New York Tribune

KALSTROM'S WIFE AT THE CRIB.

From The Chicago Tribune.

I wonder how many of the hundreds who look out at the lake every day and see the crib-tower rising up against a blue or a gray sky, as the case may be, know of a scene that took place there nearly three years ago? At the time of which I speak the crib-keeper was a Finn named Kalstrom, a gigantic man and heavy in proportion to his size. He was known about the wharves as "Big Charlie," and his claim to distinction was that he had, as he said, "gommanded a bark of a dousand duns," in which he had sailed the North Seas, and in which, Viking-like, he had carried off his wife, a bright-faced Irish girl, from Drogheda, one of the east ports of Ireland. She was a small woman, with gray eyes and long black lashes. She had strongly marked eyebrows and a mass of waving black hair that crept in little curls around her temples and the nape of her neck. She had the piquant nose of her race and a generous mouth filled with strong white teeth. It was in March, and the day was one of those soft, treacherous ones that lure unwary flowers to their destruction, and sow pneumonia and bronchitis broadcast. The sun shone warmly, and the great lake seemed to dream of springtime. The crib-larder was like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, and Kalstrom took his small boat and rowed ashore. In the few hours he spent among the shops and in taking a glass of beer with his friends, the wind changed, and when he reached the shore with his stores, he found the lake churned up to the fury peculiar to inland seas. He was worried, but had such confidence in his little Irish girl, as he called her, that he spent the night quietly. The next day found the storm as wild as ever, and he spent the hours of daylight striding up and down the shore, for by this time he knew the few provisions had given out, and that his wife was actually suffering for food. Twice he launched his boat, and twice it swamped. At dark the light gleamed out from the crib-top, but to Kalstrom's eye it had a baleful glare, and morning found him determined "to go ev I hev to svim vor it," as he swore with some round Scandinavian oaths. Fortunately the wind was more quiet, and, after hard work he came under the lee of the crib-walls. His wife had spied him, and she cast him a noosed rope from the top story of the crib: for the waves rolled so high that all the storm-doors and shutters were battened down and the white caps spit at the lantern as they drove before the wind. He caught the rope, and passed up his bundle of supplies. She dropped it a second time; and, just as he got it under his arms, a great wave swamped the boat, leaving him clinging to the wall, blinded and bruised, and depending on the little woman up aloft for his life. She began hauling on the rope, and had drawn him as high as the sill-frame—he thrusting fingers and toes into whatever crevices offered. As he reached his right hand up, the wind came round the corner with a yell and tore him loose, dropping him into the lake: but the faithful Irish girl paid out the line as fast as she could, and he found himself with a chance for life still in his reach. Up he came, hand over hand, and as he entered the window he saw her fall, and in the dim light he noticed a strange disfiguration of her face, a black stain on the bright rag carpet, and the fact that her dress was torn to rags in front. Well, to make a long story short, when he picked her up he found the wedding-finger of her left hand entirely gone, and the tendon ripped out up to the elbow. It had been caught between the rope and the stone casing when he fell, and his great weight, playing against the wedding ring, had done the mischief. But, as she said, "It weren't a time for faintin', Miss." And she had hauled him up with the right hand and those strong white teeth. The ruggings of the hemp had cut her mouth cruelly, and she had ground her knees against the wall so desperately that the thick stuff-gown she wore was frayed through and through. That night the wind shrieked and roared till the lake went mad with the noise, and the waves threw their spray among the pigeons under the eave of the lantern-room, and the injured woman moaned through the house for the relief that could not come. Kalstrom signalled and signalled for help, and four days after the accident a boat got out, and Mrs. Kalstrom was taken to the hospital, where the wound was dressed, and where she lay for many a weary day. When I saw her first, I noticed with great satisfaction that a fall of pretty lace covered her maimed hand, and that "Big Charlie" under his rough husk held a real reverence and affection for her. To these feelings he bore witness everywhere, and when his friends would play upon him and say half in jest and half in earnest: "Ah, Charlie, you're a fine fellow, ain't you?" he would answer with naive conceit and confidence: "Yase, I am; for I hef gommanded a bark of a dousand duns; bat dere's a better dan me at home. And ev anybody says 'Kalstrom's a vine vellow,' you gan dell him, 'Yase, but Kalstrom's vife is a viner.'"