Evening star. [volume], August 25, 1929, Page 13, Image 95

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
'.TON, D. C, AUGUST 25, 1929.
trial '^4ward Selections )By HeUTiot WcIIGS
e unceasing tall; of lodes anti strikes.
of her life easier: and though each day she
achieved less and less, her hold on living slipped
gently from her slight grasp.
Shi kept her word about reading aloud. True,
much of it was unintelligible to both reader and
listener, but, like some appealing theme in a
classic overture, they came upon intervals which
captured their attention.
•'Ain't it a nice book, Jem? It says that if
you can t afford much money things, you should
buy the best of stuff that you can afford—Just
like sayin', ‘Jenny, you buy good cailco 'stead of
sleazy poplin!' ”
Jem, lounging by the fireplace, proffered com
ment: "When you live outdoors you don't have
to bother 'bout what's good or bad, it's all for
the best!’’
"I s'pose so—but ev’ry one ain't tough enough
• to stay out Winter'n Summer, the way you do.
They have to come in to sleep at least.”
“That's where they begin makin’ thcirselves
I’.- lots of trouble! Read it again—where it tells
about the houses folks build.”
She opened the book. “As regards domestic
buildings, there must always be certain limita
tions to views of this kind in the power, as well
as in the hearts of men, still I cannot but think
it an evil sign of a people when their houses
are built to last for one generation only.’ ”
He interrupted: "I'll bet the thin shacks down
to the railroad town don't last no generation!
Thi.v commence to sag 'fore they're finished!”
"That’s true. I used to want to run outside
the eatin'-housc ev’ry time the wind blowed.”
She stopped to cough, then glanced farther
! down the page: ‘ Here's some about you, Jem,”
1 she laughed: “' —the crowded tenements of a
struggling and restless population differ onlv
from the tents of the Arab or the gypsy by
their less healthy openness to the air of heaveri,
and less happy choice of their spat of eartlf—
you're an Arab an’ a gypsy!” she teased.
"If likin’ the air of heaven proves it, I am!”
Her expression became frightened and wish
ful: ‘Say, Jem, d'you know what. I think
heaven’s a-goin' to be like? Well, there ain't
a-goin' to be no towns there—just lots of
, mountains, an' pines an' space where folks can
' hve the way they like, not the way some one
\ else says! An' I wouldn't want no hard gold
pavements an' streets to walk on—not if I could
have a sunshiny trail—would you' 1 ”
Jem shook his head. "If there’s such lots of
Rood folks that it's crowded, I don’t want to go
thorc nohow.” He thought it over. “Wherever
there’s plently of folks, there's plenty of talk
about progress. Know what progress is? . . .
Well, it's inventin’ somethin’ to carry you over
the country so fast that you can't see nothin’
you’re a-passin’. That's progress!”
Jenny glanced down at the illustration of a
tracery from the "Campanile of Giotto” at
Florence. ‘‘Of course, all the things them prog
resses have done ain't bad. Look at this! . . .
f Say, Jem, if ever you make a big strike let’s go
?. n ® e ? tht ‘ se places in the book.” She hesitated.
An’ if I ain't . . . around . . . just remember
I would a-been if I could—an’ you go anyhow,
i. Promise!”
| Ho laughed a! each ap: :pcsUrous idea, then,
as she stubbornly insisted, indulgently agreed.
"I'm perf'ctly safe in sayin’ yes!”
“Remember, you've promised. I’ll ha’nt you If
you break your word!”
she was gone, and he had awkwardly
•smoothed over the small mound under the
wind-tilted cypress, he shouldered his pick and
shovel, packed his gold pan. coffee-pot, bread
tin. and frying pan, and wandered lonesomely
forth to face the most arduous Winter of his
experience.
He had spent the money gained through his
last find on small luxuries for Jenny. For the
first time since he started upon a career of
pocket hunting, his luck did not hold. Perhaps
his wistful memories and preoccupations‘made
him dull and careless, but several times during
that long Winter of roaring winds, deep drifts,
and bitter, blue-white cold he staggered back
to the cabin on Guayule more dead than alive
from hunger and exhaustion. It came to him
during those months—when his thoughts turned
homcsickly toward the little hut—that the first
thing he would do when he made another strike
would be to buy the Guayule: Jenny’s grave
and the small house should be his. But three
Springs of long rains had followed three difficult
Winters before his luck turned and he was able
to make a small initial payment against the
claims held by the defunct Guayule Mining Co.
And then, almost as if fate had awaited his
possession of the papers, Jem Brown, listlessly
investigating an iron stain on the rock wall
below the spring, came upon his first appreci
able find: for several days he examined certain
details of his discovery and stood at last scowl
ing down at the mat of floating gold particles
in his pan. or staring with narrowed eyes at
the place from which he had taken it. Here
was fortune knocking! What answer should he
make?
Irrelevantly half-forgotten scraps of over
heard conversations between gold-hungry pros
pectors loitering about the trading-posts came
back to him; cities, women, liquor, shopworn
girls, grimy pleasures. These were the prizes
purchasable when money was plentiful; easy
gifts of easy gains; frowning, he thought it
over. Some instinct, which had made him de
test towns and crave the austerities of the
mountains, drew fastidiously back from con
templation of the proposed orgy. Meg Brown
had only been his mother.
A little breeze stirred the trees and moved
the blue gentians at his feet, and. like a mes
sage, Jenny's eyes looked up at him. ‘‘Remem
ber—you promised <” came back her voice.
What had he promised? Oh, yes! To visit
those palaces and cathedrals of which she had
road to him. ‘ But, Jenny, I was only a-jokin’!
I wouldn't a-promised if I'd thought I'd ever
a-found this!” he expostulated aloud.
The gentians fluttered their fringed edges in
the breeze. Jem Blown groaned. 'T won’t be
bullied! . . . But if Igo back on my word I
s'pose you'll be a-remindin’ me of it from
every foot of ground!”
The gentians were very still, very blue. “Oh,
• well, I'll go!” he raid, rteignedly.
Only with the guides who piloted him about
the palaces and cathedrals did he exchange
conversation, and from th m, since he was
generous with tips, he won especial attention
and privileges. And though Angelo, Giotto,
Correggio, and Giorgione were less than names
to Jem Brown the sincerity of their achieve
ments was as a bridge to carry him back home;
a sculptured tracery of leaves reminded him of
certain trees on the windy ridges above Guayule
and brought a lump in his throat; details of
clear color in a world-famous window danced
like the deep sparkle of sunlight in the pool at
Cypress Falls —and blurred before his gaze;
the starred ceiling of an Italian chapel was
but a pale imitation of the night sky above
Guayule; the gentle eyes of a painted madonna
were not so gentian-blue as Jenny's. ... In
a moment of panic he wondered if she was
safe beneath the cypresses—coyotes were such
lnquisittive marauders —then sternly dismissed
the thought.
But at dawn on the morning after his re
turn to Guayule he awakened to see the first
pure light filter down through the pine branches,
to smell the incense of the balsams, and to hear
the lilting ecstasy of a choir of meadow larks;
looking and listening. Jem Brown breathed a
deep sigh of ineffable content. He was safe at
last, safe. Ha never reopened the cache be
low the spring—from which he had taken out
the ore which paid for his journey abroad; in
his mind that gold was consecrated to cities, to
confusion, to progress. Jem Brown had done
what Jenny asked —but he had finished forever
with progress.
had said in Jenny’s book: “Men tire
as they finish"; and Jem Brown, stum
bling up the slope of Guayule, was Increasingly
convinced of the truth and wisdom of this
statement. He, who had thought himself im
mune and impervious to any whim of wind or
weather, had come to discover nature too
boisterous for h'm. True, 40 years had passed
since he came back from his one journey away
from the mountains —but what were 40 years
. . . and yet . . . during that final climb of his
life, the unnoted years caught up with him;
he was almost ready to compromise.
Now that his life v:as so nearly over he pon
dered—divided between elation and resentment—
upon what had happened to man's invention,
progress.. .that, for so long a period, his life’s
path had gone by unpunctuated by one of her
devastating mil:stones. Progress would need
to hurry if she held anything in wait for him
now! "She's welcome to do her worst!” he
muttered aloud.
Three days later he regretted his challenge;
half-awakening from feverish slumber, he
blinked incredulously at a strange, far-away
sound. Remote at first, then drawing slowly
nearer, there was about its rhythmic, pulsing
steadiness something appalling, threatening and
sinister.
Feverishly, he tossed and turned, trying to
escape from the enveloping sound. Was this,
perhaps, what was meant by illness; all sorts of
breathless, groundless, vain imaginings bred in
houses? Scornfully he derided himself for his
cowardice in coming indoors. This noise at
which he cowered was thunder—thunder, which
had so often before volleyed and echoed in the
mountains during fi:rce electrical storms. De
fiantly he raised his head. The sound was still
there, steady, regular, insistent—and near!
With terror the old man heard the sound of
his first visitor, knocking; and saw the door
swing back.
A strange figure in leather clothes and a
be-goggled helmet stood in the opening, stared
into the dim cabin, breathed an exclamation of
relief: "I was afraid that this place was de
serted —and I'm miles off my course! I’ve
been trying for two hours to find a bare space
to ccme down in; it was just by the merest
chance that I saw this clearing—and none too
good a landing field at that! Can you tell me
where I am? What’s the nearest town? He
stopped to look more closely at J:m Brown.
Fast Pitching in Pinches
Continued from Eleventh Page
Yankee club when the champions went into a
late season slump that almost cost them the
pennant. Hoyt was working in his regular turn
and also doing undertaking duty about every
other day. There is nothing funny intended
about, this because Hoyt happens to be a genuine
motician by profession.
“I’m working for the world series dough,”
Hoyt said. “But what credit do I get if I
throw my arm out working overtime? None.”
Rommel came back in form this year and has
been used as a starting pitcher. The Athletics’
undertakers are Yerkes, Shores and old Jack
Quinn.
Quinn is still a starting pitcher, but he is
getting old and his age tells in hot weather.
He has such marvelous control and so much
base ball wisdom that Connie Mack has been
using him for the tough spots when the other
guys get to hitting the fast balls of his star
pitchers.
There are two young fellows on the Athletic
club who were assigned to the role of under
takers—Yerkes and Shores.
“I didn't pick them up as relief pitchers,
but there is no other job for them,” MacK
said in the Spring training camp. “They
Lave deliveries, however, that will make
them valuable relief men. My best pitch
ers are fast ball throwers and when they get
into trouble you have to have something
else to throw at them. I wouldn't want you
to say that these boys are undertakers be
cause it nrght hurt th:ir fcclir.gs, but the
"The light was so poor that I couldn't se? you
before! Are you sick? You look . . . ghastlylt
The old man could not answer.
The stranger stepped inside the cabin.
"Isn't there something I could do lor you?
Water? Where can I get you a drink?”
Feebly Jem Brown pointed to the bucket,
and indicated the direction of the spring. Thu
young man returned with the brimming pail.
His decisive voice was clear: ‘‘lf you can
give me some idea of where I am, and the
general direction, I think we'd better be on our
way. I'll carry you out to the plane, and take
you to a hospital. This is the last place for *
sick man to be!”
'•Did’ you . . . hear the roarin’ . . .
overhead, jus’ ’fore you come in? What was
it?”
"An airplane.”
There was no gleam of understanding in the
eld man's eyes.
The aviator stared at him. "Can't you
understand me? A flying machine! Don’t you
know what that means? . . . The invention
which makes it possible for men to travel
through the air like birds! The greatest}
achievement of modern progress!”
“You mean that . . . even here on thq
mountain tops ... I can't get away?”
‘‘Away, from what? A plane can go any*
where!”
Jem Brown clambered weakly to his feet
and stumbled to the doo-way. In the center
of the clearing a strange, huge, grasshopper-*
like object stood at rest. It was silent now—
but around it everything seemed changed and
troubled—and at what moment might it not
come to life again, hideously challenging the
protesting echoes? How —how—could he get
rid of it and of its master? Determinedly he
faced the aviator. “I'm all right .. . have
them setbacks real often!” He gasped as a
stab of pain brought beads of perspiration to
his forehead. With visible effort he stifled
a groan. 'Tve got a map ... of
distric': if I give it to you ... will yoq
go away?”
t
'J'HE aviator shook his head. "I couldn’t con-*
scicntiously go away and leave you herq
alone. The remembrance of how you look
would haunt me! You’re too sick to realize
that—you need medical attention.”
Jem Erown was driven to desperation: **l|
you'll go away—an’ not ccme back for a month
—l’ll give you the deeds to the Ouayule . . .
an’ on 'em I'll mark plain where the last lode
takes up again! I've knowed it for 40 year .. ,
but I learnt long since that money don't buy
you nothin' but confusion . * . an’ I wasn't
n-goin' to have folks a-spoilin’ this mountain
like they spoiled the rest!”
Then, as the aviator stared at him. the old
man's eyes filled with tears: ‘‘There’ll be plenty
. . . so's you can buy all the things you’ve ever
wanted. . . . But now that I’ve seen your
machine . . . and know that never, any more
. . . will there be a place where I can get
away ... I’d like for to have this last month
. . . alone on Guayule, to say good-by. ...
Then you can take it ”
''You'll do better than I expect if you live
another week!” The aviator’s voice was
troubled, perplexed: "I really can't leave you;
it wouldn’t be decent!”
Jim Brown dropped down on the pine
branches and stared helplessly In front of him.
Fcr a second the narrow window framed a
stretch of desert, paved in tawny gold, dotted
with sage-brush; through it a camel train
wound into the settlement—and his mother
was gone.
Followed, then, a shimmer of heat waves
above shining metal rails where great locomo
tives thundered upon their scheduled way. . . .
Soon Jenny's place knew her no more.
With a feeble gesture of resignation Jem
Erown turned toward the stranger: “I guess
... maybe ... this is my signal!” he whispered.
Progress had caught up with him.
(Copyright, 1929.)
fact remains that I’m figurine them for that
alone.”
Mack, several years ago, dug down into
the minors and pulled up old Joe Pate just
because he had been around a whole lot and
knew things. All Joe had to do was go In.
and save ball games, and not walk the batter
with the bases filled and the winning run
on third base. Joe was the sensation of the
season, but his arm wore out and he went
back.
/"\NE of several weaknesses that the new
owners of the Cleveland club found in
the Indians was relief pitching. ,In the re
building of the club the management last
Winter scanned the minors for a pitcher who
knew what it was all about and who could
put the ball within sight of the plate.
They picked up Jim Zinn from the Ameri
can Association. No doubt he was glad to
get back into the big leagues even as an un
dertaker. Lots of old-timers think it is a soft
job. But Zinn's arm went bad on him and <4-
the Cleveland manager was forced to start
using his regular pitchers when the emer--
geney came.
Bucky Harris has been using Lil Stoner as
bis star undertaker. Stoner has been with
the club since 1924. Last year he was in 36
games, winning five and losing eight.
In mid-season this year he had been toss
ed into 22 games, winning two and losing three.
Figures like these do not put a fellow in
the hall of fame. The managers, however,
know the value of a good undertaker. And
most of the undertakers assume this attitude:
"Well, there ain’t much glory in it. But
the old pay cheek comes around just the’
same.” • . •
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