For Love of the Hills
"Sure you're done with it?""Oh, yes," replied the girl, the suggestion of a smile on her face,and in her voice the suggestion of a tear. "Yes; I was just going."But she did not go. She turned instead to the end of the alcove andsat down before a table placed by the window. Leaning her elbowsupon it she looked about her through a blur of tears.Seen through her own eyes of longing, it seemed that almost all ofthe people whom she could see standing before the files of the dailypapers were homesick. The reading-room had been a strange study toher during those weeks spent in fruitless search for the work shewanted to do, and it had likewise proved a strange comfort. Whentired and disconsolate and utterly sick at heart there was alwaysone thing she could do--she could go down to the library and look atthe paper from home. It was not that she wanted the actual news ofDenver. She did not care in any vital way what the city officialswere doing, what buildings were going up, or who was leaving town.She was only indifferently interested in the fires and the murders.She wanted the comforting companionship of that paper from home.It seemed there were many to whom the papers offered that samesympathy, companionship, whatever it might be. More than anythingelse it perhaps gave to them--the searchers, drifters--a sense ofanchorage. She would not soon forget the day she herself had stumbledin there and found the home paper. Chicago had given her nothing butrebuffs that day, and in desperation, just because she must gosomewhere, and did not want to go back to her boarding-place, she hadhunted out the city library. It was when walking listlessly about inthe big reading-room it had occurred to her that perhaps she couldfind the paper from home; and after that when things were their worst,when her throat grew tight and her eyes dim, she could always comfortherself by saying: "After a while I'll run down and look at the paper."But to-night it had failed her. It was not the paper from hometo-night; it was just a newspaper. It did not inspire the beliefthat things would be better to-morrow, that it must all come rightsoon. It left her as she had come---heavy with the consciousnessthat in her purse was eleven dollars, and that that was every centshe had in the whole world.It was hard to hold back the tears as she dwelt upon the fact thatit was very little she had asked of Chicago. She had asked only achance to do the work for which she was trained, in order that shemight go to the art classes at night. She had read in the papers ofthat mighty young city of the Middle West--the heart of thecontinent--of its brawn and its brain and its grit. She had supposedthat Chicago, of all places, would appreciate what she wanted to do.The day she drew her hard-earned one hundred dollars from the bankin Denver--how the sun had shone that day in Denver, how clear thesky had been, and how bracing the air!--she had quite taken it forgranted that her future was assured. And now, after tasting forthree weeks the cruelty of indifference, she looked back to thosevisions with a hard little smile.She rose to go, and in so doing her eyes fell upon the queer littlewoman to whom she had yielded her place before the Denver paper.Submerged as she had been in her own desolation she had given noheed to the small figure which came slipping along beside her beyondthe bare thought that she was queer-looking. But as her eyes restedupon her now there was something about the woman which held her.She was a strange little figure. An old-fashioned shawl was pinnedtightly about her shoulders, and she was wearing a queer, rustylittle bonnet. Her hair was rolled up in a small knot at the back ofher head. She did not look as though she belonged in Chicago. Andthen, as the girl stood there looking at her, she saw the thinshoulders quiver, and after a minute the head that was wearing therusty bonnet went down into the folds of the Denver paper.The girl's own eyes filled, and she turned to go. It seemed shecould scarcely bear her own unhappiness that day, without comingclose to the heartache of another. But when she reached the end ofthe alcove she glanced back, and the sight of that shabby, bentfigure, all alone before the Denver paper, was not to be withstood."I am from Colorado, too," she said softly, laying a hand upon thebent shoulders.The woman looked up at that and took the girl's hand in both of herthin, trembling ones. It was a wan and a troubled face she lifted,and there was something about the eyes which would not seem to havebeen left there by tears alone."And do you have a pining for the mountains?" she whispered, with atimid eagerness. "Do you have a feeling that you want to see the sungo down behind them tonight and that you want to see the darknesscome stealing up to the tops?"The girl half turned away, but she pressed the woman's hand tightlyin hers. "I know what you mean," she murmured."I wanted to see it so bad," continued the woman, tremulously, "thatsomething just drove me here to this paper. I knowed it was herebecause my nephew's wife brought me here one day and we come acrossit. We took this paper at home for more 'an twenty years. That's whyI come. 'Twas the closest I could get.""I know what you mean," said the girl again, unsteadily."And it's the closest I will ever get!" sobbed the woman."Oh, don't say that," protested the girl, brushing away her owntears, and trying to smile; "you'll go back home some day."The woman shook her head. "And if I should," she said, "even if Ishould, 'twill be too late.""But it couldn't be too late," insisted the girl. "The mountains,you know, will be there forever.""The mountains will be there forever," repeated the woman, musingly;"yes, but not for me to see." There was a pause. "You see,"--shesaid it quietly--"I'm going blind."The girl took a quick step backward, then stretched out twoimpulsive hands. "Oh, no, no you're not! Why--the doctors, you know,they do everything now."The woman shook her head. "That's what I thought when I come here.That's why I come. But I saw the biggest doctor of them alltoday--they all say he's the best there is--and he said right out'twas no use to do anything. He said 'twas--hopeless."Her voice broke on that word. "You see," she hurried on, "I wouldn'tcare so much, seems like I wouldn't care 't all, if I could getthere first! If I could see the sun go down behind them just onenight! If I could see the black shadows come slippin' over 'em justonce! And then, if just one morning--just once!--I could get up andsee the sunlight come a streamin'--oh, you know how it looks! Youknow what 'tis I want to see!""Yes; but why can't you? Why not? You won't go--your eyesight willlast until you get back home, won't it?""But I can't go back home; not now.""Why not?" demanded the girl. "Why can't you go home?""Why, there ain't no money, my dear," she explained, patiently."It's a long way off--Colorado is, and there ain't no money. Now,George--George is my brother-in-law--he got me the money to come;but you see it took it all to come here, and to pay them doctorswith. And George--he ain't rich, and it pinched him hard for me tocome--he says I'll have to wait until he gets money laid up again,and--well he can't tell just when 't will be. He'll send it soon ashe gets it," she hastened to add."But what are you going to do in the meantime? It would cost less toget you home than to keep you here.""No, I stay with my nephew here. He's willin' I should stay with himtill I get my money to go home.""Yes, but this nephew, can't he get you the money? Doesn't he know,"she insisted, heatedly, "what it means to you?""He's got five children, and not much laid up. And then, he neverseen the mountains. He doesn't know what I mean when I try to tellhim about gettin' there in time. Why, he says there's many a oneliving back in the mountains would like to be livin' here. He don'tunderstand--my nephew don't," she added, apologetically."Well, someone ought to understand!" broke from the girl. "Iunderstand! But--" she did her best to make it a laugh--"elevendollars is every cent I've got in the world!""Don't!" implored the woman, as the girl gave up trying to controlthe tears. "Now, don't you be botherin'. I didn't mean to make youfeel so bad. My nephew says I ain't reasonable, and maybe I ain't."The girl raised her head. "But you are reasonable. I tellyou, you are reasonable!""I must be going back," said the woman, uncertainly. "I'm justmaking you feel bad, and it won't do no good. And then they may bestirred up about me. Emma--Emma's my nephew's wife--left me at thedoctor's office 'cause she had some trading to do, and she was tocome back there for me. And then, as I was sittin' there, the pinin'came over me so strong it seemed I just must get up and start!And"---she smiled wanly---"this was far as I got.""Come over and sit down by this table," said the girl, impulsively,"and tell me a little about your home back in the mountains.Wouldn't you like to?"The woman nodded gratefully. "Seems most like getting back to themto find someone that knows about them," she said, after they haddrawn their chairs up to the table and were sitting there side byside.The girl put her rounded hand over on the thin, withered one. "Tellme about it," she said again."Maybe it wouldn't be much interesting to you, my dear. It's just acommon life--mine is. You see, William and I--William was myhusband--we went to Georgetown before it really was any town at all.Years and years before the railroad went through, we was there. Wasyou ever there?" she asked wistfully."Oh, very often," replied the girl. "I love every inch of thatcountry!"A tear stole down the woman's face. "It's most like being home tofind someone that knows about it," she whispered."Yes, William and I went there when 'twas all new country," she wenton, after a pause. "We worked hard, and we laid up a little money.Then, three years ago, William took sick. He was sick for a year,and we had to live up most of what we'd saved. That's why I ain'tgot none now. It ain't that William didn't provide."The girl nodded."We seen some hard days. But we was always harmonious--William and Iwas. And William had a great fondness for the mountains. The nightbefore he died he made them take him over by the window and helooked out and watched the darkness come stealin' over thedaylight--you know how it does in them mountains. 'Mother,' he saidto me--his voice was that low I could no more 'an hear what hesaid--'I'll never see another sun go down, but I'm thankful I seenthis one.'"She was crying outright now, and the girl did not try to stop her."And that's the reason I love the mountains," she whispered at last."It ain't just that they're grand and wonderful to look at. It ain'tjust the things them tourists sees to talk about. But the mountainshas always been like a comfortin' friend to me. John and Sarah isburied there--John and Sarah is my two children that died of fever.And then William is there--like I just told you. And the mountainswas a comfort to me in all those times of trouble. They're like anold friend. Seems like they're the best friend I've got on earth.""I know what you mean," said the girl, brokenly. "I know all aboutit.""And you don't think I'm just notional," she asked wistfully, "inpinin' to get back while--whilst I can look at them?"The girl held the old hand tightly in hers with a clasp moreresponsive than words."It ain't but I'd know they was there. I could feel they was thereall right, but"--her voice sank with the horror of it--"I'm 'fraidI might forget just how they look!""Oh, but you won't," the girl assured her. "You'll remember just howthey look.""I'm scared of it. I'm scared there might be something I'd forget.And so I just torment myself thinkin'--'Now do I remember this? CanI see just how that looks?' That's the way I got to thinkin' up inthe doctor's office, when he told me there was nothing to do, and Iwas so worked up it seemed I must get up and start!""You must try not to worry about it," murmured the girl. "You'llremember.""Well, maybe so. Maybe I will. But that's why I want just one morelook. If I could look once more I'd remember it forever. You see I'dlook to remember it, and I would. And do you know--seems like Iwouldn't mind going blind so much then? When I'd sit facin' them I'djust say to myself: 'Now I know just how they look. I'm seeing themjust as if I had my eyes!' The doctor says my sight'll just kind ofslip away, and when I look my last look, when it gets dimmer anddimmer to me, I want the last thing I see to be them mountains whereWilliam and me worked and was so happy! Seems like I can't bear itto have my sight slip away here in Chicago, where there's nothing Iwant to look at! And then to have a little left--to have just alittle leftand toknow that when I get there 'twill be--Oh, I'll be rebellious-likehere--and I'd be contented there! I don't want to be complainin'--Idon't want tooh,I want it for them things I want to see!""You will see them," insisted the girl passionately. "I'm not goingto believe the world can be so hideous as that!""Well, maybe so," said the woman, rising. "But I don't know where'twill come from," she added doubtfully.She took her back to the doctor's office and left her in the care ofthe stolid Emma. "Seems most like I'd been back home," she said inparting; and the girl promised to come and see her and talk with herabout the mountains. The woman thought that talking about them wouldhelp her to remember just how they looked.And then the girl returned to the library. She did not know why shedid so. In truth she scarcely knew she was going there until shefound herself sitting before that same secluded table at which sheand the woman had sat a little while before. For a long time she satthere with her head in her hands, tears falling upon a pad of yellowpaper on the table before her.Finally she dried her eyes, opened her purse, and counted her money.It seemed that out of her great desire, out of her great new need,there must be more than she had thought. But there was not, and shefolded her hands upon the two five-dollar bills and the one silverdollar and looked hopelessly about the big room.She had forgotten her own disappointments, her own loneliness. Shewas oblivious to everything in the world now save what seemed theabsolute necessity of getting the woman back to the mountains whileshe had eyes to see them.But what could she do? Again she counted the money. She could makeherself, some way or other, get along without one of the five-dollarbills, but five dollars would not take one very close to themountains. It was at that moment that she saw a man standing beforethe Denver paper, and noticed that another man was waiting to takehis place. The one who was reading had a dinner pail in his hand.The clothes of the other told that he, too, was of the world'sworkers. It was clear to the girl that the man at the file wasreading the paper from home; and the man who was ready to take hisplace looked as if waiting for something less impersonal than thenews of the day.The idea came upon her with such suddenness, so full born, that itmade her gasp. They--the people who came to read the Denver paper,the people who loved the mountains and were far from them, thepeople who were themselves homesick and full of longing--were thepeople to understand.It took her but a minute to act. She put the silver dollar and onefive-dollar bill back in her purse. She clutched the other bill inher left hand, picked up a pencil, and began to write. She headedthe petition: "To all who know and love the mountains," and she toldthe story with the simpleness of one speaking from the heart, andthe directness of one who speaks to those sure to understand. "Andso I found her here by the Denver paper," she said, after she hadstated the tragic facts, "because it was the closest she could cometo the mountains. Her heart is not breaking because she is goingblind. It is breaking because she may never again look with seeingeyes upon those great hills which rise up about her home. We must doit for her simply because we would wish that, under likecircumstances, someone would do it for us. She belongs to us becausewe understand."If you can only give fifty cents, please do not hold it backbecause it seems but little. Fifty cents will take her twenty milesnearer home--twenty miles closer to the things upon which she longsthat her last seeing glance may fall."After she had written it she rose, and, the five-dollar bill in onehand, the sheets of yellow paper in the other, walked down the longroom to the desk at which one of the librarians sat. The girl'scheeks were very red, her eyes shining as she poured out the story.They mingled their tears, for the girl at the desk was herself youngand far from home, and then they walked back to the Denver paper andpinned the sheets of yellow paper just above the file. At the bottomof the petition the librarian wrote: "Leave your money at the deskin this room. It will be properly attended to." The girl fromColorado then turned over her five-dollar bill and passed out intothe gathering night.Her heart was brimming with joy. "I can get a cheaper boardingplace," she told herself, as she joined the home-going crowds, "anduntil something else turns up I'll just look around and see if Ican't get a place in a store."* * * * *One by one they had gathered around while the woman was telling thestory. "And so, if you don't mind," she said, in conclusion, "I'dlike to have you put in a little piece that I got to Denver safe,so's they can see it. They was all so worked up about when I'd gethere. Would that cost much?" she asked timidly."Not a cent," said the city editor, his voice gruff with the attemptto keep it steady."You might say, if it wouldn't take too much room, that I was muchpleased with the prospect of getting home before sundown to-night.""You needn't worry but what we'll say it all," he assured her."We'll say a great deal more than you have any idea of.""I'm very thankful to you," she said, as she rose to go.They sat there for a moment in silence. "When one considers,"someone began, "that they were people who were pushed too close evento subscribe to a daily paper--""When one considers," said the city editor, "that the girl whostarted it had just eleven dollars to her name--" And then he, too,stopped abruptly and there was another long moment of silence.After that he looked around at the reporters. "Well, it's too badyou can't all have it, when it's so big a chance, but I guess itfalls logically to Raymond. And in writing it, just remember,Raymond, that the biggest stories are not written about wars, orabout politics, or even murders. The biggest stories are writtenabout the things which draw human beings closer together. And thechance to write them doesn't come every day, or every year, or everylifetime. And I'll tell you, boys, all of you, when it seemssometimes that the milk of human kindness has all turned sour, justthink back to the little story you heard this afternoon."* * * * *Slowly the sun slipped down behind the mountains; slowly the longpurple shadows deepened to black; and with the coming of the nightthere settled over the everlasting hills, and over the soul of onewho had returned to them, that satisfying calm that men call peace.
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