G

THE STORY OF GEORGE

EORGE was about 40 years old. He had a fine face, mild blue eyes, a gentle, kindly manner. He loved little children, and his sympathies for suffering people were very keen. He had never drunk liquor or used tobacco. Yet he was a burglar and had served four terms in the penitentiary.

Mrs. Older was puzzled "Here's one of your prisoners that I can't make out," she said. "That is, I can't understand how he ever did anything that would get him into prison." The children at the ranch were very fond of George. They did not know that he had been in prison. We thought it best for them not to know. It might prejudice them, and they might thoughtlessly tell the neighbors. George was very sensitive about his past life.

One evening Mrs. Older and I returned from the city. We asked the children how they had amused themselves while we were away.

"Oh, we had such a good time!" they said. "George showed us such wonderful secrets!"

"What secrets?" we asked, full of curiosity.

"He took us up into the forest and showed us a beautiful little waterfall that he had built. He called it his 'little Yosemite.' Then he showed us where he had planted a peach tree and an almond tree in the woods, and he told us lovely names he has for the trees and the little hollows. He told us not to tell anyone because those are his secrets. He goes there all by himself to look at them, and nobody knows. We promised him we wouldn't tell, but we know you won't tell if we tell you."

The wild animals on the ranch all seemed to love George, and had no fear of him. The beautiful bushtailed tree squirrels came to him when he gave a certain rap on the base of their favorite tree. He always carried nuts in his pockets for them. Nothing wild was afraid of him, and all the domestic animals loved him. The cows and the pigs came to him whenever they could, and he petted them and stroked their backs.

One evening, as I was returning from the city Mrs. Older met me on the road. She was very much excited. Her hands were trembling.

"George has turned queer," she said. "You know you told me to tell him to turn the calf into the pasture; you said I had kept it in the pen too long and it was time for it to learn to eat grass. I told George what you said, and he refused to do it. I urged that you wanted it done.

"George said, 'I know he wants it done, but I won't do it for him or for anyone else. The calf might eat too much grass, take sick and die.' He absolutely refused to obey me." I asked Mrs. Older not to be perturbed, to let George have his way.

The cellmate who had said that George was 100 per cent right came to visit us, and one evening after dinner, as he was going down to the farmhouse to see George, I decided to let him discover for himself George's queerness. I did not want his mind to be influenced by any prejudiced word from me.

The pump was run by electricity, and forced the water up to the top of the hill above our house. It furnished our house supply, and we used a great deal of it for watering the flowers. Starting it involved no work, just pushing in the switch.

Next morning the ex-cellmate came to me and said, "Mr. Older, George is 90 per cent wrong. I asked him to start the pump. He said he wouldn't do it.

"Mr. Older wants you to start it.'

"I don't care if he does. I won't.'
""Why not?"

"Because they're using too much water on the hill. They're using too much on the flowers. Besides, they will wear out the pump.'

""That's none of your business,' I said. "They wouldn't live here without some flowers and if the pump wears out they will buy another one.'

"George said, 'I won't do what's wrong for Mr. Older or anyone else. Supposing he were to order me to kill Frank, the horse. Do you suppose I would do it? Of course not.'

""I would,' I said. 'I wouldn't care what his reason was. He might want to stuff the hide and put it in a museum. I'd burn his house if he asked me to. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for him.'

"George said, 'I won't start the pump.' That was his final answer. "I tell you," said his old cellmate, "George is off his head."

George stayed on until he expressed a desire to leave. When he left I got him a job in the city. Finally, he decided to go East. He came down to the ranch to say good-by to us and his wild animal friends and to leave with us Bessie, his beloved dog.

He was very sad. He rapped on the tree and no squirrels came. They had all been shot by thoughtless boys. His chipmunks, grown older, did not come at his call. He visited his "little Yosemite" and his secret places in the forest. As we drove away from the ranch, his dog was sobbing on the hilltop and looking lovingly after him.

He is in the East now, and every Christmas comes a box. Everyone is remembered, everyone he ever met at the ranch, and Bessie, his dog. Her present is usually a box of chocolates, of which she is very fond. Bessie never seems to be her old self since George left.

reached George's

I am sure the penitentiary never trouble. It is beyond us all, and until we know why he is so different from the rest of us, the best we can do is to be kind to him.

T

TIM O'GRADY

HERE were other characters as baffling as George.
Tim O'Grady was one of them.

Tim walked into my room in the Bulletin office one morning early. A linnet was perched on his shoulder.

"I'm just from Quentin, Mr. Older, and I brought my little friend with me. Of course I know I can't keep the bird now that I am out. I didn't like to leave him in the prison, and so I said to myself I'll give him to Mr. Older. Perhaps his wife will like him. So here he is."

The bird hopped from Tim's shoulder to my desk and chirped gaily.

"He's been a great comfort to me," said Tim. "The only friend I had in the world. I raised him from the nest, and trained him. When I left the cell in the morning, the bird flew away over the wall and played all day with other birds, but as soon as the bell rang for the lockup he'd fly in and light on my shoulder and go to the cell with me.

"Take him to your home, Mr. Older. I'm sure Mrs. Older will take good care of him.”

Tim was a thief and had been in San Quentin_twice. Not at all a bad fellow. Kindly, full of fun and mischievous. For his pranks in prison he had spent a lot of time in the dungeon and in the "sash and blind," the old house of torture that Governor Johnson abolished.

"What are you going to do, Tim? Have you a trade?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "I am a good waiter, and I guess I can get a job all right. I'll go out now and hunt one and leave the bird with you."

I sent out and bought a cage and put the bird in it with water and food, and left it on my desk. It remained there over night. That evening I told the story to Mrs. Older and she urged me to bring it home. When I entered my office in the morning I was startled to find the cage empty. I thought some one in the office had stolen it. But in a few minutes Tim entered, smiling, with the bird on his shoulder.

"I was lonesome last night, Mr. Older, and hated to go to bed alone, and so I came into your room after you had gone and took him with me to my room. But I won't do it again. You take him home with you and then I can't."

"How about the job, Tim?" I asked. "You must get work, you know. If you don't you'll be tempted and the first thing you know you'll be back in jail."

Tim assured me that nothing of that kind would ever happen again. He was through with stealing forever.

Mrs. Older was delighted with the bird. "Little Tim," she called him. We soon grew very fond of him. He sang two or three beautiful little songs and flew from her shoulder to mine in the happiest way. At night he made his bed in a geranium pot.

Meanwhile Tim disappeared. One morning I saw in one of the papers that he had been arrested for attempted theft. I told Mrs. Older that evening that Tim was in jail. While she had never seen him her sympathy went out to him because of his bird. She looked over at Little Tim, through her tears, and said, "Poor Little Tim, your father is in jail." Then she turned to me and said, "You must get him out."

The following day I called on Chief White and told him Tim's story and the story of the bird. He sent an officer for Tim. He was brought into the chief's room in handcuffs.

"Take off those handcuffs," said the chief to the officer. "Now, Tim, sit down. You are with friends who want to help you. I'll get you a good job in a work camp in the mountains and will pay your way up there. You may go tonight. Try to make good, Tim," said the kindly chief, "and I'll do everything I can for you."

Tim was strong with promises, and no doubt he meant them at the time.

"Chief," he said, with tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'll never steal again, so help me God."

There were tears in the chief's eyes, too, as he sent for an officer to take Tim back to the city prison.

"Let me go back to the jail alone, chief. PLEASE do. Let me go on my honor.. I want to show you I can be square." The chief dismissed the officer who had come to take him, and Tim started down the corridor alone, with his head high and his chest out. He went up in the elevator and gave himself up at the prison.

That afternoon he was free and on his way to his new job in the mountains.

I took the good news home to Mrs. Older. words were when I entered her room, "Tim is out."

My first

"So is Little Tim," she said. "He flew out the window an hour ago. I am sorry to lose him, but I am glad he is free. He'll join the other linnets and make his way.'

Tim held his job for a few weeks, but finally quarreled with the Chinese cook and had to quit. He returned to the city. I saw him a few times, and then he disappeared.