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Isabel C. Byrum >> The Poorhouse Waif and His Divine Teacher
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11 This eBook was produced by Joel Erickson, Charles Franks, Juliet Sutherland
THE POORHOUSE WAIF
and
HIS DIVINE TEACHER
A True Story
BY ISABEL C. BYRUM
CONTENTS
Preface
I The Deserted Child
II Life in the Almshouse
III From Bad to Worse
IV Finding Friends
V Suffering for the Faults of Others
VI The Strange Visitor
VII Mysteries Unfolding
VIII Discovers the Existence of God
IX In the Home of a Witch
X A Contrast
XI Searching for Light
XII A Revelation on Eternity
XIII Puzzled about Prayer
XIV A Prayer-Meeting
XV A Star of Hope
XVI A Revelation on Tobacco
XVII The Camp-Meeting
XVIII Discovers the Existence of God's Word
XIX Devotion and Works
XX Called to Service
XXI Discovers God's Church
XXII Visits the Poorhouse
CHAPTER I
THE DESERTED CHILD
In this wide world the fondest and the best
Are the most tried, most troubled, and distressed.
--Crabbe.
"Why, woman, you are not thinking of leaving that child in this place for
us to look after, I hope! Our hands are more than full already. You say
that the child is scarcely a month old. How do you suppose that we could
give it a mother's care? More than this, the board that governs the affairs
of this institution has given us orders to accept no children under seven
months of age whose mothers are not with them. So if we should take the
child, as you say we must, you would be obliged to remain for that length
of time, at least, to help us care for it."
It was August Engler, steward of the county poorhouse in one of the eastern
counties of Pennsylvania during the sixties, that spoke these words, and
the circumstance that called forth the language was the appearance and
request of Mrs. Fischer, a well-dressed young widow. The latter had come to
the poorhouse with the intention of leaving her infant child. To this plan
Mr. Engler had objected unless she was willing to comply with the rules of
the place.
Mrs. Fischer, the mother of three little children, had recently heard that
her husband, a soldier in the Civil War, had been killed in battle, and
immediately she had gone into deep mourning as far as her dress was
concerned. The care of her family, however, she felt was too great a
responsibility to assume alone, and she had decided that the best thing for
her to do was to give her three small children away and that the sooner it
was done the better it would be. It was not hard to find homes for the girl
and the boy, but with baby Edwin it was different He was so young that
nobody cared to be bothered with him, and although she had tried hard, she
had not succeeded in finding him a home.
In her perplexity she rushed to the infirmary. So confident had she been
that it would be the duty of this institution to help her out that she had
not thought of asking the privilege of leaving her baby as a favor.
As steward and matron of the poorhouse, Mr. and Mrs. Engler did what they
could to keep things going smoothly and in order, but the work was too
large for them to handle it properly. At that early date no special place
except the poor farm had been provided for the simple and the insane; so it
was necessary to have several buildings, both large and small, to provide
for the needs of the people.
In the building that was known as the poorhouse proper was the main office.
It was here that Mrs. Fischer appeared. Several other rooms of importance
were also in this building, such as the dining-room and some
living-apartments, but the bakery and the kitchen were in a building just a
short distance away. And there was still another building, a large brick
structure close to the main building. This was used for the confinement of
such persons as the insane and the unmanageable, and the doors and windows,
as well as the transoms, on both the inside and the outside were secured by
iron bars. From these dark prison walls many strange and hideous sounds
could be heard at any hour of the night or day.
In the entire establishment the furnishings were scant and poor, and in
every way things were vastly different from what we find them in the
poorhouse of our modern times. In the main office, where Mr. Engler
transacted his business affairs and entertained strangers, there was simply
a rude desk, a homemade couch without springs or mattress, and a few
rush-bottomed chairs. For years the walls had been growing darker because
of the constant use of tobacco by those who frequented the place.
Had it not been that the steward and the matron of this home for the poor
were capable persons and able to get considerable help out of the inmates,
they could not have managed to keep up the place at all. To conceal the
fact that the poorhouse was a miserable place to stay would have been an
impossibility.
To the selfish mother it mattered not that the office within which she was
standing was an index to the entire building. Regardless of consequences,
she cared only to be freed from her burdens and responsibilities as a
mother. So the answer that Mr. Engler gave her only stirred within her evil
heart the anger and cruelty already there, and with a fiendish glare of
derision toward the one who was endeavoring to do his duty, she took a step
toward the hard couch and threw, rather than laid, the bundle she held in
her arms upon it. An instant later she disappeared through the open
doorway. When Mr. Engler recovered from his surprize and went to look for
her, he saw her running up the road as fast as her feet would carry her.
Realizing in part the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Engler went at once
to notify his wife, and, leaving her in charge of the little one, he, with
others, set out to find the runaway mother. The task proved to be
difficult. Owing to the fact that the woman was a stranger in the community
and had gotten the advantage of her pursuers, it took some time to find
her, but at last she was returned to the infirmary and was given orders by
the authorities not to repeat the offense of deserting her baby.
As the feeble-minded people at the almshouse sometimes caused trouble by
running off, large balls of iron had been provided to be chained to the
feet of such persons. Thus their progress would be hindered and their
escape be less probable. Still they could take a part in the work that had
been assigned them about the place. It was thought best to use this method
of securing Mrs. Fischer. When the chains were fastened about her ankles,
one of the authorities who had helped in capturing her remarked, "I guess
now you'll not raise your feet for a while as nimbly as you have been doing
of late."
That evening Mr. Engler said to his wife: "It's the strangest case I ever
heard tell of. Surely that woman has made the future of her infant son dark
and uncertain. It doesn't seem possible that any mother could treat her
child in such a shameful manner. I'm sure if that woman could get loose
this minute she'd run away again, and we'll have to watch her closely while
she's here."
"Did you see the baby's large brown eyes?" Mrs. Engler asked, as her
husband ceased speaking. "He's certainly a nice child, and it's a shame to
see him grow up among all these paupers; but if his mother doesn't care, I
don't know who will."
"Well, I don't know that it's any of our business, either, except to see
that she takes care of him while she's here, and after that I guess we can
manage some way as we always have," Mr. Engler replied. "You've got too
much to do to take any of her responsibilities on your shoulders, and you
must not try. If people will force their children on the charity of the
community, they must take the consequences."
The constant work and worry incident to caring for so many poor,
disheartened people was indeed great, and Mr. Engler was right when he told
his wife that she already had too much work to do; but it was very hard for
her to think of the neglect that the poor little child would undergo even
while its mother was there, for such a heartless woman could not be
expected to do her duty. As the days and weeks glided by, it was as Mrs.
Engler had feared, and the cruel manner in which the babe was handled was
pitiful to behold. But scolding and criticizing the mother did neither the
mother nor the child any good, and Mrs. Engler endeavored to forget about
the matter and to let the baby get along as well as it could.
When at last the seven months had expired and the day for the departure of
Mrs. Fischer had arrived, the woman who had so disgraced the name of
motherhood was glad. The pretty costume of black was faded and worn, and
the glossy hair was tangled and unkempt, but within the eye the light of
evil was shining brighter than ever. It was indeed a glad moment for her
when she heard the chains about her ankles clanking heavily upon the floor
and she knew that she was once more a free woman and could go and do as she
pleased. And without a thought for the comfort or a plan for the future of
her helpless child, she left him to the generosity of the people.
It truly might seem that the young life was blighted, but there was One far
better than mother, brother, or sister who cared and was ready to lend a
helping hand.
"The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good"
(Prov. 15:3).
"Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have
storehouse nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much more are ye better than
the fowls?" (Luke 12:24).
CHAPTER II
LIFE IN THE ALMSHOUSE
Few save the poor feel for the poor:
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful rest
And needful food debarred;
They know not of the scanty meal,
With small, pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth
When snow is on the ground.
--Miss Landon.
Mrs. Engler had long since given the care and feeding of the children over
into the hands of inexperienced women, who might have utterly ruined the
delicate digestive organs had it not been that the food allowed was
wholesome and the quantities too small for them to overfeed. The children,
after being provided with pewter spoons, were seated in groups around large
pans and were allowed to dip as they chose into the mixture that the pan
contained. For a time after his mother's departure baby Edwin was fed from
a cup, but as soon as he was able to handle the spoon and to toddle about
the floor, he had to take his place with the others. Thus, table manners
and politeness were unknown, and the earliest picture stamped upon the mind
of little Edwin that he could in after-years remember was a group of boys
and girls, of all ages and of whom he numbered one, hovering about a large
dishpan, each eagerly watching for an opportunity to "dip" for his or her
share of the food.
With the picture came a desire to be good and kind to all. Perhaps some
Christian friend of the family had offered just such a prayer for him, and
God, knowing the evil surroundings that would have a tendency to make him
selfish or unkind, protected and shielded him with this very wall of
kindness. At least God saw and understood, and he cared enough to help the
poor little innocent, untaught boy as he matured from babyhood not only to
be unselfish but to avoid doing many things that might have provoked others
to anger. In short, God became his teacher, and many times while Edwin was
still very young, when he discovered his playmates doing that which was
evil, there was something within his heart that said it was wrong and that
he ought not to do as they were doing. His ideas in regard to the right and
wrong of different things he for a time expressed quite freely among the
children; but, finding that he was only ridiculed for his pious thoughts,
he learned to keep his views to himself. Although he was silent, he
endeavored to keep as far away as possible from the scenes that troubled
his finer nature.
But not all the days were dark for Edwin. There were times when the
children were taken for long walks out in the fields or woods, where the
flowers grew and where the birds sang their sweet songs. Upon such
occasions Edwin's heart would be so filled with gladness that he would be
almost beside himself. Not only the brown and yellow butterflies gliding
hither and thither, lighting now and then upon some pretty blossom, only to
soar away again high above his head as they discovered him approaching,
attracted his attention; but their cousins, the little black crickets and
the green and brown grasshoppers, springing about him in the meadowlands,
made him shout aloud with delight. Not knowing the true names of the lively
little fellows in the grass, he called them "jumper-men." Sometimes he
would catch them in his hands, but he never thought of hurting them just
for fun. And the turnip-patch! What a treat it was for all the children to
pull the pretty white balls from the earth and to eat them, dirt and all,
for it must be remembered that none of the children had been taught by
their overseers to be clean and neat. It was too great an undertaking for
Mrs. Engler to attend to such minor points. So the turnip just out of the
ground was more of a luxury to Edwin in his half-starved condition than
candy could have been, and candy at the poorhouse was practically unknown.
Once there was a kind old lady who came to stay for a short time in the
home. From the first she seemed interested in Edwin, and, seeing his great
desire to do the right, she endeavored to help and to encourage him. She
had a son of her own, who once had been small like Edwin, and she could
understand how very hard some things were for Edwin to bear.
Among the things that the lady taught him to do was to kneel down and with
his little hands folded and in her lap, repeat after her the little prayer,
"Now I lay me down to sleep." But she failed to tell him that it was
praying or what it meant to pray. Neither did she explain that there was a
great God over all, to whom he could tell all his troubles. But although
Edwin did not know the meaning of prayer, there was something about the
words and the repeating of them that he enjoyed, and long after the dear
old lady had gone away from the almshouse, the words seemed to bring a real
comfort and satisfaction to his poor little hungry soul.
Until the sixth year of Edwin's life he never heard that he had ever had a
father, a mother, or a home other than the place in which he was then
living. He knew only that he existed, and that from day to day there were
many things happening about him, some of which he enjoyed, but a great many
of which were distasteful to him. But all that took place he quietly
endured, thinking that it was the best that there was in life for him. The
fact that some were more favored than he was caused him no jealous or
covetous feelings. He reasoned that it was all right for them, but for
himself it could not be.
During the play-hours when the children were allowed to amuse themselves
outside of the building, Edwin soon discovered that "a soft answer turneth
away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger" (Prov. 15:1). God must surely
have taught Edwin the meaning of this proverb; for the old lady did not
mention it in any of her talks, and there was no one else in that wretched
place to tell him.
Many times the childish games were interrupted by the screaming and the
swearing of the people in the insane-apartment. The timid children would
cry out and tremble, but those who were older often tried to repeat the
profane language. All these things, like many others, made deep impressions
upon the sensitive nature of Edwin, and although he was not afraid, he
often pondered them in his heart. Sometimes seated in a secluded corner he
would watch the poor demented creatures with a pitying gaze, wondering why
they talked and acted so strangely, but whether he could or could not
understand them, he studied the sane and the mad alike, and what he felt
was right in the conduct of either he made his pattern, but the wrong he
rejected.
At times during the play-hours the children, overcome by hunger, would slip
around to the large window that opened into the bakery and there stand
gazing wistfully down upon the loaves of fresh bread as they were taken
from the large oven. Sometimes some crusts or stale biscuits were given
them, and with these they would scamper away to the pump to moisten the
bread before dividing it. It sometimes happened that there was not
sufficient bread for each child to have even a bit, and when it happened
thus, Edwin always gave his share to some one else. And when asked if he
would like some certain thing, his answer was always, "If no one else wants
it."
Because of his thoughtfulness he was often obliged, because of the
selfishness of others, to eat foods that had been rejected as refuse, but
in his heart he never complained nor felt that he had not acted wisely.
Thus, the Golden Rule, although in words unknown to him, became a governing
principle in his life.
When the days were pleasant and warm during the summer months, groups of
men and women often gathered about upon the large platform that surrounded
the pump, or under the shade of an apple-tree, to prepare the vegetables
for the table or the fruits for the coming winter's use. As little was
known at that time about home canning, the fruits were usually dried in the
sun or in the large ovens after the baking was done. The children loved to
gather about the groups at work to keep close watch for stray bunches of
berries or raw potatoes and turnips, that might be carelessly dropped. In
this they were now and then successful, but the rounds of Mrs. Engler were
frequent, and for several reasons the workers were particular that nothing
be lost or wasted.
Instead of horses, heavy teams of oxen were used for all farming purposes.
These animals, although faithful and trusty under ordinary circumstances,
did not like to have children playing about their feet; and as there was no
one to pay especial attention to the little ones, it sometimes happened
that a child was either crippled or killed by the hoofs or horns of the
powerful animals. On one occasion Edwin saw one of his playmates bruised
and trampled in this way.
These scenes, as well as the regular rounds of the chore-boy Jim with his
water-yoke upon his shoulders, carrying either water for the home or slop
for the pigs, were sights that were common and in many cases interesting to
Edwin. But from them he could learn practically nothing of the things that
he would need before he could become a useful man in the world. Aside from
a few instructions that were given them in hard labor, the poorhouse
children were allowed to grow up as a flock of poorly fed chickens or
animals. They were given their rations, a place to sleep, and that was
about all.
The daily routine of the almshouse from year to year was little changed.
Some passed on to their reward in the beyond, but the general order of
things remained the same. The steward and his wife were busy from early
dawn until late at night looking after everything and everybody, but many
of the things of vital importance had to be neglected for a lack of
sufficient time and strength.
"Better is the poor that walketh in his uprightness, than he that is
perverse in his ways, though he be rich" (Prov. 28:6).
CHAPTER III
FROM BAD TO WORSE
"What bliss is born of sorrow!
'Tis never sent in vain--
The heavenly Surgeon maims to save,
He gives no useless pain."
--Watt.
Something more than six years had passed since the departure of Mrs.
Fischer from the county poor-house, but still the place was little changed.
Mr. Engler was once more in the office of the institution. This time he was
there to interview a stranger concerning the child Edwin. There was still
the same strong odor of nicotine in the room, and the furniture and the
condition of the walls and the floor still told of much want and
wretchedness, as well as of habits that were unclean; but apparently as
little heed was given to the fact by the stranger as had been manifested by
the selfish mother.
It seems that the word that Mrs. Fischer was receiving generous pensions
both for herself and for the support of her children had been carried to
the board that governed the affairs of the poorhouse. Finding that none of
the amount had been paid into that institution, orders had been issued to
the effect that Mrs. Fischer must either pay for the support of her child
or take him away from the almshouse. Having received a notice from Mr.
Engler of the board's decision, she had decided to have him brought to her
own home, and the stranger was no other than the boy's own uncle. He had
come with horse and buggy, at the mother's request, he had told Mr. Engler,
and he would appreciate having the child brought to him as quickly as
possible, as he had no time to lose.
"And so the heartless woman's sent for her child at last, has she?" Mr.
Engler said in a tone that might have inferred several things.
"Yes, that was her order," was the reply, and Mr. Engler left the room at
once to bring the fatherless and worse than motherless boy. The steward
smiled as he thought of the contrast between Edwin and his uncle. The
latter, a large, powerful man, was well-dressed and was apparently of a
strong will, and the peculiar light within his eye and the hard lines about
his mouth revealed the same characteristics that had been so prominent in
the mother. Edwin, on the other hand, was small for his age and hollow-eyed
from lack of sufficient food to satisfy his hunger, and his clothes were
ragged and soiled. The honest, straightforward expression of the large
brown eyes and the marks of refinement around his mouth made up, however,
for what he otherwise lacked.
In a room where several other children were playing Edwin was found, but he
was taking no part in the games. In fact, many things were done by the
children in the poorhouse day after day that he did not enjoy and in which
he would take no part. If questioned he could not have explained why he
felt as he did about their actions, but he preferred turning to the window,
where he could look out upon God's creation. The little birds that had
charmed him in his rambles had long been his friends, and as he gazed
through an open window, he could see a nest full of small fuzzy heads
waiting for the parent birds to bring them a meal of worms. Many times the
bills had been raised and the mouths opened wide because of the rustling of
the leaves above or below them, and the boy was glad when they could
realize that their expected meal was there.
In answer to Mr. Engler's order to come at once to the office, Edwin
followed, but before he entered the room, Mrs. Engler saw to it that his
clothing was changed, so that he would be a little more respectable to
appear in public.
It was evident that, when Edwin, clad in a pair of faded blue overalls and
shirt, entered the presence of his uncle, the latter was greatly surprized
at the slight figure before him, but he sought to conceal his thoughts and
said, "Edwin, I'm your uncle and have come to take you home to your
mother."
Very pleasantly these words fell upon Edwin's ears, but he associated them
with his rambles; for he knew nothing at all about his father or mother,
not even that any such relation was necessary in life. He therefore was
glad, but said nothing, for he knew not what to say. Mistaking the meaning
of his silence for timidity, the uncle spoke again.
"Come on now, boy; I am here with a horse and buggy to take you to your
mother's home. Will you be glad to see your mother?"
But again Edwin was at a loss to know what to say, but his thoughts were
that the man before him was very large. It was not until his uncle said
impatiently, "Come along!" that he understood, and this command he
instantly obeyed.
A moment later the two were standing beside a large noble-looking brown
horse that was hitched to an open buggy. Next he felt a pair of strong
hands placed upon his shoulders, and then he was lifted high in the air to
a seat that was so different from the bed of the old ox-wagon that he had
to examine and rub his hand over the soft cushion. When his uncle took the
seat beside him, everything about him began to move, and he thought of the
few times when the children had been taken for rides behind the large team
of oxen. But he had never been away from the poorhouse farm, and when they
passed from the driveway on to the public highway, he remembered that the
children had been forbidden to leave the place, and he wondered what it all
meant. He was not troubled, however, for Mr. Engler knew of his going, and
he reasoned that since he was not going of his own accord, it must be all
right.
As there was nothing else for him to do as he and his uncle rode along, he
began to look about at the many interesting things. The herds in the large
meadow-lands reminded him of the poorhouse cattle, and as he saw the little
"jumper-men" skipping about in the tall grass, so many pleasant
recollections were brought to his mind that he laughed aloud. They met
other horses and buggies similar to their own as well as covered carriages,
and passed some horses quite like his uncle's tied to hitching-racks in
front of houses or running about in the rich pasturelands.
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