TO-MORROW NIGHT
Marginal mile after mile of smooth-running granite embankment,
Washed by clean waters, clean seas and clean rivers embracing;
Pier upon pier lying wide for the ships of all seas to foregather,
Broad steps of marble, descending, for the people to enter the water,
White quays of marble, with music, and myriad pleasure-boats waiting;
Music of orchestras playing in blossoming parks by the river,
Playing on white-pillared piers where the lightfooted thousands are
dancing,
Dancing at night in the breeze flowing fresh from the sea and the river;
Music of flute and guitar from the lovers afloat on the water,
Music of happy young voices far-flying across the bright ripples,
Bright with high-glittering ships and the low rosy lanterns of lovers,
Bright with the stars overhead and the stars of the city beside them,
Their city, the heaven they know, and love as they love one another.
MR. ROBERT GREY SR.
I thought I knew what trouble was when Jimmy went away. It was bad enough when he was clerking in Barstow and I only saw him once a week; but now he'd gone to sea.
He said he'd never earn much as a clerk, and he hated it too. He'd saved every cent he could of his wages and taken a share in the Mary Jenks, and I shouldn't see him again for a year maybe,—maybe more. She was a sealer.
O dear! I'd have married him just as he was; but he said he couldn't keep me yet, and if they had luck he'd make 400 per cent. on his savings that voyage,—and it was all for me. My blessed Jimmy!
He hadn't been gone but a bare fortnight when "unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster" on our poor heads. First father broke his arm. There was the doctor to pay, and all that plaster cast thing, and of course I had to do the milking and all the work. I didn't mind that a bit. We hadn't any horse then, to take care of, and Rosy, our cow, was a dear; gentle as a kitten, and sweet-breathed as a baby. But it put back all the farm work, of course; we couldn't hire, and there wasn't enough to go shares on. Mother was pretty wretched, and no wonder.
And then Rosy was stolen! That did seem the last straw. As long as
Rosy was there and I could milk her, we shouldn't starve.
Poor father! There he sat, with that plaster arm in the sling—the other one looking so discouraged and nerveless, and his head bowed on his breast; the hand hanging, the strong busy fingers laxly open.
"I'll go and look," he said, starting up, "where's my hat?"
"It's no use looking, father," said I, "the halter's gone, there are big footprints beside her hoof-marks out to the road, and then quite a stamped place, and then wagon wheels and her nice little clean tracks going off after the wagon. Plain stolen."
He sat down again and groaned.
"Thought I heard a wagon in the middle of the night," said mother, weakly. Her face was flushed, and her eyes ran over. "I can't sleep much you know. I ought to have spoken, but you need your sleep."
I ran to her and kissed her.
"Now mother dear! Don't you fret over it,—please don't! We'll find
Rosy. I'll get Mrs. Clark to 'phone for me at once."
"'Phone where?" said father. "It's no use 'phoning. Its those gypsies. And they got to town hours ago—and Rosy's beef by this time." He set his jaw hard; but there were tears in his eyes, too.
I was nearly distracted myself. "If only Jimmy were here," I said, "he'd find her!"
"I don't doubt he'd make a try," said father, "but it's too late."
I ran over to Mrs. Clark, and we 'phoned to the police in Barstow, and sure enough they found the hide and horns! It didn't do us any good. They arrested some gypsies, but couldn't prove anything; shut one of 'em up for vagrancy, too,—but that didn't do us any good, either. And if they'd proved it and convicted him it wouldn't have brought back Rosy,—or given us another cow.
Then mother got sick. It was pure discouragement as much as anything, I think, and she missed Rosy's milk,—she used to half live on it. After she was sick she missed it more, there were so few things she could eat,—and not many of those I could get for her.
O how I did miss Jimmy! If he'd been there he'd have helped me to see over it all. "Sho!" he'd have said. "It's hard lines, little girl, now; but bless you, a broken arm's only temporary; your father'll be as good as ever soon. And your mother'll get well; she's a strong woman. I never saw a stronger woman of her age. And as to the food—just claim you're 'no breakfast' people, and believe in fasting for your health!"
That's the way Jimmy met things, and I tried to say it all to myself, and keep my spirits up,—and theirs. But Jimmy was at sea.
Well, father couldn't work, it had to be his right arm, of course. And mother couldn't work either; she was just helpless and miserable, and the more she worried the sicker she got, and the sicker she got the more she worried. My patience! How I did work! No time to read, no time to study, no time to sew on any of the pretty white things I was gradually accumulating. I got up before daylight, almost; kept the house as neat as I could, and got breakfast, such as it was. Father could dress himself after a fashion, and he could sit with mother when I was outside working in the garden. I began that garden just as an experiment, the day after father broke his arm. The outlay was only thirty cents for lettuce and radish seed, but it took a lot of work.
Then there was mother to do for, and father to cheer up (which was hardest of all), and dinner and supper to get,—and nothing to get them with, practically.
The doctor didn't push us any, but father hates a debt as he hates poison, and mother is a natural worrier. "She is killing herself with worry," the doctor said; and he had no anti-toxin for that, apparently.
And then, as if that wasn't enough, that Mr. Robert Grey Sr. took advantage of our misfortunes and began to make up to me again.
I never liked the old man since I was a little girl. He was always picking me up and kissing me, when I didn't want to in the least. When I got older he'd pinch my checks, and offer me a nickle if I'd kiss him.
Mother liked him, for he stood high in the church, and was a charitable soul. Father liked him because he was successful—father always admired successful men;—and Mr. Grey got his money honestly, too, father said. He was a kind old soul. He offered to send me to college, and I was awfully tempted; but father couldn't bear a money obligation,—and I couldn't bear Mr. Grey.
There was a Robert Grey Jr., who was disagreeable enough; a thin, pimply, sanctimonious young fellow, with a class of girls in sunday-school. He was sickly enough, but Mr. Robert Grey Sr. was worse. He sort of tottered and threw his feet about as he walked; and kind or not kind, I couldn't bear him. But he came around now all the time.
He brought mother nice things to eat,—you can't refuse gifts to the sick,—and they were awfully nice; he has a first class cook. And he brought so much that there was enough for father too. We had to eat it to save it, you see,—but I hated every mouthful. I lived on our potatoes mostly, and they were poor enough—in June—and no milk to go with them.
He came every day, bringing his basket of delicacies for mother, and he'd chat awhile with her—she liked it; and he'd sit and talk with father—he liked it; and then he'd hang around me—and I had to be civil to him! But I did not like it a bit. I couldn't bear the old man with his thin grey whiskers, and his watery gray eyes, and his big pink mouth—color of an old hollyhock.
But he came and came, and nobody could fail to see what he wanted; but O dear me! How I wished for Jimmy. My big, strong, brisk boy, with the jolly laugh and the funny little swears that he invented himself! I watched the shipping news, and waited and hoped; he might come back any time now, if they'd had luck. But he didn't come. Mr. Robert Grey Sr. was there every day—and Jimmy didn't come.
I tried not to cry. I needed all my strength and courage to keep some heart in father and mother, and I tried always to remember what Jimmy would have said; how he'd have faced it. "Don't be phazed by anything," he used to say. "Everything goes by—give it time. Don't holler! Don't give a jam!" (People always looked so surprised when Jimmy said "Jam!") "Just hang on and do the square thing. You're not responsible for other people's sorrows. Hold up your own end."
Jimmy was splendid! He used to read to me about an old philosopher called Euripides, and I got to appreciate him too. But when the papers were full of "Storms at sea"—"Terrible weather in the north"—"Gales"—"High winds"—"Losses in shipping"—it did seem as if I couldn't bear it.
Then at last it came, in a terrible list of wrecks. The Mary
Jenks—lost, with all on board.
O what was the use of living! What did anything matter! Why couldn't I die! Why couldn't I die!
But I didn't. My health was as good as ever; I could even sleep—when I wasn't crying. Working hard out of doors and not eating very much makes you sleep I guess, heart or no heart. And I had to keep on working; my lettuce was up and coming on finely, rows upon rows of it, just as I had planted it, two days apart. And the radishes too, they were eatable, and we tried them.
But father laughed grimly at my small garden. "A lot of good that'll do us, child!" he said. "O Jenny—there's more than that you can do for your poor mother! I know you feel badly, and ordinarily I wouldn't say a word, but—you see how it is."
I saw how it was well enough, but it seemed to me too horrible to think of. To thrust that tottering old philanthropist right into my poor bleeding heart! I couldn't bear it.
Mother never said a word. But she looked. She'd lie there with her big hollow eyes following me around the room; and when I came to do anything for her she'd look in my face so! It was more effective than all father's talks. For father had made up his mind now, and urged me all the time.
"We might as well face the facts, Jenny," he said. "James Young is gone, and I'm sorry; and you are naturally broken-hearted. But even if you were a widow I'd say the same thing. Here is this man who has been good to you since you were a child; he will treat you well, you'll have a home, you'll be provided for when he dies. I know you're not in love with him. I don't expect it. He don't either. He has spoken to me. He don't expect miracles. Here we are, absolutely living on his food! It—it is terrible to me, Jennie! But I couldn't refuse, for your mother's sake. Now if I could pocket my pride for her sake, can't you pocket your grief? You can't bring back the dead."
"O father, don't!" I said. "How can you talk so! O Jimmy! Jimmy!—If you were here!"
"He isn't here—he never will be!" said father steadily. "But your mother is here, and sick. Mr. Grey wants to send her to a sanitarium—'as a friend.' I can't let him do that,—it would cost hundreds of dollars. But—as a son-in-law I could."
Mother didn't say a thing—dear mother. But she looked at me.
They made me feel like a brute, between them; at least father did. He kept right on talking.
"Mr. Grey is a good man," he said, "an unusually good man. If he was a bad man I'd never say a word."
"He was when he was young, old Miss Green says," I answered.
"I am ashamed of you, Jennie," said father, "to listen to such scandalous gossip! How—how unmaidenly of you! I dare say he was a little wild,—forty years ago. Most young fellows are, and he was rich and handsome. But he has been a shining light in this community for forty years.—A good husband—a good father."
"What'd his wife die of?" I asked suddenly.
"An operation,—but he did everything for her. She had the best doctors and nurses. She was a good deal of an invalid, I believe, after Robert Jr. was born."
"He's not much!" said I.
"No, Robert Jr. has been a great disappointment to his father—the great disappointment of his life, I may say; though he was very fond of his wife. But he won't trouble you any, Jenny; his father is going to send him to Europe for a long time—for his health. Now Jenny, all this is ancient history. Here is a good kind man who loves you dearly, and wants to marry you at once. If you do it you may save your mother's life,—and set me on my feet again for what remains of mine. I never said a word while you were engaged to Jimmy Young, but now it's a plain duty."
That night Mr. Grey Sr. came as usual. He had sent round his car and got mother to take a ride that afternoon. It did her good, too. And when he came father went out and sat with her, and left me to him:—and he asked me to marry him.
He told me all the things he'd do for me—for mother—for father. He said he shouldn't live very long anyway, and then I could be my own mistress, with plenty of money. And I couldn't say a word, yes or no.
I sat there, playing with the edge of the lamp-mat—and thinking of
Jimmy.
And then Mr. Robert Grey Sr. made a mistake. He got a hold of my hand and fingered it. He came and took me in his arms—and kissed my mouth.
I jerked away from him—he almost fell over. "No! O NO!" I cried. "I can't do it Mr. Grey. I simply can't!"
He turned the color of ashes.
"Why not?" he said.
"Because it isn't decent," said I firmly. "I can't bear to have you touch me—never could. I will be a servant to you—I will work for you—nurse you—but to be your wife!—I'm sorry Mr. Grey, but I can't do it."
I ran upstairs, and cried and cried; and I had reason to cry, for father was a living thundercloud after that, and mother was worse; and they wouldn't take any more of Mr. Grey's kindnesses, either of them.
My lettuce and radishes kept us alive until the potatoes were ripe. I sold them, fresh every day. Walked three miles with a big basket full every morning, to one of the summer hotels. It was awfully heavy, especially when it rained. They didn't pay much, but it kept us—a dollar a day, sometimes more.
Father got better in course of time, of course, and went to work on the farm in a discouraged sort of way. But mother was worse, if anything. She never blamed me—never said a word; but her eyes were a living reproach.
"Mother, dear," I begged her, "do forgive me! I'll work till I drop, for you; I'll deny myself everything: I'll do most anything that's decent and honest. But to marry a man you don't love is not honest; and to marry an old invalid like that—it's not decent."
She just sighed—didn't say anything.
"Cheer up mother, do! Father's almost well; we can get through this year somehow. Next year I can make enough to buy a cow, really."
But it wasn't more than a month from that time, I was sitting on the door stone at twilight—thinking of Jimmy, of course—and—there was Jimmy. I thought it was his ghost; but if it was it was a very warm-blooded one.
As to old Mr. Robert Grey, Sr., he persuaded little Grace Salters to marry him; a pretty, foolish, plump little thing; and if you'll believe it, she died within a year—she and her baby with her.
Well. If ever anybody was glad I was.
I don't mean glad she was dead, poor girl; but glad I didn't marry him, and did marry Jimmy.
WHAT VIRTUES ARE MADE OF
"Making a virtue of necessity" we say, somewhat scornfully; and never consider that all virtues are so made.
"The savage virtues" of endurance, patience, gratitude, hospitality, are easily seen to be precisely the main necessities of savages. Their daily hardships and occasional miseries were such that an extra store of endurance was needed, and this they artificially cultivated by the system of initiation by torture.
The Spartans used the same plan, training the young soldier to bear a doubly heavy spear, that the real one might be light to his hand.
Patience was needed by the hunter, and still more by the laboring squaw; gratitude sprang from the great need—and rarity—of mercy or service; and hospitality is always found in proportion to the distance, difficulty, and danger of traveling. Courage, as the preeminent virtue of manhood, rose to this prominence later in history, under conditions of constant warfare.
Where you have to meet danger, and your danger is best overcome by courage, by that necessity courage becomes a virtue. It has not been deemed a virtue in women, because it was not a necessity. They were not allowed to face outer danger; and what dangers they had were best escaped by avoidance and ingenuity. Amusingly enough, since the woman's main danger came through her "natural protector"—man; and since her skill and success in escaping from or overcoming him was naturally not valued by him, much less considered a necessity; this power of evasion and adaptation in woman has never been called a virtue. Yet it is just as serviceable to her as courage to the man, and therefore as much a virtue.
Honesty is a modern virtue. It existed, without a name and without praise, among savages; but its place among virtues comes with the period of commercial life. Without some honesty, no commerce; it is absolutely necessary to keep the world going; its absence in any degree is a social injury; therefore we extol honesty and seek to punish dishonesty, as the savage never thought of doing.
All men are not honest in this commercial period, nor were all men brave in the period of warfare: but they all agree in praising the virtue most needed at the time.
Truth, as a special virtue, is interesting to study. The feeling of trust in the word of another is of great value, under some conditions. Under what conditions? In slavery? No. Truthfulness is evidently not advantageous to slaves, for they do not manifest, or even esteem that quality.
Those same Spartans, to whom courage and endurance stood so high, thought but little of truth and honesty, and taught their boys to steal. In warfare trickery and robbery are part of the game.
Where do we find the "word of honour" most valued? Among gentlefolk and nobles, and those who inherit their traditions and impulses. It is conditioned upon freedom and power. You must trust a man's word—when you have no other hold upon him!
Mercy, kindness, "humanity"—as we quite justifiably call it,—is a very young virtue, growing with social growth. Cruelty was once the rule; now the exception. The more inextricably our lives are interwoven in the social fabric, the more we need the mutual love which is the natural state of social beings; and this feeling becoming a necessity, it also becomes a virtue. Similarly, as our lives depend on the presence and service of other animals we need to be kind to them; and in our highest development so far, kindness to animals has been elected virtue.
But of all virtues made of necessity, none is more glaringly in evidence than the one we call "virtue" itself,—chastity. We call it "virtue" because it is the quality—and the only quality—which has been a necessity to the possessor—woman. Her life depended absolutely on man. He valued her in one relation, and in that relation demanded this one thing;—that she serve him alone.
Because of this demand, to her an absolute necessity, we have developed the virtue of chastity, and praised it above all others—in woman! But in men it was not even considered a virtue, much less demanded and enforced.
Could anything be clearer proof that virtue was made of necessity?
What we need to study now is the chief necessity of modern life. When we have found that out we shall be able to rearrange our scale of virtues.
ANIMALS IN CITIES
A city is a group residence for human beings. There is no room in it for any animal but one—Genus Homo. At present we make a sort of menagerie of it.
Genus Homo is the major factor, bus he shares his common home with many other beasts, genus equus, genus canis, genus felis, and members of others whose Latin names are not so familiar.
The horse is most numerous. He is a clean animal, a good friend and strong servant where animals belong—in the country. In the city he is an enemy. His stable is a Depot for the Wholesale Distribution of Diseases.
The services of the horse, and the tons upon tons of fertilizing material produced by him, are financially valuable; but the injury from many deaths, the yearly drain from long sickness, and all the doctors and druggists bills, amounts to a far greater loss.
There is no horse work in a city that cannot be done by machine. The carriage, wagon, truck and dray, can take his place as workers; and they breed no flies.
We are learning, learning fast, how large a proportion of diseases spring from minute living things which get inside of us and play havoc with our organism. And very lately we are learning further, that of all the benevolent distributors of disease none are more swift and sure than certain insects; insects which are born and bred in and upon the bodies and excreta of animals.
It is true that our kitchen garbage furnishes another popular nursery for flies, but the unclean stable is the other breeding place.
Next in number to the horse come the dog and cat. These creatures are not healthy and not happy in a city. They cannot be kept there without injury to them; and the injury is more than revenged upon their keepers. The dog furnishes his quota of deaths from hydrophobia, as well as plain "assault and battery;" he defiles our sidewalks, and the fruits and vegetables exposed upon our sidewalks; he keeps us awake by his forlorn howling; he has diseases of his own which we may receive from him; and he has fleas.
The flea, as well as the fly, is a valiant and industrious purveyor of disease. From beast to beast they hop, carrying their toxic germs with them: and the dog, displeased with his persecutors, scratches them off upon our carpets.
The same applies to cats. A cat in the country is clean and safe; a cat in the city is neither—if it has any freedom. If a young kitten, cleansed and flealess, were reared in a lofty apartment, it would be clean, doubtless; but the usual cat is free on intersecting fences; and in the contact of warfare, or of gentler feelings, the flea is free to travel and exchange.
The rat and mouse come under the same condemnation; they have fleas. They make dirt. They tend to increase and maintain our insect pests and terrors. They penetrate to all unsavory places. They acquire disease themselves, or carry the germs of it in their blood or on their fur. Their parasites gather them up and give them to us. The rats will leave a sinking ship, the fleas will leave a sinking rat, and among their millions some of them come to us.
When we build cities clean and tight from basement to roof,—all concrete, brick, stone, metal, and plaster; when the holes for pipes of all sorts are scaled as they enter the home; when the kitchen is eliminated by 90 per cent. and replaced by the food laboratories; when no animal but man is allowed within city limits—and he is taught to keep clean; we can then compare, for antiseptic cleanliness with a fine hospital—and have few hospitals to compare with!