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!