--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Roylance, L. H. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 18 number: 10 published: 1915-08 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'L. H. Roylance, "Wild Oats: Prize Story," *Improvement Era* 18, no. 10 (August 1915): 876–882.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera18010unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera18010unse start_page: 876 end_page: 882 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1915-08) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera18010unse publication_year: 1915 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1915, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Wild Oats: Prize Story Wild Oats* The "Improvement Era" Prize Story, May Contest. BY MRS. L. H. ROYLANCE "Hey, George — The young carpenter straightened up from the pile of- lumber where he had been selecting a plank, and looked about. The "walker," standing on the grade above him, watching the men building forms for the culverts, stepped closer to the edge "Doc Dayton is going to town, today you'd better go along ; we're not rushed just now. But return by Monday; the three small culverts will be ready then." "All right," answered George, gratefully. "How soon will he be here?" "He just left Camp Two. It's about an hour's drive; that'll — give you plenty of time and, say" as he tossed him a dollar ; "just bring me back a few magazines." "You might mail these, too," said old Joe, the blacksmith, standing in his little bowery shop, as he fished out three grimy letters from his overalls pockets. "You'll probably beat the stage in, by a couple of days," he added. "Going to town, George?" said the timekeeper, who had just stepped up. "Come over to the commissary there are some ; — checks to send in, and I want some ledgers and files, and say, will you speak to Hix, at the warehouse, about that last shipment of flour?" The cook came in with a five dollar bill. "Bring up some — good 'eats'," he said "oranges, candy, you know !" George stood by the powder house waiting, when Doctor Dayton drove up. "Don't forget the files," called the timekeeper. "Take care of yourself, George," said the "walker." "He's just a green kid. I hate to see him go to town and make a fool of himself, but nothing a man could say would make any difference," he thought, as he climbed back up on the grade. "Your first trip out, since you came on the job, last June, isn't it?" questioned the doctor, as they drove round Demi-John Rock, which stands at the turn in the road where the camp is lost to view. ""This story won the $25 prize for May, in the Improvement Era six months' contest, ending June, 1915. " "Yes," answered George "I'm going in for a 'time.' ; I mean to have it, too," with the boastfulness of youth. The doctor did not answer. He seemed absorbed in the land- scape, such as he conld see of it, which was not much, for the road was at this point little more than a trail through the giant fir forests of Oregon. The dense growth of underbrush and vines covered the very trunks of the trees, and the noisy rush of a squirrel, or the hurried flight of a bird, as they came to a sud- den turn in the road, bespoke the primitiveness of the place. "A 'time' !" The doctor spoke slowly. "You mean hotels, restaurants — "Clean clothes, and a bath, a fat cigar, and drinks," sup- plied George, a bit swaggeringly. He had never smoked a cigar, nor did he know the taste of one liquor from another. However, several months in a railroad camp, hearing the vain-gloriou; boasts of the men, had made him curious. He, too, wanted to have yarns to spin, yarns of fascinating, big drunks, questionable dances. "Women?" interrogated the doctor. George's face crimsoned. The doctor apparently was look- — ing straight ahead he probably considered the question only a natural one, a man to man question. George felt suddenly important; he wasn't a kid any more, back in a country town, in his native state. He was a man, in a man's world, the proud possessor of two hundred dollars, hard- — earned money. Back home there was a girl but a fellow is only young once. — "Probably it's part of the game," he answered, coolly. They rode on again, in silence, the ribbon of road through the trees, unbroken except for an occasional cleared patch, where some sturdy homesteader had grubbed out stumps in pioneer days. His descendants, less ambitious, derived from it now a meager existence in fact, there were cases where the farms were smaller ; now than they had been twenty years ago. The forests were growing in on them again. The road was rough, corduroyed in many stretches, and the light rig rattled noisily. At Camp Seven they stopped for dinner, fed and watered the horses, and were off again. The doctor was quiet, but George knew he was considered eccentric, so he did not intrude. At two they reached Home's camp. "There," said the doctor, as they entered on a smooth stretch of road, "I've been waiting for this five miles — how old do you think I am?" abruptly. George looked up, he had always considered the doctor an old man; his hair was snow white, and his face heavily lined, al- though he had a perfect physique, and a clear, pleasant voice. "About sixty-five," he said, appraisingly. "I'll be fifty in May." The doctor spoke musingly, then turned abruptly. "Want to hear a story?" "Why, yes," replied George, a trifle embarrassed. "The doc- tor certainly is a queer old duck," he added mentally. Doctor Dayton drew out his watch. "We've plenty of time," he said, as he let the horses slow up: "Thirty years ago, I was like you, young, strong, clean men- tally, morally, physically. I was an only child, and had every advantage and disadvantage of the sons of the well-to-do. At twenty-one I left college, good-looking, idle, plenty of money. The wrong crowd got me. In a few months, I was go- ing the pace. Riotous living, tobacco, wines, women. I salved my conscience with the old excuse, the one that has served men and will serve them to the end of time, 'Youth must have its fling.' 'Every man has to sow his wild oats.' As for the women, I de- luded myself, as men will, with the thought, 'Such places exist; there'll always be such women. Whether I go or stay away, is a matter of small moment.' To ray father's entreaties, I turned a deaf ear. At worst I was injuring no one but myself, I argued. Father shook his head, but said no more. In those days, George, men did not talk to their sons, nor women to their daughters. They believed that ignorance was innocence. It is not so now — people are beginning to spread the sunlight of understanding. It is lighting up the secret places. The danger-signal is kept clear and bright. Boys and girls no longer need to step unwittingly into the pit of sin. "At the end of a couple of years, I drew a sudden halt. The truth was brought home to me. I had broken nature's immutable laws. She demanded a physical penalty. For a while, I strug- gled along alone then, as a last extremity, appealed to my father. ; He put me in charge of a specialist. At the end of a year, I was considered cured. Don't deceive yourself, boy." The old doctor spoke kindly. "When you break the greatest law of nature, she — demands a lifetime penalty aye, more than that, for the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children." "Your mother?" asked George. "I don't think she ever knew. She grieved because I smoked and drank. The rest, I think, was kept from her. Father died, shortly afterward a year later, mother followed him. ; Then I drifted west, working with some civil engineers. We set up camp among your people, down near the Col- orado line. It was there that I met Mary, the dearest, sweetest girl in the world. all That was a happy summer. The calm, quiet life among the rural people, the pleasant courtship, I en- joyed. There were times when we strolled down the shady lane to her home and she confided, in her sweet, trusting way, some ; : ; little incident of her girlhood, so that I felt tempted to tell her all, but the fear of losing her was too great, and I could not bring myself to shatter her faith in me. Sin has a way of becoming heinous, in the presence of innocence. I won, favor with her peo- ple. I wasn't of her religion, and I think they'd much rather she had not married me but she returned my love, and they didn't in- ; terfere, so in the fall she became my bride." Visions of the girl, back home, flashed into George's mind ; he, too, had made plans — sweet plans that had somehow lost their glamor, in this alien atmosphere. "We bought a little farm," continued the doctor, "a couple of miles from the village, where we could see the broad sweep of the country, and the little lake that nestled at the foot of the opposite mountains." In the old doctor's eyes was a reminiscent light. He — was seeing it all again the little cabin, the girl bride, the farm, all the beautiful surrounding country. "The little village lay at the left, hidden by the grassy knolls. It was almost as if we two were alone in the world, just she and I," he went on, his voice low and tender. "The next two years stand out, George, as the happiest I have ever known. I had not dreamed that life could be so perfect, and then, when the promise of a child came to share our joy, my cup was running over. Sometimes the past, those few brief, wild years, came vividly to me. I wanted to tell her, but something, her very innnocence perhaps, kept me silent. I've wished, since that, I had told her. She'd have forgiven me. She did forgive, unasked, when she had far more to forgive. How we made our plans ! Oh, I'll never forget the glad light in her eyes, as she did each day the homely tasks necessary for the com- ing of the little stranger. It happened in June. I had waited in agony all during the hours of her suffering,agony the more poign- ant, because I was helpless to ease one pang. She seemed so lit- tle, so frail ; in those hours I could gladly have foregone all the joys of parenthood, to hav^ saved her this. When I intimated as much, she hushed me quickly: 'No, no, Horace.' And in her eyes was that soft light that God puts into the eyes of women when he crowns them with motherhood. I had watched the nurse, and the doctor sitting by, apparently heedless, then when I felt I could bear no more, had gone out into the yard to wait. An hour dragged by, then another, and another. The waiting seemed endless. The sound of a sudden sharp scream set me trembling another interminable half hour, then the old doctor stepped out of the cabin and came over to the log where I sat " 'Horace,' he said, 'it's a boy.' "A sudden joy thrilled me. I was a father, the father of a man child. In there, in that cabin, was a boy, mine — hers and mine. I stood up, seized my hat, and waved it in a glad hurrah ; then I — went into the cabin. Mary smiled a weary smile, but oh, so — : 880 I M PR( IVEM ENT ERA glad. My heart sang a-- I kissed her. Truly it was a wonderful world. not much to see,' I thought, its "1 looked at the little mite ; little wrinkly face crowned with a coating of fuzz which 1 red, supposed would some day he hair. hit it was ours that was J — enough. The next day Mary didn't seem so well; the morning of the third day, she was very ill. I went for the doctor. 1 rememher still the ride down the valley. I didn't seem to sense how ill she was. I couldn't believe that she would be taken. So many babes were born into the world, some every day, and the mother almost always lived, I comforted myself. But something else troubled me I had been in the kitchen, that morning, when ; the nurse gave the boy his bath. She had looked at him strangely, then at me, as if she wished to tell me something; but instead, she only shook her head. What could it mean, I wondered, but didn't like jto ask. The doctor came back with me. When he had looked at Mary, the nurse called him. He took the baby to the window and examined it closely. His face grew grave. He said nothing. I think he meant to keep it from Mary, but mothers seem to di- vine some things." 'Oh, I know, I know. I noticed it yesterday," she said, her ' voice quivering with agony. "Half dazed, I stumbled out of the cabin. What was it? What had happened? The old doctor followed me out. For a moment he did not speak then he looked me straight in the eye ; 'Young man, the boy is blind.' " 'My heavens,' I said! "That was twenty years ago, George," he went on, quietly, "but it is as plain to me as if it were yesterday. I can see it all. The little cabin on the hillside, in the sunlight, the few acres of tender grain, the creek and the trees at the left, the blue hills in the distance the old doctor grim and stern, standing there look- ; ing at me A terrible weakness overpowered me. ! I sank to the log. The world seemed dark it was almost as if the blindness ; of the little babe, in there, had cast a shadow on the face of nature. — Tt is' I looked at the doctor helplessly, a sickening fear at ' my heart 'Wild oats,' he said, tersely, as he turned on his heel and ' walked into the cabin. "I thought, then, he was brutal. I have learned since that doctors must sometimes cut deep to effect a permanent cure. Then, too, in the light of my own experience, the terrible things that doctors see and know boy, I do not wonder that some of ; them lose entirely their faith in humanity. I sat there a long time. What I suffered God alone understands. Then I went into the cabin, and knelt by Mary's bedside. She reached out her hand. ! and let it rest lovingly on my head — she did not speak, but 1 understood." The doctor paused. "It takes a brave woman to forgive the man who strikes her through her child "That afternoon we sent for her mother. In her kind, old eves was nothing but pity for me. Your people are like that. They accept what comes heroically perhaps they know that God ; is mericful, that sometime, somewhere, all will be right again. — That night, I talked to her father I told him all, not one of the sordid details of those two years did I hide. Nor did I try to excuse myself. He was not harsh in fact, where I expected re- ; proaches I received only kindness. 'My boy,' he said, 'it is the way of the world — the double standard But we, this little hand- ! ful of people in the mountains, have a clearer vision. We are trying to teach our sons that there can be but one standard. We want the men who claim our daughters to be as pure as are our girls'." Into George's mind flashed the past. How many times he had heard it. Almost those very words, at church, back home. — A year ago it had seemed all right, but here in the camps the — hot blood rushed into his cheeks, as his own remark made in an- swer to a taunt that the shovel engineer (known as the raciest raconteur in camp) had flung, came back to him: 'Yes, of course, they're fifty years behind the times, your rural people are.' And _ this was how men, real men, manly men, looked at the simple principles of his people, as something beautiful, something to be marveled at. "It remained for Mary, unwittingly," continued the doctor, "to give the hardest blow. It was the day she died" — the doctor's lips twitched. "She asked for me, and when I sat down by the bedside, she took my hand. She was very near the borderland then. She looked so frail and unearthly, lying there among the pillows 'Horace, I'm going to die. I think it's better that way. : You've been very good to me. I love you so. I couldn't live without you.' Then I understood that I would have to lose her, if not in death, in life, reared as she had been, among your pure- minded people, she could not be a wife, and not a potential mother. To pass the curse to another child would be unthinkable. She was right it was better that way. She died that night. ; Her folks took the baby it only lived four ; months. They lie side by near the town where she was born. I go side in the cemetery, there every year, just for a day. Some of her people still live in the old place they're; glad to see me when I come, but I never stay long. I want to get back to work." "You became a doctor?" _ I sold the farm and studied medicine; it "Shortly after. seemed the only way I could reach boys to talk to them— to warn often tell my them against the fate that had been mine. I don't story. It hurts too much, but when sec a clean young man, I like you, just getting ready to step over the brink, I have to tell it. It's part of the penalty, maybe," he concluded sadly, "maybe, when I've paid enough, they'll give them both to me over there." He drew in at the little store, at Lowell, where the boy must take the train. "Goodbye, George," he said, slowly, "remember there is one way, and only one, to avoid reaping the harvest of 'wild oats,' and that is: don't sow them." "Goodbye, doctor; thank you. I'll not forget," he said, squaring his shoulders and looking straight into the doctor's eyes. Four days later, George piled off the stage, at camp, loaded with bundles. He carried them over to the commissary, chatted awhile with the timekeeper, then walked out over the work. — "Hello!" the "walker" drew rein "Back again? — Well, we're ready for you," eyeing him appraisingly. "Trip didn't seem to hurt him any," he thought. "Glad of it; he's a nice kid." "There's George. Hello, there, sonny. Have your 'time'?" questioned the shovel engineer, banteringly. "Yep," shortly. "Young blood youth will have its fling," he chuckled, as he ; climbed up onto the little Model 20. But he could not know that to him and George a "time" had come to have a vastly differ- ent meaning. And the girl, back home! When the job was finished he'd — go back to her a man, clean as the boy that bade her goodbye, in their sunny southern village. EUGENE, OREGON