Archibald Lowell being dead at last; The _Times_ left to the holders of the stock Who kept his policy, and kept the _Times_ As if the great man lived.

And Merival Taking the doctor's word that death was caused By angina pectoris, let it drop.

And went his way with Elenor Murray's case.

So Lowell's dead and buried; had to die, But not through Elenor Murray. That's the Fate That laughs at greatness, little things that sneak From alien neighborhoods of life and kill.

And Lowell leaves a will, to which a boy-- Who sold the _Times_ once, afterward the _Star_-- Is alien as this Elenor to the man Who owned the _Times_. But still is brought in touch With Lowell's will, because this Lowell died Before he died. And Merival learns the facts And brings them to the jury in these words:--

WIDOW FORTELKA

Marie Fortelka, widow, mother of Josef, Now seventeen, an invalid at home In a house, in Halstead Street, his running side Aching with broken ribs, read in the _Times_ Of Lowell's death the editor, dressed herself To call on William Rummler, legal mind For Lowell and the _Times_.

It was a day When fog hung over the city, and she thought Of fogs in Germany whence she came, and thought Of hard conditions there when she was young.

Then as her boy, this Josef, coughed, she looked And felt a pang at heart, a rise of wrath, And heard him moan for broken ribs and lungs That had been bruised or mashed. America, Oh yes, America, she said to self, How is it different from the land I left?

And then her husband's memory came to mind: How he had fled his country to be free, And come to Philadelphia, with the thrill Of new life found, looked at the famous Hall Which gave the Declaration, cried and laughed And said: "The country's free, and I am here, I am free now, a man, no more a slave."

What did he find? A job, but prices high.

Wages decreased in winter, then a strike.

He joined the union, found himself in jail For pa.s.sing hand-bills which announced the strike, And asked the public to take note, and punish The corporation, not to trade with it, For its injustice toward the laborers.

And in the court he heard the judge decide: "Free speech cannot be used to gain the ends Of ruin by conspiracy like this Against a business. Men from foreign lands, Of despot rule and poverty, who come For liberty and means of life among us Must learn that liberty is ordered liberty, And is not license, freedom to commit Injury to another."

So in jail He lay his thirty days out, went to work Where he could find it, found the union smashed, Himself compelled to take what job he could, What wages he was offered. And his children Kept coming year by year till there were eight, And Josef was but ten. And then he died And left this helpless family, and the boy Sold papers on the street, ten years of age, The widow washed.

And first he sold the _Times_ And helped to spread the doctrines of the _Times_ Of ordered liberty and epicene Reforms of this or that. But when the _Star_ With millions back of it broke in the field He changed and sold the _Star_, too bad for him-- Discovered something:

Josef did not know The corners of the street are free to all, Or free to none, where newsboys stood and sold, And kept their stands, or rather where the powers That kept the great conspiracy of the press Controlled the stands, and to prevent the _Star_ From gaining foot-hold. Not upon this corner Nor on that corner, any corner in short Shall newsboys sell the _Star_. But Josef felt, Being a boy, indifferent to the rules, Well founded, true or false, that all the corners Were free to all, and for his daring, strength Had been selected, picked to sell the _Star_, And break the ground, gain place upon the stands.

He had been warned from corners, chased and boxed By heavy fists from corners more than once Before the day they felled him. On that day A monster bully, once a pugilist, Came on him selling the _Star_ and knocked him down, Kicked in his ribs and broke a leg and cracked His little skull.

And so they took him home To Widow Fortelka and the sisters, brothers, Whose bread he earned. And there he lay and moaned, And when he sat up had a little cough, Was short of breath.

And on this foggy day When Widow Fortelka reads in the _Times_ That Lowell, the editor, is dead, he sits With feet wrapped in a quilt and gets his breath With open mouth, his face is brightly flushed; A fetid sweetness fills the air of the room That from his open mouth comes. Josef lingers A few weeks yet--he has tuberculosis.

And so his mother looks at him, resolves To call this day on William Rummler, see If Lowell's death has changed the state of things; And if the legal mind will not relent Now that the mind that fed it lies in death.

It's true enough, she thinks, I was dismissed, And sent away for good, but never mind.

It can't be true this pugilist went farther Than the authority of his hiring, that's The talk this lawyer gave her, used a word She could not keep in mind--the lawyer said _Respondeat superior_ in this case Was not in point--and if it could be proved This pugilist was hired by the _Times_, No one could prove the _Times_ had hired him To beat a boy, commit a crime. Well, then "What was he hired for?" the widow asked.

And then she talked with newsboys, and they said The papers had their sluggers, all of them, Even the _Star_, and that was just a move In getting circulation, keeping it.

And all these sluggers watched the stands and drove The newsboys selling _Stars_ away.

No matter, She could not argue with this lawyer Rummler, Who said: "You must excuse me, go away, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

Now Widow Fortelka had never heard Of Elenor Murray, had not read a line Of Elenor Murray's death beside the river.

She was as ignorant of the interview Between the coroner and this editor Who died next morning fearing Merival Would dig up Mrs. Lowell and expose Her suicide, as conferences of spirits Directing matters in another world.

Her thought was moulded no less by the riffles That spread from Elenor Murray and her death.

And she resolved to see this lawyer Rummler, And try again to get a settlement To help her dying boy. And so she went.

That morning Rummler coming into town Had met a cynic friend upon the train Who used his tongue as freely as his mood Moved him to use it. So he said to Rummler: "I see your client died--a h.e.l.l of a life That fellow lived, a critic in our midst Both hated and caressed. And I suppose You drew his will and know it, I will bet, If he left anything to charity, Or to the city, it is some narcotic To keep things as they are, the ailing body To dull and bring forgetfulness of pain.

He was a fine albino of the soul, No pigment in his genesis to give Color to hair or eyes, he had no gonads."

And William Rummler laughed and said, "You'll see What Lowell did when I probate the will."

Then William Rummler thought that very moment Of plans whereby his legal mind could thrive Upon the building of the big hotel To Lowell's memory, for perpetual use Of the Y. M. C. A., the seminary, too, In Moody's memory for an orthodox Instruction in the bible.

With such things In mind, this William Rummler opened the door, And stepped into his office, got a shock From seeing Widow Fortelka on the bench, Where clients waited, waiting there for him.

She rose and greeted him, and William Rummler Who in a stronger moment might have said: "You must excuse me, I have told you, madam, I can do nothing for you," let her follow Into his private office and sit down And there renew her suit.

She said to him: "My boy is dying now, I think his ribs Were driven in his lungs and punctured them.

He coughs the worst stuff up you ever saw.

And has an awful fever, sweats his clothes Right through, is breathless, cannot live a month.

And I know you can help me. Mr. Lowell, So you told me, refused a settlement, Because this pugilist was never hired To beat my boy, or any boy; for fear It would be an admission, and be talked of, And lead another to demand some money.

But now he's dead, and surely you are free To help me some, so that this month or two, While my boy Joe is dying he can have What milk he wants and food, and when he dies, A decent coffin, burial. Then perhaps There will be something left to help me with-- I wash to feed the children, as you know."

And William Rummler looked at her and thought For one brief moment with his lawyer mind About this horror, while the widow wept, And as she wept a culprit mood was his For thinking of the truth, for well he knew This slugger had been hired for such deeds, And here was one result. And in his pain The cynic words his friend had said to him Upon the train began to stir, and then He felt a rush of feeling, blood, and thought Of clause thirteen in Lowell's will, which gave The trustees power, and he was chief trustee, To give some worthy charity once a year, Not to exceed a thousand dollars. So He thought to self, "This is a charity.

I will advance the money, get it back As soon as I probate the will."

At last He broke this moment's musing and spoke up: "Your case appeals to me. You may step out, And wait till I prepare the papers, then I'll have a check made for a thousand dollars."

Widow Fortelka rose up and took The crucifix she wore and kissed it, wept And left the room.

Now here's the case of Percy Ferguson You'd think his life was safe from Elenor Murray.

No preacher ever ran a prettier boat Than Percy Ferguson, all painted white With polished railings, flying at the fore The red and white and blue. Such little waves Set dancing by the death of Elenor Murray To sink so fine a boat, and leave the Reverend To swim to sh.o.r.e! he couldn't walk the waves!

REV. PERCY FERGUSON

The Rev. Percy Ferguson, patrician Vicar of Christ, companion of the strong, And member of the inner shrine, where men Observe the rituals of the golden calf; A dilettante, and writer for the press Upon such themes as optimism, order, Obedience, beauty, law, while Elenor Murray's Life was being weighed by Merival Preached in disparagement of Merival Upon a fatal Sunday, as it chanced, Too near to doom's day for the clergyman.

For, as the word had gone about that waste In lives preoccupied this Merival, And many talked of waste, and spoke a life Where waste had been in whole or part--the pulpit Should take a hand, thought Ferguson. And so The Reverend Percy Ferguson preached thus To a great audience and fas.h.i.+onable: "The hour's need is a firmer faith in Christ, A closer hold on G.o.d, belief again In sin's reality; the age's vice Is laughter over sin, the att.i.tude That sin is not!" And then to prove that sin Is something real, he spoke of money sins That bring the money panics, of the beauty That l.u.s.t corrupts, wound up with Athen's story, Which sin decayed. And touching on this waste, Which was the current talk, what is this waste Except a sin in life, the moral law Transgressed, G.o.d mocked, the order of man's life, And G.o.d's will disobeyed? Show me a life That lives through Christ and none shall find a waste.

This clergyman some fifteen years before Went on a hunt for Alma Bell, who taught The art department of the school, and found Enough to scare the school directors that She burned with lawless love for Elenor Murray.

And made it seem the teacher's reprimand In school of Elenor Murray for her ways Of strolling, riding with young men at night, Was moved by jealousy of Elenor Murray, Being herself in love with Elenor Murray.

This clergyman laid what he found before The school directors, Alma Bell was sent Out of the school her way, and disappeared....

But now, though fifteen years had pa.s.sed, the story Of Alma Bell and Elenor Murray crept Like poisonous mist, scarce seen, around LeRoy.

It had been so always. And all these years No one would touch or talk in open words The loathsome matter, since girls grown to women, And married in the town might have their names Relinked to Alma Bell's. And was it true That Elenor Murray strayed as a young girl In those far days of strolls and buggy rides?

But after Percy Ferguson had thundered Against the inquest, Warren Henderson, A banker of the city, who had dealt In paper of the clergyman, and knew The clergyman had interests near Victoria, Was playing at the money game, and knew He tottered on the brink, and held to hands That feared to hold him longer--Henderson, A wise man, cynical, contemptuous Of frocks so sure of ways to avoid the waste, So unforgiving of the tangled moods And baffled eyes of men; contemptuous Of frocks so avid for the downy beds, Place, honors, money, admiration, praise, Much wished to see the clergyman come down And lay his life beside the other sinners.

But more he knew, admired this Alma Bell, Did not believe she burned with guilty love For Elenor Murray, thought the moral hunt Or Alma Bell had made a waste of life, As ignorance might pluck a flower for thinking It was a weed; on Elenor Murray too Had brought a waste, by scenting up her life With something faint but ineradicable.

And Warren Henderson would have revenge, And waited till old Jacob Bangs should fix His name to paper once again of Ferguson's To tell old Jacob Bangs he should be wary, Since banks and agencies were tremulous With hints of failure at Victoria.

So meeting Jacob Bangs the banker told him What things were bruited, and warned the man To fix his name no more to Ferguson's paper.

It was the very day the clergyman Sought Jacob Bangs to get his signature Upon a note for money at the bank.

And Jacob Bangs was silent and evasive, Demurred a little and refused at last.

Which sent the anxious clergyman adrift To look for other help. He looked and looked, And found no other help. a.s.sociates Depending more on men than G.o.d, fell down, And in a day the bubble burst. The _Times_ Had columns of the story.