From the Improvement Era, December 1938 –

The Return of Solomon Crosley

By Olive M. Nicholes

Solomon Crosley set the two shining milk pails on the table with one hand as he drew a handful of small change and a receipted bill from his pocket with the other.

“Well, there’s yer Christmas,” he grumbled, slapping the bill and the money down beside the pails.

Mother Molly Crosley wiped her hands on the corner of her brown denim apron and took the blue slip of paper to the kitchen window.

“A new separator?” she asked, in pleased surprise. “We’ve needed one for months and months.”

“Fifteen down and the balance at ten a month. Fur as the egg-money would take it,” he snapped.

She gasped, caught at the table for support, her eyes searching his scowling face for some reassurance that her fears were false.

“But the list — the presents for the children?” she pleaded.

“You’ve been a-grumblin’ at leaky buckets and a rattlin’ sep’rator long ‘nough. Time ye was takin’ some of yer egg-money fer somethin’ useful ‘stead of blowin’ it on gee-gaws fer Christmas.”

“Shoes and sweaters and caps are useful,” she argued, with trembling lips. “There were only a few trifles for Buddy and June.”

She could speak no further, but gathered the money into her hand piece by piece, counting it with painstaking care. He stood looking at her, the blood slowly mounting to his forehead. She looked tired and thin and faded not much left of her girlish beauty. Only her hair, still like spun silk, rippled over her ears — one tiny, golden crescent curled over her cheek. He longed to kiss it, to take her in his arms, to look with hope into her brimming eyes. Why had he done this thing? Why didn’t she throw the silver in his face; kick the milk pails out of the door; tear the receipt into bits and stamp them under her feet? His anger mounted like a flame within him as he turned on his heel and stumbled into the yard.

Molly watched him go — something akin to love battling against the tumult in her heart. Oh, how long would it be before the miracle would happen! How could he! How could he! The hens were hers; she had cared for them through the stormy spring — through the long, hot days of summer. She had saved every egg, denying herself even one for breakfast, until the two new cases were filled with the precious load. Then, she had made out her list. They would bring her ten dollars apiece at the market — twenty dollars for clothes for her children, and a tiny bit of Christmas cheer. If she had only gone herself, but that had been impossible. Solomon had to pay the taxes and one trip must suffice for many errands.

She straightened herself with an effort and looked across the room where her daughter, Martha, stood cleaning chickens at the kitchen sink. Molly could not see her face but the vigorous jerks of the round, young arms gave evidence enough of the anger and indignation within her. It was getting more difficult each day to stand as a “buffer” between Martha and her father. She looked wearily at the straight, unyielding back before she could trust herself to speak.

“There’s two-fifty left, and with today’s eggs I believe we could manage something for June and Buddy. The boys’ll have to wait. They did so want their caps and sweaters for the Festival tomorrow night. Do you think you could ride into town on the bay? He wouldn’t spare the boys.”

Marty whirled about like a wild thing. “Ma! How could you let him get by with a thing like that? He just gets worse and worse. Why it’s — yes, it’s four years since he spoke a decent word to anyone.”

“Yes,” her Mother answered, “It is four years, come March.”

Meanwhile, Solomon had entered the stables. Two boys, one fifteen the other thirteen years, were noisily cleaning the stalls, jostling each other with their elbows, scuffling and giggling over each pitchfork-load of compost.

“Well, what kind o’ party do ya call this?” he demanded, sternly.

“Teachin’ Jim the fox trot, Pa. He’s purty slow learnin’ the steps,” laughed the eldest boy, upsetting the younger brother with the fork handle.

Solomon stepped quickly to his son’s side and struck him a stinging blow across the mouth. The boy staggered against the stall, staring at his father with incredulous amazement,

Solomon stared back, his heart sick within him, then turned and made his way dizzily to the granary. His hands trembled so he could scarcely carry the grain to the horses. When he did finally reach the stable, he leaned heavily against old Major’s glossy flanks, racked with fear.

“Whatever made me do that?” he gasped. “I could’ve spoke and he’d o’ listened. Dave’s a good boy. It’ll be the horses next. I must be goin’ crazy.”

Molly was busy with the dinner. Marty setting the table when he entered the kitchen. He pulled up a chair with an impatient gesture. The mother hastened to set the food before him, but the girl walked leisurely back and forth, laying the covers with exasperating slowness. The boys came in. Marty looked at Dave in horrified surprise, caught her father’s eyes upon her, and turned away with disgust.

The meal progressed swiftly, each one anxious to be through and away from the impending storm. It broke at last, for Marty, rising, turned on her father with reckless fury.

“You can’t break me, Pa, as you’re doing the rest. I’m of age next week and I’m going away. I’ll come back and get Ma, too, some day — a good woman has no right to live in the same house with you.”

He was too horrified to speak. He got to his feet with an effort and passed out into the afternoon sunshine. Everything seemed vague, unreal. He stopped at the woodpile and began stacking the cut lengths with minutest detail.

“Better go after another load; be stormin’ in a day or so,” he muttered. “Do me good to get out in the hills, too.”

A few minutes later as he drove the team through the great gates at the end of the lane. Buddy spied him from the sand pile. He ran toward the wagon as quickly as his four-year-old legs could carry him, brushing the sand from the chubby little fingers against the patched and faded seat of his little blue overalls.

“Take me, Pa, take me,” he begged, coming close to the wagon wheel and holding up his arms to be lifted.

“Pa can’t take you this time, Buddy. I’m goin’ a long way.”

Then, seeing the crestfallen little figure, he whispered, “I’ll get a little Christmas tree. Ya know, ya must not see yer Christmas things. Ya can shut the gate fer Pa, too.”

Buddy backed obediently away,
his face wreathed in smiles. Solomon halted his team long enough to see the bar glide into place and the little boy resume his play. He turned in the wagon seat and looked behind him at the richness and vastness of his possessions. The two, great, red barns filled to the ridgepoles with the finest hay in the countryside, the huge silo and rambling sheep-sheds, the numerous granaries, bursting with tons of corn and wheat, barley and oats.

A Jersey bull, in his well-built pen, grumbled ominously. A dozen sleek cows lay on the sunny slopes of the pasture beyond. A hundred well-bred sheep cropped leisurely at the dry grass. Only the coops, decayed and tumbling to pieces, broke the pastoral harmony of the scene.

He took his bank book from his pocket and glanced at the latest balance. Not so bad, with the twenty new acres all paid for. Hansen had been loath to sell at such a low figure, but the Doctor had warned him that every day’s delay meant years from his life. If Turner would sell for three thousand, he would still have a thousand left — enough for the lambing pens and a new pump. Turner was a fool. His land was growing more worthless year by year.

He glanced up from his book, startled to find the object of his soliloquy before him. He had not meant to take this road, but the horses had turned in at the lower lane while he was busy with his figures. He looked across the fields at John Turner’s home, huddled under the sweeping boughs of the ancient elms. Two dilapidated sheds leaned wearily against the gaunt sides of the huge, unpainted barn, almost empty of either straw or hay. A lone cow cropped hungrily at the lank, dry weeds along the tumble-down fence. Beyond the house lay the impoverished fields, rimmed by the rocky ledge from which gushed the clear waters of the spring. Just beyond the cruel, barbed fence gushed life-giving water — along its course the grass and cress grew freshly green.

He turned his eyes away at last. The spring was his — and the pasture. The law had said so, and there was none to prove it false. To be sure Turner had insisted that Solomon’s father, affectionately known as Old Man Crosley, had given half-rights to the spring and all the pasture; but the letter was lost — if there ever had been one.

Then had come that unforgettable March day when Molly, going to the garret for quilt pieces, had found the yellow faded “copy’ in the old cowhide trunk. He could see it now — frayed at the edges, the fine writing of a bye-gone day, almost obliterated by time.

“A copy of my letter to Carter Turner.

“I, James Crosley, do will one-half the rights to Granite ledge spring and appurtenances, thereof, to you, Carter Turner, and your descendants, together with the hill pasture and two yearling ewes.”

There had been more, but he had not stopped to read. He had torn the document from Molly’s fingers, ripped it into a thousand fragments and fed it to the hungry flames. Molly had stood like a woman of stone, — faith and trust slowly dying in her eyes.

Then spring had come again, and with it the terrible disease that slew the innocent on every side. Turner’s child had recovered — a cripple, but not hopeless, if treated skilfully in time. To his own little Carol there had come no such reprieve. The little dancing feet were stilled forever.

It was then he had broken faith with God and man. It was then he had fenced off the spring and turned the brook from its ancient channel, so that no overflow could find its way to Turner’s parching fields. Many looked to see the “Wrath of God,” poured out upon his bounteous acres. Little did they know that the searing flames of hate and anger, and the cankerworm of greed and envy were consuming the very fibres of his soul.

He turned at last into the canyon road. Sagebrush and cedar dappled the low hills that rolled up to meet the ledges. Below roared Rainbow Falls. Solomon knew what cruel javelins hid beneath that false promise. He had seen the body of an Indian guide two hours after his fateful step, all resemblance to human form obliterated.

He stopped the horses, unharnessed them and gave them grain, then set swiftly to cutting down a dozen dead and dying pines and cedars. One little, green spruce he placed carefully in the wagon. He had yet to lie to a child. At last he had enough down, ready for the horses to drag to the wagon where he could lop off the branches and load with little effort. Black Bess and Major came willingly at his call, and he soon had the work well under way. He fastened the mare’s tugs to the last tree — a giant cedar whose dead branches, growing from one gnarled side, rose like tentacles in the air. Bess gave one pull; the tree whirled like a top. Solomon went down under the impact of the slashing limbs, rolled, caught frantically at the empty air and drop- ped down into the spreading green boughs of a juniper tree that grew out and up from the granite ledge. For a moment he lay there stunned and half-crazed with fear. Then slowly and cautiously, he worked his way in, onto the shelf of rock where he lay for many minutes, too exhausted to think.

Why, he was in his old room at home. Someone was calling his name.

“Sol, get up you lazy bones. Don’t you know it’s Christmas morning?”

His sister Letty was standing by his bed; his brother Tom was holding something shining and new before his sleepy eyes.

“A gun, a real gun!” he shouted, reaching for it with eager hands.

His hand touched only the cold bare rocks. He closed his eyes with a shudder. Then with shaking hands, he unfastened his belt and buckled his left arm to a gnarled limb of the old tree.

“Hello, Daddy-dunky,” a little voice called down at him. His eyes flew open to look up into the sweet face of his own little Carol. She sat with her feet hanging over the ledge — feet in worn-out little shoes, dusty little socks. A pink gingham apron was tied about with a red silk tie. How she loved bright things! Her sunbonnet had fallen down behind so the golden blossoming of curls hung over her shoulders in a silken web. Just so she had run to meet him hundreds of times.

“This little pig has come out to get some grass,” she laughed, wriggling her toes until one bare member poked its pink tip between the ragged edges of her shoes. She picked up a handful of leaves and pushed them into the gap. The “pig” responded with deep grunts of appreciation and shrill squeals for more. He laughed aloud until
his voice re-echoed from the granite walls.

She leaned toward him, one finger laid upon her laughing lips. “Sh! did you get the dolls?”

“Don’t come so close, pet,” he begged. “Pa’s afraid you might fall.”

“But the dolls,” she insisted. “Two dolls, for June and Minnie Turner. I want them this long.”

She held her hands apart, surveyed the intervening space with a critical eye, extended them again.

“There,” she smiled, “As long as that.”

She slipped down beside him in spite of his protests. “Now, measure,” she commanded

He held up his free arm and she “measured” it from elbow to finger tips. The next moment, she was dancing on the bank above, kissing her hand to him as she flitted out of sight.

He looked about him. Night was coming on. The sun had been down for half an hour, and his legs were growing cold and numb.

Summer? Daisies? The fields were full of them. Molly in a new print dress walked with him through the meadows.

“You’ll forgive me, Molly,” he begged, catching at her hand.

“Oh, I do forgive you, Sol; I always will.”

He came to himself with a start. It was almost dark. He thought again of that Christmas day when he was twelve. A gun! How he had loved to tramp the hills. His two boys! How he had robbed them of their heritage. And Carol! Had she come to save him, too? Molly — patient, loving, forgiving — was it now too late?

“Oh, Lord!” he prayed. “Don’t let me die here with my sins upon me. Give me another chance. Show me the way, Oh, Lord! Show me the way!”

Along the eastern horizon a soft scud of clouds was closing in. A filmy fragment of moon slipped through the intervening space. The clouds shifted and then — he saw the star! There it hung, still and luminous above the peaceful valley. Beneath it lay the Turner acres and his own. Then the clouds closed in, and hid it from his gaze.

He lay for a long time thinking and planning. A snowflake fell upon his cheek — another and another. Then something coarse like tasseled rope slipped across his wrist. He heard an impatient nicker above him. The mare, hearing his half-delirious laughter, had come in dumb inquiry of her master’s plight. Though she had the weight of the cedar behind her, she had come.

He caught the dangling halter rope in his hands. Cautiously and with excruciating pain, he slowly drew himself to his feet. With a foothold in the rocks and the rope tied under his arm pits, he made his way up. He lay for a while exhausted and shaken, then with greater effort rousing himself, staggered to his feet.

After endless moments, he harnessed the team and climbed into the wagon, but not before a second little spruce nestled by the side of the one under the seat. The horses turned their heads willingly homeward, but at the end of the canyon road, he urged them into the highway.

And so it was that over an hour later, the loafers at Pederson’s Emporium were startled almost out of their wits, when Solomon Crosley walked unsteadily in. Not once in four years had he crossed that threshold. Now as he stood there, white and haggard, his wet, windtossed hair straggling over his weary eyes, he was a sight to frighten anyone. The loafers rose to a man and moved discreetly into the background. Jennie Crane, balancing her cash, cringed behind the counter.

Olaf Pederson, alone, advanced apprehensively. “He iss all dere, poys; noddings to vorry apout,” he beamed at the silent circle.

Jennie, reassured, came timidly forward. “Is there anything I can do for you, Solomon?”

“Yes, Jennie, plenty and to spare,” he answered. “But first, I want Olaf to make out some papers, givin’ John Turner back his pasture and his rights to Granite-Ledge Spring. You’re a Notary, Olaf. Swear in two of these men when yer ready. Now boys, heave to it. To every man who helps Jennie, I’ll give ten pounds each — candy and nuts, with a dozen oranges to boot.”

An orange in the countryside had not yet become an adjunct to the morning meal. It was a name to conjure with, a fruit of the gods. One meant a Christmas treat; a dozen gave the “Midas-touch!”

The men rose with alacrity and stood attention at Jennie’s side.

“And now, what?” demanded Jennie, “I’ve got to have instructions.”

Solomon looked at her dumbly for a moment, then thankfully remembered Molly’s list in his pocket and gave it to her. Jennie gave her orders like a general. Such a scuffle of feet, crackling of paper, popping of strings! Such a weighing and measuring and counting! Such a peeping into boxes and barrels as they flew back and forth at her bidding. Trumpets tooted, bells jingled, drums rolled!

Sam Jolly chose the sweaters and caps; Jed Mason chose the shoes and socks; Bert Cameron, because he had worked in a laundry, chose the shirts and ties; Solomon, entirely dominated by Jennie, chose the things for his wife and daughter. Stiff, rheumatic old man Beams, who couldn’t work, played the harmonica to a water-glass accompaniment.

At last everything was sacked, boxed, or bundled and stowed away in the wagon. Somebody noticed at the last minute there were no presents for the Turner babies and another general scramble ensued. A train, a wagon, a sack of marbles for the biggest; ball and blocks and woolly bear for the middle-sized; an assortment of rattles for little “Brand-new,” restored the equanimity of everyone.

Someone had timed the finish to a second. Solomon opened the door to find the team harnessed, the presents covered with the horse blank- ets, and the men and boys perched along the sides of the wagon box with their booty between their knees. At every lane and corner the wagon stopped, and one by one they scuttled away through the snow for home like rabbits running to cover, anxious to begin the dramatic recital of the night’s adventures, a tale that would lose nothing in the telling.

He turned into the Turner gate at last. A feeble light shining through the tiny window panes assured him that the family were still awake. Quietly, he stacked the gifts beside the door, went to the window and looked in. A boy of fourteen sat on an old settee vigorously scouring the rusty barrel of an old gun. The father sagged forward in his chair, his long arms dangling lifelessly between his knees. At the table by the light of a single sputtering candle, the mother painted the cheeks of a big rag doll with berry juice.

Solomon turned to the pile of presents, selected a long box and knocked vigorously on the door. Without waiting a response, he walked in upon the startled little group. Turner arose, mingled fear and defiance on his pale, drawn face.

“John, I’ve brought ya back yer land, and the half share to the spring,” Solomon said hoarsely, laying the document on the table. The man stood staring like a sleepwalker, unable to adjust to this new thing.

“Get yer wagon greased and in shape,” he added. “I’ll borrow a team, and we’ll haul over yer share of the hay and grain.”

He then turned to the boy and taking the old musket gently from his knees, laid the box in its place.

“Here, boy, this will be more to yer strength. Dave and Jim’ll be wantin’ to hunt jack-rabbits with ya after this storm.”

The woman was now on her knees by the chair, sobbing and praying. He slipped a bit of pink paper — half of his savings — between her clasped hands and hurried from the room.

He was scarcely back into the wagon when Turner ran out into the yard waving the check and shouting, “Take back this money, Sol Crosley. The deeds are enough. God bless you, the deeds are enough.”

“Go back into the house, John, or you’ll catch your death. You’ve been a fool long enough.”

The horses had no need of urging now; they pushed forward rapidly, only too anxious to reach the shelter of their own dry stalls. Solo mon tied the reins to the brake handle and humped forward, his head bent to meet the wind. Suddenly he felt old and useless, sucked dry of all his strength. Though he had ridden on the crest of the wave, he now felt only the backwash of his emotions. Doubts and fears assailed him. Would his own receive him, or would they cast him out?

The horses turned in at the open gates. The light from the kitchen window called him from his stupor. Stopping the team, he hurried forward, only to find the warm, clean room deserted. He looked toward the stables. A great square of mellow light reached out across the snow. He began to run, stumbled and fell, and got up again. The second time he was too weak to rise, but crawled through the slush and mud until he reached the great posts by the door.

Within, a strange sight met his startled gaze. Molly, her face alight with some high purpose, was folding blankets for the saddle bags that hung down on the gray mare. Jim, hatted and coated, was down on his knees splicing the saddle girth with leather thongs. Marty was pouring something steaming and hot into a can and wrapping it carefully against the cold. Dave, dressed like an Eskimo, was already astride the bay — grandfather’s ancient musket behind his saddle horn. Little Buddy, yawning and half asleep, sat on a broken box — his little pink pajama legs peeping accusingly from beneath his coat.

“You’ll not forget, Marty,” Molly spoke at last, drawing on her mittens and placing her toe in the stirrup, “two shots means ‘Send more help.’ We’ll stop at the Corners and get the Cameron boys. Grandma Cameron’ll send Jim in on a horse to have the church bells ring; three shots means, ‘We’ve found him.’ Fill pans with snow and don’t let the fire go down.”

Then their eyes met. In an instant she was sobbing in his arms. The children crowded around with reassuring hugs and cries of joy.

“Pa,” Dave whispered brokenly, “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean — to talk so rude. You oughta slapped me twice.”

Marty laid her brown head against his arm. “It’s me that’s sorry. Pa. I never meant to get so cross and mean.”

Solomon looked from one to the other.

“Well,” he said at last in an effort to clear the nightmare from his brain, “The team’s standin’ by the house. Go drive em in, boys; bed all the horses down and feed ’em well. And mind ya,” he admonished, “Unload the wagon first. Be careful of them two long boxes, fer I’ve heard tell how water rusts a gun barrel somethin’ terrible.”

The boys stood like stone for a split second. Then with whoops and shrieks and catwails, turned cartwheels, leaped, and raced toward the house.

“And you, miss,” he said, pinching his daughter’s tearwet cheeks, “You go see they don’t leave out them squarish boxes. Jennie Crane says old rose silk shows water spots like hog fat. I hope it fits,” he called as she started for the door. “Jennie says it’s a forty-three — now, maybe it was a thirty-four.”

“Why, Pa,” she scolded, running back to pinch him playfully on the cheek, “of course it’s a thirty-four. It’s Grandma Bowles that wears a forty-three.”

“And you, Molly, I’ve things fer you,” he whispered, as he gathered Buddy’s drowsy little body close within his arms. “But first, I want to tell you, I’ve deeded Turner back his land and rights, and give him ‘boot’ besides.”

“Oh, Solomon,” was all she said; but he saw the faith and trust rekindle in her eyes. Then, as one worthy of a priceless gift, he kissed the little curl behind her ear.

Arm in arm they walked into the night. The storm had ceased and all the stars were out. There, in the gay galaxy hung his star, that, like the one that shone over Bethlehem Town, had led him to a stable door where he had found again that “Peace” of which the angels sang.