Part 6

Well, anyway I know that Cato Braden Intended to pursue a legal course, And practice the profession in a city. I know his father bought for him this place With Jerry Ott as editor of the Eagle. I know he went to work. I know he changed The paper’s motto from “Hew to the line,” To _Principia non homines_. I know He used to sing “Over the Garden Wall,” While writing editorials and smoked A number of cheroots. I know he had A locked drawer where he kept a secret bottle From which he’d take a drink at noon or night. I know he was on terms of friendship with The milliner and dressmaker in a month After he came from Valparaiso. Yes, I know he advocated a gymnasium, And dancing hall for Winston Prairie, and He opened up a fight to get a park Where concerts might be given. Cato Braden Had these ideas at least. About this park A word remains to say.

Fernando Winston, Who founded Winston Prairie and surveyed The original town, laid out a square along The river for a pleasure ground; in time, Some fifty years or more, it was forgotten. And when this Cato Braden came to town And started as a journalist ’twas used In part by Winston Prairie’s creamery; In part ’twas used for gardening by the pastor Of Winston Prairie’s strongest church. But Cato Had searched the records, found them straight, began To agitate the park. And it was this, Together with _Principia non homines_, Free trade, the dressmaker and milliner, Perhaps the bottle in the drawer, whose secret Leaked out at once, that clove the people of The town into two groups of friends and foes. He had but just begun his editorship When I left Winston Prairie; after that Knew little of it, saw him but at times, Long separated, saw him not at all For fifteen years before his death, and now Because I was his friend was on the train His funeral to attend.

I drove to Oakland With Dr. Green and William Smoot the grocer. ’Twas hot without a breeze, the town was still. The church bell tolled until we reached the grave, It was the church whose pastor used the square For gardening. And on the way I asked Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one. “Why, whisky,” answered William Smoot, the grocer, “And women,” for he had bad luck they say. “How is that, Doc, you know?”

And Dr. Green After a silence said: “It isn’t true. “He was as sound, so far as that’s concerned “As any of us.”

Then I asked again Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one. And Dr. Green said laughing, “Well, you know “They die at thirty-one and forty-one, “And sixty-one of what killed Cato Braden, “That’s Bright’s Disease.”

“And whisky brings that on--” I ventured to assert.

“Sometimes” replied The man of medicine, “But other things “Produce it. There’s a man’s diathesis; “There’s worry, over-work, sometimes disease “Suffered in childhood, leaving an effect “Like soil, all fertilized for such seed as this. “He should have drunk no whisky, yet he drank “Not half so much as Winston Prairie thought. “But you can see if whisky caused this thing “All whisky drinkers would be sure to have it, “Or die of it if not killed by a train.”

We left the carriage, having reached the place Where Cato Braden’s grave was dug, and stood Together in a company of fifty And heard the pastor pray for heaven’s lessons From Cato Braden’s life. And after that We separated, made the horses trot To reach our different destinations. I Looked up Will Boyden for a little talk Before my train left for the city.

Will Was in his office with his sleeves rolled up, Cob-pipe in mouth, typing a legal paper, A narratio in slander, so he said. He smiled from ear to ear and dropped his work. “You’re here for Cato’s funeral,” he said, And added, “It’s a shame he had to die, Damned if it isn’t.”

Then I asked again Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one, And Will said: “Winston Prairie, Illinois, Killed Cato Braden.”

“Tell me what you mean?” Then Will refreshed his pipe and talked to me: “I’m fifty-two and good for twenty years I have no stronger frame than Cato Braden, But then I got a formula for life As time went on, and it was one that suited My nature, and I thrived as you can see. I have the power to draw the nutriment Out of this soil, and I get strength thereby Wherewith to overcome the things that kill. I work, but then I play, I hunt and fish, I read and sometimes take a little trip. I don’t drink whisky, not because I fear it, But I hate putting in myself such fire-- Beer and light wines are pleasant, more like food Than stimulants. Well, Cato Braden started When ‘Over the Garden Wall’ was all the rage, ‘All Coons Look Alike to Me’ was my Key-note for starting. You know what I mean: Between my day and his there’s just the difference That lies between waltz time and syncopation; Between the magic lantern and the movie, The rattan phaeton and Ford machine. These new things came along before he died, But he had made his life for the old things, Could not adjust himself, De Senectute And Valparaiso had not taught him how To reach out in the world from Winston Prairie And get the new things for his life. But if They taught him how he lost the secret here. For after all a place like Winston Prairie Will kill your spirit just as surely as The Island where they cooped up great Napoleon. In the first place what is a man to do With life in any place? That is the problem. And what could Cato Braden do with life In Winston Prairie? First he was as fitted To be a journalist as I, and if Endowed to be a journalist, just think Of editing The Eagle. But you see His father was at war then with the Lance Over that vermifuge and pesodorne. And under guise of starting him in life Bought Cato in the paper for the selfish Purpose of defending vermifuge. And Cato did it too, and put away From year to year his dream of studying The law and practicing in a city. During which time the poisons of this town Crept in his blood and stupefied and killed him. He married Mary Comfort, as you know. And Mary is--well, what I call a brood-mare, Although they had no children. What I mean She is a well-fleshed woman, sound of nerve, A help-eat, but she made a loyal wife Who had two eyes to see what Cato saw, And never an eye to help him see the things That lay around him, which he stumbled over. And marriage to my mind means this to man: He drains his body out to be a father, And drains his spirit out to be a husband, Unless the woman helps him see or feel More than he sees or feels for self. Well then The years went on. And every day at eight He could be seen toward his office bent. At half past ten just as the morning train Was whistling for the crossing he would go To get the mail. Returning he would walk Along Main Street, slapping the folded News Against his leg. He scanned it in his office. At twelve o’clock he went to dinner, then As whisky made him eat, he over-ate And took a nap till two o’clock. At three One might discover him at solitaire-- He had clipped from the morning paper quite enough To keep the boys in copy. Then at four He might be sitting at the livery stable, Or sometimes might be found in that back room Of Little’s restaurant, where a keg of beer Shipped in was being tapped. At night perhaps He might be seen down there on Locust street, Waiting to enter where the milliner lived. So passed his life away from twenty-four To fifty-one. It’s simple enough to ask Why not write for the Eagle, make it better, Give ideas to the people, help the town, Refresh the mind, read, study history, De Senectute? Fancy Teddy Roosevelt, Who’s labored for this land with restless gifts, Tied down in Winston Prairie--well, you can’t, He’d break the ties, and that’s the point, you see. For Cato couldn’t break them, had to stay, Incapable to extract the good that’s here, Susceptible to all the bad that’s here; He was a nose half active Who enters in a room where gas escapes, Sits in the room unconscious of the gas Till he grows sluggish, lies him down to rest And dies unknowing. So I say it’s true That Winston Prairie ruined Cato Braden And killed him in the end.

You must go see, Before you leave, our park called Willard Park, Named after Emma Willard, that devout Old woman, dead these fifteen years or so. She left enough to build a granite coping, Set out some trees, and buy park seats, a stone Whereon to carve the words, ‘The gracious gift Of Emma Willard.’ Well, this Cato Braden First talked this park, was first to tell the truth About this plot of ground. And more than that When Cato Braden came here he had dreams: He wrote at first that boxing, wrestling, racing Would help this town; that games were needed here; That Americans seemed ignorant of the art Of being gay, feeling light-hearted, wise To play; that they were wise to work and pray, Fear happiness. And Cato Braden said The little town was cursed by just these things, And many human souls destroyed by them. These were not thoughts of his, he found them somewhere, But knew them when he found them, that’s his credit. What though he was a drunk man whom you ask What road to take, who points and gurgles guttural Sounds inarticulate? Or better still What though he was a sick man who in vain Attempts to make his household orders clear? For it was true that Cato Braden spoke About these things at first, then gave them up. For no one seemed responsive to his plans. And some there were who sneered, and others said He’d better help the church, and leave alone The questions which make bitterness and strife, Which was their way of speaking of the square Which Cato tried to make into a park. They say a lung will turn to stone or steel When men work in the filings and the dust. At last the dust of Winston Prairie turned His soul to dust.

You see old Jerry Ott Had left a son his interest in the Eagle, And Cato Braden died right at his table While playing solitaire. This son came in And found him dead, a card clutched in his hand. The card was, strange enough, the deuce of clubs! This son was glad that Cato Braden died For now he runs the Eagle by himself. This Cato Braden had three strains of thought. I never met him lately but he talked Some one of them, at times all three of them. One was the American town must be improved, So better to conserve the souls and bodies Of boys and girls. And even when the movie, And other things of this day came along He still maintained they did not meet the case. He never said what thing was requisite. But in a general way I think he meant A stronger, and more truthful and more natural Outlook and attitude would save a town From dust, and mold and death. For once he said: “This winter I shall read Grote’s History.” He never read it. But I think he meant He would find out the secret of the Greeks. And then he’d say the young, the middle aged The old made separate spheres of feeling, thought; And that a town should not be ruled by one, Should not be governed as all folks were old, Or young, or middle aged, but each should have The town for his according to his age, And thought and vital power, within his sphere And period of life; these separate spheres Should move untroubled by the others, move Free, independent of the other spheres.

I talked with Cato Braden for the last A week ago last night. He said to me: I wake these mornings lately with the thought Another chance will come to me, that death Will bring another chance. And then he said: This is the way of it. When you are young You say in five years I shall take a trip, See New York City, go abroad perhaps. When five years pass you do not take the trip. Then you say in a year I’ll take the trip. And so it goes, while you say in a year, Next year, next year, until at last you say No, never now! Well, now you’d think a man Would weep when he stands up against the wall, And knows he cannot climb the wall. But no, Something still whispers you will do it yet. And then you know it must be after death, In life again, the chance will come to you. For you know well it is not in this life. Then Cato Braden said: Not in this life Shall I read Grote, I could not understand it After these years in Winston Prairie--still I have a feeling I shall know about it Somewhere, somehow. You’d better catch your train. It’s good to see you. Up there in the city Think sometimes of the American village and What may be done for conservation of The souls of men and women in the village.”

WINSTON PRAIRIE

“What made you buy those lots in Winston Prairie? If you had come to me I could have told you About the circuit judge, the state’s attorney, The county judge, the county clerk, the treasurer, The assessors and collectors who belong To what we call a court-house ring. You know They run the county, re-elect themselves, Play with the local bosses, stand in league With sellers of cement, and brick and lumber, And with the papers given the public printing, And with the sharks who buy in property For taxes sold, and with the intriguing thieves Who make improvements, levy the assessments For side-walk, sewers.”

So my friend to me. “Good land,” I answered, “I inherited them, I did not buy these lots. But apropos Of what you say, I’ve wondered what’s the matter. I write and write for statements of my taxes, And cannot get them. Then I take the train, And travel through the heat to Winston Prairie. And I stand before a window asking for them. Your property was sold, I am informed. So I redeem, and go out to the grave-yard To look at Cato Braden’s grave, and then Catch the next train for home. A week or so Elapses and I get a letter--hum! Winston Prairie--office of the controller; Your property was sold for special numbered Two thousand and eighty-six, when you reply Please mention sale 1019.--Damn these thieves! So I pay that. I see! your court-house ring,-- The men who’re sworn to enforce the law are those Who break it, and who use it to despoil you-- Well, let me tell you.

In this very June I went to Winston Prairie on this errand, And after I had written several times To get a statement. I arrived at noon-- And yet the court-house offices were closed, The treasurer’s, the clerk’s, controller’s, all. I met a janitor who said: All closed Till half past one. That meant I’d miss my train Back to Chicago, and would have to stay In Winston Prairie until six o’clock. I sat down in the hall-way with a curse. But in a minute there were hideous yells, Shrieks, curses, as it were of women beaten, Tortured, or strangled. So I went to see, And found a door behind which I could hear Intolerable tears, the scratching of weak hands Against the door and wall. What is the matter? I hallooed through the door. O, go to hell A woman said, you know what is the matter. I don’t, I said, I’ll help you if I can. Then followed sobs and wails, and incoherent Blubbering of words. At last I saw a finger Stuck through the broken plaster by the door, And leaning down I said: look through at me. And then I stooped and looking through the crack Saw a gray eye, which looked as it might be Of Slavic birth. But who can read an eye Shown singly through a crack? So while I talked To get the story of these girls in prison, (For where they were was called the calaboose, Built in the court-house) some one back of me Said: They’ll be quiet in due time, the cooler Cools people off. I turned and saw a man Who seemed to be a judge, and was a judge, As I discovered later. Well, I said, I cannot bear to see a human being In such distress and terror--what’s their ages? One’s sixteen and one’s seventeen, said the judge, But they are bad ones, so I made the fine Enough to hold them thirty days. I asked What did they do? They were soliciting, The judge replied, and here in Winston Prairie The law is law and we enforce the law. We do not do as you do in Chicago. I felt my heart shut tight its valves and stop, And was about to say: You are a fool. You are what some would have America, You are an Illinoisan, damn your soul. You are a figure in the court-house ring, Whereof the tax shark is a figure too. But then I thought these girls might prove to be Worth while some time. But even if they live Street walkers all their lives, they stone no prophets, Devour no widows’ houses, do less harm Than court-house rings and judges in the rings. So this is what I said: May I enquire What are your Honor’s hours for holding court? And he replied: Court has adjourned till two. I hold till six o’clock, we do not loaf As judges in Chicago do, good-day!

Well, then at half past one I paid my taxes, With interest, penalties and all the costs. At two o’clock I stood before the bar And to the judge addressed these words: Your Honor, I represent Miss Christine Leichentritt, Miss Garda Gerstenburg, who are in jail Under your Honor’s sentence. I have seen The state’s attorney, who is satisfied To let them go, if all the costs are paid. I went to see him on a matter of taxes, And this came up. The state’s attorney rose And said: Your Honor, they are very young, And though they have been caught before at this, And warned that Winston Prairie is no place For them to ply their trade, I am inclined To think they will not break our laws again.

I thought I saw his honor’s eye light up As if it caught a wireless, so he said: “The court is satisfied.” I paid the costs And took Christine and Garda to Chicago. But at the station, as I said good bye, Christine flared up: You don’t suppose that I Will let you pay those costs, I am not cheap. I may be bad, but I am square, she said. And I have money in my room, come on To Twelfth and Wabash and I’ll pay you back For me and Garda.

No, I said, go on. Try to be good, but if you can’t be good, Be wise, and do not go to Winston Prairie. I turned and disappeared among the crowds.

WILL BOYDEN LECTURES

The Sunday after Cato Braden died Will Boyden lectured in the Masons’ Hall Upon the theme, “Was Jesus Really Great?” At first he pointed out that Jesus knew No history except that of the Jews. And if he’d heard of Athens never spoke A word about it, never read a line Of Homer, Sophocles, or Aristotle, Or Plato, or of Virgil, never a word Concerning Egypt’s wisdom, or of India’s. And then he dropped this point with the remark That one could know one’s people’s history And that alone, and still be great, perhaps. But still he thought it was unfortunate That Jesus gave the Hebrews such a lift So that to-day they rule the Occident Where Athens should have ruled, if only Time Had given her the right dramatic touch To catch the populace.

He then declared That Jesus was a poet, but he said: “What are his figures? Never a word of stars, And never a word of oceans, nor of mountains Save Olivet or Zion, so you see His limitations as to imagery. Then have you noted how his sombre soul Picked blasted fig-trees, tares, the leprous poor, And sepulchres and sewers, dirty cups, Wherewith to make interpretations, yes He spoke of lilies, too. Well, so have I. And yet you people call me pessimist Because I’ve tried to rescue Winston Prairie, And have not shrunk from charging Winston Prairie With Cato Braden’s death. The difference Between the Man of Galilee and me Is this: He wanted to fulfill the law Of Moses and Isaiah, make Jerusalem, Which was a Winston Prairie in a way, A Hebrew citadel to rule the world. And I, if I could have my way, would make Of Winston Prairie Athens.”

Then he said “I have four thoughts to-day to touch upon. The first one is concerning hogs--you start: Well, look at Matthew chapter eight and find How certain hogs had cast in them the devils Of fierceness, blindness, lustfulness and ran Down in the sea to kill themselves for being Made perfecter as hogs. Go get some hogs And let me try my hand at exorcising

The Winston Prairie devils which destroyed Poor Cato Braden. “My next thought is found In Matthew chapter nine; and it is this; When Jesus saw the multitude all fainting, And scattered abroad as sheep without a shepherd, His soul was stirred--that is a way with genius, Whether it be your Altgeld, Pericles, Or yet your artist soul like Heinrich Heine. But think of this: If you would lead and save The multitude, assuming that can be, Shall you accomplish it by rules and laws Applied externally, which is the way Ecclesiastic powers pursue and find Divine authority in Jesus for it? Or shall you teach the way of opening up The soul of man to sun-light, letting in The Power which is around us, in the which We live and move, and so give chance for growth To what is in us? For your shepherd drives. No, Jesus hit it better when he spoke Of leaven than of shepherds. “So if one Find leaven and would give it, let there be A few to watch the final hour with him, When he would be delivered from the cup, But knows it cannot be, that to refuse The cup is to deny the inexorable law.

“So now I come to what is chiefest here: Destroy this temple and I will re-build it In three days. Now you know what preachers say: This means the resurrection--not at all! These were the greatest words that Jesus said. And here his genius seized its fullest power, Here was it that he hid Jerusalem Under his hands as if it were a toy, And tossed the world up as it were a ball. Why, what are temples, cities, cultures, ages Of beauty, glory, but the work of genius? What earth and stone and flesh but plastic stuff Responsive to the touch of prophet hands? What Winston Prairie, what America And all this turbulence of bobbing heads In fields and markets, temples, halls across This continent of sovereign states but puppets Which may be changed in flesh, in deepest spirit, Made more erect, heroic, God-like, wise By genius’ hands, not revolutionists’, Nor shepherds’. So destroy America, But not by picks and axes, let it be As in the movies where a lovelier face Steals in and blots with brighter light a face, Which must fade out to let the lovelier face Complete the story. Now in a moment’s silence Let’s pray for Cato Braden.”