Evans Ingram Towne (that is not his exact name, but it is very nearly the flavor of it) sat next to me in the train. He was traveling all alone from Albany to Boston. Evans Ingram Towne, eleven years old, his travel money folded in his handkerchief, his ticket in his blouse pocket, and a nervous little grin on his face that seemed to say to his fellow-passengers, “Don’t you people think I’m a pretty brave little boy to be traveling all alone from Albany to Boston?” was as pleased with himself as could be, because he was making such a long journey without his father or his mother or his aunt or his uncle or anybody with him.
True, his aunt had put him on the train at Albany, and his father was going to take him off the train at Boston. But think of all the railroad-sleepers he was riding over all by himself, and the miles and miles of steel track rolling under him, and the millions and millions of trees and people and cows and clotheslines and telegraph poles and villages and advertisements and barns and woodpiles he was looking at without anybody to help him!
“I’m eleven years old, and I’m traveling all alone from Albany to Boston. What church do you preach in? Would you like a ham sandwich? I’ve got two storybooks. Would you like to read one of them? . . . ”
I was a little bewildered at this barrage of questions from the small somebody in the seat next to me. I had intended speaking to him after I finished another “storybook,” which I read under pain of mortal sin every day (and I hate to interrupt a psalm in the middle, because you have to begin it over afterwards). But even prayer must yield to politeness. And after all, what is the liturgy for but to teach us good manners?
I closed my Breviary and looked at him. Wishing to make a good impression, I said I had preached in any number of churches, clearing my throat as I said so, to indicate a slight exaggeration. I said I approved of ham sandwiches at all times. I would be awfully glad to read one of his storybooks. And I felt sure that a non-stop railroad journey from Albany to Boston, undertaken SOLO at the age of eleven, was undoubtedly a world’s record and ought to get in the papers.
After our storybook apiece, we had a ham sandwich apiece, which we ordered with great ceremony from the porter, along with two bottles of milk, to make sure we were getting all the vitamins that were coming to us.
Evans Ingram Towne was a gallant little man, intent on observing all formalities. “I’m to pay for the lunch,” he said, “because I was the one who suggested it.”
I assured him that when two people were traveling together, it was always the privilege of the older person to pay for the lunch, no matter who suggested it.
“No,” he said very earnestly, “mother says that when you invite anybody to lunch, you should do the paying.”
I then suggested that we match coins to see who would pay for the lunch, just to be good sports. We did so, and he won, much to his delight. So then I suggested we should match coins again to see who would NOT pay for the lunch. He won again. So we compromised by letting me pay for the lunch and letting him tip the porter.
Having dined together, and having jointly contributed to a mutual amusement fund: four match tricks, two thumb tricks, ten conundrums, and the completion of one one-hundredth of a crossword puzzle, we felt firmly established in friendship and came to a point where we could indulge in a few little confidences.
His first mother was dead, and now he had a second mother. He felt fairly sure that his second mother liked him well enough, and she did often give him a “hurry-up kiss,” but she was different from his first mother in this, that she never did any real worrying about him. “She seems to think I never need any worrying about and that I am always all right, and sometimes I’m not all right, especially when I’m sick or have tonsillitis, when I really ought to be worried about.” He scratched his little head as he said this, and gave me a most wistful look, as if to indicate that he wasn’t complaining, but just telling me the facts.
Now the secret of the charming intimacy that exists between all Catholic children and all Catholic priests, lies precisely in the fact that our children know they can come to us at any time and be worried about without any red tape or delay. Lest I seem to be forcing the point, I can speak entirely from my experience as a child. When I was eleven years old, I knew I had only to meet a priest, any priest whatsoever, and if circumstances permitted, there was sure to follow a little dialogue of worry questions and responses, in which I loved my part because I knew it so well, because it was so terribly important, and so terribly easy to play.
“Are you a good boy?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Are you getting big and strong?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you say your prayers?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Night and morning?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And do you ask God to protect you and bless you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Why did God make you?”
“God made me to know Him and love Him and serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in the next.”
It may be objected that this last line is found on page 3 of the Penny Catechism, and I had learned it like a parrot. I can only answer that Hamlet’s soliloquy is found on page 103 (if you have my edition) of Shakespeare, and I once learned that like a parrot too. It is not necessary to have composed a line of great drama in order to relish its meaning or to sense its magnificence on one’s lips. And it is no small distinction at the age of eleven to have the whole Catholic hierarchy always at one’s beck and call, anxious to be amazed at one’s youthful histrionics, dumbfounded at one’s wisdom, eager to magnify in terms of the Penny Catechism one’s sacredness and importance in a world where otherwise one seems so little, so helpless and so insignificant.
But this was as between me as a child and my priests, or me as a priest and my children. How could I undertake to worry about Evans Ingram Towne, when the reasons for my worry were not, as they needed to be, taken for granted? Nevertheless, I determined to try,
“What is the best day in the year?” I asked him by way of sparring for an opening.
“Christmas Day?” It was half question and half answer.
“That’s right!” I replied. “And why is Christmas Day the best day in the year?”
“Because that’s the day Christ was born.” (I forgot to mention that Evans Ingram Towne goes to the Unitarian Church on Sundays, and his pastor’s name is something like Rev. Mr. Judson Bumbleberry.)
I was amazed at such a dogmatic utterance from such a source. “And who was Christ?” I continued.
“He was God,” he answered promptly and with perfect assurance.
“You are right, dear,” I said, not a little surprised; “that’s just who He was. And God became man. He came down to Earth and became a little boy like you. Wasn’t that a lovely thing for God to do? And Our Lady is Our Lord’s Blessed Mother. Did you ever hear of God’s Blessed Mother?”
“Well, I’ve heard them speak of that once or twice at home, but I don’t think they have that much in our town. I think that’s confined mostly to the larger cities, isn’t it?”
I decided not to waste any time trying to decide statistically just what cities “that” was confined to, but determined to go as far as I felt Rev. Mr. Jumbleberry would allow me, in telling this priceless little wayfarer something of that traditional theology which gives Christian children of my acquaintance such comfort and delight. And if I could induce him to make in his own way some simple act of perfect love, the Holy Spirit might be willing to transmute it at once into Baptism of Desire. But I had to work quickly, because I was leaving the train at Worcester, and the porter was already dust-ragging my bag.
“You see, it’s this way,” and I decided on a number of swift short sentences, God made you . . . He loves you . . . You’re His little boy . . . Nobody owns you as much as He does . . . Even when your first mother died, you went on living . . . because you really don’t belong to anybody but God . . . He worries about you all the time . . . He never lets you out of His thoughts . . . He counts the number of steps you take when you walk and the number of breaths you breathe in your sleep . . . Everyone who is good and kind to you He blesses and rewards . . . Everyone who is mean and unkind to you He punishes . . . When you do wrong and are sorry He forgives you and forgets it . . . When you do good He never forgets it . . . You weren’t really made for this world . . . I wasn’t . . . Nobody ever is . . . That’s why we’re all a little bit restless all the time and a little bit lonely . . . We’re all waiting for our real life which begins in Heaven after we die . . . Heaven is where we will see God and know how beautiful and lovely He is . . . And then we will be happy . . . We will be happy forever and ever . . . We can’t see God now . . . but we will see Him some day . . . He sees us, though . . . and He loves us . . . He wouldn’t have made us if He didn’t love us . . . and He wants us to love Him . . . and He will help us to love Him if we try . . . You love Him . . . don’t you?”
“Yes.” This was fine, but I wanted to make sure of it. And the trainman was shouting “Wooooooster!” and I had but a few seconds more to remain.
“Well, do you love God more than you love anybody else?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, say you do.”
“I do.”
“With all your heart?”
“Yes.”
“Just for His own sake, because He’s so good? And you’re sorry if you ever offended Him?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, say, ‘Almighty God, I love You with all my heart. ’ ”
“Almighty God, I love You with all my heart.”
“Better than I do anybody,”
“Better than I do anybody.”
I shook his small hand.
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
“And always remember,” I added hurriedly as I prepared to rush for the door, “that God loves you so much He came down to Earth to be a little boy like you. And that’s why Christmas Day is the best day in the year, because it’s the day God was born into the world for love of little boys. Will you remember now why it’s the best day in the year?” I was ready to make my sprint and dive for the Worcester platform.
“Yes, I’ll remember,” he said with a knit of his brow. “But of course I don’t think it can compare with the Fourth of July . . . ”
I leaped off the train as it started to move out of the station.
My head was buzzing and my heart was sick. I gave my bag to a redcap porter and then took it away from him again. I sat down on a bench on the railroad platform. Distances, distances were running through my mind. I was measuring them off, counting the hours, counting the miles. From Albany to Boston. From Albany to London. From Albany to Paris. From Albany to Paradise! That’s a long journey. For a little boy. To be taking all alone. At eleven years of age. Whose first mother is dead. Whose second mother doesn’t seem to worry. And whose lovely Blessed Mother is confined mostly to the larger cities.
