Iowa voter. [volume] (Knoxville, Iowa) 1867-1874, 1871-01-19
WOOD-sAWYER BEN.
n r.oryrs1A n. rHURsTON.

.hst a wood sawyer ought to be, but an
ia oray man. He was small. not more
.hsr four feet high and his round back
covered over his hollow, thin chest, in q
,rsv that was almost, If not quite, deform-
~ Over his shoulder he carried his saw
hcrse. very small one, to fit himself, and
mill Of slender poles, adapted to his fee
Mo strength. It was not a fine part of the
C;tv where lay his way. The streets were
1erv full of men Fastening to their homes.
nl1 Ben plodded slowly on, in . listless,
sksent manner. His straw hat was pulled
down shout his ears; his checkered shirt
vss still open at the neck, though he had
drawn down the sleeves and buttOned them
about his thin, brown writs. 1t was Fri
day night, and the weeks growth of gray
heard, which was only shaved on Sunday,
stood in white stubbles upon his meagre,
old face. His steps grew slower as he
neared the door he sought; yet enter he
must. He turned on the first stair and
looked back into the dusty street Then,
with sigh and lingering dread, he went
% Isit You, Uncle Ben. ?" called a cheer
ing voice, as he reached the first landing.
Yes. I've como back" gt -,
A ad-faced, hearty looking Irish wo-
man came to the open doorway, and re-
oarded him with eyes of genuine sympa-
ny Seems 70 me Tn more tired than com
mon tonight" he added \ s'pose its
the sun"
with us to night: You'll be lonely like, to
stay p yoarsslftss r., ~ ,....v p;aav
But I'll be getting used to it quicker if
don't Thank yer all the same!
Old Ben, who was uncle to all the tene-
ment, and all the street too, plunged rapid.
room. He set away the horse under the
caves and rested the saw against it.
He took out a couple of buns he had
bought at the way-house, and laid them
upon the table. But he could not eat
them. He sat still in his chair his shr,ink
legs scarcely reaching to the floor; his
thin arms resting along the table; his poor
old body, with bent back and hollow
chest, leaning forward upon it, his pale
blue eyes empty and spiritless, looking
vacantiy through the one little dingy win
dow, into the misty sky; his stubby face
mournfu1ly sad his jaw fallen and his
colorless lips apart. Poor old wood-saw-
yer Ben! This was what he had dreaded.
This was why his steps had slackened on
the way and faltered on the stair. To find
his poor little old attic desolate; to eat his
dry buns alone to feel the emptyness, the
loneliness creeping round and round him,
and stealing down close upon his heart.
His slow breath came quicker; the corners
of his kind old mouth quivered and droop-
ed; he sighed once or twice; then his
gray head bowed over his thin brown
hands, and he would have grOaned
aloud only Ben had forgotten how
to 4 cry. So he sat there in a
sad, comfortless heap, while the pain
closed around his heart He knew there
was no help He must learn to bear il
and be still And he sat so, hour after
hour, trying to learn. asse
Ben had lost what he loved best or
earth. Yet, what had Ben to lose! Pa
rents he scarcely remembered, it was SC
many years since he had known them
Brothers and sisters, wife and children he
never had To be sure, he was uncle to all
the children, and all their parents, too
who lived about him and knew him. Once
this had seemed to fill his heart and satisfy
him. But one morning, more than three
years before, he had come down stairs very
early, for he had long way to go to hi.
work that day, and found little child sit
ting on the doorstep eating a cake. The
child was stranger. He talked but little
and that so br0kenly that Ben could no
understand. Ben left him with Biddy thai
day, and did what he thought enough
toward finding the child's parents They
were not found, and Baby Fred, as they
made out his name to be, became Ben'i
boy. J No one ever claimed the child
Whether he had run away and been lost
or was purposely left there, no one eve
knew But Ben's boy was soon a genera
favOrite. II was all the old man cOulC
do to carry the plump fellow up stairs tC
his attic; yet he managed to do it every
day. go
Fred very soon learned to talk, and also
to love Uncle Ben. While he was little
Ben left him with Biddy, when he wen
away to his days work But as soon al
he was four years old, according to Biddyt
chronology if any woman could
guess child's age it ought to be Biddy
Maione-the old man took his child Will
him at his work. Fred could hand hin
the small sticks to-saw, and eetfd play II
the saw dust and at mud pies till the tint
came for the pleasant MONDAY lunch
Then he could lie down to sleep on Ben's
old coat, and wake to play until evening
The boy grew very beautiful. His bright
brown eyes spsrkled and laughed with
sport, or softened and deepened with ten
der love and earnestness. His fair skin
never burned so brown as the other little
boys of the neighborhood. His warm
brown hair rolled itself up into shining
rings of roguish curls, that would not be
curled out Uscle Ben kept him carefully
washed and kempt, while Irish Biddy, who
had care of Ben's wardrobe, was persuaded
with shining extra coin each week to
make Fred's little clothes more clean and
smooth and tidy than even any Of her own
children's garments had been.
Once, in early spring, when Ben went a
long way out on the west side of the city,
and little Fred was with him, the lady OF
the house where Ben worked noticed the
beautiful boy. She made her husband see
him too, when Ben came again the next
morning to finish his job, and at night the
lady asked Ben to give away his boy to
her. She would care for and educate him,
give him hundred times more than ever
could poor old wood-sawyer Ben She
had no children. She would like to take
this boy, and go would her husband.
1t was then that Ben first felt the dread