Tommy Remington's Battle

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

The air was fresh and sweet, and he breathed it in with a relish somewhat unusual as he climbed the steep path up the mountain-side. He placed the bucket under the little stream of pure, limpid water that gushed from beneath a great ledge of rock, summer and winter, fed from some exhaustless reservoir within the mountain, and sat down to wait for it to fill. A cluster of lights along the river showed where the town stood, and he heard an engine puffing heavily up the grade, taking another train of coal to the great Eastern market. Presently its headlight flashed into view, and he watched it until it plunged into the tunnel that intersected a spur of the mountain around which there had been no way found. What a place it must be,—the East,—and how many people must live there to use so much coal! The bucket was full, and he picked it up and started back toward the house. As he neared it, he heard his mother clattering the supper-things about with quite unnecessary violence.

“Your pa ain’t come home yit,” she cried, as Tommy entered. “He don’t need t’ think we’ll wait fer him all night. I’ll send Johnny after him.” She went to the front door. “John-ny—o-o-o-oh, Johnny!” she called down the hillside.

“Yes’m,” came back a faint answer.

“Come here right away,” she called again; and in a moment a little figure toddled up the steps. It was a boy of six—Tommy’s younger brother. All the others—brothers and sisters alike—lay buried in a row back of the little church. They had found the battle of life too hard amid such surroundings, and had been soon defeated.

“Where you been?” she asked, as he panted up, breathless.

“Me an’ Freddy Roberts found a snake,” he began, “down there under some stones. He tried t’ git away, but we got him. I’m awful hungry,” he added, as an afterthought.

But his mother was not listening to him. She had caught the sound of approaching footsteps down the path.

“Take him in an’ wash his hands an’ face, Tommy,” she said grimly. “Look at them clothes! I hear your pa comin’, so hurry up.”

Johnny submitted gracefully to a scrubbing with soap and water administered by his brother’s vigorous arm, and emerged an almost cherubic child so far as hands and face were concerned, but no amount of brushing could render his clothes presentable. His father came in a moment later, a little, dried-up man, whose spirit had been crushed and broken by a lifetime of labor in the mines—as what man’s would not? He grunted in reply to his wife’s shrill greeting, laid a piece of bacon on the table, and calmly proceeded with his ablutions, quite oblivious of the storm that circled about his head. Supper was soon on the table, a lamp, whose lighting had been deferred to the last moment for the sake of economy, was placed in the middle of the board, and Mrs. Remington, finding that her remarks upon his delay met with no response, sat down behind the steaming coffee-pot to show that she would wait no longer.

Hard labor and mountain air are rare appetizers, and for a time they ate in silence. At last Johnny, having taken the edge off his hunger, began to relate the story of his thrilling encounter with the snake, and even his mother was betrayed into a smile as she looked at his dancing eyes. Tommy, who had been vainly striving to muster up courage to broach the subject nearest his heart, saw his father’s face soften, and judged it a good time to begin.