He rose from his knees still holding her hand, his first hopeless burst of despair over, his heart beating with desperate resolution.
"You won't give up, will you, Ma?" he whispered.
She smiled wanly3 and he rushed on with breathless intensity4: "I'm not going to let you die. I won't—I tell you I won't. I'll fight this thing—and you've got to help me—won't you?"
"I'm ready for God's will, my Boy," she said simply.
"I don't want you to say that!" he pleaded. "I want you to fight and never give up. Why you can't die, Ma—you just can't. You're my only teacher now. There ain't no schools here. How can I learn books without you to help me? Say you'll get well. Please say it for me—please, just say it——"
He paused and couldn't go on for a moment, "Say you'll try then—just for me—please say it!"
"I'll try, Boy," she said tenderly at last.
He flew to the creek5 bank and in two hours came home with an armful of fresh sarsaparilla roots. He cut and pounded them into a soft pulp6 and made a poultice. Sarah helped him put it in place. He made his mother drink the bitters every hour. He got stones ready and had them hot to wrap in cloths and put to her feet the moment they felt cold. He wouldn't take her word for it either. He kept slipping his little hands under the cover to feel.
The mother smiled at his tender, eager touch.
"Now, Boy," she said softly. "I'm feeling comfortable, will you do something for me?"
"What is it?" he cried eagerly.
She smiled again:
"Read to me. I want to hear your voice."
"All right—what?"
"The Bible, of course."
"What story?"
"Not a story this time—the twenty-third Psalm7."
The Boy took the worn Bible from the shelf, sat down on the edge of the bed, opened, and began in low tones to read:
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want——"
His voice choked and he stopped:
"O, Ma, I just can't read that now—why—why did he let this come to you if He's your Shepherd—why—why—why!"
He buried his face in his hands and her slender fingers touched his hair:
"He knows best, my son—read on—the words are sweet to my soul from your lips."
With an effort he opened the Book again:
"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
"He leadeth me beside the still waters.
"He restoreth my soul:
"He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
"I will fear no evil; for thou art with me——"
Again the voice choked into silence and he closed the Book.
"I can't—I can't read it. I'm afraid you're going to give up!" he sobbed9. "O Ma, you won't, will you? Please say you won't?"
"No, no, I won't give up, my Boy," she said soothingly10. "I'm just ready for anything He sends——"
"But I don't want you to say that!" he broke in passionately11. "You must fight. You mustn't be ready. You mustn't think about dying. I won't let you die—I tell you!"
She stroked his forehead with gentle touch:
"I won't give up for your sake——"
"It's a promise now?" he cried.
"Yes, I promise——"
"Then I'm going for a doctor right away——"
"You can't find him, Boy," his father said. "It's thirty miles across the Ohio into Kentucky where he lives. An' in all this sickness he ain't at home. Hit's foolishness ter go——"
"I'll find him," was the firm response.
The father made no further protest. He helped him saddle the horse, buckled12 the stirrups to fit his little bare legs and gave him as clear directions as he could.
"The moon'll be shinin' all night, Boy," were his last words. "Yer can cross the river before eight o'clock. Ef ye git lost on t'other side ax yer way frum the fust house ye come to——"
The Boy nodded, and when had fixed13 his bare toes in the stirrups he leaned low and whispered:
"You won't give up, Pa, will ye? You'll fight for her till I get back?"
The big gnarled fist closed over the little hand on the pommel of the saddle, and the father's voice was husky:
"As long as there's breath in her body—hurry now."
The last command was not needed. The horse felt the quiver of tense suffering in the low voice and the nervous touch of the switch on his side. With a quick bound he was off at a full gallop14 down the trail toward the river.
The sun had set before they reached the open country beyond the great forest, but by seven o'clock the Boy saw from the hill top the shining mirror of the river in the calm moonlit valley. Before night he had succeeded in rousing the ferryman and reached the opposite shore.
He lost the way once about nine o'clock and a settler whose light he saw in the woods called sharply from the door with his rifle in hand:
"Who are you?"
"I'm just a little boy," the voice faltered15. "I'm trying to find the doctor's house. My mother's about to die and I'm lost. I want you to show me the road."
The rifle was lowered and the cabin stirred. The man dropped back and a woman appeared in the door way.
"Won't ye come in, Honey, and rest a minute and me give ye somethin' to eat while Pa's gettin' ready to go with ye a piece?"
"No'm I can't eat nuthin'——"
He didn't dare go near that tender voice that spoke16 so clearly its sympathy in the night. He would be crying in a minute if he did and he couldn't afford that.
The settler caught a horse and rode with him an hour to make sure he wouldn't miss the way again.
He reached the doctor's house by eleven o'clock, and to his joy found him at home. The rough old man refused to move an inch until he had fed his horse and eaten a hearty17 meal.
The Boy tried to eat, but couldn't. The food stuck squarely in his throat. It was no use.
He went outside and waited beside his horse until the doctor was ready. It seemed an eternity18, the awful wait. How serene19 the still beauty of the autumn night! Not a breath of wind stirred. The full moon hung in the sky straight overhead, flooding the earth with silver radiance, marking in clear and vivid lines the shadows of the trees on the ground.
Bitter wonder and rebellion filled his young soul. How could God sit unmoved among those shining stars and leave his mother to die!
The doctor came at last and they started.
In vain he urged that they gallop.
"I won't do it, sir!" the old man snapped. "Your horse has come thirty miles. I'll not let you kill him and I'm not going to kill myself plunging21 over a rough road at night."
They reached the cabin at daylight. The Boy saw the glow of the flame in the big fireplace through the woods and his heart beat high with new hope. Now that the doctor was here he felt sure her life could be saved.
The Boy stood close by his side when he felt her pulse, and looked at the strange whitish-brown coating on her tongue.
"You can do something, Doctor?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes," was the short answer.
He asked for a towel and bowl and opened his saddlebags. He examined the point of his lancet and bared the slender arm.
"What are ye goin' ter do?" Tom asked with a frown.
"Bleed her, of course. It's the only thing to do——"
The Boy suddenly pushed himself between the doctor and the bed and looked up into his stern face with a resolute22 stare:
"You shan't do it. I don't know nothin' much about doctorin' but I got sense enough to know that'll kill her—and you shan't do it!"
The doctor looked angrily at the father.
"I say so, too," Tom replied. "She's too weak for that."
With a snort of anger, the old man threw the lancet into his saddlebags, snapped them together and strode through the cabin door.
The Boy followed him wistfully to the stable, and when he seized the bridle23 to put on the horse, caught his hand and looked up:
"Please don't go," he begged. "I'm mighty24 sorry I made you mad. I didn't go to do it. You see——" his voice faltered—"I love her so I just couldn't let you cut her arm open and see her bleed. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Won't you stay and help us? Can't ye do somethin' else for her? I'll pay ye. I'll go work for ye a whole year or five years if ye want me—if you'll just save her—just save her, that's all—don't go—please don't!"
Something in the child's anguish25 found the rough old man's heart. His eyes grew misty26 for a moment, he slipped one arm about the Boy's shoulders and drew him close.
"God knows I'd stay and do something if I could, Sonny, but I don't know what to do. I'm not sure I'm right about the bleeding or I'd stay and make you help me do it. But I'm not sure—I'm not sure—and I can do no good by staying. Keep her warm, give her all the good food her stomach will retain. That's all I can tell you. She's in God's hands."
With a heavy heart the Boy watched him ride away as the sun rose over the eastern hills. The doctor's last words sank into his soul. She was in God's hands! Well, he would go to God and beg Him to save her. He went into the woods, knelt behind a great oak and in the simple words of a child asked for the desire of his heart. Three times every day and every night he prayed.
For four days no change was apparent. She was very weak and tired, but suffered no pain. His prayer was heard and would be answered!
The first symptom of failure in circulation, he promptly27 met by placing the hot stones to her feet. And for hours he and Sarah would rub her until the cold disappeared.
On the morning of the seventh day she was unusually bright.
"Why, you're better, Ma, aren't you?" he cried with joy.
Her eyes were shining with a strange excitement:
"Yes. I'm a lot better. I'm going to sit up awhile. I'm tired lying down."
She threw herself quickly on the side of the bed and her feet touched the bear-skin rug. She rose trembling and smiling and took a step. She tottered28 a bit, but the Boy was laughing and holding her arm. She reached the chair by the fire and he wrapped a great skin about her feet and limbs.
"Look, Pa, she's getting well!" the Boy shouted.
Tom watched her gravely without reply.
She took the Boy's hand, still smiling:
"I had such a wonderful dream," she began slowly—"the same one I had before you were born, my Boy. God had answered my prayer and sent me a son. I watched him grow to be a strong, brave, patient, wise and gentle man. Thousands hung on his words and the great from the ends of the earth came to do him homage29. With uncovered head he led me into a beautiful home with white pillars. And then he bowed low and whispered in my ear: 'This is yours, my angel mother. I bought it for you with my life. All that I am I owe to you'——"
Her voice sank to a whisper that was half a sob8 and half a laugh.
"See how she's smiling, Pa," the Boy cried. "She's getting well!"
"Don't ye understand!" the father whispered. "Look—at her eyes—she's not tellin' you a dream—she's looking through the white gates of heaven—it's Death, Boy—it's come—Lord God, have mercy!"
With a groan30 he dropped by her side and her thin hand rested gently on his shaggy head.
The Boy stared at her in agonizing31 wonder as she felt for his hand and feebly held it. She was gazing now into the depths of his soul with her pensive32 hungry eyes.
"He good to your father, my son——" she paused for breath and looked at him tenderly. She knew the father was the child of the future—this Boy, the man.
"Yes!" he whispered.
"And love your sister——"
"Yes."
"Be a man among men, for your mother's sake——"
"Yes, Ma, I will!"
The little head bent33 low and the voice was silent.
They went to work to make her coffin34 at noon. An unused walnut35 log of burled fibre had been lying in the sun and drying for two years, since Tom had built the furniture for the cabin. Dennis helped him rip the boards from this dark, rich wood, shape and plane it for the pieces he would need.
The Boy sat with dry eyes and aching heart, making the wooden nails to fasten these boards together.
He stopped suddenly, walked to the bench at which his father was working and laid by his side the first pins he had whittled36.
"I can't do it, Pa," he gasped37. "I just can't make the nails for her coffin. I feel like somebody's drivin' 'em through my heart!"
The rugged38 face was lighted with tenderness as he slowly answered:
"Why, we must make it, Boy—hit's the last thing we kin20 do ter show our love fur her—ter make it all smooth an' purty outen this fine dark wood. Yer wouldn't put her in the ground an' throw the cold dirt right on her face, would you?"
The slim figure shivered:
"No—no—I wouldn't do that! Yes, I'll help—we must make it beautiful, mustn't we?"
And then he went back to the pitiful task.
They dug her grave, these loving hands, father and son and orphan39 waif, on a gentle hill in the deep woods. As the sun sank in a sea of scarlet40 clouds next day, they lowered the coffin. The father lifted his voice in a simple prayer and the Boy took his sister's hand and led her in silence back to the lonely cabin. He couldn't stay to see them throw the dirt over her. He couldn't endure it.
"'Be a man among men for your mother's sake—'"
"'Be a man among men for your mother's sake—'"
He had heard of ghosts in graveyards41, and he wondered vaguely42 if such things could be true. He hoped it was. When the others were asleep, just before day, he slipped noiselessly from his bed and made his way to her grave.
The waning43 moon was shining in cold white splendor44. The woods were silent. He watched and waited and hoped with half-faith and half-fear that he might see her radiant form rise from the dead.
A leaf rustled45 behind him and he turned with a thrill of awful joy. He wasn't afraid. He'd clasp her in his arms if he could. With firm step and head erect46, eyes wide and nostrils47 dilated48, he walked straight into the shadows to see and know.
And there, standing49 in a spot of pale moonlight, stood his dog looking up into his eyes with patient, loving sympathy. He hadn't shed a tear since her death. Now the flood tide broke the barriers. He sank to the ground, slipped his arm around the dog's neck, and sobbed aloud.
He wrote a tear stained letter to the only parson he knew. It was his first historic record and he signed his name in bold, well rounded letters—"A. LINCOLN." Three months later the faithful old man came in answer to his request and preached her funeral sermon. Something in the lad's wistful eyes that day fired him with eloquence50. Through all life the words rang with strange solemn power in the Boy's heart:
"O Death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory! Blessed are they that die in the Lord! Death is not the chill shadow of the night—but the grey light of the dawn—the dawn of a new eternal day. Lift up your eyes and see its beauty. Open your ears and hear the stir of its wondrous51 life!"
When the last friend had gone, the forlorn little figure stood beside the grave alone. There was a wistful smile on his lips as he slowly whispered:
"I'll not forget, Ma, dear—I'll not forget. I'll live for you."
Nor did he forget. In her slender figure a new force had appeared in human history. The peasant woman of the old world has ever taught her child contentment with his lot. And patient millions beyond the seas bend their backs without a murmur52 to the task their fathers bore three thousand years ago.
Free America has given the race a new peasant woman. Born among the lowliest of her kind, she walks earth's way with her feet in the dust, her head among the stars.
This one died young in the cabin beside the deep woods, but not before her hand had kindled53 a fire of divine discontent in the soul of her son that only God could extinguish.
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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10
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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14
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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15
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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16
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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18
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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21
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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28
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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29
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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30
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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31
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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32
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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35
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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36
whittled
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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38
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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39
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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40
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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41
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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42
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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43
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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44
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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45
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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47
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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48
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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50
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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51
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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52
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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53
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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