A modern exodus

Chapter I. Called

“And when the Lord s3w that he turned aside to see, God called unto him.”

HE real name of the Moses who was the

-L leader in this Modern Exodus was John Heckman, and by that name I shall speak of him as I write out this record of his life — an uneventful life, as we look at lives. The Heckmans were happy and prosperous when this young fellow first made his appearance in the household, a fat, black-eyed baby. He ate and slept, smiled and cooed, like other babies. Later, he grew mischievous and wayward. As more years went by, he ran upon errands and went to school, joined in the coasting and snow-balling frolics, and came

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home with bruised head and frosted ears. In summer he picked berries in the pasture and went fishing ; in short, up to his tenth year he lived a happy, careless young life, with little to distinguish him from the average country boy.

About that time a shadow rested upon the home. At first it seemed but a passing cloud, but instead of dispersing it grew heavier and denser, and by and by culminated in the darkness of death.

They were sitting together in the twilight of a dark November day, the widow and the fatherless, and the friends who had come to them in the hour of their great sorrow. They had not been saying much. The brothers and sisters would go away in the morning, and the broken family would take up their burden of living, and it seemed to the bereaved wife that now there could never be any living that would not be a burden.

Mr. John Heckman sat for some time with an arm thrown about his namesake nephew. He had not joined at all in the low and broken conversation that went on among the others of the group, but seemed lost in thought. Presently he roused himself and said —

“I think, Abbie, that, if you are willing, I will take John, here, home with me for a time. It will be one less for you to care for, and I see no other way to help you. I think Lewis” — here

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the strong man faltered for an instant, but he quickly recovered himself and went on — “Lewis has made very wise plans for your future ; but at best you will have your hands full, and as you will hardly like to let your one girl go away from you, the best I can do is to take John.”

After some discussion it was settled that John was to go with his uncle for a few months — “Until I see my way a little clearer,” the mother said, adding, “ I cannot think of giving up my boy altogether.” And the kind-hearted, wise brother replied —

“Certainly not. You shall have him back whenever you say the word. And, sister Abbie, be assured that, as long as he remains with us, he will have the same care and advantages that my own son would have.”

The months lengthened into years, and still John did not come home. There never came a time when Mrs. Heckman saw her way clearer — rather, her way grew more and more obscured — and there never came a time when she felt that it would be better for John to come back to her, though her heart was breaking with the longing for this child, the one whom everybody said was “so like his father.” Wearily she lived on until six years had gone by. Once, a year or two after John left home, she wrote, urging a visit. His uncle replied —

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Dear Sister Abbie:

If you have not fully determined to take John from us this . year — and I hope you will not — we think it better for you to come here. It will do you good to get away from the old place; and besides, I cannot very well leave just now to go with John, so I enclose a check for your traveling expenses.

During the visit Mr. Heckman drew enough from the sad-faced woman for him to understand that things were not going on as well as could be wished, and he made up his mind that, if possible, he would keep John. However, he said very little about it. He suggested that, as the school advantages in their little town were unusually fine for a place of its size, it might be as well to let John stay on for a year or two, at least, adding — “ If the boy should decide that he would like to take a full course, I shall stand ready to help him ; but that is a matter to discuss later.” Then the mother went back to her home, thankful in her heart that one boy was doing well. And so, as I have said, the years went on until John was nearly sixteen. He had grown up thoughtful for his years, perhaps more thoughtful than boys of his age usually are.

With this bit of introduction, I come now to the point where my story more properly begins.

A bright June morning, and John Heckman sitting in his uncle’s pew in the village church, waiting for the message the preacher might bring to

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him ; and, as I think of him thus, there comes to me a sentence from the beginning of that other story lived so long ago — “And when the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him.” It was a bright worshiping-place. The green upon which the building stood was elevated a little above the level of the street, and a stone terrace added to the neat appearance of the surroundings. Stone steps led up from the sidewalk, and gravel walks followed graceful curves to the entrance of the church. The lawn was shaded by elms and maples, and dotted with evergreens. Inside, through the mullioned stained-glass windows, the sunlight streamed in over a mossy carpet and comfortably upholstered pews. Over the pulpit or platform, upon the wall, in illuminated text, were the words, “ Enter into his gates with thanksgiving and into his courts with praise.” After all, I cannot describe that church. There were certain nameless characteristics, things felt rather than seen. Perhaps it was that the people loved the place, that they came with reverence, and that upon the faces of many who were accustomed to worship within the sacred walls there rested the peace that passeth understanding ; that the glory within so illumined the countenance that of them it might be said, “Their faces shone, for they had been with God.” It may be that in an especial manner the Holy Spirit rested upon

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that congregation. I cannot think that it was just the beauty of the frescoes or of the tinted glass, the perfume of the flowers or the sweet tones of the organ, that made the difference between that church and many others. It may be that the sweet Christian spirit of the worshiping congregation had much to do with the peculiar attraction of the place ; and again, it may be that the preacher had been dwelling upon the mount so that his face shone with a heavenly radiance. I know not why it was, that, with its simple and inexpensive adornings, it seemed so peculiarly the temple of the Most High.

I have wondered what might have been in the mind of that pastor as, in the privacy of his study, he thought out that sermon. I can fancy him fitting it to the needs of his people, hoping and praying that by the words he should be given to speak to them, some might be led to take up new duties, enter upon untried work. Perhaps he thought of this one as being led to speak to the stranger, that one taking up prayer-meeting duty, another giving himself to Sunday School or mission work; and, perhaps, after all his thought and fitting, he prayed that the Lord would take his words and fill them with His Spirit, and let them not fall to the ground, but rather that they might reach some heart with help, encouragement or inspiration, as might be the special need. It may

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be that the preacher never saw in his own parish the least fruit of that morning’s seed-sowing. Yet the fruit was rich and abundant.

The words of the text were, “What is that in thine hand ? And he said, A rod.” The thought of the sermon was that God can make the single and simple instrument that we hold in our loose grasp an effective weapon for His service, and that we may not hold back from service because of weakness or inefficiency. John Heckman, listening, felt a thrill as if the Lord had called him to an especial work. And yet, as he thought it over after church, he did not understand what he felt sure had been the voice of his Master. There was nothing in his life or in his surroundings to call for any unusual effort or service. He had been accustomed to take his part in the young people’s prayer-meeting; he had for some months been teaching a class in the primary department of the Sunday School. It was none of these duties to which God seemed to be calling him. He wondered if it could be possible that God meant him to be a minister.

Long he thought and wondered what it meant, this strong impression that service of a sort different from any of his own planning was waiting for him somewhere. At length he knelt, and the burden of his prayer was — “Here, Lord, am I. Though I hold but a rod, thou canst make it a

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power, and I am waiting to be shown what it is that thou hast for me to do.” And often in the days that followed closely upon this solemn hour of consecration he prayed this prayer for direction.

He had not long to wait. One morning they sat together at the breakfast table, knelt together at the family altar, and went their several ways, little thinking that it was the last time. At noon John stood beside the lifeless body of the one who had been as a father to him for nearly six years. So unexpectedly had the summons come to the strong man.

CHANGES.

Chapter II. Changes

“Come now, therefore, and I will send thee.”

P LANS for the ordering of the changed household matured rapidly. John’s uncle had always meant to provide for the boy who had been like a son to him ; but, as is too often the case, had neglected to make the provision. Though Mrs. John Heckman was fond of her husband’s nephew, she did not feel a responsibility for his future; indeed, the burden of caring for herself and her one daughter was almost more than she could bear. John was now old enough to look out for himself, and, as she decided to close the house and go to live with her parents, she considered her duty done when she had put John’s wardrobe in order, furnished him with an entire winter outfit, purchased his ticket to his old home, and given him, at parting, a draft for one hundred dollars. She

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carefully packed his trunk, which was a large one that had been her husband’s, putting in books pfrom the library, and adding gifts for the members of the family at home, and then she said —

“John, do you think your sister would care for some of my dresses to make over? You know I shall never wear them now, and Ella is too young to make it worth while to keep them or cut them over for her. I could put in my brown cashmere and that summer silk you like so much ; and there’s that heavy wine-colored one — she might as well have that, too. I think your uncle would like to have me send them.”

“Thank you, Auntie; I am sure you are very kind, and I am afraid that new dresses are scarce with mother and Beth nowadays. I am certain that things are not going well at home. I do not understand about it, but I begin to think that there will be work for me there.”

“I know your uncle was troubled about them; he said he could not understand Joe’s going away, and why your mother said so little about him in her letters.”

“She seldom mentions him,” said John, “and I don’t know what to think.”

“Well, you know that Mr. Hummel will give you a place if you conclude to come back. I sometimes think you would do better to stay here, though I

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II think you are right to go and see how they are getting along. But if you come back you will find friends.”

“ It seems almost ungrateful to refuse such a good offer as Mr. Hummel has made me; but I am sure it is right to go to my mother, and it is doubtful if I come back right away.”

And so it came about that, one autumn day, John Heckman, toiling up the long road that led from the station to West Hill, came in sight of his old home. Surely this was the place, yet could it be? Was that the home he had left ? It did not look as he remembered it. The Heckman homestead had been the typical farm-house of fifty years ago, built by Grandfather Heckman to last. This is what the boy expected to find — a large house, painted white, green blinds, and a porch over the front door ; the yard and garden shut in by a picket fence painted white, with a brown base-board ; a gravel walk leading up to the front door; the garden neatly kept, and the ripening vegetables almost ready for the gathering. The barns, as he remembered them, were painted red, with white trimmings ; the horses in the stables were sleek and fat ; and, to fill out the picture which he had carried in his memory, the farm fences should be in good order. The scene before him was very different, yet he quickened his steps as he thought of his mother waiting to

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greet him. But here, too, was a change and a disappointment. Was this worn and weary-looking woman, with a careless air about her dress, the bright, trim mother, whose memory had always been associated with the pleasant home of his childhood? It was his mother, surely. He could never mistake the tender clasp and loving smile, sad though it might be. And the tall girl beside her — could that be Beth, his little sister? You may smile, but the thought that came into John’s mind, as he looked at her in her faded calico dress, was of those handsome gowns that Aunt Fannie had put into his trunk to be made over for Beth. Presently his brother Stephen appeared; his greeting was cordial, but off-hand and not at all affectionate.

“Why didn’t you let us know when you were coming? We would have had out the coach and four-in-hand. Where is your baggage, or did they pack you off without any ? ”

“My trunk is at the station,” replied John; “I did not know whether it would be convenient ” —

“For us to keep you over night?” said Stephen, laughing.

“Not just that; but whether I ought to have hired some one to bring it out, or whether you could go after it.”

“What’s to hinder your going yourself?” asked Stephen.

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“You can answer that question easier than I,” replied John.

“ Shouldn’t wonder if I could. I suppose I do know the ins and outs of things here better than you do,” and Stephen laughed bitterly, as John thought, while he wondered at his mood.

Indoors the changes seemed even more marked and more painful than those he had noticed outside The pretty parlor, which he remembered as always carefully kept, was now dismantled and shabby, while the sleeping-rooms were more dismal and forlorn than he could have imagined it possible for them to be.

“You see,” said his mother, apologetically, as John went over the house in his eagerness to re-visit all the familiar nooks, “things will wear out, and we have not had money to buy new furniture.”

“But I don’t understand. Aunt Fannie has never had any new furniture since I went there, and hers lasted.”

“You must remember that Aunt Fannie had only you, and one boy alone will not use up things so fast as three or four. You see, I wanted the boys to have a good time, and I always encouraged their bringing their friends home with them, and they get pretty wild sometimes, and then tables and chairs suffer.”

“I see,” said John. He had not been at home

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three hours ; yet he already saw things that shocked and grieved him. He was sitting with his mother and Beth after supper, when, missing Stephen, he asked — “Where is Stephen? I ought to have helped him with his work. I did not think of it.”

“Oh, he was through work some time ago; he has probably gone over to the store. I presume he thought we would not miss him ; he knew I would have a great many questions to ask.” And the mother tried to smile as she made this explanation.

“Where is the store you speak of?” asked John.

“ At the corner ; it was opened about five years ago ; it is very convenient for the people around here.”

“Yes, it is convenient; both as a store and as a lounging place! Especially the latter!” It was Beth who spoke, almost fiercely.

John turned to look at her. She was a pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes — well, her eyes were wonderful — large and dark and deep; when she was still, they had a far-away, dreamy look; but Frank, the youngest Heckman, described her varying mood when he said — “As soon as Beth brings her eyes back, she takes in the whole of it!” As John looked at his sister closely, he observed her dissatisfied expression. The scorn

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in her tone when she spoke of Stephen and other young people of the neighborhood, had already caught his attention. Her dress was neat, though very shabby ; her hair in perfect order, and her hands shapely, though they showed some workstains. John’s conclusion was, that “mother and Beth must some way have things brightened up for them.”

Little by little he found out, as the days went by, that matters were even worse than his uncle had suspected. Evidently very little work was done on the farm, and everything seemed running down.

“Do you hear from Joe often?” he asked, that first evening.

“ Not very often ; the last time he wrote he was in Nebraska.” And then the mother made haste to introduce another topic ; at least, so it seemed to John.

“What became of the gray team father used to have ? ” he asked, one day, as Stephen drove through the yard with what seemed to this boy, used to better things, the poorest specimens of horse-flesh he had ever seen.

“Oh,” replied Stephen, as John sprang up beside him on the rickety buckboard, “the nigh horse broke his leg in the woods. Joe was getting out wood, and he never would go slow, and I suppose he was reckless or careless ; any way, we

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had to kill the horse, and then the other went lame ; but you couldn’t expect horses to last forever, could you?”

“No, of course not; but I remember the grays were only six years old ; they wouldn’t have been old horses now.”

“Well! You must have had a good memory for a youngster, to have remembered the age of a span of horses all these years ! More likely they were sixteen ! ”

“No, indeed; you ask mother if I am not right.”

“What difference does it make whether or not you are right ? The horses went the way of all horses long ago, and now we have a team that nobody can kill. They are not beauties ; but they are tough, and that is the main point when you want them for wear.” And Stephen laughed that hard, bitter laugh, that John was learning to dread.

It seemed to this new-comer that Stephen was disappointing at every new view he had of his character. The first Sabbath after he came home, as they sat at breakfast, Stephen said — “Well, John, how will you spend the day? Will you go with me ? ”

Mrs. Heckman looked up quickly, and opened her lips as if about to speak ; then, recollecting herself, she settled back in her chair with a little sigh.

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John replied — “That depends upon where you are going. I expect to go to church, of course.”

“ So that’s the kind you are ! Well, I expected it ; I knew it, in fact, when I saw that Bible lying on your stand.”

“Why, don’t you go to church “Not much! Oh, I go once in a while when I have nothing better on hand; just often enough to keep my hand in — oh, I mean my foot in. Just to keep up with the times, you know; I don’t want to be quite in heathen ignorance; but I do not take much stock in such matters.”

“ What do you do Sundays ? ”

“Oh, hang round. To-day, I’m going nutting.” “Going where?” asked John, in a tone that expressed his amazement.

“ Have you suddenly lost your hearing ? I said I was going nutting. Jack Swan asked me to ride over to Collins’ grove with him. He said I might ask you, but I told him I guessed you were one of the other sort. He seemed to think it might be a good thing on the whole to have one such in the neighborhood; I told him it might do very well for the neighborhood, but having one in the family might make it uncomfortable for the rest.” Stephen spun off these reckless sentences between sips of coffee, apparently well pleased at John’s evident distress. “Now,” he continued, “don’t work yourself up for a martyr. You just

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let me and my ways alone, and I will let you and your religion alone. I laid a dime novel down beside your Bible last night, but I asked the Bible’s permission first. You see I am disposed to be perfectly fair.”

“Beth,” said John, after breakfast, “are you a good walker ? ”

“First-rate! Why?”

“Will you go to church with me? ”

“ Pity sakes, no ! I haven’t a thing fit to wear ; and if I had, I shouldn’t know how to act in church, it is so long since I have been.”

And so John went alone. He did not mind the walk of three miles to the village ; but, if the contrast between the home he had left and the one to which he had come was saddening, he was scarcely less surprised and grieved as he compared the church in which he had worshiped only a week ago with this one into which he slipped so quietly that morning. The location was opposite the village hotel ; and, as no local option wave or prohibitory measure or moral suasion millennium had as yet reached the town, this was far from being a quiet or desirable place in which to worship the Lord. There was not even a bit of green in front of the church ; the steps came down to the broken plank sidewalk ; the building itself had once been painted, but in the long conflict with the elements, the elements had been

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victorious, and only here and there little streaks and patches of paint remained to tell the story ; the vestibule was dark and dingy; the audienceroom uncarpeted and dusty ; the October sun streamed in through windows that were neither of stained glass, nor of the best quality of unstained ; there were neither shutters nor curtains to break the glare ; some time, away back in the dim past, the walls and ceiling had been whitewashed, but were now smoky and flaky ; everything else was in keeping. There were no ushers, and John slipped into a seat, lonely and homesick. He bowed his head, and actually the boy — this brave, strong-hearted boy — cried. Everything everywhere was turning out so different from his anticipations. He had been somewhat prepared for changes, but not such changes as he found. But I believe the boy thought that all churches were alike, and that the one he had left was the type. The tumult of his emotions almost overcame him. Could he endure the life that stretched out before him ? Why had he not remained in the old neighborhood where were opportunities to earn his own living, and where homes had been opened to him? Would it not be better to go back now? There he had his work in the Sunday School ; there were the boys of his set with whom he studied and worked and talked, who thought as he did, and who would be glad to have him back.

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Yes, he would go back. True, there was work here, but a stronger arm than his was needed ; how foolish he had been to imagine he could do anything; and sadly he asked himself — “Who am I that I should think to do this thing ? ” And yet, while he thus doubted and questioned, he seemed to hear that voice again, saying — “Certainly I will be with thee,” and — “Thou shalt take this rod in thine hand.” When the invocation ended, he, too, lifted his head, strengthened and comforted ; he could even join in the hymn.

There was one thing that John Heckman could do — he could sing. And so unaccustomed were they in that forlorn, dingy church to hearing such a voice that many turned to look, and John became aware that he was attracting attention.

Thinking it over afterwards, John knew that there was nothing helpful or uplifting in the words or the manner of the minister ; but he had been taught both by his uncle and by his pastor that we do not go to church mainly to hear the sermon, but that our chief thought should be of the worship, and that our expectation should be of meeting our Lord; and John felt that he had met Him, almost as if he had stood face to face with his Leader.

FACING THINGS.

Chapter III. Facing Things

“ He went out unto his brethren, and looked on their burdens.”

H OW is it, mother, that you do not go to church ? You used to go.”

“Yes, we always went when your father lived. But things are not as they used to be, and I have not been in so long that I have become accustomed to staying at home. Stephen thinks the horses work so hard through the week that they ought to rest Sundays.”

“Yes,” said Beth; “but you will observe that if Steve wants to go anywhere, he will take out the horses quick enough.”

“But, Beth, you know we haven’t had any buggy for the last year.”

“ I guess I do know that ! ” Beth’s tone was almost fierce. “We haven’t had anything to ride in since Steve raced horses with Jack Swan, and

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Jack ran into our buggy and broke it all to smash. Then Steve got an old sulky that he rides around in, but the rest of us can stay at home.”

John had been at home two or three weeks when this conversation took place. He had not asked many questions, but had quietly watched the run of things, and he began to feel that it was time to get at the bottom of the difficulties that seemed to hedge the family in on all sides. After Beth’s last remark he was still a little while; then he asked — “Mother, how is it that with this farm, which, I suppose, is an excellent one, you have such hard times to get along?”

Mrs. Heckman hesitated. There were things which she felt she could not tell this boy ; there were some things which she would keep from him if she could. Joe and Stephen should never have it to say that their mother had turned against them. Still, she knew that it was impossible to keep the true state of their affairs from John. Even if he asked no questions, he could not help seeing that the family had been having hard times. He waited now for an answer, and she said, slowly — “ Well, you know it has been pretty hard times everywhere, and we have had bad luck. First, we lost the horses and had to run in debt for another team, and we have had to borrow money until we are so deep in debt that I do not know that we shall ever get out. It takes about all we can raise to pay the interest, and we don’t even keep that up very regularly.”

“I see. Mother, who owns the farm?”