H - University of Illinois

about gone. That same night his light went out.
"But before he went he gave me his papers and told me
his name. It was Ensley. He had a daughter in the
state university named Jean, For three years he had been
helping her with money. Dry pannin', Garry! Think
of it—dry pannin'! For three years he had been puttin'
up a big front, writin' to her in every letter that he was
doin' well and that pretty soon they'd both be on velvet!
Tellin' her what a whale he was—healthy as a houn' pup!
Think of him writin' like that—livin' on flapjacks and
beans, dyin' by inches—and dry pannin' in the hot sun!
"YF7ELL, just before he cashed he roused and told me
*» he wouldn't mind goin', only what was to become
of Jean? It was goin' to be mighty lonesome for that li'l
girl without a father. And she hadn't no money. Not
none at all. But she was studyin' to be a school
teacher. It kept worryin' him, and it worried
me to see him worryin'.
" 'It's shorely tough, old-timer,' he says to me,
'slippin' out of the game this-a-way—just when
my li'l girl needs me worst! For three years
she's been slavin' away in the university, lookin'
ahead to the time when we'd both be together
for good. And now, when she needs her father—'
"Well, he kept gettin' sorrier and sorrier, and
finally I says to him: 'Here, old-timer, you go
ahead and pass out nice and peaceful and leave
this here worry to me! I'll be a father to your
li'l girl if it'll brighten up things any. I reckon
I'll make a poor shift of a father, but out here in
the Cholla Hills you ain't got much of a crowd
to pick and choose from.
"Say, Garry, that seemed to make a big hit
with him. I felt glad I done it, and everything
seemed as fine as silk—while I was away out
there in the Pedrocito. But after I left that
place and began to get closer to home I got to
realizin' what I'd done. Garry, you're my
friend. I've come to you for help. Whatever
am I goin' to do?"
GARRY was silent for some moments, for the
old man's story had affected him deeply.
However, he tried then to liven Topango's spirits.
"Do?" he said. "You promised to be a father
to her, didn't you? That's all you have to do.
Just go ahead and be a father to her!"
"But how?" demanded old Jake. "I didn't
know how! That's what I've come to see you
about!"
"D'you think I'm more experienced than you
are?" retorted Garry. "But if you put it up to
me, why, I'd suggest that you write her a nice,
fatherly letter—say once a month; inclose a
nice, fatherly check in each letter—"
"She wouldn't take charity," objected Topango
positively. "Her dad wasn't that kind—"
"Of course she wouldn't!" said Garry. "But
couldn't you say that her father found a rich
pocket the day before he died ? That he had
turned over three or four thousand dollars to
you, to be given to her in the shape of a regular
monthly allowance? Sure! It's easy, see?
Easy as pie! You did right to come to me, Jake.
You're lucky to have such a bright young fellow
for a friend!"
"But hold on!" Topango's face had brightened
only to cloud again, for the idea of writing a monthly
letter appalled him. He thought a while and then
briehtened once more.
I'll tell you , Garry," he said hopefully, "we'll divide
this responsibility fifty-fifty—"
"We will not," said Garry, beginning to be uneasy.
"I'm out—and I'll stay out! Besides, it's your party—"
"Fifty-fifty," went on Topango Jake firmly. "You 'll
write the letters and I'll write the checks!"
"No, sir!" Garry was frightened badly now, for he was
not used to girls. "Haven't I told you it's your party?"
"Ain't we friends?" wheedled Topango, but Garry saw
through him.
"Layoff now!" he said. "I won't! You get into a
fight with a he-man and you'll find me there with loud
cheers. But—but this .is different. I tell you I won't!"
Old Topango recognized the finality in the young man's
voice. Dejectedly he lapsed into silence and worried on.
Presently, in rummaging through his pockets for a match ,
he brought out a small package. He was about to return
the package to his pocket when Garry saw it.
"What you got there, Jake?" he asked.
"Letters," said Topango. "From Ensley's li'l girl.
Her picture too. Ensley turned 'em all over to me before
—before—" He handed the package to the young man.
For a long time Garry gazed at the fearless young face
that looked back at him so trustfully and with such a fine,
unspoiled belief in this big, wonderful world where she
had lived for so short a time. Her wavy brown hair fell
about her face in clusters as though the girl had a moment
before run in out of a mischievous, tangling wind. The
picture seemed very real ...
Old Topango Jake slid from the table after a while and
started for the door. "Well," he sighed, "I reckon it was
a fool thing to do, after all—promisin' a dyin' man such
an outrageous thing as that. I told him right—I shorely
would make a poor shift of a father! Yes, best thing to
do is to tell her the truth , I reckon—"
Garry McEwan turned upon his ancient crony a glance
that was terrible in its majestic scorn and amazement.
"Would you do a thing of that kind?" he demanded.
"Jake, I had a higher opinion of you than that!"
"But—" Old Topango was bewildered. "Just now you
said-"
"I never said any such thing," said Garry firmly.
That Little Girl of Mine
By PHILIP KANE
SOFTLY the organ played and as the minister intoned solemn
questions and the solemn answers came, my eyes misted so that
1 could not see. That pal of mine, who had been part of my
very heart, no longer could hold the same relationship. The
foundation of another home was laid and she was pal to another
man.
The mists cleared but it was not the bride I saw at the altar. It
was a wee child, whose clinging fingers entwined themselves in
mine, whose soft lips fell like rose petals on mine. Then I saw my
Margery of little girlhood, sweet as a wild flower, my little confi -
dant, a girlish pal. Again the picture changed and it wasmy girl of
high school and college, vibrant with health and happiness, reaching
out for the joy-cup of life which brimmed so full.
Yes, that little girl of mine has gone to a new home. I feel
bereft and though there is laughter upon my lips my heart is sad.
She was my pal. All the days of her life she was a joy to me as
your girl, fellow father who reads this, is a joy to you. What
magic pearls upon the strand of life our daughters are and how we
should thank God for them.
My heart is sad because no w many miles separate us and Margery
never can be dad's pal again. But I would not have it otherwise.
It is God's immutable plan that homes must be torn asunder that
new homes may be built. Hearts must bleed in parting that
hearth fires of new homes may be made holy because of sacrifice.
So it was when with Margery's mother I established a new home.
So shall it ever be.
Yet you brides of yesterday and brides to be, I pray you, give
thought to Dad. His is no romantic figure like that of the knight
who came riding into your life, but deep in his heart is an undying
fealty, an undying gratitude that the AlhFather gave him you .
Daughter of mine, something grips hard at my heart, again my eyes
mist as I think of you. My Pal!
"Well , I—I thought from the way you talked a minute
ago—Now, where for the love of Jasper is that picture?"
"Didn't you put it in your pocket?"
"Who, me? Did I?" The old man explored every part
of his regalia, but found no picture of a little girl with
fearless eyes that looked at you frankly from a face
framed in a maze of wind-blown hair. Garry joined in the
search, and they hunted all over the shop. They found
the package of letters, but the picture had mysteriously
disappeared . Later on it was discovered in a warm pocket
just over Garry McEwan's heart ; but when this happened
old Topango had gone home and Garry was quite alone.
/^ARRY McEWA N had an excellent command of
^* English. Moreover, he possessed a warm, sympathetic
nature and a wonderful imagination. He was able to
write eloquently about things that would have paralyzed
his shrinking tongue or made it stutter hopelessly, for
Garry was but twenty-one and he never had had much
experience with girls.
Garry reread his first letter and pronounced it good.
It told of a deep friendship that had existed between the
writer and little Jean Ensley's father. It told of the sum
of money that was to be paid to her regularly in the form
of a monthly allowance. It ended with warm, paternal
expressions of sympathy and the hope that she would
consider him—the writer—her real father. The letter
was signed "Jacob Shinn."
The effort finally admitted by its writer to be absolutely
perfect, Garry took it and hunted up old Topango Jake,
Topango, however, would have none of it.
"I never did like letter writin'," he said, "and it hurts
my eyes to read."
"But I've signed your name to it," insisted Garry.
"You ought to read it before it's sent!"
"No, sir! "remonstrated Topango earnestly, defending
his plain rights with anxious vehemence. "I wrote you a
check, didn't I ? The rest of it was to be your job. So you
take your durned letter and go away from me. If you're
goin' to be one-half of a foster father, why you better
start right in from the first and don't go imposin' on somebody
else. Me, I got plenty of trouble bein' my own half."
GARRY continued to protest, but feebly, very feebly.
After a while he took his letter to the post office. Then
he climbed up on the grim breast of old Tabic
Butte, where he sat. upon a rock and looked at
his precious picture a long, long time. The sun
went down and Garry returned the picture tc
that warm pocket just over his heart.
Somewhere up among the rocks and brush a
Mexican whippoorwill began reiterating plaintively
its three sad notes. To Garry the bird
seemed the voice of a little girl, crying in her
sleep and calling to her father. The boy sighed ,
for it was the first time that he had ever written
to a girl. The spell of the moon was upon him,
and he was twenty-one years of age.
It is a strange fact that if you pretend a thing
long enough you will begin to believe it yourself.
For two years Garry McEwan had been writing
letters to Jean Ensley, letters carrying always
the warmest expressions of fatherly affection.
They were his letters. He had written them.
But whenever he reached the bottom of one of
these loving masterpieces he felt a positive pain
of disappointment, for he was compelled to sign
every one of them, " Your loving father, Jacob
Shinn."
As time went by Garry felt more and more
that he was the sole foster father. Gradually
old Topango fell more and more into the background
as the boy constructed his letters. He
no longer felt that he was writing for Topango
Jake Shinn. The personal note had superseded
everything, and now Garry was writing from his
own heart.
The answering letters, of course, came to
Topango, but the old man invariably passed
them on to Garry unopened. The old man's
checks appeared as regularly as the first of the
month came round, but the aged prospector
never mentioned Jean Ensley, save to ask once
in a while how she was getting along. Garry
always answered cheerily, and Topango was
happy.
The little picture was much worn ; it had been
much worn when it came into Garry's possession.
Besides, it was an old picture. Garry often
wondered what the little girl was like today.
JUST before the second Christmas following the
J inauguration of the foster-father partnership,
Garry received a thick letter from Jean. It was
addressed, as usual, to Jacob Shinn , and it made
Garry vaguely resentful. He seemed unable to
get over his unreasonable resentment because his
old friend owned half the foster-father rights. It always
made him unhappy. He hurried away to his room and
opened this thick letter. A picture fell out—a picture of
Jea n as she was at the present. As he contemplated it,
Garry felt himself a lost soul. He had won this tremendous
bit of cardboard dishonestly! For would she have
sent it to him—a young man whom she had never met?
Of course, Garry reasoned desperately, he was half a
foster father. But the little girl didn 't know it. He
had rights—certainly. But who gave 'em to him? He
had assumed them! Of course old Topango knew he
was all right and that he meant well, but—and there
Garry always became demoralized.
Accompanying this wonderful new picture of little
Jean was a letter. It was affectionate, humorous, serious,
elusive, giving one a kaleidoscopic glance into a young
mind, well-balanced and full of possibilities. It closed
this way :
"You have never asked me for my picture, and I wonder
why. It doesn't seem natural, somehow, for a father—
and such a dear of a father—to be indifferent regarding
such a vital matter ! I have decided that it is scandalous
that you don't know what I look like. So I am sending you
with this letter a picture of Jean Ensley, your frightened
daughter, costumed for the Junior Prom. I say frightened
because I'm scared to death you won't think I look well.
Besides, maybe you don't have Junior Proms where you
live. But I know you will believe me when I tell you that
the Junior Prom is the chief excuse for the existence of any
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