The Topeka state journal., 1911-04-26
THE EVENING STORY
Mans Freedom
(By Jeanne o. Loizeaux

Nellie, the crippled sister he had sup
ported since his fathers death, when
ne was thirteen, died. Three months
later the weak, pretty, incompetent
mother, went out like breath of sum-
mer wind The tiny house, alone, was
left, and Annie Martin was putting it
TO rights and wondering when this big.
dark, self-sacrifcing man would wake
TO the fact that he had a right to the
normal life of other men-when he
would discover that he loved her
But he did not see it. From child
hood she had lived there beside him
with her mother, helping where she
lcould, never failing him. Duty had
made slave of him. A boy who sup
ports a mother and sister at thirteen,
who studies at night and sits at an
office desk all day, who is nurse to an
invalid and the payer of bills, is old
before his time.
Annie had become to him like the
sky and the green grass-he failed
really to see her. Years were show
ing with Annie, too, but gently, for her
lgreat sweetness was an inner thing.
She was tall and fair and quiet, and
would have died for him had he need
ed it.
! When his mother had been dead a
year and most of the bills were paid,
something happened. His old friend
Norris came into the Office at closing
time, and walked home with him.
1
you've been studying mechanics on
the quiet the last twenty years.
know you had to stay here while
others were depending on you. Now,
throw it up and come over to the shop.
1t will be work you want to do. and
take you into partnership in a few
years. You've got the scrimping habit
with yourself-you allow yourself no
pleasure, no time, nothing but druid
be an office fixture, man? Just a ma
chine? Think about my offer-no,
don't think-accept!''
John Sherwin stopped short on the
street and looked at his friend.
Morris, 1 believe you are right
I'll resign Saturday, and come over
Monday. It's what I've always wanted
and now dare to change
That's the ticket-and since your
house is paid for, get married, live
Christian, John! The woods are full
| of nice girlSi'
he dared give a hint about Annie Mar
tin, but was too sincerely fond of the
girl to seem to champion her cause;
and then their ways parted, and John
walked home with something new in
his heart-joy, freedom from care, a
thing that sang in him and lifted the
stoop in his shoulders, and put light
in his eyes.
Monday he went to the machine
shops, rejoicing in the change, the
freedom, the action; he loved every
wheel, the movement and strain, the
men who worked beside him, dirty,
lperspiring, who smoked and some
times swore, who loved and hated
J right humanity. He began to live.
Then he began to see that he had
missed something out of his life. The
fresh spring seemed to make the
vague loneliness worse, and he thought
he wanted his mother and Nellie.
One night when he had been down
town on an errand and was walking
home through a little wood in the
moonlight, the truth reached him.
Turning a corner he came suddenly
upon man and girl in each others
arms. Neither saw him, and he stole
away, leaving them standing in their
dream of love. 1t was love that he
had missed!
He went to bed, but his sleep was
troubled, and in the gray of the morn
ing he walked suddenly, with a name, a
face, in his heart. Then he knew he
had always wanted Annie Martin-he
knew why she was stiff and shy with
him. The misery fell away and he
slept like child.
1t was late, and Sunday morning,
when he awoke and remembered. He
was up in a moment and at the win
dow. It had been the promptest spring
of grass and willow had deepened and
spread. Orchards were pink and
white, and down his own walk the
flags ran like blue flame The birds
were half mad with their own songs,
and the wind was a soft intoxication.
John felt strangely light and joyous.
He washed, dressed and shaved with
impatient care, hastily made and
drank some coffee, and went out into
the sun. The first buds of his sweet |
L
and he plucked them all and went |
across the green grass to Annie'S |
house, where her mother stood draw |
ing on her gloves and preparing to |
join the demure stream of church. |
goers that flowed past
"Where is Annie?'' he asked, tess
ing his soft hat to the porch floor and |
shaking his heavy dark hair in the |
sun. ''Is she going to church?''
The cid lady stared at him wistfully, |
thinking of her daughters happiness. |
Annie? Going to church?'' she |
said, but not meaning half she said. |
Young folks must worship trees now
adays, 1 believe! They seem to think |
God is only outdoors-if they think of |
with Annie?" |
He laughed, but an impulse of fool |
ishness came over him, memory of |
the time before his father died, and |
ne, q rOuSh-heaQed HtIle boy, naQ
played with the golden-haired girl |
child named Annie.
"I came over to play with Annie" |
he said, with serious face. Cant |
she come out? Won't you let her? |
The mother caught his mood.
you'll have to find her, John She |
ran away. I saw her go up the hill |
and into the woods a while back. |
She's
But he was gone, bareheaded, swing
ing over the grass toward the hill
Then he came to where she stood, |
leaning against a tree, her heavy fair
hair bright against the trunk, her blue
dress falling away from her white
arms and neck. As he came closer, |
still silently over the grass, he saw