IV.
But these rare days passed away. As the country grew older it lost thewholesome simplicity of pioneer days, and Daddy got a chance to play butseldom. He no longer pleased the boys and girls--his music was toomonotonous and too simple. He felt this very deeply. Once in a while hebroke out to some of the old neighbors in protest against the changes.
"The boys I used to trot on m' knee are gittin' too high-toned. Theywouldn't be found dead with old Deering, and then the preachers aregittin' thick, and howlin' agin dancin', and the country's filling upwith Dutchmen, so't I'm left out."
As a matter of fact, there were few homes now where Daddy could sit onthe table, in his ragged vest and rusty pantaloons, and play "HonestJohn," while the boys thumped about the floor. There were few homeswhere the old man was even a welcome visitor, and he felt this rejectionkeenly. The women got tired of seeing him about, because of hisuncleanly habits of spitting and his tiresome stories. Many of the oldneighbors had died or moved away, and the young people had gone West orto the cities. Men began to pity him rather than laugh at him, whichhurt him more than their ridicule. They began to favor him at threshingor at the fall hog-killing.
"Oh, you're getting old, Daddy; you'll have to give up this heavy work.Of course, if you feel able to do it, why, all right! Like to have youdo it, but I guess we'll have to have a man to do the heavy lifting, Is'pose."
"I s'pose not, sir! I am jest as able to yank a hawg as ever, sir; yes,sir, demmit--demmit! Do you think I've got one foot in the grave?"
Nevertheless, Daddy often failed to come to time on appointed days, andit was painful to hear him trying to explain, trying to make light of itall.
"M' caugh wouldn't let me sleep last night. A gol-dum leetle, nasty,ticklin' caugh, too; but it kept me awake, fact was, an'--well, m' wife,she said I hadn't better come. But don't you worry, sir; it won't happenagain, sir; no, sir."
His hands got stiffer year by year, and his simple tunes becamepractically a series of squeaks and squalls. There came a time when thefiddle was laid away almost altogether, for his left hand got caught inthe cog-wheels of the horse-power, and all four of the fingers on thathand were crushed. Thereafter he could only twang a little on thestrings. It was not long after this that he struck his foot with the axand lamed himself for life.
As he lay groaning in bed, Mr. Jennings went in to see him and tried torelieve the old man's feelings by telling him the number of times he hadpractically cut his feet off, and said he knew it was a terrible hardthing to put up with.
"Gol dummit, it ain't the pain," the old sufferer yelled, "it's the dumawkwardness. I've chopped all my life; I can let an ax in up to themaker's name, and hew to a hair-line; yes, sir! It was jest them dum newmittens my wife made; they was s' slippery," he ended, with a groan.
As a matter of fact, the one accident hinged upon the other. It was thefailure of his left hand, with its useless fingers, to do its duty, thatbrought the ax down upon his foot. The pain was not so much physical asmental. To think that he, who could hew to a hair-line, right and lefthand, should cut his own foot like a ten-year-old boy--that scared him.It brought age and decay close to him. For the first time in his life hefelt that he was fighting a losing battle.
A man like this lives so much in the flesh that when his limbs begin tofail him, everything else seems slipping away. He had gloried in hisstrength. He had exulted in the thrill of his life-blood and in theswell of his vast muscles; he had clung to the idea that he was strongas ever, till this last blow came upon him, and then he began to thinkand to tremble.
When he was able to crawl about again, he was not the same man. He wasgloomy and morose, snapping and snarling at all that came near him, likea wounded bear. He was alone a great deal of the time during the winterfollowing his hurt. Neighbors seldom went in, and for weeks he saw noone but his hired hand, and the faithful, dumb little old woman, hiswife, who moved about without any apparent concern or sympathy for hissuffering. The hired hand, whenever he called upon the neighbors, orwhenever questions were asked, said that Daddy hung around over thestove most of the time, paying no attention to any one or anything. "Heain't dangerous 'tall," he said, meaning that Daddy was not dangerouslyill.
Milton rode out from school one winter day with Bill, the hand, and wasso much impressed with his story of Daddy's condition that he rode homewith him. He found the old man sitting bent above the stove, wrapped ina quilt, shivering and muttering to himself. He hardly looked up whenMilton spoke to him, and seemed scarcely to comprehend what he said.
Milton was much alarmed at the terrible change, for the last time he hadseen him he had towered above him, laughingly threatening to "warm hisjacket," and now here he sat, a great hulk of flesh, his mind flickeringand flaring under every wind of suggestion, soon to go out altogether.
In reply to questions he only muttered with a trace of his old spirit:"I'm all right. Jest as good a man as I ever was, only I'm cold. I'll beall right when spring comes, so 't I c'n git outdoors. Somethin' to warmme up, yessir; I'm cold, that's all."
The young fellow sat in awe before him, but the old wife and Bill movedabout the room, taking very little interest in what the old man said ordid. Bill at last took down the violin. "I'll wake him up," he said."This always fetches the old feller. Now watch 'im."
"Oh, don't do that!" Milton said, in horror. But Bill drew the bowacross the strings in the same way that Daddy always did when tuning up.
He lifted his head as Bill dashed into "Honest John," in spite ofMilton's protest. He trotted his feet after a little and drummed withhis hands on the arms of his chair, then smiled a little in a pitifulway. Finally he reached out his right hand for the violin and took itinto his lap. He tried to hold the neck with his poor, old, mutilatedleft hand and burst into tears.
"Don't you do that again, Bill," Milton said. "It's better for him toforget that. Now you take the best care of him you can to-night. I don'tthink he's going to live long; I think you ought to go for the doctorright off."
"Oh, he's been like this for the last two weeks; he ain't sick, he'sjest old, that's all," replied Bill, brutally.
And the old lady, moving about without passion and without speech,seemed to confirm this; and yet Milton was unable to get the picture ofthe old man out of his mind. He went home with a great lump in histhroat.
* * * * *
The next morning, while they were at breakfast, Bill burst wildly intothe room.
"Come over there, all of you; we want you."
They all looked up much scared. "What's the matter, Bill?"
"Daddy's killed himself," said Bill, and turned to rush back, followedby Mr. Jennings and Milton.
While on the way across the field Bill told how it all happened.
"He wouldn't go to bed, the old lady couldn't make him, and when I gotup this morning I didn't think nothin' about it. I s'posed, of course,he'd gone to bed all right, but when I was going out to the barn Istumbled across something in the snow, and I felt around, and there hewas. He got hold of my revolver someway. It was on the shelf by thewashstand, and I s'pose he went out there so't we wouldn't hear him."
"I dassn't touch him," he said, with a shiver; "and the old woman, shejest slumped down in a chair an set there--wouldn't do a thing--so Icome over to see you."
Milton's heart swelled with remorse. He felt guilty because he had notgone directly for the doctor. To think that the old sufferer had killedhimself was horrible and seemed impossible.
The wind was blowing the snow, cold and dry, across the yard, but thesun shone brilliantly upon the figure in the snow as they came up to it.There Daddy lay. The snow was in his scant hair and in the hollow of hisvast, half-naked chest. A pistol was in his hand, but there was no markupon him, and Milton's heart leaped with quick relief. It was delirium,not suicide.
There was a sort of majesty in the figure half-buried in the snow. Hishands were clenched, and there was a frown of resolution on his face, asif he had fancied D
eath coming and had gone defiantly forth to meethim.
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