The Little Gold Miners of the Sierras | Page 7

cripple. "When I'm a man I'll be
my own master, and switch Duty off the track."
The obnoxious word came up again in the course of the evening. In
reading aloud to his teacher they happened upon this definition of "a
hero," given by one of the characters in the story under his eyes: "One
who, in a noble work or enterprise, does more than his duty."
Junior looked up disappointed. "Is that the meaning of hero?" he said,
intensely chagrined.
"That is one way of stating it. I doubt, myself, if we can do more than
our duty. What do you think, Mrs. Briggs?" asked the young woman.

She esteemed the honest couple for their sterling worth and sense, and
liked to draw them out.
"A person ken ondertake more, I 'spose. Ef they don't carry it through,
it's a sign 'twas meant fur them to go jest that fur, an' no further. 'Twon't
do fur us to be skeery 'bout layin' holt of the handle the Good Lord puts
nighest to us, fur fear it's too big a thing fur us to manage. That's what
my husband says. An' if ever a man lived up to it, he does."
Top, Junior, looked sober and mortified. The heroism of common life
does not commend itself to the youthful imagination. When his lesson
was finished it was time for him to go to bed. "Wake me when father
comes in!" was the formula without which he never closed his eyes.
His mother never failed to do it, but he wanted to make sure of it. She
put on a lump of coal, just enough to keep the fire "in," and sat down to
the weekly mending. At eleven-forty, she would open the draughts and
cook the sausages ready-laid in the pan on the table. Top, Senior, liked
"something hot and hearty," after his midnight run, and this dispatched,
smoked the nightcap pipe of peace, Junior, rolled in a shawl, on his
knee. The wife's face and heart were calm with thankful content as the
hours moved on. She was rosy and plump, with pleasant blue eyes and
brown hair, a wholesome presence at the hearthstone, in her gown of
clean chocolate calico with her linen collar and scarlet cravat. Top,
Senior, had noticed and praised the new red ribbon. He comprehended
that it was put on to please him and Junior, both of whom liked to see
"Mother fixed up." In this life, they were her all, and she accounted that
life full and rich.
As she served, she heard the slow patter of February rain on the shelf
outside of the window, where her flowers stood in summer. The great
city was sinking into such half-sleep as it took between midnight and
dawn; the shriek and rush of incoming and outgoing trains grew less
frequent. She did not fret over the disagreeable weather. Top, Senior,
had often said that such made home and fire and supper more welcome.
At Junior's bed-time, he was eighty miles away, walking up and down
the muddy platform of the principal station of Agapolis, stamping his

feet at each turn in his promenade to restore the circulation. His was a
fast Express train, and he stood during most of the run, on the alert to
guard against accident. There was no more careful engineer on the road.
Fireman and brakeman were off for supper in or near the station. He
slouched as he walked, his hands thrust deep into his pockets; his
overcoat was heavy and too loose even for his bulky figure. He had
"taken it off the hands" of an engineer's widow whose husband was
dragged from under a wrecked train one night last summer. "Mother"
used to look grave when Top, Senior, began to wear it, but she was not
a mite notional--Mother wasn't, and she was glad now that poor Mrs.
Wilson had the money and he had the beaver-cloth coat. His face was
begrimed with smoke, his beard clogged with cinders and vapor. A
lady, travelling alone, hesitated visibly before she asked a question,
looked surprised when he touched his hat and turned to go half the
length of the platform that he might point out the parlor-car. He
observed and interpreted hesitation and surprise, and was
good-humoredly amused.
"I s'pose I don't look much like what Junior calls 'a hero,'" he meditated
with a broader gleam. "What a cute young one he is! Please GOD! he'll
make a better figure in the world 'n his father hes done. I hope that
lily-flower o' hisn will be open in the mornin'. 'Seems if I got
softer-hearted 'bout hevin thet boy disapp'inted every day I live. Come
summer, he shell hev a run or two on Her every week. Mother 'n me