Chapter I: Preface

Should “The Story of a Country Town” find readers, it may be interesting to them to know that it was written entirely at night, after the writer had finished a hard day’s work as editor and publisher of a small evening newspaper. I do not think a line of it was written while the sun was shining, but in almost every chapter there are recollections of the midnight bell.

No one can possibly find more fault with it than I have found myself. A hundred times I have been on the point of burning the manuscript, and never attempting it again; for I was always tired while working at it, and always dissatisfied after concluding an evening’s work. I offer this as a general apology for its many defects, and can only hope it will meet with the charity it deserves.

I believe that when I began the story I had some sort of an idea that I might be able to write an acceptable work of fiction, but I have changed it so often, and worried about it so much, that at its conclusion I have no idea whether it is very bad, or only indifferent. I think that originally I had some hope that it might enable me to get rid of my weary newspaper work, and help me to more ease than I have ever known, but I am so tired now that I am incapable of exercising my judgment with reference to it. If it prove a success or a failure I shall not be surprised, for I have no opinion of my own on the subject.

For several years I have felt that I would like an opportunity to address a larger audience than my newspaper’s circulation affords, but I find now that I am very timid about it, and worry a great deal for fear the verdict will not be favorable. A gentleman who once looked over a portion of the manuscript said his first impression was that it was the work of a tired man, and that the pen seemed to drag heavily in making the words. I fear this will be the verdict of the people, and that they will say I should have given up my newspaper writing before attempting it. The reason I did not do this was that I had no confidence in my ability to become an acceptable historian of a country town, therefore I worked harder than I should during the day, and went wearily at the story at night.

Should inquiry be made as to whether any part of the story be true, I could only reply that I have never known anyone who did not furnish some suggestion or idea in the construction of the book, as I have never lived in a town that did not afford some material for the description of Twin Mounds. I meet Jo Errings every day, and frequently lead them up to denounce their particular Clinton Bragg; I have known several John Westlocks, and I am afraid that Mateel Shepherds are more numerous than is desirable. I have known troops of Mrs. John Westlocks, for in the country where I was brought up all the women were pale, timid, and overworked; I hope that Agnes Deming can be duplicated in every community, and I believe that Big Adams are numerous everywhere; but I must confess that I never knew but one Little Biggs, though his wife may be seen hurrying out of the way, should you decide to look for her, in every third or fourth house.

I hope there will be general sympathy for Jo Erring. In writing the history of this creature of my fancy, I have almost come to believe that I have an uncle of that name, and that he lived and died as I have narrated. Sometimes I think of him wandering in the cave, crying, “Help! Help! I am lost!” and his voice is very pitiful and distressed. At other times he has come into my room and sat beside me as I wrote. I have been with him to the cave on a stormy night, and heard the beginning of the few sweet chords of music he describes, but which were immediately broken into by the furious uproar of devils; sometimes I think I have found him in every-day life, and that he is still listening at night to the horrible noise of his skeleton. If some one should confess to me that he is Jo Erring in every particular except that when the keeper of the Twin Mounds jail gave him opportunity he ran away, I believe I should be his friend.

In our part of the country there was a strange man answering to the description of Damon Barker, and I often visited him when a boy, but he lived in a hovel on the prairie, which was dirty beyond description. He had boxes filled with strange wearing-apparel, and brass pistols without number, and he told me stories; but he ran a nursery instead of a mill, though I have heard that he had a sister. I originally intended to make these two central figures in the story, but Jo Erring wandered into my mind, and I am afraid I have made sad work of him.

E. W. H.

ATCHISON, KANSAS, Sept. 4, 1883.

CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGE.

I. FAIRVIEW 1

II. THE HELL QUESTION AND THE REV. JOHN WESTLOCK 12

III. THE HOUSE OF ERRING 23

IV. THE RELIGION OF FAIRVIEW 32

V. THE SCHOOL IN THE CHURCH 38

VI. DAMON BARKER 48

VII. A NEW DISPENSATION 57

VIII. THE SMOKY HILL SECRET 69

IX. THE CHARITY OF SILENCE 87

X. JO ERRING MAKES A FULL CONFESSION 99

XI. WITH REFERENCE TO A MAN WHO WAS SENT WEST TO GROW UP WITH THE COUNTRY OR GET KILLED 112

XII. LOVE’S YOUNG LESSON 123

XIII. THE FLOCK OF THE GOODE SHEPHERD 134

XIV. I AM SURPRISED 148

XV. THE COUNTRY TOWN 154

XVI. MORE OF THE VILLAGE OF TWIN MOUNDS 165

XVII. THE FELLOW 177

XVIII. THE MILL AT ERRING’S FORD 185

XIX. THE FALL OF REV. JOHN WESTLOCK 202

XX. TWO HEARTS THAT BEAT AS ONE 212

XXI. THE PECULIARITIES OF A COUNTRY TOWN 228

XXII. A SKELETON IN THE HOUSE AT ERRING’S FORD 244

XXIII. THE SHADOW IN THE SMOKY HILLS 264

XXIV. A LETTER FROM JO 279

XXV. THE SEA GIVES UP ITS DEAD 285

XXVI. BARKER’S STORY 296

XXVII. THE LIGHT GOES OUT FOREVER 309

XXVIII. TOO LATE 326

XXIX. THE SKELETON AGAIN 337

XXX. A LETTER FROM MR. BIGGS 350

XXXI. KILLED AT THE FORD 355

XXXII. THE TWIN MOUNDS JAIL 368

XXXIII. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND 382

XXXIV. THE GRAVE BY THE PATH 392

XXXV. THE HISTORY OF A MISTAKE 398

XXXVI. CONCLUSION 410

THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN.