Wandering Willie

Lato in the af ternoou of a golden September day a caualboat was traversing the Erie canal at the slnggish rate of progress peculiar to that marmer of navigation. Perhaps its looomotion was uuusually slow, for not only was the boat castward bound and therefore heavily laden with the lumber it had shipped at Buff aio, but it was of a decidedly grave and sédate aspect generally and was so extremely large, stolid and clumsy that most of its compeers were as fairy shallops beside it for grace and lightness. It was old - that is, oíd for a canalboat, which carries graiu five years, lumber five years more and then is past its usef ulness - the paint was worn and blistered, and the gilt letters on the stern were so defaced by time that one could with difficulty decipher the words, The Wandering Willie. Had any one read this inscription on that September day he would have thought it a most absurd mienomer. "Willie" was unsuitably light and tender, while the epithet "Wandering" was siirely ill applied to a vessel whose migrations were strictly confined to the long and naiTow extent of a canal. But perhaps it had seemed a more fitting title some 50 years ago when it had been chosen for a somewhat less ponderous craft than the present possessor of the name, when, too, the Erie canal was a new, vast and magnificent enterprise, and a voyage along its placid waters seemed almost as memorable as a trip to Europe does to U9 now. No one, however, bestowed any scrutiny upon the stern of the old boat that afternoon, for it was passing through a district very thinly settled. Now and then a distant farmhouse, with its red roofed barns, gave a touch of human interest to the landscape, and occasionally the boat crept slowly between wide stubble fields lying warm and glowing under the late sun, as if full of a pleasant conseiousness of a summer's work well done. But most of the time the canal lay through vast woods, so ■dense that oak and elm, beech and maple leaves mingled together in indistinguishable confusión. The boat in these leafy solitudes was as isolated as a ship at sea, but its loneliness was not desolate, for it was broken by the twitter of many birds and by the sense of the intense life in the myriad growing trees and vines. There were five persons connected with the boat. One man was lazily .guiding the mules some 200 feet ahead; another was dozing in the bow of the boat; Jenny, a young woman, was preparing supper on the f orward part of the deck; a young man was holding the tiller, and near him.sat an eider ly woman Imitting. These latter two saw in their different ways much of the beauty and poetic possibilities of the scène. The young man thought that "f ar in forest deeps unseen, ' ' such as these, Lancelot and Guinevere had ridden side by side, and in just such bosky dells Orlando and Rosalind did "fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. " The woman, unfamiliar with the caxeers of these distinguished personages, merely put down her coarse knitting to listen more intently to blackbird's piping, or to inhale with undefined delight the cool fresh odors of the ferns and inosses, or the warm breath of the fields. Presently she broke a long silence by aaying to her companion: "You haven 't told me 'bout that there letter you got yist'day. " "I've been wanting to, but I hardly knew how to bogin, ' ' said the young man, with an effort to speak lightly. "It's f rom that banking firni in Chicago I told you about. They offer me a good position now and a chance to rise. I must make up my mind tonight. It would be a great thing for me, mother. ' ' Until he spoke the last word one would never have suspected the relation "between thein. The young man looked like a gentleman. The straw hat pushed back on his head revealed a face at once keen, thoughtful and refined. His suit of blue flannel fitted hini well and was scrupulously neat. The woman wore a calicó dress and apron and a gingham eunbounet. She was not much past middle life, but seemed rather older. Severe and incessant labor had bent her frame, as it had hardened and misshapen her hands. But with that word mother as a key an observer could have traced the latent resemblauce in the two faces. There wore the same soft brown eyes and wide surmounted in one case by thick, curly brown locks, in the other by scanty gray ones. There were the same square jaws and firin set lips that told of rjdomitable energies, and each countenauoe as it; tumed towarU the other beamed with tender affection. "Make up yer mind, Joe?" the woman said slowly, evidently startled. "You don 't mean that you air reely thinkin of it?" "Mother t" he said with a passionate earnestness he strove in vain to conceal, "you must see for yourself that I am not fitted for the life on a canalboat. It is too quiet, too dull; it has no opportunities. I have seen and learned too much to settle down willingly to this work. If I am to do nothing else than this, in the world, it was a mistake for f ou and father to send me to school and lollege." "Dou't say that, Joe!"cried hisinother in qnick reproach. "Yer father au yer gran'father often feit 'shamed o' havin no cddication. They allus eamed 3, fair livin, to be sure, an had everybody's good word. Bnt it's a fine thing to have schoolin, au we was bound you should have it. An we worked fur it, " he concluded simply, bat with a ïetrojpective sigh. "I know you did, " said Joe gratefuly. "And I know how yon worked - ! like slaves, like tigers. I only meant that it would be a niistake for me not ' to get the best results froni your work t und father 's and my own. Out in the world, mother! Oh, there's so much to lee and to do, so much money to be i earned, so many bright, pleasant people to know!" A little silence succeeded. Joe hoped that his mother was amplifying his ! guments in her own mind, and presently he ventured to add: "I thought, mother, you would enjoy living in Chicago in a little house with j a furnace perhaps and stained glass in the hall and curtains in the doorways. " She tui'ned upon him with absolute terror in her eyes. "Joe!" she cried in avoice of intense pain. "Surcly you won 't make me do that? Surely there's no law that'd help ' you to drag me away from here to a j place like that?' ' "Mother - dear mother!" said Joe soothingly. "I wouldn't for the world ask you to go if you did not wish to do so. I only wished to offer you a pretty home, and you kuow you have never had a home. ' ' "Never had a home?" she echoed scornfully. "What do you cali The Wandering Willie, then? There's no wonian in America that's prouder of her home than I be. I know every mile of the 300 an more between Buffalo an Albany as well as most people do their own miz'able little weedy dooryards. I've come by these flelds fur 50 year an seen 'em browu an bare in the spring, an then a f aint light green, an then yaller as the sunshine, an then bare again, like they be today. An sometimes I've come by when the first snow has covered 'em all up warm for the winter. An I know the very birds' nests in the trees, Joe. An thore ain't a town as we go through but what I've got good true friends in. How kin you say this ain't a home, Joe? It's been a place to love in, to work in, to live an die in. What more do you want?' ' "Forgive me, mother, " said Joe humbly. He dared not speak again for fear of unwittingly giving her fresh pain. It was sonie time before she spoke. "I've told you so of ten all about The Wandering Willie that I don't s'pose you'd keer to hear it all over agin, would you, Joe?" she said wistfully. "Indeed I should like to hear it, " said Joe, with so much apparent interest that his mother was visibly flattered and without urging plunged into a sea of retrospect. "The very fust thing I kin reinember is sittin by my father on the deck of a boat like this, tied into my little cheer. My mother was dead, an my father was all wrapped np in me. He was as good a man as ever lived, though rough in his ways. He didswear dreadfully sometimes, but then all canal men do mostly. But he was gentle as a kitten with me an would watch me in my little cheer an teil me by the hour 'bout the places we was passin. Sometimes he would talk o' sendin me to school, but he couldn't bear to part witb. me, an I hated to go. Winters we lived in a tavern at Lockport, an there I got a little schoolin, so I could read, write and cipher some, an when I was only a slip of a gal I und'stood all about freight an managin the boat better than you ever will, I'm af raid, Joe. "Now, Jos, 'bout the name o' this old boat - you do think it's a pretty name, don't you?" "I think it's the sweetestship'snanio that ever was invented!" said Joe, with conviction, for he knew that not all the mythical ships of song and story had for him the significance of this one. The Wandering Willie would always represent to bis inind the truest love, the tenderest fidelity. "Well, your grandfather sot a great deal o' store by it. He called four boats by it, one arter another, and finally I give the name to this one. He'd got it out o' some play or pome or book - he never rightly knew where himself - an it riled him to have any one niake fun of it. One evenin we was lyin to at Buffalo. It was about 7 o'clock, an the doek was f uil o' people walkin up an down to git the lake breeze, fur it had been a very warm day. I was talkin with some gals forward, an father was sittin in the stern, smokin. He had been drinkin some an was that ugly no one dast speak to him but me. Presently we see a young man starin at the name on the stern an kinder smilin to himself. He was a strong, good lookin young fel Ier, with laughin blue eyes - you never Bee such eyes nowadays, Joe! Pretty soon he speaks up to father, an says he, very perlite: " 'Could ye give me a job o' work sir?' " 'I could if I wanted to, ' says father, With a snarl, 'but I ain't a-goin to give no ono a job that pokes fun at my boat. ' " 'Why, I wan't a-pokin fun at yer boat!' says the young man very respectfuL 'Only I see The Wandering Willie there on the stern, an my name's Willie, an I'm a-wanderin round lookin fnr a job, an it seomad kinder cur'us. ' "Well, there 's never no relyin on what a dranken man will do - I'm niighty glad you don't keer fur liquor, Joe. My father got hoppin mad at theni innercent words an began swearin an takin on awful. The young feller jest turned round an walked off, sorter discouraged. Pather kept shoutin to him that if he didn't come on board an git polished off he'd come on shore arter him. An all o' a sudden, while he was a-shakin his fists an a-stampin his feet, he give a crazy lurch and weut right over the stern into the water!" The old woman's voice trembled with xcitement as she reoounted this ono tkrilling incident of her lifo. "The canal's au awful place to f all uto. Ifc's not so deep, but it's very wide, va t tren if you kin swim to the bank :here's nothin to cliug to. You never ee a ínule drown, did you, Joe? You wouldn't bolieve how quick it's over. There's a little ruiming an shouttu an jomethin dark comes slowly up an rolls Dver jest under the water, an there's a lind o' gurgliu cry that turns you sick 1.11 over, au you feel wild to help the poor critter. The somethin dark comes slowly up ouce more an sinks agin. A few big bubblesrise, an it's all over, but the thought o' it sticks in yer mind fur days. "It was as quick as that with father. He was a good swimmer, but when he aroso his head struck agin the rudder au ho never took a stroke - he jest sank like a stun. Everybody screamed an yelled au called fur ropes an boats, but none o' all bis oíd cronies standin round dast wet the ir skins to help him. Would you believo it, Joe, that young feller he'd jest b ou abusin so mean was the very oue to save him? He run back, tore off 1:: coat an dived right where father had ;one under. He was out o' sight so long the men began to say he was drowned, too, but arter awhile he come up coughin au chokin, but draggiu father by the shirt collar jest as he'd grabbed him under the muddy water. They got 'em into a scow an laid father on the doek an worked over him 30 minutes afore he come to. He was sick two weis with thé blow he had got, but whether he was out o' his head or not he kep' allus a-callin for Willie, 'the chap what's named arter my boat, ' he would say. So Willie helped me nurse him, an when father was well he worked with us the rest of the season. When I was a gal, Joe, I was called good lookdng, though you wouldn't believe it now. ' ' "Of course I believe it - you know I do, mother!" interrupted Joe, with such fervor that the pleased, unready color - is there anything in the world so dear and pitiful as an oíd woman's blush? - crept into her cheek. "An so Willie took a likin to me, an on our last trip that season when we was a-lyin to at Lockport a minister that ran a little niission on the dock carne down to the boat an married us. Pather would have us married on The WanderingWillie. I had a green merino dress - it's in the little trunk with your baby clothes, Joe - an the next day me an Willie had our dagerrytypes taken together. It hangs over my bunk, yer know - it ain't bad of me, but it don't do jestice to Willie. "The next year you come along, Joe, an how proud we all was of you ! I feit kinder sorry you di dn 't have big blue eyeslike yer father, but there, we can't have every thin ! It seemed as if the world had gone back 25 years when I see you a-sittin by father tied into my little old cheer. Father never seemed to git rightly over his accident. He was more civil an didn't-swear an drink so much, an some time he'd look at the foul water an shudder au then look at Willie so grateful it'd bringtears tomy eyes. One winter, in the old tavem at Lockport, when' he'd been ailin fnr a week or so, he says to me, 'My gal, you will soon have two Willies to look arter - Willie yer husband an Willie the boat!' I told him uot to talk like that, but he jest turned over in bed an didn't seem to hear me. He didn't speak nor stir when the doctor come, nor till the next niornin, when he springs up in bed an calla out loud au sharp, 'Low bridge, low bridge!' Theni was the last words ever he spoke. ' ' She paused to wipe her eyes on her apron. " Well, I'm inakiu a long story out of it, ain't I, dearie? But it seems every time I teil it as if it might be the last time. There ain't much more now. We worked on, year ia, year out - fur you, Joe. It was only two year ago last spring, though it seems like 20, that Willie begun to fail. He had doctors an medicines, but they didn't do nogood. They said he was kind o' wore out with hard work. They said the fresh air would be the best thiug fur him, so we staid 011 the boat all summer as usual, only he sat an rested while the men worked. We couldn't very well have spared the profits of even one trip, fur you were at college, you know, Joe. But he got worse an worse, an at last I made up rny mind as soon as ever we got to Buffalo I would take him to the tavern an telegraph fur you. "One afternooniu August we was goin into Buffalo, jest passin along under the bluff, with the lake an river on the other side, so broadan blue you couldn't teil where the lake ends an the river begins. Willie lay back in a big easy chair under an awnin, jest where we're sittin now, an I was holdin the tiller - I hain't ever had the strength to do it sence, Joe; I've been all broke up lately. There had come an awful gray look on bis faco in the last mile or two that frigh tened me so I didn't dare ask him how he feit, but now an agin he'd sniile at me with his big blue eyes, that was jest as pretty that day, Joe, as they was the fust evenin I saw him. At last I eays, as the cool, strong wind off the lake blew over us, 'It's a nice breeze, ain't it, Willie?' An hesays, 'Yes, lass, but it's takin rny soul along with it. ' An I had only Urne to drop on my knees by him an kiss him once before it was all over. An ever senoe, when we slip i along by that bluff, I feel the saine j breeze that took his soul away with it. " Her tears ran unchecked for some minutes before she resumed. "That's all, Joe - that's why I can't uever leave the canal an this old boat. I sometimes feel as if I cared more fur it than I do fur you. Of course 'tain't so - I only jest feel so. The boat belongs to my whole life some way - but you're so young au such a strangcr from beiu away so much - but there, I kep' a-sayin all these years it'd be all right wheu you was home fur good, we'd be jest the same as if you'dnever gono awayl Such store as your father sot by your fust figgers an writin, Joe! I don't know what he'd have said, nor your grandfather üither, tl see fche Froach m L:itin au öreek btoks üi yer .:';. ::; u rwl" And her bs :: i ; is, 80 lilce Joe's ova, sniilou oa h innocent prido, only ' ' nly. ''Bat it would havo shamed them, Joe, an angeroil your grandfather most terrible, to think their work wan'tgood enough fnr you to follow in. An I'rn a Lonely old woman, Joe - say that you'll stay an keep me comp'ny. 'Twon't b fnr very long." "Mother, " said Joe very gently, "I want to do what is right by yon and by myself. Give me an hour or so to decide. I don 't want to be a bad son to such a good mother. ' ' "Yon couldn't be bad if yon tried, Joe, ' ' said his mother f ondly. At that moment. Jenny 's young voice called merrily, "Supper, snpper!" and Joe, having aroused the sleeping man and relinquished the tiller to him, sat down with the two women and ate the plain, carelessly served meal. Then the man on the towpath came on board f or rest and refreshment, surrendering to Joe the guidance of the ninles. He could have laughed at his situation, only that its grotesqneness was so inseparably mingled with pain and perplexity. He thought as he walked along of the ill matched team Ulysses drove, of Apollo's magnificent coursers, of the snowy Paphian doves that bore Venns through the blue ether, and the more of these classical steeds and drivers he recalled the more incongruous and absurd his own position seemed. He feit that he was better fitted to teach inythology than to drive mules. And yet it would break his mother's heart if he left her. She had said he would not need to stay long. He shrank from speoulating on her death, but if she were to live 10 years, for instance? What high hopes and aspirations might he not forget, what vile habits of thought and speech and manner might he not acquire in 10 years? At 9 o'clock he gave up the lines to one of the men, who walked and drove till 12. Then, as their working f orce was n%t sufficient for an all night journey, the men moved the boat on the heel path side and put the mules into their quarters, there to rest till daybreak. The two lanterns fore and aft, which would serve to reveal the boat's presence to captains who pushed on throughout the night, were attended to, and the two men turned into their bunks. Jenny and her mistress had long since retired, and only Joe was left awake. He paced up and down the deck in the starlight, trying to come to a resolution. Should he go- and kili his mother? Should he stay - and kill his own pride and ambitiou and bright prospects? Finally all his learning seemed tö resolve itself into the memory of Captain Lawreuce's no ble words, "Don't give up the ship!" And at last he said aloud, "I will not, " and the long struggle was ended. The canal lite, with its sinall, slow gains, its homely duties, would be his while his mother needed hini. He went straight to her bedside. She heard him and reached out a hanc through the darkness to clasp his. "Mother, I have decided - 111 stay and help you, " he said, ben ding to kiss her withered cheek. To his surprise i was wet with tears. "What, you're cry ing - you haven 't been awake all these hours?" "I couldn't sleep, Joe, but I will now. Thank you, my boy. You'll never be sorry. Good iiight, Joe.'" "Good night, íuother, "he said tenderly, and theu, tired out, he sought his bunk and fell soundly asleep. An hour or two afterward he found himself sitting up in bed, tearing the clothing froni his throat aud gasping for breath. In a moment he discovered that the cabin was full of a dense smoke. Hurrying on some garments, he dashed out and saw that the whole after part of the boat was in flames, past all chance of saving. The lantern had exploded, and the ignited oil had scattered far and wide. He loudly called Jenny aud the men, and taking his mother in his strong young arms carried her on shore. Then he went back for a quantity of bedding, folded it carefully round her and put her gently down on the ground, her head against a tree. Jenny sprang ashore. Joe helped the two men to release the mules, quivering with terror, and in a few minutes men and mules were safely off the boat. Then Joe, though it was braving death to do it, rushed back through the blinding, stinging amoke into his mother's cabin and brought out the old daguerreotype and the little chest full of relies. He carried them to where she sat motionless against the tree. ' 'Hore they are, mother - all the things you care for!" he cried. "All but the boat itself, Joe - nobody kin save that, kin they?" She looked at him with. helpless appeal. "Nobody, mother," he said sadly. Indeed the poor craft was already from stem to stern one sheet of flame. The Wandering Willie would never wander more. "But we can build another. " She shook her head and made no answer. Anythlng like the tragic despair of her set face Joe had never seen. " 'Tain't -lóked of you to stay, Joe. But you'd made up your mind to anyhow. You was willin. I'mglado' that. " So was Joe; eo wouid he always be. "The insurance, Joe - it's all right. It's all yours," she said quietly. A strange fear crept over him. He knelt by her and rested her head on his shoulder and covered her closer from t'ae chili night air with a loverlike tenderuess. The flelds stretched wide and black ai'ound them - the solemn stars shone dimly above. ' 'Will it jest burn to the water's edge, Joe, or will it sink?" "I don't know, mother, "said Joe huskily. The toars were runniug down his cheeks, but her eyes were quite dry. "I jest couldn't bear - toseeit sink - clean out o' sight - f urever - Joe!" she whispered. A slight shiver ran over her. Her head lay a little heavier on Joe's shoulder. He looked into her face and saw