My Monks of Vagabondia

OUR FRIEND, THE ANARCHIST

As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.

He said that he came from Germany, but he didn’t look it, for Germany is a beautiful country, and he was far removed from even a suggestion of beauty. Had he said he had just arrived from “No Man’s Land,” it would have been easily accredited. For a German, even his accent and grammatical construction were unsatisfactory. He did not begin his sentences in the middle and talk both ways at once, after the well established custom of Americanized Teutons. In the stress of his excitement he expressed himself concisely and clearly.

He was seated in the Charity House awaiting the investigation of the social workers. He held his head in his hands, while his body convulsed frequently, and tears were in his eyes.

To see a man with unkempt whiskers indulging in a crying spell like a delicate woman, is almost as humorous as it is pathetic, unless one knows what the man is crying about. Then, too, the Germans, unlike the Irish, take their trouble seriously, so that their despair often creates for them the hell they fear.

Surely it wasn’t a German who in the old Bible days sent hired mourners to go about the street; it was undoubtedly an Irishman whose genius conceived the idea of paying other men to do his weeping for him.

“Where are you from?” I asked the German.

He surveyed me suspiciously from head to foot, then replied politely enough: “I am of German parentage and have lived the greater part of my life in Heidelberg, where my father and grandfather were instructors in the University.”

“When did you arrive in America?” I asked him.

“A few days ago,” he answered. "I came from Paris, where I met with heavy – heavy for me – financial reverses. I attempted to conduct a business similar to your brokers, who loan money on personal property, but being unfamiliar with French law, I found I could not legally enforce payments of the loans I made to the Frenchmen. My entire life savings – small, it is true – were lost. In disgust I came to America, and my condition now is worse than ever. I am desperate."

He did not raise his voice, speaking quietly, but his hands were nervous, and his eyes reminded me of Svengali – fascinating, but dangerous. My impression was that I had seen safer men locked in darkened cells and allowed only wooden spoons with which to eat.

“Has the charity association decided to help you?” I asked.

“I fear not,” he replied. “They wish me to tell them my father’s address in Germany, as they inform me that they always make thorough investigations. Several times they asked me my home address, but I turned them from the point, as I have no intention of adding my burdens to the burdens my father and mother already have… Does it seem quite generous of your social workers to be so insistent?.. But, pardon me, have you not a saying that ‘Beggars must not be choosers?’”

I did not reply to his question, as I was thinking what my Reception Committee – made up of the boys of the Colony – would say to me if I invited this much-bewhiskered individual to join our Family. For the instant I forgot the German’s troubles in the thought of the troubles which I was about to take upon myself. I smiled at my approaching embarrassment. “It is all very well,” the boys had cautioned me, “to hold us responsible for the newly-arrived members, to make certain that no criminal nor fraud obtains admission to the Family, but you might be a little more discriminating in your selections, could you not?”

The German was quick to avail himself of my offer to join the Colony; he would go to Hoboken and get his luggage and join me as soon as possible. His luggage – he met me an hour later – consisted of a wooden box too small to be called a trunk, too large to be called a valise.

As we approached the Colony House we passed several of the boys who had evidently seen us at a distance, for they appeared deeply interested in the setting sun, their faces turned from us. Finally one fellow who, like a good Pullman porter, can laugh at you without changing his facial expression, only if you watch closely you may note that the muscles at the back of the neck dance in uncontrolled merriment – came forward and said to us: “A beautiful sunset.”

He should have been reprimanded for his impudence, but I simply asked, “Where?”

“In the west,” he explained. Then the boys turned and laughed without restraint.

“An ordinary sunset and a most ordinary joke,” I said, rather icily. But they continued to laugh, first looking at my companion and then at me.

“Not so ordinary,” said another boy. “If you could see it from where we are you could understand.”

“I understand you only too well,” I answered.

Then the two boys who were on the Reception Committee came over to us and took my German friend in hand. There were no more remarks until we reached the house and the man himself was quite out of hearing.

“Why did you bring out a man like that?” the cook questioned me soon after I reached the house, and every one looked up from the evening paper he was reading anxious to have his little laugh.

But years have taught me somewhat of the ways of men. Did not Moses, when the children of Israel attempted to entangle him in argument, make his contention invulnerable by stating, “God spake unto Moses, saying, – ”

After that there wasn’t much chance for argument. The best thing they could do at such a time was to quietly line up in the ranks. And there is an answer that will always check the hilarity of homeless men and make them as sympathetic as children.

“Why did you bring him out with you?” the cook repeated.

“Why?” I said, simply, “the man is hungry.”

Each boy frowned at the cook and turned back to his reading. And the cook made no answer, except he served the new-comer with double portions.

That night the German slept with his bed between the two beds of the Reception Committee, and I heard nothing from him until they came to report to me in the morning.

“Father,” said one of the committee, “I don’t like that old party you brought out with you yesterday. All night long in his sleep he was muttering: ‘Down with the millionaire; curse the capitalist’ – that man is an anarchist.”

A moment later the second member of the committee came in.

“Mr. Floyd, you know that wooden box that ‘Whiskers’ brought with him?” he asked, nervously; “I put my ear down to it and listened. I could hear something inside going tick, tick, tick, as plain as day.”

“You are excited,” I said. “After breakfast send the man to me.”

In my room the German and myself talked a long time.

I asked him about the University of Heidelberg, the influence of the student in German politics and of the world-wide socialistic movement – had he ever read the works of Karl Marx, the great Socialist?

No, he never had.

Had he ever read La Salle, the anarchist?

No.

Or, in his travels, had he ever seen that little pamphlet entitled, “Dynamite as a Revolutionary Agency?”

No.

But despite the denial, it was plain to see that my old German was the anarchist that my committee had decided him to be. So I sent out word that the boys should redouble their kindness to their half-crazed friend. It was an opportunity to try our simple methods upon a man who felt that the sad old world and its many peoples were as utterly lost as a man may become who believes that there is no good within himself. Men who feel themselves to be evil, they work evil.

Hardly had a fortnight passed before our good anarchist caught the spirit of the place and began to feel that kindly sympathy that dwells even in the hearts of stranded men. The young men grew really fond of him.

At night he was the last man to knock at my door to see that everything had been given attention; in the morning he was the first to ask what I wished done.

It was a cheery “good night” and a cheery “good morning.” After several months our anarchist succeeded in finding his brother’s address in Philadelphia. The brother offered him a home and a chance to work, so it was arranged for our friend to go to him.

As he was bidding me “adieu” he said: "When we first met, you asked me if I had read any anarchistic writings, and I answered you untruthfully. I have read the authors you mentioned, and in my desperation I do not know to what extreme I might not have gone, for I had lost faith in all men.

"But to see these young men at the Colony, forgetful of their own troubles, trying to help me to a renewal of courage, gave me a clearer viewpoint of life – the blood I see now in my dreams is not that of the capitalist done to death by a communistic mob – it is the blood of the gentle Christ, who said:

“‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’”

A BASHFUL BEGGAR

“Faint heart ne’er won fair lady.”

“It is his diffidence,” the good lady told me, “that has caused the young man to fail dismally in this strenuous age of materialism. His is a gentle spirit!”

At their first meeting, she told me, when he called at her home and asked for something to eat, he appeared so shy and embarrassed that she was immediately interested in him. He blushed and stammered in a most pitiable way, and after he had eaten heartily of the roast beef and potatoes placed before him he wanted to hurry away, hardly having the courage to remain and thank his benefactor.

The good lady told me all this in such a serious manner that I felt I must accept it seriously, and when she suggested that I drive over to a neighboring village to meet the boy at the train, because, being unaccustomed to travel, he could never find his way alone to the Colony, I arranged to meet him.

There are simple-minded men – mental defectives – who are oftentimes helpless as children, and I was inclined to put this boy in that class.

But the lad whom I found waiting for me at the station came out to meet me in a manner so self-possessed that for the instant I was startled. The report of him seemed to be much in error.

“I ought not to have put you to all this trouble,” he said, in ready apology.

“The letter,” I replied, “stated that you might not be able to find your way.”

He gave me a sly, shrewd glance, and then, confident that he was understood, he said simply, “Indeed?”

“Naturally you did not confide in the lady who sent you, that you had freighted it through most States as far as the railroads go?”

“No, I did not approach her as a penitent at confessional,” he answered, “but rather as a panhandler at the side door. Confession may help to advance a man spiritually, but to a man living on the material plane, would you advise it?”

“Is it true,” I asked, “that you stammered and blushed when our friend offered you roast beef and potatoes?”

“It is my best canvass,” he replied.

We had driven some distance while this conversation was in progress, and coming to cross-roads, I was uncertain of the direction.

“Go in to that farmhouse, please,” I said to my companion, pointing to a cheerful looking home a short distance from the road, “and inquire the way?”

He alighted quickly and went around to the side door out of my sight. I waited, every moment expecting him to return with the desired information, and was growing impatient when he came out to me, his face beaming with the enthusiasm that follows a successful interview.

“This is your share,” he said, holding out a generous portion of hot apple pie to me. “The lady who lives here is a motherly soul – very proud of her cooking, and the pie did smell most tempting – I could not resist.”

“Did you use your usual ‘blush and stammer’ method to solicit this pastry?” I questioned him.

“No, she was as hungry for my compliments as I was for her apple pie, so we simply made a fair exchange.”

“And the directions back to the Colony?”

“The direction?” and he felt extremely stupid. “I felt all the time that – in my sub-conscious mind – there was a thought trying to assert itself.”

“But the strength of a bad habit,” I remarked, “held back the thought: habit is a strong force for good or evil, for it perpetuates itself by a form, as it were, of auto-suggestion. You know all suggestions are powerful.”

“It is good pie, isn’t it?” he asked, irrelevantly.

FRITZ AND HIS SUN DIAL

“The small task – well performed – opens the door to larger opportunity.”

Years ago, I saw a near-sighted cook peeling onions – a most pathetic scene if one judges entirely from appearances. The incident impressed me deeply at the time, although it had long since passed from my mind, when good old Fritz came to me, with tears running down the dusty furrows of his be-wrinkled and weather-beaten face.

Some strange analogy revived the old memory. There is – say what one will – something tremendously ludicrous about honesty when clothed too deeply in rusticity. We smile at it while we give it our love and respect.

It can toy with our heart-strings, playing both grave and gay. We laugh at it so that we may not cry and become laughable ourselves.

In broken English, he tried to explain that which was self-evident and needed no explanation – his own distress and desperation. His simple earnestness – his frank, honest manner – won every one’s immediate sympathy. The boys began to plan to relieve his distress, even while they laughed with scant courtesy in the old man’s face.

His clothes were many sizes too large, which was not entirely offset by his cap that was several sizes too small. Through his broken shoes, ten toes spoke in most eloquent English – the need of protection and shelter.

“What could ever cause a man to get into such a condition?” asked a fellow, who, three weeks before, had arrived quite as dishevelled, but had already forgotten the fact, which is just as well.

“The cause?” asked the German.

“Yes.”

“Beer.”

“Beer! You are the first man I ever saw who got to such a finish on beer,” returned the questioner.

“I drink nothing else – never,” the old German affirmed.

“I am thinking Mr. Floyd will try to clean you up in a hurry – or not at all – if you tell him that beer put you down and out.”

“I hope so,” said the old man; “I feel pretty bad.”

“Some mighty arguments have been put out that it is the distilled liquors that do all the mischief; that light wine and malt liquors are no more harmful than tea. And here you are in our camp to disprove this contention. If you say you have been on a beer debauch, you may not be believed.”

“Maybe someone put a little apple-jack into my glass when I wasn’t looking,” replied the German, quickly, as he went into the boys’ kitchen to get a little coffee.

So it came about that Fritz became a Colony member, and his good nature made him a general favorite almost immediately. His strength returned to him rapidly.

The final cure was effected when, among the books that came in, one of the men found a German volume. He took it to Fritz with some misgiving, as it was a work on astronomy, and Fritz did not resemble a Heidelberg professor; but when our friend glanced at the book and saw the German text, and then, on closer scrutiny, observed that it was a work on astronomy, he became excitedly enthusiastic.

“Good! Very good! I am happy to get it.”

It was a week later, an hour or two after midnight, I saw Fritz in the moonlight, walking around outside the house.

I went out to question him, as his actions seemed strange to me.

“What is the trouble, Fritz?” I asked him.

“It is nothing.”

“But I would rather not have the men out so late,” I said.

“I cannot find it,” he replied.

“Find what, Fritz? What have you lost?”

“I cannot find the North Star,” he said, sadly.

“Don’t you know where to look for it?”

“Oh, yes; but it is always cloudy.”

At that moment the clouds began to move – not because Fritz wished it, but his patience had outstayed the clouds.

“There it is. That’s it,” he exclaimed, as he ran into the stable, leaving me standing alone star-gazing to no purpose. But Fritz rejoined me as abruptly as he had left me. He had brought out with him a square board with an iron rod running through it.

“What have you there?” I questioned him.

“It is my sun-dial; it is my own invention. I have never seen a sun-dial, but I am sure that mine will be as correct as any of them.”

Then he fastened the dial firmly on a stump, pointing the wire straight at the North Star.

“In the morning I can see if I am right. Good night, Mr. Floyd.”

“Good night, Fritz.”

For several weeks Fritz worked about the place timing his labor by his ingenious invention. Sometimes he would work after the shadows had passed the quitting hour.

“The dial tells us,” I said to him one day, “that it is time to stop work.”

“No,” he said, “sun-dials are never exact; sometimes they vary fifteen minutes, at least. For the Earth goes around the Sun not in a circle but in an ellipse. I will work a little longer.”

One Sunday I overheard Fritz talking excitedly out near the spot where the dial was stationed. I thought he had for the moment forgotten he was a Self Master – as all men are likely at times to forget. But when I went out to check the noise, I found that Fritz had ten or fifteen of the men standing in front of him and he was saying:

“It is easy to do – to measure the distance to the Sun, or the distance from one planet to another. There are a hundred methods, many of them as simple as it is to measure the length of a building.”

“You are a student of astronomy?” I asked.

“Yes, for many years, I have studied the German books on astronomy. It is my pleasure.”

From that day our respect for Fritz was established. There is an aristocracy of learning; we doff our hats to even the beggar who knows.

The visitors were all interested in Fritz’s queer looking sun-dial, made out of a square board and piece of telegraph wire. Automobiles halted by the roadside to look at it. The children insisted on setting their Ingersolls by its falling shadow. A well known physician stood examining the dial one day. He took out his watch to make comparison.

“Very clever,” he said, “very clever; now let me see Fritz.” And Fritz came out.

“He isn’t much to look at,” the Doctor whispered to me, as the old German approached us.

Just then the five o’clock whistle blew. The Doctor and I looked at the dial.

“The shadow,” I said, “falls on the figure five.”

“Quite true,” replied the Doctor.

“It must,” said Fritz, quietly; “it must, for the wire points to the North Star.”

The Doctor smiled, as he spoke: “A man intelligent enough to make that dial can, at least, care for my stable and horses… Fritz, would you like to work for me? I have some splendid horses and I pay well for their care.”

“I will go gladly,” said Fritz; “when do you want me?”

“To-morrow,”

“May I go, Mr. Floyd?”

“On one condition,” I said.

“What is it?”

“You must give the Colony your sun-dial.”

“It is nothing, but you may have it if you like.”

The next day Fritz was given a good suit of clothes, a collar and tie.

“I don’t know about the collar and tie,” said the old man; “I have not worn one for many months.”

Three or four of the boys helped him to button on the collar and arrange the ascot effectively. Then the Doctor came with his best span of pet horses.

“Jump in with me, Fritz,” he said.

The old German, smiling, climbed in and then turned, took his hat off to me and the boys.

“Thank you… Good luck,” he said.

“You take the reins and drive,” said the Doctor.

Fritz buttoned his coat tightly around him, straightened up his old bent back and taking the reins he proudly drove away.

“He did not come in a carriage,” said a boy.

“It is the Self Masters that helped him,” said another.

“You forget about the Sun-dial,” I said.

THE WAITER WHO DID NOT WAIT

“Whoever is not master of himself is master of nobody.”

Had the schedule been followed faithfully, it was the time for the auto party to have finished their tea and toast and be awaiting the chauffeur to come up with their machine, but there seemed to be a delay somewhere. Investigation revealed a peculiar condition of affairs. The visitors were moving about rather impatiently while the lunch, instead of being served, was rapidly getting chilled on the side-board in an adjoining room.

“Where is Delmonico Bill, the attentive waiter,” we asked, not a little surprised at his disappearance. He was nowhere to be found, although we hunted high and low for him.