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— The Southern Israelite Page 5 That Blind Faith A Short True Story By STANLEY BERO HIS is more than a mere story. I he author, well-known communal worker for the last quarter century, whose resourcefulness and versatile knowledge of human character have been instrumental in raising many millions for social reconstruc tion work, here tells in his own inimitable style of a strange, fascnating experience— with a rather startling denouement. ^ r au'". an organization bent upon the gather- iM-iologieal data, surprised the native-born New York City with a startling revelation: ut population distribution showed that the ngoted block in the metropolis was not in wi-h quarter. igle with humanity’s many varieties—even , tor the purpose of collecting and jotting tatiMics—predicated possibilities covering n all its shades. From the car barns, docks, ghterhouses, in which the polyglot majority truants worked, to a bed that served three keepers— that describes the picture. A i-li storekeepers proved the exception. The vliension of this canvas called for sympathy than a trained social concept; and, naturally, oked a protest of sentimental unripeness, houses, ill-cared-for, reeked with smells un- ihie. The occupants reflected their environ- Itents varied directly as the amount of that might penetrate to the unwashed • tie of these flats—a tiny room and a tinier a crapulent, childless widower had been i thirty years. Disheveled and disgruntled, O'Hara sat puffing at his mellowed pipe e data-gatherer came to him. The pipe was itong; the youthful investigator preferred • the door open. The pale light, filtered tm airshaft and dirty windows, with reluc- •■vealed the old man’s stilted abandon, a was blind, lie was half-deaf. lie was Irish, wall hung a framed newspaper print of in conference with Generals Grant and in, and Secretary Seward. There was also representing motherhood—a blond girl pink-cheeked infant in her arms. ■venty-five years and two more, John O’Hara n a horse-car driver. Then came the roomier '• rapid electric car. The horse was shot, s hide was worthless. Now O’Hara was r' l > awaiting the end. investigator put his questions in a kindly tipped of the effectation sometimes used for v,,r k by professional charity workers. O’Hara r-tuod the visitor’s errand. His faulty r l^d the old man to deduce that the sympa- t riend came from the parish church. He • d his questioner as “Father.” • ncx pec ted visit seemed to gladden O’Hara’s His pockets were empty except for his 1 pouch, his larder was badly in need of lung. Soberly he answered, in his deep he questions that were put to him. young investigator, his sympathies aroused, “d: “Who supplies you with food? Who are of your flat?” 1 saving your presence, Father—I don’t •> one to take care of my flat. I dust it once in a while”—the testimony of the young l \\es showed that the last “while” had been of • ration—“and sometimes my niece comes in New York s East Side—That Is Vanishing Slowly But Surely and gives the place a good cleaning. Though she ain’t come in many a month now, what with her husband sick abed and four kids to look after.” “And «lo you do your own cooking?” The old man touched his eyes. “I don’t cook none, but the neighbors sometimes bring in a bit of their dinners. Other times I just eat bread and butter, or have some lunch in the saloon downstairs. It’s good beer they have there, Father—and what’s a man to do when he can’t make himself a cup o’tea?” The selling and drinking of beer was quite legiti mate in those distant pre-speakeasy days, yet O’Hara waxed guiltily apologetic in the presence of a representative of Holy Mother Church. The old man grew reminiscent, began to boast of his prowess in days gone by. He bad been the pride of the Broadway horseear line. “Not an accident in twenty-seven years, Father. I could handle horses with the best of ’em. My old horse, the last one, lie knew me like I was his own brother. When we was both geltin’ old and blind he helped me keep it from the boss he knew the road, even if In* couldn’t see, and I couldn’t rightly see to guide him.” John O’Hara pointed to the old, stained whip, hanging under the picture of Lincoln, like half of a brace of crossed swords. He raised his thumb and touched the bronze button on his lapel—his badge of faithful service to his country during the Civil War. Apart from these he had nothing to show. The young man, having acquired all the informa tion he needed for his survey—and a good deal more—bade O’Hara farewell. The old man called down God’s blessing upon the departing “Father.” It would have been cruel to dispel that faithful believer’s illusion. The investigator a young man, as I have said, and therefore full of youthful enthusiasm and desire to help—went straight to the parish rectory. There he found a calm-faced, aged priest. To him he told the story of John O’Hara. The priest was a kindly man, both learned and wise. He invited the young man into his study and listened carefully to all the details of the case of O’Hara. Finally he assured the investigator that help would be meted out to John O’Hara without delay. The two men shook hands and the visitor left the rectory, to continue gathering facts and figures. Later the young man learned that O’Hara’s last years were brightened considerably by the ministra tions of the Church to her sightless son. As tor any guilt felt by the investigator because he had not corrected the impression gathered by the blind man, who could not see what kind of collar his visitor was wearing—to tell the truth, the young enthusiast did not feel guilty at all. For no harm, but only good, had come from his unintentional masquerade. And, indeed, he came to be proud of the role he had played so briefly as a Jewish High Priest— undetected by John O’Hara. (Copyright. 1931, S.A.F.S.)