CATO BRADEN

I went to Winston Prairie to attend The funeral of Cato Braden. He Had died at fifty-one and I had known him Since he was twenty-four, but for fifteen Years or more I had not seen him, nor Exchanged with him more than a telegraphic Note about some trivial thing. Indeed I had not been in Winston Prairie during These fifteen years. But on the train I thought Of Cato Braden, brought back all the days Through which I knew him, from the very first When he returned to Winston Prairie from De Pauw, or was it Valparaiso? Yet ’Twas called a university I remember. And when I knew him first he kept at hand De Senectute, also Anthon’s Homer, And lexicons in Latin and in Greek, Both unabridged. Sometimes he let me read The orations he had won the prizes with. And sometimes he would tell me what it meant To study at a university. And what they did and what the boys were like. This Cato Braden was a happy soul At twenty-four, of a full noble brow, A gentle smiling mouth, an honest eye, A tall and handsome figure, altogether A man conspicuous for form, a bearing Of grace and courtliness, engaging ways; He might be called most lovable, he had The gift of friendship, was not envious, Could scarcely be enraged, was not offended By little things and often not by great. He had in short a nature fit to work With great capacity; had he combined An intellect but half his nature’s worth He might have won the race. But many thought He promised much, his father most of all Because he had these virtues, and in truth Before his leaves unfolded with the spring His mind seemed apt, perhaps seemed measured full Of quality, the prizes he had won At Valparaiso pointed to the fruit He would produce at last. So on the train I thought of Cato Braden. Then I thought Of when he came from school with his degree, And for that summer when he walked the square, Was whispered of as “Cato Braden, look.” The first thing Winston Prairie knew it saw His name conjoined with that of Jerry Ott’s— It was Ott and Braden, editors and owners, The Winston Prairie Eagle. Jerry Ott Was sixty-nine and wheezy from the fight For Jefferson Democracy, free trade. Besides the capital that Cato Braden Brought through his father to the enterprise Meant bitter war on enemies of truth. And Cato Braden’s father had some wealth Made from the making of a vermifuge And a preposterous compound which he called Pesodorne; and I have always thought That Cato Braden’s father garrisoned His factory for making patent nostrums By buying for his son this interest, And place of power in journalism; for The father’s strong devotion to the church Did not protect him ’gainst the casual sneers Of Winston Prairie’s paper called the Lance, Which used to print such things as this, to instance: “There’s Braden’s Vermifuge, well, Doctor Braden, Try your own vermifuge, let’s see it work.” Well, anyway I know that Cato Braden Intended to pursue a legal course, And practice the profession in a city. I know his father bought for him this place With Jerry Ott as editor of the Eagle. I know he went to work. I know he changed The paper’s motto from “Hew to the line,” To Principia non homines. I know He used to sing “Over the Garden Wall,” While writing editorials and smoked A number of cheroots. I know he had A locked drawer where he kept a secret bottle From which he’d take a drink at noon or night. I know he was on terms of friendship with The milliner and dressmaker in a month After he came from Valparaiso. Yes, I know he advocated a gymnasium, And dancing hall for Winston Prairie, and He opened up a fight to get a park Where concerts might be given. Cato Braden Had these ideas at least. About this park A word remains to say. Fernando Winston, Who founded Winston Prairie and surveyed The original town, laid out a square along The river for a pleasure ground; in time, Some fifty years or more, it was forgotten. And when this Cato Braden came to town And started as a journalist ’twas used In part by Winston Prairie’s creamery; In part ’twas used for gardening by the pastor Of Winston Prairie’s strongest church. But Cato Had searched the records, found them straight, began To agitate the park. And it was this, Together with Principia non homines, Free trade, the dressmaker and milliner, Perhaps the bottle in the drawer, whose secret Leaked out at once, that clove the people of The town into two groups of friends and foes. He had but just begun his editorship When I left Winston Prairie; after that Knew little of it, saw him but at times, Long separated, saw him not at all For fifteen years before his death, and now Because I was his friend was on the train His funeral to attend. I drove to Oakland With Dr. Green and William Smoot the grocer. ’Twas hot without a breeze, the town was still. The church bell tolled until we reached the grave, It was the church whose pastor used the square For gardening. And on the way I asked Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one. “Why, whisky,” answered William Smoot, the grocer, “And women,” for he had bad luck they say. “How is that, Doc, you know?” And Dr. Green After a silence said: “It isn’t true. “He was as sound, so far as that’s concerned “As any of us.” Then I asked again Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one. And Dr. Green said laughing, “Well, you know “They die at thirty-one and forty-one, “And sixty-one of what killed Cato Braden, “That’s Bright’s Disease.” “And whisky brings that on—” I ventured to assert. “Sometimes” replied The man of medicine, “But other things “Produce it. There’s a man’s diathesis; “There’s worry, over-work, sometimes disease “Suffered in childhood, leaving an effect “Like soil, all fertilized for such seed as this. “He should have drunk no whisky, yet he drank “Not half so much as Winston Prairie thought. “But you can see if whisky caused this thing “All whisky drinkers would be sure to have it, “Or die of it if not killed by a train.” We left the carriage, having reached the place Where Cato Braden’s grave was dug, and stood Together in a company of fifty And heard the pastor pray for heaven’s lessons From Cato Braden’s life. And after that We separated, made the horses trot To reach our different destinations. I Looked up Will Boyden for a little talk Before my train left for the city. Will Was in his office with his sleeves rolled up, Cob-pipe in mouth, typing a legal paper, A narratio in slander, so he said. He smiled from ear to ear and dropped his work. “You’re here for Cato’s funeral,” he said, And added, “It’s a shame he had to die, Damned if it isn’t.” Then I asked again Why Cato Braden died at fifty-one, And Will said: “Winston Prairie, Illinois, Killed Cato Braden.” “Tell me what you mean?” Then Will refreshed his pipe and talked to me: “I’m fifty-two and good for twenty years I have no stronger frame than Cato Braden, But then I got a formula for life As time went on, and it was one that suited My nature, and I thrived as you can see. I have the power to draw the nutriment Out of this soil, and I get strength thereby Wherewith to overcome the things that kill. I work, but then I play, I hunt and fish, I read and sometimes take a little trip. I don’t drink whisky, not because I fear it, But I hate putting in myself such fire— Beer and light wines are pleasant, more like food Than stimulants. Well, Cato Braden started When ‘Over the Garden Wall’ was all the rage, ‘All Coons Look Alike to Me’ was my Key-note for starting. You know what I mean: Between my day and his there’s just the difference That lies between waltz time and syncopation; Between the magic lantern and the movie, The rattan phaeton and Ford machine. These new things came along before he died, But he had made his life for the old things, Could not adjust himself, De Senectute And Valparaiso had not taught him how To reach out in the world from Winston Prairie And get the new things for his life. But if They taught him how he lost the secret here. For after all a place like Winston Prairie Will kill your spirit just as surely as The Island where they cooped up great Napoleon. In the first place what is a man to do With life in any place? That is the problem. And what could Cato Braden do with life In Winston Prairie? First he was as fitted To be a journalist as I, and if Endowed to be a journalist, just think Of editing The Eagle. But you see His father was at war then with the Lance Over that vermifuge and pesodorne. And under guise of starting him in life Bought Cato in the paper for the selfish Purpose of defending vermifuge. And Cato did it too, and put away From year to year his dream of studying The law and practicing in a city. During which time the poisons of this town Crept in his blood and stupefied and killed him. He married Mary Comfort, as you know. And Mary is—well, what I call a brood-mare, Although they had no children. What I mean She is a well-fleshed woman, sound of nerve, A help-eat, but she made a loyal wife Who had two eyes to see what Cato saw, And never an eye to help him see the things That lay around him, which he stumbled over. And marriage to my mind means this to man: He drains his body out to be a father, And drains his spirit out to be a husband, Unless the woman helps him see or feel More than he sees or feels for self. Well then The years went on. And every day at eight He could be seen toward his office bent. At half past ten just as the morning train Was whistling for the crossing he would go To get the mail. Returning he would walk Along Main Street, slapping the folded News Against his leg. He scanned it in his office. At twelve o’clock he went to dinner, then As whisky made him eat, he over-ate And took a nap till two o’clock. At three One might discover him at solitaire— He had clipped from the morning paper quite enough To keep the boys in copy. Then at four He might be sitting at the livery stable, Or sometimes might be found in that back room Of Little’s restaurant, where a keg of beer Shipped in was being tapped. At night perhaps He might be seen down there on Locust street, Waiting to enter where the milliner lived. So passed his life away from twenty-four To fifty-one. It’s simple enough to ask Why not write for the Eagle, make it better, Give ideas to the people, help the town, Refresh the mind, read, study history, De Senectute? Fancy Teddy Roosevelt, Who’s labored for this land with restless gifts, Tied down in Winston Prairie—well, you can’t, He’d break the ties, and that’s the point, you see. For Cato couldn’t break them, had to stay, Incapable to extract the good that’s here, Susceptible to all the bad that’s here; He was a nose half active Who enters in a room where gas escapes, Sits in the room unconscious of the gas Till he grows sluggish, lies him down to rest And dies unknowing. So I say it’s true That Winston Prairie ruined Cato Braden And killed him in the end. You must go see, Before you leave, our park called Willard Park, Named after Emma Willard, that devout Old woman, dead these fifteen years or so. She left enough to build a granite coping, Set out some trees, and buy park seats, a stone Whereon to carve the words, ‘The gracious gift Of Emma Willard.’ Well, this Cato Braden First talked this park, was first to tell the truth About this plot of ground. And more than that When Cato Braden came here he had dreams: He wrote at first that boxing, wrestling, racing Would help this town; that games were needed here; That Americans seemed ignorant of the art Of being gay, feeling light-hearted, wise To play; that they were wise to work and pray, Fear happiness. And Cato Braden said The little town was cursed by just these things, And many human souls destroyed by them. These were not thoughts of his, he found them somewhere, But knew them when he found them, that’s his credit. What though he was a drunk man whom you ask What road to take, who points and gurgles guttural Sounds inarticulate? Or better still What though he was a sick man who in vain Attempts to make his household orders clear? For it was true that Cato Braden spoke About these things at first, then gave them up. For no one seemed responsive to his plans. And some there were who sneered, and others said He’d better help the church, and leave alone The questions which make bitterness and strife, Which was their way of speaking of the square Which Cato tried to make into a park. They say a lung will turn to stone or steel When men work in the filings and the dust. At last the dust of Winston Prairie turned His soul to dust. You see old Jerry Ott Had left a son his interest in the Eagle, And Cato Braden died right at his table While playing solitaire. This son came in And found him dead, a card clutched in his hand. The card was, strange enough, the deuce of clubs! This son was glad that Cato Braden died For now he runs the Eagle by himself. This Cato Braden had three strains of thought. I never met him lately but he talked Some one of them, at times all three of them. One was the American town must be improved, So better to conserve the souls and bodies Of boys and girls. And even when the movie, And other things of this day came along He still maintained they did not meet the case. He never said what thing was requisite. But in a general way I think he meant A stronger, and more truthful and more natural Outlook and attitude would save a town From dust, and mold and death. For once he said: “This winter I shall read Grote’s History.” He never read it. But I think he meant He would find out the secret of the Greeks. And then he’d say the young, the middle aged The old made separate spheres of feeling, thought; And that a town should not be ruled by one, Should not be governed as all folks were old, Or young, or middle aged, but each should have The town for his according to his age, And thought and vital power, within his sphere And period of life; these separate spheres Should move untroubled by the others, move Free, independent of the other spheres. I talked with Cato Braden for the last A week ago last night. He said to me: I wake these mornings lately with the thought Another chance will come to me, that death Will bring another chance. And then he said: This is the way of it. When you are young You say in five years I shall take a trip, See New York City, go abroad perhaps. When five years pass you do not take the trip. Then you say in a year I’ll take the trip. And so it goes, while you say in a year, Next year, next year, until at last you say No, never now! Well, now you’d think a man Would weep when he stands up against the wall, And knows he cannot climb the wall. But no, Something still whispers you will do it yet. And then you know it must be after death, In life again, the chance will come to you. For you know well it is not in this life. Then Cato Braden said: Not in this life Shall I read Grote, I could not understand it After these years in Winston Prairie—still I have a feeling I shall know about it Somewhere, somehow. You’d better catch your train. It’s good to see you. Up there in the city Think sometimes of the American village and What may be done for conservation of The souls of men and women in the village.”