  Twilight, December twilight in a great city, cold gray and dismal. Up town the dust collected in little ridges at the street corners, and whirled alike into the faces of rich and poor, on their way home from work. Down town the clerks in the big stores had gone out to their suppers, leaving the boys to light up and rearrange the disheveled counters for the final rush of evening customers. Around the markets and in the toy-shops, however, there was little rest. Crowds of tired, good-natured people staggered against each other and entangled themselves in all sorts of projecting bundles which they carried under their arms. Now and then a messenger or expressman would call out, “Clear the way there!” in rich, jovial tones, while he bore his armful of glistening, scarlet-dotted holly through the thickest of the crowd. Even the night wind, which came scurrying down from the northwest evidently bent on mischief, stopped a moment to rest among the boughs “B-r-r-r-r,” shivered ’Lijah, trying to pull down the ragged ends of his sleeves over his black wrist; “dis yere’s what I call right cold. Gwine to snow ’fore mo’nin’, for sho.’” Plunging a small shovel into the tin pail he was carrying, the old man proceeded to scatter its contents, a sort of earthy gravel, along the slippery rails of the horse-car track. “Hullo, ’Lijah!” called a passing driver, with one hand on his brake and the other holding a tight rein, “where you goin’ to-morrow?” “Dunno; Merry Chris’mus!” returned the other, straightening his old back and waving a salute with his shovel. One after another greeted him in much the same way, receiving the invariable “Merry Chris’mus,” given with a broad smile and a momentary gleam of white from eyes and teeth. The pail was empty, and ’Lijah was about to leave the scene of his day’s work, when a strong, young voice called to him. “Evening, ’Lijah. Wish you a Merry Christmas!” “Thank ye, thank ye, mars’ George,” cried the “She’s well, ’Lijah,” said the young man, with a sparkle in his eye. “I’ve been away from the city for a month. To-night I was going up there, but”— “But what, but what, Mars’ George?” queried the old man eagerly. “Ef a po’ ole nig kin do anything fer ye, he’ll do it sho’. Anything, Mars’!” George Farley looked at him kindly. “I know you would, ’Lijah. And yet, I hardly know—if I hadn’t been away so long”— He was a generous young fellow, and he wanted to do right both by his employers and his humble companion. The fact was, he had been charged to remain in the store that night, the regular watchman being at home sick. He had been looking forward during his long absence on the road to that very Christmas Eve, which he was to spend with the owner of a certain pair of merry brown eyes, at the other end of the city. The temptation was too great. “It won’t come again for a year,” he argued to himself; “it won’t ever be just the same as to-night. One hour or two would do no harm, and ’Lijah is as faithful as a watch-dog—better than I would be, if anything.” The result was, as may easily be imagined, that ’Lijah agreed to take up his post at the store at just half-past seven, and remain until Farley came, which would be before ten. The old man made his way home through the The strong attachment between these two men, so far removed from each other in social position, but closely knit together by that brotherliness of humanity which reaches to a depth—or height—where there is neither rich nor poor, bond nor free,—this powerful attachment had begun at a summer hotel a year before. Farley had been walking idly about the reading-rooms and office, when he heard a cracked voice crooning softly to itself. Something in the tones attracted him, and he was interested enough to listen for the words of the song, for the tune told him nothing. “Wash me an’ I shall be Whiter dan snow.” Stepping into the next room he found the singer to be an old negro, employed about the place to black boots, scrub floors, and perform whatever menial duties were considered below the dignity of his fellow-servants. His hair was powdered with white, and his face wrinkled like a prune, but there was a light in his eye which told that he was mindful of the words he sang. Farley was touched by their association with both his race and the tasks to which he was put, and entered into conversation with him. He found that ’Lijah, for so he was called, was receiving a mere pittance from the hotel, So ’Lijah plodded humbly up and down the tracks, scattering his shovelfuls of sand, dodging passing vehicles as he best might, and living at peace with all men. Oftentimes Mars’ George, to whom, as his only tie in the world, he was as devoted as a Newfoundland dog, would spend the long winter evenings with him in his little room; or would even take him to a fairy play, whose fascinations affected him so powerfully that for days afterward he would occasionally be seen to stop at his work, gazing steadfastly at the pavements, from which, perhaps, he momentarily expected to see emerge a gnome or gauze-winged naiad. Meanwhile he was full of interest in all that most nearly concerned the happiness of his friend and patron. Accordingly it was not long after Miss Rosy Burnham appeared on the scene, that old ’Lijah took occasion to slyly allude to the personal charms of the young lady, and to offer his services as a message-bearer, whenever occasion might arise. Once ’Lijah had the supreme delight of nursing Farley through a short but severe illness. Then it was that his musical accomplishments, which had at first attracted his benefactor, again came into play. His repertoire, it is true, was scant, including only To-night he was as happy as a child, and went to and fro about the house humming, to a tune which seemed a combination of “Dixie” and “Coronation” “Swing low,—swing low— Comin’ fer ter carry me ho-o-ome.” All the way down to the store after supper he murmured by turns “Sweet Chariot,” and “Mars’ George done trus’ me sho’ly!” People noticed his lightsome looks, and some one must have given him a sprig of holly, which he wore proudly, after all the berries had dropped off, in his buttonhole. Arriving at the store he found Farley waiting impatiently for him, and was at once instructed in the duties of his two-hours’ watch. He was to sit in the main office, which was in the third story and looked out upon a large street. Every fifteen minutes he must take a lantern and patrol the entire building above the first floor, which was occupied by another firm, furniture dealers and manufacturers. “Here, ’Lijah,” said Farley, hurriedly drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket and thrusting them ’Lijah listened to his retreating footsteps with intense satisfaction. “Hi! Ain’t dis a Chris’mus Eve fer ole ’Lijah!” he said, softly, taking a survey of his surroundings, and proceeding to settle himself in one of the most uncomfortable chairs in the room. Pretty soon he looked at the clock. The hand indicated exactly half-past seven. “Reck’n I’ll begin dis yere business on time,” he soliloquized, picking up the lantern Farley had left for him. It would have been laughable, and pathetic at the same time, had any one been there to see how anxiously he peered into every corner for signs of danger; scrutinizing the door mats, gravely pausing before tables and desks, giving a comprehensive glance now and then at the ceiling, stepping on tiptoe, and, with eyes as round as saucers, listening as he approached each door. This entire performance he repeated regularly on the quarter-hours, as Farley had told him; his features relaxing into his gleeful chuckle each time, as he found himself in the cosy office, with all well behind him. Meanwhile the hands of the clock upon the wall crept round in leisurely fashion to nine, half-past, “He’s done trus’ me lots dis yere night, sho’ly,” he repeated again. “Guess you’s a tol’able good watchman, po’ ole ’Lijah, you is. Hi! dat’s some o’ Miss Rosy’s work, sho’ ’nuff!” He had finished his quarter-past-ten round, and had been sitting for some time in his straight-backed chair, singing softly to himself, and ruminating on Mars’ George’s manifold virtues and the fair face of his lady, and was watching the clock for the signal of his next survey of the premises, when he noticed a peculiar effect in the upper portion of the room. The ceiling seemed to be going farther and farther away, lifting higher and higher. Was he falling asleep then, after all, like an unfaithful sentinel? He sat bolt upright, rubbed his smarting eyes, and looked up again. The ceiling was almost out of sight. At the same moment the old negro was seized with a violent fit of coughing. He sprang to his feet, trembling in every limb. There was no longer any mystery about it; the room was rapidly filling with smoke, which poured in steadily through the transom over the office door. ’Lijah stood a moment and tried to think. Then he ran, lantern in hand, into the entry and down the stairs, uttering incoherent cries of “O Lor’! O Mars’ George! Look yere, look yere! O ’Lijah, you wuf’less ole—O Lor’, O Lor’!” Scrambling, tumbling, sliding, he found his way down through But his haste was needless, for even while he spoke, deep voices were repeating ’Lijah’s message in solemn, measured tones, above the roofs all over the city; a low roar, growing louder each instant, arose far down the street. Louder and louder, mingled with a jangling of gongs and dismal blowing of horns, as the mighty foes of the fire gathered to their work. Suddenly the crowd, which seemed to have sprung up out of the ground, fled to right and left. A magnificent pair of black horses dashed fiercely up before the store, leaving behind them a long trail of floating sparks from the beautiful, glistening creature of brass and steel at their backs. Then came one piece of apparatus after another, engines, ladders and hose. In the confusion and uproar of their arrival, the policeman had quite forgotten the trembling old black man and his lantern. Now he looked around and saw him crowding his way toward the store, from which tongues of flame began to dart viciously. “Come back there!” shouted the officer sternly, rushing upon ’Lijah and jerking him backward so that he nearly fell. “Don’t you see the stairway’s all on fire?” “B-b-but Mars’ George done trus’”— “I don’t know anything about that,” interrupted the policeman, pushing back the crowd to right and A determined look came into ’Lijah’s dark face. He stopped shaking and watched his chance. It came soon, and with a movement wonderfully quick for such an old man, he darted through the line and toward the burning building. “Stop him! Stop the nigger!” shouted half a dozen voices. “He’s crazy!” Two or three firemen sprang forward, but it was too late. An involuntary and audible shudder went through the crowd as he plunged into the black stairway, stooping to avoid the flames which curled around the posts above his head. In another minute some one cried out, “Look, look! there he is, way up in the third story!” How he had made his way through that terrible barrier, no one ever knew. There he was, gesticulating wildly at the window, shouting to the firemen, and presently holding up what appeared to be a small box. With a warning cry to those below, he dropped it, watched it as it fell and was borne safely out of danger by a uniformed officer,—and sank back upon the window sill. Those in the opposite building afterward said they could see then that he was terribly burned, but seemed in all his pain to be laughing to himself. They thought, as did the crowd below, that he was insane. All this time the firemen were attacking the fire upon every side, but with no visible effect. The varnish and oils stored by the furniture dealers in “‘Swing low, sweet chari-o-t, Comin’ fer to carry me home!’ I’se done it, Mars’ George, jes’ ’s you tole me. You done trus’ ’Lijah, an’ he warn’t a-gwine to give up. ‘Whiter dan sno-o-ow! Swing low!’” Yes, old ’Lijah, your chariot is swinging low for you, very low. “Comin’ fer to carry me”— The thick smoke rolls out heavily through the window overhead. The firemen keep a steady stream playing through the broken panes, and fight fiercely with their axes to reach him. It grows so hot that the people in the opposite windows hold their hands before their faces, while they watch. Still nearer swings the great roaring chariot of fire. Lower and lower droops the faithful head upon the black, scorched hands. His lips were still moving faintly, and he was still whispering, “Swing low, swing low, swing low,” when crash! came a burly figure, his face blackened with smoke and his rubber coat dripping with water, straight in through the window. Without a word he seized ’Lijah firmly around the waist and raised himself upright on the window-sill; then looking upward he shouted, hoarsely, “Haul away!” The crowd held their breath as the two figures swung out into the air at that fearful height, and spun round once or twice before they were drawn up—up—inch by inch, and landed safe and sound on the roof. Then up went such a shout as has rarely been heard in this good city; a great, beautiful, manly cry of triumph and joy, such as the angels might utter over him who was lost. It was a long time before ’Lijah could realize that he had not been borne away in his chariot, that had swung so low. I believe he felt a pang of disappointment when he first looked at his wrinkled, scarred hands, and found they were not “whiter than snow.” But Rosy, dear, repentant little Rosy, soon found ways to comfort him; for she would not hear of his staying in the hospital, because she knew it was all her fault, she said, keeping George so long. So ’Lijah is quite as content to stay on the earth a little while longer as he was to go. For does not Mars’ George come every |
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