Successful Recitations Part 63

He would be home by five o'clock. They'd scour the woods till dark; Some of the men would be off all night, but he and Andrew Clark Would keep watch round his house and ours--I should not stay alone.

Poor John, he did the best he could, but what if he had known!

The boy could hardly stop to tell that the se-lec'men had said They would pay fifty dollars for the man alive or dead, And I felt another s.h.i.+ver go over me for fear That John might get that money, though we were pinched that year.

I felt a little easier then, and went to work again: The sky was getting cloudier, 'twas coming on to rain.

Before I knew, the clock struck six, and John had not come back; The rain began to spatter down, and all the sky was black.

I thought and thought, what shall I do if I'm alone all night?

I wa'n't so brave as I am now. I lit another light, And I stirred round and got supper, but I ate it all alone.

The wind was blowing more and more--I hate to hear it moan.

I was cutting rags to braid a rug--I sat there by the fire; I wished I'd kep' the dog at home; the gale was rising higher; O own I had hard thoughts o' John; I said he had no right To leave his wife in that lonesome place alone that dreadful night.

And then I thought of the murderer, afraid of G.o.d and man; I seemed to follow him all the time, whether he hid or ran; I saw him crawl on his hands and knees through the icy mud in the rain, And I wondered if he didn't wish he was back in his home again.

I fell asleep for an hour or two, and then I woke with a start; A feeling come across me that took and stopped my heart; I was 'fraid to look behind me; then I felt my heart begin; And I saw right at the window-pane two eyes a-looking in.

I couldn't look away from them--the face was white as clay.

Those eyes, they make me shudder when I think of them to-day.

I knew right off 'twas Anderson. I couldn't move nor speak; I thought I'd slip down on the floor, I felt so light and weak.

"O Lord," I thought, "what shall I do?" Some words begun to come, Like some one whispered to me: I set there, still and dumb: "I was a stranger--took me in--in prison--visited me;"

And I says, "O Lord, I couldn't; it's a murderer, you see!"

And those eyes they watched me all the time, in dreadful still despair-- Most like the room looked warm and safe; he watched me setting there; And what 'twas made me do it, I don't know to this day, But I opened the door and let him in--a murderer at bay.

He laid him right down on the floor, close up beside the fire.

I never saw such a wretched sight: he was covered thick with mire; His clothes were torn to his very skin, and his hands were bleeding fast.

I gave him something to tie 'em up, and all my fears were past.

I filled the fire place up with wood to get the creature warm, And I fetched him a bowl o' milk to drink--I couldn't do him harm; And pretty soon he says, real low, "Do you know who I be?"

And I says, "You lay there by the fire; I know you won't hurt me."

I had been fierce as any one before I saw him there, But I pitied him--a ruined man whose life had started fair.

I somehow or 'nother never felt that I was doing wrong, And I watched him laying there asleep almost the whole night long.

I thought once that I heard the men, and I was half afraid That they might come and find him there; and so I went and staid Close to the window, watching, and listening for a cry; And he slept there like a little child--forgot his misery.

I almost hoped John wouldn't come till he could get away; And I went to the door and harked awhile, and saw the dawn of day.

'Twas bad for him to have slept so long, but I couldn't make him go From the City of Refuge he had found; and he was glad, I know.

It was years and years ago, but still I never can forget How grey it looked that morning; the air was cold and wet; Only the wind would howl sometimes, or else the trees would creak-- All night I'd 'a given anything to hear somebody speak.

He heard me shut the door again, and started up so wild And haggard that I 'most broke down. I wasn't reconciled To have the poor thing run all day, chased like a wolf or bear; But I knew he'd brought it on himself; his punishment was fair.

I gave him something more to eat; he couldn't touch it then, "G.o.d pity you, poor soul!" says I. May I not see again A face like his, as he stood in the door and looked which way to go!

I watched him making towards the swamps, dead-lame and moving slow.

He had hardly spoken a word to me, but as he went away He thanked me, and gave me such a look! 'twill last to my dying day.

"May G.o.d have mercy on me, as you have had!" says he, And I choked, and couldn't say a word, and he limped away from me.

John came home bright and early. He'd fell and hurt his head, And he stopped up to his father's; but he'd sent word, he said, And told the boy to fetch me there--my cousin, Johnny Black-- But he went off with some other folks, who thought they'd found the track.

Oh yes, they did catch Anderson, early that afternoon And carried him back to jail again, and tried and hung him soon.

Justice is justice! but I say, although they served him right, I'm glad I harboured the murderer that stormy April night.

Some said I might have locked him up, and got the town reward; But I couldn't have done it if I'd starved, and I do hope the Lord Forgave it, if it was a sin; but I could never see 'Twas wrong to shelter a hunted man, trusting his life to me.

_From "Harper's Magazine." By special permission of Harper & Brothers_.

GUILD'S SIGNAL.

BY BRET HARTE.

[William Guild was engineer of the train which plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he pa.s.sed his home, to whistle an "All's well" to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.]

Two low whistles, quaint and clear, That was the signal the engineer-- That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said-- Gave to his wife at Providence, As through the sleeping town, and thence, Out in the night, On to the light, Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, Yet to the woman looking out, Watching and waiting, no serenade, Love song, or midnight roundelay Said what that whistle seemed to say: "To my trust true, So love to you!

Working or wailing, good night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, Old commuters along the line, Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, Pierced through the shadows of Providence: "Nothing amiss-- Nothing!--it is Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter the old refrain Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead: Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned; Sang as it flew: "To our trust true, First of all, duty. Good night!" it said.

And then one night it was heard no more From Stonington over Rhode Island sh.o.r.e, And the folk in Providence smiled and said, As they turned in their beds, "The engineer Has once forgotten his midnight cheer."

_One_ only knew, To his trust true, Guild lay under his engine dead.

BILL MASON'S BRIDE.

BY BRET HARTE.

Half an hour till train time, sir, An' a fearful dark time, too; Take a look at the switch lights, Tom, Fetch in a stick when you're through.

_On time?_ Well, yes, I guess so-- Left the last station all right; She'll come round the curve a-flyin'; Bill Mason comes up to-night.

You know Bill? _No?_ He's engineer, Been on the road all his life-- I'll never forget the mornin'

He married his chuck of a wife.

'Twas the summer the mill hands struck, Just off work, every one; They kicked up a row in the village And killed old Donevan's son.

Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, Up comes a message from Kress, Orderin' Bill to go up there And bring down the night express.

He left his gal in a hurry, And went up on Number One, Thinking of nothing but Mary, And the train he had to run.