AT THE CROSSING WITH DENIS McSHANE ANGELES THE SONG OF OUR SYRIAN GUEST THE LOVE WATCH SAINT ABIGAIL OF THE PINES THE SIGNS IN THE CHRISTMAS FIRE THE SHEPHERD OF JEBEL NUR No ROOM IN THE INN OUTSIDE A CITY WALL THE SONG OF OUR SYRIAN GUEST (WITH NOTES) PETER IN THE FIRELIGHT ON THE WAY TO BETHLEHEM AT THE CROSSING WITH DENIS McSHANE DENIS McSHANE AT THE CROSSING WITH DENIS MCSHANE BY WILLIAM ALLEN KNIGHT AUTHOR OF "THE SONG OF OUR SYRIAN GUEST" ETC. DRAWINGS BY FLORENCE SCOVEL SHINN THE PILGRIM PRESS BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO MCMXII COPYRIGHT, 1912 BY WILLIAM ALLEN KNIGHT Copyright in England All rights reserved PUBLISHED, SEPTEMBER, 1912 THB- PLIMPTON -PRBS3 [ W D O] NORWOOD- M ASS- U-S-A CONTENTS PAGE I. BEFORE A CERTAIN JUNE DAT ... 8 II. SOME MORNTNGDALE MATTERS AFTERWARD 14 III. DENIS AND THE GIPST 26 IV. WHEN CHRISTMAS CAME .... 47 2130601 ILLUSTRATIONS Denis McShane Frontispiece Little Maidens on Confirmation Sunday Facing page 14 Once he saw the Queen of the Gypsies .... 34 We took our way home 54 Little ones of the poor bubbling over with gladness 56 AT THE CROSSING WITH DENIS McSHANE i BEFORE A CERTAIN JUNE DAY -ORNIN', your Riv'rence." My first impression was that the old street sweeper had somehow mistaken the Domine for Father O'Leary. He had always seemed a dull enough figure to do the like; besides, I noticed that he squinted hard when he shuffled aside for a passing team. But my companion on the sidewalk shut off that exit from my amused surprise. "Good morning, good morning, Mr. McShane. A fine morning, too, isn't it?" "Indade it is, sir, thank God." "The shower last night helped [3] At the Crossing you a bit, Denis, for a clean street today, I hope." "Sure, sure, Father ur-r-r, your Riv'rence God be praised." Clearly Denis McShane knew well enough that he was not talking with Father O'Leary. Yet his greeting had been marked by as pretty an exhibition of heartsome deportment, I fancy, as the human drama any- where exhibited at that moment under the sky. Stopping the swing of his long switch broom, he straight- ened his body to its limit of upright- ness, slowly faced about, and touched his weathered hat, smiling and blink- ing in the June sunshine. And while he stood leaning on his broom handle the little colloquy already reported gave proof of habitual amenities between Denis and the Domine, demonstrating their friendship in much the same fashion as the roses in dooryards round about testified that it was Junetime. The old Irishman, though long a [4] With D en i s M c S hane familiar figure in our street, had seemed to my eyes so impersonal or at least of another order of being that I was almost as much surprised as if the milkman's drowsing gray mare had upraised her head and whinnied to the Domine. For you must know that this title, in the speech of Morningdale, was the des- ignation for the man who had grown gray in the pastorate of First Church, and Denis was it sounds strange now to repeat the old time epithet! a papist. To be sure, everybody in Morn- ingdale respected the Domine; in- deed, nearly everybody loved him that is, speaking after our wont, everybody of our kind, by which we meant of our Protestant stock. He had fondly married most of us who were in mid-life or younger, baptized our little ones on pleasant Sundays, buried our dead in all weathers; and withal we had never seen his like for being a friend to [5] At the Crossing the whole village in times of need. But we had yet to learn the scope of his capacity for friendliness. In truth, he had been something of a puzzle to us from the first, he was so given to serene unexpected- ness. Not least among his queer propensities in our eyes as the years went on was an apparent fondness for the Irish. There had been ample occasion for perplexity over that mat- ter. For the sons and daughters of Erin seemed somehow to have found their Paradise in our town. "Why, they are humans," the Domine would say when we voiced our dismay, "exceedingly interest- ing specimens of the genus homo, in fact. Let me see who was it that made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth?" "It beats a', that!" said Duncan McGregor, our Bible class leader,, whose Scotch head was making the best of our un-Presbyterian church. [6] * With Denis M c Shane Once in a class discussion he sol- emnly added: "But what saith the Boohk what saith it further? Fin- ish the passage." Then he did it himself with impressive precision " ' and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation,' aye, 'the bounds of their habitation." This seemed a master-stroke, indeed. When some one told the Domine thereof, a twinkling in his eyes heralded a rejoinder which became famous in Morningdale. "Any- way," said he, "I am glad that Duncan did not see fit to apply this clause to his side of the Irish Sea." The dear fellow was invulnerably friendly to all. At length the neighboring city reached out a long arm and took us into its bounds. Then the appro- priation of Morningdale proceeded apace. Irish bluecoats sauntered through our streets, pausing jaun- tily to chat at our back doors with [7] At the Crossing Irish maids. Irish postmen took charge of our letters with good- natured quickness of understanding as to the significance of postmarks or the handwriting of addresses thereon. One by one village stores blossomed out with comely colleens behind the counters. Of a Sunday morning we Puritan folk heard the patter of brisk feet on the sidewalk while yet we were indulging in the extra Sabbath nap; and when we were on the way to First Church with the ancient bell ding-donging the last strokes, the streets of Morn- ingdale were black the men be- ing many with home-going Irish humanity, or gay as a garden with white garments and bright colors by reason of the abounding maiden- hood, all pouring out at the doors of St. Anne's. We shook our heads, thinking much but saying little. What could we say? But our hearts were murky. [8] With Denis M c Shane In such a plight, judge how it tested our confidence to hear reports at length that the Domine was a favorite with these swarming aliens. We knew that they were wrong who declared that he was "a Jesuit in disguise." That charge had a fickle vogue in the days of an agitation designated by certain letters, three in number and usually spoken with grave eyes. But a Jesuit would hardly include a bride in his dis- guise outfit, we reasoned; and the Domine's wife, by grace of the pass- ing years, had proved an altogether substantial reality, being obviously dearer to him even than she was to us. This little lady quite effectually checked the spread of that mental pestilence, and at last by her serene wifeliness exorcised all terrors raised by such a delirium of fevered minds. Besides that, we could not forget what the Domine did once when our choir, by some inadvertence as to the words accompanying music that [9] At the Crossing pleased them, sang an Ave Maria in plain English. After they had sounded forth for the second time some such refrain as " Thou who openest for us salvation, Holy Mother, pray for us!" he leaned over the choir rail back of the pulpit and whispered some- thing that made them well, we were never able to settle the ques- tion as to what did happen pre- cisely, and I must not take the risk of reopening that memorable dis- cussion in First Church Parish. It is enough to say that they stopped singing, and the Domine rather sud- denly and resonantly gave out the hymn, "All hail the power of Jesus' name," adding the somewhat superfluous injunction, "To the tune Corona- tion, brethren." At this distance perhaps it may be safely stated fur- ther that the choir's friendship for [10] With Denis M c Shane the Domine proved strong enough to outride and at length allay the tempest of rather inconsistent crit- icism which might who knows the ways of the winds? even have set the good man adrift from his anchor- age in Morningdale. No, he was not in any wise weak in his Protestant proclivities. And yet there was no denying that there was some warrant for the reports that our Irish neighbors were actu- ally friends of the Domine. What could it mean? Everybody knew that he and Father O'Leary were so joined together in fighting the devil and all his works, particularly the barrooms, that they seemed to have forgot all about fighting one another. For my part I suspected that this had not a little to do with the way the people of St. Anne's bore themselves toward our Do- mine; for Father O'Leary was a ma- jor among his parishioners, small of stature though he was, and they [11] At the Crossing obeyed as well as loved him. But be that as it may, the reports con- tinued. Somehow I had failed to see these Morningdale small matters other than as the ways of a man ever doing the unexpected out of sheer good nature and human fulness. That our Domine's relations with the Irish had to do in any manner with the cause of the Most High in the earth, that he was bridging a chasm in the King's name, yes, for the feet of the King's men, never occurred to me until that morning when Denis McShane stood at the crossing, transfigured before my eyes by the June glory and the bright light of human kindness. I can see the stocky old figure now, his face beaming, his horny hand upraised to his hat, his switch broom bent as it bore his leaning weight, and the shimmer of fra- grant sunshine round him. His quiet brogue is in my ear still. Many a [12] With Denis M c Shane time since then, for the sole purpose of hearing the same, have I passed where I saw him swinging his broom. So it was that Denis and I became friends at length. He is gone now; no more is he seen swaying slowly adown the street. And the Domine is gone, too. I may tell what I will. Father O'Leary will not chide me, I know, if the things I write should ever reach the rectory of St. Anne's. [13] II SOME MORNINGDALE MAT- TERS AFTERWARD .FTER that memorable June day when I saw at the street crossing the glorification of Denis McShane that is the right word, the scene shines so bright through the haze of the years I found myself tak- ing strange interest, akin to delight, in observing the Domine's ways with our Irish neighbors. Or perhaps it would be more exact to say their ways with him; for he never seemed to do more than be responsive to some instinctive, human understand- ing on their part. It was fine to walk the street at his side and watch Irish little fel- lows jerk their caps to him with respectful glances. Many a time I heard a bunch of lads from the paro- [14] LITTLE MAIDENS ON CONFIRMATION SUNDAY With Denis M c Shane chial school call out, " Good mornin', Minister!" That was the Catholic title for him minister. I won- dered at it; for we seldom used it ourselves in daily speech, and yet it was the most fitting term in the language for him, this man who ministered to all Morningdale. And the faces of Irish girls from the little maidens, on Confirma- tion Sunday pretty as apple blos- soms with their white veils, white garments even to their stockings, and their red cheeks, to Miss Maloney who was "head sales- lady" at the dry goods store all lighted with the gleam of Erin's smiles as they saw him approaching and watched for his recognition. I came to feel that I would give half the village lots left me by the hon- ored pillar of First Church who was my father, if thereby I might have the music of such simple gladness sounding for me as their voices in greeting made for the Domine! [15] At the Crossing No matter how the water-wagon driver might skimp the dusty highway elsewhere, it was always abundantly sprinkled before the parsonage on a summer's day; and if the snow-plow chanced to shunt so as to leave a bank on the Domine's walk, it was actually turned back to clear a path, even as it was before the rectory of St. Anne's. Day laborers lounging at nightfall in a corner group would still their ebul- lient chatting to say "Good evenin', Docthor," or some such sudden shift to the language of respect, touching their headpieces as he passed with a pleasant response. I used to see Irish policemen salute him a lone stroller on his uneventful beat, a whole squad tramping heavily from headquarters to their night-watch and it was as when soldiers hap- pen to pass a general on the field. Even Mike Finnigan, no matter how busy he might be, would promptly come outside any time if [161 With Denis M c Shane he saw the Domine standing before his saloon door; and Mike . would give his word and keep it, too, when the Domine named some man who was making a beast of himself and said, "I have sent him to Father O'Leary to sign the pledge; now, not another drink to him, Mr. Fin- nigan give me your hand on that." There was a growing list of sober workmen in Morningdale because of those pacts. "He's white," was Mike's com- ment when he reappeared behind the bar. "He'd shut you up tomorrow, though, if he could, Finnigan," some toper would vouchsafe, grinning over his glass. " Sure an' what's more, him an' Father O'Leary '11 do it some day, an' put that in your pipe fur a cool smoke! What wuz it you'll have, Tim Shaughnessey?" But what pleased me most of [17] At the Crossing all, though it touched that source of waters a man would fain keep un- reached, occurred at Grandma Good- man's funeral she who was the oldest member of First Church and had a head of her own to the last. The Domine had said his last word. The throng of First Church folk had passed out to the dooryard and autumn's russet mellowness. The large circle of family kin had taken their leave of the saintly form to the third generation of them it had lapped. The Domine stood alone beside the bier banked in flowers, we pall-bearers awaiting his nod. He was in no hurry about bearing her out from that home forever ! I saw him glance toward the open door as in reverie. Suddenly his attention was drawn. He beckoned. Then he stepped to the waiting threshold and spoke to an old Irish woman who was standing apart outside in the shelter of a trumpet [18] With Denis M c Shane honeysuckle vine, the trumpets deep scarlet. Soon she came tiptoeing be- side him to where the body of Grand- ma Goodman lay. The Domine turned and whispered to the wait- ing undertaker while she bent rever- ently over the opening in the coffin. I saw her lay a soft touch on the folded white hands, smoothing the ruches also; then none being near, none seeing, as she supposed I saw her reach forth two old fingers, saw her swiftly, secretly make the sign of the Cross on the white-haired, cold brow, saw her lips move with still breathings as of words. Then she turned and with body bent tiptoed away. Tears came nearer brimming my eyes at that sight than I like to have them. Alone, standing where her priest might not come, for love's sake she had outstretched as he did two fingers, two toil-worn fingers of her own, with a whispered some- thing surely prayer-laden! Doing [191 At the Crossing the little she could that she might somehow impart the saving help of her Church to Grandma she who had washed the family clothes and made them white in her suds for a generation ! It was Mrs. McShane. Let none who may chance to scan this breast-bare narrative of Morn- ingdale matters as seen by one who was a part of all he saw, suspect me of blurring the differences between our Catholic neighbors and ourselves because of the glamour thrown over all by the Domine's ways. I am the son of my father, as all who know me seem to find reason for saying evermore whether it be in the uplift of my hand as I talk, or the bald spot starting seasonably on the crown of my head amidst abundant hair elsewhere, or the way I have of smiling and yet holding fast to my own notion against all comers. And my father, mark you, [20] With Denis M c Shane besides having a keen relish for the difference between the forms of god- liness and the power thereof, was exceedingly fond of the idea that we are all kings and priests unto God. Yet it was quite the way of my father to detect essentials persist- ing under differences whether due to temperament, race qualities, life conditions present or past, or any other such cause of the ripples, still pools, shallows, cascades, or deeps found in the sea-going streams of mankind's life. Moreover, it was precisely like him to feel the charm of all human graces regardless of station or lot. He reveled in dis- coveries of likenesses that divulge kinships between every people and tongue. I even remember the hush in his voice and the glisten in his eyes when he watched the parental doings of some woodland creature or harked to the variant-keyed song of the hermit thrush as it sought to sound somehow its instinctive feel- [21] At the Crossing ings amidst the sanctities of even- ing time. "How like us men, after all!" he would whisper. That thrush song, now sung in one key, then in another and still another, but much the same in all, was his favorite likeness, I think, in the whole of nature to man's ways in love and worship. All these things, be it known, were true of his son. In the sunshine of the Domine's in- fluence, therefore, the years brought forth and matured a friendship with Denis McShane in my own right, ripening the fruit thereof at last. No tree in the orchard flank- ing our house-garden many of them planted in my father's early prime, and grafted afresh as his years mounted that they might match his unspent and richening manhood, some of them more beauti- ful to me now than the color or fra- grance of blossom and fruit ever made them, because I remembered With Denis M c Shane summer or autumn days when my mother's face looked up through their leaves while her agile boy dropped a choice Harvest Sweet or Baldwin into her dear apron no tree in my orchard yielded me pleasanter returns than my friend- ship with the old street sweeper. For there is no pleasure in life as a man nears the September of his days more shall I say tooth- some? more like ripe apples when autumn comes, than the mellow at- tachments of the lowly whom one has befriended. I daily received his greeting from the street, though he seemed un- aware of most passers-by; flavorous and racy were the chats we had when I paused on the curb now and then. By and by my delight in rehearsing these things brought it to pass that when my daughters were making ready their Christmas gifts, Denis he had no children of his own, by some unwonted quirk of Nature [23] At the Crossing in her ways with the Irish Denis and his wife were always remem- bered by the girls, their mother aiding and abetting. They would send a mother-of-pearl cross I had brought from Bethlehem, or a string of beads which their own timid hands had thrust into that cavity in Ste. Genevieve's tomb where souvenirs are blest by the ashes of the patron saint of Paris. "From the Church of St. Mary the Virgin" or "From the Church of St. Etienne," they would inscribe the gift, trusting Mr. and Mrs. McShane to see some delicate compliment to their own St. Anne's. And Denis would be sure to appear at our back door bearing a bit of Irish lace, say, with Mrs. McShane's " Merry Christmas," quite matching my daughters, I thought, in suiting the gift to the hearts of the receivers. When Mrs. McShane died we sent flowers; and if Denis was look- ing out from behind the drawn [24] With Denis M c Shane curtains of the livery carriage as the morning procession took its way from St. Anne's, he might have seen me standing among the folk that lined the sidewalk. My hat was removed, my head bowed, as every man's was in the throng of Denis McShane's friends. While the evening of that day darkened on Morningdale I could not do other than make my way to his small dwelling. We sat to- gether awhile out on the bench among geraniums that Mrs. Mc- Shane had planted, under sun- flowers that bent their heavy heads down as if mournful and dumb with Denis. I will not try to record what I said. It was halting enough to be left behind, though I did the best I could. This only need be told, that not once did I see the glow of the old man's pipe in the gloam- ing. This solace of his day's end for a lifetime was in his hand; but it was stone-cold all evening. [25] Ill DENIS AND THE GIPSY 1 HE best of friends must be pre- pared to discover at times that one or the other has a secret nothing of consequence, perhaps, but some- thing he wishes to keep to himself. Friendship has few finer tokens than to honor that wish outright. I had occasion to remember this more than once in my long relations with the old street sweeper; and this I did on that summer night when he was first alone; for I noticed that he kept looking momentarily at a brass ring he always wore. But I asked no questions. There was one small matter, how- ever, often the subject of my curi- osity through the years, which I became eager to learn about. In- deed, when I observed it still after [261 With Denis M c Shane Mrs. McShane was gone, my curi- osity deepened to tender longing. Was Denis really singing as he swung his broom through the street? Many a time I had thought that I caught the sound of song; and, believe me, I seemed to hear the same in the long autumnal days whose shining covered Denis McShane in the street and his old wife's grave among the hillside crosses. But though he seemed quite heed- less of pedestrians in general, and usually stepped aside at the sound of a vehicle in good season without so much as glancing toward it, yet the monotone as of song was always hushed before I was near enough to listen. When I called my good morning or stopped on the curb, the old man would turn slowly and give me greeting as out of perfect silence God bless him for the gleam and twinkle in his stolid face! But there came a day when I [27] At the Crossing could not refrain in this alluring matter. There was a light snowfall that morning and perhaps for this reason he did not hear my tread. If the whole truth must be told, I had stepped a bit softly to help the snow's silencing. Besides, the early December street was slushy and rather heavy for his broom, which doubtless gave Denis cause for being more engaged than common, even requiring the use of the noisier hoe. And withal, Denis McShane was age-bound indeed in those wifeless days. In any case, I stood listening stood so near that I heard his voice distinctly heard a rhythmic mon- otone, an old man's humdrum way of singing, as he swayed and swayed swinging his broom or dragging the hoe over the stones. It was so fine a thing this charming an unsavory and dreary task by tuneful musings which no doubt brought memory's sweet [28] With Denis M c Shane silences round his bent head that I came near leaving the veteran soul undisturbed, as one might a kneeling figure fingering magic beads before a wayside shrine. But just as I was starting to pass on, he chanced to pause and stood half erect, one hand on his broom handle, the other on the hoe, while he scanned the street in leisurely obliviousness. Thus it was that he spied me at the curb. His face broke into quizzical beaming. "Be all the saints!" He slowly swung the switch broom over his shoulder. Sunlight on the fresh snow threw a sheen over all December's pallid beauty round about us. I remem- ber how that setting seemed to befit the aged figure with the shining, quiet face. "You and the sun will soon clear away the snow, Mr. McShane I was watching you work together." "Ach! Bedad, that's sure [29] At the Crossing this wone, sir, please God. But the next and the next! But Christ- mas comes in snowtime, sir." "That's a fact. And are you, too, thinking of Christmas so soon? Some girls I know were speaking of it only last night and of you, Mr. McShane." I thought to but- tress his loneliness by this slight treachery as to my daughters. He caught the sound of a wagon yet a block away and slowly trudged to the curbing dragging the hoe. He eyed the rattling wheels as they came and passed. "Thim gives me time," he mused beside me; "but these oty -mow- bills faith ! the things comes on a man shtill an' quick as the divil himself!" One of these yet disquieting inno- vators in Morningdale at the time of which I am writing, sped by on muffled wheels before his words were followed by further speech. It was my opportunity. [30] With Denis M c Shane "Would you mind my asking, Mr. McShane, if you were think- ing of Christmas while you were singing?" "Singin'?" He peered into my eyes gravely. "I thought I heard you singing to yourself while you worked." "Ach! 'Twas niver a bit of a tyune, sir, sure now. The likes o* me ! Sure, the song in me vaice left me this twinty year gone like the robins when the leaves is turnin' an' the nests is empty they only chirps then, sir." I marked a flicker of Irish humor in his steadfast gaze. "I wouldn't say, though, that the old birds might not feel like singin', even when they only chirps a bit to thimselves." Before long my eagerness pre- vailed, and the old man was repeating for me the words he was sound- ing while he worked. The lilt in his voice and the music of the words [31] At the Crossing were so like song in all save the wing-way of melody that I readily believed he spoke truly in declaring that there was no "tyune" lifting his utterance when I overheard him. It was, however, like the singing of primitive man, after all. The only lines I can recall now ran somewhat as follows: "And brighter than the berries are the kindly Irish eyes, And cheery are the greetings of the day The greetings and the blessings from the Irish hearts that rise At Christmas-time in Ireland far away." "But what set you thinking of Christmas now?" I asked with de- light, when the slight teeter of his whole frame with the pulsing words had ceased. "Why, 'tis Advent, sir, an' the collect last Sunday wuz, 'Stir up our hearts, O Lord, to make ready the ways of thine only-begotten [32] With Denis M c Shane Son!' An' Father O'Leary he says to us, says he, 'A man should tyune up his mind like a instrument o* music.' We gets unstrung like a fiddle in wet weather, he told us; young wones is like new an' needs tyunin' awful bad, bein' full o' sap or sich like, an* old wones mustn't git the notion they niver can do it agin ' old fiddles well tyuned makes the best music of all,' he says. So I wuz sayin' over thim words, sir, to quit feelin' too old fur Christ- mas. An' you thought I wuz singin'? Well, well, now!" I knew enough to follow the vein that had yielded such a nugget. We talked of Ireland and his youth. His memories, once they were aglow, disclosed those bright colors of romance which seem to linger for- ever in Irish breasts like the many hues in an opal, though it is dull enough until touched by light. As he told of Christmas in his childhood's land, he drew up his [33] At the Crossing hoe until the handle raised his arm above his head, "restin' his rheu- matiz," and so talked on of how once he saw Gipsies the queen of Gipsies, in fact, if his cred- ulous boyhood was not deceived by great earrings, and a profusion of black hair, and a crimson head- cloth, and a broad bracelet. It was a green Christmas that year, and he met a man in a lane who said, " Come with me and the Gipsy queen will give you a Christmas gift for your mother, my lad." He was just beginning to tell me what happened before he saw his mother again before she threw her arms around her lost boy "weepin' fur jaiy" when he stopped to gaze at a passing street car. u There it is, sir the sign that set me thinkin' of it all!" He squinted hard, pointing with the hand whereon was the brass ring. I saw the word Gipsy in big letters [34] ONCE HE SAW THE QUEEN OF THE GYPSI ES With Denis M c Shane on a placard attached to the car's end, and understood its meaning at once. Denis McShane's old eyes had been unable to make out the smaller lettering, and I explained that a Gipsy missioner was address- ing crowds every night down in the city. "A sure 'nough Gipsy?" "So they say, Mr. McShane." "Bedad, I'd like to set my eyes on wone o' thim fellers ag'in ! 'T would mind me o' me baiyhood, sure an' maybe it might give me the feel o' me mother's arms once more." The appeal of such words was irre- sistible. I forthwith proposed that we go together to hear the Gipsy mis- sioner. I trust Father O'Leary not to blame me, if this confession should ever reach his experienced ears. For nothing was further from my mind just then than desire to turn Denis from the faith of his fathers. So eager was he that we went that very night. The meeting was [35] At the Crossing in a vast hall. Denis had no spe- cial cause for misgivings on the score of entering a church, for the masses of people filling floor and galleries were scurrying for seats or chatting with vivacious expect- ancy; and besides that, at sight of those circling balconies Denis re- called the pleasure of more than one Democratic rally or convention in that dazzling auditorium. He felt quite at home and bore himself accordingly having found seats by the front railing in a top gallery, my old Irishman promptly fixed his hat in the holder under his seat and leaned forward to enjoy looking down on the crowd. A chorus massed high back of the rostrum was rolling out song after song with dramatic rendition. Presently the precentor turned to the throng of listeners and called, "All sing that chorus!" Led by his waving arm the multitude broke into a surge of song like the voice of [36] With Denis M c S hane many waters. Denis straightened up and crossed himself brow and breast. "Now you sing it alone up there, friends!" The leader swept with his gesture a long side gallery as if he were summoning inhabitants of Mars. "That gallery is usually almost as good as the choir" he paused to look round on his chorus playfully "come on, the rest of us will listen, then we'll all sing it after you. Come on now sing ! " From the high slope thus utilized a brave but somewhat imponderous attempt was made to meet the chal- lenge, every ear and eye attentive. Denis joined good-naturedly in the general ripple of laughter. And when, like a commander proudly ordering up his whole army to over- whelm some slight repulse, the leader cried, "Ev-rybody, sing it!" in the joyous roar of song I heard beside me the responsive voice of Denis catching at the words, [37] At the Crossing "At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light, And the burden of my heart rolled away." But it must be admitted that there was "niver a bit of a tyune," indeed, even as he had said. These things were only prepar- atory, however. All were aware of this, including my companion. "Where's the Gipsy?" he asked at length in a tone heard by others besides myself. A multitude of sing- ing angels with harps would hardly have turned his mind from that question much longer. "There he comes see?" Denis peered under his hand. A man was making his way among the occupants of the platform quiet, alert, greeting one and an- other fraternally. He emerged at the front, stood serene, swept the throng with brood- ing eyes, lifted his hand and in [38] With Denis M c Shane the stillness that came we heard, "Let us pray." As I bowed my head I saw Denis crossing himself again. The prayer was brief, tender, ap- pealing. When it ended we saw the same figure standing as before. He was rather short but of strong build; his sturdy head was mantled with long black hair; a Roman nose and an ample black mustache gave dis- tinct outlines to his face even at our distance. But more than all else his voice was masterful. For res- onant sweetness and the tone of authority, it was wonderful. "Where's the Gipsy?" Denis whispered it this time. "That man the one in front." Remembering his poor eyes, I added, "The man whose voice we just heard." Denis smiled his incredulity as one does who has private knowledge of a matter. The missioner was speaking aside [39] At the Crossing to those about him. Soon he turned and announced that he would sing himself now he had been listen- ing to our songs, he said. A piano was softly touched, a hush fell on the assembly, and the Gipsy's voice rose like a bird taking wing in still air gliding circling poising heaven-going "I will sing the won-drous sto-o-ry Of the Christ who di-ied for me, How he left his home in glo-o-ry For the cross on Cal-va-ry." The multitude was listening like a little child as he went on telling "the wondrous story" "I was lost but Jesus found me, Found the sheep that went asti-ay, Threw his loving ar rms around me, Drew me back into-o his way." On reaching the refrain a second time the singer lifted his hand, say- ing softly, "Sing with me!" And like a sea-chant indeed rose the voice of the people in swelling cadence, [40] With Denis M c Shane "Yes, I'll sing the won-drous sto-o-ry Of the Christ who di-ied for me, Sing it with the sa-aints in glo- o-o ry, Gath-ered by the crys-tal sea." Such unison of many voices in a quavering Welsh tune, so great a host borne upward by the simplest words as it were by wings all under the spell of a single gentle voice and lifted hand it was mar- velous to watch. But it well nigh failed to interest Denis. Not until the gliding mass of voices rose to that line at the refrain's end, "Sing it with the sa-aints in glo- o-o-iy," did his face show any sign of appre- ciation. I think it was disbelief or at least doubt as to the missioner's genuine gipsyhood that threw him into irresponsiveness. Presently some one read the nar- rative of the boy Jesus being missed [41] At the Crossing by his mother as she was returning home from the temple. Another song was sung it was "I need Thee every hour " then the mis- sioner began to talk. I have never been good at remem- bering sermons, but the Gipsy's seems fairly clear even now as I try to recall it. His theme was The Lost Christ. As he pictured the mother's anxiety about her lost boy, he caught the ear of Denis at once. The old man leaned forward, squint- ing hard and gazing. Before long he turned to say, "I bet he is wone o' thim fellers! That's like 'em lost childer' an' mothers huntin' 'em, an* all that." Then I heard him talking to himself as he again leaned over the railing to listen. "She lost Christ j friends, as she was going away from the church," sounded the missioner's voice. "Sure the darlin'!" lisped Denis. "But the Holy Mother couldn't help that, now 'twas some o' thim [42] With Denis M c Shane Jew fellers kep' 'im, talkin' to 'im an' sich jus' like Gipsies does." "She sought him," the preacher next declared, "among her friends and kinsfolk, but she did not find him there." "Sure sure! He's Gipsy he knows 'bout that all right how mothers hunts an' can't find 'em!" So I heard Denis muse. While the missioner pressed his point home to the social foibles and Christless relations of us all, the old man at the high gallery rail kept re- peating, * ' Sure ! Sure ! " But I could not make out clearly whether it was the absence of Christ in our lives or the presence of a Gipsy, a real Gipsy, then and there, that he was so certain about. Finally, speaking with winning skill, the preacher reached the cli- max. "She found him, friends, where she had lost him found him when she went back to the temple, seeking Him." [43] At the Crossing I felt the force of this expository artistry, this mesmeric humanness felt it gripping my own possibly too careless spirit. Yet I was even more concerned just then to learn what Denis would make of that point. His face, bent low over the rail- ing, was all abeam. I saw glisten- ing at the eyes with the back of his ring hand he stayed a trickle or two. Then he turned his shaggy countenance to mine. "Bedad, he is Gipsy! He knows their ways all right. Thim Jew fellers would niver 'av' done it, though niver 'av' give 'er a sight o' him but fur hearin' that a lot o' folks wuz out huntin' the dear lad. That's the Gipsy way, you see he knows." "She found him," sounded the preacher's voice pleadingly, "when she came back where she had lost him." "Sure! Sure!" murmured the [44] With Denis M c S hane voice at the gallery rail. "I knows how it wuz." Presently, drawn by persuasive tenderness, men and women and youth who "wanted to come back where they lost Him" were moving all over the hall, going forward to stand before the missioner. Denis looked on with silent gaze. Soon I observed that he was work- ing off the brass ring. Then, fur- tively, under the cover of his hand, he peered at the Gipsy through the ring. On our way home my companion recognized an acquaintance of his in the car, one Devlin Pat Dev- lin a boxer of repute whom I had not the pleasure of knowing before. Him I ventured to ask for his impression as to the Gipsy. 1 'Taint fair!" was his ungloved return. When I inquired why he took that view, he replied, "He sung me guards down, an' then he punched me." [45] At the Crossing But my only regret when our "good night" words were said was that I had not heard to the end the story of Denis and the Gipsies long ago. [46] IV WHEN CHRISTMAS GAME T] HE next day was wet and dis- mal. I did not go far from our blazing fireplace. But through the windows I saw Denis pass the house at his work sometime late in the afternoon. On the following morning I strolled out in the winter sunshine hoping to meet my friend. I wanted to hear the rest of that story. Instead, I heard shocking news. The evening before Denis McShane had been run over. In the dark day's early nightfall, it appeared, while the old man was plodding at his task, amid vehicles hurrying home, he had failed to see or hear an automobile in time. He was bruised would be confined [47] At the Crossing to his bed for some time it was hoped that there were no fatal injuries that was all anybody could tell me. I saw Denis before the turn of the day set in; and no weather kept me from his door as the shortening days sped us toward Christmastide. He was always cheerful in spite of pain and distressing weakness. But do what we might, there was no rallying of his vital powers. The shock had been too much for his age-worn frame. The silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl broken, the pitcher broken at the fountain, the wheel broken at the cistern the mechanism that drew life's waters for him would work no more. When the bells of Christmas Eve began to sound, we saw that the end was near. His ear caught their music still; and he smiled, welcom- ing the merry clangor he whose heart had been set on not "feeling too old for Christmas." [48] With Denis M c Shane "Thim minds me o' the way I used to shpring out o' me bed when the wone bell we had would r-i-ng, r-i-ng, startin' Christmas in County Galway in me baiy- hood." Pain caught his voice at times, pain in his left side; but his countenance quickly shone again afterward. "I feels the touch o' the floor on wone foot now jus' wone, though 'twas a earth floor an' I sees the path o' moonlight I stepped in to git sight o' the first peep o' day." Then he lay for a while with eyes closed; and his face was as when mortals smile in a happy dream. As the night deepened Father O'Leary came. And by his kindness the Domine, when he called at the door, entered and remained in the house. Father O'Leary was with the suf- ferer alone for a time. I suppose that the soul of Denis eased itself [491 At the Crossing of all cumber then man's ear and voice making God's real for such a one as he. And somehow, I doubt not, the Sin-bearer was known of him, giving much the same solace that I hope for when my time comes. At length Father O'Leary beck- oned the Domine and me into the little bedroom. Denis had some- thing he wished to have us hear. The door being shut, Father O'Leary held in his hand the brass ring that Denis wore. And thus he spoke. "Mr. McShane is grateful to you for the long friendship you have shown him. Therefore he wishes you to hear the story of this ring and what follows it." The priest spoke like one fulfil- ling a trust with simple fidelity. "When he was a lad in Ireland he was led away to a Gipsy camp. There a woman who made him be- lieve she was the queen of Gipsies talked with him. She took up a ring and, fixing her eyes upon him, [501 With Denis M c S hane looked at him through the ring. While she did this she said, as he remembers her words, ' Through something round His fate is found.' She added some saying about 'bound,' but he can not recall that." Denis turned his head on the pillow, opened his eyes wide, then squinted them to scan our faces. "A hue and cry was raised for the lost boy, and neighbors joined in hunting for him. Because of this the boy was returned to a place near his mother's cottage whence he had been led away. But, being made to believe that the woman's ring held the secret of his destiny, he had contrived to steal it and bear it away. This is that Gipsy ring. "He kept it, a secret treasure. At first he imagined that the * something round' which the Gipsy woman saw through this ring might be the coin [511 At the Crossing of the realm that he was to pros- per by making money. In this hope he came to America. When the Civil War broke out, and he enlisted as a soldier, in battle or on picket duty he feared that a bullet might be the * something round ' that would determine his fate. After the war was over, when he married Mrs. McShane he hoped and believed that the marriage ring was what the Gipsy woman claimed to see through this ring; and he wishes to bear testi- mony to the blessings she brought into his life." Denis made a sound, and we saw that he wished to speak. We bent over him. A light as of rapture flooded the old countenance. We all heard him say, "The darlin'! I'm goin' to her, Father." So simple, so genuine was it all that it was hard for us, men though we were, to master our emotions before such a tribute to love's mem- ory and longing. Father O'Leary's [52] With Denis M c Shane eyes were wet behind his glasses wet with tears as human as ours. But not a quiver touched the stanch little priest's voice. "When he got the job of of caretaker in the street" that euphemism's quick tenderness some- how well nigh unmanned me "he had a fear that the wheels of some vehicle might bring to pass what the Gipsy woman had said. He was always on guard against them more than ever apprehensive when automobiles began to appear in the street having wheels that seemed to steal upon him in swift silence." Not once, such was the kindness of Father O'Leary, did any sign escape him betraying recognition of humor in such fancies. After all, it must have been very much like our heavenly Father's way with us in taking our work-a-day fears with serious sympathy most of them, at any rate. "An' wone o' thim," Denis mur- [531 At the Crossing mured, "wone o' thim shtill quick wheels wuz it, sure 'nough at last." We heard the Christmas bells ring out once more. It was mid- night. The little house-clock, whir- ring and noisily thrumming twelve strokes, left no doubt of that. " Merry Christmas to yese an* to everybody!" softly sounded from the bed. "The Lord be with thee," said the pastor. "An' wid thy spirit, Father." Then Father O'Leary turned to the Domine. "You have been a good friend to him, and he wishes that you should join me in executing a Christmas trust for him his farewell to the world." Gently reaching under the pillow Father O'Leary drew forth a knotted small bag. "You wish that we should use these savings of yours for the hap- piness of little children who are [541 WE TOOK OUR WAY HOME With Denis M c Shane not likely to have Christmas gifts tomorrow dividing the money equally between us?" "Would that be all right wid you, Father?" "Certainly. It would give me a very happy Christmas." "Then I do as you jus' said it." "I will gladly accept such a trust," said the Domine. And he clasped Father O'Leary's hand. The two men stood thus, looking down on Denis. An ashen whiteness had overcast his face. The gleam of peace was shining there still; but how pallid was its light! Father O'Leary turned and began the last rites. When the soul of Denis had de- parted, others having come into the room the Domine and I joined with all our hearts in the final Responsitory, nothing being therein to give us pause. Sweet to us was the opening [55] At the Crossing call, "Come to his assistance, ye saints of God, come forth to meet him, ye angels of the Lord: Receiv- ing his soul: Offering it in the sight of the Most High." Sweeter still was the petition, "May Christ receive thee, who hath called thee." Beau- tiful in our ears were the words, "Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him." So we went on together, until Father O'Leary's voice sounded at last alone, "Tibi, Domine, commen- damus" "To Thee, O Lord, do we commend the soul of Thy serv- ant Denis McShane, that being dead to the world he may live unto Thee; and whatsoever sins he has committed through the frailty of his mortal nature, do Thou, by the pardon of Thy merciful love, wash away." The Domine and I said Amen with the others. And the "Passing Bell" that rang [56] LITTLE ONES OF THE POOR BUBBLING OVER WITH GLADNESS With Denis Me Shane for Denis in the tower of St. Anne's no doubt seemed to the townsfolk in their dreams the bells of Christmas ringing still! As we took our way home, Father O'Leary said, "We can not always see eye to eye in matters of faith, but we can in the things of love." "And of hope, "answered theDom- ine; "we are together in two of the great three, anyway." When Christmas Day came, there were little ones of the poor, both Catholic and Protestant, who were bubbling over with gladness at pretty gifts that came from the First Church parsonage and from the rectory of St. Anne's. Sometimes the divid- ing lines got crossed. The Dave Shaw children could hardly believe that their presents came from Father O'Leary; and Bridget Walsh said, "Well now, that's handsome!" when she found that the things for her little ones had come from the Dom- ine. [57] At the Crossing But by and by they all got it straightened out and understood that Denis McShane was the source of their Christmas joy. "After all," said I to the Dom- ine as we sat together that night, speaking of the small coins which made up the bag of savings, "after all, the Gipsy queen's words came true in a better sense than that of the wheels ' Through something round His fate is found.' ' "I was thinking," the dear man answered, gazing into the bright fireplace, " I was thinking how the last crossing Denis swept clean is on the highway that leads us all to our Father's House." [58] A 000 052 690 5