1330 
‘Jbt RURAL NEW-YORKER 
November 1, 1924 
Hope Farm Notes 
“THE CATALYZER” 
Part II 
George Ilarria wrote on his deathbed 
just to say that he was sending his little 
girl to Helen. There was nowhere else 
for her to go, and this man, who all his 
life had been like a thorn working in to¬ 
ward the heart of his sister, now, in dy¬ 
ing, had put this additional burden upon 
Jier. 
Helen read the letter and handed it to 
Billy. 
• “Give it to John !” was all she said. 
Some of you younger people of this 
modern age may think it strange that the 
hired man was made such a confidant, but 
years ago the hired man was not a ser¬ 
vant. He was a potential landowner and 
freeholder, practically serving his time 
at labor until his chance came. He was 
usually of much the same breeding as the 
farmer’s family, and he belonged with 
them. The period of servants and class 
distinctions between farmer and hired 
man came later, and it was a sad day for 
American farming when it came. 
* * * * * 
John read the letter and burst out in 
anger: 
"I’ll have nothing to do with George 
Harris’s brat. He won’t dare to send the 
child here. The one man in this world I 
have always despised.” 
He worked with furious energy through 
the afternoon, stabbing his potato fork 
into the ground as though he was pushing 
a bayonet into some enemy. Late in the 
afternoon, as dusk was gathering, a wag¬ 
on drove into the yard. As John and 
Billy came down the lane they saw an 
old white-haired man alight and lift a 
little girl to the ground. The old man 
hesitated a moment and then went to the 
back door. 
“There she is,” said John. “You 
wait!” 
He threw down his potato fork and 
strode off to the house. It was true. The 
letter had been delayed in some way, 
and the old minister who had agreed to 
bring the little girl to her new home had 
lost no time. 
Helen looked from the window and saw 
her angry husband, and a sudden pity for 
the little one filled her heart. She did not 
want this child to hear her father abused, 
so she sent Ruth out to the barn, and 
then turned to face her husband. 
Little Ruth found Billy just starting 
his chores. She came right to the heart 
of her little grief, ignoring the friendly 
dog and the observant cat. 
“Say, mister, did your father ever 
die?” 
That touched Billy in the heart, for his 
father died when he was a little boy. 
Perhaps if one could have his choice it 
would be better to lose father before the 
years have made us wise, so that we know 
we cannot justly weave any great romance 
about him as a superman. Billy sat on 
the grain bin and took the little thing on 
his knee. 
“Yes,” he said, slowly, “my father is 
dead.” 
“Did you cry?” 
“Yes, I guess I did cry !” 
“Did it do you good to cry?” 
“Indeed it did. It is a great relief 
when trouble comes.” 
“I’ll bet you found somebody who loved 
you before you cried !” 
“What do you mean by that?” 
“Why, I haven’t cried yet. I have 
just kept it in. It is hard, but I won’t 
cry till I find someone that will love me 
just like my mother would if she was 
here. I won’t cry till then.” 
The little face twitched with pain and 
the little eyes were wet, but the brave lit¬ 
tle mouth was firmly set. She would not 
cry until love came to her, and then she 
would give way. There was a call from 
the house. 
“Ruth! Ruth !” and Billy led her 
away. 
***** 
John Hall started angrily into his 
house. The white-haired old minister rose 
to greet him. 
“I’ve brought little Ruth.” he said. 
“1 won’t have George Harris’s brat in 
■my house.” 
The old man put his hand to his ear 
with that puzzled expression which the 
deaf assume when the spoken word is not 
clear. 
“I am glad to hear you say it. Yon 
want her in your house. You will find 
her a great blessing. I rejoice to find 
that you feel as you do.” 
There is one thing about talking to the 
deaf which I have often noticed. Most 
people who are not accustomed to such 
conversation feel some little awe or re¬ 
straint. Had it been some ordinary mes¬ 
senger, John would have cursed him and 
the little child, too, and quickly made him 
understand. But he could not roar his 
threats and real feelings into .the dull 
ears of this kindly old man. In all my 
experience I never knew but one man who 
was willing to write out his profane 
cursing in order that the deaf might get 
it as he meant it. Somehow he could not 
bring himself to say just what he had in 
mind. He fumbled and mumbled off into 
a discussion of politics and the weather, 
and when the old man sat beside the lamp 
rocking with little Ruth in his arms, in 
spite of all the hatred in the heart of John 
Hall, he was glad the old man had not 
rightly heard him. The minister had to 
ride back to town to get his train, but he 
stayed to supper, and prattled on about 
the joy it gave him to find such willing¬ 
ness to take the little girl. Before he 
went he made a prayer in which he 
thanked God for “the beautiful spirit of 
this Christian home—this man and this 
woman bound together by ties of love and 
happiness, joyfully accepting as a beauti¬ 
ful sacrifice this little life which has been 
committed to them.” 
***** 
Billy Harris, who always had a keen 
eye for the picturesque in life, says it was 
a scene for some great artist; the kindly 
old man kneeling there, with his rapt face 
framed in snowy hair, thoroughly mis¬ 
judging the motives of John and Helen, 
and turning the meanness and selfishness 
of the man into a glory of sacrifice. Then 
the man and woman who had for years 
drifted apart, hearing perhaps for the 
first time from a simple-minded and deaf 
man the possibility of love and sacrifice. 
Then little Ruth, the unshed tears strain¬ 
ing every muscle of her little body, hoping 
that she might find in this strange place 
the love that would open the gates of 
grief. I imagine it would have made all 
of us a little more thoughtful of life if we 
could have seen that group. Billy tells 
me that after the old minister finished his 
prayer and drove away, John and Helen 
sat there with the table between them 
without a word. John had fully planned 
what he would say to her, and Helen w T as 
all' primed for a reply. But neither of 
them spoke. Now and then they glanced 
at each other, and once John caught Hel¬ 
en’s eye, but she quickly looked away. 
The supper dishes were left on the table, 
and Billy says he started to clear them 
away. He had opened his package of new 
records and laid them on the table. Lit¬ 
tle Ruth had noticed the machine in the 
corner, and after some hesitation took the 
first record from the table and walked 
over to the machine. She stood on a lit¬ 
tle stool and wound the spring, put in the 
record and started the needle. Under 
other circumstances Helen would never 
have permitted a child to play with that 
machine, but somehow they were all un¬ 
nerved, and it did not seem to matter. 
Billy claimed to me that he never ordered 
any such record. He says they mailed 
him the wrong one, but, be that as it may, 
as Ruth stepped down from her stool, 
after the usual whirr and rattle, there 
came, sweet and clear, the voice of a 
woman, singing that song which has 
echoed at many a wedding: 
“Oh promise me that some day you and I 
Will take our love together to some sky 
Where we mav sit alone, and faith renew. 
And find the hollows where these flowers 
grew. 
These first sweet violets of early Spring 
Which came in whispers, thrill us both, 
and sing 
Of love unspeakable that is to be. 
Oh, promise me! Oh, promise me ! 
Oh, promise me that you will take my 
hand, 
The most unworthy in this lonely land, 
And let me sit beside you, in your eyes 
Reading the promise of our Paradise, 
Hearing God's music while the organ 
rolls 
Its mighty music to our very souls, 
No life less perfect than a life with thee. 
Oh, promise me! Oh, promise me! 
All the anger faded out of John Hall’s 
heart as he listened. It came to him like 
a great wave of memory that this very 
song had been sung at his wedding and in 
his heart he had made the promise. Back 
in those golden years it had seemed to him 
that this “love unspeakable” was just 
ahead of them. They had not found it. 
Why? He looked across the table at 
Helen. She had covered her face with 
her hands, and her shoulders were shak¬ 
ing with sobs. She, too, remembered. 
Then John Hall did a strange thing—for 
him. He held out his arms to little Ruth. 
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