"Ah, I see! but perhaps you can direct me to Mister Mason Rogers'
house? My business is with him as well as with Major Gilcrest."
"I shorely kin," answered the negro, with a grin. "I b'longs to Marse Mason; I'se his ole uncle Tony. We libs two mile fuddah down dis heah same road, an' ef you wants to see my marstah an' Marstah Gilcrest bofe, you might ez well see Marse Mason fust, anyways; kaze whutevah he say, Marse Hiram's boun' to say, too. Dey's mos' mighty thick."
The stranger turned his head to hide a momentary smile.
"You jes' ride straight on," continued Uncle Tony, pointing northward with his stick; "fus' you comes to a big log house wid all de shettahs barred up, settin' by itse'l a leetle back frum de road, wid a woods all roun' it--dat's Cane Redge meetin'-house. Soon's you pass it, you comes to de big spring, den to a dirty leetle cabin whar dem pore white trash, de Simminses, libs. Den you strikes a cawnfiel', den a orchid. Den you's dar. De dawgs and chickens will sot up a tur'ble rumpus, but you jes' ride up to the stile and holler, 'Hello!' and some dem no-'count niggahs'll tek you' nag and construct you inter Miss Cynthy Ann's presence. I'd show you de way myse'f, on'y Is'e bountah fin' dat heifer; but you carn't miss de way."
With this he hobbled off down the road in search of the errant heifer.
Meanwhile our traveler rode steadily forward until, in another half-hour, he came in sight of a more prosperous-looking clearing than any he had seen since leaving Bourbonton.
FOOTNOTE:
[50] Copyright, 1907, by the Standard Publishing Company.
ELIZABETH CHERRY WALTZ
Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry Waltz, creator of _Pa Gladden_, was born at Columbus, Ohio, December 10, 1866, the daughter of Major John Nichols Cherry, to whose memory she inscribed her first book. Miss Cherry was graduated from the Columbus High School; and a short time thereafter she was married. The death of her husband compelled her to become the breadwinner for her several children, and in 1895 she joined the staff of the _Cincinnati Tribune_, which she left after two years for the Springfield, Ohio, _Republic-Times_, with which she was connected for a year. On July 4, 1898, she was married to Frederick Hastings Waltz, a few years her junior, and they settled at Louisville, where he had a position on _The Courier-Journal_. Mrs. Waltz became literary editor of _The Courier-Journal_, and this position she held until her death.
Though she followed Miss Mary Johnston, W. H. Fields, Mrs. Hester Higbee Geppert, and Ernest Aroni[51] in assuming charge of the paper's literary page, and the standards were thus high, she was one of the ablest writers that has ever conducted that department. Mrs. Waltz was a tremendous worker, one of her associates having written that, after a hard day's work on the paper, she would "go home, cook, wash and iron, clean house, do assignments, then write until after midnight on her 'Pa Gladden' stories; she wrote while going and coming on the street cars, and sometimes wrote on her cuffs with a lead pencil!"
Mrs. Waltz's chief contribution to prose fiction is her well-known character, "Pa Gladden." These stories were accepted by _The Century Magazine_ in 1902, and they were published from time to time, being brought together in a charming book, entitled _Pa Gladden--The Story of a Common Man_ (New York, 1903; London, n. d. [1905]). "Pa Gladden"
is certainly a real creation. Christian, optimist, lover of his kind, and above all companionable, he preached and lived the gospel of goodness. Some critics of the stories have quarreled with the great amount of dialect, most of which is used by Pa Gladden, but this is the only adverse comment that was made. The prayers of Pa, said throughout the book, are always very beautiful. Mrs. Waltz's death occurred very suddenly at her home in Louisville, "Meadowbrook,"
September 19, 1903, almost simultaneous with the appearance of her book. She was buried at Columbus, Ohio; and her grave is unmarked.
_The Ancient Landmark_ (New York, 1905), her posthumous novel, was a vigorous attack upon the divorce evil. She died before her time, worn out with work, and thus Kentucky and the whole country lost a writer of real achievement and greater promise.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Outlook_ (December 5, 1903); _Who's Who in America_ (1903-1905).
PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN[52]
[From _Pa Gladden_ (New York, 1903)]
In the early darkness of the winter night Pa Gladden returned to the barn laden with a lamp, a candle, tea, and food. He felt glad he had sent for the doctor, although he attributed the young woman's illness to exposure and anxiety. She was tossing on the warm bed, at times unable to speak intelligibly. She drank the warm tea he gave her, and again asked for the doctor. Being assured that he would soon come, she turned her face to the wall. It was such a sorrowful sight that, setting the candle down on the floor, Pa Gladden knelt upon the boards and prayed fervently:
"Father of love, look down on our sorrerful darter this holy night when redeemin' love should fill all our hearts, this Christmas night when ye sent yer Son inter the world ter bear all our sins an' ignorances. Heal 'er sore heart, O Lord, heal 'er wounds with the soothin' balm o' thy love. Hold 'er in thy arms in all 'er trouble an' tribbelations, an' let Christmas day be a real turnin'-point in 'er life."
When he rose, the young woman was sitting up, her eyes full of deep meaning.
"You are a good man," she said. "I want to say I deserve it, all your goodness. I am not"--her voice rose to a shriek--"I am not wicked. You can pray for me, and over me if I should die. I am not afraid to be here. It's quiet and peaceful. I will try to be patient. Please tell me your name, sir."
"Pa Gladden."
"Mine is Mary, plain Mary. Have you any daughter?"
"No"--with lingering regret; "but I'm allers Pa Gladden ter all the folks."
"If you had a daughter, Pa Gladden, she'd likely be grown up."
"Prubable."
"And married; and you might be praying for her, right by her side, like you are here. God bless you forever and forever, Pa Gladden!" She ended with a sob.
"Don't take on so. Won't ye come inter the house, my darter? I'll make it all right with Drusilly. Hers is a good heart."
"No, no. I'm afraid of women. Does it make you feel bad to see me cry, Pa Gladden? Then I'll set my lips tighter. Just let me stay here. If you had a daughter she'd want to be quiet now, peaceful and quiet."
He sat by her for a few moments longer.
"The doctor wull be comin' ter the house presently," he said cheerfully. "I must go an' pilot him here. Lie still, darter; he'll soon git something' outen them old leather saddle-bags ter quiet ye down. Doc Briskett knows his business."
She held out her hand to him.
"Yes, go, Pa Gladden, but leave me the little candle. It's lonesome in the dark when one is in misery. And I'll listen for your footsteps."
Pa was not much too soon. He heard the bump and rattle of the doctor's cart over the hard road before he reached the red gate.
"Now hold hard, doc," he called out as he swung it open. "Go out the barn road. Yer patient air out thar."
"Jee whillikins!" exclaimed Doc Briskett. "You never have brought me 'way out here to see a sick cow on a church-festival night!"
Pa climbed in beside him.
"It's a pore woman thet's sick," he announced calmly, and unfolded his story for the doctor's amazed ears.
"Pa Gladden!" exclaimed the doctor. "God alone knows what sort of an illness she may have. However, I'll see her. A tramp is likely to have any disease traveling."
A lamp stood on the old table in the room, and the burly doctor took it and climbed to the upper room. Pa Gladden paused at the doorway to look over the white world of Christmas eve. On such a night, he thought, the shepherds watched, the star shone, the angels sang, the Child was born.
Pa Gladden heard the voice of his mother in the long ago:
Carol, carol, Christians, Carol joyfully, Carol for the coming Of Christ's nativity!
Then, hoarse and terrible, came the doctor's voice as he almost tumbled down the ladder:
"Pa, pa, get in that cart and drive like mad to Dilsaver's. Meenie is at home, and tell her I said to come back with you. Bring her here; bring some woman, for the love of God!"
FOOTNOTES:
[51] Ernest ("Pat") Aroni, was far and away the finest dramatic critic Kentucky has produced, and a delightful volume of his work could be gathered from the files of _The Courier-Journal_. Mr. Aroni's fame has lingered in Kentucky in a rather remarkable manner, as he never published a book or wrote for the magazines. He is now chief editorial writer on _The North American_, Philadelphia.
[52] Copyright, 1903, by the Century Company.
REUBENA HYDE WALWORTH