My Monks of Vagabondia

“It looks more prosperous now,” said Sullivan proudly as he observed the automobiles stopping at the door, “you make Prince as well as Pauper do you homage.”

“No, Sullivan, not I; it’s the Truth that all are hungry for – Pauper and Prince alike – and while the few may reach it by meditation and the more by prayer, the most of common clay like you and I must reach it by service.”

“I never quite understand you when you speak,” he said, “I never could read those dry old books however much I tried… But by the way, I wonder if we have blankets for the new arrival who just came in.”

For the Stranded Sons of the City come often to join our Family and share our simple hospitality.

“Sullivan,” I said one day, “this work is going to grow and grow… When we have won I want you to share the credit with me – you will remain, will you not?”

Then receiving no reply, I turned to look and he had gone – gone to offer his blanket to the new guest.

“Yes,” I heard him say, “I have some extra covers on my bed you may have.”

"Another falsehood. Sullivan, you should always speak the truth." For the nights were cold and the blankets none too many. And yet since many prayers are lies, why may not some lies be prayers? “Maybe in your dark purgatory, my Irish lad, these little falsehoods of yours will be counted as prayers.”

One afternoon a letter came for my friend – in a young girl’s rather labored writing – he had received many such, and as I gave it to him I smiled a little. To him I had always been an indulgent Father – for a boy and girl will love, even though he or she may be our favorite child.

That night when the day’s labor was over, Sullivan came to me, asking if he could talk to me. It was a strange request, for he never seemed to wish to talk, and I knew that something had moved him deeply.

“You know my name is not Frank Sullivan,” he asked.

“Yes, I know,” I answered.

“But did you know I was married?” he inquired.

“What, a boy like yourself married?” I asked.

"Yes, I have been married over two years and have a little girl a year old. The letters that I have received have been from my wife Josephine. She and I ran away and were married, but on our return her father wouldn’t accept me. He said I was not worthy of his daughter – and no doubt he is right. He is wealthy and I could not support her in the way to which she is accustomed. So I was forced to leave her. But Josephine and I couldn’t forget.

“All these months she has been working to interest her father in me, and now the baby is a year old, he has decided to help me… We – Josephine and I – knew he would soften in time; you see he, too, loves Josephine and the Baby. So I want to go to them.”

“Yes,” I said simply, for a sense of approaching loss had robbed me of my pretty speeches.

“When you met me, I didn’t know where to go, nor what to do,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I have flattered myself I have been some help to you in starting your work. Tell me have I made good to you?”

“Yes.”

“I shall try to make good to Josephine’s father.”

“Yes.”

Then in a few moments he said:

“Now that it is time to go from you, I hate to leave you and the boys.”

“But you must go,” I said, “your wife and child have the first claim.”

“Josephine wanted me to ask you for two or three rugs that the boys weave. We want them for our new home.”

“You may have them.”

And I took him by the hand, “Good-by, Sullivan.”

“Not Sullivan anymore, but McLean,” he replied.

As he turned away he said half regretfully, “It is the Passing of Sullivan.”

“I wonder if Richelieu, after all, lost his Friar Philip?” I asked myself as I waved my hand in farewell to him.

WHEN SISTER CALLED

“O Lord, That which I want is first bread – Thy decree, not my choice, that bread must be first.”

    – Sidney Lanier.

When Sister Called

He came – did Jim – highly recommended by two fellows who live by their wits – one, Lakewood Joe and the other, Corduroy Tom. They are my friends, for they have told me they were. One of them always comes to me in the Winter anxious to get work on a farm; the other with a few broken umbrellas and a railroad spike for a hammer, starts out with the Springtime on the quest of “anything to mend.”

Umbrella mending was once a reputable calling, but it has fallen into disrepute since the introduction of the cheap umbrella. But that pathetic part of the story should be left for Lakewood Joe to tell, for it gets him – a humble mechanic – many a hot cup of coffee, many a dime.

The recommendation by my two friends was sufficiently strong to nearly cause me to refuse admission to young Jim. But his manner pleased me and our reception committee – made up of members of the Family – assured me that we had no need to fear poor Jim. Anyway he who has nothing can safely make friends with whomever he chooses.

Jim told us that years ago he had been a “cookie” – please note the “ie” – in a lumber camp in an Eastern State. So when a vacancy occurred in the culinary department of our home Jim was selected for the place.

He proved an excellent assistant and worked for the house – as the phrase goes – he made the coffee so weak, he made the potato soup go so far, that I, economical from habit and from necessity, would blush whenever one of the boys said that he enjoyed the good dinner.

I need have had no fear for it was Jim’s smile that made us all content with the simple fare.

“A grand cook,” the boys would say.

“A grand cook,” Echo and I would answer.

Jim had roughed it for several years and knew a little of the ways of the road. He had worked when a boy in his father’s factory and as some of the workmen felt they were not being paid properly – the son joined in with the workmen and went out on a strike against his father.

In the excitement of the strike the father had spoken to the son about his joining in with the strikers. It seemed to the father like disloyalty – ingratitude. But as for the son, he couldn’t analyze his own psychological state of mind sufficiently to explain why his sympathy had been with the strikers, but feeling himself no longer welcome at the old home, he started to roam.

Seven years had passed since he had written to the old folks. Once or twice he had heard indirectly of his father’s search for him, but he could not even bring himself to write, much less to return.

He had been with us nearly a month when finally, one evening, as he saw the other boys writing letters to their homes he decided he himself would write a letter to his married sister in Pennsylvania. When it was written and mailed, he half regretted what he had done.

Wasn’t he a wanderer – a young hobo if you like – and why should he think of home after all these years, even if the kindly sympathy to be found at the Colony did recall to him those better days?

But the letter was already on its way… He wondered what his sister might think, how she might act… She had always cared for him.