In his autobiographical recollection, The Middle Five: Indian Schoolboys of the Omaha Tribe, Francis La Flesche offers a thorough and incisive account of student life in a Presbyterian mission school in northeastern Nebraska around the time of the Civil War. The students, whose ages ranged from four to seventeen, frequently banded together into groups that offered friendship, mutual comfort, and understanding as they tried to negotiate between the old world they had been torn from and the alien new world in which they found themselves. The Middle Five was the name of the group created by Francis La Flesche and four other schoolboys.
In these selections, La Flesche tells several moving incidents illustrating the compassion, bravery, and friendship of a group of boys during one of the most difficult periods of their lives.
Francis La Flesche (Omaha) was born in 1857. He devoted his life to the study of his people’s traditions and was awarded an honorary degree of Doctor of Letters by the University of Nebraska in 1926 for his outstanding scholarly achievements. He died in 1932.
JOE
IT WAS RECESS. THE LAUGHER AND SHOUTS OF THE BOYS, AS THEY chased each other and wrestled, mingled with the song of the wren and other birds that inhabited the woods surrounding the school. Not less merry or boisterous were the laughter and calls of the girls, although their territory for play was limited and fenced in, to keep them from too free a communication with the rougher sex. Study and work were forgotten, and every boy and girl romped in the sunshine, and the atmosphere around seemed to be alive with happiness.
Suddenly the boys began to gather curiously around two objects upon the ground. The girls, seeing this unusual stir, came running to their fence, climbed up as far as they dared, and asked the nearest boys what it was that attracted so large a crowd.
It was a pitiful scene,—there, sitting on the green grass, was a crippled old woman of about seventy or eighty years, speaking in the kindest and gentlest of tones, with inflections of the voice hard to describe, but which brought to one’s mind the twittering of a mother bird to its young, and passing her crooked fingers and wrinkled hands over the brown back of a miserable, naked, little boy who was digging his chubby fists in his eyes to squeeze away the tears that flowed incessantly.
“Don’t cry! my little grandson,” she was saying; “don’t cry! These White-chests are kind; they will clothe and feed you. I can no longer take care of you, so I must give you to them. See these boys, what nice caps and coats and pants they have! You will have these things, too, and you will have plenty to eat. The White-chests will be good to you; I will come and see you very often. Don’t cry!”
But the boy cried all the harder, twisting his fists into his eyes, and the old woman continued her caressing twittering.
The bell rang, and there was a rush for the school-room. When the hard breathing, coughing, and shuffling into position at the desks had ceased, the door was gently pushed open, and the old woman entered, tenderly urging the unwilling little brown body forward into the room, still weeping. Addressing Gray-beard, who was watching the scene with a queer smile on his lips, the old woman said:
“I have brought my little boy to give him to the White-chests to raise and to educate. On account of my age and feebleness, I am no longer able to care for him. I give him to you, and I beg that he be kindly treated. That is all I ask.”
Without waiting for an answer, the poor creature, with tears streaming down her furrowed cheeks, limped out of the room, making a cheerless clatter with her heavy stick as she moved away. The little boy, recovering from his bewilderment, turned to see if his grandmother was still near by, and, finding that she had gone, gave a piteous wail, and fell to the floor, sobbing violently.
Who was this wretched little boy? He was his mother’s son, that’s all. He had no father, that is, none to caress and fondle him as other boys had. A man had presented the name of the boy to the Agent to be entered on the annuity rolls, only to that selfish extent recognizing the lad as his son.
The mother died while the child still needed her tender care, and the little one was left all alone in this great world that plays with the fortunes of men and nations. The place of death was in a dreary little tent, the rags of which flapped and fluttered in the force of the merciless winds, as though in sympathy with the melancholy situation. No loving husband or father was there to prepare the body for its last resting-place, and to give the helpless babe the nourishment for which it cried. Not even a relative was there; the dead woman had none among the people; she belonged to another tribe.
As the mother lay an unburied corpse, and her child wailing, a figure bent with age was plodding by. It was an old woman; slowly she put her heavy stick forward, then took a step, as though measuring every movement. When she came near the tent, she stopped, for the distressing wail had pierced her ears. She raised her trembling hand to her brow, looked up to the tent, then to the surroundings. The wailing went on, and the decrepit old woman hastened toward the tent as fast as she was able to go, and entered. For a moment she stood still, contemplating the scene before her, then from the fountains of her tender heart arose tears, impelled not by the sympathy that naturally springs from the love of friend or kindred, but by that nobler and higher feeling which lifts one toward God,—the sympathy for human kind.
Thus it was that this kind-hearted old woman took the homeless little child to her tent and cared for him. The two were inseparable until the grandmother, as she was called by the boy, felt that she was fast approaching the time when she would be summoned to join her fathers in the spirit-land; so, to provide for the child’s future, she had brought him to the school.
The naming of a new pupil was usually an occasion for much merriment, but this time there was no enthusiasm. The school seemed to be in sympathy with the grandmother who went away weeping. Instead of raising their hands, as was their wont, to suggest names, they sought to hide their feeling by poring over their books.
“Come,” said Gray-beard, “we must have a name for this youngster. Be quick and suggest one.”
There was no response. Finally a big boy, who was busy over his lessons, said without lifting his head, “Call him Joseph.”
So Gray-beard entered that name on the school Register.
Joe, as he was called by the boys, grew rapidly, but the helplessness of infancy clung to him. Because he could not fight, he became the butt of every trick a school-boy could devise, and there was no one who would do battle for him. If a big boy looked hard at him he would howl, and if one of his size rushed at him threateningly, he would shrink with fear. He was incapable of creating any mischief, yet he was continually stumbling into scrapes.
One sultry afternoon as I was sitting in the shade of the walnut-tree in front of the school, busy making a sling for Bob out of an old shoe, Joe came up to us, and dropped on his hands and knees. With the greatest interest he watched me cut the leather into a diamond shape; after a while he ventured to ask, “What yer makin’?”
“Wait and see,” I answered, and went on working. When I had finished the sling-strap or pocket, I cut from the lappets of my buckskin moccasin two strings, making a noose at the end of one, and then fastened both strings to the sling-strap. Although I did not say anything about it, I had determined to make one for Joe as soon as I had shown Bob how to use the sling. He tried to find out from Bob what I was making; but that little chap would not speak to him.
When the sling was finished, I told Bob to gather some rusty nails and pebbles. He was off with a jump, and returned with a good supply in an amazingly short time. Joe still sat watching, with eyes and mouth wide open. I put a nail in the sling-strap, and, to show Bob how to use the sling, swung it around three or four times, then threw out my arm with force, letting one end of the string slip, and the nail sped on its way through the air, singing. Bob clapped his hands with delight.
A crow was flying lazily over head, croaking as he went. I sent a stone whizzing up to him; it barely missed his head, and he turned a complete somersault in the air, to our great amusement.
“I’m goin’ to make one too!” said Joe, suddenly rising and hunting around for materials.
I paid no attention to him, but went on teaching Bob how to throw stones with the sling, little thinking that we were drifting toward an incident which gave Joe much pain temporarily and left an impression on my immature mind unfavorable to the White-chests which lasted many, many years.
“Mine’s done!” exclaimed Joe, holding up a sling he had made out of rotten rags.
“Don’t use it,” I made haste to say, “and I’ll make you a good one.”
He paid no heed to my words, but went on trying to balance stones in the old piece of rag. The stones dropped before he could swing the sling and throw them. Bob kept me busy throwing stones for him, for he was afraid of hitting the boys who were on the hillside near by playing tag, or of sending a pebble over the fence, where the girls were singing and chatting over some of their games.
“Look now, look!” cried Joe. I turned to see what he was doing. He had succeeded in balancing a clod of earth nearly as large as his head in the rag sling, and was about to swing it.
Just at this moment Gray-beard came out of the carpenter’s shop and, shading his eyes with a newspaper, he called loudly to one of the boys who was playing tag, “Ulysses! Ulysses!” He inflated his lungs to call for the third time, and with greater volume of voice. Joe had swung the clod of earth around for the second time, and it was half way up for the third round when the string broke; released from its holdings, the clod flew into the air, revolving, and dropping loose particles as it went. I held my breath as I watched it, for I saw just where it was going to strike.
In throwing a stone at some object, I used to imagine that by keeping a steady eye on the stone and bending my body in the direction I desired it to go, I could make the missile reach the place aimed at. In this instance, although I did not throw the clod, I unconsciously bent my body sidewise, keeping my eyes steadily on the lump of earth to draw it away from the spot for which it was making. The two other boys watched with frightened faces.
Gray-beard with head thrown back, lips parted, and chest expanded, called, “Uly—!” when the diminutive planet, which I was trying to guide by my force of will, struck him in the chest, and burst in a thousand bits. For a moment there was coughing and sputtering; then Gray-beard drew out his hand-kerchief, dusted his beard, and his white shirt front. He looked around to see where the missile that struck him came from. I wished that we three could sink into the earth, or else turn into nothing, as Gray-beard’s eyes rested upon us.
“Come here!” he demanded with a vigorous gesture. Like so many guilty curs we walked up to him.
“Which one of you did it?” he cried, grasping me by the collar and shaking me until my teeth chattered.
Joe cringed and cried; it was a confession. I was about to say, “he didn’t mean to do it;” when the infuriated man turned, went into the shop, and in a moment came back with a piece of board.
“Hold out your hand!” he said, addressing the shrinking boy.
Joe timidly held out his left hand, keeping his eyes all the while on the uplifted board, which came down with force, but not on the little hand that had been withdrawn to escape the blow. Gray-beard sprang at the boy, caught his hand, and attempted to strike it; but the boy pulled away and the board fell with a vicious thud on the wrist of the man, who now turned white with rage. Catching a firm grip on the hand of the boy, Gray-beard dealt blow after blow on the visibly swelling hand. The man seemed to lose all self-control, gritting his teeth and breathing heavily, while the child writhed with pain, turned blue, and lost his breath.
It was a horrible sight. The scene in the school-room when the naked little boy was first brought there by the old woman rose before me; I heard the words of the grandmother as she gave the boy to Gray-beard, “I beg that he be kindly treated; that is all I ask!” And she had told the child that the White-chests would be kind to him.
Poor Joe, I did what I never would have done if a boy of his own size had thrashed him, I took him by the hand and tried to comfort him, and cared for his bruises.
As for Gray-beard I did not care in the least about the violent shaking he had given me; but the vengeful way in which he fell upon that innocent boy created in my heart a hatred that was hard to conquer.
The day was spoiled for me; I partly blamed myself for it, though my plans had been to make the two little boys happy, but misery came instead. After supper I slipped away from my companions, and all alone I lay on the grass looking up at the stars, thinking of what had happened that afternoon. I tried to reconcile the act of Gray-beard with the teachings of the Missionaries, but I could not do so from any point of view.
All the boys had come together in the yard, and some one called out, “Let’s play pull.” So they divided into two groups, grading each according to the size of the boys. Two of the strongest were selected, one from each side; they held a stout stick between them, then on each side the boys grasped each other around the waist. When all were ready, they began to pull, every boy crying, “Hue! Hue!” as he tugged and strained. In the dusk the contending lines looked like two great dark beasts tearing at each other and lashing their tails from side to side. Bob and Joe were at the very end of one side; Bob had tied a bit of rope around his waist, and Joe had hold of that with his only serviceable hand. The pulling lasted for quite a while; finally one side drew the other over the mark; the game ended, and the boys noisily disbanded.
“Frank! Frank!” I heard; it was Edwin and the rest of the “gang.”
“Here I am,” I called out, and they gathered around me.
“Joe’s hand is awful swelled up,” said Bob, as he threw himself down on the grass.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Warren.
“Gray-beard beat Joe’s hand like everything; he was so mad I thought he’d kill the boy.” Then I recounted the scene, adding, “I can’t think of anything else; it was awful!”
“Did he do anything to you?” asked Edwin.
“He shook me right hard when he asked me who did it; but when he saw Joe crying he knew who it was; then he let go of me and whipped him.”
Brush had been listening to my story without a word; now he arose and said, “Boys, stay here till I come back.”
He went into the house and knocked at the superintendent’s door.
“I’m glad to see you Brush,” said the superintendent kindly. “Have you finished the book, and do you want another?”
“No, sir; I wish to speak to you about something that happened to-day, which I don’t think is quite right, and I thought you ought to know about it.” Then he told in a simple straight-forward manner the story of Joe’s punishment.
When Brush had finished, the superintendent sent for Graybeard. For a long time the two men talked earnestly together. At length Brush returned, and said, as he took his seat among us:
“Boys, that will not happen again. Gray-beard says he’s sorry he did it, and I believe him.”
THE BREAK
“BRUSH! BRUSH! BRUSH!” I RAN CALLING ONE MORNING SOON AFTER breakfast, down to the barn, to the spring, and back to the house, but I could not find the boy; then I thrust my fingers into my mouth and blew a loud robin call, and the answer came from under a tree up on the hillside. I ran hurriedly to the place; there lay Brush in the shade on the green grass reading.
The occasion of this excited search and call was the announcement by the superintendent that the school would be closed that day, and the children dismissed, so that they might go and see their parents, it being reported by an Indian who had come for his little girl that the people had just returned from the hunt.
“I been everywhere trying to find you,” I said to Brush. “My folks have come home. Put that old book away and come go with me to see them. There isn’t going to be any school to-day.”
“Frank, it’s right good of you to ask me, but I don’t feel very well; I think I better not go,” he replied, in a tone of disappointment. “All my bones ache, and I don’t know what’s the matter with me; but you go ’long, boy, and have a good time; you can tell me all about your visit when you come back.”
“I’m sorry you can’t go, Brush; but I’ll come back soon and bring you some buffalo meat,” I said, starting to go; “you better think about it again and come.”
“I think I better stay home and be quiet,” he answered, opening his book.
I spent all the forenoon with my parents, and in the afternoon I went in search of some of my village playmates. I found a number of them on the hillside shooting with their bows and arrows. They gave me a noisy welcome in mock English, which made me laugh heartily; then I had to wrestle with one or two of them, and when our peculiar greetings were over, the boys resumed their play, in which they let me join, one of them lending me his bow and arrows.
Our shooting from mark to mark, from one prominent object to another, brought us to a high hill overlooking the ripe fields of corn on the wide bottom below, along the gray Missouri. Here and there among the patches of maize arose little curls of blue smoke, while men and women moved about in their gayly-colored costumes among the broad green leaves of the corn; some, bending under great loads on their backs, were plodding their way laboriously to the fires whence arose the pretty wreaths of smoke.
“They’re making sweet corn,” exclaimed one of the youngsters whose little naked brown back glinted against the afternoon sun, and he pointed to the workers in the field.
As we stood watching the busy, picturesque scene below us, one little fellow held his bow close to his ear and began strumming on the string, then all the rest played on their bows in the same manner, until one of them suddenly broke into a victory song, in which the others joined.
At the close of the song they gave me a graphic description of the attack on the camp when it was pitched on the Republican River. Although the enemy was repulsed, and the hunting ground secured to our people, the battle cost many lives, several of the enemy’s warriors were left on the field, and the Omahas lost some of their bravest men.
While yet the boys were telling of the thrilling incidents of the battle, we arose with a sudden impulse and rushed down the hill with loud war-cries, as though attacking the foe, the tall grass snapping against our moccasined feet as we sped along. We were rapidly approaching a house which stood alone, when one of the older boys who was running ahead suddenly stopped and raised his hand as though to command silence. Immediately our shouts ceased, and, seeing the serious look on the lad’s face, “What is it?” we asked in frightened tones as we gathered about him.
Without a word he pointed to a woman who was cutting the tall sunflower stalks that had almost hidden her little dwelling with their golden blossoms. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders unbraided, a sign of mourning. Now and again she would pause in her work to look up at the humble home and utter sighs and sobs that told a tale of sorrow. Mingled with these outpourings of grief came often the words, “My husband! my little child!” with terms of endearment and tenderness for which I can find no equivalent in English. On a blanket spread over the ground near by sat a tot of a child babbling to itself and making the beheaded sunflowers kiss each other, innocently oblivious of its mother’s grief. It was a sad home-coming for the woman; the spirit of her husband had fled to the dark clouds of the west to join the host of warriors who had died on the field of battle, and his bones lay bleaching in the sands of a far-off country.
“It is Gre-don-ste-win weeping for her husband who was killed in the battle last summer,” whispered the big boy; “let us go away quietly.”
When we had withdrawn to a distance where we were sure our noise would not disturb the mourner, one of the boys called out, “Let’s play Oo-hae ’ba-shon-shon!” (Tortuous path.) Years after I learned that this game was played by the children of the white people, and that they called it, “Follow my leader.”
We graded ourselves according to size, the biggest boy at the head as leader. Each one took hold of the belt of the boy in front of him, and then we started off at a rapid jog-trot, keeping time to this little song which we sang at the top of our voices.
CHILDREN’S SONG
FOLLOW MY LEADER
Whatever the leader did, all were bound to do likewise. If he touched a post, we touched it too; if he kicked the side of a tent, all of us kicked it; so on we went, winding around the dwellings, in and out of vacant lodges, through mud puddles and queer, almost inaccessible places, and even entering the village, where we made the place ring with our song.
At last, tired out, the boys broke line and scattered to their homes. It was then that I suddenly realized the lateness of the hour, and remembered my promise to Brush. I ran to the house, took a hurried leave of my parents, picked up the package of buffalo meat my mother had prepared for my school-mate, and fairly flew over the hill between the village and the Mission.
As I came running down the hill to the school I saw Lester, Warren, and Edwin sitting in a row on the fence.
“Hello!” I shouted, “what you sitting on that fence for, like a lot of little crows?”
No answer came, nor did the boys move. I began to wonder if they were displeased with me, although I could not think of anything I had done to give them offence. As I drew near, I noticed that the expression on their faces indicated alarm rather than displeasure, and, becoming anxious in my turn, I hurriedly asked, “What’s the matter; what’s happened; where’s Brush?”
The boys looked at one another, then at me; finally Lester replied, almost with a sob, “Brush is awful sick; he’s been raising blood; they sent for the Doctor.”
“Where is he? I must go see him,” I said, springing over the fence, and starting toward the house.
“He’s in that little room next the girls’ play-room; but they won’t let anybody see him,” said Warren.
I went to the room in which Brush lay, and knocked very gently on the door. There was a rustling movement inside, then the door slowly opened and one of the lady teachers stood before me.
“What is it, Frank?” she asked in a low tone.
I tried to look over her shoulder to see the bed, but she was too tall. “I want to see Brush; can’t I see him? They say he is sick. I want to see him a moment,” I pleaded. “I’m just come back from the village, and brought some buffalo meat I promised him.”
“No, Frank, you cannot see him,” was the reply. “He is very sick. The superintendent is with him trying to relieve his suffering. Run away now,” said the lady, stroking my bare head with her small hand. “Don’t make any noise, and tell the rest of the boys to be very quiet.”
I went away reproaching myself for not coming back from the village soon, as I told Brush I would. When I rejoined the boys, they looked anxiously into my face, and Edwin asked, “Did you see him?”
“No, they would not let me.” After a pause, I asked, “When did he get sick; who was with him?”
“It was under the walnut-tree,” said Lester; “he was reading to us about Joseph, out of his little black Bible he always carries. He began to cough hard and choke; he dropped the book all covered with blood, and took hold of my brother’s arm. I ran to tell the superintendent. Just as they carried Brush into the house, Edwin came back and we told him about it.”
In the evening, after the small boys had gone to bed, the doctor came, a tall gray-haired man. At the gate he was met by the superintendent, and the two walked slowly up the steps, talking earnestly. We four had been watching for the doctor on the porch; as he came along we caught now and then a word, but we did not understand its meaning. We judged by the shaking of the doctor’s head that he thought Brush’s case was serious.
Days passed; the doctor came and went; yet Brush’s door was closed to us, nor had we any hopeful news of him. We missed him sadly; we missed his whittling, his harmless scolding; and our play was only half-hearted.
Indians who came to the school on business missed his ready offer to help. There was no one to take his place; no one who could interpret for them as well as he. Each one, as he went away, left a word of cheer for the lad, with expressions of hope for his recovery.
As school was dismissed one afternoon, the teacher gave special injunctions to the scholars not to make any noise as they passed out, or while moving about the house, so as not to disturb the sick boy. We four strolled toward the spring. Frost had come, and the leaves were beginning to turn red and yellow. Wild geese flew noisily overhead, fleeing from the coming winter to sunnier climes. While we were counting, as we often did, the gray birds, floating through the air like a great V, Warren suddenly exclaimed, “Say, boys, plums!”
We looked at him inquiringly. “Let’s go get plums for Brush!” he continued excitedly. Then we remembered that we had pre-empted a small grove of choice plum bushes at the head of the ravine, as against all the boys of the school, and acquired a right in it which even the Big Seven respected.
Edwin ran to the kitchen and borrowed from one of the cooks a small tin pail. We hurried to our orchard, where we saw no signs of trespass; the bushes were laden with beautiful ripe fruit. We filled the little pail with the choicest, then each one picked for himself. It was nearly supper-time when we appeared at Brush’s door. The three boys looked at me; so I tapped very gently, and the teacher who was nursing the sick boy opened the door.
“We’ve brought some plums for Brush,” I said, offering the tin pail.
“That’s very nice,” said the lady, softly; “I will give them to him.” She was about to close the door, when I whispered, “Can we take just a little look at him?”
“Yes,” she answered, throwing the door open.
We four leaned forward and looked in. A smile lit up Brush’s face as he saw us. “How are you now?” I asked, in a loud whisper.
“I’m all right,” he whispered back, although his hollow eyes and cheeks told a tale that stole away all our hopes. We with-drew, and the door was slowly closed.
Next morning as I was coming down from the dormitory I paused at Brush’s door to listen. I heard footsteps moving about softly, then the door opened and one of the big girls came out with a white pitcher in her hand. I started to go on downstairs, when she called to me in a whisper, “Frank, go down to the spring and get some fresh water for Brush, will you, that’s a good boy?”
I took the pitcher and went quietly downstairs. As soon as I was outside the yard, I ran as hard as I could to the spring, glad at the prospect of a chance to see my friend again. Warren and Lester met me as I was coming up the hill.
“Did you see him?” one of them asked.
“No, but I’m going to,” I answered.
“Ask him if we can do anything for him?” said Lester.
Just as I reached the head of the stairs the same big girl appeared. I handed her the pitcher; she took it and was about to enter the room, when I caught her arm. “Just let me take a look at Brush, will you?” I whispered.
“No, Frank, I can’t. Superintendent says to let nobody in.”
I heard a cough, then a feeble voice say pleadingly, “Maria, let him in, just a minute!”
The girl looked cautiously around, then said to me, “Come, but don’t let anybody see you. Don’t stay long, be quick!”
I stepped in, and a thin hand was stretched out to receive me. “I can’t talk much, I’m so weak,” said Brush. Overcome with emotion, I could not speak but stood holding his hot hand. The girl at the door moved uneasily.
“Tell the boys I’m all right,” said Brush. “They mustn’t worry. Come nearer.” I bent over him and he whispered, “To-night, when everybody is asleep, come down and see me. I want to talk to you when I’m alone.”
As night came on we four sat under the walnut-tree watching Brush’s window. A candle was lit, then the curtain was drawn. Below in the dining-room, the large girls moved quietly to and fro, busy with their evening work. When this was finished, they gathered at the door, and softly sang that beautiful hymn, “Nearer my God to Thee.” We joined in the chorus, the wind wafting the words to the broad skies. The singing came to a close; the dining-room lights were put out, and we were called to bed.
As we knelt by the side of our beds to repeat the Lord’s Prayer, I could not keep back the tears that came, thinking of the emaciated little form that I was to see once more that night.
One by one the boys fell asleep, and I alone, among the forty or fifty in that big room, remained awake. The clock down in Gray-beard’s room struck eleven; the only sounds that came to my ears were those of the heavy breathing of the boys, the soughing of the wind through the trees, the rushing of the waters in the river, and now and then the calls of the wild geese, migrating in the night.
The clock struck the hour of twelve; I sat up listening. There was a stir and the sound of a voice that startled me. It was only Warren moving and talking in his sleep. I went stealthily to the head of the stairs, then listened again. I could only hear the throbbing of my heart, and the rasping pulsations in my ears. After a pause which seemed interminable, I put one foot down the first step, the board sprang under my weight, and creaked. Again I paused to listen; there was no stir, and I went on. Every little sound in the stillness of the night seemed exaggerated, and I was often startled, but I went on and reached the door of Brush’s room. I scratched the panel three times. There was a movement within, and a slight cough. Slowly I turned the knob and opened the door. I entered, closed the door, but left it unlatched.
A candle stood burning in the midst of a number of bottles on a little table near the head of the bed. I knelt by the bedside, and Brush put his arm around my neck. We were silent for a while, finally he whispered in the Omaha tongue:
“I’m glad you came; I’ve been wanting to talk to you. They tell me I am better; but I know I am dying.”
Oppressed with ominous dread, I cried out, interrupting him, “Don’t say that! Oh, don’t say that!”
But he went on, “You mustn’t be troubled; I’m all right; I’m not afraid; I know God will take care of me. I have wanted to stay with you boys, but I can’t. You’ve all been good to me. My strength is going, I must hurry,—tell the boys I want them to learn; I know you will, but the other boys don’t care. I want them to learn, and to think. You’ll tell them, won’t you?”
He slipped his hand under the pillow, brought out his broken-bladed jack-knife, and put it in my hand, then said, “I wish I had something to give to each one of the boys before I go. I have nothing in the world but this knife. I love all of you; but you understand me, so I give it to you. That’s all. Let me rest a little, then you must go.”
After a moment’s stillness the door opened very gently, and the floor near it creaked as though there were footsteps. A breath of wind came and moved the flickering flame of the candle round and round. The boy stared fixedly through the vacant doorway. There was something strange and unnatural in his look as, with one arm still around me, he stretched the other toward the door, and, in a loud whisper, said, “My grandfather! He calls me. I’m coming, I’m coming!”
There was a sound as of a movement around the room; Brush’s eyes followed it until they again rested upon the open door, which swung to with a soft click; then he closed his eyes.
I crept closer to the sick boy; I was quivering with fear. Brush opened his eyes again, he had felt me trembling. “Are you cold?” he asked.
Just then I heard footsteps in the girls’ play-room; this time they were real; Brush heard them too.
“Superintendent,” he said with an effort.
When I crept into my bed the clock below struck one. For a long while I lay awake. I could hear noises downstairs, Graybeard’s door open and close, and the door of Brush’s room. I heard a window raised, then everything became still.
We did not know how fondly we were attached to Brush, how truly he had been our leader, until we four, left alone, lingered around his grave in the shadowy darkness of night, each one reluctant to leave.
The Mission bell rang for evening service, and with slow steps we moved toward the school—no longer “The Middle Five.”