Post by wildfire on Jun 14, 2005 14:48:05 GMT -5
Once upon a time, in the gentle foothills of America's Ozark Mountains, there lived a widow.
Her home was a humble farm cabin which she had shared with her husband, but now she was alone in the world.
One morning toward the hour of noon, three men rode on horseback into the farmyard.
One of the men dismounted, knocked on the cabin door.
He explained to the widow that he and his friends were weary travelers, far from home, hungry and hankering for a hot home-cooked meal. Would it be too much trouble . . . that is, would she mind cooking such a meal for them?
The widow was reticent at first. Still, the strangers did appear hungry, and they were very polite. So she explained that there was not much food in the cabin, but they were welcome to what food she did have.
The men expressed their gratitude. Once inside the cabin, they were even more deeply touched by the widow's generosity.
It was obvious she was painfully poor. The little evidences of her lonely struggle to survive were everywhere: the meager furnishings, the supply cabinets mostly empty.
One of the travelers noticed a tear on the widow's cheek and asked what was the matter.
She replied that no one but she had eaten at that table since her husband's death. And now, having men in the cabin again . . . well, it just reminded her of happier times.
There was something else, and at this point the widow began to sob. After four o'clock that very afternoon, she would be without a home. In less than four hours, the man who held the mortgage to her farm would come to foreclose.
Eight hundred dollars remained on the mortgage, a hundred times more than she could afford to pay. The travelers stared at each other in icy, ashamed silence. How could they have imposed upon a woman who was already heaped with such burdens?
When they finished their meal and had thanked the widow for her hospitality, the shadows of mid afternoon were yawning in the farmyard.
One of the men clasped the widow's hand in parting.
"You remind me so much of my own mother," he said.
Into her other hand he gently placed a roll of bills.
American currency. Eight hundred dollars.
"When that man comes for his money, you get a receipt, now!"
Those were the last words the stranger spoke to her as he mounted his horse.
The widow watched him, smiling through incredulous, joyous tears, as he and his fellow travelers rode off down the dusty country road.
The story you have just read-that of the widow's mortgage and the generous stranger--occurred in the late 1870s in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains.
It is believed that single incident provided the factual basis for the scores of similar yet untrue stories that blossomed in its wake.
So as far as we know, it really happened only once.
And this is THE REST OF THE STORY:
When the fellow who had held the mortgage on the widow's farm had departed the property, paid in full, carrying with him the mortgage money-he was robbed on the road in the woods nearby.
He was robbed of all the money on his person-by the same Person who had given the widow the money!
The 'traveler." The stranger . . .
The mysterious benefactor: Jesse James.
Her home was a humble farm cabin which she had shared with her husband, but now she was alone in the world.
One morning toward the hour of noon, three men rode on horseback into the farmyard.
One of the men dismounted, knocked on the cabin door.
He explained to the widow that he and his friends were weary travelers, far from home, hungry and hankering for a hot home-cooked meal. Would it be too much trouble . . . that is, would she mind cooking such a meal for them?
The widow was reticent at first. Still, the strangers did appear hungry, and they were very polite. So she explained that there was not much food in the cabin, but they were welcome to what food she did have.
The men expressed their gratitude. Once inside the cabin, they were even more deeply touched by the widow's generosity.
It was obvious she was painfully poor. The little evidences of her lonely struggle to survive were everywhere: the meager furnishings, the supply cabinets mostly empty.
One of the travelers noticed a tear on the widow's cheek and asked what was the matter.
She replied that no one but she had eaten at that table since her husband's death. And now, having men in the cabin again . . . well, it just reminded her of happier times.
There was something else, and at this point the widow began to sob. After four o'clock that very afternoon, she would be without a home. In less than four hours, the man who held the mortgage to her farm would come to foreclose.
Eight hundred dollars remained on the mortgage, a hundred times more than she could afford to pay. The travelers stared at each other in icy, ashamed silence. How could they have imposed upon a woman who was already heaped with such burdens?
When they finished their meal and had thanked the widow for her hospitality, the shadows of mid afternoon were yawning in the farmyard.
One of the men clasped the widow's hand in parting.
"You remind me so much of my own mother," he said.
Into her other hand he gently placed a roll of bills.
American currency. Eight hundred dollars.
"When that man comes for his money, you get a receipt, now!"
Those were the last words the stranger spoke to her as he mounted his horse.
The widow watched him, smiling through incredulous, joyous tears, as he and his fellow travelers rode off down the dusty country road.
The story you have just read-that of the widow's mortgage and the generous stranger--occurred in the late 1870s in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains.
It is believed that single incident provided the factual basis for the scores of similar yet untrue stories that blossomed in its wake.
So as far as we know, it really happened only once.
And this is THE REST OF THE STORY:
When the fellow who had held the mortgage on the widow's farm had departed the property, paid in full, carrying with him the mortgage money-he was robbed on the road in the woods nearby.
He was robbed of all the money on his person-by the same Person who had given the widow the money!
The 'traveler." The stranger . . .
The mysterious benefactor: Jesse James.
