JOHN SCOFIELD
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ou see I worked for Arthur Fouche, he said,Until the year before he died; I knewThat worthless son of his who lived with him,Born when his mother was past bearing time,So born a weakling. When he came from collegeHe married soon and came to mother's hearth,And brought his bride. I heard the old man say:"A man should have his own place when he marries,Not settle in the family nest"; I heardThe old man offer him a place, or offerTo buy a place for him. This baby boyRan quick to mother, cried and asked to stay.What happened then? What always happens. SoonThis son began to edge upon the father,And take the reins a little, Arthur FoucheWas growing old. And at the last the sonControlled the bank account and ran the farms;And Mrs. Fouche gave up her place at tableTo daughter-in-law, no longer served or pouredThe coffee--so you see how humble beggarsBecome the masters, it is always so.Now this I know: When this boy came from schoolAnd brought his wife back to the family place,Old Arthur Fouche had twenty thousand dollarsOn saving in the bank, and lots of moneyLoaned out on mortgages. But when he diedHe owed two thousand dollars at the bank.Where did the money go? Why, for ten yearsWhen Arthur Fouche and son were partners, ISaw what went on, and saw this boy buy cattleWhen beef was high, sell cattle when it was low,And lose each year a little. And I sawThis boy buy buggies, autos and machinery,And lose the money trading. So it was,This worthless boy had nothing in his headTo run a business, which used up the fortuneOf Arthur Fouche, and strangled Arthur Fouche,As vines destroy an oak tree. Well, you knowWhen Arthur Fouche's will was opened upThey found this son was willed most everything--It's always so. The children who go out,And make their way get nothing, and the sonWho stays at home by mother gets the swag.And so this son was willed the family placeAnd sold it to that chiropractor--leftFor California to remake his life,And died there, after wasting all his life,His father's fortune, too. So, now to show youHow age breaks down a mind and dulls a heart,I'll tell you what I heard: This Elenor MurrayWas eighteen, just from High School, and one dayShe came to see her grandfather and talked.The old man always said he loved her mostOf all the grandchildren, and Mrs. FoucheTold me a dozen times she thought as muchOf Elenor Murray as she did of anyChild of her own. Too bad they didn't showTheir love for her. I was in and out the roomWhere Elenor Murray and her grandfatherWere talking on that day, was planing doorsThat swelled and wouldn't close. There was no secretAbout this talk of theirs that I could see,And so I listened. Elenor began:"If you can help me, grandpa, just a littleI can go through the university.I can teach school in summer and can saveA little money by denying self.If you can let me have two hundred dollars,When school begins each year, divide it up,If you prefer, and give me half in the fall,And half in March, perhaps, I can get through.And when I finish I shall go to workAnd pay you back, I want it as a loan,And do not ask it for a gift." She sat,And fingered at her dress while asking him,And Arthur Fouche looked at her. Come to thinkHe was toward eighty then. At last he said:"I wish I could do what you ask me, Elenor,But there are several things. You see, my child,I have been through this thing of educatingA family of children, lived my lifeIn that regard, and so have done my part.I sent your mother to St. Mary's, sentThe rest of them wherever they desired.And that's what every father owes his children.And when he does it, he has done his duty.I'm sorry that your father cannot help you,And I would help you, though I've done my dutyBy those to whom I owed it; but you seeYour uncle and myself are partners buyingAnd selling cattle, and the business lags.We do not profit much, and all the moneyI have in bank is needed for this business.We buy the cattle, and we buy the corn,Then we run short of corn; and now and thenI have to ask the bank to lend us money,And give my note. Last month I borrowed money!"And so the old man talked. And as I lookedI saw the tears run down her cheeks. She satAnd looked as if she didn't believe him. No,Why should she? For I do not understandWhy in a case like this, a man who's worth,Say fifty thousand dollars couldn't spareTwo hundred dollars by the year. Let's see:He might have bought less corn or cattle, gambledOn lucky sales of cattle--there's a wayTo do a big thing when you have the eyesTo see how big it is; and as for me,If money must be lost, I'd rather lose itOn Elenor Murray than on cattle. In fact,That's where the money went, as I have said.And Elenor Murray went away and earnedTwo terms at college, and this worthless sonAte up and spent the money. All of them,The son and Arthur Fouche and Elenor MurrayAre gone to dust, now, like the garden thingsThat sprout up, fall and rot. At times it seemsAll waste to me, no matter what you doFor self or others, unless you think of turnipsWhich can't be much to turnips, but are goodFor us who raise them. Here's my story then,Good wishes to you, Coroner Merival. * * * * * Coroner Merival heard that Gottlieb GeraldKnew Elenor Murray and her family life;And knew her love for music, how she triedTo play on the piano. On an eveningHe went with Winthrop Marion to the place,--Llewellyn George dropped in to hear, as well--Where Gottlieb Gerald sold pianos--dreamed,Read Kant at times, a scholar, but a failure,His life a waste in business. Gottlieb GeraldSpoke to them in these words:--
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