The Leavenworth echo. [volume] (Leavenworth, Wash.) 1904-current, 1914-02-13

try place near an important
crossing of highways, west of San Jose
and southwark from Menlo Park. Its
door swung under the shadow of an
ancient live-oak that might have shell
tered a whole colony of Druids had 1t
grown in another continent and
reached maturity in another age.
Jackrabbits sometimes fitted past on
hurried journeys from mysterious billy
regions and the lonely yelpings of pro-
testing coyotes was not unknown at
night.
Mason had plenty of patronage, but
he had mischosen his occupation.
People said the labors of it made him
old before his time. At so his Shout
ders almost hid the bit of neck that
should have been visible between
them and the fringe of remaining hair
back of his ears. He stood habitually
in the braced attitude of readiness to
WELD a sledge, now too heavy for him
to handle easily.
He had been frugal. He had in
vested his savings with prudence bor-
dering upon meanness.
Knowing these things of their
neighbor, the dwellers on adjacent
farms were not surprised, though they
were greatly inconvenienced, by the
closing of Gerald Mason's shop short
ly after his fiftieth birthday; but they
were surprised, made curious, three
years later. The bent back had not
Strengthened; the relaxed arms and
distorted legs revealed no fresh sap
of reinstated youth in them; yet the
shop was reopened.
Had he lost his money?
Enough for one is only half enough
for two," he explained patiently. I've
enough for one; / must work for the
other"
1.-The other? What other?"
He opened the back door of his
shop where it Joined the side of his
dwelling and pointed to an improvised
bed in a corner.
There lay sleeping babe.
at was brought last night-my own
blood-my grandchild. 1 seldom
heard from my boy Pete and his wife
Susie after they went to Australia,
you know, neighbors. I'll never hear
from either of them again. They're
gone where there amt any more let
ter-writing, and their babe is sent of
heaven to comfort me. Susie wrote
this: I send my little Rollo. For
give me. l am dying, and who will
take him if not you? There is no
time to wait for your consent There
a sealed letter, too, for the young
thing to read when he's II years old.
Women like to do such things. 1 sup
pose there's something about being a
mother that we men can never rightly
take hold upon; but being father is
something, too; and being a grand
father-when you haven't set eyes on
your own for years-that makes the
blood run back into stiff fingers. 1t
makes the arms stronger. 1t almost
straightens the crooked back.
what made her say Forgive me,
I wonder? Where should my sons
widow send the child if not to his
grandfather? Is he not my blood? /
shall hit hard, very hard, on the anvil
with the babe running under my
eyes and the thought of him singing
like bird in me-"
For three years the farmers in that
vicinity had been making shift with
loose wagon tires, battered breakages,
and unshod colts, too hurried or too
neglectful to seek the services of
other smiths, miles away The con-
glomerate accumulation of work
poured into Mason's shop. He toiled
with will and sang as he had not
sung since the death of his wife. The
song helped him remember and TO
forget-to remember the blessedness
of doing something for Peters child;
to forget pain. 1t helped him, too, to
overcome the dread weakness that at
times threatened to strew the earthen
floor with hammer and tongs, red-hot
irons, and smith, all in one tangled
heap.
The babe soon learned to prefer
a corner of the shop remote from
flying sparks to any other place open
to him. Grown older, his playthings
were titanic weights which he could
touch, but could not lift; edged
things; rough things; cold things;