeply mortified for the family."
It is difficult to say what answer Ned ought to have made to this. To convince his aunt that Miss Pinkham's version of the story was incorrect, would have been hopeless; to plead guilty to the indictment as it stood, would have been unjust to himself; and to leave matters as they were, seemed unjust to his brother. And above all was the consideration that if he vexed his aunt, he would probably defeat the whole object of his visit—getting help for Jimmy. So he remained silent.
"What were you going to say, Edmund Burton, about poor Jimmy Redmond?" said his aunt.
"I was going to say," Ned answered, "that I wished I could help him a little by paying his doctor's bill, and not let him know anything about it."
"You lovely, benevolent boy!" exclaimed Aunt Mercy, "that's exactly what you shall do. You're an ornament to the family. Your right hand doesn't know what your left hand's doing. As soon as you find out what the doctor's bill is, come to me, and I'll furnish you the money. Oh, what a pity that hard-hearted brother won't follow your noble example."
Jimmy had the best of care; Mrs. Rogers did a great deal, in a quiet, almost unnoticeable way, to add to his comforts; and after a while it was announced that he might receive short visits from the boys.
Phaeton, Ned, and I were his first visitors. We found him lying in a little room where the sunbeams poured in at a south window, but not till they had been broken into all sorts of shapes by the foliage of a wistaria, the shadows of which moved with every breeze to and fro across a breadth of rag carpet.
The walls were ornamented with a dozen or twenty pictures—some of them out of old books and papers, and some drawn and painted in water-colors by Jimmy himself—none of them framed. The water-colors were mainly illustrations of his own poems. I am not able to say whether they possessed artistic merit, for I was a boy at the time, and of course a boy, who only knows what pleases him, can not be expected to know what is artistic and ought to please him. But some of them appeared to me very wonderful, especially one that illustrated "The Unlucky Fishermen." It was at the point where Joe and Isaac were trying to catch a ride behind an omnibus. Not only did the heroes themselves appear completely tired out by the long day of fruitless fishing, but the dog looked tired, the bus horses were evidently tired, the driver was tired, the boy who called out "Whip behind!" was tired, even the bus itself had a tired look, and this general air of weariness produced in the picture a wonderful unity of effect.
| "JIMMY LOOKED SO PALE AND THIN, AS HE LAY THERE." |
Jimmy looked so pale and thin, as he lay there, that we were all startled, and Ned seemed actually frightened. He lost control of himself, and broke out passionately:
"Oh, Jimmy, dear Jimmy, you mustn't die! We can't have you die! We'll get all the doctors in the city, and buy you everything you need, only don't die!"
Here he thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought out two silver dollars.
"Take them, Jimmy, take them!" said he. "Aunt Mercy's got plenty more that you can have when these are gone. And we don't care anything about the type you pied. I'd rather pi half the type in the office than see your leg broken. We can't any of us spare you. Live, Jimmy, live! and you may be proof-reader in our office,—we need one dreadfully, Jack-in-the-Box says so,—and you know pretty nearly everything, and can soon learn the rest, and we'll get you the green shade for your eyes, and you're awful round-sho—that is, I mean, in fact, I think you are the very man for it. And you can grow up with the business, and always have a good place. And then, Jimmy, if you want to use your spare time in setting up your poems, you may, and change them just as much as you want to, and we won't charge you a cent for the use of the type."
Ned certainly meant this for a generous offer, and Jimmy seemed to consider it so; but if he could have taken counsel of some of the sad-faced men who have spent their lives in proof-reading, I think, perhaps, he would have preferred to die.
Ned had scarcely finished his apostrophe, when Jimmy's little sister brought in a beautiful bouquet, sent by Miss Glidden to brighten up the sick boy's chamber.
Looking around, we saw that other friends had been equally thoughtful. Isaac Holman had sent a basket of fruit; Monkey Roe, a comic almanac, three or four years old, but just as funny; Jack-in-the-Box a bottle of cordial; and Patsy Rafferty, a small bag of marbles. Whether these last had been acquired by honest purchase, or by the gambling operation known as "playing for good," it would be ungenerous to inquire.
"How do you amuse yourself, Jimmy?" said Phaeton.
"I don't have much amusement," answered Jimmy; "but still I can write a little."
"Poetry?" said Phaeton.
"Oh, yes," said Jimmy; "I write very little except poetry. There's plenty of prose in the world already."
"Perhaps," said Phaeton, "if you feel strong enough, you'll read us your latest poem."
"Yes, certainly, if you'd like to hear it," said Jimmy. "Please pull out a box that you'll see under the head of my bed here."
Phaeton thrust his arm under, and pulled out a pine box, which was fastened with a small brass padlock.
"The key is under the dying hound," said Jimmy.
Looking around the room, we saw that one of Jimmy's pictures represented a large dog dying, and a little boy and girl weeping over it. Whether it was Beth Gelert, or some other heroic brute, I do not know. The corner of this picture being lifted, disclosed a small key, hung over the head of a carpet-tack driven into the wall.
When the box was opened, we saw that it was nearly full of manuscripts.
"The last one," said Jimmy, who could not turn from his one position on the bed, "is written on blue paper, with a piece torn off from the upper right-hand corner."
Phaeton soon found it, and handed it to Jimmy.
"It is called an 'Ode to a Horseshoe'—that one over the door," said Jimmy. "I found it in the road the day before I was hurt, and brought it right home, and put it up there."
"Then it hasn't brought you much good luck, so far, has it?" said Phaeton.
"I don't know about that," said Jimmy. "It's true I was hurt the very next day; but something seems to have brought me a great many good friends."
"Oh! you always had those, horseshoe or no horseshoe," said Ned.
"I'm glad if I did," said Jimmy; "though I never suspected it. But now I should like to read you the poem, and get your opinions on it; because it's in a different vein from most of my others." And then Jimmy read us his verses:
| ODE TO A HORSESHOE. |
| Thou relic of departed horse! Thou harbinger of luck to man! When things seem growing worse and worse, How good to find thee in the van! A hundred thousand miles, I ween! You've travelled on the flying heel— By country roads, where fields were green, O'er pavements, with the rattling wheel. Your toe-calk, in that elder day, Was sharper than a serpent's tooth; But now it's almost worn away; The blacksmith should renew its youth. Bright is the side was next the ground, And dark the side was next the hoof; 'Tis thus true metal's only found Where hard knocks put it to the proof. For aught I know, you may have done Your mile in two nineteen or twenty; Or, on a dray-horse, never run, But walked and walked, and pulled a plenty. At last your journeys all are o'er, Whether of labor or of pleasure, And there you hang above my door, To bring me health and strength and treasure. |
When the reading was finished we all remained silent, till Jimmy spoke.
"I should like to have you give me your opinions about it," said he. "Don't be afraid to criticise it. Of course, there must be faults in it."
"That's an awful good moral about the hard knocks," said I.
"Yes," said Phaeton, "it might be drawn from Jimmy's own experience. And as he says, the poem does seem to be in a new vein. I noticed a good many words that were different from any in his other pieces."
"That," said Jimmy, "is because I've been studying some of the older poets lately. Jack-in-the-Box lent me Shakespeare, and I got three or four others from the school library. Probably they have had some effect on my style."
Ned walked to the door, and, standing tiptoe, looked intently at the horseshoe.
"One thing is certain," said he, "that passage about the toe-calk is perfectly true to nature. The toe-calk is nearly worn away, and the heel-calks are almost as bad."
"It's a good poem," said I. "I don't see how you could make it any better."
"Nor I," said Phaeton. "It tells the whole story."
"I'm glad you like it," said Jimmy. "I felt a little uncertain about dipping into the lyric strain."
"Yes," said Ned; "there's just one spot where it shows the strain, and I don't see another thing wrong about it."
"What's that?" said Jimmy.
"Perhaps we'd better not talk about it till you get well," said Ned.
"Oh, never mind that," said Jimmy. "I don't need my legs to write poetry with, or to criticise it, either."
"Well," said Ned, "I hate to find fault with it, because it's such a good poem, and I enjoyed it so much; but it seems to me you've strained the truth a little where you say 'a hundred thousand miles.'"
"How so?" said Jimmy.
"Calculate it for yourself," said Ned. "No horse is likely to travel more than about fifty miles a day. And if he did that every day, he'd go three hundred miles in a week. At that rate, it would take him more than six years to travel a hundred thousand miles. But no shoe lasts a horse six years—nor one year, even. So, you see, this couldn't have travelled a hundred thousand miles. That's why I say the lyric strain is strained a little too much."
"I see," said Jimmy. "You are undoubtedly right. I shall have to soften it down to a dozen thousand, or something like that."
"Yes," said Ned; "soften it down. When that's done, the poem will be perfect; there won't be a single fact misstated in it."
At this point, Phaeton said he thought we had staid as long as we ought to, and should be going.
"I wish, Jimmy," said Ned, "you'd let me take this poem and read it to Jack-in-the-Box. I know he would enjoy it."
"I've no objection," said Jimmy. "And if you can find time some day to print it for me, here's two dollars to pay for the job," and he thrust Ned's money back into his hand.
"All right!" said Ned, as he saw that Jimmy would not accept the money, and yet did not want to refuse it rudely. "We'll try to make a handsome job of it. Perhaps some day it will be printed on white satin, and hung up in the Emperor of China's palace, like—whose poem was it Father told about the other day, Fay?"
"Derzhavin's," said Phaeton.
"Yes, Derzhavin's, whoever he was," said Ned. "And this one of Jimmy's ought to have a horseshoe embroidered in gold thread on the corner of the satin. But those funny ladies with slant eyes and little club feet will have to do that. I suppose they haven't much else to keep them busy, as they're not able to do any housework. It might have a small gold horseshoe on each of the four corners, or it might have one big horseshoe surrounding the poem. Which do you think you would like best, Jimmy?"
"I've no choice; either would suit me," answered the poet.
"Good-bye, Jimmy!"
"Good-bye, boys!"