My Monks of Vagabondia

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.”

A Bashful Beggar

“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.”

Fritz and His Sun Dial

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.