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Pub One Info - Will Lillibridge

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135 pages

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It is an accepted truth, I believe, that every novelist embodies in the personalities of his heroes some of his own traits of character. Those who were intimately acquainted with William Otis Lillibridge could not fail to recognize this in a marked degree. To a casual reader, the heroes of his five novels might perhaps suggest five totally different personalities, but one who knows them well will inevitably recognize beneath the various disguises the same dominant characteristics in them all. Whether it be Ben Blair the sturdy plainsman, Bob McLeod the cripple, Dr. Watson, Darley Roberts, or even How Landor the Indian, one finds the same foundation stones of character, - repression, virility, firmness of purpose, an abhorrence of artificiality or affectation, - love of Nature and of Nature's works rather than things man-made. And these were unquestionably the pronounced traits of Will Lillibridge's personality. Markedly reserved, silent, forceful, he was seldom found in the places where men congregate, but loved rather the company of books and of the great out-doors

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Short story

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819907343
Langue	English

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A TRIBUTE
It is an accepted truth, I believe, that everynovelist embodies in the personalities of his heroes some of hisown traits of character. Those who were intimately acquainted withWilliam Otis Lillibridge could not fail to recognize this in amarked degree. To a casual reader, the heroes of his five novelsmight perhaps suggest five totally different personalities, but onewho knows them well will inevitably recognize beneath the variousdisguises the same dominant characteristics in them all. Whether itbe Ben Blair the sturdy plainsman, Bob McLeod the cripple, Dr.Watson, Darley Roberts, or even How Landor the Indian, one findsthe same foundation stones of character, – repression, virility,firmness of purpose, an abhorrence of artificiality or affectation,– love of Nature and of Nature's works rather than things man-made.And these were unquestionably the pronounced traits of WillLillibridge's personality. Markedly reserved, silent, forceful, hewas seldom found in the places where men congregate, but lovedrather the company of books and of the great out-doors. Livingpractically his entire life on the prairies it is undoubtedly truethat he was greatly influenced by his environment. And certain itis that he could never have so successfully painted the variousphases of prairie-life without a sympathetic, personalknowledge.
The story of his life is characteristically told inthis brief autobiographical sketch, written at the request of aninterested magazine. "I was born on a farm in Union County, Iowa,near the boundary of the then Dakota Territory. Like most boys bredand raised in an atmosphere of eighteen hours of work out oftwenty-four, I matured early. At twelve I was a useful citizen, atfifteen I was to all practical purposes a man, – did a man's workwhatever the need. In this capacity I was alternately farmer,rancher, cattleman. Something prompted me to explore a universityand I went to Iowa, where for six years I vibrated between thecollegiate, dental, and medical departments. After graduating fromthe dental in 1898 I drifted to Sioux Falls and began to practisemy profession. As the years passed the roots sank deeper and I amstill here. "Work? My writing is done entirely at night. Thewaiting-room, – the plum-tree, – requires vigorous shaking in thedaytime. After dinner, – I have a den, telephone-proof,piano-proof, friend-proof. What transpires therein no one knowsbecause no one has ever seen. "Recreation? I have a mania, by nomeans always gratified, – to be out of doors. Once each summer 'theLady' and I go somewhere for a time, – and forget it absolutely. Inthis way we've been able to travel a bit. We, – again 'the Lady'and I, – steal an hour when we can, and drive a gasoline car,keeping within the speed laws when necessary. Once each Fall, whenthe first frost shrivels the corn-stalk and when, if you chance tobe out of doors after dark you hear, away up overhead, invisible,the accelerating, throbbing, diminishing purr of wings that drivesthe sportsman mad, – the town knows me no more."
Every novel may have a happy close, but a reallife's story has but one inevitable ending, – Death.
And to "the Lady" has been left the sorrowful taskof writing "Finis" across the final page.
January 29, 1909, he died at his home in Sioux Fallsafter a brief illness. But thirty-one years of age, he had won aplace in literature so gratifying that one might well rest contentwith a recital of his accomplishments. But his youth suggests atale that is only partly told and the conjecture naturally arises,– "What success might he not have won?" Five novels, "Ben Blair,""Where the Trail Divides," "The Dissolving Circle," "The QuestEternal," and "The Dominant Dollar," besides magazine articles, anda number of short stories (many of them appearing in this volume)were all written in the space of eight years' time, and, as hesaid, were entirely produced after nightfall.
While interested naturally in the many phases of hislife, – as a professional man, as an author, as the chief factor inthe domestic drama, – yet most of all it pleases me to remember himas he appeared when under the spell of the prairies he loved sowell. Tramping the fields in search of prairie-chicken or quail, apatient watcher in the rushes of a duck-pond, or merely lying flaton his back in the sunshine, – he was a being transformed. For hehad in him much of the primitive man and his whole nature respondedto the "call of the wild." But you who know his prairie-tales musthave read between the lines, – for who, unless he loved the "honk"of the wild geese, could write, "to those who have heard it year byyear it is the sweetest, most insistent of music. It is the spiritof the wild, of magnificent distances, of freedom impersonate"?
To the late Mrs. Wilbur Teeters I am indebted forthe following tribute, which appeared in the "Iowa Alumnus." "Dr.Lillibridge's field of romance was his own. Others have told of theWestern mountains and pictured the great desert of the Southwest,but none has painted with so masterful a hand the great prairies ofthe Northwest, shown the lavish hand with which Nature pours outher gifts upon the pioneer, and again the calm cruelty with whichshe effaces him. In the midst of these scenes his actors playedtheir parts and there he played his own part, clean in life andthought, a man to the last, slipping away upon the wings of thegreat storm which had just swept over his much-loved land, wrappedin the snowy mantle of his own prairies." EdithKeller-Lillibridge
I
Dense darkness of early morning wrapped all thingswithin and without a square, story-and-a-half prairie farm-house.Silence, all-pervading, dense as the darkness, its companion,needed but a human ear to become painfully noticeable.
Up-stairs in the half-story attic was Life. From onecorner of the room deep, regular breathing marked the unvaryingtime of healthy physical life asleep. Nearby a clock beat loudautomatic time, with a brassy resonance – healthy mechanical lifeawake. Man and machine, side by side, punctuated the passage oftime.
Alone in the darkness the mechanical mind of theclock conceived a bit of fiendish pleasantry. With violent,shocking clamor, its deafening alarm suddenly shattered thestillness.
The two victims of the outrage sat up in bed andblinked sleepily at the dark. The younger, in a voice of wrath,relieved his feelings with a vigorously expressed opinion of theapplied uses of things in general, and of alarm-clocks and milkpans in particular. He thereupon yawned prodigiously, and promptlybegan snoring away again, as though nothing had interrupted.
The other man made one final effort, and came downhard upon the middle of the floor. Rough it was, uncarpeted, coldwith the damp chill of early morning. He groped for a match, anddressed rapidly in the dim light, his teeth chattering adiminishing accompaniment until the last piece was on.
Deep, regular breathing still came from the bed. Theman listened a moment, irresolutely; then with a smile on his facehe drew a feather from a pillow, and, rolling back the bed-clothes,he applied the feather's tip to the sleeper's bare soles, whereexperience had demonstrated it to be the most effective. Dodgingthe ensuing kick, he remarked simply, "I'll leave the light, Jim.Better hurry – this is going to be a busy day."
Outside, a reddish light in the sky marked east, butover all else there lay only starlight, as, lantern in hand, heswung down the frozen path. With the opening barn door there came apuff of warm animal breath. As the first rays of light entered, thestock stood up with many a sleepy groan, and bright eyes shining inthe half-light swayed back and forth in the narrow stalls, whiletheir owners waited patiently for the feed they knew wascoming.
Jim, still sleepy, appeared presently; together thetwo went through the routine of chores, as they had done hundredsof times before. They worked mechanically, being still stiff andsore from the previous day's work, but swiftly, in the waymechanical work is sometimes done.
Side by side, with singing milk pails between theirknees, Jim stopped long enough to ask, "Made up your mind yet whatyou'll do, Guy?"
The older brother answered without a break in theswish of milk through foam: "No, I haven't, Jim. If it wasn't foryou and father and mother and – " he diverted with a redoubledclatter of milk on tin. "Be honest, Guy," was the reproachfulcaution. " – and Faith," added the older brother simply.
The reddish glow in the east had spread and lit upthe earth; so they put out the lantern, and, bending under theweight of steaming milk pails, walked single file toward the houseand breakfast. Far in the distance a thin jet of steam spreadingbroadly in the frosty air marked the location of a threshing crew.The whistle, – thin, brassy, – spoke the one word "Come!" overmiles of level prairie, to the scattered neighbors.
Four people, rough, homely, sat down to a breakfastof coarse, plain cookery, and talked of common, homely things. "Isee you didn't get so much milk as usual this morning, Jim," saidthe mother. "No, the line-backed heifer kicked over ahalf-pailful." "Goin' to finish shuckin' that west field this week,Guy?" asked the father. "Yes. We'll cross over before night."
Nothing more was said. They were all hungry, and inthe following silence the jangle of iron on coarse queensware, andthe aspiration of beverages steaming still though undergoing thecooling medium of saucers, filled in all lulls that might otherwisehave seemed to require conversation.
Not until the boys got up to go to work did thefamily bond draw tight enough to show. Then the mother, tenderly asa surgeon, dressed the chafed spots on her boys' hands, saying lowin words that spoke volumes, "I'll be so glad when the corn's allhusked"; and the father followed them out onto the little porch toadd, "Better quit early so's to hear the speakin' to-night, Guy.""How are you feeling to-day, father?" asked the y