--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Carroll, Elsie Chamberlain collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 23 number: 4 published: 1920-02 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Carroll, Elsie Chamberlain, "Washington Lincoln’s Mud-Daub," *Improvement Era* 23, no. 4 (February 1920): 308–315.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2304unse 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: improvementera2304unse start_page: 308 end_page: 315 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1920-02) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2304unse publication_year: 1920 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 1920, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Washington Lincoln’s Mud-Daub Washington Lincoln's Mud-Daub By Elsie Chamberlain Carroll John Mackenzie Maynard had been sitting for a half hour vaguely conscious of a repeating thud on the outside wall of his study; but the deep scowl into which his brow was contracted showed that his mind was on something far more remote. The real cause of that scowl was the prolonged strike among the workers of The Ithaca Gun Factory of which Maynard was president. He had not dreamed the strikers would or could hold out so long. To be sure, he knew that the spirits of such men as Bancock and Gregory, the leaders, could not be crushed; and yet he had felt sure that at this time of the year dire necessity would send the strikers back to work within a week; or at least, to him with conciliatory terms. However, three weeks had gone by, and still the big factory was silent. Every day of inactivity meant a loss of thousands to the firm. It was this thought that made John Maynard savage. He realized that already the loss had been more than the extra — wages the strikers had demanded, and yet to give in. It was not in this man's nature to do that. — Thud! Thud! continued the sound outside and then came a crash! A section of the great mosaic window splintered, and there in the center of the oriental rug dropped a big daub of black mud. The man sprang to his feet and rushed to the window, muttering between his teeth, "Those confounded brats next door! I'll wring their necks, the infernal reprobates!" He drew the velvet curtains aside in time to see the redhaired culprit, his tell-tale, mud-plastered willow still in hand, turn away with a look of mingled defiance and alarm in his freckled face. And then the door of the shabby little house across the way flew open. "Washington Lincoln Dobbins, what have you went an' done?" demanded the excited voice of the blue-ginghamed girl who appeared in the threshold. There was a guilty glance toward the shattered window. — "Wash! Washington Lincoln you didn't smash his winder?" There was no reply and the horrified chastizer continued: WASHINGTON LINCOLN'S MUD-DAUB 209 "Oh, Wash, whatever in the name o' Satan did ye do it fer?" The flaming head of the boy went back and he thrust a pair of grimy hands into a pair of thread-bare pockets. The man could see the look of defiance in the small face. '"Cause I was playin' I was a striker an' I wisht that mud daub had a bin a real bomb an' done fer the ole skinflint what starves folks." "Wash! Don't ye know that's antarchy an' its wickud? What would ma say?" "Well, I didn't think mud daubs wus hard 'nuf t' bust winders, but I'm glad that un busted hissen." "Yer glad? Wash Dobbins, don't ye know that winder — must a cost dollars an' it'll take every cent o' our Christmas money t' pay fer it, an' then maybe he'll hev ye 'rested, an' put in jug. Oh, Wash, how could ye, with ma in the hospital, and Queenie Bess a wantin' a Bear doll so bad, an' Sammy Leviticus without a shoe to his back, an' little Roosie aprayin' every — — night fer a Christmas tree. Oh Wash you've went an' ruined — our hull Chris'mus." The blue gingham apron was brought into service as a handkerchief and the slender shoulders of the littlechild-woman shook with sobs. John Maynard found himself watching the scene with strange fascination. The young culprit stood with drooping head. Presently the sobbing ceased. This was no time for idle tears. "Wash, we'll have t' hurry an' take the money or he'll shore have ye put in jail, an' that 'ud break ma's heart." "I don't care if 'e does put me in the jug. Skinny says they give ye bully grub there." "Why, Wash Dobbins! Think of a boy named Washington Lincoln bein' put in jail. It 'ud be a disgrace t' the nation. Wat d'ye think ma named ye that fer if it wasn't t' make ye great. Come on in an' we'll see how much money we can gather up. We got to be honest, Wash, if we don't hev no Chris'mus." The two disappeared into the house, but the man continued to gaze across the way. He still seemed to see that look of defiant hate on the freckled face and to hear the words, "I wisht it had a been a bomb an' done fer the ole skinflint what starves folks." Was he that? There was a strange smart in his throat. He recalled the pleas of Bancock and Gregory the day before the strike. And this was Christmas Eve Slowly he left the window ! and walked toward his desk. He stooped and picked up the offending mud-daub. What if it had been a real bomb! Ugh! The thought made cold perspiration stand out on his brow. He turned the daub of mud over and over in his hands, regarding it with peculiar fascination. Suddenly a terrible thought gripped him. — 310 IMPROVEMENT ERA Had the child heard something to prompt his gruesome play? He rose to his feet trembling with apprehension. Bancock and Gregory were fanatical fools, but surely — His revery . was cut short by the ringing of the front door bell. He dropped the mud-daub on his desk and rushed to answer it himself. He opened it to the blue ginghamed child from across the way. "Please, Mr. Maynard," she began in an agitated voice as — she made a grotesque little curtsy, "It was Wash Washing- —— ton Lincoln what jist busted yer winder, an' I I couldn't git 'im t' cum, so I've brung ye the money t' pay fer it. I— I hope it — didn't cost more'n three dollars an' thirty-seven cents, — cause we got all they wuz in the little stockin' of Jefferson Shakespear's (he's dead ye know, an ma keeps her scrubbin' money in his little stockin') and Wash emptied the tobaccer sack where he keeps 'is paper money, an' I emptied the tin box where I keep my baby tendin' money, an Queeni an' Sammy Levit., both put in the pennies Mrs. Goodyear give 'em last Fourth o' July when they carried 'er wash home, an' Roosie got the penny he found most a year ago an' has been a savin' ever since t' help buy a Chris'mus tree. He ain't never seen one. The rest uv us did onct before pa got killed, but Roosie wusn't borned, an' he's alius wanted to see one terrible, an' we hoped we could have one this year but, but ma's bin in the hospital ever since she got hurt the night o' the strike cause she — wouldn't stop scrubbin' the factory office, an' " Suddenly she seemed to remember the real object of her visit. "An' oh, we hope ye won't put Wash in jail. He says he don't care if ye do cause Skinny says they hev bully grub there an' Wash says he's holler clean t' 'is toes, an' thet cornmeal gruel don't fill a feller a bit. Skinny got sent in onct fer swipin' some apples down by the market an' he's tried to git in agin ever since, but —but—we don't want Wash to be put in cause it 'ud break ma's heart. She named 'im Washington Lincoln so he'd try t' be good an' honest like them, an' she thought maybe Sammy Leviticus might be a preacher if she named 'im out o' the Bible, an' — Roosevelt, that's Roosie but he can't never be big cause he's got curv'ture an' it 'ud take heaps o' money t' make 'im straight — but ye won't hev 'im in, will yer, Mister Maynard?" The child had rattled on, rambling from one thing to another in a most confusing way. All the time she was holding out the handful of coins. The man stood studying her pinched face curiously, making no move to take the money. She looked at him apprehensively. — "Why don't yer take it? Ain't ain't it enuff?" "Yes, yes!" John Maynard was surprised at the huskiness of his own voice. — WASHINGTON LINCOLN'S MUD-DAUB 311 "An' won't Wash hev t' go t' jail? He was jest a playin' yer know." "No, not if he will come and have a talk with me." "Thank ye, Mister, thank ye. Here, take the money an' I'll make Wash come right over." John Maynard took one coin from the little red hand. "This will be enough for the window," he told her. "The — break is not very large and glass is cheap you know." "Oh, thank yer, thank yer. I've jist bin a-prayin' yer wouldn't take it all. Roosie kin hev a tree; Roosie kin hev a tree!" and the weird little creature danced from the house. John Mackenzie Maynard walked slowly back to his study, his mind in a peculiar chaos. Biggest and foremost was the — black thought of the strikers and bombs; but running in and about this thought, were tiny specters of a boy who would like to go to jail for the bully grub they had there; of a little fellow who thought he could never be straight because it took heaps of money, had been saving a penny for a half a year to help buy a real Christmas tree; of a mother away in a charity hospital somewhere suffering from wounds received in his factory; and of the little child-woman who was the cause of all these strange intruders to his brain, whose sense of honesty was so keen she would rather have Christmas 'plump ruined' than to leave a debt unpaid. A ring of the door-bell announced the arrival of Washington Lincoln. Maynard went to let him in. "So you're the Washington Lincoln who just broke my window?" he began. "Come in." The frightened boy followed him into the study. "Sit down." Washington Lincoln dropped awkwardly onto the edge of the nearest chair. "So you threw this at my window, did you?" indicating the mud-daub still on the desk. — "Yep yes sir." Washington Lincoln sometimes remembered the manners due his name and his mother's conscientious training. "And why did you throw it at my window?" There was silence. The eyes of the culprit sought first the floor, then the ceiling. The man waited, studying the freckled face with keen interest. At last the lad's blue eyes met those of his interrogator. —— "I wuz a-playin' I I wuz a striker a-throwin' bombs, but," he went on more hastily, "I wisht I hadn't, cause Cleopatry says ye ain't a ole skinflint, but yer a real S'maratin, cause ye only took a dime fer the winder an' she knows it must a cost a sight mor'n that." 312 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Never mind about the window. We won't say any more about that. But tli" president of the Ithaca Gun Factory * proceeded cautiously. — "This game you were playing what is a bomb anyway?" "Why, don't you know?" was the surprised question. "Why, it's a a—— — — thing with dynamite er sumpthin' in an' an' if it — — — goes off by yer, why it blows yer all t' t' smithereens." "And what," continued the man, "put the idea of playing a game like that, into your head?" Washington Lincoln considered a moment. It taxed his ten-year old memory to locate at that moment just where he had received the germ thought. —— "I I guess," he ventured at last, "it wuz ahearin' the men talk onct down in Skinny's basement." "Can you tell me when that was, and who the men were and just what they were talking about?" John Maynard tried to keep his voice cool and steady. "Why — why — it wuz the night Ma was tooken t' the hospital. The men wuz Skinny's uncle an' Mike Finnigan's Dad, an' Legs Murphy's, an' Top Gregory's an' a lot more. They wus a big man named Bancork, an' they wuz all a-talkin' about — a guy named Maynard that's you, ain't it? — An' they said ye wuz a ole skinflint that starved folks, an' they wuz mostly in fer goin' right that night an' dynamitin' the factory an' throwin' a bomb 't you. They wuz all talkin' at onct about their kids — not havin' nuf close an' grub an' they said it wuz yer fault. The Bancork man kep tellin' 'em t' wait. At first they said they wouldn't an' swore an' cussed. But after while he got 'em t' promise t' wait till Christmus Eve t' see if yer wouldn't do what they wanted yer to." John Maynard had risen to his feet and was pacing the floor. His hands were clammy and great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. As he did not speak, Washington Lincoln went on. "It's Christmus Eve ter night an' Cleopatry's been makin" some paper things ter put on Roosie's tree, if we git it, an' maybe now yer didn't take the money she'll buy some cakes an' oh, we're goin' ter have a bully Chris'mus." John Maynard had gone to the window and stood looking out over the blue expanse of Lake Cayuga as it gleamed like a bright turquoise in a bed of ermine whiteness. Washington Lincoln became alarmed. Perhaps he was examining the window and would reconsider his clemency. He began to shift uneasily upon the edge of his chair. Mr. Maynard turned around. "That is all, Washington Lincoln. I'm very much obliged to you." "Fer what?" queried the puzzled lad. WASHINGTON LINCOLN'S MUD-DAUB 313 — "For for that mud-daub," Maynard replied with a grim smile as he reached his hand into his pocket. "I think, my —— — boy, that I shall see you again in a few hours, but if if I shouldn't," there was a queer catch in the man's throat "here's something for you to take to Cleopatra. Tell her to buy Sammy Leviticus some new shoes, and Queenie Bess a real doll, and little Roosie the finest Christmas tree she can find, and to use — the rest for herself and you and for your Christmas dinner if you don't get an invitation to come over here." The openmouthed Washington Lincoln was being led to the door, a shining twenty-dollar gold piece in his hand . II. "Three one, please. Yes. Three one. The Ithaca Gun Factory." John Maynard waited impatiently a moment, then rattled the phone. "Hello, Central. I must have three one, immediately.. Yes. Try again!" There was another pause. He was sure Van was in the office. He had said only in the morning he was going to finish up the books before he left. "Hello. Can't get them. Try six eight R, then. Hello, is this Henry Van Pelt's residence? I want to speak to Van Pelt." The man's face whitened as the reply came over the wire, "Mr. Van Pelt came from the factory an hour ago and left immediately with his wife for New York to spend Christmas." Shakily Maynard put up the receiver. He had counted on Van Pelt to help him work out the scheme which had been forming in his mind since his interview with Washington Lincoln Dobbins. The men liked Van Pelt. They had shown all the time that they trusted him and wished he was at the head of — the factory. But with Van gone how could it be done? Would — they give him a chance to explain to amend? He had not dreamed their hate was so bitter; neither had he dreamed it was so just. It was almost dusk. Could he reach the factory safely? With Van gone there was nothing to do but to try. The thought of a thousand hungry children waking to an empty Christmas nerved him to the risk. A new spirit had taken possession of the man. He seized his coat and hat and started toward the door, then stopped and turned again to the phone. "Five two one, please. Hello, Dodge. This is Maynard. I want you to do me a service. Will you meet me at the bank in twenty minutes, I've got to have ten thousand dollars in currency right now. Thanks. Goodby." The cashier of the Tompkins County bank, on the other end of the line, hung up his receiver in amazement, but he lost " 314 IMPROVEMENT ERA no time in hastening to accomodate the bank's most affluent patron. It was dark before Maynard reached the big, silent factory looming up on the edge of the Cascadilla gorge. He shuddered when lie thought he saw a dusky figure skulk into a shadowy corner as he approached. He saw another. Cold terror gripped him. Perhaps the fatal sticks of dynamite were already laid. How many seconds before the fuses would be lighted and fac- — tory the superficial thing for which he had given the best — efforts of a lifetime would light the city with its lurid flames. — And he he would be inside. He hesitated. His foot was on the step. Then he seemed to hear the voice of a freckled-faced boy saying, "I thought yer wuz a ole skinflint, but Cleopatry says yer a good S'maratin." Someone had said that of him. All the hard years he had been greedily clutching for the almighty dollar seemed to rise before him in that confused moment, as an endless procession of hungry children. "God forgive me, and let me make amends," he whispered hoarsely, as with set jaws he mounted the steps and entered the dark building. He walked to the large office window facing the street and opened the sash. He stood wondering what would be his next move. How was he to undo the wrong he had done? Presently there was a distinct sound of whispering voices below him. Then an ominous hush. The moonlight revealed dark figures gathering from every direction. Soon the whispering changed to a low muttering growl, growing in volume and hate as the crowd increased. The man watched with strange fascination. He realized that now was the time to speak. Soon it would be too late. He opened his mouth, but no words came. So long he had been dumb and unresponsive, that now he had no power to be otherwise. He felt of the great rolls of bills in his pockets and opened his dry lips once more but the effort ; was vain. The angry muttering had grown to a snarl of human hate. Then a voice bellowed out: "Now boys! Light the fuses! Then bring the bombs and we'll go and give the old skinflint his Chris'mus greetin's." Still Maynard stood motionless. God! was he to die like that, now he \^as so anxious to atone? The hellish yell broke out again. "Come on boys, with yer matches. One two — — The imprisoned man reached his hand to the wall for support. A miracle of miracles! His touch pressed the electric button connected with the work signal. Immediately a long whistle pierced the frosty air. Every man stopped. What did that familiar sound mean? : — WASHINGTON LINCOLN'S MUD-DAUB 315 There was a deep hush outside, and Maynard filled with glad thanksgiving, found his voice. He switched on the lights and stood there in the open window, before the mob! "My men," he began, and a hundred pairs of amazed eyes were raised to him, "the strike is over. You have won! The day after tomorrow, the factory will open on a new basis a mutual dividend basis which I will explain at that time. "His voice was drowned in a loud cheer. When it had subsided, he continued "Tomorrow is Christmas, and I want you all to have a good time—you and your families. And hope you will forget the I past three weeks in looking forward to the next when we shall begin over again— as— Christian brothers. Your wages for all the time you have lost will be mailed to you, but tonight I have a little gift for each of you— and a heart full of happy Christmas greetings." There was another hearty cheer as Maynard came to the door. The men formed in line and marched past, each receiving a warm hand clasp and a crisp hundred dollar bill. When Bancock and Gregory, the last two, had gone, Maynard turned off the lights. "And now," he said with a glad ring in his voice, "I must find that charity hospital, and get 'Ma' home, for no matter what kind of a Christmas I give them it couldn't be complete without her. And besides," he went on slowly, "I want to be the first to tell her the true story of Washington Lincoln's muddaub." Provo, Utah Mothers of Men. Mothers of men, you who give Your sons to Humanity's cause, That Freedom untrammeled may live To transfigure life by her laws: Though rue you are quaffing today, The morrow is weaving for you Such wreaths of the immortelle bay As crowns only patriots true. Mothers of men, you the new, Who suffer as she, who of yore Did look on the throne-circled brow And anguish of Him whom she bore, For you, importune we above, As reverent homage we pray; God, grant these Thy best gifts of love, Nor wait for Futurity's day. Grace Ingles Frost