An American Tragedy

Souvenir
Dusk, of a summer night.
And the tall walls of the commercial heart of the city of San Francisco—
tall and gray in the evening shade.
And up a broad street from the south of Market—now comparatively
hushed after the din of the day, a little band of five—a man of about sixty,
short, stout, yet cadaverous as to the flesh of his face—and more especially
about the pale, dim eyes—and with bushy white hair protruding from under a
worn, round felt hat—a most unimportant and exhausted looking person, who
carried a small, portable organ such as is customarily used by street
preachers and singers. And by his side, a woman not more than five years his
junior—taller, not so broad, but solid of frame and vigorous—with snow
white hair and wearing an unrelieved costume of black—dress, bonnet,
shoes. And her face broader and more characterful than her husband's, but
more definitely seamed with lines of misery and suffering. At her side, again,
carrying a Bible and several hymn books—a boy of not more than seven or
eight—very round-eyed and alert, who, because of some sympathetic
understanding between him and his elderly companion, seemed to desire to

---

walk close to her—a brisk and smart stepping—although none-too-well
dressed boy. With these three, again, but walking independently behind, a
faded and unattractive woman of twenty-seven or eight and another woman of
about fifty—apparently, because of their close resemblance, mother and
daughter.
It was hot, with the sweet languor of a Pacific summer about it all. At
Market, the great thoroughfare which they had reached—and because of
threading throngs of automobiles and various lines of cars passing in
opposite directions, they awaited the signal of the traffic officer.
"Russell, stay close now." It was the wife speaking. "Better take hold of
my hand."
"It seems to me," commented the husband, very feeble and yet serene, "that
the traffic here grows worse all the time."
The cars clanged their bells. The automobiles barked and snorted. But the
little group seemed entirely unconscious of anything save a set purpose to
make its way across the street.
"Street preachers," observed a passing bank clerk to his cashier girl
friend.
"Sure—I see them up here nearly every Wednesday."
"Gee, it's pretty tough on the little kid, I should think. He's pretty small to
be dragged around on the streets, don't you think, Ella?"
"Well, I'll say so. I'd hate to see a brother of mine in on any such game.
What kind of a life is that for a kid anyhow?" commented Ella as they passed
on.
Having crossed the street and reached the first intersection beyond, they
paused and looked around as though they had reached their destination—the
man putting down his organ which he proceeded to open—setting up, as he
did so, a small but adequate music rack. At the same time his wife, taking
from her grandson the several hymnals and the Bible he carried, gave the
Bible as well as a hymnal to her husband, put one on the organ and gave one
to each of the remaining group including one for herself. The husband looked
somewhat vacantly about him—yet, none-the-less with a seeming wide-eyed
assurance, and began with:
"We will begin with 276 tonight. 'How firm a foundation.' All right, Miss
Schoof."
At this the younger of the two women—very parched and spare— angular
and homely—to whom life had denied quite all—seated herself upon the

---

yellow camp chair and after arranging the stops and turning the leaves of the
book, began playing the chosen hymn, to the tune of which they all joined in.
By this time various homeward bound individuals of diverse occupations
and interests noticing this small group so advantageously disposed near the
principal thoroughfare of the city, hesitated a moment,—either to eye them
askance or to ascertain the character of their work. And as they sang, the
nondescript and indifferent street audience gazed, held by the peculiarity of
such an unimportant group publicly raising its voice against the vast
skepticism and apathy of life. That gray and flabby and ineffectual old man,
in his worn and baggy blue suit. This robust and yet uncouth and weary and
white-haired woman; this fresh and unsoiled and unspoiled and
uncomprehending boy. What was he doing here? And again that neglected and
thin spinster and her equally thin and distrait looking mother. Of the group,
the wife stood out in the eyes of the passers-by as having the force and
determination which, however blind or erroneous, makes for self-
preservation, if not real success in life. She, more than any of the others,
stood up with an ignorant, yet somehow respectable air of conviction. And as
several of the many who chanced to pause, watched her, her hymn-book
dropped to her side, her glance directed straight before her into space, each
said on his way: "Well, here is one, who, whatever her defects, probably
does what she believes as nearly as possible." A kind of hard, fighting faith
in the wisdom and mercy of the definite overruling and watchful and merciful
power which she proclaimed was written in her every feature and gesture.
The song was followed with a long prayer and by the wife; then a sermon
by the husband, testimonies by the others—all that God had done for them.
Then the return march to the hall, the hymnals having been gathered, the organ
folded and lifted by a strap over the husband's shoulder. And as they walked
—it was the husband that commented: "A fine night. It seemed to me they
were a little more attentive than usual."
"Oh, yes," returned the younger woman that had played the organ. "At least
eleven took tracts. And one old gentleman asked me where the mission was
and when we held services."
"Praise the Lord," commented the man.
And then at last the mission itself—"The Star of Hope. Bethel Independent
Mission, Meetings every Wednesday and Saturday night, 8 to 10. Sundays at
11, 3, 8. Everybody welcome." And under this legend in each window

---

—"God is Love." And below that again in smaller type: "How long since you
wrote to Mother."
"Kin' I have a dime, grandma? I wana' go up to the corner and git an ice-
cream cone." It was the boy asking.
"Yes, I guess so, Russell. But listen to me. You are to come right back."
"Yes, I will, grandma, sure. You know me."
He took the dime that his Grandmother had extracted from a deep pocket in
her dress and ran with it to the ice-cream vendor.
Her darling boy. The light and color of her declining years. She must be
kind to him, more liberal with him, not restrain him too much, as maybe,
maybe, she had—She looked affectionately and yet a little vacantly after him
as he ran. "For his sake."
The small company, minus Russell, entered the yellow, unprepossessing
door and disappeared.

---