WIDOW FORTELKA

Marie Fortelka, widow, mother of Josef,

Now seventeen, an invalid at home

In a house, in Halstead Street, his running side

Aching with broken ribs, read in the Times

Of Lowell's death the editor, dressed herself

To call on William Rummler, legal mind

For Lowell and the Times.

It was a day

When fog hung over the city, and she thought

Of fogs in Germany whence she came, and thought

Of hard conditions there when she was young.

Then as her boy, this Josef, coughed, she looked

And felt a pang at heart, a rise of wrath,

And heard him moan for broken ribs and lungs

That had been bruised or mashed. America,

Oh yes, America, she said to self,

How is it different from the land I left?

And then her husband's memory came to mind:

How he had fled his country to be free,

And come to Philadelphia, with the thrill

Of new life found, looked at the famous Hall

Which gave the Declaration, cried and laughed

And said: “The country's free, and I am here,

I am free now, a man, no more a slave.”

What did he find? A job, but prices high.

Wages decreased in winter, then a strike.

He joined the union, found himself in jail

For passing hand-bills which announced the strike,

And asked the public to take note, and punish

The corporation, not to trade with it,

For its injustice toward the laborers.

And in the court he heard the judge decide:

“Free speech cannot be used to gain the ends

Of ruin by conspiracy like this

Against a business. Men from foreign lands,

Of despot rule and poverty, who come

For liberty and means of life among us

Must learn that liberty is ordered liberty,

And is not license, freedom to commit

Injury to another.”

So in jail

He lay his thirty days out, went to work

Where he could find it, found the union smashed,

Himself compelled to take what job he could,

What wages he was offered. And his children

Kept coming year by year till there were eight,

And Josef was but ten. And then he died

And left this helpless family, and the boy

Sold papers on the street, ten years of age,

The widow washed.

And first he sold the Times

And helped to spread the doctrines of the Times

Of ordered liberty and epicene

Reforms of this or that. But when the Star

With millions back of it broke in the field

He changed and sold the Star, too bad for him —

Discovered something:

Josef did not know

The corners of the street are free to all,

Or free to none, where newsboys stood and sold,

And kept their stands, or rather where the powers

That kept the great conspiracy of the press

Controlled the stands, and to prevent the Star

From gaining foot-hold. Not upon this corner

Nor on that corner, any corner in short

Shall newsboys sell the Star. But Josef felt,

Being a boy, indifferent to the rules,

Well founded, true or false, that all the corners

Were free to all, and for his daring, strength

Had been selected, picked to sell the Star,

And break the ground, gain place upon the stands.

He had been warned from corners, chased and boxed

By heavy fists from corners more than once

Before the day they felled him. On that day

A monster bully, once a pugilist,

Came on him selling the Star and knocked him down,

Kicked in his ribs and broke a leg and cracked

His little skull.

And so they took him home

To Widow Fortelka and the sisters, brothers,

Whose bread he earned. And there he lay and moaned,

And when he sat up had a little cough,

Was short of breath.

And on this foggy day

When Widow Fortelka reads in the Times

That Lowell, the editor, is dead, he sits

With feet wrapped in a quilt and gets his breath

With open mouth, his face is brightly flushed;

A fetid sweetness fills the air of the room

That from his open mouth comes. Josef lingers

A few weeks yet — he has tuberculosis.

And so his mother looks at him, resolves

To call this day on William Rummler, see

If Lowell's death has changed the state of things;

And if the legal mind will not relent

Now that the mind that fed it lies in death.

It's true enough, she thinks, I was dismissed,

And sent away for good, but never mind.

It can n't be true this pugilist went farther

Than the authority of his hiring, that's

The talk this lawyer gave her, used a word

She could not keep in mind — the lawyer said

Respondeat superior in this case

Was not in point — and if it could be proved

This pugilist was hired by the Times,

No one could prove the Times had hired him

To beat a boy, commit a crime. Well, then

“What was he hired for?” the widow asked.

And then she talked with newsboys, and they said

The papers had their sluggers, all of them,

Even the Star, and that was just a move

In getting circulation, keeping it.

And all these sluggers watched the stands and drove

The newsboys selling Stars away.

No matter,

She could not argue with this lawyer Rummler,

Who said: “You must excuse me, go away,

I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do.”

Now Widow Fortelka had never heard

Of Elenor Murray, had not read a line

Of Elenor Murray's death beside the river.

She was as ignorant of the interview

Between the coroner and this editor

Who died next morning fearing Merival

Would dig up Mrs. Lowell and expose

Her suicide, as conferences of spirits

Directing matters in another world.

Her thought was moulded no less by the riffles

That spread from Elenor Murray and her death.

And she resolved to see this lawyer Rummler,

And try again to get a settlement

To help her dying boy. And so she went.

That morning Rummler coming into town

Had met a cynic friend upon the train

Who used his tongue as freely as his mood

Moved him to use it. So he said to Rummler:

“I see your client died — a hell of a life

That fellow lived, a critic in our midst

Both hated and caressed. And I suppose

You drew his will and know it, I will bet,

If he left anything to charity,

Or to the city, it is some narcotic

To keep things as they are, the ailing body

To dull and bring forgetfulness of pain.

He was a fine albino of the soul,

No pigment in his genesis to give

Color to hair or eyes, he had no gonads.”

And William Rummler laughed and said, “You'll see

What Lowell did when I probate the will.”

Then William Rummler thought that very moment

Of plans whereby his legal mind could thrive

Upon the building of the big hotel

To Lowell's memory, for perpetual use

Of the Y. M. C. A., the seminary, too,

In Moody's memory for an orthodox

Instruction in the bible.

With such things

In mind, this William Rummler opened the door,

And stepped into his office, got a shock

From seeing Widow Fortelka on the bench,

Where clients waited, waiting there for him.

She rose and greeted him, and William Rummler

Who in a stronger moment might have said:

“You must excuse me, I have told you, madam,

I can do nothing for you,” let her follow

Into his private office and sit down

And there renew her suit.

She said to him:

“My boy is dying now, I think his ribs

Were driven in his lungs and punctured them.

He coughs the worst stuff up you ever saw.

And has an awful fever, sweats his clothes

Right through, is breathless, cannot live a month.

And I know you can help me. Mr. Lowell,

So you told me, refused a settlement,

Because this pugilist was never hired

To beat my boy, or any boy; for fear

It would be an admission, and be talked of,

And lead another to demand some money.

But now he's dead, and surely you are free

To help me some, so that this month or two,

While my boy Joe is dying he can have

What milk he wants and food, and when he dies,

A decent coffin, burial. Then perhaps

There will be something left to help me with —

I wash to feed the children, as you know.”

And William Rummler looked at her and thought

For one brief moment with his lawyer mind

About this horror, while the widow wept,

And as she wept a culprit mood was his

For thinking of the truth, for well he knew

This slugger had been hired for such deeds,

And here was one result. And in his pain

The cynic words his friend had said to him

Upon the train began to stir, and then

He felt a rush of feeling, blood, and thought

Of clause thirteen in Lowell's will, which gave

The trustees power, and he was chief trustee,

To give some worthy charity once a year,

Not to exceed a thousand dollars. So

He thought to self, “This is a charity.

I will advance the money, get it back

As soon as I probate the will.”

At last

He broke this moment's musing and spoke up:

“Your case appeals to me. You may step out,

And wait till I prepare the papers, then

I'll have a check made for a thousand dollars.”

Widow Fortelka rose up and took

The crucifix she wore and kissed it, wept

And left the room.

Now here's the case of Percy Ferguson

You'd think his life was safe from Elenor Murray.

No preacher ever ran a prettier boat

Than Percy Ferguson, all painted white

With polished railings, flying at the fore

The red and white and blue. Such little waves

Set dancing by the death of Elenor Murray

To sink so fine a boat, and leave the Reverend

To swim to shore! he could n't walk the waves!