Boarding Round/Chapter 15
One day while the master was spending an hour at Captain Hale's, "The Old Darned Man" came along. This odd character was at that time well known in some of the towns of Eastern Connecticut. He was easily distinguished from everybody else, being very tall, slender, straight, cadaverous-looking, reticent, and in all his motions and ways, extremely peculiar. He traveled certain roads and called at particular houses, passing by the rest. As he walked he looked straight before him, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left. He had, it was said, continued to wear the same suit of clothes, with no changes, from the first time he made his appearance, many years before. There was this change, however,—his clothes gradually became of a lighter shade of color. This was from their being continually darned, and more often with white thread.
As he unceremoniously entered one of the houses which he was accustomed to honor with his periodic calls, he would take the chair that was most conveniently at hand, and by making signs, showing that his garment wanted mending, would ask for needle and thread; then he would sit at his work a long time, often without speaking a word. Having thus finished his job, he would get up and leave as silently as he had come. From his continually darning his clothes, he came to be called by all who knew him, "The Old Darned Man." At times he would speak, especially to some individuals, and it is said that very rarely he would, for a little, become talkative. But ordinarily he was as silent as the lonely roads that he traveled. All the children, living upon these roads, recognized him at sight, and even while at a distance, as he was coming towards them. Often the little ones, at their play around the lonely farm house, would rush in to their mothers with the cry, "The Old Darned Man! The Old Darned Man is coming!" He never showed a disposition to injure anyone, yet the children naturally felt a little fear of the strange old man. Captain Hale's was one of his favorite stopping places. As soon as he came in Mr. Sears rose to meet him, as an old friend.
"Why, how do you do, sir? I've seen you at my home a good many times. Are you well to-day?"
Not a word in reply. The visitor helped himself to a chair. He began to look his clothes over. Finding a place where the mending of mending needed another mending, he looked up to Mrs. Hale for the supply of what he must have. Questions were put to him, but it was not in his that-time program to favor his friends with answers. No one addressed him by name, because his name was known to no one. When he had finished his mending, he left as unceremoniously as he came.
"Then this old fellow has been in the habit of coming along at your home, too," said Mrs. Hale to the master.
"Oh, yes, I've known him as long as I can remember. A strange sort of a human being he is. I used to be afraid of him."
"Did he ever speak at your house?"
"Occasionally he would answer in monosyllables, but more often not a word could you get from him."
"Did anyone ever get any clue to his name?"
"Never, so far as I know."
"He must have an interesting history," added the Captain, "and I can give you what I have heard. I don't know how true it may be. It is said that when a young man he was engaged to be married, the day was set for the wedding, and everything was in readiness, when his fiancée died. She died the very day on which they were to have been married. It is affirmed that he heard of the death of his affianced bride just as he had arrayed himself in his wedding garments for the marriage ceremony. The shock was so great that it unbalanced his mind, and he refused to take off the wedding suit. He is now searching for the lost one, still keeping on his wedding clothes. He will keep them on, and so he must mend them. He has darned and redarned till hardly a shred of the original fabric remains. That this story of the poor old man has a basis of fact seems highly probable from that he carries, carefully preserved, a lock of hair, evidently cut from the head of a woman. This, wrapped in a piece of red silk enclosed in a succession of papers, all tied with a bit of white twine, he carries in the top of his hat—an old two-story beaver. Sometimes on entering a house, he takes this off, and sometimes he does not. You noticed that he kept it on here. He carries other things in the hat besides the lock of hair, so that, if he removes it, he must bend his head down, that nothing fall out.
"Of all the lonely lives that I have ever known, his seems to me the most lonely. What must life be to one who spends it, tramping in the road, every day the same, having no object in view, among people all the time, but having no association with them whatever? This man's life began with pleasant prospects, with hopes as bright as ours, yet what has it been! I think all the people pity him, and try to be kind to him."
After finishing his story of "The Old Darned Man," the Captain turned to the schoolmaster, and asked, "Do you remember a hut that stands in the woods, as you go across down to the silk mill?"
"Yes, sir; as I passed by it a few days ago, I noticed a strange looking old man there. He was milking his cow, under the hovel by the house."
"He is a strange man; he's one of the many odd characters with which Providence has favored our part of this town. He reminds me always of our traveling hermit. In some ways he is not so odd a character, but he is equally well 'darned.' He lives with his three maiden sisters. They never leave their home, but he goes about the neighborhood begging. He is by no means like our friend upon the road, dumb in the presence of others; he can talk—talk too much you come to think. He has a few acres of land which he cultivates. In the spring, when it is about time to plant one's garden, you will see the strange figure approaching. He has a long staff, and his white hair, and his beard, which is much like Aaron's, that is said to have reached down to the skirts of his garments, are streaming in the wind. He comes in, and you ask him to sit down, and he sits down. He keeps sitting—you think he will never get up. He talks about everything except the one thing which he came for. You wish he would come to the matter he has in mind. You could do some part of the work that you know he has come to ask you to do, while he is coming to it with snail-like approaches. But if you are not in too great haste, you are willing to be hindered a while to watch the working of his mind. At last he begins:
"'I was kinder thinkin'—was thinkin' that, as ye have a yoke of oxen and a cart, 'twouldn't be much for ye t' come over and draw out a load or two of manure for me.'
"Of course you tell him you will go. You had been waiting to tell him so for an hour or more. Then he goes on talking. He goes over much of his old ground, but also adds some things new. You know that he is incubating another request of some sort. After a great while it bursts the shell. He was kinder thinkin', as they had had no meat for a long time, you might be willing to cut them off a slice of ham. You cut off three or four pounds and give him. He still sits, and he still talks. He is not through with you yet. You begin to get uneasy. The work that you had planned for that forenoon is not done. After fifteen or twenty minutes more he lets you know what is in his mind. 'I was kinder thinkin' that when you come over with the cart 'twon't be much to throw in a bag o' potatoes. We hain't had none for a good while.' You tell him that you may be able to spare a few. He didn't indicate how large a bag, but you know that he expects a bushel at least. He yet has something to say to you. You wait. He is doing well in his business, why should he not keep on? You are letting patience have its perfect work. It is well for us all that we have at least one neighbor that helps us to cultivate our Christian virtues. He has been born for that benevolent purpose. So the old gentleman, in fulfillment of his mission, talks on. It has got to be too late for you to go out to your forenoon's work, so you feel 'resigned,' while you listen. He's made the circuit again, and he begins where he had left off, although he had said a good deal between: 'I was kinder thinkin' that as our cow's dry now, you might be willin' I s'd come over every day, for a quart or two, till the old cow gives agin.' You tell him he can come over, but you don't know how much milk you'll have for him. Now your good wife has the dinner ready. She, and you, and your children, can't be so heartless as to sit down to a bounteous repast while that hungry, long-haired old man looks on. No, not you. You bring him straight up to the table, and then you are prepared to ask the grace of thankfulness, hoping that the Lord will hear your prayer.
"The day arrives and you take your team and go to get out the 'load or two' of manure. You take your heavy cart, and putting in a plow, some hoes and other tools,—for experience teaches you what you are going for—you go bumping along over the rocks, through the rough pasture, and show yourself before the door of the man of many words. After the manure is hauled out, which will take but a few minutes, the bold beggar will begin—as you knew he would—to say, 'I was kinder thinkin' that seein' you're here, 'twon't be much to jest plow my little piece o' ground.'
"You plow the ground. As soon as that is done, the keen-eyed old beneficiary is ready: 'I was kinder thinkin' that seein' you're here, it won't be much to jest mark out the land, so I c'n plant it.' Then you mark the ground for planting. As soon as it is finished, the same white hair and beard will appear before you. 'I was kinder thinkin' seein' you're here, it won't be much jest to put the corn in and cover it a little bit—if y' can, seein' you're here.' You plant the corn. But the opportunities of the situation are not even then exhausted. 'I was kinder thinkin' seein' you're here, it won't be much jest to lay up a few stones in that gap in the wall, so the old cow can't git in and eat my corn.' The stones are laid up. The fence is fixed all around, so that the cow can't jump over.
"By that time you will be 'kinder thinkin' that, seein' he's there,' he can do the rest. And you will come home, grateful that you can have that cultivation of your naturally benevolent impulses, which will insure greater happiness for all the future."