FullReads

But Bill wuz at his best when he wrote things about the children,–about the little ones that died, I mean. Seemed like Bill had a way of his own of sayin’ things that wuz beautiful ‘nd tender; he said he loved the children because they wuz innocent, and I reckon–yes, I know he did, for the pomes he writ about ’em showed he did.

When our little Alice died I started out for Mr. Miller’s; he wuz the undertaker. The night wuz powerful dark, ‘nd it wuz all the darker to me, because seemed like all the light hed gone out in my life. Down near the bridge I met Bill; he weaved round in the road, for he wuz in likker.

“Hello, Mr. Baker,” sez he, “whar be you goin’ this time o’ night?”

“Bill,” sez I, “I’m goin’ on the saddest errand uv my life.”

“What d’ ye mean?” sez he, comin’ up to me as straight as he c’u’d.

“Why, Bill,” sez I, “our little girl–my little girl–Allie, you know–she’s dead.”

I hoarsed up so I couldn’t say much more. And Bill didn’t say nothink at all; he jest reached me his hand, and he took my hand and seemed like in that grasp his heart spoke many words of comfort to mine. And nex’ day he had a piece in the paper about our little girl; we cut it out and put it in the big Bible in the front room. Sometimes when we get to fussin’, Martha goes ‘nd gets that bit of paper ‘nd reads it to me; then us two kind uv cry to ourselves, ‘nd we make it up between us for the dead child’s sake.

Well, you kin see how it wuz that so many uv us liked Bill; he had soothed our hearts,–there’s nothin’ like sympathy after all. Bill’s po’try hed heart in it; it didn’t surprise you or scare you; it jest got down in under your vest, ‘nd before you knew it you wuz all choked up. I know all about your fashionable po’try and your famous potes,–Martha took Godey’s for a year. Folks that live in the city can’t write po’try,–not the real, genuine article. To write po’try, as I figure it, the heart must have somethin’ to feed on; you can’t get that somethin’ whar there ain’t trees ‘nd grass ‘nd birds ‘nd flowers. Bill loved these things, and he fed his heart on ’em, and that’s why his po’try wuz so much better than anybody else’s.

I ain’t worryin’ much about Bill now; I take it that everythink is for the best. When they told me that Bill died in a drunken fit I felt that his end oughter have come some other way,–he wuz too good a man for that. But maybe, after all, it was ordered for the best. Jist imagine Bill a-standin’ up for jedgment; jist imagine that poor, sorrowful, shiverin’ critter waitin’ for his turn to come. Pictur’, if you can, how full of penitence he is, ‘nd how full uv po’try ‘nd gentleness ‘nd misery. The Lord ain’t a-goin’ to be too hard on that poor wretch. Of course we can’t comprehend Divine mercy; we only know that it is full of compassion,–a compassion infinitely tenderer and sweeter than ours. And the more I think on ‘t, the more I reckon that Bill will plead to win that mercy, for, like as not, the little ones–my Allie with the rest–will run to him when they see him in his trubble and will hold his tremblin’ hands ‘nd twine their arms about him, and plead, with him, for compassion.

You’ve seen an old sycamore that the lightnin’ has struck; the ivy has reached up its vines ‘nd spread ’em all around it ‘nd over it, coverin’ its scars ‘nd splintered branches with a velvet green ‘nd fillin’ the air with fragrance. You’ve seen this thing and you know that it is beautiful.

That’s Bill, perhaps, as he stands up f’r jedgment,–a miserable, tremblin’, ‘nd unworthy thing, perhaps, but twined about, all over, with singin’ and pleadin’ little children–and that is pleasin’ in God’s sight, I know.

What would you–what would I–say, if we wuz settin’ in jedgment then?

Why, we’d jest kind uv bresh the moisture from our eyes ‘nd say: “Mister recordin’ angel, you may nolly pros this case ‘nd perseed with the docket.”

1888.