CHAPTER XL.

“THEM ROOMS.” THE “DIRECTOR OF CHARITIES.”

THAT mornin arter I wrote you the last time—arter I had built me a fire in my stove and got my breakfast and washed up my dishes and made my bed—I sot down on a chair out there by the big road. I never felt so queer in all my life. Not a sound could be heard, except over on the hill near Jake Stiffler’s I could heer a cow a bawlin. It was awful lonesome. No one to speak to, nothin to look at, except my things piled up there beside the road.

I couldent help thinkin of poor Jobe—his beggin, and bein cold, and starvin, and sleepin in box-cars, and sich.

Well, arter I had sot there a while a thinkin, I felt so bad that I jist thought I would go up to the house and take a look at them rooms and the place we had so long loved as our home.

I felt afraid like to go, but I thought it might cheer me up to look into them rooms that I had cleaned and papered and swept—the rooms where Jobe and me had set in and slept; the rooms that had sheltered us in sickness and in health.

So I jist throwed a shawl over my head, and walked up the walk that I had walked up thousands of times.

There were the currant bushes, the lilac, the dead poppy stalks. And all the weeds and posies, that used to appear to wear a smile for me, now seemed to turn from me as if to say, “We haint yours any more. You have no bizness here now.”

And as I looked at them and felt that feelin, a lump would raise up in my throat, no matter how much I swallered and tried to keep it back.

Well, I walked on until I got up to the kitchen winder. When I got there it jist seemed that I couldent look in, but, knowin I had come there to see them rooms, half afraid like but determined, I slipped over and put my face agin the glass.

Everything was silent and still. There was my kitchen, all empty. Not a thing to be seen but that dear old kitchen—empty—no stove, no table, no chairs, no nothin. There was the winder where I stood cryin the mornin Jobe left. There by that winder I had set a combin my little Jane’s hair years ago, while she drew pictures on them same winderpanes with her little fingers. There were the nails Jobe had drove in the wall when we fust moved in; there was the same floor over which we had walked for years. Oh, how I longed to be a walkin over it agin! I was locked out—I couldent git in.

So I went from one winder to another, lookin in at them rooms. There was the same grate that had warmed us; there in that corner, evenin arter evenin, Jobe had set and studied; there in the other corner I had set and knit, or set and read. It seemed that I could see Jobe there now. Oh! how I would love to see him there. Poor Jobe! I wonder if he thinks of the evenins weve spent beside that fire together. There was our bed-room—empty, silent and still—no bed, no nothin. There in that room I had set, nite arter nite, with little Jane when she was sick; there she had throwed her little arms around my neck and put her fevered face agin mine the last time. From that room Ellen Jane Moore had carried her arter she was gone. It was empty now. I was locked out. I couldent go in.

Turnin from them rooms, I walked around the yard, lookin at the fence, the well, the coal-house, and the things that had been mine. Then, comin to the front yard, I come to the little white rose-bush; it seemed to look at me pleadin like. I started to go on, but I couldent. That rose-bush seemed to call me back. So I jist got me a sharp stick and dug it up, and took it down to where my things were and wrapped it up in a cloth.

When I got back to the big road, and was settin there wonderin what Ide do, how long Ide have to live there in the big road, where Ide go to and sich, Constable Bill Adams come a ridin by.

When he got up to me, says he:

“Why, Mrs. Gaskins, what are you a doin with all this stuff piled in the road?”

“Ime livin here,” says I.

“Well, youle have to git this stuff out of the road,” says he. “You darent obstruct the public highway. Its dangerous to have a pile of stuff like this in the big road; its liable to scare horses, and somebody might git hurt or killed. Its aginst the law, Mrs. Gaskins, its aginst the law, and you will have to move it.”

“The law put it here,” says I.

“No matter,” says he; “youle have to git out of here, or youle be arrested.”

“Where will I put it?”

“How do I know?” says he. “Youle have to look out for that yourself. Git it out of here, and that mighty quick, or you will git yourself into trouble.”

And he rode on towards town.

Well, as he rode away I sot down and begin to think. Here I was, a old woman, set out in the big road by the Law—put out of the house we had paid $3,800 towards; the house empty, and now comes the Law and orders me to even git away from where the Law had put me. What to do I dident know. I jist sot there a cryin and helpless, when I heerd wagons comin down the road. I looked up, and there come two wagons and four men down the hill.

They drove up and stopped, and there was Tom Osborne, and Charley McGlinchey, and that fat black-smith, and Jones the baker, all from Mineral Pint. They had come to move me.

Tom Osborne had went home the night before and told them about me bein put out in the big road, and they went together and got teams and come and moved me to town here.

They seemed to be nice, kind men, but talked like them Populists.

They dident talk much to me, but I heerd them talkin to each other, sayin: “Its a shame,” “a disgrace to civilization,” “wrong,” “wouldent be if the people could borrow money from the government like they do in Switzerland,” and all sich. They even said: “The time haint fur off when it can be done, and the likes of this wont be.” And then they said a good deal agin the money power and polerticians, and sich, until I was glad Jobe wasent there to flare up. I was glad he wasent there, though Ide give the world to know where he is, or to have him with me.

Well, they brought me to town and rented me this house here at 1412 West Front Street, and paid the rent for a month; then two of them drove off, and soon brought me a load of coal. While them two were gone for the coal the other two set up my stove, and fixed up my bed, and set things around in pretty good shape for men; then, wishin me good luck, and hopin Jobe would soon git work and I would git to go to him, they drove off. They all looked pityin like as they left.

I went to the post-office the next mornin to tell them I had changed my place of livin. I got this letter from Jobe. It jist seems there is no end of trouble for the people who are poor.

Poor Jobe, how my heart bleeds for him. Here is his letter. Read it for yourself:

JOBE’S SECOND LETTER.

CLEVELAND WORK-HOUSE, CLEVELAND, O., March 5, 1896.

_To Betsy Gaskins._

MY DEAR WIFE AND ONLY FRIEND:—I am here in this prison—put here by the law. God only knows my feelins. I am not a criminal. Ive done no wrong. Betsy, don’t blame me. Pity me. I am a old man. I have worked hard. Ive been honest. Ive tried to do right. To-day I am in prison, wearin stripes. I was hungry. I had no money. I asked for bread. They arrested me.

It was day before yisterday. I had hunted for work all day. I had had nothin to eat for a whole day and nite. I was passin up Ontario Street, near Hull & Dutton’s big clothin store. I saw a well-dressed man, with a high silk hat on, with a hand full of paper money, talkin loud and offerin to bet $500 that McKinley would git the delegates from Allegheny County. There were several fellers standin there a listenin and talkin, and two policemen. I stepped up and asked the feller with the money if he could give me enough to git me a supper and bed. I was so hungry and nearly sick by sleepin outdoors.

The feller turned around and looked black at me. Then, turnin to the policemen, he ordered them to arrest me, sayin:

“Ime d—d if I dont intend to break up this beggin on the streets.”

The policemen took hold of me and jerked me out of the crowd and pulled me down Champlain Street hill to the city prison, and locked me in a iron cage.

I asked one of them who the big man was that ordered me arrested. He said it was “the Director of Charities, one of the leadin city officers.”

You may have read in the papers of him a havin a tramp arrested for askin him for somethin to buy bread with.

That tramp, Betsy, was me.

They say he gits $5,000 a year for bein “Director of Charities.”

Well, they tried me next mornin and found me guilty.

I am up for ten days. I cant find any work or a place for you till I git out.

They brought me out here in a wagon with a cage on it. They call it the “Black Mariar.” There was a lot of us in it. Betsy, pity me. Dont blame me.

Your lovin husband, JOBE GASKINS.

Mistur Editure, I cant comment. I feel so bad.