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THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 26, 1892.
THE DOINGS OF DENNIS.
A Story of the Tennessee Coal Mines.
[Written specially for Thanksgiving issue.]
“It’s all very well for Father Mul-
doon to preach patience; but then
isn’t he the like of an angel without
wings, anyhow? Then again the good
priest never had the long tongue of a
woman dingin’ the sinse out of his head
through his eats. Sure, if he had, he
wouldn’t be the good man he is now.
No, no, Kathleen and I are too much
like fire and tow; we destroy each
other’s patience entirely.”
Dennis Curran leaned moodily over
the railing inside the mouth of the
shaft, and seeing his own untidy little
cottage hardly two hundred yards
below the dump, was thereby led into
some audible communication with
himself. Since the lock-out began, the
deserted coal shafts loomed upon the
wintry landscape as mere black holes
along the snow whitened Tennessee
mountain sides.
“Outof work,” he continued, “and,as
I might say, about out of a wife. And
to-morrow two years back we were mar
ried. Faith, and isn’t to-morrow
Thanksgivin’ day? I niver thought of
that before. Little it is Dennis Curran
has got just now to be thankful for, if
I know*ineself. What is the use of me
stoppin’ in this God forsaken hole any
longer ? The Soddy mines are played
out for a poor man.”
He was absently fingering a metal
badge that hung at his button-hole
His gaze happening to fall thereon, be
came fixed, and a smile, hardly pleas
ant to see, widened his lips.
“That bit of silver reminds me that
I’m treasurer of local Assembly No
901, Knights of Labor; and likewise
that there are six hundred and forty
dollars of their money spoilin’ for want
of use in Kathleen’s big trunk at home
I’m to take it to the bank at Chatta
nooga day after to-morrow, whin the
weekly jues is paid in, and the beggars
won’t even allow me my fare. There’s
trade union ginerosity for ye !” Mr
Curran’s tone grew scornful; then he
suddenly winked one eye. “To the bank
it goes, ivery cent—onless—something
should happen to it bechune whiles.
He shook his head and heaved a long
breath. “Ah Kathleen, Kathleen
It’s makin’ of your husband a rogue
you are, this very night, and yet ye
don’t know—ye don’t know, at all, at
all!”
Dennis looked round quickly. He
fancied that he heard something. But
as he gazed into the yawning blackness
behind, only silence and obscurity
seemed to be there. He left the mouth
of the_mjn^ and started down the
moumam side. * ' •
“Everything startles me since I left
those duds in the tunnel,” he thought
“Now the question for you, Dennis, is
where will ye go and what will ye do
with your self when the boys are
howlin’ for your blood, and Kathleen
is a ruined woman, and Father Mul
doon—there now ! Didn’t I promise
mesilf to leave the good man’s name
out of me mouth intirely? Little good
are ye, Dennis Curran, and well do ye
know that same. Thin’ it becomes ye
to let the names of your betters as much
as possible alone, I’m thiukin’.”
That night, after supper, a woman
called upon Father Muldoon at his
study behind St. Annie’s church and
adjoining his own small parish resi
dence. She dropped a well-worn shawl
from her head, revealing a comely
youthful face, somewhat sharpened by
habitual ill temper and now over
clouded by anxiety.
“Is anything wrong, Mrs. Curran ?”
asked the priest, at once apprehending
that there was.
“Everything is wrong, father—me
most of all !”
She clasped her hands, while the
shawl fell to the floor, disclosing a
well shaped figure, untidily garbed in
shabby calico.
“I have been too hard upon Dennis.
He was wild, and T thought, after
awhile that perhaps he married me
more for what little money I once had
than for love of me, it all went so
quickly. But I’ve given him the sharp
edge of my tongue once too often, I
fear. Father, I have made him des
perate, and he has cast off all fear of
God and care for himself. If I was to
tell him now that I’m sorry, he’d only
laugh at me, and look out for another
round when I got mad. It is my fault,
father, and I must convince him ot
my feelings in some way, or I shall go
clean distracted myself.”
‘‘All? this is mystery, Mrs. Curran,”
said Father Muldoon, trying to raise
up the conscience-stricken woman, for
she had sunk to her knees.
But she would not, and bent over his
extended hand, murmuring:
“First let me tell you what I have
thought, and said, and done, father.
It is fit you should hear it thus, for
sore, sore do I need the aid of your
counsel and your prayers.”
An hour later, when she was gone,
Father Muldoon sat before the fire,
pondering. Often his eyes were rev
erentially fixed upon the crucifix by
the wall, as if he were seeking heaven
ly guidance, and before he retired he
prayed fervently.
Kathleen, on arriving at home, weut
to bed at once. She did not even light
a lamp, and appeared anxious to be
stow herself thus before Dennis should
come in. Two rather odd things she
did. One was to place a small package
under her pillow; then removing only
her shawl and shoes, she lay down,
otherwise fully dressed. Her heart
beat heavily arid she listened nervously
to the slightest sounds. But the hours
ran on unmarked, save by the slow
revolution of the stars without and a
growing disposition on the part of the
watcher within to fall asleep.
“Suppose I’m wrong,” she once
asked herself. “Suppose he didn’t
mean it at all—at all ? ”
Then she shivered and still waited
and waited, fighting slumber from her
senses more feebly, until tired nature
asserted her sway. It seemed, after a
time, that she and Dennis were in a
strange place together, where, over a
yearning pit, hunga heavy purse, barely
within reach. Dennis was determined
to have it, despite her remonstrances.
After repeated graspings he toppled
over the brink, dragging her with him
down, down into a measureless black
coal shaft, so dark and terrible that
she awoke in fear and trembling.
All quiet. The cold starlight stole
through the window and—hark ! Was
that not a footfall upon the floor, or
did the weather-boarding crack with
the cold ?
Like a flash came certain dread re
membrances, and she lay like one on
the verge of a chasm, until she heard
the back door softly close. Where
was Dennis? A terrible realization al
most paralyzed her, but nerving her
self with great effort, she rose, slipped
on her shoes, and taking the package
from under her pillow, she went out
into the cold and darkness.
Deep in the bowels of the mountain,
where the deserted coal shaft pene
trated furthest, a man was changing
his clothes by the light of a miner’s
lamp. He also washed certain sooty
stains from his face and hands at a
trickling pool in a crevice. He had
“Ah now! Will ye ever forgive me
darlin’? Surf—aid ye not dream of the
deviltry I was at? Was not that what
brought you here? And yet I cannot
understand—I cannot understand ! ”
Kathleen, raising herself in his arms,
pointed to a roll of bills lying where
she had dropped them at bis feet.
“I was'in the tunnel in the morning
when you came up. We’ve had no
coal hauled you know, and I was after
a scuttle full. I heard ye say some
thing and 1 slipped as near as I could
and listened. When you said to your
self that ’twas me as was. making your
life miserable, and was driving ,\e to
worse things—oh Dennis!—it all come
over me what I’d done. 1 could have
died then and there if ’twould have
mended matters at all. I saw that you
were desperate, and I feared if I said a
word to ye you’d hate me the more.
So to the good Father Muldoon 1 went
and I said to him :
“Does the priest know of this?”
Dennis held up the roll of money
while his lace grew a shade paler.
“Surely no, I only told him what
an old hag of a wife I’d been to ye iver
since the honeymoon was over, and
asked him to pray for us both. AYhile’s
I was on my very knees a plan came
to me, for I already suspected, from
your words, what you were about to ;
do. It was as if the Holy Mother had
opened my eyes at Father Muldoon s
prayer. 1 said to myself, I will save
my husband, though he beat me as
much as I have deserved to be beaten.
So—so—Dennis, darling ! I took out
the money, and I put the paper in the
purse, and I lay down, and I waited.
When you wint out I took the money
and followed, and here I am. For God’s
sake, Dennis, dear, let us put the
money back—then let us be trying
each other one time more. Sure, I nev
er loved you quite so well as I do now,
Dennis—now when, perhaps, I don’t
deserve your love at all, at all. But, if
TOM AND GEORGE), AND JACK.
The Tragedy Under the Pines.
gone there a ragged, disreputable look-: —if you’ll only be trying me once more
ing negro, apparently. Soon he was
ready to return, a respectably clad
white miner of the better class.
“If any one saw me,” he reflected,
“sure they’d never take it to be rne-
self. If I get away this night, it
be a day or so before they suspect
one besides some tramp of a nagur.
And yet—what have I come to—what
have *1 come to ? Ochone! I wish
I wasMead—I do ! ”
He sighed heavily as he drew out a
large, well filled wallet.
“ I may as well count over the stuff,
just to see that its all here. I wonder
if t’will burn me fingers. Ah Katie,
Katie ! What are ye makin’
Nevermind; by mornin’ I’ll
miles away from the old woman and
her jaw, and the more cash along the
better. It’ll be good Lord ! What’s
themeanin’ of this?”
He dropped the wallet as if it had
suddenly burned his fingers, and
crouched with his eyes fixed upon a
smoothly trimmed roll of wrapping
paper, where he had expected to see
bank-notes and coin.
“ Mother of mercy ! ” he gasped.
“ Am I buncoed by myself? ”
Dropping to his knees he tore apart
the worthless paper, searched raven
ously about his own person and
through the cast-off rags, for evidence
that his eyes were deceiving him,
then drew back, staring upon the black
and grimy walls, now darkly alive
with flickering shadows.
Suddenly he remembered his wife’s
unusual absence after supper, before
he stole away to make his fiual prepar
ation. He also recalled how she had
told him only the day before, that life
had been absolutely unendurable with
him, following that, up by certain
vague threatenings, to which he had
heed. Had she, too,
. I-”
Sobs checked her utterance. Dennis
strained her to his heart with more
than the old lover-like form that had
so long ago departed. Had she not
will saved him from making of himself an
any j out-cast among men ? His heart smote
him as he noted how thin and pale she
was. The sadness of her large, gray
tear-dimmed eyes was very pathetic;
evidently her sharp tongue had not
wounded Dennis alone.
As they came out of the shaft day
was just breaking. Over the light
snow and through the pale dawn
the first blush of the unseen sun was
of me? stealing, filling the hollow of the sky
be ten with essential light and life. The
[Written specially for Thanksgiving issue.]'
[Copyrighted.]
“I won’t, I tell you! I don’t mean
to go one step!” And John Arm
strong’s rosy young wife stood in the
door of the farm-house frowning, and
shaking her head with the air of a
woman who was ready for a quarrel.
The husband, who stood in the half
open gate leading oft* to the woods, and
who, notwithstanding his twenty
years, and one hundred and seventy
pounds, was but an overgrown boy,
looked impatiently at her, and called
out rather harshly:
“ L'*na, don’t you bother me this
way! C«*me on ef you’re a-goin’!
We’ve got to walk fast to git there in
time. You know the boys ’ll be a-
waitin’ for me an’ won’t like it ef I’m
late. Quit your foolishness an’ come
on at once.”
“No, I won’t. I’m goin’ to stay at
home to-day, and 1 want you to stay at
home too. You just come on back.
You got no business down at your
raa’s Didn’t 1 tell you before break
fast that 1 wasn’t a-goin ? ”
And she turned her back to him and
walked into her room, looking so very
captivating, in spite of her obstinacy,
that John found it hard to resist the
desire to follow. In fact he did take a
few steps toward the house, but sud
denly stopped stock still, and called
again :
“Lena, I can’t wait no longer. Git
your bonnet and come along, quick.”
Then the girl’s swift steps were heard
coming to the Iront door again. She
was angry at her failure to entice him
to return,* and with snapping eyes she
replied to his entreaty:
“ You’re mighty foolish John Arm
strong, if you b’lieve you can make me
do anything I don’t want to. You just
go to the mischief. I don’t want you
at home no how!”
At this, big, hearty, red-faced Mr.
Woodard, and his wife, the father and 0
mother of Lena, came out on the the three, forgetful of possible danger,
“gal’ry,” and he said: J ‘ ’
led over the swelling, pine-clad hills,
and through the narrow oak-and-
hickory-shaded valleys between. The
direction in which they were going
was nearly opposite to that which John
Armstrong and his wife had taken
upon leaving Woodard’s house.
The boys were moving rapidlv, for
the distance from their home to the
school-house was nearly three miles,
and they were in buoyan spirits as
they kicked the dry, light pine-burrs
along.
“Boys,” said George, as he applied
the already much worn toe of his light
brogan walking-shoe with sharp force
to his burr, and sent it whizzing thirty
feet down the path, “ my burr’s wore
plump out to a frazzle. Just look at it,
and just think ! I’ve kicked it ail the
way from the big road, an’ that’s
more’n a mile an’ a quarter.”
“Yes,” replied Tom, “an’just look at
your shoes. They’re wearin’ out to a
frazzle too, and you know ma told you
not to kick burrs.” And with this
grave and dutilul remark he delivered
a savage and effective kick to his own
burr. And at this moment they heard
a girlish voice utter these words:
“ Please don’t shoot!” and instantly
thereafter the clear, high note of a
hunting rifle rang out.
This silenced the boys, and after a
short halt, and forgetting the pine-
burrs, they walked mechanically on in
the direction from which the sounds
had proceeded. There was a fork in
the paths near, and their route lay to
the left, and about the time they had
turned off they were startled by a
second rifle-shot down the right-hand
path. The report of the gun was fol
lowed immediately by the falling of
something upon the* ground. Tom,
and George and Jack distinctly heard
it, and then they heard a man’s voice
cry excitedly :
“Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God!
She’s dead ! she’s dead ! she’s dead !
Oh—oh—dead—dead—dead!” and so
on incoherently for a length of time
that the boys in their great agitation
cou*d not measure.
“Le’s go there!” said Tom; and
smoke from a few cottages curled up
ward, like frail, spiral stairways mount-
; ing to heaven.
“Dennis, man4’’ exclaimed Kath
leen, clinging to Jbuis arm. “Have ye
forgot to reminder that it’s Thanks
giving Day?” I
“And our weddin’ day too, Katie,
by the powers! Faith, I believe I’d
I about lost themeanin’of italtogither.”
“But now, Dennis, ye’ll feel differ-
! ent.”
! “Yes, of course. But its a slim
Thanksgivin’ and weddin’ dinner we’ll
be havin', I’m thinkin’.”
Whishtdear ! Is’nt a dry crust sweet
er now, than a carved turkey would
have been under—under any other
circumstances, whativer? Let a wo
man alone for contriving. By the
same token, Father Muldoon told me
the last thing, that he would be pleased
to eat Thanksgiving with us this day,
for all I was so troubled. ’Twas little
then I felt like eating anything with
auybody. We must kill the big roos
ter for his riverence, seeing any of the
old hens will be too tough. Never fear.
We’ll make out to have a good dinner
somehow—listen, Dennis! Do ye hear
“ Well, well! I do know you two
is cert’n’y makin’ a purty start in mar
ried life. Only three months sence the
wedd’n, an’ quarrelin’ like cats and
dogs. What’s the matter this mornin’
anyhow? ”
The vexed boy-husband, red of hair,
and redder in the face thau usual now,
was about out of patience, and he
spoke up with the earnestness and
firmness of a man who believes him
self right:
“Mr. Woodard,” he said, “I aint . o
done a solitary thing to Lena to make and trepidation, they softly drew near
her do thi9 way. In the last three or the still object that seemed to fascinate
four weeks she does so strajige^ I can’t and rivet them.
do a single thing with ’er. T promised “My Lord!”^ejaculated George, “it’s
mother an’ brother Jim I’d come Lena Woodard!”
down to-day an’ bring Lena. She The boys had been in the same
agreed all right last night, but this schools with John Armstrong and
mornin’ she changed her mind jest to Lena, and as is the case with country
be contrary, an’ I’ve got no time to people, knew their history and con-
ran hastily down the right hand path,
until in a long, straight stretch of it
they saw the /orm of a woman upon
the ground, and caught a glimpse of
a man mnning wildly away from the
body, and heard the heavy strokes of
his shoe-soles in the path for some time
after he had disappeared. Tom and
his brothers faced each other with
white faces, and with hearts throbbing
so violently that their shirt-collars
trembled. The experience was so new,
and so terrible that it made them
speechless. But at length with awe
given but little
under the rackings of contending pas
sions, yielded to temptation? With j them, darling?”
his brain poisoned by the thought, The bells of St. Ann’s little
and, also, that the wife of his bosom church were ringing for a special early
had, perhaps, forestalled him in crime Thanksgiving service. It sounded to
by seeking the same method of release these two like the echo of certain
from her own domestic thraldom, he
sank to his knees and shivered. A
loathing of himself and his recent con
duct swept over his soul.
I’ve risked everything and lost!”
he faltered, at length, to the black void
around him. “ I’m a truly ruined
man now—for the money’s gone, every
cent. Yet, what have I got, after all, of Labor down yonder?”
wedding bells. The eyes of the hus
band and wife met, then Dennis kiss
ed Kathleen fondly.
“Sure it’s the best sound I’ve heard,
since them as rung for us two years
ago this very mornin’,” said he.
“Whisht, Katie! Isn’t that a flag hoist
ed over theheadquathersof the Knights
but what I deserved ? I’ve lost all
all! Even Kathleen’s gone, I reckon.
Poor Katie.”
Behind him, just then, he heard an
approaching rustle and a hurried patter
of feet. Then something fell at his
knees, two arms went around his neck,
and a gasping, sobbing woman clung
to him, as one drowning grasps at the
last plank between themselves and
utter death.
No, no; Dennis, darling! ” she cried,
repressing the thick coming sobs. “I’m
not gone. It might be better for you
if I was. I’ve been nothing but a
trouble and a worry to you, Dennis—I
know that now—oh, and it hurts me
so—it hurts me so! But if you’ll take
me back—if you’ll only give me one
more chance, I’ll do better, ’deed I will!
Oh Dennis! Dennis! I’ll cut the tongue
out of me, before you and me shall
quarrel agaiu.”
The mere luxury of having Kathleen
back at that supreme moment, when
all had seemed irrevocably lost, was for
moment heavenly. Then came the
memory of his own contemplated base
ness. He could only bow his head over
her and murmur brokenly:
“Sure, and it is. But what of that,
Dennis?”
“The lockout must have inded,” said
he, greatly excited. That was to be
the signal to us men whiniver good
news should come from the district
assembly at Chattanooga. Katie, we
don’t deserve such luck a bit, but,
faith! let’s make the best of it for good
and all.”
Hand in hand they went down the
mountaiu side and entered their cot
tage. Behind them the sun peeped
brightly over the eastern hills.
Creating a Demand.
From Puck.
Floor Walker. “We haven’t been
doing much business in dress goods
lately.”
Merchant. “No. I guess we had
better advertise a sacrifice sale soon.”
Floor Walker. “In dress goods?”
Merchant. “No. In something that
will make the women tear dresses and
buy new ones.”
stand here talkin’.” And he started
back toward the gate.
“Lena,” said Mrs. Woodard, “you’re
doin’ wrong. You mus’nt aggravate
your husband this way. Get your
bonnet and go ’long with John.”
“Ma,” answered the girl pettishly, “I
want to finish my quilt an’ take it out
o’ the frame; if John thought anything
of me he’d stay with me.”
“But my promise, Lena?” said
Armstrong, who was listening at the
gate.
For reply, she frowned scornfully,
and then he latched the gate with a
sharper click than usual, and started
across the common with swinging
strides, carrying an old-fashioned, long-
barreled, hair-triggered hunting rifle
on his shoulder. His wife gazed after
him a moment, burst into passionate
tears, and cried brokenly:
“John Armstrong!”
He wheeled in his tracks and looked
angrily at her as she continued :
“If you treat me this a-way I’ll
never speak to you again as long as I
live! ”
“I wish’t you wouldn’t! ” he said.
“I wish’t to the Lord I was dead! ”
she sobbed.
“An’ I wish so too!” he retorted,
whirling his back to her, and walking
rapidly away into the shadow of the
pine forest that skirted the open place
w T here he had stood during the quarrel.
The old people looked on in silence,
recalling probably some like follies of
their own youth. And Lena retreated
to her room, sobbing, with a mixture
of regret and resentment at her first
emphatic defeat. John had never held
out so firmly against her before.
But in a very short while she ran
rapidly out with her bonnet on, and
without a word to any one, passed
through the gate, and sped swiftly up
the path in the direction her husband
had taken. Mr. and Mrs. Woodard
smiled at each other as they stood and
watched her, and for a short space of j
time they heard her voice echoing
musically among the timbered hills as
she called repeatedly, “John! ,
John! , John ! ” And in after
years they never recalled the events
of that memorable day without at the
same time hearing in imagination that
pleading cry of the repentant young
wife.
* # *
On this same morning Tom, and
George and Jack Shelby were going to
school along the foot-worn path that
nections. So they instantly recognized
the dead girl, and gazed upon her in
shocked and pitiful silence. There
was a bullet hole near the middle of
her forehead, through which particles
of brain, and considerable blood had
passed, staining her temple and the
ground. Her dark hair, which had
been fastened in a knot, was now loose,
but her gown was composed, and there
was no apparent evidence of a strug
gle. Near the corpse was a rifle.
* % iff 5-f vt
In a short time after John and Lena
Armstrong had gone away from the
Woodard farm-house as described, a
dozen or more of the neighbors had
assembled there. A neighborhood road
was to be opened, and by appointment
made a week before this the work was
now about to begin. Some smoked
plug tobacco in clay )r cob pipes, and
some chewed the weed as they sat on
the “gal’ry,” and they were* deep in
the discussion of some local topic,
when suddenly one raised his voice
and said :
“Look a-yander! That fellow does
mighty curus don’t he?”
A man was running madly towards
the house across the open comhion.
It was John Armstrong.
He uttered no sounds, but seemed
urging himself to his utmost speed.
His hat was gone, his rather long hair
streamed backward, and as he tore the
gate open, and rushed pallid and
breathless up to the front door, the
silent and startled spectators saw that
his face and hands and shirt were
stained with blood.
They gathered about him, and like a
hunted animal he looked appealingly
from face to face, and weakened by
want of breath, and borne down by
some profound emotion, found voice in
wild and broken sentences:
“She’s dead ! She’s dead ! I done it!
It was me ! I done it! I murdered her!
I oh, my pore—dead—Lena!—
I ”
“You done what ?” thundered Lena’s
father, coming toward the boy with
furious eyes, and grinding teeth, and
brandishing his clinched fist and steel
muscled arms.
His neighbors knew him for a good
and true man, but one to be dreaded
when roused. “You killed Lena! ” he
went on, flinging to right and left one
or two who sought to withhold him.
“You murdered my little gal! You
infernal, low-down—”
“Stop Woodard!” interrupted a man