MIA > Archive > Earl R. Browder
First Published: The New York Call Magazine, Saturday, April 27th 1918 issue; page 2.(source scan)
Transcription, Editing and Markup: Bill Wright and Paul Saba
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He was a small boy. One might have guessed his age as 5, although he was nearer 8 years. A nondescript child he was, dressed in a pair of ragged overalls, held up by one suspender and exposing a pair of soiled knees through the rents in each leg, and not entirely concealing that part of his anatomy which had once been covered by the patch on the seat. The overalls had evidently seen considerable service, and the length of the legs suggested that they had been handed down from another wearer. His face was rather expressionless, as is not unusual in children of the workers, especially in small towns; the features could not be said to be irregular, though his nose was perhaps slightly longer than it might have been, and the chin a little weak; his eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, while upon his brow fell in an unkempt tangle a mass of vari-colored hair, which would probably be called “tow,” but it wasn’t.
It was a moonless night, and as he closed the kitchen door behind him he seemed to shrink back against it as if in fear of the dark. His small hand seemed to feel for the door knob again. But the sound of acrimonious voices in the room which he just quitted, raised querulously in argument over matters in which he felt no interest, seemed to deter him. He stood for a moment irresolute, and then slunk around the house, off across the street and through some lots to where a group of trees stood on the side of a fenced pasture. But the shadow of the trees did not seem agreeable to him after he had reached this vantage, and he wandered on, out into the pasture, coming to rest at the top of a slight mound. Here he seated himself on the grass and gazed upward at the stars.
“Gee! They are bright tonight!” he said, aloud. “I wonder if there is anything to that stuff Virgie was givin’ me about there bein’ a guy up there pushin’ those things around, an’ throwin’ down the rain’ an’ snow an’ such like?”
He gazed at the stars and shivered slightly, as much from the vague thoughts which were passing through his mind as from the chill which was settling down with the dew. Then he threw himself back upon the grass and concentrated his attention upon a large constellation overhead.
“That bunch of stars looks kinda like a kite.” He carefully traced out the likeness he saw. “It might be a bird, only one wing would be crippled an’ it couldn’t stay up there. There isn’t any bright star in that wing. Gee! That is a bright one on the other side.”
He stared intently at the bright star. It seemed to wink at him and then to wriggle under his steady gaze. At first it had seemed like the others, only larger; but as he looked it grew red, and then violet. He had never seen a star change color before. It worried him; he became uneasy.
“Now, what makes it change color like that?” he asked himself. “An’ how does it move without my seein’ it move? An’ what makes it move at all?”
He lay upon his hack and gazed at the star fixedly. As he gazed his thoughts grew vague and hazy, and he seemed to be floating up, up, and still up, toward the winking star. He scarcely realized at first that this was an unusual experience; it was so pleasant. Then a sudden fear seized him.
This was an unknown world that be was entering; a world not having the familiar kitchen, and the corner behind the stove where he sat on winter nights. He remembered every nook of that kitchen now; he seemed to be looking at it. In fact, it seemed the first time he had ever really looked at it. There was the kitchen table where he had sat struggling over his “first reader“; the group of brothers and sisters also crowded around the table. Now they were eating supper, while his mother, going her eternal round of work, filled their bowls with mush and milk.
But this was different. He seemed to be looking at it from outside. He gazed intently, and before his eyes again was the wiggling, winking star. All the world was slipping away, away, far off, back behind him.
The realization brought with it a wild terror. In an agony of apprehension, he grasped at the earth which seemed so far below him. His hands closed convulsively upon the grass where he was lying. He was glad to find himself really upon the earth; but he still did not feel entirely safe. For the ground was tipping up beneath him, and he felt he was going to slide off. If he did he surely would drop, drop, swiftly and eternally until he was brought up with a crash against one of the stars. He wondered which one he would hit.
The grass which he held came up by the roots under his hand, and he was sure he was slipping. He dug his bare heels into the earth, clutched the grass again and turned over. The wet grass against his face brought him reassurance. He scrambled to his feet and ran; ran, with a wild terror in his heart, until he came to the kitchen door and heard his mother’s voice.
“Jim! Jim! Where is that boy? It’s bedtime and he hasn’t washed his feet yet!”
A thrill of joy succeeded the boy’s fear. He stood for a moment with his hand on the door knob. Then slowly he turned and looked again at the bright star. It seemed again to wink at him. He winked back. His audacity startled himself. Then he half thought, half whispered:
“I’m goin’ to come again. So long!”