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'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 couldn't walk the waves!