He passed out of the church unconscious of the gaze of a half hundred young men lined up on either side of the door waiting for the girls to run the gauntlet, each one offering an arm to the girl he fancied; if rejected he was termed "sacked" and the rejected one felt the ridicule of his fellows for many days thereafter. Lucy Fowler "sacked" John Albright that night. Lin was so full of this affair that she seemed to forget the sermon in her eagerness to recount the other incident. Alfred interrupted her by sneakingly inquiring as to how she liked the sermon.

Lin forthwith straightened up: "Well, ef I wanted tu tell jes what I thot, I'd say he gin ye particular fits, but preachin' is preachin', nobody takes hit to tharselves, they jes think hit's fur everybody. Now I reckon ye think the hull blast wus fer ye. S'posen he'd preached on dram drinkin'. I reckon the fellur thet guzzles wud take hit all tu hisself. No, sonny, religun's fur everybody an' ye kan't thro preachin' bricks ye don't hit somebody. So don't take a foolish powder kase a preacher workin' at his trade handed ye a few. Hit done ye good, ye never looked so purty in yer life, yer cheeks wus red es cherries an' ye sung like a exorter."

Alfred asked: "Didn't you think he took a shot at Uncle Ned?"

"Well, ef he did he never teched him fur Ned never winced. Ye know them church members never take nuthin' to tharselves; no, they jes believe when the preacher ladles out spiritual feed hits fur sinners on the outside uf the church. They think they're above suspishun. Ye know the Pharisee thanked Gawd he wus not like other peepul, 'an he was jes awful. Of course a great many say thet the sermon fit yer kase. Hit's the best praise ye ever got, hit's better'n a piece in the newspapers. Thur's a heap uf peepul in this town never knowed ye amounted to enuf to be preached about. Es long es ye hain't stole nuthin' er caused anybody misery er shame, yer on the safe side. Yer troubles hain't nuthin', ye jes think they are. Uncle Tom's got more trouble on his min' now en ye ever had."

"I'll bet if I ever get out of this trouble, I'll steer clear of it hereafter," mused Alfred.

"Yes ye will. Let me tell ye, sonny, the minnet ye begin to feel yer troubles at a end ye'll begin to look fer more en ye wouldn't be wuth cracklins ef ye didn't. I wouldn't gin four cents fer a man thet didn't git into truble; hit trys 'em out an' ye ken tell what they're made uf. Look at all the men ye know who don't know enuf to make truble. What do they amount to? Why they ain't got enuf grit in 'em to suck alum."

She continued:

"Onct thur wus a new preacher kum to a place to take charge of a church. A member uf the church called tu pay his respeks an' afore he left he said, confidential like: 'Parson, ye preach yer first sermon Sunday. Now I want to tell ye this fer yer own good: We hev a good many members thet plays ole sledge, ten cents a corner. Thar our best payin' members an' I wouldn't, ef I wus ye, say anythin' 'bout card playin' in my fust sermon, they mought think ye wus pussenal.' Another member called. After talkin' 'bout the weather an' crops a bit, he sed: 'Several uf our best payin' members sell whiskey wholesale, they're agin dram drinkin' but ef ye preach agin whiskey right away it mought make 'em mad, so I wouldn't say anythin' agin whiskey in yer fust sermun nex' Sunday.' The preacher began to git a little shaky but he thanked the man. A little later anuther member called. When 'bout tu leave he sed: 'Parson, ye preach yer fust sermon Sunday; I want ye to start right. We hed a good many dances through the winter, and our peepul is very fond uf dancin'. Thur's two ur three big dances to kum off soon. These members thet dance is all willun workers an' liberal givers; ef ye pitch into dancin' en frolikin' in yer fust sermon hit's sure to raise a click in the church thet'll be agin ye. Therefore I wouldn't mention anythin' 'bout dancin' in my fust sermon ef I wus ye.' Soon another called. After he'd talked a spell, he kum to the pint: 'Parson, we got some mighty fine hosses an' most uf 'em belongs to the leadin' members uf yer church an' we has hoss races an' we bets on 'em, an' ef ye preach 'bout anythin' uf thet kind in yer fust sermon it'll hurt the hoss bizness an' put some uf the best members uf the congregashun agin ye.' The preacher raised his hans in holy horror, as he said: 'I can't preach agin the frivolities of fashun, dancin' an' sich; I can't preach agin drunkenness; I can't preach agin gamblin'. Fur heavin's sake, what kin I preach about?' 'I'll tell ye,' volunteered the caller quickly, 'preach about the Jews, jes gin 'em hell, thar's only one in town.'"

Lin concluded, "Maybe Uncle Tom figgered the same way on yer kase," and she roared with laughter as she gave Alfred a playful push.

After the boasting Alfred had indulged in previous to going on tour with Eli, he could not face his friends. He borrowed five dollars from Lin and in a careless way, informed the family that the next day he would go up to Uncle Jake's for a couple of weeks' visit. He packed up his belongings, bade the family an affectionate good-bye and ran away, like many another coward has done before and since. He was not in debt to any extent, it was simply his vanity, a false pride that would not permit him to face the little world in which he lived. Those who should have advised him censured; those who had influence for good held aloof. He went to a big city, to Pittsburg, to seek his fortune among strangers, return rich, reward all who were kind to him and humble all who had lost faith in him.

He went aboard the boat bound for Pittsburg. He slept soundly and was only awakened by the clanging of bells and the blowing of whistles. Peering out of the stateroom ventilator, his eyes met a sight such as he had never witnessed before. Fire in long-tongued flashes blazed up a hundred feet out of blackened chimneys, shadowy demons working over fiery furnaces, boiling, white hot lava flowed in streams, the air was filled with smoke and sparks.

Alfred imagined he had died in his sins and was now nearing the place of eternal torment. He could liken the scene before him to nothing on earth. It must be Hell, and he felt that the lid had been lifted for his especial benefit.

There was a rap on his stateroom door and a voice called: "All out for Pittsburg." Alfred hustled into his clothes and walked out in the cabin, not desiring to leave the boat until after daylight. He inquired of the clerk as to how long the boat would remain there. "We leave at eight o'clock," replied the clerk.

"Eight o'clock what? Morning or night?" asked Alfred.

"Eight o'clock morning," replied the man.

"Why, when does it get daylight in Pittsburg?" inquired the bewildered boy.

The clerk laughed as he answered, "Tomorrow, if the sun shines."

Alfred hastened ashore. The old National Hotel, Water and Smithfield Streets, had sheltered him before. Therein he entered. Changing his clothing he wandered forth aimlessly. He entered the Red Lion Hotel, looked over the circus grounds and then to Ben Trimble's Theatre; from there to the old Drury Theater, Wood and Fifth Avenue. He took in all the sights of the big city.

Then he began to make plans as to the future. The hotel rate was one dollar and a half a day. When Alfred settled, which he did at the end of the first day, he had but thirty-five cents left. He left his baggage with the hotel people and began a search for work.

Were you ever in a strange city, broke and without a friend, without the price of a bed, without the price of a full meal? Did you ever feel the loneliness, the forsakedness of this condition? You may say, "Well, I'd get a job; I'd do anything; I'd dig ditches; I'd—" Well, they do not dig ditches in winter, and when they do dig them you must have a vote before you can get a job even at that labor and you cannot get a job at any kind of laboring work unless your physique and clothes look the part.

You say there's no excuse for any man being broke or out of a job these times? Well, there may be no excuse that will satisfy you but there are men in this condition all over this land—and good honest, willing men, willing to do any kind of work to earn a living. When they apply to you encourage them even though you do not hire them.

Alfred applied to a large concern that employed many men. He was told there was nothing open. The wholesale drug stores were all supplied with help. Another place had a sign out—"No help wanted." Alfred failed to notice it as he entered. When he made his errand known the oily haired youngster in the place impudently asked him if he could read, and pointed to the sign.

At another place he felt sure he had landed when the boss told him they wanted a married man and that he was too young looking. At the headquarters of a great fraternal society, the principles and teachings of which are mercy and charity toward all mankind, the officer or secretary in charge was particularly unkind and actually spoke and behaved towards the boy as though he had been guilty of some offense, instead of seeking honest employment.

After walking more than four miles to a large factory, the head of which stood high in the councils of one of the great political parties of the day, one who had lately issued a statement to the country that the only difficulty his firm was having was to secure men to do their work, he met the great man coming from his office and appealed to him in person, and was informed that they required no more men at that time, but intimated that a factory in a city several hundred miles distant required help. He did not mention that it required several dollars to pay railroad fare to the town referred to.

His experience in seeking employment caused Alfred to resolve that no man or woman, no weary soul, no matter what the conditions, applying to him for employment or aid should be turned away without a word of encouragement and advice. Some philosopher has likened kindness as lighting a neighbor's candle by our own by which we impart something and lose nothing. Try a little kindness upon the next applicant who calls upon you.

Walking down Fifth Avenue Alfred read a sign hung on a door: "Wanted. Two boys over fifteen years of age." It was the White House saloon. Alfred walked in and asked for the position. He learned it was setting up ten pins in a bowling alley. The proprietor, John O'Brien, was very kindly spoken and, looking curiously at Alfred, he inquired: "How did you come to ask for this job? You look too well groomed for such work?"

"Well, I'm broke and I've got to do something."

Alfred was given the job and started to work at once setting up the pins. It was pay day in Pittsburg; the big, husky iron workers hurled the balls down the alleys with such tremendous force that the pins were scattered in every direction. At times the bowlers, in their haste and excitement, would not wait for the pins to be set up before hurling the balls and it required quick action on the part of Alfred to keep out of harm's way.

Closing up time came and as the dollar and a half was passed to Alfred he noticed that the game keeper was a brother of Eli's. Pulling his hat over his eyes that he might not be recognized, the star of Eli's minstrels fled the place.

The barkeeper at the National Hotel, Dick Cannon, had befriended Alfred before. When he learned that Alfred was living on doughnuts and coffee at the little stand in the market house, Cannon took him in and fed him until he secured a position. It was through Cannon that Alfred finally secured the position of night clerk in the hotel.

That a saloonkeeper and a bar-tender, the very people whom Alfred had been so constantly warned against, should be the only ones who took an interest in him when in distress, was most surprising to the boy. Surely it was not from the fact that he patronized their establishments, as he never entered the place of one and was in the house of the other for only a few hours.

John W. Pittock, the founder of the Pittsburg Leader, was also proprietor of a book store at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Smithfield Street. The Leader was the first paper, that the writer has knowledge of, to print a sporting page. Pittsburgh, then as now, was strong for athletic sports. Aquatic sports were the most popular; Jimmy Hamill, the champion single sculler of the world, was at the zenith of his career. The day following Alfred's experience in the ten pin alley the city was all excitement over a sporting event. Alfred was sent to the Leader office to procure a number of copies of the paper for numerous guests of the hotel. The following Sunday morning Alfred sold over two hundred copies of the paper.

The superintendent of the Smithfield Street bridge was a friend of Alfred's father. He permitted the boy to establish a news-stand at the end of the bridge. From 5 a. m. until noon hundreds of copies of the Leader were sold. With his wages from the hotel the minstrel was making and saving money.

Alfred was homesick often but determined in his mind not to return to Brownsville until he had a stated amount of money. The father wrote him to return at once. Alfred replied that he had a good position but would return by a certain date.

It was a holiday in the smokey city. Alfred cleaned up over forty dollars on papers alone. That night he visited Brimstone Corner, a Methodist Church. No man or boy who ever lived in Pittsburgh but remembers its location. It was a revival; the church was packed, the sermon eloquent and it made a deep impression upon Alfred.

The minister read the text as follows: "And he said, A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said to the father: 'Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.' And he divided unto him his living. And not many days after the younger son gathered all together and took his journey into a far country and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would feign have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat, and no man gave unto him. And when he came to himself, he said: 'How many hired servants of my father have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger.' I will arise and go to my father and will say unto him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants.' And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off his father saw him and had compassion and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him. And the son said unto him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' But the father said to his servants, 'Bring forth the best robe and put it on him and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it and let us eat and be merry. For this, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' And they began to be merry." The preacher continued:

"Who can say what the causes that led to the young man's leaving the luxurious home of his father to wander, an outcast, over the earth? The vagaries of the human mind are beyond our understanding. The prodigal son may have had illusions; he may have had ambitions. He may have been induced by illusions born of ambitions to make something of himself other than a plain farmer's boy. The dangers that lay along his pathway were not known to him. That he fell in with evil associates and did not have the will power to free himself from them is obvious.

"We cannot all live in one city; we cannot all live in one country or on one farm. It is but natural that boys will stray away from the old fireside. Read the history of this country; it was settled by hardy yeomen, possessed of that desire for changed conditions. Look at the great and growing West, settled by the descendants of those first settlers of New England and Virginia.

"That boys leave home, as did the prodigal son; that boys fall from grace, as did he who ate husks with the swine, should not shake our faith in the future of a young man who has fallen by the wayside. He is to be reclaimed, not by the mighty hand of the law, not by the chastisement of the father, but by the love and pity that man should exhibit not only for the good but for the lowest of God's creatures. We should extend to them the helping hand; we should prove by our actions that they have our love and pity.

"Pity is a mode, or a particular development, of benevolence. It is sympathy for those who are weak and suffering. Hence, our compassion for the erring one. We have affections for men who are good and noble, men who are prosperous, strong and happy. But for those who have been beaten down by the storms of life, for such we should feel that pity the father displayed for the prodigal son.

"If those who have strayed and forgotten the father's advice and the mother's prayers come to us, we should not receive them with reproaches and rebuffs but with open arms; always remembering that the Father of all has gladness for those who are glad and pity for those who are sad.

"When the erring one returned, envy filled the heart of one of the family and he said to a brother of the prodigal: 'Thy brother is come and thy father hath killed the fatted calf because he hath received him safe and sound.' And the brother was angry and would not go in to the feast. Therefore came his father out and entreated him to enter. And he answering, said to his father: 'Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressing at any time thy commandments and yet thou never gavest me at any time a fatted kid that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this, thy son, came, which has devoured thy living, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.' And the father answered, 'Wealth killeth the foolish man and envy slayeth the silly one. There is not a just man upon earth that doeth good and sinneth not. It is good for a man he beareth the yoke in youth.'

"It is sympathy in this world that must reclaim the fallen. It is sympathy in the return of the erring that must reunite families and heal the mother's sorrow for him who has wandered from the fireside and, like the prodigal, returns to be elevated to a life that might been have wasted had not the father's love prevailed to welcome his return.

"If this world is to be bettered, if the children of men are to be uplifted, it must be by a love that is as strong as that of the father for the son, the mother for her children.

"Young man, if you have wandered from home, if you have felt you were abused, return to your family, start life over, reconcile yourself to what you may have imagined were wrongs. If they have wronged you, their love, won by your obedience, will atone for all. If you have wronged anyone, make amends.

"Fathers, mothers, friends, stretch out your right hands for the salvation and preservation of our young men, for in their hands lies the greatness of the future."

The river was low, the boats were not running. The next morning a train bore Alfred to Layton Station on the Youghiogheny. A stage coach landed him at the door of his father's home in the middle of the afternoon. There never before was the happiness in Alfred's heart that filled it on his home coming. The father was proud of his boy, the mother overwhelmed with her emotions. The children clung to him as though they feared he would fly away from them. Lin baked and cooked as she never had before.

When it became known that Alfred had laid one hundred dollars in his mother's hand and that he "hed plenty more," as Lin informed all, the boy could feel a difference in the atmosphere when he mingled with the people of the town.

Cousin Charley and Alfred hired a horse and buggy and drove out to Merrittstown, passing the Thornton home, the old mill, the dam and the home of the Youngs. The blind musicians were paid the five dollars yet due with five dollars added for interest.

There was only one incident that marred the happy home-coming. Alfred licked Morgan, Eli's agent. Eli was a very ill man; his excesses had brought him near death's door. Alfred forgot the past and no more attentive friend had Eli in his last illness.

The fight with Morgan was regrettable but, as Lin expressed it: "Hit let the kat outen the bag an' klarified matters in general an' some mighty big peepul tried to krawl into some mighty little holes, but they stuck out wuss then ef they hed stood up an' sed, 'Well, we tuk Alfred's money but we thought we wur right but we find we were wrong.'"

Of those who levied on the money at Redstone School-house, but one returned the amount he had illegally received. Fred Chalfant, the liveryman, was that man.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Forgot is the time when the clouds hid the sun. And cold blasts the earth forced to shiver. For such is the power of one warm spring day From winter's whole spell to deliver.

Alfred was unconsciously broadening in his knowledge; life in its various phases was unfolding to him, and he was profiting by his experiences. His faults appeared very great to others, were only an incentive to him. He had learned thus early that it was not the being exempt from faults so much as to have the will power to overcome them.

In early life he had it very strongly impressed upon his mind that some men were perfect, others hopelessly vile. Experience and observation forced Alfred to the conclusion that none were so good but that some thought them bad, and none so vile but that some thought them good.

We generally judge others as to their attitude towards us, agreeable or otherwise. Our estimate of another depends greatly upon the manner in which that person affects our interests. It is difficult to think well or speak well of those by whom we are crossed or thwarted. But we are ever ready to find excuses for the vices of those who are useful and agreeable to us. Therefore, he is a mighty poor mortal who is not something on his own account.

Alfred had graduated in that dear old school of experience, wherein education costs more but lasts longer than that acquired in colleges, that it is with the follies of the mind as with the weeds of a field—those destroyed and consumed upon the place of their growth, enrich and improve that place more than if none had ever grown there.

The boy had been so continually advised against evil associates that he began taking a mental inventory of every stranger at first meeting.

Harrison was his estimate of the bad; Mr. Steele of the good.

Alfred had arrived at that stage where he not only stood aside and watched himself go by, but he was also watching the other fellow go by.

He was out of newspaper business, out of the tannery, had abandoned the practice of medicine. Charley's father, who was very strict with his boys, advised the parent to "give Alfred more tether, not to stake him down too close. Give him a little more rope, there's something in that boy." All of which was communicated to Alfred by Cousin Charley, and Uncle Bill was thus greatly elevated in Alfred's estimation.

Alfred's father was little short of a genius in a mechanical way; he had a peculiar temperament, mild and easily influenced. He was a creditable artist; many meritorious paintings from his brush in both oil and water adorn the walls of the residences of his friends. He was greatly interested in mechanical pursuits, particularly if of an artistic character.

When Uncle Joe prepared to build a house, "Pap" made the plans; when Sells Brothers built a tableau car or an animal van of an elaborate character, "daddy" made the drawings; when Aunt Betsy desired patterns to make a quilt to take the premium at the fair, "pap" made the drawings or figures.

He became acquainted with an artist from Philadelphia and was completely taken with the man's talents. The artist informed him in confidence that he had expended the greater portion of his man life on a work of art that would astonish the world, the father became even more interested in him.

The father was the only person who had ever been permitted to look upon the wonderful creation of his genius; yard after yard of art was unwound for the admiration of the father. When he returned from his second visit to the art gallery of the Philadelphia artist, he interested the family greatly by his description of the wonderful scenes the painter had wrought on the canvas.

The sufferings and privations endured by the man while creating his work seemed to make as profound an impression upon the father as the painting itself.

The father predicted that the talented painter would come into his own; the painting would be exhibited all over the world, admiring throngs would rush to see it to praise its incomparable beauties.

The father made weekly visits to the home of the great painter, he desired frequent conferences with the father as he required his advice, at least, he so stated.

After one of his frequent visits to the art studio the parent inadvertently let fall the remark that the great painting was about ready for exhibition but that the artist did not have money to complete it. He also hinted that if Alfred were a boy of proper ambitions he might become attached to the exhibition of the picture, but no, "Alfred's ambition did not rise above saw-dust and burnt-cork."

These few words aroused Alfred's curiosity. By adroit questioning he ascertained that the great work of art was a panorama illustrative of "The Pilgrim's Progress," to be exhibited in churches, schools and such places, at twenty-five cents for adults; children, half price.

The mother wondered that the artist did not exhibit his wonderful painting in the art centers, Philadelphia, Boston, New York City, instead of Butler, Pittsburg, Perryopolis and Muttontown. The father explained that after the professor got the rollers to working smoothly and the lecture down pat, he intended visiting Philadelphia, Boston and New York.

Alfred began to realize that the picture was some sort of a show and he marvelled that his father favored it. Lin said:

"So fur es I kin kalkerlate it es some sort of meetin' house show, nuthin' but picturs. Hit may be good, but durned ef I ever got much satisfaction out uf a cirkus lookin' at the picturs. But I s'pose peepul will want to look at the feller thet made hit. They say thet he nurly starved to death to git hit done. Ye know, they'll run to see him. Mor en they will his pictur—I reckon he has long curley hair an black eyes, they all has, them sufferin' fellers that due wunderful things."

Lin glancing mischievously at the mother in a tone she pretended to be only for the mother's hearing but really delivered for Alfred's annoyance. "Well, I hope he kums to Red Stun' Skule-house. It's whur all the big shows gits thur start; they allus git a crowd, the skule direkturs sees to thet an' ef they don't make muny, Sammy Steele'll hulp 'em out."

How did she know about Sammy Steele and his loan? It was long afterwards that Alfred learned that Joe Thornton had confidentially imparted to Bill Wyatt, the tavern keeper, the part that he and Steele had played in Alfred's show life Wyatt, in turn, confidentially imparted the story, with a few additions, to Uncle Bill. The uncle confided the story to the family and Cousin Charley gave it to the town—but what's the use.

Professor Palmer, the artist, was to visit the family the following Sunday. When there appeared a smallish, Yankee looking individual, wrinkled face, a tuft of beard on his chin, similar to that bestowed upon the comic cartoons of the face of Uncle Sam, a beaked nose, very dirty hands and iron grey hair, sparsely sprinkled over his acorn-shaped head, Alfred thought a farmer or stock breeder had called on his father.

When introduced by the father as "My son, Alfred, Professor Palmer," Alfred was taken off his feet and his idea of art dropped away down. The only attraction of the professor was his eloquence, his ability to talk entertainingly. This he did continuously with a pronunciation so correct and studied that it sounded pedantic. The professor kept up his talk, as affected at times as the hand-cuff king's stage announcements or those of the middleman in a minstrel show.

After dinner the professor expressed a desire to take a walk with Alfred. They walked far, the professor talked long, and became annoyingly confidential. He said: "Your father has told me a great deal about you and I must admit that you are a mighty smart young man. You don't belong in this one-horse town, you should get out in the world where there are opportunities waiting for all such as you. You could live in this town a thousand years and you'd be just what you are now. You have had some experience in the show line but in a line that is beneath you; your place in the show business is higher up. I want your advice," he continued insinuatingly. "Now, I offered John (he referred to Alfred's father), the best thing of his life. He has worked hard all of his days; he is deserving of something better. I have offered him a half interest in my show. ("Holy Mother of Moses!" thought Alfred). I have borrowed a little money from him but I need nine hundred dollars more to put me out right. Now Jack is considering the matter. I wish you, who know more about the show business than both of us put together, (Alfred knew he was being flattered), would talk to him, use your influence with him."

Notwithstanding Alfred's life's ambition to become a showman, the idea as presented by the professor filled him with disgust. His father going into the show business! He had pictured show life in his illusions as one long, summer day's dream, but now it seemed the meanest of careers. The idea of his father associating himself with such a calling was repugnant in the extreme. Alfred could scarcely restrain his thoughts from taking expression in wrathful words.

The man continued, not noticing Alfred's changed expression: "You could sing and dance in this entertainment, do just what you pleased, it would make it all the better. I'll deliver the lecture and your daddy, (he was becoming insultingly familiar), could sit at the door and rake in the money. Hasn't the old man talked to you about it? I've been talking to him for six months."

"Talking to my father about going into the show business and he did not knock you down. If he didn't he is a hypocrite." This is only what Alfred thought; his reply was: "No, sir." He did not realize whether "No, sir" was the answer to the professor's question or the announcement of the decision he had come to in his mind as to the show business in so far as his father was concerned.

The professor rattled on: "Now, you get your old man away from the women folks and talk it over with him. It's the best thing ever offered him; he'll get his nine hundred dollars back before a month is out. I'm going to do business with churches and preachers wherever I can. I preached four years in Missouri and had to give it up on account of my health; I got stomach trouble from eating rich food. I know just how to work this thing, and if you and your daddy go in with me we will not only make money but have a hell of a good time."

They had arrived at the door of Alfred's home. The professor, as they passed in, admonished Alfred to "Think it over and let me hear from you."

The professor was soon in the midst of a description of a scene he intended introducing in his church entertainment wherein he used living figures. Alfred did not follow his conversation; he was trying to think, but could not think connectedly. He could not talk to the professor, he answered him by nods or shakes of his head. The more reticent Alfred became the more voluble the professor grew.

At leave-taking time, the professor admonished Alfred: "Do not forget what I told you." Alfred promised that he would not and he was sincere; he could not have forgotten had he tried.

The professor gone, Alfred hurried to his room. Was it possible that his father had even partially entertained an idea of joining the man Palmer in a show scheme, the father, who had berated, abused and condemned all and everything pertaining to shows, now favorably considering engaging in the show business himself.

Alfred endeavored to find excuses for his father—"He was generous, sympathetic, he was listening to the professor only to encourage him." Alfred had never been subjected to the influence of a promoter; this was a leaf of life yet unturned by him.

Alfred felt certain that his father had entered into some sort of an arrangement with the professor. He felt certain the panorama man was endeavoring to induce his father to invest money in the panorama and he finally resolved that it should not be.

The more he thought the matter over, the more distasteful show life appeared to him.

Then the illusion came back to him. He had dreamed by night and prayed by day; he had lived for years with the wish, the hope that he might, after a few years of show life, earn enough to gratify his life's desires, to possess a farm, to own fine horses, to plant fields, to reap harvests, to live near nature.

He figured over several sheets of white paper. He would be compelled to labor forty years in the tannery to acquire sufficient money to buy a farm and nearly one hundred years in the newspaper office.

Jimmy Reynolds, the clown with Thayer & Noyse Circus, received one hundred dollars a week, board and lodging, so Alfred had been informed. Alfred felt in the innermost depths of his soul that he was a much better clown than Jimmy. He would secure the position now held by Reynolds—one hundred dollars each week for thirty weeks, three thousand dollars a year; ten years, thirty thousand dollars. Ten years a clown, then a farm. Show business was improper for the father but the means to attain the end for the son, as he reasoned.

When Lin found the figures and writing on the many sheets of scribbling paper in his room, she pondered long and confusedly over them.

"What in the world hes thet consarned boy got intu his punkin' agin? Thirty years a clown, ninety-nine years in a nusepaper, furty years in the tan-yard, and a farmer all the rest uf my life." Then she laughed. "He must think he'll be as ole as Methusulus got." She carried the paper to the mother.

They confronted Alfred with the sheets on which were scribbled the hieroglyphics. Alfred laughingly said it was a new way to tell fortunes.

Alfred decided to talk to the father the first opportunity that offered. Father and son were seated in the front room. "Father"—Alfred rarely addressed the parent as "father;" "Pap" was the every-day appellation but the present matter was of greater importance—"Father, I would like to talk to you privately and want you to answer me truthfully."

The father had his feet on a stool reclining in the big, easy chair. At the words "answer me truthfully," the father's feet fell to the floor, his cigar dropped until it lay on his chinbeard; the man looked at the boy to convince himself he had heard aright.

"Why, what the h—ll tarnation do you mean?"

Alfred was frightened, his voice trembled and sounded unlike his own, but he was determined.

"Father, I want to talk to you, come upstairs to my room."

If Alfred had not been so earnest, the scene would have been a laughable one, as it was like burlesquing many similar scenes when the parent addressed the boy in the same words. Alfred walked up the steps very slowly, hoping thereby to cause the parent to follow. It was a long time (to Alfred) ere the father entered the room.

"What's the trouble now?" began the man, as he gazed inquiringly at the boy.

"Who is this man Palmer whom you are so greatly taken up with?" inquired Alfred.

"Why, what's that to you? He's a friend of mine."

"Has he a show?" was the boy's next query.

"A show? Not a show like you know anything of. He has a painting, a work of art, that will be exhibited soon."

"Father, you have always berated, abused and condemned shows and show people. Did this man Palmer borrow money from you?"

The father was confused. He reddened as he stammered: "No—no—not much. You see he is a poor devil of an artist, he would rather paint than eat; he has spent years of his life on a painting. He has a fortune almost in his hands and I loaned him a little money to buy glue and colors to finish his painting. I tell you, he is a genius; why, the roller the pictures work on is one of the most ingenious contrivances you ever saw and it's simple, it can be applied to other uses. No man but a genius like Palmer would have thought of it."

This and much more information he gave Alfred. By his manner Alfred could readily see that the parent was greatly interested in Palmer and his scheme—for Alfred felt such it was.

"Well, then, father, you have changed your mind as to shows?"

"Who said I had? No, I have not changed my mind as to shows! Who told you I had? But your Uncle Will, who thinks more of you than you think he does, has persuaded me to give you your own way a little more and if you want to go with Palmer I will consent to it after I see Palmer and put you under his charge. He must control you just as I want you controlled. He is a man who knows how to manage boys; he is a man you can depend upon and I don't mind you going with him if it can be arranged to suit me and your mother. I am glad you asked my consent and did not run off, like you threatened to do with the nigger minstrels." And he emphasized "nigger minstrels" to strongly convince Alfred of his disgust with that branch of show business.

The father was so completely wrapped up in Palmer, so totally captivated by the eloquence of the man that he had altogether mistaken the questions of the boy.

"Father, has Palmer tried to get nine hundred dollars out of you? Did he want you to buy a half interest in the show?"

"Well," hesitatingly he answered, "Palmer has got to raise some money and he asked me to help him out. I haven't said whether I would or not. If you go with him you could look after money matters for——."

Here Alfred interrupted the parent: "Have you said anything to mother about this? You know when you went into the patent wash-board concern with Niblo and grandpap, you never told mother and when you got took in with Uncle Thomas on the patent shoe blacking, you said you would never enter into anything outside your business without asking mother's advice. And now you're dickering with this man Palmer about a show, something you know nothing about. Now Pap—."

The wash-board and blacking were two of the father's investments that were losses, so he became very much irritated at mention of them and checked the son.

"Now you hold on, young man! If you tell your mother anything of this, you and I will have trouble. You're meddling with matters that don't concern you. I thought you called me in to ask my permission to go with Palmer. Now you set yourself up to pry into my business. I'm your father, I've always taken care of you and I am able to take care of myself. I don't want a green boy to look after me."

"Well, Pap; I'm not trying to nose into your business. You told Palmer that I knowed a heap about the show business, and you recommended me highly as a showman."

The father was sizzling. "Who told you so?"

"Why, Palmer himself. Now, I don't want to brag on myself," continued Alfred who had gained confidence as the interview progressed, "but I've seen a great deal of this show business and you've got to know what you're doing when you get into it. Why, look how many men have lost all their money." And here Alfred mentioned the names of several men, the details of whose losses in show schemes he had read in the New York Clipper.

"Why," he continued, in an outburst of confidence, "I"—and he emphasized the "I"—"I lost money on my last show." He should have added, "my first and last show." But the boy felt that he had pap going. "I had to borrow money from Sammy Steele to pay my debts."

The father gasped. "So you've been borrowing money to get into the show business?"

"No, I had to borrow money to get out of it and that's why I don't want you to loan Palmer money without you ask mother."

Alfred knew full well that this reference to the mother would bring the father to terms.

"Now look here, my boy; I warned you once before not to blab my business to your mother to make trouble in the family—"

"Well, I'm going to tell her," broke in the boy.

"You're going to tell her what?" threateningly asked the father.

"I'm not going to tell her anything about you," replied Alfred somewhat subdued, "I'm just going to tell her that Palmer is trying to borrow money from you."

The mother was no different from other women. The father knew full well that her first remark would be: "So Palmer wants to borrow money! So that's what brought him here! He is a slick one, you could tell that by his talk. John, I hope you are not fool enough to loan that man money." "No, Mary, don't worry yourself, he'll get no money out of me, I could see through him the first time I met him."

This line of conversation had been heard so often in the family that it was stereotyped on the memory of all. The father therefore capitulated, and in a tone intended to pacify the boy he said: "Now there's no use in stirring up anything over this matter. If you want to go with Palmer I will gain your mother's consent. I'll tell her you have asked my permission. I will permit you to remain there as long as you do right. You know more about this business than I do and I'll leave it all in your hands and I'll tell Palmer so," the father resignedly concluded.

His father had outgeneraled him; he was not the diplomat he imagined himself. He was left in deeper doubt than before the interview.

Letters came from Palmer. Alfred knew by the postmark that they were from him. He was tempted to open them. The father read the letters and placed them in the desk, never mentioning Palmer's name. This was very perplexing to Alfred.

It was reported that Palmer's great panorama was coming. It was also reported that Alfred's Uncle Thomas, the minister, Uncle Ned, Uncle Will, grandpap, and all of Alfred's relatives who had opposed his show ambitions previously, sanctioned his going with Professor Palmer's Panorama.

Uncle Thomas explained that Palmer was a retired minister, that the surroundings, instead of being degrading, would be uplifting; taking it all in all, John and Mary had acted wisely in giving their consent to Alfred's joining Professor Palmer's Panorama of Pilgrim's Progress.

Somehow it got out that Alfred was not anxious to go. Lin, in referring to the latter phase of the matter, said: "I jes can't understan' hit. Uncle Thomas ses hit will satusfy Alfurd's ambishun an' possibly settle his min'. But Alfurd don't seem to want to go. Maybe hit's his muther. Alfurd is a great muther's boy, ye wouldn't think hit either, he's sech a tarnel devil ketcher, but he is. I guess he don't like the idee uf this prayur meetin' show an' the show fellur thet painted hit he jes disspises. I bet ye a fip ef hit wus a show with hosses an' gals ur singin' niggurs he'd bust a biler to go. Be durned if he ain't the queerest cuss I ever seed. Why, it tuk the hull kit uf us tu head him frum runnin' off with a show a while back. Now, be dog-goned ef ye kin chase him off with a pack of Bob Playford's houn's."

It was announced by the father that Palmer would be the guest of the family for a day.

Alfred determined to have a heart-to-heart talk with Palmer, pretend he was in full accord with his plans, engage to go with the panorama and thus protect the father in his dealings with the man.

Palmer arrived and with him an open faced, honest appearing Pennsylvania Dutchman, from Bedford County, whom Palmer introduced as Jake. Jake had a continuous smile. Sometimes it expanded but never contracted. The smile was a fixture and it became Jake greatly. He rarely spoke, the smile sort of atoned for his reticence as it assured those addressing him that Jake was not deaf, even though dumb.

It was not necessary to question Palmer; he was a willing subject, volunteering all the testimony necessary to set Alfred's mind at rest.

In answer to the query as to whether father had concluded to take an interest in the panorama now that he, Alfred, had decided to go with it, Palmer rolled off his reply so rapidly that Alfred could scarcely follow his words.

"I hope John will not be angry with me, I offered him first chance and held off until I almost lost the other fellow. John's all right but he's too conservative. He's afraid of his wife and he'll never make money as long as he continues in business in this town. This Dutchman, Jake, had the money, he is anxious to travel, he has never been outside of Bedford County. Jake has a team, a fine team. We can't stick anywhere. He'd sell the team if I said the word. He will haul the whole outfit. I am going to buy another team and a good one, then I can take my wife and you and go ahead and have all the arrangements made before Jake arrives with the panorama. Of course if John talks his wife into it he will want to come in later. We can easily get rid of Jake, he's a "gilly." This is the very business for John. He is a painter, he could paint the panoramas; all he requires is a little experience with water colors. Why, look at those flags on the old fellow's barn out the pike; no one but an artist could shade and color like that.[A] Those flags are painted so naturally they appear to be fluttering in the wind. John and me could go in together, and paint panoramas of Bull Run and other battles and sell them or send out a half a dozen. This war will make the panorama business good. Your daddy is good on flags and eagles and sich; that's where I am weak. We could make all kinds of money."

The exhibitions would be confined to churches and educational institutions; therefore, it was most fortunate for Alfred that he should be privileged to become attached to an exhibition that possessed the elevating and refining influences of the great moral entertainment of Professor Palmer.

The father, instead of requesting the minister to ask the blessing, as was his custom, nodded to Palmer. All bowed their heads as Palmer, in a loud voice, called down a blessing upon the food, the father, the mother, and the boy about to go out into the world to seek his fortune; he also prayed for Lin. He called down a blessing upon the panorama and that it might attract thousands that the great moral lesson it was designed to teach might be carried to the furthermost corners of the earth.

Alfred could not resist the impulse to raise his eyes. The very beard on Palmer's chin was quivering with the fervor of his beseechings. All were bowed in respectful reverence except Jake—he was gazing nowhere, the smile a little more expansive.

After the men had retired from the dining room, Lin, the mother and Alfred remained seated. Lin turned a cup in the tea-grounds. She read that Alfred would wander a long way off and "maybe kum back with a great bag of gold, at eny rate, he wus carryin' a heavy load."

Finally Lin, turning to the mother, inquired: "What did ye think uf the blessin'?"

"It was very fervent," absently answered the mother.

Lin sniffed. "Well, I'd swore afore a volcany uf fire thet I smelled licker on both uf 'em."

The mother communicated Lin's suspicions to the father. He admitted that Jake might be addicted to liquor. Palmer, as an artist, used a great deal of alcohol to dissolve the shellac used for sizing the canvas preparatory to painting and the fumes of alcohol would pervade a man's clothing a long time after being subjected to its permeating influences.

Lin, with a twinkle in her eye, declared in a loud whisper as the father left the room: "Well, durned ef I wus him ef I wouldn't change my clothes afore I asked a blessin' agin."

The mother was very much worried. She communicated her fears to Uncle Thomas and Aunt Sarah. Uncle William, the county judge, was called into conference. He advised that since Alfred seemed inclined to a roving life it would be better for him to be connected with a religious show than with a worldly one for he would be free from the vicious surroundings of a circus or minstrel show, and suggested that a binding contract be made with Palmer.

Grandfather secured a copy of the contract under which his brother, the judge, had been apprenticed, and had a copy made to fit Alfred's engagement to Palmer.

The following is an exact copy of the indenture which bound Uncle William to learn the trade of a blacksmith. It is now on record in the county courthouse at Uniontown, Pennsylvania:

THIS INDENTURE WITNESSETH: That William Hatfield, of the Township of Union, in the County of Fayette, State of Pennsylvania, hath put himself by the approbation of his guardian, John Withrow, and by these presents doth voluntarily put himself an apprentice to George Wintermute, of the township of Redstone, county and state aforesaid, blacksmith, to learn his art, trade or mystery he now occupieth or followeth, and after the manner of an apprentice to serve from the day of the date hereof, for and during the full end and term of five years, next ensuing, during all of which time he, the said apprentice, his said master shall faithfully serve, his secrets keep, his lawful commands everywhere gladly obey; he shall do no damage to his said master, nor suffer it to be done without giving notice to his said master; he shall not waste his master's goods, nor lend them unlawfully to others; he shall not absent himself day or night from his master's service without his leave; he shall not commit any unlawful deed whereby his said master shall sustain damage, nor contract matrimony within the said term; he shall not buy nor sell nor make any contract whatsoever, whereby his master receive damage, but in all things behave himself as a faithful apprentice ought to do during said term. And the said George Wintermute shall use the utmost of his endeavors to teach, or cause to be taught and instructed, the said apprentice the trade or mystery he now occupieth or followeth, and procure and provide for him, the said apprentice, sufficient meat, drink, common wearing apparel, washing, lodging, fitting for an apprentice during the said term; and further he, the said master, doth agree to give unto the said apprentice, ten months' schooling within the said term, and also the master doth agree to give unto the said apprentice two weeks in harvest in each and every year that he, the said apprentice, shall stay with his said master; also the said George Wintermute, doth agree to give unto the said apprentice one good freedom suit of clothes. And for the true performance of all and every the said covenants and agreements, either of the said parties binds themselves to each other by these presents.

In witness whereof, they have interchangably put their hands and seals, the first day of April, one thousand, eight hundred and sixteen.

GEORGE WINTERMUTE, (Seal) WILLIAM HATFIELD, (Seal) JOHN WITHROW, (Seal)

Witness present: BENJAMIN ROBERTS.

FAYETTE COUNTY, SS.:

May the 29th, one thousand eight hundred and sixteen, before me the subscriber, one of the justices of the peace, in and for the said county, came the parties to the within indenture and severally acknowledged it as their act and deed. Given under my hand and seal the day and year above mentioned.

BENJAMIN ROBERTS, (Seal)

A copy of the paper binding Alfred to George Washington Palmer is on record in the county courthouse at Leesburg, Loudoun County, Virginia. Grandfather argued that if his brother, the judge, could accumulate farms and town property and raise himself to the dignity of a judge, Alfred certainly should do equally as well.

It was not many days before Alfred's duties would take him away from home and he began a round of visits to bid all good-bye.



Cousin Mary Craft gave a cotillion party in the country. Cousins Hester and Martha gave a party in town. Frank Long gave a taffy pulling. The hot plates of taffy were placed outside the kitchen door on the brick walk to cool before the taffy was pulled. Archibald Long, Frank's father, not knowing of the taffy's location, walked out of the house in his stocking feet, as was his custom ere he retired. In the darkness he planted one foot, then the other, in a plate of the hot taffy. This caused him to jump several feet in the air. He started to run. At each step his feet found another taffy plate. Gobs of the hot stuff sticking to his feet, pressing up between his toes, the old man introduced a dance—a high kicking dance that would have won him fame and fortune on the stage. The hot gobs of taffy clinging to his expansive, woolen sock-encased feet caused him such intense pain, the old man endeavored to introduce a new stunt, namely, to throw both feet in the air at the same time.

All the boys and girls ran from the dining room at the first sound of the yells of the old man. The lamps within enlightened the weird scene without.

When both feet were flung in the air simultaneously the old man sat down suddenly. He sat on the largest plate, with the hottest gob of taffy in the collection. His seat had barely touched the plate, the taffy had scarcely squashed through his jeans pants, until he made an effort to rise again. Failing in this he flopped on his stomach, clutching and tearing at his seat of latest misery, taffy stringing from his fingers.

Rearing his rear end high in the taffy laden air he planted his head in another plate of taffy which, was still tenderly clinging to the few straggling hairs on the old man's pate, as they carried him into the house, the taffy plate on his head like the crown of the old king. Gradually dangling, it descended to the floor, only to be trampled in the dust by the rabble.

The old man was put to bed. Poultices of apple butter, sweet-oil and a whitish-bluish clay dug from the bottom of the spring were applied to his blistered parts.

The taffy pulling party, the scene of gayety so suddenly transformed to one of suffering, lives in the memory of Alfred by the recollection of long threads of amber colored taffy shimmering in the soft moonlight as they clung to the plum tree branches where the old man's vigorous kicks had landed them.

It was maple sugar making time. Uncle Jacob Irons, who lived near Masontown fifteen miles away, had a large sugar grove. A visit to Uncle Jake's was always one continued round of pleasure. The staid uncle, jolly Aunt Bettie, Kate and Tillie, Joe and George, John and Wilson, were always delighted to have Alfred visit them.

It was a day that marked the passing of winter and the coming of spring, after a night of light freezing with a white frost, the morning sun shining all the brighter that he had been hazed so long by winter's shadows. The earth, the trees, appeared even more brown and barren by contrast with the splendors of the sky. Here and there a patch of snow, left sheltered by tree or fence, seemingly endeavoring to hide from the sunbeams that came out of the south, to pour its flood of warmth on it until it melted and mouldered away.

It was springtime, the boyhood of the year, when half the world is rhyme and music is the other. It was springtime in the country, far from the city and the ways of men. The mountains in the distance, brown colored in spots, the peaks, like winter kings with beards of snow, seemed to say: "'Tis time for me to go northward o'er the icy rocks, northward o'er the sea. Come the spring with all its splendor, all its buds and all its blossoms, all its flowers and all its grasses."

It was a day that awakened feelings that seemed sacred. Have you ever lived in the country? Have you ever visited in the country in springtime? Have you ever asked yourself: "I wonder if the sap in the sugar trees is stirring yet? Is the sugar water dripping?" Have you ever worked in a sugar camp, such as there were in old Fayette County in those days?

Nearer the south than bleak New England, the trees more full of sap, the sap sweeter than it flows anywhere on earth. The trees in the camp tapped, the spiles driven, the sweet water dropping; the boys and girls, the men, yes, the women too, gathering the sap. The day is warm, the run a big one; to save it, all must hustle the big barrels loaded on the sleds as the horses move from one tree to another, turning over the mosses and dried leaves, exposing the Johnny-jump-ups and violets as if they were just peeping up through the ground at the busy scene.

The redbird is singing in the tree, his plumage all the brighter for the winter's bleaching. The day is not long enough, the night is consumed. The boys from all the country about gather at the camp. The moon was a book and every star a word that read fun and frolic to the jolly crowd at the camp at Uncle Jake's that night.

Alfred sang songs, and told jokes.

They had sugared off, made a big kettle of sugar. Some dipped big spoonfuls of the thickened syrup from the kettle, and poured it slowly into tin cups filled with ice cold water. As it cooled the large lump of wax was pulled out of the water with the fingers. Some, with buttered hands, worked the wax until they had whitish taffy, others filled their mouths with the wax as it came from the water.

The writer will engage to cure any case of stomach trouble that ever worried man or woman with this maple wax.

The night wore on, the fun flagged. Ben Paul, a husky country boy, proposed that two or three go to Nick Yonse's still house and procure a little "licker." Cousin Wilson frowned upon this proposal but as the boys were his guests he did not further protest. It was impossible to awaken anyone to get the matured article from the distillery; therefore, with the aid of a clothesline fastened to a jug which Ben lowered into a vat filled with corn juice distilled the day previous, a supply was secured. Ben returned to the camp. He was truthful when he explained that the offering he brought was no old stale stuff such as they were accustomed to, but something new and fresh.

Its newness did not deter the boys from helping themselves to big swigs from the jug, smoothing out their wry faces with draughts of sugar water. Cousin Wilson refused to participate as he busied himself with his work. The sight of a tin cup made Alfred fearful that he would spill his sugar. He also declined. After the custom that had prevailed in the tavern cellar, the tin cup went round and round, the result was the same or nearly so as at the tavern. Some sang, others danced, one or two slept, some wanted to fight. Alfred attempted to pour melody on the troubled revellers but the only effect of his song was to encourage Ben Paul to knock the bottom out of a new tin pail endeavoring to keep time to the song as he had seen Alfred do with the tambourine.

Cousin John, unnoticed by Cousin Wilson, was chief among those who passed the tin cup around. John was of a friendly disposition and, not to be rude to his guests, sent the cup around often. Several of the boys retired into the shadows of the trees just beyond the glare of the furnace fire to regret their mixing corn and sugar.



Wilson plainly informed John that this thing had gone far enough. It was John's idea of courtesy, or rather his confused notion, that a host's guests should be permitted to conduct themselves as best suited their pleasure. Several of them wanted to fight. John said, "All right, let them fight." Wilson interfered.

John stepped out of the circle and invited any one or all present to come out. "Any of you excepting Alfred, he's all right. I can lick any of you with one hand tied behind my back," and John spat on both hands. "Come out yer," he pleadingly invited Wilson, "or anyone excepting Alfred."

John, when he invited any or all of the others out, had evidently forgotten his courtesy to his guests or probably he desired to further increase their pleasure. Perhaps that was the way he reasoned it, as several had declared they would rather fight than eat. John did not wish them to go home feeling they had missed anything.

As a last request, John just pleaded with Wilson to step out. He seemed more anxious to have Wilson tackle him than any other. As a last declaration of what he wouldn't sacrifice to have Wilson step out, he concluded as he slapped his hands together: "Step out, ole feller, just step out yer. Will you? I'll fight you anyway, I'll fight you now. Come on; I don't care a dam if I have my Sunday pants on, I'll fight you anyhow."

The shouts of the boys could be heard re-echoing up and down the hollows as they wended their ways homeward. The moon had gone down, the night was darkened; it was nearly dawn. The fire had gone down in the furnace, the steam ceased to rise from the kettles, the hoot of the old night owl, after the scenes of the night, made it seem even more quiet.

How to get John into the house that Uncle Jake and the family, might not be awakened, concerned both Alfred and Wilson. To Alfred was delegated the task of conducting John home. John led quietly until a shout of laughter from those bringing up the rear was heard which he chose to construe as derision directed at him, and then he balked. Alfred would get him quieted and thus they finally reached the house.

Here John balked again. Alfred and Wilson were both over sensitive. If the folks discovered John's condition it would reflect upon them. Alfred greatly feared that Mrs. Young and Uncle Jake would blame him for John's downfall. They had about made up their minds to carry John to the barn and stow him away in the hay mow but it had turned uncomfortably cool and this plan was abandoned. Alfred opened the door leading to the stairs, partly pulling and pushing him upstairs. He landed John in the room, where he fell over on the bed.

John muttered and mumbled, flapping and flinging his arms wildly about his head—he arose to a sitting posture. Alfred endeavored to lay him down. His face and head were covered with cold perspiration. Alfred knew the symptoms of the distressing effects that follow the circulation of a tin cup. He hustled John out of bed. John floundered away from him in the darkness, and found his way into an unused room. Alfred could hear him but could not locate him. Groping his way in the darkness Alfred kept calling in a muffled voice: "John, John, John, where are you? Come to me."

Just then the house seemed to shake from roof to cellar as John and his two hundred pounds fell over Uncle Jake's home-made sausage stuffer. The stuffer was ten feet long. Stuffer and John carried a big rocking chair, a tin boiler and several other reverberating pieces of household junk with them.

Ere Alfred could rescue John from the mass of ruins under and on which he was piled, John began to realize how difficult it is to retain what you have no matter how strongly you desire to do so. Alfred had to get out of hearing of John's sufferings to suppress his feeling. He felt very deeply for John from the very bottom of his stomach; in fact, the bottom of his stomach seemed disposed to come up. He endeavored to divert his thoughts but they went back to a tin cup, a wheel-barrow, cow's ears and other things.

Uncle Jake came out of his room. "What's the matter, what's up? You boys trying to tear down the house? What's the trouble anyway?"

"Oh, John's drunk too much syrup and it's made him deathly sick," Alfred began to explain. Uncle Jake interrupted him, saying, as he backed into the room and closed the door: "Oh, I thought Sammy Steele's mule had kicked some of you."

The wings of fame fly slowly, reputation travels faster. It is said that remorse is the echo of a lost virtue. Alfred felt that remorse of conscience that can come only to one who has fallen and lived on in the happy illusions that no one heard him drop.

Governor Tener, Doctor Van Voorhis, Mr. Daly and others of John's friends will no doubt be surprised at this leaf in his life. In all the years that John and Alfred have lived since, neither has ever forgotten his first experience with a tin cup that was loaded.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The flags referred to were painted on the upper doors of James Fouts's barn, situated on the old pike three miles east of Brownsville. The flags were very brilliantly colored and naturally draped. They were the admiration of all travelers over the great thoroughfare. As the war progressed the Confederates raided near that section several times. The owner feared that the flags might imperil the safety of the barn and other buildings on his farm. He therefore sent an order to Alfred's father to paint the flags over, who desiring to cover their brilliant colors with one coat selected dark Prussian blue. Very soon after the flags were painted over, their colors began to appear through the blue. Not many hot summer days had gone by until the flags were almost as distinct as when first painted on the big doors of the barn. The reappearance of the flags was regarded as a phenomenon or a miracle by the country folk. The "Brownsville Clipper," in commenting upon the miracle, declared: "It is an omen of victory for the Federal armies; you cannot efface the Star Spangled Banner, it still waves on Fouts's barn." The paper criticized the owner for having the flags daubed over and intimated that Fouts was lacking in loyalty. (Fouts was a Democrat. Three weeks later the owner of the paper ordered Danny Stentz to pull in the big flag that hung out of the third story window of the "Clipper" building; the Confederates were reported as but fourteen miles away. The chemical properties of the coloring matter in the paints was the cause of the reappearance of the red bars of the flags through the blue paint that was spread over them.)



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The man who borrows trouble Is always on the rack, For there's no way, by night or day, That he can pay it back.

MT. PLEASANT, PA.

DEAR MUZ:

We got here safe and sound. This is a pretty place. Palmer lives on the edge of the town; it's an old house; one end of it is all taken up with his "art studio," he calls it. He biles glue and the smell goes through the whole house. You and Lin thought I stunk when I worked in the tannery, you ought to smell Palmer and his art studio.

He has another preacher helping him. His wife is very quiet; she is making the clothes for the panorama; they have a pile of clothes to make. He asked me if I had read "Pilgrim's Progress." He knows the book backwards, so I have to read it and learn it too.

The way he talks this is a regular show, but he won't let you call it a show. The painting looks awful to me but Palmer says it looks all right under the lights. He is about done and wants Pap to come over to see it. If he comes don't let him bring any money.

Tell Lin to get my shotgun from under the feed trough in the cow stable. She'd better get it quick. Turkey Evans knows where it is and he'll steal it. Answer and let me know if he has stole it yet.

Tom White is too short. If Cousin Charley was a few inches taller I could get him this job. It takes tall people to be characters in Pilgrim's Progress, especially "Christian," "Help" and the "Evangelist." Jake's goin' to be somethin' in the panorama.

They don't live very well; maybe Mrs. Palmer didn't know we were coming and didn't fix for us. They have had no meat any meal yet, only flitch.[B] Palmer works all night and sleeps all day. He talks the rest of the time. His wife don't say nothin'; just wears a sun bonnet. Maybe she has the newralgy.

Give my love to all. Your affectionate son,

ALFRED GRIFFITH HATFIELD.

P. N. B. Don't forgit the gun. Turner Simpson promised me when Queen had pups to give me one. If he brings it you'll keep it, won't you Muz?

MT. PLEASANT, PA.

DEAR MUZ:

The livin's no better, it's flitch every meal; they haven't had pie or cake since we came. Palmer says when they get the thing going we'll live on the fat on the land. His wife don't say nothin', just sews and cooks and wears a sun-bonnet. They've got two children somewhere. I heard Palmer say they'd have to stay, that they'd be too much trouble on the road. This seemed to make Mrs. Palmer more quiet, I reckon you'd call it sad. She ought to say somethin', then a body would know what ails her. I don't think it's newralgy. I told her mustard plasters always helped Aunt Susan and she just looked at me.

I hope he gets her goin' soon, I'm hungry. If this show is good, as he says she is, he ought to make enough to buy something to eat besides flitch, corn meal and potatoes. He's got two more scenes to paint, then we're ready to show her up.

Tom tried to help Mrs. Palmer wash the dishes, he broke two plates. Palmer says he's all thumbs and mouth.

Your affectionate son, ALFRED GRIFFITH HATFIELD.

P. S. Was the gun gone? The pup's a hound but it's bound to be pretty, the children will like it. You keep it till I get home.

MT. PLEASANT, PA.

MY DEAR MUZ:

Palmer's the awfulest worker I ever saw. He knows his business but he ain't got any money. We're waitin' on Jake to come. Palmer owes everybody in town, they won't let him have anything until he pays. The flitch gave out last night, and we had nothin' but corn pone, buttermilk and potatoes. Palmer said he ketched the gout once from high livin', and he did not want to see another human suffer like he did. I guess his wife's dietin' too, as she don't set down to eat with us.

Palmer is a wonderful man. He's got his lecture all wrote out and all the characters and all the costumes for them. He's going to begin the rehearsals tomorrow. Practicin' we called it. I looked in the dictionary, rehearsing is to recite, to recount, to relate, to repeat what has already been said, to recite in private for experiment and improvement before a public representation.

I have learned more from Palmer than anybody I was ever with. The old preacher, Reverend Gideon, writes letters all day; he has the names of all the churches and preachers and we know where we are to be weeks before hand.

Jake came today and brought his two horses. They're nice horses but he won't let you drive them, he wants to drive himself. Palmer went to the stable while Jake was unhitchin' and I seen him get money from Jake. We had beefstake for supper, fried, but it was too dry. She did not make any sop.[C] We had hot biscuits and good butter, but no pie and cake.

I got acquainted with a boy, Will Peters. He invited me over to his house several times. I want to go but am ashamed to; they have pie and cake three times a day just like we all do at home.

Mrs. Palmer talks a little to me now. She still wears the sun-bonnet but I don't believe it's newralgy that ails her. She asked me if your name warn't Mary Irons before you married Pap.

I finished the Pilgrim's Progress last night. It's a great book, you ought to read it. The one we got at home is not complete, borrow Uncle Tom's.

I'm glad Turkey Evans did not get hold of my shotgun. Palmer's done all his "work of art," as he calls it. Tonight he reads the whole thing over to us and then we got to learn our parts. Jake is going to be "Christian;" that's what I wanted to be but "Christian" carries a heavy load on his back and Palmer says I'm not strong enough. Me and Tom must double a dozen different characters. Mrs. Palmer tried all the clothes for everybody on me. One of the suits I do not like; it's just like you had nothin' on but a shirt; it's for "Faith" to wear. I told Palmer it would not look right before women and children and he said the costume was patterned after the original plates. I don't know what he meant but he'll not put "Faith's" clothes on me, plates or no plates.



Is Pap coming over before we start? If he is, you have Lin bake a peck of doughnuts, put them in the big carpet-sack. I'm glad you got the gun. I wrote Turner Simpson to send you the pup when it was old enough to wean. Your affectionate son,

ALFRED GRIFFITH HATFIELD

P. S. Don't forget the doughnuts.

SOMERSET, PA.

DEAR MUZ:

It will be my luck to have Pap come to Mt. Pleasant with the doughnuts and find us all gone. We left last night. I wrote you we was going but I didn't know it until Palmer woke me up in the middle of the night. Reverend Gideon left two days before. Someone pulled me out of bed. I hollered, "Here, here, hold on!" Then I knew it was Palmer. I jumped up. He ordered me to dress quickly.

I dressed and looked for Tom. I asked Palmer where he was. He said: "I've called him as often as I'm going to." I called Tom and had to wait so long for him to dress that when I got out doors there was Jake sitting up in the front seat of the wagon, and Mrs. Palmer beside him. She looked to me as if she was cryin'. Jake told us to "get in, she's going to go."

Palmer was locking the doors. I heard something splash down in the well. His wife asked for the keys. "They're down in the well; old Lane, the landlord, can look for them." Mrs. Palmer looked very much worried. They left all their things excepting a few bedclothes and the sewing machine.

Palmer spread the bedclothes on the panorama in the bottom of the wagon; Tom, me and him slept all the way here. Poor Mrs. Palmer set up all night beside Jake on the seat. If she ain't got the newralgy she'll katch it sure. Mrs. Palmer wouldn't get out of the wagon to eat breakfast when we stopped on the road at a country house, and Palmer spoke real cross to her and she cried. It's the only time I've seen Jake's face without a smile and he looks a different man when he ain't smiling. I like Jake and he likes me. He wants to see Pap.

Reverend Gideon met us here. Palmer forgot his clothes and I heard him tell Gideon they'd have to go, he had flung the keys in the well and if Gideon went back after his clothes they was liable to fling him in jail.

I believe Palmer's run off owing everybody. This thing's bound to make money. I'm sorry I came for twenty a month. If he does well he'll have to raise me.

Your affectionate son, ALFRED GRIFFITH HATFIELD.

P. S. The hound was to be a dog, not another kind.

Palmer, the wife and Gideon, were a source of much speculation to Alfred; he could not fix their standing in his mind. The facts were that Palmer was one of those soldiers of fortune who had experimented with many things and failed in everything. He fitted Dryden's description of:

"A man so various, that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome; Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong Was everything by starts, and nothing long; But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon."

The only aim Palmer seemed to have in life was to create the impression that he might have been worse. Store clerk, school teacher, politician, preacher, scene painter, amateur showman; such were the pursuits he had been engaged in, not successful in any of them. Abusive of all, save that one he was engaged in, blaming the world for his failures. He respected no man or woman. He approached no man save with a selfish motive; could he but injure those with whom he dealt he was happy, though he did not profit thereby. Yet he did not so speak, but all his actions conveyed this impression of the man to Alfred. And thus his character was impressed on the boy's intuitive mind as strongly as were the scenes on the canvas of the panorama.



The wife was only another of that type of woman who has blasted a life, one full of hope, by clinging to a man who was unworthy of one day of her life. It was a pathetic spectacle to see the faded wife standing helpless in the shadow of her husband's selfishness, having sacrificed youth, beauty and everything that woman holds dear. It did not matter to Palmer that she was once a school teacher, more than a fair musician, courted by numbers who could have made her useful to society and happy in her life. It did not matter to Palmer that she had burned up much of her attractiveness over the cooking stove; that she lost more of it at the washtub; in caring for and rearing the children that had unfortunately come to them. The slaving she had gone through in all their married life to help her husband to get on in the world was all lost upon the selfish man who never gave a thought to her sufferings. He actually treated her if as she had been the cause of his failures, and seemed ashamed of her when younger and more attractive women were near.

Her two children, somewhere in Missouri in the keeping of her mother, seemed her only hope in life and the only time the poor crushed soul evidenced interest in anything was when tidings came from the children or she could prevail upon their thankless father to send them a little money. The mother's wardrobe was scanty that the darlings of her heart might be better clad.

Aunt Susan wore a sun-bonnet almost continuously that she might better keep in place mustard plasters and horse radish leaves to relieve the neuralgia pains. Alfred presumed that Mrs. Palmer was similarly affected since she always wore a sun-bonnet. That was before they left Palmer's house. Afterwards he became convinced that the woman wore the sun-bonnet to conceal the lines of sorrow in her once fine face.

Rev. Gideon was the last of the trio whom Alfred figured out. He had married Palmer's sister. They went to a foreign country as missionaries; Gideon's health gave way under the tropical climate. He returned to this country and had since made his home with the Palmers. But little was learned of the wife. She still lived, and if remittances were not forthcoming, Gideon was on the rack. In fact, each one of her complaining letters made Gideon turn more yellow in color, sit up later and get up earlier than usual, no matter how poor Gideon suffered. If he was ailing and Palmer noticed it, he would sneer and jerk out: "Huh! Got a letter from Sis, did you? S'pose she wants you to go back to China. Say Gideon, that must have been a hell of a job to instill the gospel into heathen when you can't make an impression upon those who understand what you say. It must have been discouraging to waste your eloquence upon those copper-colored thieves. There's many a game to catch suckers in this world but that foreign mission play is the rawest ever sprung. Say, Gideon, how much did you get? So much for each sinner saved or did you lump the job?"

Under such cynicism Gideon would turn about and walk off as though nothing had been said to him. Palmer took an especial delight in teasing Gideon as to his mission labors. Gideon never deigned to notice the ridicule of Palmer, at least in words. Yet there was one thing that impressed Alfred. Palmer always deferred to Gideon in any business proposition under consideration; he would bluster and rave a little but always in the end gave in to Gideon's judgment.

In addition to the receipts that came to him from the exhibition of the panorama, Palmer had a large, framed, steel plate engraving of John Bunyan which he sold while soliciting subscriptions for several religious publications. He worked diligently. He never desisted when he once went after preacher, deacon or the entire congregation, and he generally sold what he offered or secured their names to one of his numerous subscription lists.

He worked so adroitly that he made many his aides. Not infrequently a minister would get up during an intermission in the Pilgrim's Progress exhibition and announce one or more of Palmer's offerings. These announcements invariably wound up with the statement that the proceeds were for the benefit of a retired minister who had lost his health in an endeavor to carry the gospel to the heathen in foreign lands.

Alfred became curious as to what effect these announcements would have upon Gideon and he often peeped from behind the scenes to note it. But Gideon was never in sight. He would step out of the door as the speaker began. Alfred noticed that Mrs. Palmer always lowered her face over the keys of the piano or organ when the announcement of this character was being made. Palmer, behind the scenes, standing near the curtain his head bent to one side his hand up to his ear. If the speaker's efforts pleased him he would pull his tuft of beard with his free hand and ejaculate: "Good! Fine! Capital! Good boy, go it old Beeswax. I didn't think it was in you. Go it boots, you'll win in a walk. They're gittin' their pocket books out now; Gideon will do well tonight, ha, ha, ha." Did the speaker not measure up to his ideas, he would say: "Wade in! Wade in! Wade in! Dam you, the water's not cold. Warm up now or you'll freeze them to the pews. Oh, what you tryin' to git through you? Just listen to that crack; he'll make them think he's going to take up a collection for the foreign missions. You can't get seventeen cents. It's been worked to death. Come off, come off your perch, you poll parrot! Come off! Well you ought to be studying your primer instead of preaching; you don't know as much as Gideon."

Palmer, through the influence of the church members, procured a half dozen young girls, at each place visited, to represent the multitude passing through the gates in the final scene of Pilgrim's Progress. Although these girls were before the audience but a moment or two at the very end of the panorama, amateur like, instead of remaining in front witnessing the exhibition, they would repair to the rear of the curtain, don their robes and stand around during the entire performance, to the annoyance of everybody working the panorama, and, more frequently than otherwise, be late for their cue.

One night, an old preacher was laboring with an announcement Palmer had written and rehearsed him in, Palmer was most vicious in his comments. The old speaker's daughter was one of the virgins, standing near she heard every word uttered and there was enough and there would have been more, had not Alfred, by a nudge and a whisper, checked him. Palmer grasped the situation at once. He stepped nearer the girls. Then with a start, he shaded his eyes, dramatically gazed at the girls and began: "Oh, woman, lovely woman, nature made thee to temper man; we had been brutes without you. Angels are painted fair to look like you. There is in you all we believe of heaven, amazing brightness, purity, truth, eternal joy and everlasting love."

He was never at a loss, his quick wit extricating him from embarrassment at all times.

* * * * *

SOMERSET, PA.

DEAR MUZ:

We showed, or we exhibited, last night. It was the most crowded church I ever seen. I did well, better than anyone. Gideon, Mrs. Palmer and all said so. Gideon said I saved the day, but Palmer held me back, he wouldn't let me sing or dance. I heard him tell Gideon: "I'll have hell with that gilly kid, he thinks it a minstrel show; I got to hold him down or he'll queer the fake." I don't know what he meant, only he meant me.

Jake made some awful blunders but Gideon said it was like Palmer to put him in to play "Christian." Tomorrow's Sunday and I'll write you the full purceeding. I know the whole thing by heart and if Pap can paint a Pilgrim's Progress I can show it, exhibit it. Palmer will make a million. Lin could go along and play the organ like Mrs. Palmer. I tell you she can put in the music right, she fills out the thing just grand. Lin would have to learn to play with both hands and she must learn music. Mrs. Palmer won't play without the notes to lead her. I will take the whole Sunday to write you the full history of the first night. You better read "Pilgrim's Progress." Did you borrow Uncle Tom's?

Does Uncle Ned feel hard towards me? If anything happens to me and I get ruined it's their doings because I could have been with a minstrel troupe. You have to lie more here in a day than I did all the time I was with a minstrel show.

Your very affectionate son, ALFRED GRIFFITH HATFIELD.

P. S. I looked at the dictionary. A "gilly" is a man attendant in the Scottish Highlands. A "kid" is a young goat. It don't tell what a "fake" is. Now I know Palmer will have to raise my wages. If Pap agrees to paint a panorama and take Lin along you can get Sis Minks to work for you.



Palmer began the exhibition with a lecture:

"Ladies and Gentlemen: John Bunyan, the author of that wonderful work, 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' was an English religious writer, soldier and Baptist preacher. He enlisted in the Parliamentary army very young. He was so strongly impressed with the glimpse he caught of war that all his writings, even things sacred, were strongly illustrative of fortresses, camps, marching men, guns and trumpets. Bunyan was but seventeen years old when he entered the army, hence the lasting impressions his military life made upon his mind. He became famous as a Baptist preacher and was flung into Bedford jail under order of the Restoration. He was frequently offered his liberty on condition that he would desist from preaching. This he refused; therefore, for twelve years he suffered imprisonment for his conscience's sake.

"While in Bedford jail he began the book that has immortalized him. It is the best allegory ever written and is the only book, excepting the Bible, about which the educated majority have come over to the opinion of the common people. The peculiar glory of Bunyan is that those who hated his doctrines have acknowledged his genius by printing and using a Catholic version of his parable, The Pilgrim's Progress, with the Virgin's head in the title page.

"Oh, my dear hearers, how similar to the sufferings of the lowly genius in producing his masterpiece were those undergone in painting the work of art about to be unfolded for your inspection. For years he who transferred the thoughts of Bunyan into almost real life, for years he who wrought these fancies upon canvas, labored and suffered in secret. No living eye was ever permitted to gaze upon his work save his own. Night after night, by the dim light of lamp, the artist labored. Lack of food, lack of sleep, did not deter him. He was inspired to produce that which has been pronounced by men of highest learning as the greatest painting the world has ever known, the greatest educator of the masses, the greatest object lesson ever presented to the people of this country.

"The Pilgrim's Progress in living figures and realistic scenes, the hills, the mountains, the sunny pastures, the soft vales, the wilderness, the Shining River, the Beautiful Gates, the Celestial City.

"Like Bunyan, the painter had no idea that he was producing a masterpiece."

Here Palmer would step to the front of the platform and, after a modest pause, in a lower tone, continue: "Ladies and Gentlemen: I was not aware the printed bills had announced to the world that I, Professor Palmer, D. D., was the author of this work of art, otherwise, I am sure I would not have mentioned it."

Alfred could never disassociate this announcement from that of the clown in the circus who, after singing his song, announcing the sale of the books, assuring the audience that the proceeds of the sale of the book were for the benefit of an orphan who was a long ways from home, without money or friends. Hoping the charitably disposed would assist the orphan by buying the song books. Bowing low, he would add: "I forgot to tell you that I am the orphan."

DEAR MUZ:

The first night is the most terrible thing one can go through. We had a hard time of it; Palmer became excited and cussed; Tom did well as long as I told him; Mrs. Palmer filled in all the stops with music and this helped but if it hadn't been for me it would have been a bad failure. It was all I could do to keep it going; I nearly worked myself sick. I'm going to ask Palmer to raise my wages. Palmer praised all of us, but I know he was lying because every time Jake or Tom made a mistake he cussed. Palmer does all the talking for all the characters; the way he can change his voice you'd swear there were several people talking. He is hid from the audience and of course they think it's the characters that talk. In spite of Gideon's advice, Palmer gave Jake the part of Christian. The first scene is a field. Jake, as Christian, is discovered standing in the middle of the field. Here is where the pilgrimage begins. Jake is supposed to be reading a book and asks: "What shall I do to be saved?" Jake held the book in his hand, not looking at it but at the audience, smiling. From behind the scenes Palmer hissed; "Look serious! Look worried! Read the book! Hold the book up! Oh you dam Dutch galoot look scared!" Jake only smiled louder. I know Jake didn't hear a word Palmer said. I could hear him breathing from where I stood. You know Christian is dressed in ragged clothes, he has a burden on his back. Palmer wrapped an old coffee sack about a big stone and this was fastened on Jake's back to represent Christian's burden.

I was Evangelist. I had a long, white robe on and wore a wig with long curls; not yellow curls like you used to make me wear, but black curls, with a blue ribbon around my forehead. I walked solemn towards Jake; I looked at him a little while, then I raised my hand, pointing the roll of parchment and, in the most saddest way I could speak, I said: "Wherefore dost thou cry?" Jake said easy like, "Not by a tam sight." Palmer came right in with the proper speech: "If I be not fit to go to prison I am not fit to go to judgment and thence to execution. The thoughts of these things make me cry." Here Jake looked at me, then at Palmer; then he winked at me. I could scarcely go on with my speech: "If this be thy condition, why standest thou still?" "I don't vant to, I'd rather valk to Bedford dan stan' dis way still," was Jake's reply. A number of those nearest the platform overheard Jake but Palmer came in quickly with: "Because I knoweth not whither to go." I didn't give Jake any time, I just shouted at him: "Do you see yon wicket gate?" I pointed at the imaginary gate. Jake turned about, shook his head and answered: "No." I cut in before he could get further: "Do you see yon shining light? Keep that light in thy eye and go up directly thereto, so shalt thou see the gate at which, when thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do."