The Adventures of a Woman Hobo

by Ethel Lynn

Perhaps we appeared less murderous by the light of day, or what is more likely, her “conthrary timper” was less in evidence when acting on her own initiative; at any rate, after a short chat, she cordially invited us in to breakfast.

Then followed a most interesting day. Jim, her husband, who was unusually well read, struck up an immediate friendship with Dan, and while waiting for the rain to cease, Katie and I visited in the kitchen.

There were but three in the family: the old man, his wife and the feeble-minded chore man who had brought us to their dwelling the previous night. Outside of an acre of orchard, a chicken run and a small garden, their great holdings of hundreds of acres were rented to tenants, one of whom supplied them with milk and butter.

The couple had emigrated from the old country when very young; had met and loved on the long voyage, and were married soon after their arrival.

James Grogan was a remarkable man. Keen, shrewd, ambitious, he worked and saved and invested with all the energy and acumen that has enabled so many of his race to rise in the world. He homesteaded the original Illinois farm and to these hundred and sixty acres he constantly added. His passion was to leave his children educated and rich. He himself had learned to read and write when past the age of thirty; the struggle upward had been a hard one; his children should be spared all this.

And eleven babies were born to them. With bitter words old Katie painted pictures of the heartbreaking toil; the lack of ordinary conveniences; the goading tongue of her lord and master driving her on through the years while acre was added to acre, and the herds increased, and no barn was large enough to hold the abundant crops. Modern farm implements were purchased in plenty, but there was no money for the simplest household conveniences; outbuildings were snug and well built; but the home itself was ramshackle and poor.

It has been said that in earlier days the size of a man’s farm could often be estimated by the number of wives’ tombstones in his lot in the cemetery. But it was not true in this case. Katie had lived, but her babies died.

Her love for her husband turned to a cold hate, but still the babies came. Ten had been born and ten had died before Jim realised that Katie needed as good care as his animals—that she was more than any animal—that she was, in truth, the mother of those children—his children—whom he worshipped—and lost.

So the youngest boy was born and grew—a slender, delicate, brilliant lad—and all the facilities for education, and all the riches of cattle and horses and broad acres were his to command.

He was educated for the Bar. And while he was in college and while he studied law, his father and he built up a wonderful library and still more wonderful plans for the future, when James Grogan, Junior, should be a great jurist and statesman with a reputation nation wide.