A Mother Of Five

: Selected Stories

She was a mother--and a rather exemplary one--of five children, although

her own age was barely nine. Two of these children were twins, and she

generally alluded to them as "Mr. Amplach's children," referring to an

exceedingly respectable gentleman in the next settlement who, I have

reason to believe, had never set eyes on her or them. The twins were

quite naturally alike--having been in a previous state of existence two

> ninepins--and were still somewhat vague and inchoate below their low

shoulders in their long clothes, but were also firm and globular about

the head, and there were not wanting those who professed to see in this

an unmistakable resemblance to their reputed father. The other children

were dolls of different ages, sex, and condition, but the twins may

be said to have been distinctly her own conception. Yet such was her

admirable and impartial maternity that she never made any difference

between them. "The Amplach's children" was a description rather than a

distinction.



She was herself the motherless child of Robert Foulkes, a hardworking

but somewhat improvident teamster on the Express Route between Big Bend

and Reno. His daily avocation, when she was not actually with him in the

wagon, led to an occasional dispersion of herself and her progeny along

the road and at wayside stations between those places. But the family

was generally collected together by rough but kindly hands already

familiar with the handling of her children. I have a very vivid

recollection of Jim Carter trampling into a saloon, after a five-mile

walk through a snowdrift, with an Amplach twin in his pocket. "Suthin'

ought to be done," he growled, "to make Meary a little more careful o'

them Amplach children; I picked up one outer the snow a mile beyond Big

Bend." "God bless my soul!" said a casual passenger, looking up hastily;

"I didn't know Mr. Amplach was married." Jim winked diabolically at us

over his glass. "No more did I," he responded gloomily, "but you can't

tell anything about the ways o' them respectable, psalm-singing jay

birds." Having thus disposed of Amplach's character, later on, when

he was alone with Mary, or "Meary," as she chose to pronounce it, the

rascal worked upon her feelings with an account of the infant Amplach's

sufferings in the snowdrift and its agonized whisperings for "Meary!

Meary!" until real tears stood in Mary's blue eyes. "Let this be a

lesson to you," he concluded, drawing the ninepin dexterously from his

pocket, "for it took nigh a quart of the best forty-rod whisky to bring

that child to." Not only did Mary firmly believe him, but for weeks

afterwards "Julian Amplach"--this unhappy twin--was kept in a somnolent

attitude in the cart, and was believed to have contracted dissipated

habits from the effects of his heroic treatment.



Her numerous family was achieved in only two years, and succeeded her

first child, which was brought from Sacramento at considerable expense

by a Mr. William Dodd, also a teamster, on her seventh birthday. This,

by one of those rare inventions known only to a child's vocabulary,

she at once called "Misery"--probably a combination of "Missy," as she

herself was formerly termed by strangers, and "Missouri," her native

State. It was an excessively large doll at first--Mr. Dodd wishing to

get the worth of his money--but time, and perhaps an excess of maternal

care, remedied the defect, and it lost flesh and certain unemployed

parts of its limbs very rapidly. It was further reduced in bulk by

falling under the wagon and having the whole train pass over it,

but singularly enough its greatest attenuation was in the head and

shoulders--the complexion peeling off as a solid layer, followed by the

disappearance of distinct strata of its extraordinary composition. This

continued until the head and shoulders were much too small for even

its reduced frame, and all the devices of childish millinery--a shawl

secured with tacks and well hammered in, and a hat which tilted backward

and forward and never appeared at the same angle--failed to restore

symmetry. Until one dreadful morning, after an imprudent bath, the whole

upper structure disappeared, leaving two hideous iron prongs standing

erect from the spinal column. Even an imaginative child like Mary could

not accept this sort of thing as a head. Later in the day Jack Roper,

the blacksmith at the "Crossing," was concerned at the plaintive

appearance before his forge of a little girl clad in a bright-blue

pinafore of the same color as her eyes, carrying her monstrous offspring

in her arms. Jack recognized her and instantly divined the situation.

"You haven't," he suggested kindly, "got another head at home--suthin'

left over," Mary shook her head sadly; even her prolific maternity was

not equal to the creation of children in detail. "Nor anythin' like

a head?" he persisted sympathetically. Mary's loving eyes filled with

tears. "No, nuffen!" "You couldn't," he continued thoughtfully, "use her

the other side up?--we might get a fine pair o' legs outer them irons,"

he added, touching the two prongs with artistic suggestion. "Now look

here"--he was about to tilt the doll over when a small cry of feminine

distress and a swift movement of a matronly little arm arrested the

evident indiscretion. "I see," he said gravely. "Well, you come here

tomorrow, and we'll fix up suthin' to work her." Jack was thoughtful the

rest of the day, more than usually impatient with certain stubborn mules

to be shod, and even knocked off work an hour earlier to walk to Big

Bend and a rival shop. But the next morning when the trustful and

anxious mother appeared at the forge she uttered a scream of delight.

Jack had neatly joined a hollow iron globe, taken from the newel post of

some old iron staircase railing, to the two prongs, and covered it

with a coat of red fireproof paint. It was true that its complexion was

rather high, that it was inclined to be top-heavy, and that in the long

run the other dolls suffered considerably by enforced association with

this unyielding and implacable head and shoulders, but this did not

diminish Mary's joy over her restored first-born. Even its utter absence

of features was no defect in a family where features were as evanescent

as in hers, and the most ordinary student of evolution could see

that the "Amplach" ninepins were in legitimate succession to the

globular-headed "Misery." For a time I think that Mary even preferred

her to the others. Howbeit it was a pretty sight to see her on a summer

afternoon sitting upon a wayside stump, her other children dutifully

ranged around her, and the hard, unfeeling head of Misery pressed deep

down into her loving little heart as she swayed from side to side,

crooning her plaintive lullaby. Small wonder that the bees took up the

song and droned a slumberous accompaniment, or that high above her head

the enormous pines, stirred through their depths by the soft Sierran

air--or Heaven knows what--let slip flickering lights and shadows to

play over that cast-iron face, until the child, looking down upon it

with the quick, transforming power of love, thought that it smiled.



The two remaining members of the family were less distinctive.

"Gloriana"--pronounced as two words: "Glory Anna"--being the work of

her father, who also named it, was simply a cylindrical roll of canvas

wagon-covering, girt so as to define a neck and waist, with a rudely

inked face--altogether a weak, pitiable, manlike invention; and "Johnny

Dear," alleged to be the representative of John Doremus, a young

storekeeper who occasionally supplied Mary with gratuitous sweets. Mary

never admitted this, and as we were all gentlemen along that road,

we were blind to the suggestion. "Johnny Dear" was originally a small

plaster phrenological cast of a head and bust, begged from some shop

window in the county town, with a body clearly constructed by Mary

herself. It was an ominous fact that it was always dressed as a BOY,

and was distinctly the most HUMAN-looking of all her progeny. Indeed,

in spite of the faculties that were legibly printed all over its smooth,

white, hairless head, it was appallingly lifelike. Left sometimes by

Mary astride of the branch of a wayside tree, horsemen had been known to

dismount hurriedly and examine it, returning with a mystified smile, and

it was on record that Yuba Bill had once pulled up the Pioneer Coach

at the request of curious and imploring passengers, and then grimly

installed "Johnny Dear" beside him on the box seat, publicly delivering

him to Mary at Big Bend, to her wide-eyed confusion and the first blush

we had ever seen on her round, chubby, sunburnt cheeks. It may seem

strange that with her great popularity and her well-known maternal

instincts, she had not been kept fully supplied with proper and more

conventional dolls; but it was soon recognized that she did not care

for them--left their waxen faces, rolling eyes, and abundant hair in

ditches, or stripped them to help clothe the more extravagant creatures

of her fancy. So it came that "Johnny Dear's" strictly classical profile

looked out from under a girl's fashionable straw sailor hat, to the

utter obliteration of his prominent intellectual faculties; the Amplach

twins wore bonnets on their ninepins heads, and even an attempt was

made to fit a flaxen scalp on the iron-headed Misery. But her dolls were

always a creation of her own--her affection for them increasing with the

demand upon her imagination. This may seem somewhat inconsistent

with her habit of occasionally abandoning them in the woods or in the

ditches. But she had an unbounded confidence in the kindly maternity of

Nature, and trusted her children to the breast of the Great Mother as

freely as she did herself in her own motherlessness. And this confidence

was rarely betrayed. Rats, mice, snails, wildcats, panther, and bear

never touched her lost waifs. Even the elements were kindly; an Amplach

twin buried under a snowdrift in high altitudes reappeared smilingly

in the spring in all its wooden and painted integrity. We were all

Pantheists then--and believed this implicitly. It was only when exposed

to the milder forces of civilization that Mary had anything to fear.

Yet even then, when Patsy O'Connor's domestic goat had once tried to

"sample" the lost Misery, he had retreated with the loss of three

front teeth, and Thompson's mule came out of an encounter with that

iron-headed prodigy with a sprained hind leg and a cut and swollen

pastern.



But these were the simple Arcadian days of the road between Big Bend and

Reno, and progress and prosperity, alas! brought changes in their wake.

It was already whispered that Mary ought to be going to school, and

Mr. Amplach--still happily oblivious of the liberties taken with his

name--as trustee of the public school at Duckville, had intimated that

Mary's bohemian wanderings were a scandal to the county. She was growing

up in ignorance, a dreadful ignorance of everything but the chivalry,

the deep tenderness, the delicacy and unselfishness of the rude men

around her, and obliviousness of faith in anything but the immeasurable

bounty of Nature toward her and her children. Of course there was a

fierce discussion between "the boys" of the road and the few married

families of the settlement on this point, but, of course, progress and

"snivelization"--as the boys chose to call it--triumphed. The projection

of a railroad settled it; Robert Foulkes, promoted to a foremanship of

a division of the line, was made to understand that his daughter must be

educated. But the terrible question of Mary's family remained. No school

would open its doors to that heterogeneous collection, and Mary's little

heart would have broken over the rude dispersal or heroic burning of her

children. The ingenuity of Jack Roper suggested a compromise. She

was allowed to select one to take to school with her; the others were

ADOPTED by certain of her friends, and she was to be permitted to visit

them every Saturday afternoon. The selection was a cruel trial, so cruel

that, knowing her undoubted preference for her firstborn, Misery, we

would not have interfered for worlds, but in her unexpected choice

of "Johnny Dear" the most unworldly of us knew that it was the first

glimmering of feminine tact--her first submission to the world of

propriety that she was now entering. "Johnny Dear" was undoubtedly the

most presentable; even more, there was an educational suggestion in its

prominent, mapped-out phrenological organs. The adopted fathers were

loyal to their trust. Indeed, for years afterward the blacksmith kept

the iron-headed Misery on a rude shelf, like a shrine, near his bunk;

nobody but himself and Mary ever knew the secret, stolen, and thrilling

interviews that took place during the first days of their separation.

Certain facts, however, transpired concerning Mary's equal faithfulness

to another of her children. It is said that one Saturday afternoon, when

the road manager of the new line was seated in his office at Reno in

private business discussion with two directors, a gentle tap was heard

at the door. It was opened to an eager little face, a pair of blue eyes,

and a blue pinafore. To the astonishment of the directors, a change came

over the face of the manager. Taking the child gently by the hand, he

walked to his desk, on which the papers of the new line were

scattered, and drew open a drawer from which he took a large ninepin

extraordinarily dressed as a doll. The astonishment of the two gentlemen

was increased at the following quaint colloquy between the manager and

the child.



"She's doing remarkably well in spite of the trying weather, but I have

had to keep her very quiet," said the manager, regarding the ninepin

critically.



"Ess," said Mary quickly, "It's just the same with Johnny Dear; his

cough is f'ightful at nights. But Misery's all right. I've just been to

see her."



"There's a good deal of scarlet fever around," continued the manager

with quiet concern, "and we can't be too careful. But I shall take her

for a little run down the line tomorrow."



The eyes of Mary sparkled and overflowed like blue water. Then there was

a kiss, a little laugh, a shy glance at the two curious strangers, the



blue pinafore fluttered away, and the colloquy ended. She was equally

attentive in her care of the others, but the rag baby "Gloriana," who

had found a home in Jim Carter's cabin at the Ridge, living too far for

daily visits, was brought down regularly on Saturday afternoon to Mary's

house by Jim, tucked in asleep in his saddle bags or riding gallantly

before him on the horn of his saddle. On Sunday there was a dress

parade of all the dolls, which kept Mary in heart for the next week's

desolation.



But there came one Saturday and Sunday when Mary did not appear, and it

was known along the road that she had been called to San Francisco to

meet an aunt who had just arrived from "the States." It was a vacant

Sunday to "the boys," a very hollow, unsanctified Sunday, somehow,

without that little figure. But the next, Sunday, and the next, were

still worse, and then it was known that the dreadful aunt was making

much of Mary, and was sending her to a grand school--a convent at Santa

Clara--where it was rumored girls were turned out so accomplished that

their own parents did not know them. But WE knew that was impossible to

our Mary; and a letter which came from her at the end of the month, and

before the convent had closed upon the blue pinafore, satisfied us, and

was balm to our anxious hearts. It was characteristic of Mary; it was

addressed to nobody in particular, and would--but for the prudence of

the aunt--have been entrusted to the post office open and undirected. It

was a single sheet, handed to us without a word by her father; but as

we passed it from hand to hand, we understood it as if we had heard our

lost playfellow's voice.



"Ther's more houses in 'Frisco than you kin shake a stick at and

wimmens till you kant rest, but mules and jakasses ain't got no sho, nor

blacksmiffs shops, wich is not to be seen no wear. Rapits and Skwirls

also bares and panfers is on-noun and unforgotten on account of the

streets and Sunday skoles. Jim Roper you orter be very good to Mizzery

on a kount of my not bein' here, and not harten your hart to her bekos

she is top heavy--which is ontroo and simply an imptient lie--like

you allus make. I have a kinary bird wot sings deliteful--but isn't a

yellerhamer sutch as I know, as you'd think. Dear Mister Montgommery,

don't keep Gulan Amplak to mutch shet up in office drors; it isn't good

for his lungs and chest. And don't you ink his head--nother! youre as

bad as the rest. Johnny Dear, you must be very kind to your attopted

father, and you, Glory Anna, must lov your kind Jimmy Carter verry

mutch for taking you hossback so offen. I has been buggy ridin' with

an orficer who has killed injuns real! I am comin' back soon with grate

affeckshun, so luke out and mind."



But it was three years before she returned, and this was her last

and only letter. The "adopted fathers" of her children were faithful,

however, and when the new line was opened, and it was understood that

she was to be present with her father at the ceremony, they came, with

a common understanding, to the station to meet their old playmate. They

were ranged along the platform--poor Jack Roper a little overweighted

with a bundle he was carrying on his left arm. And then a young girl

in the freshness of her teens and the spotless purity of a muslin frock

that although brief in skirt was perfect in fit, faultlessly booted and

gloved, tripped from the train, and offered a delicate hand in turn to

each of her old friends. Nothing could be prettier than the smile on the

cheeks that were no longer sunburnt; nothing could be clearer than the

blue eyes lifted frankly to theirs. And yet, as she gracefully turned

away with her father, the faces of the four adopted parents were found

to be as red and embarrassed as her own on the day that Yuba Bill drove

up publicly with "Johnny Dear" on the box seat.



"You weren't such a fool," said Jack Montgomery to Roper, "as to bring

Misery here with you?"



"I was," said Roper with a constrained laugh--"and you?" He had just

caught sight of the head of a ninepin peeping from the manager's pocket.

The man laughed, and then the four turned silently away.



"Mary" had indeed come back to them; but not "The Mother of Five!"



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