Allan Pinkerton - "Bucholz and the Detectives"

E. Phillips Oppenheim - "Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo"

An Old Scout - "Young Wild West at Forbidden Pass"

Wilhelm Meinhold - "The Amber Witch"

Editorial
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Watch Yourself Go By

A >> Al. G. Field >> Watch Yourself Go By



[Illustration: AL. G. FIELD, COURT AND SCOTT]




WATCH
YOURSELF
GO BY

A BOOK BY
AL. G. FIELD

COLUMBUS, OHIO

1912




Copyrighted by Al. G. Field, 1912

Illustrated by Ben W. Warden




Introductory


WATCH YOURSELF GO BY

Just stand aside and watch yourself go by;
Think of yourself as "he" instead of "I."
Note closely, as in other men you note,
The bag-kneed trousers and the seedy coat.
Pick the flaws; find fault; forget the man is you,
And strive to make your estimate ring true;
Confront yourself and look you in the eye--
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.

Interpret all your motives just as though
You looked on one whose aims you did not know.
Let undisguised contempt surge through you when
You see you shirk, O commonest of men!
Despise your cowardice; condemn whate'er
You note of falseness in you anywhere.
Defend not one defect that shames your eye--
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.

And then, with eyes unveiled to what you loathe--
To sins that with sweet charity you'd clothe--
Back to your self-walled tenements you'll go
With tolerance for all who dwell below.
The faults of others then will dwarf and shrink,
Love's chain grow stronger by one mighty link--
When you, with "he" as substitute for "I,"
Have stood aside and watched yourself go by.

S. W. GILLILAND, in _Penberthy Engineer_.

"To whom will you dedicate your book?" inquired George Spahr.

Well, I hinted to my wife and Pearl that I desired to bestow that honor
upon them. They did not exactly demur, but both intimated that I had
best dedicate it to some friend in the far distance who would probably
never read it, or to some dear friend who had passed away and had no
relatives living.

Several others approached did not seem to crave the honor, therefore I
herewith dedicate this book to Court; not that he is the best and truest
friend I ever possessed, but for the reason that should the book not be
received with favor he will respect me just the same. He will hunt for
me, he will watch for me, he will love me all the more devotedly, serve
me all the more faithfully, though the book were discredited. The more I
see of dogs, the better I like dogs.

It is claimed there is a kind of physiognomy in the title of a book by
which a skilful observer will know as well what to expect from its
contents as one does reading the lines. I flatter myself this claim will
be disproved in this book.

I am proud of the book, not that it contains much of literary merit, not
that I ever hope it will be a "best seller," but for the reason it has
afforded me days of enjoyment. In the writing of it I have communed with
those whom I love.

If those who peruse this book extract half the pleasure from reading its
pages that has come to me while writing them, I will be satisfied.

AL. G. FIELD.

Maple Villa Farm,
July 4, 1912.




WATCH YOURSELF GO BY

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY




CHAPTER ONE

Trust no prayer or promise,
Words are grains of sand;
To keep your heart unbroken
Hold your child in hand.


"Al-f-u-r-d!" "Al-f-u-r-d!!" "Al-f-u-r-d!!!"

The last syllable, drawn out the length of an expiring breath, was the
first sound recorded on the memory of the First Born. Indeed, constant
repetition of the word, day to day, so filled his brain cells with
"Al-f-u-r-d" that it was years after he realized his given patronymic
was Alfred.

[Illustration: The Old Well]

"Al-f-u-r-d!" "Al-f-u-r-d!"--A woman's voice, strong and penetrating,
strengthened by years of voice culture in calling cows, sheep, pigs,
chickens and other farm-yard companions. The voice came in swelling
waves, growing in menace, from around the corner of as quaint an old
farm-house as ever sheltered a happy family. In the wake of the voice
followed a round, rosy woman of blood and brawn, with muscular arms and
sturdy limbs that carried her over grass and gravel at a pace that soon
brought her within reach of the prey pursued--a boy of four years, in
flapping pantalets and gingham frock.

The "boy" was headed for the family well as fast as his toddling legs
could carry him. Forbidden, punished, guarded, the child lost no
opportunity to climb to the top of the square enclosure and wonderingly
peer down into the depths of the well. To prevent his falling headlong
to his death--a calamity frequently predicted--was the principal concern
of all the family.

As the women folks were more often in the big kitchen than elsewhere,
it became, as a matter of convenience, the daily prison of the First
Born. The board, across the open doorway, and the eternal vigilance
of his guards, did not prevent his starting several times daily on a
pilgrimage towards the old well. The turning of a head, the absence
of the guards from the kitchen for a moment, were the looked-for
opportunities--crawling under or over the wooden bar, and starting
in childish glee for the old well.

Previous to the time of this narrative, the race invariably resulted in
the capture of "young hopeful" ere the well was reached. The shrill cry:
"Al-f-u-r-d!" "Al-f-u-r-d!" always closely followed by the young woman
who did the scouting for the other guards, brought him to a halt. He was
lifted bodily, thrown high into the air, caught in strong, loving arms
as he came down, roughly hugged and good-naturedly spanked, and carried
triumphantly back to his prison--the kitchen. Here, seated upon the
floor, he was roundly lectured by three women, who in turn charged one
another with his escape. It was never _his_ fault. Someone had turned a
head to look at the clock, or the browning bread in the oven, turning to
look at the cause of the controversy, not infrequently he was found
astride the prison bar, or scampering down the path.

That old well, or its counterpart, was surely the inspiration of "_The
Old Oaken Bucket_." However, their author was never imbued with
fascination as alluring as that which influenced the First Born in his
desire to solve the, to him, mystery of the old well.

The more his elders coaxed, bribed and threatened, the more vividly they
depicted its dangers, the more determined he became to explore its
darkened depths. The old well became a part of the child's life. He
talked of it by day and dreamed of it by night. The big windlass, with
its coil of seemingly never-ending chain, winding and unwinding,
lowering and raising the old, oaken bucket green with age, full and
flowing; the cooling water oozing between the age-warped staves,
nurturing the green grasses growing about the box-like enclosure. How
cooling the grass was to his feet as on tip-toes peeking over the top of
the enclosure down into that which seemed to his childish imagination a
fathomless abyss, so deep that ray of sun or glint of moon never
penetrated to the surface of the water. The clanging of the chain, the
grinding of the heavy bucket bumping against the walled circle as it
descended, and the splash as it struck the water, were uncanny sounds to
the boy's ears. The desire to look down, down into the old well's hidden
secrets became to him almost a frenzy. The echoes coming up from its
shadowy depths were as those of a haunted glen.

He reasoned that all men and women were created to guard the well and
that it was his only duty in life to thwart them.

Balmy spring, with its song birds, buzzing bees and sweet-smelling
blossoms, coaxed every living thing out of doors; everything, except the
First Born and his guards.

Such was the situation when the bees swarmed. The guards "pricked up
their ears," then, with eyes looking heavenward, and snatching up tin
pans which they beat with spoons, sleigh-bells and other objects, they
rushed from the kitchen to work the usual charm of the country folk in
settling the swarming bees.

Thus unguarded, the little prisoner, carrying a three-legged stool that
aided him in surmounting the bar across the kitchen door, trekked for
the old well. Planting the stool at one side of the square enclosure, he
looked down into the cavernous depths; leaning far over, reached for the
chain, with the intention of lowering the bucket, as he had often seen
his elders do.

"Al-f-u-r-d!" "Al-f-u-r-d!"

And the sound of hurrying feet only urged the boy on. He had caught hold
of the bucket and was leaning far over the dark opening when he felt a
heavy hand upon his shoulders, and himself lifted from his high perch,
only to be dropped sprawling on the ground with a shower of tin pans
rattling about his devoted head. Then the women, half fainting from
fright, fell upon him, each in a desperate effort to first embrace him
in thankfulness over his rescue from falling into the well.

When the women recovered their "shock" the First Born was lustily
yelling for papa. Mamma had him across her knee and was administering
the first full-fledged, unalloyed spanking of his childish existence. He
scarcely understood at first, then the full meaning of the threats the
guards had used to cure him of his one absorbing mania began sifting
into his brain through another part of his anatomy. He promised never,
never again to peep into the old well. The guards believed him and for
days thereafter he lived blissfully on their praises, while everyone,
directly or indirectly interested, conceded that mamma's "spanks" had
finally broken the charm of the old well for the boy.

However, the little prisoner was removed to another cell--the big, front
room upstairs--the door securely locked. A large, open window looked out
upon the front yard and below the window near the house was the old
well.

One evening the men, returning from the field, halted to slake their
thirst at the well, the up-coming of the old oaken bucket brought from
its depths a half-knit woolen sock and a ball of yarn. A strand of yarn
reaching to the window above told the story.

Later, a turkey wing, used as a fan in summer and to furnish wind for an
obdurate wood fire in winter, was found limply swimming in the bucket.
Indeed, for days thereafter, divers articles, missed from the big, front
room, accompanied the bucket on its return trips. When one of grandpap's
well-worn Sunday boots was brought to the surface, it was believed that
the last of the missing articles from the big room had been recovered.
However, the disappearance of grandma's little mantelpiece clock was
never explained.

Uncle Joe and Aunt Betsy stopped their old mare in front of the house
and in chorus shouted "Hello!" as was the custom of neighbors passing on
their way to or from town. The whole family, including "Al-f-u-r-d,"
betook themselves to the roadside to gossip. "Al-f-u-r-d," busy as
usual, clambered up over the muddy wheels into the vehicle. He was
praised by uncle and aunt for his obedience, and promised candy when
they returned from town. Clambering down he missed his footing and
narrowly escaped being trampled upon by the old mare who was vigorously
stamping and swishing her tail to keep off the flies.

Dragged from under the buggy he was soon out of the minds of the
gossiping group, curiosity drew him to the old well. Circling it at a
respectful distance, he said:

"Naughty ole well, don't thry to coax me 'caus I won't play with you,
nor look down in you never no more. There!"

Passing to the side farthest from the unsuspecting guards, the handle of
the windlass was within his reach. Instinctively the desire seized him
to lower the bucket, pulling out the ratchet that held it, the old oaken
bucket began its unimpeded descent. Slowly at first, gaining momentum
with each revolution of the windlass, down it fell, bumping against the
sides of the well, chain clanging and windlass whirring. It struck the
bottom with a splash that re-echoed, followed by a woman's scream so
piercing that the old mare started forward.

It flashed on the minds of all that at last their predictions were
verified. It was all up with "Al-f-u-r-d." They pictured him falling,
falling--down, down--his bruised, bleeding body sinking to the
bottomless depths of the old well.

[Illustration: Uncle Joe and Aunt Betsy]

Uncle Joe's feet caught in the handle of a market basket as he leaped
from the buggy and the greater number of his dozens of fresh eggs
reached the roadside a scrambled mass. The women guards gave vent to a
series of screams that brought the men hurrying from the fields.

"Al-f-r-u-d" was found, limp and apparently lifeless, his head tucked
under his body, clothes over his head, exposing the larger part of his
anatomy--a pitiable lump, lying in the sandy path twenty feet from the
well. The handle of the windlass had caught him across the shoulders,
sending him flying through the air. For days thereafter "Al-f-u-r-d" was
swathed in bandages and bathed with liniments; for a time, at least, the
family was free from the cares of guarding the old well.

The old well has given way to a modern pump, the old house has been
remodeled, but the impressions herein recorded are as clear to the
memory of the man today as they were to the child of that long ago.




CHAPTER TWO

Trouble comes night and day,
In this world unheedin',
But there's light to find the way--
That is all we're needin'.


"Al-f-u-r-d-!" "Al-f-u-r-d!" Al-f-u-r-d!"

Town life had not diminished the volume of Malinda Linn's voice. It was
far-reaching as ever. Malinda was familiarly called "Lin"--in print the
name looks unnatural and Chinese-like. Lin Linn was about the whole
works in the family. Her duties were calling, seeking and changing the
apparel of "Al-f-u-r-d", duties she discharged with a mixture of
scoldings and caresses.

When the family moved to town to live, Lin became impressed with the
propriety of bestowing the full baptismal name upon the First Born, and
to his open-eyed wonderment, he was addressed as "Alfred Griffith." But
when Lin called him from afar--and she usually had to call him, and then
go after him--it was always "Al-f-u-r-d!"

A bunch of misery, pale and limp, was lying in the family garden between
two rows of tomato vines, the earth about him disturbed from his
intermittent spasms. A big, greenish, yellowish worm was crawling over
his head, his tow-like hair whiter by contrast; upon his forehead great
drops of perspiration.

[Illustration: The First Cigar]

He heard Lin's calls but could not answer. He half opened his eyes as
she approached him. Berating him roundly for hiding from her, bending
over him, the pallor of his face frightened her. Her screams would have
abashed a Camanche Indian. Tenderly taking up the almost unconscious
boy, she hastened toward the house, frightened members of the family and
several nearby neighbors attracted by her screams.

Crowded around "Al-f-u-r-d" all busied themselves in assisting in
placing him in bed. His hands were rubbed, his brow bathed, the air
about agitated with a big palm-leaf fan while the doctor was summoned.

When the family doctor arrived "Al-f-u-r-d's" shirt-waist was opened in
front and a big, greenish, yellowish worm fell to the floor. This, and
that sickening smell of green tomato vines, assisted the good doctor in
his diagnosis. To know the disease is the beginning of the cure. Hot
water and mustard administered in copious draughts, the little
rebellious stomach, made more so by this treatment, began sending up
returns. Thus was relieved "the worst case of tomato poisoning that had,
up to that time, come under the doctor's observation."

At that time the tomato had not long been an edible. Indeed many persons
refused to consider them as such, growing them for merely ornamental
purposes, displaying them on mantels and window sills. Tomatoes were
commonly called "Jerusalem" or "Love Apples." On this occasion the
doctor dilated at length on its past bad reputation and the lurking
poison contained in vine and fruit.

The blinds were lowered and Alfred slept. The nurses tiptoed from the
room, to return, tip-toeing to the bed to see how he was resting, then
returning to the kitchen to advise the anxious ones there that he was
resting easy.

Poor Lin was "near distracted" no sooner was it announced that
"Al-f-u-r-d" was out of danger than she began gathering the "green
tomattisus" lying in irregular rows on various window sills to ripen in
the sun, giving vent to her pent-up "feelings" thus:

"Huh! Tomattisus! Never was made to eat. They ain't no good, no-way.
Pap's right. They're called Jerusalem apples 'caus they wuz first
planted by the Jews, who knowed their enemies would eat 'em an' git
pizened an' die of cancers, an' Lord knows what else."

She carried the offending fruit to the family swill barrel, where the
leavings of the table were deposited. As she raised one big tomato to
drop it into the barrel, her hand paused, as she soliloquized:

"No, If tomattisus will pizen pee-pul, they'll pizen hogs. They ain't
fit for hogs nohow. They ain't fit fer nuthin' but heathens an' sich
like, as oughter be pizened."

Turning to one of several neighbors, whose looks denoted disapproval of
wilful waste, she benevolently emptied the tomatoes into the woman's
upheld apron, remarking:

"Lordy. Yer welcome to 'em if yer folks like 'em an' ain't carin' much
when they die. Take 'em. Ye kin have 'em an' welcome."

While the father was yanking the noxious tomato plants out by the roots
and sprinkling the ground with lime, "Al-f-u-r-d" began showing symptoms
of returning life. After the nurses had tiptoed from the room,
supposedly leaving him in deep slumber, he threw back the linen sheets
and slid from the bed on the side farthest from the open door leading to
the kitchen. Cautiously creeping to where lay his trousers--inserting a
hand in the deep pocket, which had been put in by Lin by special
request--he drew out two long, dark, worm-like objects, holding them at
arm's length gagging anew at even the sight of them. Staggering to the
cupboard dropping them into a box half filled with similar worm-like
objects, he staggered back to bed as quickly as his weakened condition
would permit, suppressing another upheaval of his stomach with greatest
effort.

Notwithstanding the objects mentioned were Ed. Hurd's best
three-for-a-cent stogies, and "Al-f-u-r-d" had smoked less than four of
the six inches of one of the big, black cigars, the stub of which he had
buried near the spot where Lin found him, it was several days before he
took kindly to food, or, as was generally supposed, had wholly thrown
off the baneful effects of the tomato poisoning.

While convalescing, afternoon walks were taken near home, circling the
Episcopal Church, back through the old, green graveyard, or a little
lower down the hill where the village boys could be seen and heard
swimming and splashing in the river. To take part in this sport, to get
to the river, to plunge into its cooling depths, "Al-f-u-r-d" had a
soul-yearning, even more powerful than that of the old well. But he had
been sworn, bribed, placed upon his honor and threatened with dire
tortures, should he even venture nearer the river than the top of the
hill.

The yearning would not down. It grew in intensity. He would stand on the
front rail of his trundle bed, night and morning, with arms extended
above him, palms together, to dive, to split the imaginary water, take a
header into the soft, downy tick; then thresh his arms about in swimming
fashion as he had seen the big boys cavort in the river.

Nearer and nearer to the river his newest allurement carried him, until
one day he found himself on a strange path leading into a large yard in
which stood a neat, white house, with green blinds. Purling at his feet,
bubbling from an invisible source, was a brook of clear, cold water.
Very cold it felt to his bare feet as he waded up and down over it's
sandy, pebbly bed, the water reaching barely to his ankles. Wading
nearer to the fountain head, the depth gradually increased. Here was
young hopeful's long-sought-for opportunity to dive, swim and otherwise
disport himself as did the big boys. Off came pantalets, waist and
undercoverings, through the pure, cold water he waded. With teeth
chattering and flesh quivering, holding his hands above his head, under
he went.

He was having the time of his life, and so busy was he at it that his
attention was not attracted by the opening of a door in the nearby white
house and the sudden appearance of an elderly, grim-looking woman behind
a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles; brandishing a long, swinging buggy
whip, with broad, bright bands here and there along its length. Rushing
toward the boy, she angrily shouted:

"You little scamp, I'll skin ye alive!"

"Al-f-u-r-d," with a cry, bounded from the water, grabbed for his
clothes, missed them, and started on a race at a pace that left no doubt
as to the winner. A big dog and another elderly woman--the counterpart
of her-behind-the-spectacles--joined in the chase, the dog's deep bays
greatly accelerating the already beat-all-record-time of the terrified
"Al-f-u-r-d."

As he neared the parental roof, he let out a series of yells with
"Mother!" "Lin!" "Help!" "Murder!" sandwiched between. The nearer he
drew, the louder the yelps, for he knew he would need sympathy, even
though the gold-rimmed glasses and the other elderly pursuer had been
distanced by many lengths.

Lin said when she first heard the screams, she "thought it was only the
old crazy woman under the hill havin' another spell. But when they come
gittin' nearer an' nearer, she knew it was "Al-f-u-r-d" an' somethin'
turrible had happened." It was then Lin, mother and several neighboring
females rushed to the front door as "Al-f-u-r-d" flew in at the gate, up
the path and into his mother's outstretched arms, endeavoring to pull
her apron about his nudity.

"Where's your clothes?" demanded the frightened mother. "Where are
they?" "Who took them off you?"

"She did! She did!" howled "Al-f-u-r-d," jerking his head toward the
gate, just as the elderly woman behind the spectacles entered. Trembling
with fear she began to explain and apologize to Lin and the mother,
frequently turning to "Al-f-u-r-d" to entreat him to come to her,
assuring him that he need not fear her. But the big buggy whip, with the
silver bands, dangled above his head and the more she entreated the
louder his yells and the further he forced himself into his mother's
garments.

[Illustration: She Did! She Did!]

Lin grabbed his clothes from the spectacled lady berating both soundly,
giving them but little opportunity to explain. Others joined in the
wordy attack, much to the elderly woman's confusion and shame. The fact
that they were old maids, living alone and associating with but few of
their neighbors, lent bitterness to the invectives hurled at them, the
climax was reached with a parting shot from Lin:

"Drat ye!" she exclaimed, "if ye had yungins of yer own--which is lucky
for 'em that ye haven't--ye'd have some hearts in yer withered old
frames."

The spectacled maiden, apparently more frightened than the other, began
to feel what a monster she was, what an awful crime she had committed,
following an embarrassing pause, the effect of Lin's final shot, mother
again demanded the cause of "Al-f-u-r-d's" nudity.

"I s'pose I ought to have pulled down the blinds," she began
apologetically, "and let him have his swim out. Likely it wouldn't have
hurt the spring much. Still a body doesn't like to drink water out of a
spring that a boy's been swimmin' in, no matter if his folks are clean
about their house-keeping."

She was certainly sorry and so anxious to caress "Al-f-u-r-d" that she
and the mother made it up, then and there, and many an afternoon
thereafter did the two spend together bemoaning the evil spirit that had
prompted the boy to make a swimming hole of the family spring.

Kindly invitations nor the promise of sponge cake ever induced
"Al-f-u-r-d" to again visit the grounds, or the white house with green
blinds, a buggy whip with silver bands on it, a big dog and two old
maids who, according to Lin, "didn't know nuthin' 'bout children."




CHAPTER THREE

In the heydey of youth
He was awfully green,
As verdant in truth
As you have ever seen;
But he soon learned to know beans
So it seems.


"There's shorely sumthin' 'bout water that bewitches that boy," often
remarked Lin. "I never seen the like of it. I'll bet anything he'll be a
Baptis' preacher some day, jes' like Billy Hickman."

There never was a boy reared in Brownsville whose heart does not beat a
little faster, whose breath does not come a little quicker, whose cheeks
do not turn a little redder when his mind goes back to the old swimming
place near Johnson's saw-mill, where the big rafts of lumber were moored
seemingly for the pleasure and convenience of every boy in town. The big
boys had their spring-boards for diving on the outside where the current
was swifter, the water deeper, the little ones their mud slides and
boards to paddle about and float on in the shallow, still water between
the rafts and the bank.

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