diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 2642-0.txt | 6119 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 2642-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 141398 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 2642-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 147265 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 2642-h/2642-h.htm | 6854 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 2642.txt | 6118 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 2642.zip | bin | 0 -> 140947 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/bckhm10.txt | 6377 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/bckhm10.zip | bin | 0 -> 139947 bytes |
11 files changed, 25484 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/2642-0.txt b/2642-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..40a4506 --- /dev/null +++ b/2642-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6119 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Back Home, by Eugene Wood + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Back Home + +Author: Eugene Wood + +Posting Date: December 8, 2008 [EBook #2642] +Release Date: May, 2001 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACK HOME *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer + + + + + +BACK HOME + +By Eugene Wood + + + + + TO + THE SAINTED MEMORY + OF HER WHOM, IN THE DAYS BACK HOME, + I KNEW AS “MY MA MAG” + AND WHO WAS MORE TO ME THAN I CAN TELL, EVEN + IF MY TARDY WORDS COULD REACH HER + THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED + + “That she who is an angel now + Might sometimes think of me” + + + + +CONTENTS + + INTRODUCTION + THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE + THE SABBATH-SCHOOL + THE REVOLVING YEAR + THE SWIMMING-HOLE + THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT + THE DEVOURING ELEMENT + CIRCUS DAY + THE COUNTY FAIR + CHRISTMAS BACK HOME + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +GENTLE READER:--Let me make you acquainted with my book, “Back Home.” + (Your right hand, Book, your right hand. Pity's sakes! How many times +have I got to tell you that? Chest up and forward, shoulders back and +down, and turn your toes out more.) + +It is a little book, Gentle Reader, but please don't let that prejudice +you against it. The General Public, I know, likes to feel heft in its +hand when it buys a book, but I had hoped that you were a peg or two +above the General Public. That mythical being goes on a reading spree +about every so often, and it selects a book which will probably last out +the craving, a book which “it will be impossible to lay down, after it +is once begun, until it is finished.” (I quote from the standard book +notice). A few hours later the following dialogue ensues: + + +“Henry!” + +“Yes, dear.” + +“Aren't you 'most done reading?” + +“Just as soon as I finish this chapter.” A sigh and a long wait. + +“Henry!” + +“Yes, dear.” + +“Did you lock the side-door?” No answer. + +“Henry! Did you?” + +“Did I what?” + +“Did you lock the side-door?” + +“In a minute now.” + +“Yes, but did you?” + +“M-hm. I guess so.” + +“'Guess so!' Did you lock that side-door? They got in at Hilliard's +night before last and stole a bag of clothes-pins.” + +“M.” + +“Oh, put down that book, and go and lock the side-door. I'll not get a +wink of sleep this blessed night unless you do.” + +“In a minute now. Just wait till I finish this...” + +“Go do it now.” + +Mr. General Public has a card on his desk that says, “Do it Now,” and so +he lays down his book with a patient sigh, and comes back to it with a +patent grouch. + +“Oh, so it is,” says the voice from the bedroom. “I remember now, I +locked it myself when I put the milk-bottles out.... I'm going to stop +taking of that man unless there's more cream on the top than there has +been here lately.” + +“M.” + +“Henry!” + +“Oh, what is it?” + +“Aren't you 'most done reading?” + +“In a minute, just as soon as I finish this chapter.” + +“How long is that chapter, for mercy's sakes?” + +“I began another.” + +“Henry!” + +“What?” + +“Aren't you coming to bed pretty soon? You know I can't go to sleep when +you are sitting up.” + +“Oh, hush up for one minute, can't ye? It's a funny thing if I can't +read a little once in a while.” + +“It's a funny thing if I've got to be broke of my rest this way. As much +as I have to look after. I'd hate to be so selfish.... Henry! Won't you +please put the book down and come to bed?” + +“Oh, for goodness sake! Turn over and go to sleep. You make me tired.” + +Every two or three hours Mrs. General Public wakes up and announces that +she can't get a wink of sleep, not a wink; she wishes he hadn't brought +the plagued old book home; he hasn't the least bit of consideration for +her; please, please, won't he put the book away and come to bed? + +He reaches “THE END” at 2:30A.M., turns off the gas, and creeps into +bed, his stomach all upset from smoking so much without eating anything, +his eyes feeling like two burnt holes in a blanket, and wishing that +he had the sense he was born with. He'll have to be up at 6:05, and he +knows how he will feel. He also knows how he will feel along about three +o'clock in the afternoon. Smithers is coming then to close up that deal. +Smithers is as sharp as tacks, as slippery as an eel, and as crooked as +a dog's hind leg. Always looking for the best of it. You need all +your wits when you deal with Smithers. Why didn't he take Mrs. General +Public's advice, and get to bed instead of sitting up fuddling himself +with that fool love-story? + +That's how a book should be to be a great popular success, and one +that all the typewriter girls will have on their desks. I am guiltily +conscious that “Back Home” is not up to standard either in avoirdupois +heft or the power to unfit a man for business. + +Here's a book. Is it long? No. Is it exciting? No. Any lost diamonds +in it? Nup. Mysterious murders? No. Whopping big fortune, now teetering +this way, and now teetering that, tipping over on the Hero at the last +and smothering him in an avalanche of fifty-dollar bills? No. Does She +get Him? Isn't even that. No “heart interest” at all. What's the use of +putting out good money to make such a book; to have a cover design for +it; to get a man like A. B. Frost to draw illustrations for it, when he +costs so like the mischief, when there's nothing in the book to make a +man sit up till 'way past bedtime? Why print it at all? + +You may search me. I suppose it's all right, but if it was my money, +I'll bet I could make a better investment of it. If worst came to worst, +I could do like the fellow in the story who went to the gambling-house +and found it closed up, so he shoved the money under the door and went +away. He'd done his part. + +And yet, on the other hand, I can see how some sort of a case can be +made out for this book of mine. I suppose I am wrong-I generally am in +regard to everything--but it seems to me that quite a large part of the +population of this country must be grown-up people. If I am right +in this contention, then this large part of the population is being +unjustly discriminated against. I believe in doing a reasonable amount +for the aid and comfort of the young things that are just beginning to +turn their hair up under, or who rub a stealthy forefinger over their +upper lips to feel the pleasant rasp, but I don't believe in their +monopolizing everything. I don't think it 's fair. All the books +printed--except, of course, those containing valuable information; we +don't buy those books, but go to the public library for them--all the +books printed are concerned with the problem of How She can get Him, and +He can get Her. + +Well, now. It was either yesterday morning or the day before that you +looked in the glass and beheld there The First Gray Hair. You smiled a +smile that was not all pure pleasure, a smile that petered out into a +sigh, but nevertheless a smile, I will contend. What do you think +about it? You're still on earth, aren't you? You'll last the month out, +anyhow, won't you? Not at all ready to be laid on the shelf? What do you +think of the relative importance of Love, Courtship, and Marriage? One +or two other things in life just about as interesting, aren't there? +Take getting a living, for instance. That 's worthy of one's attention, +to a certain extent. When our young ones ask us: “Pop, what did you say +to Mom when you courted her?” they feel provoked at us for taking it so +lightly and so frivolously. It vexes them for us to reply: “Law, child! +I don't remember. Why, I says to her: 'Will you have me?' And she says: +'Why, yes, and jump at the chance.' What difference does it make what +we said, or whether we said anything at all? Why should we charge our +memories with the recollections of those few and foolish months of mere +instinctive sex-attraction when all that really counts came after, +the years wherein low passion blossomed into lofty Love, the dear +companionship in joy and sorrow, and in that which is more, far more +than either joy or sorrow, 'the daily round, the common task?'” All that +is wonderful to think of in our courtship is the marvel, for which +we should never cease to thank the Almighty God, that with so little +judgment at our disposal we should have chosen so wisely. + +If you, Gentle Reader, found your first gray hair day before yesterday +morning, if you can remember, 'way, 'way back ten or fifteen years +ago... er... er... or more, come with me. Let us go “Back Home.” Here's +your transportation, all made out to you, and in your hand. It is no use +my reminding you that no railroad goes to the old home place. It isn't +there any more, even in outward seeming. Cummins's woods, where you had +your robbers' cave, is all cleared off and cut up into building lots. +The cool and echoing covered bridge, plastered with notices of dead and +forgotten Strawberry Festivals and Public Vendues, has long ago been +torn down to be replaced by a smart, red iron bridge. The Volunteer +Firemen's Engine-house, whose brick wall used to flutter with the gay +rags of circus-bills, is gone as if it never were at all. Where the +Union Schoolhouse was is all torn up now. They are putting up a new +magnificent structure, with all the modern improvements, exposed +plumbing, and spankless discipline. The quiet leafy streets echo to the +hissing snarl of trolley cars, and the power-house is right by the +Old Swimming-hole above the dam. The meeting-house, where we attended +Sabbath-school, and marveled at the Greek temple frescoed on the wall +behind the pulpit, is now a church with a big organ, and stained-glass +windows, and folding opera-chairs on a slanting floor. There isn't any +“Amen Corner,” any more, and in these calm and well-bred times nobody +ever gets “shouting happy.” + +But even when “the loved spots that our infancy knew” are physically the +same, a change has come upon them more saddening than words can tell. +They have shrunken and grown shabbier. They are not nearly so spacious +and so splendid as once they were. + +Some one comes up to you and calls you by your name. His voice echoes in +the chambers of your memory. You hold his hand in yours and try to peer +through the false-face he has on, the mask of a beard or spectacles, or +a changed expression of the countenance. He says he is So-and-so. Why, +he used to sit with you in Miss Crutcher's room, don't you remember? +There was a time when you and he walked together, your arms upon each +other's shoulders. But this is some other one than he. The boy you knew +had freckles, and could spit between his teeth, ever and ever so far. + +They don't have the same things to eat they used to have, or, if they +do, it all tastes different. Do you remember the old well, with the +windlass and the chain fastened to the rope just above the bucket, the +chain that used to cluck-cluck when the dripping bucket came within +reach to be swung upon the well-curb? How cold the water used to be, +right out of the northwest corner of the well! It made the roof of your +mouth ache when you drank. Everybody said it was such splendid water. It +isn't so very cold these days, and I think it has a sort of funny taste +to it. + +Ah, Gentle Reader, this is not really “Back Home” we gaze upon when +we go there by the train. It is a last year's bird's nest. The nest is +there; the birds are flown, the birds of youth, and noisy health, and +ravenous appetite, and inexperience. You cannot go “Back Home” by train, +but here is the magic wishing-carpet, and here is your transportation in +your hand all made out to you. You and I will make the journey together. +Let us in heart and mind thither ascend. + +I went to the Old Red School-house with you. Don't you remember me? I +was learning to swim when you could go clear across the river without +once “letting down.” I saw you at the County Fair, and bought a slab +of ice-cream candy just before you did. I was in the infant-class in +Sabbath-school when you spoke in the dialogue at the monthly concert. +Look again. Don't you remember me? I used to stub my toe so; you ought +to recollect me by that. I know plenty of people that you know. I may +not always get their names just right, but then it's been a good while +ago. You Il recognize them, though; you'll know them in a minute. + +EUGENE WOOD. + + + + +BACK HOME + + + + +THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE + + + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hill.) + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hi-hi-hi-yull) + And my heart with joy o'erflows, + Like the dew-drop in the rose,* + Thinking of the old red SCHOOL-HOUSE I o-o-on the hill, + (2d tenor and 1st bass: The hill, the hill.) + + THE MALE QUARTET'S COMPENDIUM. + + + * I call your attention to the chaste beauty of this line, + and the imperative necessity of the chord of the diminished + seventh for the word “rose.” Also “school-house” in the + last line must be very loud and staccato. Snap it off. + + +If the audience will kindly come forward and occupy the vacant seats +in the front of the hall, the entertainment will now begin. The male +quartet will first render an appropriate selection and then.... Can't +you see them from where you are? Let me assist you in the visualization. + +The first tenor, the gentleman on the extreme left, is a stocky little +man, with a large chest and short legs conspicuously curving inward. He +has plenty of white teeth, ash-blonde hair, and goes smooth-shaven for +purely personal reasons. His round, dough-colored face will never look +older (from a distance) than it did when he was nine. The flight of +years adds only deeper creases in the multitude of fine wrinkles, and +increasing difficulty in hoisting his tiny, patent-leather foot up on +his plump knee. + +The second tenor leans toward him in a way to make another man anxious +about his watch, but the second tenor is as honest as the day. He is +only “blending the voices.” He works in the bank. He is going to be +married in June sometime. Don't look around right away, but she's the +one in the pink shirt-waist, the second one from the aisle, the one... +two... three... the sixth row back. See her? Say, they've got it bad, +those two. What d' ye think? She goes down by the bank every day at +noon, so as to walk up with him to luncheon. She lives across the +street, and as soon as ever she has finished her luncheon, there she is, +out on the front porch hallooing: “Oo-hoo!” How about that? And if he so +much as looks at another girl--m-M! + +The first bass is one of these fellows with a flutter in his voice. +No, I don't mean a vibrato. It's a flutter, like a goat's tail. It is +considered real operatic. + +The second bass has a great, big Adam's apple that slides up and down +his throat like a toy-monkey on a stick. He is tall, and has eyebrows +like clothes-brushes, and he scowls fit to make you run and hide under +the bed. He is really a good-hearted fellow, though. Pity he has the +dyspepsia so bad. Oh, my, yes! Suffers everything with it, poor man. +He generally sings that song about “Drink-ing! DRINK-ang! Drink-awng!” + though he's strictly temperate himself. When he takes that last low +note, you hold on to your chair for fear you'll fall in too. + +But why bring in the male quartet? + +Because “The Little Old Red School-house” is more than a mere +collocation of words, accurately descriptive. It is what Mat King would +call a “symblem,” and as such requires the music's dying fall to lull +and enervate a too meticulous and stringent tendency to recollect that +it wasn't little, or old, or red, or on a hill. It might have been +big and new, and built of yellow brick, right next to the Second +Presbyterian, and hence close to the “branch,” so that the spring +freshets flooded the playground, and the water lapped the base of the +big rock on which we played “King on the Castle,”--the big rock so +pitifully dwindled of late years. No matter what he facts are. Sing 'of +“The Little Old Red Schoolhouse On the Hill” and in everybody's heart +a chord trembles in unison. As we hear its witching strains, we are all +lodge brethren, from Maine to California and far across the Western Sea; +we are all lodge brethren, and the air is “Auld Lang Syne,” and we are +clasping hands across, knitted together into one living solidarity; +and this, if we but sensed it, is the real Union, of which the federal +compact is but the outward seeming. It is a Union in which they have +neither art nor part whose parents sent them to private schools, so as +not to have them associate with “that class of people.” It is the +true democracy which batters down the walls that separate us from each +other--the walls of caste distinction, and color prejudice, and national +hatred, and religious contempt, all the petty, anti-social meannesses +that quarrel with + + “The Union of hearts, the Union of hands, + And the flag of our Union forever.” + +Old Glory has floated victoriously on many a gallant fight by sea +and land, but never do its silver stars glitter more bravely or its +blood-red stripes curve more proudly on the fawning breeze than when it +floats above the school-house, over the daily battle against ignorance +and prejudice (which is ignorance of our fellows), for freedom and for +equal rights. It is no mere pretty sentimentality that puts the flag +there, but the serious recognition of the bed-rock principle of our +Union: That we are all of one blood, one bounden duty; that all these +anti-social prejudices are just as shameful as illiteracy, and that they +must disappear as soon as ever we shall come to know each other well. +Knowledge is power. That is true. And it is also true: A house divided +against itself cannot stand. + +“The Flag of our Union forever!” is our prayer, our heart's desire for +us and for our children after us. Heroes have died to give us that, +heroes that with glazing eyes beheld the tattered ensign and spent their +latest breath to cheer it as it passed on to triumph. “We who are about +to die salute thee!” The heart swells to think of it. But it swells, +too, to think that, day by day, thousands upon thousands of little +children stretch out their hands toward that Flag and pledge allegiance +to it. “We who are about to LIVE salute thee!” + +It is no mere chance affair that all our federal buildings should be so +ugly and so begrudged, and that our school-houses should be so beautiful +architecturally--the one nearest my house is built from plans that took +the first prize at the Paris Exposition, in competition with the +whole world--so well-appointed, and so far from being grudged that the +complaint is, that there are not enough of them. + +That So-and-so should be the President, and such-and-such a party +have control is but a game we play at, amateurs and professionals; the +serious business is, that in this country no child, how poor soever it +may be, shall have the slightest let or hindrance in the equal chance +with every other child to learn to read, and write, and cipher, and do +raffia-work. + +It is a new thing with us to have splendid school-houses. After all, the +norm, as you might say, is still “The Old Red School-house.” You must +recollect how hard the struggle is for the poor farmer, with wheat only +a dollar a bushel, and eggs only six for a quarter; with every year +or so taxes of three and sometimes four dollars on an eighty-acre farm +grinding him to earth. It were folly to expect more in rural districts +than a tight box, with benches and a stove in it. Never-the-less, it is +the thing signified more than its outward seeming that catches and holds +the eye upon the country school-house as you drive past it. You count +yourself fortunate if, mingled with the creaking of the buggy-springs, +you hear the hum of recitation; yet more fortunate if it is recess time, +and you can see the children out at play, the little girls holding to +one another's dress-tails as they solemnly circle to the chant: + + “H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh, + Tha malbarry bosh, tha malbarry bosh, + H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh + On a cay-um and frasty marneng.” + +The boys are at marbles, if it is muddy enough, or one-old-cat, or +pom-pom-peel-away, with the normal percentage of them in reboant +tears--that is to say, one in three. + +But even this is not the moment of illumination, when it comes upon you +like a flood how glorious is the land we live in, upon what sure and +certain footing are its institutions, when we know by spiritual insight +that whatsoever be the trial that awaits us, the people of these United +States, we shall be able for it! Yes. We shall be able for it. + +If you would learn the secret of our nation's greatness, take your stand +some winter's morning just before nine o'clock, where you can overlook a +circle of some two or three miles' radius, the center being the Old Red +School-house. You will see little figures picking their way along the +miry roads, or ploughing through the deep drifts, cutting across the +fields, all drawing to the school-house, Bub in his wammus and his +cowhide boots, his cap with ear-laps, a knitted comforter about his +neck, and his hands glowing in scarlet mittens; and little Sis, in a +thick shawl, trudging along behind him, stepping in his tracks. They +chirrup, “Good-morning, sir!” As far as you can see them you have to +watch them, and something rises in your throat. Lord love 'em! Lord love +the children! + +And then it comes to you, and it makes you catch your breath to think of +it, that every two or three miles all over this land, wherever there are +children at all, there is the Old Red Schoolhouse. At this very hour a +living tide, upbearing the hopes and prayers of God alone knows how many +loving hearts, the tide on which all of our longed-for ships are to come +in, is setting to the school-house. Oh, what is martial glory, what is +conquest of an empire, what is state-craft alongside of this? Happy is +the people that is in such a case! + +The city schools are now the pattern for the country schools: but in +my day, although a little they were pouring the new wine of frothing +educational reform into the old bottles, they had not quite attained the +full distention of this present. We still had some kind of a good +time, but nothing like the good times they had out at the school near +grandpap's, where I sometimes visited. There you could whisper! Yes, +sir, you could whisper. So long as you didn't talk out loud, it was all +right. And there was no rising at the tap of the bell, forming in line +and walking in lock-step. Seemingly it never entered the school-board's +heads that anybody would ever be sent to state's prison. They left the +scholars unprepared for any such career. They have remedied all that in +city schools. Now, when a boy grows up and goes to Sing Sing, he knows +exactly what to do and how to behave. It all comes back to him. + +But what I call the finest part of going to school in the country was, +that you didn't go home to dinner. Grandma had a boy only a few years +older than I was, and when I went a-visiting, she fixed us up a “piece.” + They call it “luncheon” now, I think--a foolish, hybrid mongrel of a +word, made up of “lump,” a piece of bread, and “noon,” and “shenk,” + a pouring or drink. But the right name is “piece.” What made this +particular “piece” taste so wonderfully good was that it was in a +round-bottomed basket woven of splints dyed blue, and black and red, +and all in such a funny pattern. It was an Indian basket. My grandma's +mother, when she was a little girl, got that from the squaw of old Chief +Wiping-Stick. + +The “piece” had bread-and-butter (my grandma used to let me churn +for her sometimes, when I went out there), and some of the slices had +apple-butter on them. (One time she let me stir the cider, when it was +boiling down in the big kettle over the chunk-fire out in the yard. The +smoke got in my eyes.) Sometimes there was honey from the hives over by +the gooseberry bushes--the gooseberries had stickers on them--and we had +slices of cold, fried ham. (I was out at grandpap's one time when they +butchered. They had a chunk-fire then, too, to heat the water to scald +the hogs. And say! Did your grandma ever roast pig's tails in the ashes +for you?) And there were crullers. No, I don't mean “doughnuts.” I mean +crullers, all twisted up. They go good with cider. (Sometimes my grandma +cut out thin, pallid little men of cruller dough, and dropped them into +the hot lard for my Uncle Jimmy and me. And when she fished them out, +they were all swelled up and “pussy,” and golden brown). + +And there was pie. Neither at the school nooning nor at the table did +one put a piece of pie upon a plate and haggle at it with a fork. You +took the piece of pie up in your hand and pointed the sharp end toward +you, and gently crowded it into your face. It didn't require much +pressure either. + +And there were always apples, real apples. I think they must make apples +in factories nowadays. They taste like it. These were real ones, picked +off the trees. Out at grandpap's they had bellflowers, and winesaps, and +seek-no-furthers, and, I think, sheep-noses, and one kind of apple that +I can't find any more, though I have sought it carefully. It was the +finest apple I ever set a tooth in. It was the juiciest and the spiciest +apple. It had sort of a rollicking flavor to it, if you know what I +mean. It certainly was the ne plus ultra of an apple. And the name of it +was the rambo. Dear me, how good it was! think I'd sooner have one right +now than great riches. And all these apples they kept in the apple-hole. +You went out and uncovered the earth and there they were, all in a big +nest of straw; and such a gush of perfume distilled from that pile of +them that just to recollect it makes my mouth all wet. + +They had a big red apple in those days that I forget the name of. Oh, it +was a whopper! You'd nibble at it and nibble at it before you could +get a purchase on it. Then, after you got your teeth in, you'd pull and +pull, and all of a sudden the apple would go “tock!” and your head would +fly back from the recoil, and you had a bite about the size of your +hand. You “chomped” on it, with your cheek all bulged out, and blame +near drowned yourself with the juice of it. + +Noon-time the girls used to count the seeds: + + “One I love, two I love, three my love I see; + Four I love with all my heart, and five I cast away. + Six he loves; seven she loves; eight... eight...” + +I forget what eight is, and all that follows after. And then the others +would tease her with, “Aw, Jennie!” knowing who it was she had named +the apple for, Wes. Rinehart, or 'Lonzo Curl, or whoever. And you'd +be standing there by the stove, kind of grinning and not thinking of +anything in particular when somebody would hit you a clout on your back +that just about broke you in two, and would tell you “to pass it on,” + and you'd pass it on, and the next thing was you'd think the house was +coming down. Such a chasing around and over benches, and upsetting the +water-bucket, and tearing up Jack generally that teacher would say, +“Boys! boys! If you can't play quietly, you'll have to go out of doors!” + Play quietly! Why, the idea! What kind of play is it when you are right +still? + +Outdoors in the country, you can whoop and holler, and carry on, and +nobody complains to the board of health. And there are so many things +you can do. If there is just the least little fall of snow you can make +a big wheel, with spokes in it, by your tracking. I remember that it was +called “fox and geese,” but that's all I can remember about it. If there +was a little more snow you tried to wash the girls' faces in it, and +sometimes got yours washed. If there was a good deal of wet snow you had +a snowball fight, which is great fun, unless you get one right smack dab +in your ear--oh, but I can't begin to tell you all the fun there is at +the noon hour in the country school, that the town children don't know +anything about. And when it was time for school to “take up,” there +wasn't any forming in line, with a monitor to run tell teacher who +snatched off Joseph Humphreys' cap and flung it far away, so he had to +get out of the line, and who did this, and who did that--no penitentiary +business at all. Teacher tapped on the window with a ruler, and the boys +and girls came in, red-faced and puffing, careering through the aisles, +knocking things off the desks with many a burlesque, “oh, exCUSE me!” + and falling into their seats, bursting into sniggers, they didn't know +what at. They had an hour and a half nooning. Counting that it took five +minutes to shovel down even grandma's beautiful “piece,” that left an +hour and twenty-five minutes for roaring, romping play. If you want to +know, I think that is fully as educational and a far better preparation +for life than sitting still with your nose stuck in a book. + +In the city schools they don't think so. Even the stingy fifteen +minutes' recess, morning and afternoon, has been stolen from the +children. Instead is given the inspiriting physical culture, all making +silly motions together in a nice, warm room, full of second-hand air. +Is it any wonder that one in every three that die between fifteen and +twenty-five, dies of consumption? + +You must have noticed that almost everybody that amounts to anything +spent his early life in the country. The city schools have great +educational advantages; they have all the up-to-date methods, but the +output of the Old Red Schoolhouse compares very favorably with that of +the city schools for all that. The two-mile walk, morning and evening, +had something to do with it, not only because it and the long nooning +were good exercise, but because it impressed upon the mind that what +cost so much effort to get must surely be worth having. But I think I +know another reason. + +If the city child goes through the arithmetic once, it is as much as +ever. In the Old Red School-house those who hadn't gone through the +arithmetic at least six times, were little thought of. In town, the last +subject in the book was “Permutation,” to which you gave the mere look +its essentially frivolous nature deserved. It was: “End of the line. All +out!” But in the country a very important department followed. It was +called “Problems.” They were twisters, able to make “How old is Ann?” + look like a last year's bird's nest. They make a big fuss about the +psychology of the child's mind nowadays. Well, I tell you they couldn't +teach the man that got up that arithmetic a thing about the operation of +the child's mind. He knew what was what. He didn't put down the answers. +He knew that if he did, weak, erring human nature, tortured by suspense, +determined to have the agony over, would multiply by four and divide by +thirteen, and subtract 127--didn't, either. I didn't say “substract.” I +guess I know they'd get the answer somehow, it didn't matter much how. + +In the country they ciphered through this part, and handed in their sums +to Teacher, who said she'd take 'em home and look 'em over; she didn't +have time just then. As if that fooled anybody! She had a key! And when +you had done the very last one on the very last page, and there wasn't +anything more except the blank pages, where you had written, “Joe Geiger +loves Molly Meyers,” and, “If my name you wish to see, look on page +103,” and all such stuff, then you turned over to the beginning, where +it says, “Arithmetic is the science of numbers, and the art of computing +by them,” and once more considered, “Ann had four apples and her brother +gave her two more. How many did she then have?” There were the four +apples in a row, and the two apples, and you that had worried over +meadows so long and so wide, and men mowing them in so many days and +a half, had to think how many apples Ann really did have. Some of the +fellows with forked hairs on their chins and uncertain voices--the big +fellows in the back seats, where the apple-cores and the spit-balls come +from knew every example in the book by heart. + +And there is yet another reason why the country school has brought forth +men of whom we do well to be proud. At the county-seat, every so often, +the school commissioners held an examination. Thither resorted many, for +the most part anxious to determine if they really knew as much as they +thought they did. If you took that examination and got a “stiff kit” + for eighteen months, you had good cause to hold your head up and step +as high as a blind horse. A “stiff kit” for eighteen months is no small +thing, let me tell you. I don't know if there is anything corresponding +to a doctor's hood for such as win a certificate to teach school for +two years hand-running; but there ought to be. A fellow ought not to +be obliged to resort to such tactics as taking out a folded paper and +perusing it in the hope that some one will ask him: “What you got there, +Calvin?” so as to give you a chance to say, carelessly, “Oh, jist a +'stiff-kit' for two years.” + +(When you get as far along as that, you simply have to take a term in +the junior Prep. Department at college, not because there is anything +left for you to learn, but for the sake of putting a gloss on your +education, finishing it off neatly.) + +And then if you were going to read law with Mr. Parker, or study +medicine with old Doc. Harbaugh, and you kind of run out of clothes, you +took that certificate and hunted up a school and taught it. Sometimes +they paid you as high as $20 a month and board, lots of board, real +buckwheat cakes (“riz” buckwheat, not the prepared kind), and real maple +syrup, and real sausage, the kind that has sage in it; the kind that you +can't coax your butcher to sell you. The pale, tasteless stuff he gives +you for sausage I wouldn't throw out to the chickens. Twenty dollars a +month and board! That's $4 a month more than a hired man gets. + +But it wasn't alone the demonstration that, strange as it might seem, +it was possible for a man to get his living by his wits (though that +has done much to produce great men) as it was the actual exercise of +teaching. Remember the big boys on the back seats, where the apple-cores +and the spit-balls come from. The school-director that hired you gave +you a searching look-over and said: “M-well-l-l, I'm afraid you haint +hardly qualified for our school--oh, that's all right, sir; that's all +right. Your 'stiff-kit' is first-rate, and you got good recommends, good +recommends; but I was thinkin'--well, I tell you. Might's well out with +it first as last. I d' know's I ort to say so, but this here district +No. 34 is a poot' tol'able hard school to teach. Ya-uss. A poot-ty +tol'able hard school to teach. Now, that's jist the plumb facts in the +matter. We've had four try it this winter a'ready. One of 'em stuck it +out four weeks--I jimminy! he had grit, that feller had. The balance of +'em didn't take so long to make up their minds. Well, now, if you're a +mind to try it--I was goin' to say you didn't look to me like you had +the heft. Like to have you the worst way. Now, if you want to back +out.... Well, all right. Monday mornin', eh? Well, you got my +sympathies.” + +I believe that some have tried to figure out that St. Martin of Tours, +ought to be the patron saint of the United States. One of his feast-days +falls on July 4, and his colors are red, white and blue. But I rather +prefer, myself, the Boanerges, the two sons of Zebedee. When asked: “Are +ye able to drink of this cup?” they answered: “We are able.” They didn't +in the least know what it was; but they knew they were able for anything +that anybody else was, and, perhaps, able for a little more. At any +rate, they were willing to chance it. That's the United States of +America, clear to the bone and back again to the skin. + +You ask any really great man: “Have you ever taught a winter term in a +country school?” If he says he hasn't, then depend upon it he isn't +a really great man. People only think he is. The winter term breeds +Boanerges--sons of thunder. Yes, and of lightning, too. Something struck +the big boys in the back seats, as sure as you're a foot high; and if it +wasn't lightning, what was it? Brute strength for brute strength, they +were more than a match for Teacher. It was up to him. It was either +prove himself the superior power, or slink off home and crawl under the +porch. + +The curriculum of the Old Red School-house, which was, until lately, the +universal curriculum, consisted in reading, writing, and arithmetic or +ciphering. I like the word “ciphering,” because it makes me think of +slates--slates that were always falling on the floor with a rousing +clatter, so that almost always at least one corner was cracked. Some +mitigation of the noise was gained by binding the frame with strips of +red flannel, thus adding warmth and brightness to the color scheme. Just +as some fertile brain conceived the notion of applying a knob of rubber +to each corner, slates went out, and I suppose only doctors buy them +nowadays to hang on the doors of their offices. Maybe the teacher's +nerves were too highly strung to endure the squeaking of gritty pencils, +but I think the real reason for their banishment is, that slates invited +too strongly the game of noughts and crosses, or tit-tat-toe, three in +a row, the champion of indoor sports, and one entirely inimical to the +study of the joggerfy lesson. But if slates favored tit-tat-toe, they +also favored ciphering, and nothing but good can come from that. Paper +is now so cheap that you need not rub out mistakes, but paper and pencil +can never surely ground one in “the science of numbers and the art of +computing by them.” What is written is written, and returns to plague +the memory, but if you made a mistake on the slate, you could spit on it +and rub it out with your sleeve and leave no trace of the error, either +on the writing surface or the tables of the memory. What does the hymn +say? + + “Forget the steps already trod, + And onward urge thy way.” + +The girls used to keep a little sponge and some water in a discarded +patchouli bottle with a glass stopper, to wash their slates with; but it +always seemed to me that the human and whole-hearted way was otherwise. + +Reading, writing, and arithmetic,--these three; and the greatest of +these three is arithmetic. Over against it stands grammar, which may be +said to be derived from reading and writing. Show me a man that, as +a boy at school, excelled in arithmetic and I will show you a useful +citizen, a boss in his own business, a leader of men; show me the boy +that preferred grammar, that read expressively, that wrote a +beautiful hand and curled his capital S's till their tails looked like +mainsprings, and I will show you a dreamer and a sentimentalist--a man +that works for other people. While I have breath in me, I will maintain +the supereminence of arithmetic. There is no room for disputation in +arithmetic, no exceptions to the rule. Twice two is four, and that's +all there is about it: but whether there be pronunciations, they shall +cease; whether there be rules of grammar, they shall vanish away. Why, +look here. It's a rule of grammar, isn't it, that the subject of a +sentence must be put in the nominative case? Let it kick and bite, and +hang on to the desks all it wants to, in it goes and the door is slammed +on it. You think so? What is the word “you?” Second person, plural +number, objective case. Oh, no; the nominative form is “ye.” + +Don't you remember it says: “Woe unto you, ye lawyers”? Those who fight +against: “Him and me went down town,” fight against the stars in +their courses, for the objective case in every language is bound and +determined to be The Whole Thing. Arithmetic alone is founded on a rock. +All else is fleeting, all else is futile, chaotic--a waste of time. What +is reading but a rival of morphine? There are probably as many men in +prison, sent there by Reading, as by Rum. + +“Oh, not good Reading!” says the publisher. + +“Not good Rum, either,” says the publican. + +Fight it out. It's an even thing between the two of you; Literature and +Liquor, Books and Booze, which can take a man's mind off his business +most effectually. + +Still, merely as a matter of taste, I will defend the quality of +McGuffey's School Readers against all comers. I don't know who McGuffey +was; but certainly he formed the greatest intellects of our age, +present company not excepted. The true test of literature is its eternal +modernity. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. It always seems of the +age in which it is read. Now, almost the earliest lection in McGuffey's +First Reader goes directly to the heart of one of the greatest of modern +problems. It does not palter or beat about the bush. It asks right out, +plump and plain: “Ann, how old are you?” + +Year by year, until we reached the dizzy height of the Sixth Reader, +were presented to us samples of the best English ever written. If you +can find, up in the garret, a worn and frayed old Reader, take it +down and turn its pages over. See if anything in these degenerate days +compares in vital strength and beauty with the story of the boy that +climbed the Natural Bridge, carving his steps in the soft limestone with +his pocket knife. You cannot read it without a thrill. The same inspired +hand wrote “The Blind Preacher,” and who that ever can read it can +forget the climax reached in that sublime line: “Socrates died like a +philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a god!” + +Not long ago I walked among the graves in that spot opposite where Wall +Street slants away from Broadway, and my feet trod on ground worth, in +the market, more than the twenty-dollar gold pieces that would cover +it. My eye lighted upon a flaking brownstone slab, that told me Captain +Michael Cresap rested there. Captain Michael Cresap! The intervening +years all fled away before me, and once again my boyish heart thrilled +with that incomparable oration in McGuffey's Reader, “Who is there +to mourn for Logan? Not one.” Captain Cresap was the man that led the +massacre of Logan's family. + +And there was more than good literature in those Readers. There was one +piece that told about a little boy alone upon a country road at +night. The black trees groaned and waved their skinny arms at him. +The wind-torn clouds fitfully let a pale and watery moonlight stream +a little through. It was very lonely. Over his shoulder the boy saw +indistinct shapes that followed after, and hid themselves whenever he +looked squarely at them. Then, suddenly, he saw before him in the gloom, +a gaunt white specter waiting for him--waiting to get him, its arms +spread wide out in menace. He was of our breed, though, this boy. He did +not turn and run. With God knows what terror knocking at his ribs, he +trudged ahead to meet his fate, and lo! the grisly specter proved to be +a friendly guide-post to show the way that he should walk in. Brother +(for you are my kin that went with me to public school), in the life +that you have lived since you first read the story of Harry and the +Guide-post, has it been an idle tale, or have you, too, found that what +we dreaded most, what seemed to us so terrible in the future has, after +all, been a friendly guide-post, showing us the way that we should walk +in? + +McGuffey had a Speller, too. It began with simple words in common use, +like a-b ab, and e-b eb, and i-b, ib, proceeding by gradual, if not by +easy stages to honorificatudinibility and disproportionableness, with +a department at the back devoted to twisters like phthisic, and +mullein-stalk, and diphtheria, and gneiss. We used to have a fine old +sport on Friday afternoons, called “choose-up-and-spell-down.” I don't +know if you ever played it. It was a survival, pure and simple, from the +Old Red School-house. There was where it really lived. There was +where it flourished as a gladiatorial spectacle. The crack spellers of +District Number 34 would challenge the crack spellers of the Sinking +Spring School. The whole countryside came to the school-house in wagons +at early candle-lighting time, and watched them fight it out. The +interest grew as the contest narrowed down, until at last there were the +two captains left--big John Rice for District Number 34, and that wiry, +nervous, black-haired girl of 'Lias Hoover's, Polly Ann. She married +a man by the name of Brubaker. I guess you didn't know him. His folks +moved here from Clarke County. Polly Ann's eyes glittered like a +snake's, and she kept putting her knuckles up to the red spots in her +cheeks that burned like fire. Old John, he didn't seem to care a cent. +And what do you think Polly Ann missed on? “Feoffment.” A simple little +word like “feoffment!” She hadn't got further than “pheph--” when she +knew that she was wrong, but Teacher had said “Next!” and big John took +it and spelled it right. She had a fit of nervous crying, and some were +for giving her the victory, after all, because she was a lady. But big +John said: “She missed, didn't she? Well. And I spelled it right, didn't +I? Well. She took her chances same as the rest of us. 'Taint me you got +to consider, it's District Number 34. And furthermore. AND FURTHERMORE. +Next time somebuddy asts her to go home with him from singin'-school, +mebby she won't snigger right in his face, and say 'No! 's' loud 'at +everybuddy kin hear it.” + +It's quite a thing to be a good speller, but there are people who can +spell any word that ever was, and yet if you should ask them right quick +how much is seven times eight, they'd hem and haw and say: “Seven tums +eight? Why--ah, lemme see now. Seven tums--what was it you said? Oh, +seven tums eight. Why--ah, seven tums eight is sixty-three--fifty-six I +mean.” There's nothing really to spelling. It's just an idiosyncrasy. +If there was really anything useful in it, you could do it by +machinery--just the same as you can add by machinery, or write with a +typewriter, or play the piano with one of these things with cut paper +in it. Spelling is an old-fashioned, hand-powered process, and as such +doomed to disappear with the march of improvement. + +One Friday afternoon we chose up and spelled down, and the next Friday +afternoon we spoke pieces. Doubtless this accounts for our being a +nation of orators. I am far from implying or seeming to imply that this +is anything to brag of. Anybody that can be influenced by a man with a +big mouth, a loud voice, and a rush of words to the face--well, I've got +my opinion of all such. + +Oratory and poetry--all foolishness, I say. Better far are +drawing-lessons, and raffia-work, and clay-modeling than: “I come not +here to talk,” and “A soldier of the Legion lay dying at Algiers,” and +“Old Ironsides at anchor lay.” (I observe that these lines are more or +less familiar to you, and that you are eager to add selections to the +list, all of them known to me as well as you.) That children, especially +boys, loathe to speak a piece is a fact profoundly significant. They +know it is nothing in the world but foolishness; and if there is one +thing above another that a child hates, it is to be made a fool in +public. That's what makes them work their fingers so, and gulp, and +stammer, and tremble at the knees. That is what sends them to their +seats, after all is over, mad as hornets. This is something that I know +about. It happened that, instead of getting funny pieces to recite as I +wanted to, discerning that one silly turn deserves another, my parents, +well-meaning in their way, taught me solemn things about: “O man +immortal, live for something!” and all such, and I had to humiliate +myself by disgorging them in public. The consequence was, that not only +on Friday afternoons but whenever anybody came to visit the school, I +was butchered to make a Roman holiday. Teacher was so proud of me, and +the visitors let on that they were tickled half to death, but I knew +better. I could see the other scholars look at one another, as much +as to say: “Well, if you'll tell me why!” Even in my shame and anger +I could see that. But there is one happy memory of a Friday afternoon. +Determined to show my friends and fellow-citizens that I, too, was born +in Arcadia, and was a living, human boy, I announced to Teacher: “I got +another piece.” + +“Oh, have you?” cried she, sure of an extra O-man-immortal intellectual +treat. “Let us hear it, by all means.” + +Whereupon I marched up to the platform and declaimed that deathless +lyric: + +“When I was a boy, I was a bold one. My mammy made me a new shirt out o' +dad's old one.” + +All of it? Certainly. Isn't that enough? That was the only distinctly +popular platform effort I ever made. I am proud of it now. I was proud +of it then. But the news of my triumph was coldly received at home. + +I don't know whether it has since gone out of date, but in my day +and time a very telling feature of school exhibitions was reading in +concert. The room was packed as full of everybody's ma as it could be, +and yet not mash the children out of shape, and a whole lot of young +ones would read a piece together. Fine? Finest thing you ever heard. I +remember one time teacher must have calculated a leetle mite too close, +or else one girl more was in the class than she had reckoned on; but on +the day, the two end girls just managed to stand upon the platform and +that was all. They recited together: + + “There was a sound of revelry by night + And Belgium's capital....” + +I forget the rest of it. Well, anyhow, they were supposed to make +gestures all together. Teacher had rehearsed the gestures, and they all +did it simultaneously, just as if they had been wound up with a spring. +But, as I said, the two end girls had all they could do to keep on the +platform, and it takes elbow room for: “'T is but the car rattling +over the stony street,” and one girl--well, she said she stepped off on +purpose, but I didn't believe her then and I don't now. We had our laugh +about it, whichever way it was. + +We had our laugh.... Ah, life was all laughter then. That was before +care came to be the shadow at our heel. That was before black Sorrow +met us in the way, and would not let us pass unless we gave to her our +dearest treasure. That was before we learned that what we covet most +is, when we get it, but a poor thing after all, that whatsoever chalice +Fortune presses to our lips, a tear is in the bottom of the cup. In +those happy days gone by if the rain fell, 't was only for a little +while, and presently the sky was bright again, and the birds whistled +merrily among the wet and shining leaves. Now “the clouds return after +the rain.” + +It can never be with us again as once it was. For us the bell upon the +Old Red School-house calls in vain. We heed it not, we that +hearkened for it years ago. The living tide of youth flows toward the +school-house, and we are not of it. Never again shall we sit at those +old desks, whittled and carved with rude initials, and snap our fingers, +eager to tell the answer. Never again shall we experience the thrill of +pride when teacher praised us openly. Never again shall we sit trembling +while the principal, reads the note, and then scowls at us fiercely +with: “Take off your coat, sir!” Ah, me! Never again, never again. + +Well, who wants it to be that way again? We're men and women now. We've +duties and responsibilities. Who wants to be a child again? Not I. Let +me stick just at my present age for about a hundred years, and I'll +never utter a word of complaint. + + + + +THE SABBATH-SCHOOL + + + “We-a love the Sunday-school. + We-a love the Sunday-school. + (Girls)--So do I. + (Boys)-So do I. + (School)--We all love the Sunday-school.” + + + “SPARKLING DEWDROPS.” + + +Some people believe that when General Conference assigned them to the +Committee on Hymn-Book Revision, power and authority were given unto +them to put a half-sole and a new heel on any and all poetry that might +look to them to be a little run over on one side. If they felt as I +do about the lines that head this article they would have “Sunday” + scratched out and “Sabbath” written in before you could bat an eye. The +mere substitution of one word for another may seem a light matter to a +man that has never composed anything more literary than an obituary for +the Western Advocate of Sister Jane Malinda Sprague, who was born in +Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania, in 1816, removed with her parents at +a tender age to New Sardis, Washington County, Ohio, where, etc., etc. +If he wanted to extract a word he would do it, and never even offer to +give the author gas. But I know just how it hurts. I know or can imagine +how the gifted poet that penned the deathless lines I have quoted must +have walked the floor in an agony until every word and syllable was +just to suit him, and so, though I feel sure he meant to write +“Sabbath-school,” I don't dare change it. + +To most persons one word seems about as good as another, Sunday or +Sabbath, but when there are young people about the house you learn to be +careful how you talk before them. Now, I would not go so far as to say +that “Sunday” is what you might call exactly rowdy, but er... but... +er... Let me illustrate. If a man says, “It's a beautiful Sunday +morning,” like enough he has on red-and-green stockings, baggy +knickerbockers, a violet-and-purple sweater, a cap shaped like a +milk-roll, and is smoking a pipe. He very likely carries a bagful of +golf-sticks, or is pumping up his bicycle. But if a man says, “This +beautiful Sabbath morn,” you know for a certainty that he wears a +long-tailed black coat, a boiled shirt, and a white tie. He is bald from +his forehead upward, his upper lip is shaven, and his views and those +of the late Robert Reed on the disgusting habit of using tobacco are +absolutely at one. + +Not alone a regard for respectability, but the hankering to be +historically accurate, urges me to make the change I speak of. +Originally the institution was a Sunday-school, and not very respectable +either. I should hate to think any of my dear young friends were in the +habit of attending such a low-class affair as Robert Raikes conducted. +Sunday-schools were for “little ragamuffins,” as he called them, who +worked such long hours on week-days (from five in the morning until nine +at night) that if they were to learn the common branches at all it had +to be on a Sunday. A ragged school was bad enough in itself, putting +foolish notions into the heads of gutter-brats and making them +discontented and unhappy in their lot; but to teach a ragged school +on Sunday was a little too much. So Robert Raikes encountered the most +violent opposition, although from that beginning dates popular education +in England. + +To be able to read is no Longer a sign that Pa can afford to do without +the young ones' wages on a Saturday night, and can even pay for +their schooling. It is no longer a mark of wealth or even of hard-won +privilege, but the common fate of all; to know the three R's, and Sunday +is not now set apart for secular instruction. So good and wholesome an +institution as the Sunday-school was not permitted to perish, but was +changed to suit the environment. It is now become the Sabbath-school for +the study of the Bible, a Christian recrudescence of the synagogue. +For some eighteen centuries it was supposed that a regularly ordained +minister should have exclusive charge of this work. At rare intervals +nowadays a clergyman may be found to maintain that because a man has +been to college and to the theological seminary, and has made the study +of the Scriptures his life-work (moved to that decision after careful +self-examination) that therefore he is better fitted to that ministry +than Miss Susie Goldrick, who teaches a class in Sabbath-school very +acceptably. Miss Goldrick is in the second year in the High School, and +last Friday afternoon read a composition on English Literatoor, in which +she spoke in terms of high praise of John Bunion, the well-known author +of “Progress and Poverty.” Miss Goldrick is very conscientious, +and always keeps her thumbnail against the questions printed on the +lesson-leaf, so as not to ask twice, “What did the disciples then do?” + +It were a grave error to suppose that no secular learning is acquired in +the modern Sabbath-school. I remember once, when quite young, speaking +to my teacher, in the interval between the regular class work and the +closing exercises, about peacocks. I had read of them, but had never +seen one. What did they look like? She said a peacock was something like +a butterfly. I have always remembered that, and when I did finally see +a peacock, I was interested to note the essential accuracy of the +description. + +Also, one day a new lady taught our class, Miss Evans having gone up to +Marion to spend a Sunday with her brother, who kept a stove store there, +and this new lady borrowed two flower vases from off the pulpit and a +piece of string from Turkey-egg McLaughlin to explain to us boys how the +earth went around the sun. We had too much manners to tell her that we +knew that years and years ago when we were in Miss Humphreys's room. I +don't remember what the earth going around the sun had to do with the +lesson for the day, which was about Samuel anointing David's head with +oil--did I ever tell you how I anointed my own head with coal oil?--but +I do remember that she broke both the vases and cut her finger, and had +to keep sucking it the rest of the time, because she didn't want to get +her handkerchief all bloodied up. It was a kind of fancy handkerchief, +made of thin stuff trimmed with lace--no good. + +The Sabbath-school may be said to be divided into three courses, namely, +the preparatory or infant-class, the collegiate or Sabbath-school +proper, and the post-graduate or Mr. Parker's Bible-class. + +What can a mere babe of three or four years learn in Sabbath-school? +sneers the critic. Not much, I grant you, of justification by Faith, or +Effectual Calling; but certain elementary precepts can be impressed +upon the mind while it is still in a plastic condition that never can +be wholly obliterated, come what may in after life. Prime among these +elementary precepts is this: “Always bring a penny.” + +Some one has said, “Give me the first seven years of a child's life +and I care not who has the remainder.” I cannot endorse this without +reserve; but I maintain as a demonstrated fact: “Bring up a child to +contribute a copper cent, and when he is old he will not depart from +it.” It was recently my high privilege to attend a summer gathering +of representative religious people in the largest auditorium in this +country. Sometimes under that far-spreading roof ten thousand souls were +assembled and met together. This fact could be guessed at with tolerable +accuracy from the known seating capacity, but the interesting thing was +that it could be predicated with mathematical certainty that exactly ten +thousand people were present, because the offertory footed up +exactly one hundred dollars. What an encouragement to these faithful +infant-class teachers that have labored unremittingly, instant in season +and out of season, saying over and over again with infinite patience, +“Always bring a penny,” to know that their labor has not been in vain, +and that as a people we have made it the rule of our lives always to +bring a penny--and no more. + +I have often tried to think what a Sabbath-school must be like in +California, where they have no pennies. It seems hardly possible that +the institution can exist under such a patent disability, and yet it +does. Do they work it on the same principle as the post-office in +that far-off land where you 'cannot buy one postal card because the +postmaster cannot make change, but must buy five postal cards or +two two-cent stamps and a postal? In other words, does a nickel, the +smallest extant coin, serve for five persons for one Sunday or one +person for five Sundays? I have often wondered about this. + +Subsidiary instruction in the preparatory course consists of sitting +right still and being nice, keeping your fingers out of Johnny Pym's +eye, because it hurts him and makes him cry, not grabbing in the basket +when it goes by, even though it does have pennies in it, coaching in a +repertory of songs like: “Beautiful, Beautiful Little Hands,” “You in +Your Little Corner and I in Mine,” “The Consecrated Cross-Eyed Bear,” + “Pass Around the Wash-Rag”--the grown folks call that “Pass Along the +Watchword” and stories about David and Goliath, Samson and the three +hundred foxes with fire tied to their tails, Moses in the bulrushes, the +infant Samuel, Hagar in the wilderness, and so forth. The clergy have +often objected that these stories, being told at the same period of life +with those about Santa Claus, “One time there was a little boy and he +had a dog named Rover,” the little girl that had hair as black as ebony, +skin as white as snow, and cheeks as red as blood, because her Ma, +who was a queen by occupation, happened to cut her finger with a +black-handled knife along about New Year's--the clergy, I say, have +often objected that all these matters, being brought to a child's +attention at the same period in its life, are likely to be regarded in +after years as of equal evidential value. I am not much of a hand to +argue, myself, but I should like to have one of these carping critics +meet my friend, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, who has taught the infant-class +since 1867, having missed only two Sundays in that time, once, in 1879, +when it stormed so that nobody in town was out, and once, last winter a +year ago, when she slipped off the back porch and hurt her knee. I can +just see Sister Boggs laying down the law to anybody that finds fault +with the infant-class, let him be preacher or who. Why the very idea! +Do you mean to say, sir--I guess Sister Boggs can straighten him out all +right. + +No less faithful is Mr. Parker, the leading lawyer of the town, who +conducts the Bible-class. I believe one morning he didn't get there +until after the last bell was done ringing, but otherwise his record of +attendance compares favorably with Sister Boggs's. Both teachers agree +to ignore the stated lesson for the day, but whereas Sister Boggs leads +her flock through the flowery meads of narration, Mr. Parker and his +class have camped out by preference for the last forty years in the +arid wilderness of Romans and Hebrews and Corinthians First and Second, +flinging the plentiful dornicks of “Paul says this” and “Paul says that” + at each other's heads in friendly strife. Mr. Parker's class is also +very assiduous in its attendance upon the Young People's meetings, +seemingly holding the dogma, “Once a young person always a young +person.” The prevailing style of hairdressing among the members is to +grow the locks long on the left side of the head, and to bring the thin +layer across to the right, pasted down very carefully with a sort of +peeled onion effect. + +There is a whole lot of them, and they jower away at each other all +through the time between the opening and the closing exercises, having +the liveliest kind of a time getting over about two verses of the Bible +and the whole ground of speculative theology. + +Immeasurably more impermanent in method and personnel is the regular +collegiate department, the Sabbath-school proper. In the early days, +away back when sugar was sixteen cents a pound, the thing to do was +to learn Scripture verses by heart. If you were a rude, rough boy who +didn't exactly love the Sunday-school as much as the hymn made you say +you did, but still one who had rather sing it than stir up a muss, you +hunted for the shortest verses you could find and said them off. From +four to eight was considered a full day's work. But if you were a boy +who put on an apron and helped your Ma with the dishes, a boy who always +wiped your feet before you came in, a boy that never got kept in at +school, a boy that cried pretty easy, a nice, pale boy, with bulging +blue eyes, you came to Sabbath-school and disgorged verses like +buck-shot out of a bag. The four-to-eight-verse boys sat and listened, +and improved their minds. There was generally one other boy like you +in the class, and it was nip-and-tuck between you which should get the +prize, until finally you came one Sunday, all bloated up with 238 verses +in your craw, and he quit discouraged. The prize was yours. It was a +beautiful little Bible with a brass clasp; it had two tiny silk strings +of an old-gold color for bookmarks, and gilt edges all around that made +the leaves stick together at first. It was printed in diamond type, so +small it made your ears ring when you tried to read it. + +Other faculties than that of memory were called into action in those +days by problems like these: “Who was the meekest man? Who was the +strongest man? Who was the father of Zebedee's children? Who had the +iron bedstead, and whose thumbs and great-toes were cut off?” To set a +child to find these things in the Bible without a concordance seems +to us as futile as setting him to hunt a needle in a haystack. But our +fathers were not so foolish as we like to think them; they didn't care +two pins if we never discovered who had the iron bedstead, but they +knew that, leafing over the book, we should light upon treasure where +we sought it not, kernels of the sweetest meat in the hardest shells, +stories of enthralling interest where we least expected them, but, most +of all, and best of all, texts that long afterward in time of trouble +should come to us, as it were the voice of one that also had eaten the +bread of affliction, calling to us across the chasm of the centuries +and saying: “O, tarry thou the Lord's leisure: be strong and He shall +comfort thine heart.” + +In the higher classes, that still were not high enough to rank with Mr. +Parker's, the exegetical powers were stimulated in this wise: “'And they +sung a hymn and went out.' Now what do you understand by that?” We told +what we “understood,” and what we “held,” and what we “believed,” and +laid traps for the teacher and tried to corner him with irrelevant +texts wrenched from their context. He had to be an able man and a +nimble-witted man. Mere piety might shine in the prayer-meeting, in the +class-room, at the quarterly love-feast, but not in the Sabbath-school. +I remember once when Brother Butler was away they set John Snyder to +teach us. John didn't know any more than the law allowed, and we made +him feel it, until finally, badgered beyond endurance, he blurted out +that all he knew was that he was a sinner saved by grace. Maybe he +couldn't just tell where to find this, that, and t' other thing in the +Bible, but he could turn right to the place where it said that though +a body's sins were as scarlet, yet they should be white as snow. It was +regarded as a very poor sort of an excuse then, but thinking it over +here lately, it has seemed to me that maybe John had the root of the +matter in him after all. + +The comparative scarcity of polemical athletes and the relative plenty +of the Miss Susie Goldrick kind of teachers, apparently called into +being the Berean Lesson Leaf system, with its Bible cut up into +lady-bites of ten or twelve verses, its Golden Topics, Golden Texts, its +apt alliterations, like: + + S AMUEL + EEKS + AUL + ORROWING + +and its questions prepared in tabloid form, suitable for the most +enfeebled digestions, see directions printed on inside wrapper. Among +the many evidences of the degeneracy of the age is the scandalous +ignorance of our young people regarding the sacred Scriptures, which +at the very lowest estimate are incontestably the finest English ever +written. Those whose childhood antedates the lesson leaf are not so +unfamiliar with that wondrous treasure-house of thought. It is not for +me to say what has wrought the change. I can only point out that lesson +leaves, being about the right size for shaving papers, barely last from +Sunday to Sunday, while that very identical Bible with the blinding type +that I won years and years ago, by learning verses, is with me still. +Yes, and as I often wonder to discover, some of those very verses that I +gobbled down as heedlessly as any ostrich are with me still. + +Remain to be considered the opening and closing exercises, principally +devoted, I remember, to learning new tunes and singing old ones out of +books with pretty titles, like “Golden Censer,” “Silver Spray,” “Pearl +and Gold,” “Sparkling Dewdrops,” and “Sabbath Chimes.” I wasn't going to +tell it, but I might as well, I suppose. I can remember as far back as +“Musical Leaves.” There must be quite a lot of people scattered about +the country who sung out of that when they were little. I wish a few of +us old codgers might get together some time and with many a hummed and +prefatory, “Do, mi, Sol, do; Sol, mi... mi-i-i-i,” finally manage to +quaver out the sweet old tunes we learned when we were little tads, each +with a penny in his fat, warm hand: “Shall we Gather at the River?” + and “Work, for the Night is Coming”; and what was the name of that one +about: + + “The waves shall come and the rolling thunder shock + Shall beat upon the house that is founded on a rock, + And it never shall fall, never, never, never.” + +What the proper English tune is to “I think when I read that sweet story +of old” I cannot tell, but I am sure it can never melt my heart as that +one in the old “Musical Leaves.” with its twistful repetitions of the +last line: + + “I should like to have been with Him then, + I should like to have been with Him then, + When He took little children like lambs to His fold, + I should like to have been with Him then.” + +I fear we could not sing that without breaking down. As we recall it, we +draw an inward fluttering breath, something grips our throats and makes +them ache, our eyes blur, and a tear slips down upon the cheek, not of +sorrow--God knows not all of sorrow--but if we had it all to live over +again, how differently we--oh, well, it's too late now, but still. + +Leafing over my little girl's “Arabian Nights” the other day, when I +came to the story of “The Enchanted Horse,” I found myself humming, +“Land ahead! Its fruits are waving.” My father used to lead the singing +in Sabbath-school, and when he was sol-fa-ing that tune to learn it, I +was devouring that story, and was just about at the picture where Prince +What's-his-name rises up into the air on the Enchanted Horse, with his +true love hanging on behind, and all the multitude below holding their +turbans on as they look up and exclaim: “Well, if that don't beat the +Dutch!” + +And another tune still excites in me the sullen resentment that it +did when I first heard it. In those days, just as a fellow got to the +exciting part in “Frank at Don Carlos's Ranch,” or whatever the book +was, there was kindling to be split, or an armful of wood to be brought +in, or a pitcher of water from the well, or “run over to Mrs. Boggs's +and ask her if she won't please lend me her fluting-iron,” or “run down +to Galbraith's and get me a spool of white thread, Number 60, and hurry +right back, because then I want you to go over to Serepta Downey's +and take her that polonaise pattern she asked me to cut out for her,” + or--there was always something on hand. So what should one of these +composers do--I don't know what ever possessed the man--but go write a +Sabbath-school song with this chorus: + + “There'll be something to do, + There'll be something to do, + There'll be something for children to do: + On that bright shining shore, + Where there's joy evermore, + There'll be something for children to do.” + +I suppose he thought that would be an inducement! + +One of these days America is going to be the musical center of the +world. When that day is fully come, and men sit down to write about it, +I hope they won't forget to give due credit to the reed organ, Stephen +Foster, and the Sabbath-school. The reed organ had a lot to do with +musical culture. It is much decried now by people that prefer a piano +that hasn't been tuned for four years; but the reed organ will come into +its own some day, don't forget. Without it the Sabbath-school could not +have been. Anybody that would have a piano in a Sabbath-school ought to +be prosecuted. + +When music, heavenly maid, was just coming to after that awful lick the +Puritans hit her, the first sign of returning life was that people began +to tire of the ten or a dozen tunes to which our great-grandfathers +droned and snuffled all their hymns. In those days there was raised up a +man named Stephen Foster, who “heard in his soul the music of wonderful +melodies,” and we have been singing them ever since--“'Way Down upon +the Swanee Ribber,” and “Old Kentucky Home,” and “Nellie Gray,” and the +rest. Then Bradbury and Philip Phillips and many more of them began to +write exactly the same kind of tunes for sacred words. They were just +the thing for the Sabbath-school, but they were more, much more. + +You know that when a fellow gets so he can shave himself without cutting +half his lip off, when it takes him half an hour to get the part in his +hair to suit him, when he gets in the way of shining his shoes and has +a pretty taste in neckties, he doesn't want to bawl the air of a piece +like the old stick-in-the-muds up in the Amen corner or in Mr. Parker's +class. He wants to sing bass. Air is too high for him anyhow unless he +sings it with a hog noise. Oh, you get out! You do, too, know what a +“hog noise” is. You want to let on you've always lived in town. Likely +story if you never heard anybody in the hog-pasture with a basket of +nubbins calling, “Peeg! Peeg! Boo-eel Booee!” A man's voice breaks into +falsetto on the “Boo-ee!” Well, anyhow, such a young man as I am telling +you of would be ashamed to sing with a hog noise. He wants to sing bass. +Now the regular hymn-tunes change the bass as often as they change the +soprano, and if you go fumbling about for the note, by the time you get +it right it is wrong, because the tune has gone on and left you. The +Sabbath-school songs had the young man Absalom distinctly in view. They +made the bass the same all through the measure, and all the changes were +strictly on the do, sol and fa basis. As far as the other notes in the +scale were concerned, the young man Absalom need not bother his head +with them. With do, sol and fa he could sing through the whole book from +cover to cover as good as anybody. + +When people find out what fun it is to sing by note, it is only a step +to the “Messiah,” two blocks up and turn to the right, as you might say. +After that, it is only going ahead till you get to “Vogner.” Yes, and +many's the day you called the hogs. Don't tell me. + +Once a month on Sunday evenings there were Sabbath-school concerts. +The young ones sat in the front seats, ten or twelve in a pew. “Now, +children,” said the superintendent, “I want you all to sing loud +and show the folks how nice you can sing. Page 65. Sixty-fi'th page, +'Scatter Seeds of Kindness.' Now, all sing out now.” We licked our +thumbs and scuffled through the book till we found the place. We scowled +at it, and stuck out our mouths at it, and shrieked at it, and bawled +at it, and did the very best we knew to give an imitation of two hundred +little pigs all grabbed by the hind leg at once. That was what made +folks call it a concert. + +There were addresses to the dear children by persons that teetered on +their toes and dimpled their cheeks in dried-apple smiles as us. Some +complain that they do not know how to talk to children and keep them +interested. Oh, pshaw! Simple as A B C. Once you learn the trick you can +talk to the little folks for an hour and a half on “Banking as Related +to National Finance,” and keep them on the quiver of excitement. Ask +questions. And to be sure that they give the right answers (a very +important thing) remember this: When you wish them to say “Yes, sir,” + end your question with “Don't they?” or “isn't it?” When you wish them +to say “No, sir,” end your question with “Do they?” or “Is it?” When +you wish them to choose between two answers, mention first the one they +mustn't take, then pause, look archly at them, and mention the one they +must take. Thus: + +Q. --Now, dear children, I wonder if you can tell me where the sun +rises. In the north, doesn't it? + +A. --Yes, sir. + +Q. --Yes, you are right. In the north. And because it rises in the north +every afternoon at three, how do we walk about? On our feet, do we? + +A. --No, sir. + +Q. --No. Of course not. Then how is it we do walk about? On our ears +or--(now the look) on our noses? + +A. --On our noses. + +This method, if carefully and systematically employed, was never known +to fail. It is called the Socratic method. + +The most interesting feature of the monthly Sabbath-school concert is +universally conceded to be the treasurer's report. So much on hand at +the last meeting, so much contributed by each class during the month +last past, so much expended, so much left on hand at present. We used +to sit and listen to it with slack jaws and staring eyes. Money, money, +oceans of money! Thirty-eight cents and seventy-six cents and a dollar +four cents! My! + +The librarian's report was nowhere. It was a bully library, too, and +contained the “Through by Daylight” Series, and the “Ragged Dick” + Series, and the “Tattered Tom” Series, and the “Frank on the Gunboat” + Series, and the “Frank the Young Naturalist” Series, and the “Elm +Island” Series--Did you ever read “The Ark of Elm Island”, and “Giant +Ben of Elm Island”? You didn't? Ah, you missed it--and the “B. O. W. C.” + Series--and say! there was a book in that library--oo-oo! “Cast up +by the Sea,” all about wreckers, and false lights on the shore, and +adventures in Central Africa, and there's a nigger queen that wants to +marry him, and he don't want to because he loves a girl in England--I +think that's kind of soft--and he kills about a million of them trying +to get away. You want to get that book. Don't let them give you “Patient +Henry” or “Charlie Watson, the Drunkard's Little Son.” They're about +boys that take sick and die--no good. + +It was a bully library, but the report wasn't interesting. Major +Humphreys's always was. He was the treasurer because he worked in the +bank. He came from the Western Reserve, and said “cut” when he meant +coat, and “hahnt” when he meant heart. I can shut my eyes and hear +him read his report now: “Infant-class, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, one +dolla thutty-eight cents; Miss Dan'ells's class, fawty-six cents; Miss +Goldrick's class, twenty-faw cents; Mr. Pahnker's class, ninety-three +cents; Miss Rut's class, naw repawt.” + +Poor old Miss Root! There was hardly ever any report from her class. +Often she hadn't a penny to give, and perhaps the other old ladies, who +found the keenest possible delight in doing what they called “running up +the references,” had no more, for they were relics of an age when women +weren't supposed to have money to fling right and left in the foolish +way that women will if they're not looked after--shoes for the baby, and +a new calico dress every two or three years or so. + +Yes, it is rather interesting for a change now and then to hear these +folks go on about what a terrible thing the Sabbath-school is, and how +it does more harm than good. They get really excited about it, and storm +around as if they expected folks to take them seriously. They know, just +as well as we do, that this wouldn't be any kind of a country at all if +we couldn't look back and remember the Sabbath-school, or if we couldn't +fix up the children Sunday afternoons, and find their lesson leaves for +them, and hunt up a penny to give to the poor heathen, and hear them say +the Golden Text before they go, and tell them to be nice. Papa and mamma +watch them from the window till they turn the corner, and then go back +to the Sunday paper with a secure sort of feeling. They won't learn +anything they oughtn't to at the Sabbath-school. + + + + +THE REVOLVING YEAR + + + “'It snows!' cries the schoolboy, 'Hurrah!' + And his shout is heard through parlor and hall.” + + + MCGUFFEY's THIRD READER. + + +(Well, maybe it was the Second Reader. And if it was the Fourth, what +difference does it make? And, furthermore, who 's doing this thing, you +or me?) + + +Had it not been that never in my life have I ever heard anybody say +either “It snows!” or “Hurrah!” it is improbable that I should have +remembered the first line of a poem describing the effect produced upon +different kinds of people by the sight of the first snowstorm of winter. +Had it not been for the plucky (not to say heroic) effort to rhyme +“hall” with “hurrah” I should not have remembered the second, and still +another line of it, depicting the emotions of a poor widow with a large +family and a small woodpile, is burned into my memory only by reason +of the shocking language it contains, the more shocking in that it was +deliberately put forth to be read by innocent-minded children. Poor +Carrie Rinehart! When she stood up to read that, she got as red as a +beet, and I believed her when she told me afterward that she thought she +would sink right through that floor. Of course, some had to snicker, but +the most of us, I am thankful to say, were a credit to our bringing up, +and never let on we heard it. All the same it was a terrible thing to +have to speak right out loud before everybody. If any of the boys (let +alone the girls), had said that because he felt like saying it, he would +have been sent in to the principal, and that night his daddy would have +given him another licking. + +Even now I cannot bring myself to write the line without toning it down. + +“'It snows!' cries the widow. 'Oh G--d!'” + +At the beginning of winter, I will not deny, that the schoolboy might +have shouted: “It's snowin'! Hooee!” when he saw the first snow flakes +sifting down, and realized that the Old Woman was picking her geese. +A change is always exciting, and winter brings many joyous sports +and pastimes, skating, and snowballing, and sliding down hill, +and--er--er--I said skating didn't I? and--er--Oh, yes, sleigh-riding, +and--er--Well, I guess that's about all. + +Skating, now, that's fine. I know a boy who, when the red ball goes up +in the street-cars, sneaks under his coat a pair of wooden-soled skates, +with runners that curl up over the toes like the stems of capital +letters in the Spencerian copy-book. He is ashamed of the old-fashioned +things, which went out of date long and long before my day, but he says +that they are better than the hockeys. Well, you take a pair of such +skates and strap them on tightly until you can't tell by the feel which +is feet and which is wooden soles, and you glide out upon the ice above +the dam for, say about four hours, with the wind from the northwest and +the temperature about nine below, and I tell you it is something grand. +And if you run over a stick that is frozen in the ice, or somebody bumps +into you, or your feet slide out from under you, and you strike on your +ear and part of your face on the ice, and go about ten feet ah, it's +great! Simply great. And it's nice too, to skate into an air-hole into +water about up to your neck, and have the whole mob around you whooping +and “hollering” and slapping their legs with glee, because they know it +isn't deep enough to drown you, and you look so comical trying to claw +out. And when you do get out, it takes such along time to get your +skates of, and you feel so kind of chilly like, and when you get home +your clothes are frozen stiff on you--Oh, who would willingly miss such +sport? + +And sleigh-riding! Me for sleigh-riding! You take a nice, sharp day in +winter, when the sky is as blue as can be because all the moisture is +frozen out of the air, a day when the snow under the sleigh runners +whines and creaks, as if thousands of tiny wineglasses were being +crushed by them, and the bells go jing-jing, jing-jing on the frosty +air which just about takes the hide off your face; when you hold your +mittens up to your ears and then have to take them down to slap yourself +across the chest to get the blood agoing in your fingers; when you kick +your feet together and dumbly wonder why it is your toes don't click +like marbles; when the cold creeps up under your knitted pulse-warmers, +and in at every possible little leak until it has soaked into your very +bones; when you snuggle down under the lap-robe where it is warm as +toast (day before yesterday's toast) and try to pull your shoulders up +over your head; when a little drop hangs on the end of your nose, +which has ceased to feel like a living, human nose, and now resembles +something whittled to a point; when you hold your breath as long as +you can, and your jaw waggles as if you were playing chin-chopper with +it--Ah, that's the sport of kings! And after you have got as cold as you +possibly can get, and simply cannot stand it a minute longer, you ride +and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride. +Once in a while you turn out for another sleigh, and nearly upset in the +process, and you can see that in all points its occupants are exactly as +you are, just as happy and contented. There aren't any dogs to run out +and bark at you. Old Maje and Tige, and even little Bounce and Guess +are snoozing behind the kitchen stove. All there is is just jing-jing, +jing-jing, jing-jing, not a bird-cry or a sound of living creature. +jing-jing, jing-jing..... Well, yes, kind o' monotonous, but still.... +You pass a house, and a woman comes out to scrape off a plate to the +chickens standing on one foot in a corner where the sun can get at them, +and the wind cannot. She scrapes slowly, and looks at you as much as to +say: “I wonder who's sick. Must be somebody going for the doctor, day +like this.” And then she shudders: “B-b-b-oo-oo-oo!” and runs back into +the house and slams the door hard. You snuffle and look at the chimney +that has thick white smoke coming out of it, and consider that very +likely a nice, warm fire is making all that smoke, and you snuffle +again, and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride +and 'ride. And about an hour and a half after you have given up all +hopes, and are getting resigned to your fate, you turn off the big road +and up the lane to the house where you are going on your pleasure-trip, +and you hop out as nimble as a sack of potatoes, and hobble into the +house, and don't say how-de-do or anything, but just make right for the +stove. The people all squall out: “Why, ain't you 'most froze?” and +if you answer, “Yes sum,” it's as much as ever. Generally you can't do +anything but just stand and snuffle and look as if you hadn't a friend +on earth. And about the time you get so that some spots are pretty warm, +and other spots aren't as cold as they were, why then you wrap up, and +go home again with the same experience, only more so. Fine! fine! + +It's nice, too, when there's a whole crowd out together in a wagon-bed +with straw in it. There's something so cozy in straw! And the tin horns +you blow in each other's ear, and the songs you sing: “Jingle bells, +jingle bells, jingle all the way,” and “Waw-unneeta! Waw-unneeta, ay-usk +thy sowl if we shud part,” and “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and “Johnny +Shmoker,” and that variation of “John Brown's Body,” where every time +you sing over the verse you leave off one more word, and somebody always +forgets, and you laugh fit to kill yourself, and just have a grand time. +And maybe you take a whole lot of canned cove oysters with you, and when +you get out to Makemson's, or wherever it is you're going, Mrs. Makemson +puts the kettle on and makes a stew, cooking the oysters till they are +thoroughly done. And she makes coffee, the kind you can't tell from tea +by the looks, and have to try twice before you can tell by the taste. +Ah! winter brings many joyous sports and pastimes. And you get back home +along about half-past two, and the fire's out, and the folks are in bed, +and you have to be at the store to open up at seven--Laws! I wish it was +so I could go sleigh-riding once more in the long winter evenings, +when the pitcher in the spare bedroom bursts, and makes a noise like a +cannon. + +And sliding down hill, I like that. + +What? Coasting? Never heard of it. If it's anything like sliding down +hill, it's all right. For a joke you can take a barrel-stave and hold on +to that and slide down. It goes like a scared rabbit, but that isn't +so much the point as that it slews around and spills you into a drift. +Sleds are lower and narrower than they used to be, and they also lack +the artistic adornment of a pink, or a blue, or a black horse, painted +with the same stencil but in different colors, and named “Dexter,” or +“Rarus,” or “Goldsmith Maid.” These are good names, but nobody ever +called his sled by a name. Boggs's hill, back of the lady's house that +taught the infant-class in Sunday-school, was a good hill. It had a +creek at the bottom, and a fine, long ride, eight or ten feet, on the +ice. But Dangler's hill was the boss. It was the one we all made up our +minds we would ride down some day when the snow was just right. We'd +go over there' and look up to the brow of the hill and say: “Gee! But +wouldn't a fellow come down like sixty, though?” + +“Betchy!” + +We'd look up again, and somebody would say: “Aw, come on. Less go over +to Boggs's hill.” + +“Thought you was goin' down Dangler's.” + +“Yes, I know, but all the other fellows is over to Boggs's.” + +“A-ah, ye're afraid.” + +“Ain't either.” + +“Y' are teether.” + +“I dare you.” + +“Oh, well now--” + +“I double dare you.” + +“All right. I will if you will. You go first.” + +“Nah, you go first. The fellow that's dared has got to go first. Ain't +that so, Chuck? Ain't that so, Monkey?” + +“I'll go down if you will, on'y you gotta go first.” + +“Er--er--Who all 's over at Boggs's hill?” + +“Oh, the whole crowd of 'em, Turkey-egg McLaughlin, and Ducky +Harshberger, and--Oh, I don' know who all.” + +“Tell you what less do. Less wait till it gets all covered with ice, and +all slick and smooth. Then less come over and go down.” + +“Say, won't she go like sixty then! Jeemses Rivers! Come on, I'll beat +you to the corner.” + +That was the closest we ever came to going down Dangler's hill. Railroad +hill wasn't so bad, over there by the soap-factory, because they didn't +run trains all the time, and you stood a good chance of missing being +run over by the engine, but Dangler's Well, now, I want to tell you +Dangler's was an awful steep hill, and a long one, and when you think +that it was so steep nobody ever pretended to drive up it even in the +summer-time, and you slide down the hill and think that, once you got to +going. + +Fun's fun, I know, but nobody wants to go home with half his scalp +hanging over one eye, and dripping all over the back porch. Because, +you know, a fellow's mother gets crosser about blood on wood-work than +anything else. Scrubbing doesn't do the least bit of good; it has to be +planed off, or else painted. + +Let me see, now. Have I missed anything? I'll count 'em off on my +fingers. There's skating, and sleigh-riding, and sliding down hill, and +Oh, yes. Snowballing and making snow-men. Nobody makes a snow-man but +once, and nobody makes a snow-house after it has caved in on him once +and like to killed him. And as for snowballing--Look here. Do you know +what's the nicest thing about winter? Get your feet on a hot stove, +and have the lamp over your left shoulder, and a pan of apples, and +something exciting to read, like “Frank Among the Indians.” Eh, how +about it? In other words, the best thing about winter is when you can +forget that it is winter. + +The excitement that prompts “It snows!” and “Hurrah!” mighty soon peters +out, and along about the latter part of February, when you go to the +window and see that it is snowing again--again? Consarn the luck!--you +and the poor widow with the large family and the small woodpile are +absolutely at one. + +You do get so sick and tired of winter. School lets out at four o'clock, +and it's almost dark then. There's no time for play, for there's all +that wood and kindling to get in, and Pap's awful cranky when he hops +out of bed these frosty mornings to light the fire, and finds you've +been skimpy with the kindling. And the pump freezes up, and you've got +to shovel snow off the walks and out in the back-yard so Tilly can hang +up the clothes when she comes to do the washing. And your mother is just +as particular about your neck being clean as she is in summer when +the water doesn't make you feel so shivery. And there's the bottle +of goose-grease always handy, and the red flannel to pin around your +throat, and your feet in the bucket of hot water before you go to +bed--Aw, put 'em right in. Yes, I know it's hot. That's what going to +make you well. In with 'em. Aw, child, it isn't going to scald you. Go +on now. The water'll be stone-cold in a minute. “Oh, I don't like winter +for a cent. Kitchoo! There, I've gone and caught fresh cold. + +“I wish it would hurry up and come spring. + + “When the days begin to lengthen, + The cold begins to strengthen.” + +Now, you know that doesn't stand to reason. Every day the sun inches a +little higher in the heavens. His rays strike us more directly and for a +longer time each day. But it's the cantankerous fact, and it simply has +to stand to reason. That's the answer, and the sum has to be figured out +somehow in accordance with it. Like one time, when I was about sixteen +years old, and in the possession of positive and definite information +about the way the earth went around the sun and all, I was arguing with +one of these old codgers that think they know it all, one of these +men that think it is so smart to tell you: “Sonny, when you get older, +you'll know more 'n you do now--I hope.” Well, he was trying to tell me +that the day lengthened at one end before it did at the other. I did my +best to dispel the foolish notion from his mind, and explained to him +how it simply could not be, but no, sir! he stood me down. Finally, +since pure reasoning was wasted on him, I took the almanac off the nail +it hung by, and--I bedog my riggin's if the old skidama link wasn't +right after all. Sundown keeps coming a minute later every day, while, +for quite a while there, sun-up sticks at the same old time, 7:30 A.M. +Did you ever hear of anything so foolish? + +“Very early, while it is yet dark,” the alarm clock of old Dame Nature +begins to buzz. It may snow and blow, and winter may seem to have +settled in in earnest, but deep down in the earth, the root-tips, where +lie the brains of vegetables, are gaping and stretching, and ho-humming, +and wishing they could snooze a little longer. When it thaws in the +afternoon and freezes up at sunset as tight as bricks, they tell me +that out in the sugar-camp there are great doings. I don't know about +it myself, but I have heard tell of boring a hole in the maple-tree, +and sticking in a spout, and setting a bucket to catch the drip, and +collecting the sap, and boiling down, and sugaring off. I have heard +tell of taffy-pullings, and how Joe Hendricks stuck a whole gob of +maple-wax in Sally Miller's hair, and how she got even with him by +rubbing his face with soot. It is only hearsay with me, but I'll tell +you what I have done: I have eaten real maple sugar, and nearly pulled +out every tooth I had in my head with maple-wax, and I have even gone so +far as to have maple syrup on pancakes. It's good, too. The maple syrup +came on the table in a sort of a glass flagon with a metal lid to it, +and it was considered the height of bad manners to lick off the last +drop of syrup that hung on the nose of the flagon. And yet it must not +be allowed to drip on the table-cloth. It is a pity we can't get any +more maple syrup nowadays, but I don't feel so bad about the loss of it, +as I do to think what awful liars people can be, declaring on the label +that 'deed and double, 'pon their word and honor, it is pure, genuine, +unadulterated maple syrup, when they know just as well as they know +anything that it is only store-sugar boiled up with maple chips. + +Along about the same time, the boys come home with a ring of mud around +their mouths, and exhaling spicy breaths like those which blow o'er +Ceylon's isle in the hymn-book. They bear a bundle of roots, whose +thick, pink hide mother whittles off with the butcher-knife and sets +to steep. Put away the store tea and coffee. To-night as we drink the +reddish aromatic brew we return, not only to our own young days, but +to the young days of the nation when our folks moved to the West in a +covered wagon; when grandpap, only a little boy then, about as big as +Charley there, got down the rifle and killed the bear that had climbed +into the hog-pen; when they found old Cherry out in the timber with her +calf between her legs, and two wolves lying where she had horned them +to death--we return to-night to the high, heroic days of old, when our +forefathers conquered the wilderness and our foremothers reared the +families that peopled it. This cup of sassafras to-night in their loving +memory! Earth, rest easy on their moldering bones! + +Some there be that still take stock in the groundhog. I don't believe +he knows anything about it. And I believe that any animal that had +the sense that he is reputed to have would not have remained a mere +ground-hog all these years. At least not in this country. Anyhow, it's +a long ways ahead, six weeks is, especially at the time when you do wish +so fervently that it would come spring. We keep on shoveling coal in the +furnace, and carrying out ashes, and longing and crying: “Oh, for pity's +sakes! When is this going to stop?” And then, one morning, we awaken +with a start Wha--what? Sh! Keep still, can't you? There is a more +canorous and horn-like quality to the crowing of Gildersleeve's rooster, +and his hens chant cheerily as they kick the litter about. But it wasn't +these cheerful sounds that wakened us with a start. There! Hear that? +Hear it? Two or three long-drawn, reedy notes, and an awkward boggle at +a trill, but oh, how sweet! How sweet! It is the song-sparrow, blessed +bird! It won't be long now; it won't be long. + +The snow fort in the back-yard still sulks there black and dirty. “I'll +go when I get good and ready, and not before,” it seems to say. Other +places the thinner snow has departed and left behind it mud that seizes +upon your overshoe with an “Oh, what's your rush?” In the middle of +the road it lies as smooth as pancake-batter. A load of building stone +stalls, and people gather on the sidewalk to tell the teamster quietly +and unostentatiously that he ought to have had more sense than to pile +it on like that with the roads the way they are. Every time the cruel +whip comes down and the horses dance under it, the women peering out of +the front windows wince, and cluck “Tchk! Ain't it terrible? He ought +to be arrested.” This way and that the team turns and tugs, but all in +vain. Somebody puts on his rubber boots and wades out to help, fearing +not the muddy spokes. Yo hee! Yo hee! No use. He talks it over with the +teamster. You can hear him say: “Well, suit yourself. If you want to +stay here all night.” + +And then the women exult: “Goody! Goody! Serves him right. Now he has to +take off some of the stone. Lazy man's load!” + +The mother of children flies to the back-door when school lets out. +“Don't you come in here with all that mud!” she squalls excitedly. “Look +at you! A peck o' dirt on each foot. Right in my nice clean kitchen that +I just scrubbed. Go 'long now and clean your shoes. Go 'long, I tell +you. Slave and slave for you and that's all the thanks I get. You'd +keep the place looking like a hogpen, if I wasn't at you all the time. I +never saw such young ones since the day I was made. Never. Whoopin' and +hollerin' and trackin' in and out. It's enough to drive a body crazy.” + +(Don't you care. It's just her talk. If it isn't one thing it's another, +cleaning your shoes, or combing your hair, or brushing your clothes, or +using your handkerchief, or shutting the door softly, or holding your +spoon with your fingers and not in your fist, or keeping your finger out +of your glass when you drink--something the whole blessed time. Forever +and eternally picking at a fellow about something. And saying the same +thing over and over so many times. That's the worst of it!) + +Pap and mother read over the seed catalogues, all about “warm, light +soils,” and “hardy annuals,” and “sow in drills four inches apart.” It +kind of hurries things along when you do that. In the south window of +the kitchen is a box full of black dirt in which will you look out what +you're doing? Little more and you'd have upset it. There are tomato +seeds in that, I'll have you know. Oh, yes, government seeds. Somebody +sends 'em, I don't know who. Congressman, I guess, whoever he is. I +don't pretend to keep track of 'em. And say. When was this watered last? +There it is. Unless I stand over you every minute--My land! If there's +anything done about this house I've got to do it. + +Between the days when it can't make up its mind whether to snow or to +rain, and tries to do both at once, comes a day when it is warm enough +(almost) to go without an overcoat. The Sunday following you can hardly +hear what the preacher has to say for the whooping and barking. The +choir members have cough drops in their cheeks when they stand up to +sing, and everybody stops in at the drug store with: “Say, Doc, what's +good for a cold?” + +Eggs have come down. Yesterday they were nine for a quarter; to-day +they're ten. Gildersleeve wants a dollar for a setting of eggs, but +he'll let you have the same number of eggs for thirty cents if you'll +wait till he can run a needle into each one. So afraid you'll raise +chickens of your own. + +Excited groups gather about rude circles scratched in the mud, and there +is talk of “pureys,” and “reals,” and “aggies,” and “commies,” and “fen +dubs!” There is a rich click about the bulging pockets of the boys, and +every so often in school time something drops on the floor and rolls +noisily across the room. When Miss Daniels asks: “Who did that?” the +boys all look so astonished. Who did what, pray tell? And when she picks +up a marble and inquires: “Whose is this?” nobody can possibly imagine +whose it might be, least of all the boy whose most highly-prized shooter +it is. At this season of the year, too, there is much serious talk as +to the exceeding sinfulness of “playing for keeps.” The little boys, in +whose thumbs lingers the weakness of the arboreal ape, their ancestor, +and who “poke” their marbles, drink in eagerly the doctrine that when +you win a marble you ought to give it back, but the hard-eyed fellows, +who can plunk it every time, sit there and let it go in one ear and out +the other, there being a hole drilled through expressly for the purpose. +What? Give up the rewards of skill? Ah, g'wan! + +The girls, even to those who have begun to turn their hair up under, are +turning the rope and dismally chanting: “All in together, pigs in the +meadow, nineteen twenty, leave the rope empty,” or whatever the rune is. + +It won't be long now. It won't be long. + + “For lo; the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the + flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds + is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the + fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the + tender grape give a good smell. Arise my love, my fair one + and come away.” + + + THE SONG OF SOLOMON. + +Out in the woods the leaves that rustled so bravely when we shuffled +our feet through them last fall are sodden and matted. It is warm in the +woods, for the sun strikes down through the bare branches, and the cold +wind is fended off. The fleshy lances of the spring beauty have stabbed +upward through the mulch, and a tiny cup, delicately veined with pink, +hangs its head bashfully. Anemones on brown wire stems aspire without +a leaf, and in moist patches are May pinks, the trailing arbutus of the +grown-ups. As we carry home a bunch, the heads all lopping every way +like the heads of strangled babies, we can almost hear behind us in the +echoing forests a long, heart-broken moan, as of Rachel mourning for +her children, and will not be comforted because they are not. The wild +flowers don't look so pretty in the tin cups of water as they did back +in the woods. There is something cheap and common about them. Throw 'em +out. The poor plants that planned through all the ages how to attract +the first smart insects of the season, and trick them into setting +the seeds for next years' flowers did not reckon that these very means +whereby they hoped to rear a family would prove their undoing at the +hands of those who plume themselves a little on their refinement, they +“are so fond of flowers.” + +Old Winter hates to give up that he is beaten. It's a funny thing, but +when you hear a person sing, “Good-a-by, Summer, good-a-by, good-a-by,” + you always feel kind of sad and sorry. It's going, the time of year when +you can stay out of doors most of the time, when you can go in swimming, +and the Sunday-school picnic, and the circus, and play base-ball and +camp out, and there's no school, and everything nice, and watermelons, +and all like that. Good-by, good-by, and you begin to sniff a little. +The departure of summer is dignified and even splendid, but the earth +looks so sordid and draggle-trailed when winter goes, that onions could +not bring a tear. Old winter likes to tease. Aha! You thought I +was gone, did you? “Not yet, my child, not yet!” And he sends us +huckleberry-colored clouds from the northwest, from which snow-flakes +big as copper cents solemnly waggle down, as if they really expected +the schoolboy to shout: “It snows! Hurrah!” and makes his shout heard +through parlor and hall. But they only leave a few dark freckles on the +garden beds. Alas, yes! There is no light without its shadow, no joy +without its sorrow tagging after. It isn't all marbles and play in the +gladsome springtide. Bub has not only to spade up the garden--there is +some sense in that--but he has to dig up the flower beds, and help his +mother set out her footy, trifling plants. + +The robins have come back, our robins that nest each spring in the old +seek-no-further. To the boy grunting over the spading-fork presents +himself Cock Robin. “How about it? Hey? All right? Hey?” he seems +to ask, cocking his head, and flipping out the curt inquiries +with tail-jerks. Glad of any excuse to stop work, the boy stands +statue-still, while Mr. Robin drags from the upturned clods the long, +elastic fish-worms, and then with a brief “Chip!” flashes out of sight. +Be right still now. Don't move. Here he comes again, and his wife with +him. They fly down, he all eager and alert to wait upon her, she whining +and scolding. She doesn't think it's much of a place for worms. And +there's that boy yonder. He's up to some devilment or other, she just +knows. She oughtn't to have come away and left those eggs. They'll get +cold now, she just knows they will. Anything might happen to them when +she 's away, and then he 'll be to blame, for he coaxed her. He knows +she told him she didn't want to come. But he would have it. For half a +cent she'd go back right now. And, Heavens above! Is he going to be all +'day picking up a few little worms? + +She cannot finish her sentences for her gulps, for he is tamping down +in her insides the reluctant angleworms that do not want to die, two +or three writhing in his bill at once, until he looks like Jove's +eagle with its mouth full of thunderbolts. And all the time he is +chip-chipping and flirting his tail, and saying: “How's that? All right? +Hey? Here's another. How's that? All right? Hey? Open now. Like that? +Here's one. Oh, a beaut! Here's two fat ones? Great? Hey? Here y' go. +Touch the spot? Hey? More? Sure Mike. Lots of 'em. Wide now. Boss. Hey? +Wait a second--yes, honey. In a second.... I got him. Here's the kind +you like. Oh, yes, do. Do take one more. Oh, you better.” + +“D' ye think I'm made o' rubber?” she snaps at him. “I know I'll have +indigestion, and you'll be to bla--Mercy land! Them eggs!” and she +gathers up her skirts and flits. He escorts her gallantly, but returns +to pick a few for himself, and to cock his head knowingly at the boy, +as much as to say: “Man of family, by Ned. Or--or soon will be. Oh, yes, +any minute now, any minute.” + +And if I remember rightly, he even winks at the boy with a wink whose +full significance the boy does not learn till many years after when +it dawns upon him that it meant: “You got to make allowances for 'em. +Especially at such a time. All upset, you know, and worried. Oh, yes. +You got to; you got to make allowances for 'em.” + +Day by day the air grows balmier and softer on the cheek. Out in the +garden, ranks of yellow-green pikes stand stiffly at “Present. +Hump!” and rosettes of the same color crumple through the warm soil, +unconsciously preparing for a soul tragedy. For an evening will come +when a covered dish will be upon the supper-table, and when the cover is +taken off, a subtle fragrance will betray, if the sense of sight do not, +that the chopped-up lettuces and onions are in a marsh of cider vinegar, +demanding to be eaten. And your big sister will squall out in comic +distress: “Oh, ma! You are too mean for anything! Why did you have 'em +tonight? I told you Mr. Dellabaugh was going to call, and you know how I +love spring onions! Well, I don't care. I'm just going to, anyhow.” + +Things come with such a rush now, it is hard to tell what happens in +its proper order. The apple-trees blossom out like pop-corn over the hot +coals. The Japan quince repeats its farfamed imitation of the Burning +Bush of Moses; the flowering currants are strung with knobs of vivid +yellow fringe; the dead grass from the front yard, the sticks and stalks +and old tomato vines, the bits of rag and the old bones that Guess has +gnawed upon are burning in the alley, and the tormented smoke is darting +this way and that, trying to get out from under the wind that seeks to +flatten it to the ground. All this is spring, and--and yet it isn't. The +word is not yet spoken that sets us free to live the outdoor life; we +are yet prisoners and captives of the house. + +But, one day in school, the heat that yesterday was nice and cozy +becomes too dry and baking for endurance. The young ones come in from +recess red, not with the brilliant glow of winter, but a sort of scalded +red. They juke their heads forward to escape their collars' moist +embrace; they reach their hands back of them to pull their clinging +winter underwear away. They fan themselves with joggerfies, and puff +out: “Phew!” and look pleadingly at the shut windows. One boy, bolder +than his fellows, moans with a suffering lament: “Miss Daniels, cain't +we have the windows open? It's awful hot!” Frightful dangers lurk in +draughts. Fresh air will kill folks. So, not until the afternoon is the +prayer answered. Then the outer world, so long excluded, enters once +more the school-room life. The mellifluous crowing of distant roosters, +the rhythmic creaking of a thirsty pump, the rumble of a loaded wagon, +the clinking of hammers at the blacksmith shop, the whistle of No. 3 +away below town, all blend together in the soft spring air into one +lulling harmony. + +Winter's alert activity is gone. Who cares for grades and standings now? +The girls, that always are so smart, gape lazily, and stare at vacancy +wishing.... They don't know what they wish, but if He had a lot of +money, why, then they could help the poor, and all like that, and have a +new dress every day. + +James Sackett--his real name is Jim Bag, but teacher calls him James +Sackett--has his face set toward: “A farmer sold 16 2-3 bu. wheat for +66 7-8 c. per bu.; 19 2-9 bu. oats for,” etc., etc., but his soul is +far away in Cummins's woods, where there is a robbers' cave that he, and +Chuck Higgins, and Bunt Rogers, and Turkey-egg McLaughlin are going +to dig Saturday afternoons when the chores are done. They are going +to--Here Miss Daniels should slip up behind him and snap his ear, but +she, too, is far away in spirit. Her beau is coming after supper to take +her buggy-riding. She wonders.... She wonders.... Will she have to teach +again next fall? She wonders.... + +Wait. Wait but a moment. A subtle change is coming. + +The rim of the revolving year has a brighter and a darker half, a joyous +and a somber half, Autumnal splendors cannot cheer the melancholy that +we feel when summer goes from us, but when summer comes again the heart +leaps up in glee to meet it. Wait but a moment now. Wait. + +The distant woodland swims in an amethystine haze. A long and fluting +note, honey-sweet as it were blown upon a bottle, comes to us from far. +It is the turtle-dove. The blood beats in our ears. Arise, my love, my +fair one, and come away. + +So gentle it can scarce be felt, a waft of air blows over us, the first +sweet breath of summer. A veil of faint and subtle perfume drifts around +us. The vines with the tender grape give a good smell. And evermore as +its enchantment is cast about us we are as once we were when first we +came beneath its spell; we are by the smokehouse at the old home place; +we stand in shoes whose copper toes wink and glitter in the sunlight, +a gingham apron sways in the soft breeze, and on the green, upspringing +turf dances the shadow of a tasseled cap. Life was all before us then. +Please God, it is not all behind us now. Please God, our best and wisest +days are yet to come the days when we shall do the work that is worthy +of us. Dear one, mother of my children here and Yonder--and Yonder--the +best and wisest days are yet to come. Arise, my love, my fair one, and +come away. + + + + +THE SWIMMING-HOLE + + +It is agreed by all, I think, that the two happiest periods in a man's +life are his boyhood and about ten years from now. We are exactly in the +position described in the hymn: + + “Lo! On a narrow neck of land + 'Twixt two unbounded seas we stand, + And cast a wishful eye.” * + + *[I am told, on good authority, that this last line of the + three belongs to another hymn. As it is just what I want to + say, I'm going to let it stand as it is.] + +If I remember right, the hymn went to the tune of “Ariel,” and I can see +John Snodgrass, the precentor, sneaking a furtive C from his pitch-pipe, +finding E flat and then sol, and standing up to lead the singing, +paddling the air gently with: Down, left, sing. Well, no matter about +that now. What I am trying to get at, is that we have all a lost Eden +in the past and a Paradise Regained in the future. 'Twixt two unbounded +seas of happiness we stand on the narrow and arid sand-spit of the +present and cast a wishful eye. In hot weather particularly the wishful +eye, when directed toward the lost Eden of boyhood, lights on and +lingers near the Old Swimming-hole. + +I suppose boys do grow up into a reasonable enjoyment of their faculties +in big seaside cities and on inland farms where there is no accessible +body of water larger than a wash-tub, but I prefer to believe that the +majority of our adult male population in youth went in swimming in the +river up above the dam, where the big sycamore spread out its roots +a-purpose for them to climb out on without muddying their feet. Some, I +suppose, went in at the Copperas Banks below town, where the current had +dug a hole that was “over head and hands,” but that was pretty far and +almost too handy for the boys from across the tracks. + +The wash-tub fellows will have to be left out of it entirely. It was an +inferior, low-grade Eden they had anyhow, and if they lost it, why, they +'re not out very much that I can see. And I rather pity the boys that +lived by the sea. They had a good time in their way, I suppose, +with sailboats and things, but the ocean is a poor excuse for a +swimming-hole. They say salt-water is easier to swim in; kind of bears +you up more. Maybe so, but I never could see it; and even so, if it +does, that slight advantage is more than made up for by the manifold +disadvantages entailed. First place, there's the tide to figure on. If +it was high tide last Wednesday at half-past ten in the morning, what +time will it be high tide today? A boy can't always go when he wants to, +and it is no fun to trudge away down to the beach only to find half a +mile of soft, gawmy mud between him and the water. And he can't go in +wherever it is deep enough and nobody lives near. People own the beach +away out under water, and where he is allowed to go in may be a perfect +submarine jungle of eel-grass or bottomed with millions of razor-edged +barnacles that rip the soles of his feet into bleeding rags. Then, +too, when one swims, more or less water gets into one's nose and mouth. +River-water may not be exactly what a fastidious person would choose +to drink habitually, but there is this in its favor as compared with +sea-water: it will stay down after it is swallowed; also, it doesn't gum +up your hair; also, if you want to take a cake of soap with you, all you +have to look out for is that you don't lose the soap. Nobody tries to +use toilet soap in sea-water more than once. + +And surf-bathing! If there is a bigger swindle than surf-bathing, the +United States Postal authorities haven't heard of it yet. It is all very +well for the women. They can hang on to the ropes and squeal at the big +waves and have a perfectly lovely time. Some of the really daring ones +crouch down till they actually get their shoulder-blades wet. You +have to see that for yourself to believe it, but it is as true as I +am sitting here. They do so--some of them. But good land! There's no +swimming in surf-bathing, no fun for a man. The water is all bouncing up +and down. One second it is over head and hands, and the next second it +is about to your knees, with a malicious undertow tickling your feet and +tugging at your ankles; and growling: “Aw, you think you're some, don't +you? Yes. Well, for half a cent wouldn't take you out and drown you.” + And I don't like the looks of that boat patrolling up and down between +the ropes and the raft. It is too suggestive, too like the skeleton at +the banquet, too blunt a reminder that maybe what the undertow growls is +not all a bluff. + +Another drawback to the ocean as a swimming-hole is that the distances +are all wrong. If you want to go to the other side of the “crick” + you must take a steamboat. There is no such thing as bundling up your +clothes and holding them out of water with one hand while you swim with +the other, perhaps dropping your knife or necktie in transit. I have +never been on the other side of the “crick” even on a steamboat, but +I am pretty sure that there are no yellow-hammers' nests over there or +watermelon patches. There were above the dam. At the seaside they give +you as an objective point a raft, anchored at what seems only a little +distance from where it gets deep enough to swim in, but which turns out +to be a mighty far ways when the water bounces so. When you get there, +blowing like a quarter-horse and weighing nine tons as you lift yourself +out, there is nothing to do but let your feet hang over while you get +rested enough to swim back. It wasn't like that above the dam. + +I tell you the ocean is altogether too big. Some profess to admire it +on that account, but it is my belief that they do it to be in style. +I admit that on a bright, blowy day, when you can sit and watch the +shining sails far out on the horizon's rim, it does look right nice, +but I account for it in this way: it puts you in mind of some of these +expensive oil paintings, and that makes you think it is kind of high +class. And another thing: It recalls the picture in the joggerfy that +proved the earth was round because the hull of a ship disappears before +the sails, as it would if the ship was going over a hill. You sweep your +eye along where the sky and water meet, and it seems you can note the +curvature of the earth. Maybe it is that, and maybe it is all in your +own eye. I am not saying. + +There are good points, too, about the sea on a clear night when the moon +is full; or when there is no moon, and the phosphorescence in the water +shows, as if mermaids' children were playing with blue-tipped matches. I +like to see it when a gale is blowing, and the white caps race. Yes, and +when it is a flat calm, with here and there a tiny cat's-paw crinkling +the water into gray-green crepe. And also when--but there! it is no use +cataloguing all kinds of weather and all hours of the day and night. +What I don't approve of in the ocean is its everlasting bigness. It is +so discouraging. It makes a body seem so no-account and insignificant. +You come away feeling meaner than a sheep-killing dog. “Oh, what's the +use?” you say to yourself. “What's the use of my breaking my neck to do +anything or be anybody? Before I was born--before History began--before +any foot of being that could be called a man trod these sands, the waves +beat thus the pulse of time. When I am gone--when all that man has made, +that seems so firm and everlasting, shall have crumbled into the earth, +whence it sprang, this wave, so momentary and so eternal, shall still +surge up the slanting beach, and trail its lacy mantle in retreat.... O +spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence, and +be no more seen.” + +And that's no way for a man to feel. He ought to be confident and sure +of himself. If he hasn't yet done all that he laid out to do, he should +feel that it is in him to do it, and that he will before the time comes +for him to go, and that when it is done it shall be orth while. + +It is the ocean's everlasting bigness that makes it so cold to swim in. +At the seaside bathing pavilions they have a blackboard whereon they +chalk up “70” or “72” or whatever they think folks will like. They never +say in so many words that a man went down into the water and held a +thermometer in it long enough to get the true temperature, but they +lead you to believe it. All I have to say is that they must have very +optimistic thermometers. I just wish some of these poor little seashore +boys could have a chance to try the Old Swimming-hole up above the dam. +Certainly along about early going-barefoot time the water is a little +cool, but you take it in the middle of August--ah, I tell you! When you +come out of the water then you don't have to run up and down to get your +blood in circulation or pile the warm sand on yourself or hunt for the +steam-room. Only thing is, if you stay in all day, as you want to, it +thins your blood, and you get the “fever 'n' ager.” But you can stay in +as long as you want to, that 's the point, without your lips turning the +color of a chicken's gizzard. + +And there's this about the Old Swimming-hole, or there was in my day: +There were no women and girls fussing around aid squalling: “Now, you +stop splashin' water on me! Quit it now! Quee-yut!” I don't think t +looks right for women folks to have anything to do with water in large +quantities. On a sail-boat, now, they are the very--but perhaps we had +better not go into that. At a picnic, indeed, trey used to take off +their shoes and stockings and paddle their feet in the water, but that +was as much as ever they did. They never thought of going in swimming. +Even at the seashore, now when Woman is so emancipated, they go bathing +not swimming. I don't like to see a woman swim any more than I like to +see a woman smoke a cigar. And for the same reason. It is more fun +than she is entitled to. A woman's place is home minding the baby, and +cooking the meals. Nothing would do her but she had to be born a woman, +she had the same liberty of choice that we men had. Very well, I say, +let her take the consequencies. + +It is only natural, then, that she should refuse to let her boys go +swimming. She pays off her grudge that way. Just because she can't go +herself she is bound the they shan't either. She says they will get +drowned, but we know about that. It is only an excuse to keep them from +having a little fun. She has to say something. They won't get drowned. +Why, the idea! They haven't the least intention of any such thing. + +“Well, but Robbie, supposing you couldn't help yourself?” + +“How couldn't help myself?” + +“Why, get the cramps. Suppose you got the cramps, then what?” + +“Aw, pshaw! Cramps nothin'! They hain't no sich of a thing. And, anyhow, +if I did get 'em, wouldn't jist kick 'em right out. This way.” + +“Now, Robbie, you know you did have a terrible cramp in your foot just +only the other night. Don't you remember?” + +“Aw, that! That ain't nothin'. That ain't the cramps that drownds +people. Didn't I tell you wouldn't fist kick it right out? That's what +they all do when they git the cramps. But they don't nobody git 'em now +no more.” + +“I don't want you to go in the water and get drowned. You know you can't +swim.” + +This is too much. Oh, this is rank injustice! Worse yet, it is bad +logic. + +“How 'm I ever goin' to learn if you don't let me go to learn?” + +“Well, you can't go, and that's the end of it.” + +Isn't that just like a woman? Perfectly unreasonable! Dear! dear! + +“Now, Ma, listen here. S'posin' we was all goin' some place on a +steamboat, me and you and Pa and the baby and all of us, and--” + +“That won't ever happen, I guess.” + +“CAN'T YOU LET ME TELL YOU? And s'posin' the boat was to sink, and I +could swim and save you from drown--” + +“You're not going swimming, and that's all there is about it.” + +“Other boys' mas lets them go. I don't see why I can't go.” + +No answer. + +“Ma, won't you let me go? I won't get drowned, hope to die if I do. Ma, +won't you let me go? Ma! Ma-a!--Maw-ah!” + +“Stop yelling at me that way. Good land! Do you think I'm deaf?” + +“Won't you let me go? Please, won't you let--” + +“No, I won't. I told you I wouldn't, and I mean it. You might as well +make up your mind to stay at home, for you're--not--going. Hush up now. +This instant, sir! Robbie, do you hear me? Stop crying. Great baby! +wouldn't be ashamed to cry that way, as big as you are!” + +Mean old Ma! Guess she'd cry too'f she could see the other kids that +waited for him to go and ask her--if she could see them moving off, +tired of waiting. They're 'most up to Lincoln Avenue. + +“Oooooooooooo-hoo--hoo--hoo--hoohoooooooooo-ah! I wanna gow-ooooo.” + +“Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?” + +“Oooooooooooo-hoo-hoo-hoo-oooooooo! I wanna gow-ooooooo.” + +“Robbie! Did you hoe that corn?” + +The last boy, the one with the stone-bruise on his heel, limps around +the corner. They have all the fun. His ma won't let him go barefoot +because it spreads his feet. + +“Robbie! Answer me.” + +“Mam?” + +“Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?” + +“Yes mam.” + +“All of it? Did you hoe all of it?” + +“Prett' near all of it.” Well begun is half done. One hill is a good +beginning, and half done is pretty nearly all. + +“Go and finish it.” + +“I will if you'll let me go swimmin'.” + +It flashes upon him that even now by running he can catch up with the +other fellows. He can finishing the hoeing when he gets back. + +“You'll do it anyhow, and you're not going swimming. Now, that's the end +of it. You march out to that garden this minute, or I'll take a stick to +you. And don't let me hear another whimper out of you. Robbie! Come back +here and shut that door properly. I shall tell your father how you have +acted. Wouldn't be ashamed--I'd be ashamed to show temper that way.” + +It says for children to obey their parents, but if more boys minded +their mothers there would be fewer able to swim. While I shrink +with horror from even seeming to encourage dropping the hoe when the +sewing-machine gets to going good, by its thunderous spinning throwing +up an impervious wall of sound to conceal retreat into the back alley, +across the street, up the alley back of Alexander's, and so on up +to Fountain Avenue in time to catch up with the gang, still I regard +swimming as an exercise of the extremest value in the development of the +growing boy. It builds up every muscle. It is particularly beneficial +to the lungs. To have a good pair of lungs is the same thing as having +a good constitution. It is nice to have a healthy boy, and it is nice to +have an obedient boy, but if one must choose which he will have--that's +a very difficult question. I think it should be left to the casuists. +Nevertheless, now is the boy's only chance to grow. He will have +abundant opportunities to learn obedience. + +In the last analysis there are two ways of acquiring the art of +swimming, the sudden way and the slow way. I have never personally known +anybody that learned in the sudden way, but I have heard enough about it +to describe it. It it's the quickest known method. One day the boy its +among the gibbering white monkeys at the river's edge, content to splash +in the water that comes but half way to his crouching knees. The next +day he swims with the big boys as bold as any of them. In the meantime +his daddy has taken him out in a boat, out where it is deep--Oh! Ain't +it deep there?--and thrown him overboard. The boat is kept far enough +away to be out of the boy's reach and yet near enough to be right there +in case anything happens. (I like that “in case anything happens.” It +sounds so cheerful.) It being what Aristotle defines as “a ground-hog +case,” the boy learns to swim immediately. He has to. + +It seems reasonable that he should. But still and all, I don't just +fancy it. Once when a badly scared man grabbed me by the arms in deep +water I had the fear of drowning take hold of my soul, and it isn't a +nice feeling at all. Somehow when I hear folks praising up this method +of teaching a child to swim, I seem to hear the little fellow's screams +that he doesn't want to be thrown into the water. I can see him clinging +to his father for protection, and finding that heart hard and unpitying. +I can see his fingernails whiten with his clutch on anything that gives +a hand-hold. His father strips off his grip, at first with boisterous +laughter, and then with hot anger at the little fool. He calls him a +cry-baby, and slaps his mouth for him, to stop his noise. The little +body sprawls in the air and strikes with a loud splash, and the child's +gargling cry is strangled by the water whitened by his mad clawings. I +can see his head come up, his eyes bulging, and his face distorted with +the awful fear that is ours by the inheritance of ages. He will sink and +come up again, not three times, but a hundred times. Eventually he will +win safe to shore, panting and trembling, his little heart knocking +against his ribs, it is true, but lord of the water from that time +forth. It is a very fine method, yes... but... well, if it was my boy I +had just as lief he tarried with the little white monkeys at the river's +edge. Let him squeal and crouch and splash and learn how to half drown +the other fellow by shooting water at him with the heel of his hand. +Let him alone. He will be watching the others swim. He will edge out a +little farther and kick up his heels while with his hands he holds on +the ground. He will edge out a little farther still and try to keep his +feet on the bottom and swim with his hands. Be patient in his attempt to +combine the two methods of travel. He is not the only one that fears to +be one thing or the other, and regards a mixture of both as the safest +way to get along. + +No, I cannot say that I wholly approve of the sudden method of learning +to swim. It has the advantange of lumping all the scares of a lifetime +into one and having it over with, and yet I don't suppose the scare of +being thrown into the water by one's daddy is really greater than being +ducked in mid-stream by some hulking, cackle-voiced big boy. It seems +greater though, I suppose, because a fellow cannot very well relieve +his feelings by throwing stones at his daddy and bawling: “Goldarn you +anyhow, you--you big stuff! I'll get hunk with you, now you see if I +don't!” Here would be just the place to make the little boy tie knots +in the big boy's shirt-sleeves, soak the knots in water, and pound them +between stones. But that is kind of common, I think. They told about it +at the swimming-hole above the dam, but nobody was mean enough to do it. +Maybe they did it down at the Copperas Banks below town. The boys from +across the tracks went there, a race apart, whom we feared, and who +hated us, if the legend chalked up on the fences “DAMB THE PRODESTANCE,” + meant anything. + +Under the slow method of learning to swim one had leisure to observe the +different fashions--dog-fashion and cow-fashion, steamboat-fashion, +and such. The little kids and beginners swam dog-fashion, which on that +account was considered contemptible. The fellow was sneered at that +screwed up his face as if in a cloud of suffocating dust, and fought the +water with noise and fury, putting forth enough energy to carry him a +mile, and actually going about two feet if he were headed down stream. +Scientific men say that the use of the limbs, first on one side and then +on the other, is instinctive to all creatures of the monkey tribe. That +is the way they do in an emergency, since that is the way to scramble up +among the tree limbs. I know that it is the easiest way to swim, and +the least effective. When the arms are extended together in the breast +stroke, it is as much superior to dogfashion as man is superior to the +ape. I have always thought that to swim thus with steady and deliberate +arm action, the water parting at the chin and rising just to the root of +the underlip, was the most dignified and manly attitude the human being +could put himself in. Cow-fashion was a burlesque of this, and the +swimmer reared out of water with each stroke, creating tidal waves. It +was thought to be vastly comic. Steamboat-fashion was where a fellow +swam on his back, keeping his body up by a gentle, secret paddling +motion with his hands, while with his feet he lashed the water into +foam, like some river stern-wheeler. If he could cry: “Hoo! hoo! hoo!” + in hoarse falsetto to mimic the whistle, it was an added charm. + +It was a red-headed boy from across the tracks on his good behavior at +the swimming-hole above the dam that I first saw swim hand-over-hand, or +“sailor-fashion” as we called it, rightly or wrongly, I know not. I can +hear now the crisp, staccato little smack his hand gave the water as he +reached forward. + +It has ever since been my envy and despair. It is so knowing, so +“sporty.” I class it with being able to wear a pink-barred shirt front +with a diamond-cluster pin in it; with having my clothes so nobby and +stylish that one thread more of modishness would be beyond the human +power to endure; with being genuinely fond of horseracing; with being +a first-class poker player, I mean a really first-class one; with being +able to swallow a drink of whisky as if I liked it instead of having +to choke it down with a shudder; with knowing truly great men like +Fitzsimmons, or whoever it is that is great now, so as to be able to +slap him on the back and say: “Why, hello! Bob, old boy, how are you?” + with being delighted with the company of actors, instead of finding them +as thin as tissue-paper--what wouldn't I give if I could be like that? +My life has been a sad one. But I might find some comfort in it yet if +I coin only get that natty little spat on the water when I lunge forward +swimming overhand. + +We used to think the Old Swimming-hole was a bully place, but I know +better now. The sycamore leaned well out over the water, and there was +a trapeze on the branch that grew parallel with the shore, but the water +near it was never deep enough to dive into. And that is another occasion +of humiliation. I can't dive worth a cent. When I go down to the slip +behind Fulton Market--they sell fish at Fulton Market; just follow your +nose and you can't miss it--and see the rows of little white monkeys +doing nothing but diving, I realize that the Old Swimming-hole with all +its beauties, its green leafiness, its clean, long grass to lie upon +while drying in the sun, or to pull out and bite off the tender, +chrome-yellow ends, was but a provincial, country-fake affair. There +were no watermelon rinds there, no broken berry-baskets, no orange peel, +no nothing. All the fish in it were just common live ones. And there was +no diving. But at the real, proper city swimming-place all the little +white monkeys can dive. Each is gibbering and shrieking: “Hey, Chim-meel +Chimmee! Hey, Chim-mee! Chimmee! Hey, CHIM-MEEEE! How'ss t 'iss?” + crossing himself and tipping over head first, coming up so as to “lay +his hair,” giving a shaking snort to clear his nose and mouth of water, +regaining the ladder with three overhand strokes (every one of them +with that natty little spat that I can't get), climbing up to the +string-piece and running for Chimmy, red-eyed, shivering, and dripping, +to ask: “How wass Cat?” And I can't dive for a cent--that is, I can't +dive from a great elevation. I set my teeth and vow I just will dive +from ten feet above the water, and every time it gets down to a poor, +picayune dive off the lowest round of the ladder. I blame my early +education for it. I was taught to be careful about pitching myself head +foremost on rocks and broken bottles. I used to think it was a fine +swimming-hole, and that I was having a grand, good time, well worth any +ordinary licking; but now that I have traveled around and seen things, I +know that it was a poor, provincial, country-jake affair after all. +The first time I swam across and back without “letting down” it was +certainly an immense place, but when I went back there a year ago last +summer--why, pshaw! it wasn't anything at all. It was a dry summer, +I admit, but not as dry as all that. A poor, pitiful, provincial, +two-for-a cent--and yet... and yet... And yet I sat there after I had +dressed, and mused upon the former things--the life that was, but never +could be again; the Eden before whose gate was a flaming sword turning +every way. The night was still and moonless. The Milky Way slanted +across the dark dome above. It was far from the street lamps that +greened among the leafy maples in the silent streets. Gushes of air +stirred the fluttering sycamore, and whispered in the tall larches that +marched down the boundary line of the Blymire property. The last group +of swimmers had turned into the road from around the clump of willows at +the end of the pasture. The boy that is always the last one had nearly +caught up with the others, for the velvet pat of his bare feet in the +deep dust was slowing. Their eager chatter softened and softened, until +it blended with the sounds of night that verge on silence, the fall of a +leaf, the up-springing of a trodden tuft of grass, the sleepy twitter +of a dreaming bird, and the shrilling of locusts patiently turning a +creaking wheel. I heard the thump of hoofs and buggy wheels booming +in the covered bridge, and a shudder came upon me that was not all the +chill of falling dew. Again I was a little boy, standing in a circle of +my fellows and staring at something pale, stretched out upon the ground. +Ben Snyder had dived for It and found It and brought It up and laid It +on the long, clean grass. Some one had said we ought to get a barrel and +roll It on the barrel, but there was none there. And then some one +said: “No, it was against the law to touch anything like That before +the Coroner came.” So, though we wished that something might be done, +we were glad the law stepped in and stringently forbade us touching what +our flesh crept to think of touching. No longer existed for us the boy +that had the spy-glass and the “Swiss Family Robinson.” Something cold +and terrible had taken his place, something that could not see, and yet +looked upward with unwinking eyes. The gloom deepened, and the dew began +to fall. We could hear the boy that ran for the doctor whimpering a long +way off. We wanted to go home, and yet we dared not. Something might get +us. And we could not leave That alone in the dark with It's eyes wide +open. The locusts in the grass turned and turned their creaking wheel, +and the wind whispered in the tall larches. We heard the thump of hoofs +and wheels booming in the covered bridge. It was the doctor, come too +late. He put his head down to It's bosom (the cold trickled down our +backs), and then he said it was too late. If we had known enough, he +said, we might have saved him. We slunk away. It was very lonesome. We +kept together, and spoke low. We stopped to hearken for a moment outside +the house where the boy had lived that had the spy-glass and the “Swiss +Family Robinson.” Some one had told his mother. And then, with a great +and terrible fear within us, we ran each to his own home, swiftly and +silently. We knew now why mother did not want us to go swimming. + +But the next afternoon when Chuck Grove whistled in our back alley and +held up two fingers, I dropped the hoe and went with him. It was bright +daylight then, and that is different from the night. + + + + +THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT + +It isn't only Christmas that comes but once a year and when it comes it +brings good cheer; it's any festival that is worth a hill of beans, High +School Commencement, Fourth of July, Sunday-school excursion, Election' +bonfire, Thanksgiving Day (a nice day and one whereon you can eat roast +turkey till you can't choke down another bite, and pumpkin-pie, and +cranberry sauce. Tell you!)--but about the best in the whole lot, and +something the city folks don't have, is Firemen's Tournament. That comes +once a year, generally about the time for putting up tomatoes. + +The first that most of us know about it is when we see the bills up, +telling how much excursion rates will be to our town from Ostrander +and Mt. Victory, and Wapatomica, and New Berlin, and Foster's, +and Caledonia, and Mechanicsburg--all the towns around on both the +railroads. But before that there was the Citizens' Committee, and then +the Executive Committee, and the Finance Committee, and the Committee +on Press and Publicity, and Printing and Prizes, and Decorations and +Badges, and Music, and Reception to Firemen, and Reception to Guests--as +many committees as there are nails in the fence from your house to mine. +And these committees come around and tell you that we want to show the +folks that we've got public spirit in our town, some spunk, some git-up +to us. We want our town to contrast favorably with Caledonia where they +had the Tournament last year. We want to put it all over the Caledonia +people (they think they're so smart), and we can do it, too, if +everybody will take a-holt and help. Well, we want all we can get. We +expect a pretty generous offer from you, for one. Man that has as pretty +and tasty got-up store as you have, and does the business that you do, +ought to show his appreciation of the town and try to help along.... +Oh, anything you're a mind to give. 'Most anything comes in handy for +prizes. But what we principally need is cash, ready cash. You see, +there's a good deal of expense attached to an enterprise of this +character. So many little things you wouldn't think of, that you've +just got to have. But laws! you'll make it all back and more, too. We +cackleate there'll be, at the very least, ten thousand people in town +that day, and it's just naturally bound to be that some of them will do +their trading. + +Thank you very much, that's very handsome of you. Good day. (What are +you growling about? Lucky to get five cents out of that man.) + +The Ladies' Aid of Center Street M. E., has secured the store-room +recently vacated by Rouse & Meyers, and is going to serve a dinner that +day for the benefit of the Carpet Fund of their church and about time, +too, I say. I like to broke my neck there a week ago last Sunday night, +when our minister was away. Caught my foot in a hole in the carpet, and +a little more and wouldn't have gone headlong. So, it's: “Why, I've been +meaning for more than a year, to call on you, Mrs.--. Mrs.--(Let me +look at my list. Oh, yes) Mrs. Cooper, but we've had so much sickness +at home--you know my husband's father is staying with us at present, +and he's been in very poor health all winter--and when it hasn't been +sickness, it's been company. You know how it is. And it seemed as if +I--just--could--not make out to get up your way. What a pretty little +place you have! So cozy! I was just saying to Mrs. Thorpe here, it was +so seldom you saw a really pretty residence in this part of town. We +think that up on the hill, where we reside, you know, is about the +handsomest.... Yes, there are a great many wealthy people live up +there. The Quackenbushes are enormously wealthy. I was saying to Mrs. +Quackenbush only the other day that I thought the hill people were +almost too exclusive .... Yes, it is a perfectly lovely day.... +Er--er--We're soliciting for the Firemen's Tournament--well, not for the +Tournament exactly, but the Ladies' Aid are going to give a dinner +that day for the Carpet Fund and we thought perhaps you 'd like to help +along.... Oh, any little thing, a boiled ham or--... Well, we shall want +some cake, but we'd druther--or, at least, rawther--have something more +substantial, don't you know, pie or pickles or jelly, don't you know. +And will you bring it or shall I send Michael with the carriage for +it?.... Oh, thank you! If you would. It would be so much appreciated. +So sorry we couldn't make a longer stay, but now that we've found the +way.... Yes, that's very true. Well, good-afternoon.” + +The lady of the house watches them as Michael inquires: “Whur next, +mum?” and bangs the door of the carriage. Then she turns and says to +herself: “Huh!” Mrs. Thorpe is that instant observing: “Did you notice +that crayon enlargement she had hanging up? Wouldn't it kill you?” To +which the other lady responds: “Well, between you and I, Mrs. Thorpe, if +I couldn't have a real hand-painted picture I wouldn't have nothing at +all.” + +The lady of the house bakes a cake. She'll show them a thing or two in +the cake line. And while it is in the oven what does that little dev--, +that provoking Freddie, do but see if he can't jump across the kitchen +in two jumps. Fall? What cake wouldn't fall? Of course it falls. But it +is too late now to bake another, and if they don't like it, they know +what they can do. She doesn't know that she's under any obligation to +them. + +Mrs. John Van Meter hears Freddie say off the little speech his mother +taught him--Oh, you may be sure she'd be there as large as life, taking +charge of everything, just as if she had been one of the workers, +when, to my certain knowledge, she hadn't been to one of the committee +meetings, not a one. I declare I don't know what Mr. Craddock is +thinking of to let her boss every body around the way she does--and she +smiles and says: “It's all right. It's just lovely. Tell your mamma Mrs. +Van Meter is ever and ever so much obliged to her. Isn't he a dear boy?” + And when he is gone, she says: “What are we ever going to do with +all this cake? It seems as if everybody has sent cake. And whatever +possessed that woman to attempt a cake, I--can't imagine. Ts! ts! ts! +H-well. Oh, put it somewhere. Maybe we can work it off on the country +people. Mrs. Filkins, your coffee smells PERfectly grand! Perfectly +grand. Do you think we'll have spoons enough?” + +The Tournament prizes are exhibited in the windows of the leading +furniture emporium at the corner of Main and Center, each with a card +attached bearing the name of the donor in distinctly legible characters. +Old man Hagerman has been mowing all the rag-weed and cuckle-burrs along +the line of march, and the lawns have had an unusual amount of shaving +and sprinkling. Out near the end of Center Street, the grandstand has +been going up, tiers of seats rising from each curb line. The street has +been rolled and sprinkled and scraped until it is in fine condition for +a running track. Why don't you pick up that pebble and throw it over +into the lot? Suppose some runner should slip on that stone and fall and +hurt himself, you'd be to blame. + +The day before the Tournament, they hang the banner: + + “WELCOME VOLUNTEER FIREMEN” + +from Case's drugstore across to the Furniture Emporium. Along the line +of march you may see the man of the house up on a step-ladder against +the front porch, with his hands full of drapery and his mouth full of +tacks. His wife is backing toward the geranium bed to get a good view, +cocking her head on one side. + +“How 'v vif?” he asks as well as he can for the tacks. + +“Little higher. Oh, not so much. Down a little. Whope! that's .... Oh, +plague take the firemen! Just look at that! Mercy! Mercy!” + +The man of the house can't turn his head. + +“Oh, I wouldn't have had it happen for I don't know what! Ts! Ts! Ts! +That lovely silverleaf geranium that Mrs. Pritchard give me a slip of. +Broke right off! Oh, my! My! My! Do you s'pose it'd grow if I was to +stick it into the ground just as it is with all them buds on it?” + +The man of the house lets one end of the drapery go and empties his +mouth of tacks into his disengaged hand. + +“I don't know. Ow! jabbed right into my gum! But I can tell you this: +If you think I'm going to stick up on this ladder all morning while you +carry on about some fool old geranium that you can just as well fuss +with when I'm gone, why, you're mighty much mistaken.” + +“Well, you needn't take my head off. I feel awful about that geranium.” + +“Well, why don't you look where you're going? Is this right?” + +“Yes, I told you. I wish now I'd done it myself. I can't ask you to do a +thing about the house but there's a row raised right away.” + +People that don't want to go to the trouble of tacking up these alphabet +flags on the edge of the veranda eaves (it takes fourteen of them to +spell “WELCOME FIREMEN”), say they think a handsome flag--a really +handsome one, not one of these twenty-five centers--is as pretty and +rich looking a decoration as a body can put up. + +Tents are raised in the vacant lots along Center Street, and counters +knocked together for the sale of ice-cold lemonade, lemo, lemo, lemo, +made in the shade, with a spade, by an old maid, lemo, lemo. Here y' are +now, gents, gitch nice cool drink, on'y five a glass. There is even the +hook for the ice-cream candy man to throw the taffy over when he pulls +it. I like to watch him. It makes me dribble at the mouth to think about +it. + +The man that sells the squawking toys and the rubber balloons on sticks +is in town. All he can say is: “Fi' cent.” He will blow up the balloons +tomorrow morning. The men with the black-velvet covered shields, all +stuck full of “souvenirs,” are here, and the men with the little canes. +I guess we'll have a big crowd if it doesn't rain. What does the paper +say about the weather? + +The boys have been playing a new game for some time past, but it is +only this evening that you notice it. The way of it is this: You take +an express-wagon--it has to have real wheels: these sawed-out wheels +are too baby--and you tie a long rope to the tongue and fix loops on the +rope, so that the boys can put each a loop over his shoulder. (You want +a good many boys.) And you get big, long, thick pieces of rag and you +take and tie them so as to make a big, big, long piece, about as long as +from here to 'way over there. And you lay this in the wagon, kind of in +folds like. Then you go up to where they water the horses and two of you +go at the back end of the wagon and the rest put the loops over their +shoulders, and one boy says, “Are you ready?” and he has a Fourth of +July pistol and he shoots off a cap. And when you hear that, you run +like the dickens and the two boys behind the wagon let out the hose (the +big, long, thick piece of rag) and fix it so it lies about straight on +the ground. And when you have run as far as the hose will reach, the boy +with the Fourth of July pistol says: “Twenty-eight and two-fifths,” + and that's the game. And the kids don't like for big folks to stand and +watch them, because they always make fun so. + +In other towns they have Boys' Companies organized strictly for +Tournament purposes. There was talk of having one here. Mat. King, the +assistant chief, was all for having one so that we could compete in what +he calls “the juveline contests,” but it fell through somehow. + + +Along about sun-up you hear the big farm-wagons clattering into town, +chairs in the wagon bed, and Paw, and Maw, and Mary Elizabeth, and +Martin Luther, and all the family, clean down to Teedy, the baby. He's +named after Theodore Roosevelt, and they have the letter home now, +framed and hanging up over the organ. But for all the wagon is so full, +there is room for a big basket covered with a red-ended towel. (Seems to +me I smell fried chicken, don't you?) + +I just thought I'dt see if you'd bite. You've formed your notions +of country people from “The Old Homestead” and these by-gosh-Mirandy +novels. The real farmers, nowadays, drive into town in double-seated +carriages with matched bays, curried so that you can see to comb +your hair in their glossy sides. The single rigs sparkle in the sun, +conveying young men and young women of such clean-cut, high-bred +features as to make us wonder. And yet I don't know why we should +wonder, either. They all come from good old stock. The young fellows +run a little too strongly to patent-leather shoes and their horses are +almost too skittish for my liking, but the girls are all right. If their +clothes set better than you thought they would, why, you must remember +that they subscribe for the very same fashion magazines that you do, and +there is such a thing as a mail-order business in this country, even if +you aren't aware of it. + +All the little boys in town are out with their baskets chanting sadly: + + PEANUTS? FIVE A BAG + +You 'll hear that all day long. + +But there isn't much going on before the excursion trains come in. Then +things begin to hop. The grand marshal and his aides gallop through +the streets as if they were going for the doctor. The trains of ten and +fifteen coaches pile up in the railroad yard, and the yardmaster nearly +goes out of his mind. People are so anxious to get out of the cars, in +which they have been packed and jammed for hours, that they don't mind +a little thing like being run over by a switching engine. Every platform +is just one solid chunk of summer hats and babies and red shirts and +alto horns. They have been nearly five hours coming fifty miles. Stopped +at every station and sidetracked for all the regular trains. Such a +time! Lots of fun, though. The fellows got out and pulled flowers, and +seed cucumbers, and things and threw them at folks. You never saw such +cut-ups as they are. Pretty good singers, too. Good part of the way, +they sung “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,” and “How Can I Bear to Leave +Thee,” nice and slow, you know, a good deal of tenor and not much bass, +and plenty of these “minor chords.” (Yes, I know, some people call them +“barber-shop chords,” but I think “minor” is a nicer name.) + +The band played “Hiawatha” eighteen times. One old fellow got on at +Huntsville, and he says, to Joe Bangs (that's the leader), “Shay,” he +says, “play 'Turkey in er Straw,' won't you? Aw, go on. Play it. Thass +goof feller. Go on.” + +Joe, he never heard of the tune. Don't you know it? Goes like this: ... +No, that ain't it. That's “Gray Eagle.” Funny, I can't think how that +tune starts. Well, no matter. They played an arrangement that had “Old +Zip Coon” in it. + +“Naw,” he says, “tha' ain' it 't all. Go on. Play it. Play 'Turkey in +er Straw.' Ah, ye don't know it. Thass reason. Betch don' know it. Don' +know 'Turkey in er Straw!' Ho! Caw seff ml-m' sishn. Ho! You--you--you +ain' no m'sishn. You--you you're zis bluff.” Only about half-past eight, +too. Think of that! So early in the morning. Ah me! That's one of the +sad features of such an occasion. + +If there is anything more magnificent than a firemen's parade, I don't +know what it is. The varnished woodwork on the apparatus looks as if it +had just come out of the shop and every bit of bright work glitters fit +to strike you blind. You take, now, a nice hose-reel painted white and +striped into panels with a fine red line, every other panel fruits and +flowers, and every other panel a piece of looking-glass shaped like a +cut of pie and; I tell you, it looks gay. That's what it does. It looks +gay. Some of the hook-and-ladder trucks are just one mass of +golden-rod and hydrangeas, and some of them are all fixed with this +red-white-and-blue paper rope, sort of chenille effect, or more like a +feather boa. Everybody has on white cotton gloves, and those entitled to +carry speaking trumpets have bouquets in the bells of them, salvias, and +golden-rod, and nasturtiums, and marigolds, and all such. + +The Wapatomicas always have a dog up on top of their wagon. First off, +you would think it didn't help out much, it is such a forlorn looking +little fice; but this dog, I want you to know, waked up the folks late +one night, 'way 'long about ten or eleven o'clock, barking at a fire. +Saved the town, as you might say. And after that, the fire-boys took him +for a mascot. I guess he didn't belong to anybody before. And another +wagon has a chair on it, and in that chair the cutest little girl you +almost eyer saw, hair all frizzed at the ends, and a wide blue sash and +her white frock starched as stiff as a milk-pail. Everybody says: “Aw, +ain't she just too sweet?” + +The Caledonias have tried to make quite a splurge this year. They walk +four abreast, with their arms locked, and their white gloves on each +other's shoulders. Their truck has on it what they call “an allegorical +figure.” There is a kind of a business (looks to me like it is the axle +and wheels of a toy wagon, stood up on end and covered with white paper +muslin and a string tied around the middle) that is supposed to be an +hour-glass. Then there is a scythe covered with cotton batting, and then +a man in a bath-robe (I saw the figure of the goods when the wind blew +it open) also covered with white cotton batting. The man has a wig and +beard of wicking. First, I thought it was Santa Claus, and then I saw +the scythe and knew it must be old Father Time. The hour-glass puzzled +me no little though. The man has cotton batting wings. One of them is +a little wabbly, but what can you expect from Caledonia? They're always +trying to butt the bull off the bridge. They're jealous of our town. Oh, +they stooped to all the mean, underhanded tricks you ever heard of to +get the canning factory to go to their place instead of here. But we +know a thing or two ourselves. Yes, we got the canning factory, all +right, all right. + +Did you notice how neat and trim our boys looked? None of this flub-dub +of scarlet shirts with a big white monogram on the breast, or these +fawn-colored suits with querlycues of braid all over. They spot very +easily. And did you notice how the Caledonias had long, lean men +walking with short, fat men, and nobody keeping step? Our boys were all +carefully graded and matched, and their dark blue uniforms with just the +neat nickel badge, I think, presented the best appearance of all. And +I'll tell you another thing. They'll put it all over the Caledonias this +afternoon. They won't let 'em get a smell. + +Don't you like the fife-and-drum corps? The fifes set my teeth on edge, +but I could follow the drums all day with their: + + Tucket a brum, brum brum-brum, tuck-all de brum + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum + Tucket a blip-blip-blip-blip, tucka tuck-all de brum, + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum! + +Part of the time the drummers click their sticks together instead of +hitting the drum-head. That's what makes it sound so nice. I wish I +could play the snare-drum. + +In the Mechanicsburg band is a boy about fourteen years old, a muscular, +sturdy chunk of a lad. He walks with his heels down, his calves bulged +out behind, his head up, and the regular, proper swagger of a bandsman. +He hasn't any uniform, but he's all right. He plays a solo B part, and +he and the other solo cornet spell each other. On the repeat of every +strain my boy rests, and rubs his lips with his forefinger, while he +looks at the populace with bright, expectant eyes. When he blows, he +scowls, and brings the cushion of muscle on the point of his chin clear +up to his under lip, and he draws his breath through the corners of his +mouth. He's the real thing. Bright boy, too, I judge, the kind that has +a quick answer for everybody, like: “Aw, go chase yerself,” or “Go on, +yeh big stiff.” Watch him on the countermarch when they pass the Radnor +cornet band. The Radnors broke up the Mechanicsburg band last year +and they're going to try to do it again this year. The musicians blow +themselves the color of a huckleberry, and the drummers grit their +teeth, and try to pound holes in their sheep-skins. Aha! It's the Radnor +band got rattled in its time this year. Went all to pieces. The boy +snatches, a rest. “Yah!” he squawks. “Didge ever get left?” and picks up +the tune again. I wish I could play the cornet. Wouldn't play solo B or +I wouldn't play any--Ooooooooh! Did you see that? Took that stick by the +other end from the knob and slung it away, 'way up in the air, whirling +like sixty, and caught it when it came down and never missed a step. +Look at him juggle it from hand to hand, over his shoulder, and behind +his back, and under one leg, whirling so fast that you can hardly see +it, and all in perfect step. Whope! I thought he was going to drop it +that time but he didn't. That's something you don't see in the cities. +There, all the drum-major does with his stick is just to point it the +way the band is to go. I like our fashion the best. Geeminentally! Look +at that! I bet it went up in the air forty feet if it went an inch. I +wish I was a drummajor. I guess I'd sooner be a drum-major than anything +else. Oh, well, detective--that's different. + +Let's go farther along. Don't get too near the judges' stand. I know. +It's the best place to see the finish of an event, but I've been to +Firemen's Tournament before. You let me pick out the seats. Up close to +the judges' stand is all right till you come to the “wet races.” What? +Oh, you wait and see. Fun? Well, I should say so. Hope they'll clear all +those boys off the rail. Here! Get down off that rail. Think we can see +through you? You're thin, but you're not thin enough for that. Yes, I +mean you, and don't you give me any of your impudence either. Look at +those women out there. Right spang in the way of the scraper. Isn't +that a woman all over? A woman and a hen, I don't know which is--Well, +hel-lo! Where'd you come from? How's all the folks? Where's Lizzie? +Didn't she come with you? Aw, isn't that too bad? Scalding hot! Ts! Ts! +Ts! Seems as if they made preserving kettles apurpose so's they'd tip +up when you go to pour anything.... Why, I guess we can. Move over a +little, Charley. Can you squeeze in? That's all right. Pretty thick +around here, isn't it? There's the band starting up. About time, I +think. Teedle-eedle umtum, teedle-eedle, um-tum. “Hiawatha,” of course. +What other tune is there on earth? I've got so I know almost all of it. + +First is--let me see the program. First is what Mat. King calls “the +juveline contest.” It says here: “Run with truck carrying three ladders +one hundred yards. Take fifteen-foot ladder from truck, raise it against +structure”--that's the judges' stand--“and boy ascend. Time to be taken +when climber grasps top rung of ladder.” They're off. That pistol-shot +started them. Why can't people sit down? See just as well if they did. +New Berlin's, I guess. Pretty good. He's hanging out the slate with the +time on it. Eighteen and four-fifths. Oh, no, never in the world. Here's +the Mt. Victory boys. See that light-haired boy. Go it, towhead! Ah, +they've got the ladder crooked. Eighteen. That's not so bad .... Oh, +quit your fooling. He's nothing of the kind. Honestly? What! that old +skeezicks? Who to, for pity's sake? Well, I thought he was a confirmed +old bachelor, if anybody ever was. Well, sir, that just goes to show +that any man, I don't care who he is, can get married if he--Who were +those? Are those the Caledonia juveniles? I don't think much of 'em, do +you? Seventeen and two-fifths. I wouldn't have thought it. So their team +gets the first prize. Well, we weren't in that. + +What's next? “First prize, silver water-set, donated by Hon. William +Krouse.” Since when did old Bill Krouse get to be “Honorable?” Yes, +well, don't talk to me about Bill Krouse. I know him and his whole +connection and there isn't an honest hair--“Association trophy will +also be competed for.” Oh, that's the goldlined loving cup we saw in the +window. Our boys have won it twice and the Caledonias have won it twice. +If we get it this time, it will be ours for keeps. “Run with truck one +hundred and fifty yards; take twenty-five foot ladder,” and so forth +and so forth, Dan O'Brien's the boy for scaling ladders. He was going to +enlist in the Boer War, he hates the English so. Down on them the worst +way. And say, what do you think? Last year, at Caledonia, he won the +first prize for individual ladder scaling. And what do you suppose the +first prize was? A picture of Queen Victoria. Isn't that Caledonia all +over? there's a kind of rivalry between our boys and the Caledonias. + +Here they come now. Those are the Caledonian. Tell by the truck .... Do +you think so? I don't think they're anything so very much. Nix. You'll +never do it. Look at the way they run with their heads up. That shows +they're all winded. Look at the clumsy way they got the ladder off the +wagon. Blap! The judge thought it was coming through the boards on him. +Oh, pretty good, pretty good, but you just wait till you see our boys. +Look at the fool hanging there on the ladder waiting till the time is +announced. Isn't that Caledonia all over? Yah! Come down! Come down! +What is it? Twenty-five seconds. What's the record? Twenty-four and +four-fifths? Oh, well, it isn't so bad for Caledonia, but you just + what our boys do. Hear those yaps from Caledonia yell! If there's +anything I despise it is for a man to whoop and holler and make a public +spectacle of himself. Who's this? Oh, the Radnors. They're out of it. +Look at them. Pulling every which way. That ladder's too straight up +and down. Twenty-seven and two-fifths. What did I tell you?... What time +does your train go? Well, why don't you and your wife come take supper +with us? Why didn't you look us up noon-time?... I could have told you +better than that. (They went to the Ladies' Aid dinner.) Well, we shan't +have much, I expect, but we'll try and scrape up something more +filling than layer-cake. The idea of expecting to feed hungry people +on layer-cake! It's an imposition.... I didn't notice which one it +was. Doesn't matter any way. Only twenty-eight. Ah, here are our boys. +They've got blue silk running-breeches on. Well, maybe it is sateen. Let +the women folks alone for knowing sateen from silk a mile off. How much +a yard did you say it was? Notice the way they start with their hands +on the ground, just like the pictures on the sporting page of the Sunday +newspapers. Here they come. Oh, I hope they'll win. That's Charley +Rodehaver in front. Run! Oh, why don't you run? Come on! Come on! +Come on! Come on! COME ON! COME ON! COME O--O-oh! See Dan skip up that +ladder! Go it, Dan! Go it, old boy! Hooray-ay! Hooray-ay, ay! What's the +time? Twenty-four! Twenty--four flat! BROKE THE RECORD! Hooray-ay-ay! +Where's Caledonia now? Where's Caledonia now? Oh, I'm so glad our boys +won. There goes the Caledonia chief. I'll bet he feels like thirty +cents, Spanish. Ya-a-a-ah! Ya-a-a-ah! Where's Caledonia now? They can't +beat that, the other fellows can't, and it's our trophy for keeps.... +Oh, some crank in the next row. “Wouldn't I please sit down and not +obstruct the view.” Guess he comes from Caledonia. Looks like it. You +stand up, too, why don't you? Those planks are terribly hard.... I +didn't notice. Yes, that wasn't so bad. Twenty-five and two-fifths. But +it's our trophy. There goes Dan now. Hey, Dan! Good boy, Dan! Wave your +handkerchief at him. Hooray-ay-ay! Good boy, Dan! + +Next is a wet race. Now look out. Let's see what the program says: “Run +seventy-five yards to structure, on top of which an empty barrel has +been placed with spout outlet near top. Barrel to be filled with water +by means of buckets from reservoir”--That big tin-lined box opposite +is the reservoir. They are filling it now with a hose attached to the +water-plug yonder--“until water issues from spout.” What are they all +laughing at? Which one? Oh, but isn't she mad? Talk about a wet hen. +Why, Charley, the hose got away from the man that was filling the +reservoir and the lady was splashed. Why don't you use your eyes and see +what's going on and not be bothering me to tell you? Ip! There it goes +again. Oh, ho! ho! ho! hee! hee! didn't I tell you it would be fun? See +it run out of his sleeves.... I always get to coughing when I laugh as +hard as that. Oh, dear me! Makes the tears come. + +These are the fellows from Luxora. Oh, the clumsy things! Let the ladder +get away from them, and it fell and hit that man in the second row right +on the head. Hope it didn't hurt him much. See 'em scurry with the water +buckets. Aw, get a move on! Get a move! Why, what makes them so slow? +“Water, water!” Well, I should think as much. Not for themselves though. +Those fellows at the bottom of the ladder are catching it, aren't they? +Oh, pshaw, they don't mind it. They get it worse than that at a real +fire when they aren't half so well fixed for it. Why, is there no bottom +to that barrel at all? Why, look!... Say, the judge forgot to close the +valve. There's a hose connected with the bottom of the barrel to run the +water off after each trial and he's forgotten to--... Well, isn't that +too bad! All that work for nothing. I suppose they'll let them try +it over again.... That man must have got a pretty hard rap. They're +carrying him out. His head's all bloody.... Wapatomicas, I guess. Yes, +Wapatomicas. I hope the valve's closed this time. Whope! did you see +that? One fellow got hit with a water bucket and it was about half-full. +It's running out of the spout. Yes, and it's falling on those people +right where you wanted to sit. Hear the girls squeal. Talk about your +fun. I don't want any better fun than this. Look at 'em come down the +ladder just holding the sides with their hands. They couldn't do that if +the ladder was dry. + +Ah, here's our crowd. Come on! Come on! Come on! COME ON! Oh, don't be +so slow with those buckets! Aren't they fine? Say, they don't care if +they do spill a drop or two. Why. Why, what are they coming down for? +It isn't running out of the spout yet. Come back! COME BACK! Oh, pshaw! +Just threw it away by being in too much of a hurry. That judge looks +funny, doesn't he, with a rubber overcoat on and the sun shining? See, +he's telling them: “One bucket more.” They'll let 'em have another +trial, of course.... No? Oh, that's an outrage. That' s not fair. The +Caledonias will get it now.... Yes, sir, they did get it. Oh, well, +accidents will happen. What? “Where's Caledonia now?” Well, they got it +by a fluke. What say?... Well only for--Oh, pshaw! Now, don't tell +me that because I was there and--Well, I say they didn't .... I know +better, they didn't.... Oh, shut up. You don't know what you're talking +about. I tell you--Now, Mary, don't you interfere. I'm not quarreling. +I'm just telling this gentleman back of me that--Well, all right, if +you're going to cry. If there was any fouling done it was the Caledonias +that did it, though. + +The next is where they “run three hundred feet from the judges' stand, +raise ladder, hose company to couple to hydrant, break coupling in hose +and put on nozzle, scale ladder, and fill twenty-five gallon barrel.” + Only the Caledonias, and our boys are entered in this. Now we'll see +which is the best. All right, Mary, I won't say a word.... Say, for +country-jakes, those Caledonias didn't do so badly. I give them that +much. Look at the water fly! I'll bet those folks near the judges' stand +wish they'd brought their umbrellas. Now you see why these are the best +seats, don't you? I told you I'd been to Firemen's Tournaments before. +What? You'll have to talk louder than that if you want me to hear with +all this noise.... Oh, that'll be all right. They'll be so hungry they +won't notice it. + +Here, be careful how you wabble that hose around. Good thing they turned +the water off at the plug just when they did or we'd have been--Here's +our company. Where's Caledonia now? Eh? Pretty work! Pretty work! Say, +do you know that hose full of water's heavy? Now watch Riley. Riley's +the one that's got the nozzle. Always up to some monkeyshine. Ah! +See him? See him? Oh, is n't he soaking them? Oh-ho! Ho! Ho! ha! ha! +hee-hee! Yip. + +Blame clumsy fool!... P-too! Yes, in my mouth and in my ears and down +the back of my neck. All over. Running out of my sleeves. Everything +I got on is just ruined. Completely ruined. Come on. Let's go home. +There's nothing more to see, much. Aw, come on. Well, stay if you want +to, but I'm going home, and get some dry clothes on me. You get me to go +to another Firemen's Tournament and you'll know it. Look at that monkey +from Caledonia laughing at me. For half a cent I'd go up and smack his +face for him.... Aw, let up on your “Where's Caledonia now?” Give us a +rest. Well, are you coming, you folks?... Kind of a fizzle this year, +wasn't it? + +However, after supper, with dry clothes on, it isn't so bad. The streets +are packed. All the firemen are parading and shouting: “Who? Who? Who +are we?” The Caledonias got one more prize than our boys. Well, why +shouldn't they? Entered in three more events. I don't see as that's +anything to brag of or to carry brooms about. All the fife-and-drum +corps are out, and the bands are all playing “Hiawatha” at once, but +not together. Not all either. There's one band in front of Hofmeyer's +playing “Oh, Happy Day! That Fixed my Choce.” That's funny: to play a +hymn-tune in front of a beer-saloon. Hofmeyer seems to think it's all +right. He's inviting them in to have something. “Took the hint?” I don't +understand.... Oh, is that so? I didn't know there were other words to +that tune. + +See that woman with four little ones. Her husband's carrying two more. +“I want to go howm. Why cain't we gow howm? I do' want to gow howm +pretty soon. I want to gow na-ow!” Eh, Mary, how would you like to lug +them around all day and then stand up in the cars all the way home? + +Well, good-by. Hope you had a nice time. Give my regards to all the +folks. Don't be in such a rush, my friend.... Oh, did you see? It must +be the man that got hit on the head with the ladder. Taking him home on +a stretcher. Gee! That's tough. Skull fractured, eh? Dear! Dear! I +hear they have been keeping company a long time, and were to have been +married soon. No wonder she cried and took on so. Poor girl! Yes, it's +the women that suffer .... Oh, quite a day for accidents. I didn't mind, +though, after I had changed my clothes. I took some quinine, and I +guess I'll be all right. Lucky you got a seat. Well, you're off at last. +Good-by. Remember me to all. Good-by. + +Well, thank goodness, that's over. Another ten minutes of them and +wouldn't have--Well, Mary, what else could I do but ask them home after +he told me what they didn't have to eat at the Ladies' Aid?... It was +all right. Plenty good enough. Better than they have at home and I'll +bet on it. The table looked beautiful. I'm glad the Tournament doesn't +come but once a year. I'm about ready to drop. + + + + +THE DEVOURING ELEMENT + + +Mr. Silverstone was gloomily considering whether he had not better blow +out the lights in the New York One Price Clothing Store, and lock up for +the night. Kerosene was fifteen cents a gallon, and not a customer had +been in since supper-time. Business was “ofle, simbly ofle.” + +The streets were empty. There were lights only in the barber shop where +one patron was being lathered while two mandolins and a guitar gave a +correct imitation of two house-flies and a bluebottle in Riley's +where, in default of other occupation, Mr. Riley was counting up; +in Oesterle's, where a hot discussion was going on as to whether +Christopher Columbus was a Dutchman or a Dago, and in Miller's, where +Tom Ball was telling Tony, who impassively wiped the perforated brass +plate let into the top of the bar, that he, Tom Ball, “coul' lick em man +ill Logan coun'y.” + +Lamps shone in every parlor, where little girls labored with: “And one +and two, three and one and two, three,” occasionally coming out to look +at the clock to see if the hour was any nearer being up than it was +five minutes ago. They also shone in sitting-rooms, where boys looked +fiercely at “X2 +2Xy+y2,” mothers placidly darned stockings, and +fathers, Weekly Examiner in hand, patiently struggled to disengage from +“boiler-plate” and bogus news about people snatched from the jaws of +death by the timely use of Dr. McKinnon's Healing Extract of Timothy and +Red-top, items of real news, such as who was sick and what ailed them, +who cut his foot with the ax while splitting stove-wood, and where the +cake sale by the Rector's Aid of Grace P.E. would be held next week. + +At the prayer-meeting, Uncle Billy Nicholson was giving in his +experience and had just got to that part about: “Sometimes on +the mountaintop, and sometimes in the valley, but still, +nevertheless--” when, all of a sudden, something happened. + +The mandolins stopped with a jerk. Mr. Riley stood tranced at: “And ten +is thirty-five.” Mr. Ball was stricken dumb in the celebration of his +own great physical powers. The crowd in Oesterle's forgot Columbus, and +were as men beholding a ghost. The drowsy congregation sat up rigid, and +Mr. Silverstone gave a guilty start. He had been thinking of that very +thing! + +The next instant, front doors were wrenched open, and the street echoed +with the sound of windows being raised. Fathers and sons rushed out on +the front porch, followed by little girls, to whom any excuse to stop +practising was like a plank to a drowning man. + +They had heard aright. Up by the Soldiers' Monument fell the clump of +tired feet, and upon the air floated the wild alarm of--. + +“FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Poof! FIRE!” + +Mat King, the assistant chief, kicked off his slippers, and swiftly +laced up his shoes, grabbed his speaking-trumpet and his helmet, and +tore out of the house. If he could only get to the engine-house before +Charley Lomax, the chief! But Charley was the lone customer in the +barber's char. With the lather on one side of his face, he clapped on +his hat and broke for the firebell, four doors below. + +“Where's it at?” + +“FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Sm-poohl Fi--(gulp)--FIRE!” + +“It's Linc Hoover. Hay, Linc! Where's the fire?” + +“FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! ha, ha! FIRE!” + +“Hay, Linc! Where's it at? Tell me and I'll run. Hay! Where's it at?” + +“FIRE! Swope's be--(gulp) Swope's barn. FIRE!” + +“Which Swope? Henry or the old man?” + +“FIRE! Pooh! J. K. Swope. Whoo-ha, whooh-ha! Out out on West End Avenue. +Poof!” + +The news thus being passed, the fresher runners scampered ahead, +bawling: “FOY-URRR' FOY-URRR! and Linc, the hero, slowed down, gasping +for breath and spitting cotton. + +“Whew!” he whistled, gustily, his arms dropping and his whole frame +collapsing. “Gee! I'm 'bout tuckered. Sm-pooh! Sm-pooh! Run all th' +way f'm--sm-ha, sm-ha!--run all th' way f'm--mouth's all stuck +together--p'too! ha! Pooh! Fm West End Avenue and Swo--Swope's. Gee! I'm +hot's flitter.” + +“Keep y' coat on when you're all of a prespiration, that way. How'd it +ketch?” + +“Ount know. 'S comin' by there an' I--whoof! I smelt smoke and--Gosh! +I'm all out o' breath--an' I looked an' I je-e-est could see a +light--wisht I had a drink o' somepin' to rench mum mouth out. Whew! Oh, +laws! An' it was Swope's barn and I run in an' opened the door, didn't +stop to knock or nung, an' I hollered out: 'Yib barn's afire!' an' he +run out in his sockfeet, an' he says: 'My Lord!' he says. 'Linc,' he +says, 'run git the ingine an' I putt.” Linc drew in a long, tremulous +breath like a man that has looked on sorrow. + +“Why 'n't you--” + +“Betchy 't was tramps,” interrupted a bystander. “Git in the haymow an' +think they got to have their blamed old pipe a-goin'--” + +“Cigarettes, more likely,” said another. “More darn devilment comes from +cigarettes--” + +“Why'n't you--” + +“Ount know nung 'bout tramps,” said Linc. “All I seen was the fire. I +was a-comin' long a-past there an' I smelt the smoke an' thinks I--What +say?” + +“Why'n't you telefoam down?” + +Linc, the hero, shrunk a foot. “I gosh!” he admitted, “I never thought +to.” + +“Jist'a' telefoamed, you could 'a' saved yourself all that--” + +“Ain't they weltin' the daylights out o' that bell? All foolishness! Now +they're ringin' the number--one, two, three, four. Yes, sir, that's up +in the West End. You goin'? Come on, then.” + +“No, Frank, I can't let you go. You've got your lessons to get. Well, +now, mother, make up your mind if you're comin' along. Cora, what on +earth are you doing out here in the night air with nothing around you? +Now, you mosey right back into that parlor, and don't you make a move +off that piano-stool till your hour's up. Do you hear me? No. Frank. +I told you once you couldn't go and that ends it. Stop your whining! I +can't have you running hither and yon all hours of the night, and we not +know where you are. Well, hurry up, then, mother. Take him in with you. +Oh, just throw a shawl over your head. Nobody 'll see you, or if they +do they won't care.” The apparatus trundles by, the bells on the trucks +tolling sadly as the striking gear on the rear axle engages the cam. A +hurrying throng scuffles by in the gloom. The tolling grows fainter, the +throng thinner. + +“Good land! Is she going to be all night? Wish 't I hadn't proposed it. +That's the worst of taking a woman anyplace. Fuss and fiddle by the +hour in front of the looking-glass. Em! (Be all over by the time we get +there) Oh, Em! Em!... EM! (Holler my head offl) EM!.... Well, why don't +you answer me? Well, I didn't hear you. How much long--Oh, I know +about-- 'Hour' you mean.... Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Conklin? Hello, Fred. +Pleased to meet you, Miss Shoemaker. Yes, I saw in the paper you were +visiting your sister. This your first visit to our little burg? Yes, +we think it's quite a place. You see, we're trying to make your stay as +interesting as possible.... Oh, no, not altogether on your account. No, +no. Ha! Ha-ha-ha! Hum! ah!... Well, yes, if she ever gets done primping +up. Oh, there you are. Miss Shoemaker, let me make you acquainted with +my wife. Now, you girls'll have to get a move on if you want to see +anything.” + +The male escorts grasp the ladies' arms and shove them ahead, that being +the only way if you are ever going to get any place. The women gasp and +pant and make a great to-do. + +“Ooh! Wait till I get my breath. Will! Weeull! Don't go so fay-ust! +Oooh! I can't stand it. Oh, well, you're a man.” + +But when they turn the corner that gives them a good view of the +blaze, fluttering great puffs of flame, and hear the steady crackle and +snapping, as it were, of a great popper full of pop-corn, they, too, +catch the infection, and run with a loud swashing and slatting of +skirts, giggling and squealing about their hair coming down. + +In the waving orange glare the crowd is seen, shifting and moving. It +seems impossible for the onlookers to remain constant in one spot. The +chief, Charley Lomax, is gesticulating with wide arm movements. He puts +his speaking-trumpet to his mouth. “Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoffi” he says. + +“Wha-at?” the men halloo back. + +“Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff.” + +“What'd he say?” + +“Search me. John, you run over and ask him what he wants. Or, no; I'll +go myself.” + +“Why in Sam Hill didn't you come sooner?” demands the angry chief. + +“Well, why in Sam Hill don't you talk so 's a body can understand you? +'Yoffemoffemoffemoffem.' Who can make sense out o' that?” + +“The hose ain't long enough to reach from here to the hydrant. You 'n' +some more of 'em run down t' th' house an' git that other reel.” + +“Aw, say, Chief! Look here. I'm awful busy right now. Can't somebody +else go?” + +“You go an' do what I tell you to, and don't gimme none o' your back +talk.” + +(Too dag-gon bossy and dictatorial, that Charley Lomax is. Getting +'most too big for his breeches. Never mind, there's going to be a fire +election week from Tuesday. See whether he'll be chief next year or not. +Sending a man away from the fire right at the most interesting part!) + +“I'll go, Chief, wommetoo,” puts in jumbo Lee, all in a huddle of +words. “Ije slivsnot. Aw ri. Mon Jim. Shoonmeansmore of 'em go +gitth'otherreel.” + +Jumbo isn't a member of the fire department, though he is wild to join. +He isn't old enough. He is six feet one inch, weighs 180, and won't +be sixteen till the 5th of next February. Nobody ever saw him when +he wasn't eating. They say he clips his words so as to save time for +eating. He takes a cracker out of his pocket, shoves it in his mouth +whole, jams his hat down till his ears stick out, and, with his +companions, tears down the road, seemingly propelled as much by his +elbows as by his legs. Why, under the combined strain of growing and +running, he doesn't part a seam somewhere is a dark mystery. + +Crash! The roof of the barn caves in and reveals what we had not before +suspected, that Platt's barn, on the other side of the alley, is afire +too. Say! This is getting interesting. The wind is setting directly +toward Swope's house. It has been so terribly dry this last month or +so that the house will go like powder if it ever catches. Why, I think +Swope has a well and cistern both. Used to have, anyway, before they put +the water-works in, and the board of health condemned the wells. Say! +There was a put-up job if there ever was one. Why, sure! Sure he had +stock in the water works. Doc. Muzzey? I guess, yes.... Pity they ever +traded off the hand-engine. They got a light-running hook-and-ladder +truck. Won two prizes at the tournament, just with that truck. But if +they had that hand-engine now though! “Up with her! Down with her!” Have +that fire out in no time! + +They're not trying to save the barns. They're a dead loss. What little +water they can get from the cisterns and wells around--hasn't it been +dry?--they are using to try to save Swope's house, and the one next +to it. Is that where Lonny Wheeler lives? I knew it was up this way +somewhere. Don't he look ridiculous, sitting up there a-straddle of his +ridgepole, with a tin-cup? A tin-cup, if you please. Over this way +a little. See better. They're wetting down the roof. Line of fellows +passing buckets to the ladder, and a line up the ladder. What big sparks +those are! Puts you in mind of Fourth of July. How the roof steams! Must +be hot up there. + +O-o-o-oh! + +A universal indrawn breath from all spectators proclaims their horror. +One of the men on the roof missed his footing and slipped, rolling over +and over till he reached the roof of the porch, where he spread-eagled +for a fall. The women begin to moan. Some poor fellow gone to his death. +Or, if he be so lucky as to miss death itself, he is doomed to languish +all his days a helpless cripple. Like enough the sole support of an aged +mother; or perhaps his wife is sitting up for him at home now, tiptoeing +into the bedroom every little while to look at the sleeping children. +That's generally the way of it. Who is there so free and foot-loose +that, if harm befall him, some woman will not go mourning all her days? +It must take the heart out of brave men to think what their women folk +must suffer, mothers and wives and--Who? Dan O'Brien? Oh, he'll be all +right. He'll light on his feet like a cat. I believe that boy is made of +India rubber. He never gets hurt. Why, one time--Ah! There he goes +now up the ladder as if nothing had happened. Hooray-ayayay! +Hooray-ay-ay-ay! I thought he'd broken his neck as sure as shooting. + +Wandering about one cannot fail to encounter what the gallant +fire-laddies have rescued from the devouring element. There is the piano +with a deep scratch across the upper part, and the top lid hanging by +one hinge. It caught in the door, and the boys were kind of in a hurry. +There is the parlor carpet, plucked up by the roots, as it were; and +two tubs, the washboard and a bag of clothes-pins; a stuffed chair, +with three casters gone, the coffee-pot, a crayon enlargement, a winter +overcoat, a blanket, a pile of old dresses, the screw-driver and a paper +of tacks in the colander, the couch with a triangular rip in the cover, +the coal-scuttle, a pile of dishes, the ax and wood-saw, a fancy pillow, +the sewing-machine with the top gone, the wash-boiler, the basket of +dirty clothes, with the stove-shaker and the parlor clock in together, +and a heap of books, all spraddled and sprawled every which way. Upon +this pitiful mound sits Mrs. Swope with her baby sound asleep upon her +bosom. She mingles her tears with the sustaining tea that Mrs. Farley +has made for her. Swope, still in his socks and with his wife's +shoulder-cape upon him, caught up somehow, is trying to soothe her. He +is as mad as a hornet, and doesn't dare to show it. All this furniture +he had insured. It was all old stuff their folks had given them. If the +gallant fire-laddies had been as discreet as they were zealous, they +would have let the furniture go, and Swope and his wife would have had +an entire, brand-new outfit. As it is, who can ever make that junk look +like anything any more? + +What's this coming up the road? Jumbo Lee and his friends with the other +hose-reel. Now they will connect it with the hydrant, and have water +a-plenty to save the house. Now the fellows are coming down from the +ladder. Cistern's empty, I suppose. The other reel didn't come any too +soon. How the roof steams! Or is it smoking? + +“Don't stand around here with that reel! Up to that water-plug. Farther +up the street. Front o' Cummins's.” + +Jumbo crams another cracker into his mouth and speeds away, hunching the +patient, unresenting air with his elbows. + +Ah! See--that little flicker of flame on the roof! Do, for pity's sake, +hurry up with that connection! The roof is really burning. See? They are +trying to chop away the burning place. But there's another! And another! + +A-a-ah! Hooray-ay! Connection's made! Now you'll see something. Out of +the way there! One side! One side! Up you go!... Wha-at? Is that the +best they can do? Why, it won't run out of the nozzle at all when it's +up on the roof. Not a drop. Feeble little dribble when it's on the +ground-level. There's your water-works for you. It is a good long way +from the fire-plug I know, but there ought to be more pressure than +that. Oh, pshaw! If we only had the old hand-engine! “Up with her! Down +with her!” Have that fire out in no time. The house will have to go now. +Too bad! + +Somebody in the second story is rescuing property from the devouring +element. He has just tossed out a wash-bowl and pitcher. Luckily they +both fell on the sod and rolled apart. He takes down the roller-shade +and flings it out. The lace curtains follow. They catch on the edge +of the veranda roof, and languidly wave there as for some holiday. +Bed-clothes issue and pillows hurtle out. What's he doing now? No use. +No use. You can't get the mattress out of that window. A waste-paper +basket, a rag rug, a brush and comb--as fast as his hands can fly he's +throwing out things. + +The women began to whimper. + +“Oh, the poor man! The roof will fall in on him! He'll smother to death! +Oh, why doesn't somebody go tell him to come away? Not you! Don't you +think of such a trick! Oh, why does he risk his life for a lot of trash +I wouldn't have around the house?” + +The smoke oozes out of the open window. It must be choking in there. +For a long time no jettison of household goods appears. Perhaps the man, +whoever he is, has seen his peril and fled while yet it was possible to +flee. Ah, but suppose he has been overcome and lies there huddled in a +heap, never to rouse again? Is there none to save him? Is there none? +Ah! A couple of collars and a magazine flutter out into the light! He +is still there. He is still alive. Plague take the idiot! Why doesn't he +come down out of that? + +“Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff. Yoffemoff!” + +But no! He will do it himself. The Chief rushes gallantly into the +burning building and disappears up the dark stair. + +Desperate measures are now to be resorted to. On the lawn a line of +men forms. They bend their necks, cowering before the fierce glow, but +daring it, and prepared to face it at even closer range. You are to +witness now an exhibition of that heroism which is commoner with us +than we think, that spirit of do and dare which mocks at danger and +even welcomes pain. It is a far finer sentiment than the cold-hearted +calculation which looks ahead, and figures out first whether it is worth +while or not. + +The men dash forward in the withering heat. With frantic haste they fix +the hook into the lattice-work beneath the porch and scamper back. + +“Yo hee! Yo hee!” + +The thick rope tautens as the firemen lay their weight to it. You can +almost see the bristling fibers stand up on it. + +“Yo hee! Yo hee!” + +With a splintering crash the timber parts, and a piece of lattice-work +is dragged away. + +Another sortie and another. Bit by bit the porch is ripped and torn to +rubbish. You smile. It seems so futile. What are these kindlings saved +when the whole house is burning? Is this what you call heroism? Yet +the charge at Balaklava was not more futile. It had even less of +commonsense, less of hope of benefit to mankind to back it and inspire +it. Heroism is an instinct, not a thoughtout policy. Its quality is the +same, in two-ounce samples or in car-load lots. + +The weather-boarding slips down in a sparkling fall. The joists and +stringers, all outlined and gemmed with coals, are, as it were, a golden +grille, through which the world may look unhindered in upon the holy +place of home, heretofore conventually private. There stands the family +altar, pitifully grotesque amid the ruinous splendor of the destroying +fire, the tea-kettle upon it proudly flaunting its steamy plume. What? +Is a common cooking-stove an altar? Yes, verily, in lineal descent. +Examine an ancient altar and you will see its sacrificial stone scored +and guttered to catch the dripping from the roasting meat. Who is +the priestess, after an order older than Melchisedec's, but she that +ministers to us that most comfortable sacrament, wherein we are made +partakers not alone of the outward and visible food which we do carnally +press with our teeth, but also of that inward and spiritual sustenance, +the patient and enduring love of wife and mother, without which there +can be no such thing as home? All other sacraments wherein men break +the bread of amity together are but copies of this pattern, the Blessed +Sacrament of the Household Altar, the first and primal one of all, the +one that shall perdure, please God! throughout all ages of ages. + +The flames die down. The timbers sink together with a softer fall. The +air grows chill. We fetch a sigh. We cannot bear to look at that mute +figure of the priestess seated on the sordid heap of broken furniture, +her sleeping baby pressed against her breast, her gaze fixed--but +seeing naught--upon her ruined temple. We do not like to think upon such +things. We do not like to think at all. Is there nothing more to laugh +at? + +The firemen, having all borrowed the makings of a cigarette from each +other, put on their hats and coats, left on the hook-and-ladder truck in +the custody of a trusted member. The apparatus trundles off, the bells +dolorously tolling as the striking gear on the rear axle engages the +cam. + +Who is this weeping man approaches, supported by two friends, that +comfort him with: “All right, Tom. You done noble,” uttered in pacifying +if not convincing tones? Heart-brokenly he cries: “I dull le ver' bes' I +knowed, now di' n't I? Charley? Billy, I dub bes' I knowed how. An' nen +he says to me--Oo-hoo-hoo-oooo-oo! He says to me: 'Come ou' that, ye +cussed fool!' Oo-oooo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Smf! Lemme gi' amma ham hankshiff. +Leg go my arm. Waw gi' amma hankshifp. Oo-oo-oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Fmf! I +ash you as may wurl--I ash you as may--man of world, is that--is that +proper way address me? Me! Know who I am? I'm Tom Ball. 'S who I am. I +kill lick em man ill Logan Coun'y. Ai' thasso? Hay? 'S aw ri. Mfi choose +stay up there, aw thas sec--aw thas second floor and rescue fel-cizzen's +propprop'ty from devouring em--from devouring emlement, thas my bizless. +Ai' tham my bizless, Charley? Ai' tham my bizless, Billy? W'y, sure. +Charley, you're goof feller. You too, Billy. You're goof feller, too. +Say. Wur-wur if Miller's is open yet? 'Spose it is? Charley; I dub bes' +I knowed how, di'n't I, now? Affor that Chief come up thas stairway and +say me: 'Come ou' that, ye cussed fool!' Aw say! 'Come ou' that--'Called +me fool, too! Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo!” + +“Hello, Dan! Hurt yourself any? (That's Dan O'Brien. Fell off the roof.) +Well, sir, I thought sure you'd broken your neck. You don't know your +luck. And let me tell you one thing, my bold bucko: You'll do that just +once too often. Now you mark.” + + +The day before the Weekly Examiner goes to press, Mr. Swope hands the +editor a composition entitled: “A Card of Thanks,” signed by John K. +and Amelia M. Swope, and addressed to the firemen and all who showed by +their many acts of kindness, and so forth and so on. + +“Kind of help to fill up the paper,” says Mr. Swope, covering his +retreat. + +“Sure,” replies the editor. When Mr. Swope is good and gone, he says: +“Dog my riggin's if I didn't forget all about writing up that fire. Been +so busy here lately. Good thing he come in. Hay, Andy!” + +“Watch want?” from the composing-room. + +“Got room for about two sticks more?” + +“Yes, guess so. If it don't run over that.” + +A brief silence. Then: + +“Hay, Andy?” + +“What?” + +“Is it 'had have,' or 'had of?” + +“What's the connection?” + +“Why-ah. 'If the gallant fire-laddies, under the able direction of Chief +Charley Lomax, had of had a sufficiency of water with which to cope with +the devouring element--'etc.” + +“'Had have,' I guess. I don't know.” + +“Guess you're right. Run it that way anyhow.” + + + + +CIRCUS DAY + + +Only the other day, the man that in all this country knows better than +anybody else how a circus should be advertised, said (with some sadness, +I do believe) that it didn't pay any longer to put up showbills; the +money was better invested in newspaper advertising. + +“It doesn't pay.” Ah, me! How the commercial spirit of the age plays +whaley with the romance of existence! You shall not look long upon +the showbill now that there is no money to be had from it. “Youth's +sweet-scented manuscript” is about to close, but ere it does, let us +turn back a little to the pages illuminated by the glowing colors of the +circus poster. + +Saturday afternoon when we went by the enginehouse, its brick wall +fluttered with the rags and tatters of “Esther, the Beautiful Queen,” + and the lecture on “The Republic: Will it Endure?” (Gee! But that was +exciting!) Sunday morning, after Sunday-school, there was a sudden +quickening among the boys. We stopped nibbling on the edges of the +lesson leaf and followed the crowd in scuttling haste. Miraculously, +over-night, the shabby wall had blossomed into thralling splendor. What +was Daniel in the Lions' Den, compared with Herr Alexander in the same? +Not, as the prophet is pictured, in the farthest corner from the lions, +and manifestly saying to himself: “If I was only out of this!” But with +his head right smack dab in the lion's mouth. Right in it. Yes, sir. + +“S' Posin'!” we gasped, all goggle-eyed, “jist s'posin' that there lion +was to shut his mouth! Ga-ash!” + +The Golden Text? It faded before the lemon-and-scarlet glories of the +Golden Chariot. Drawn by sixteen dappled steeds, each with his neck +arching like a fish-hook and reined with fancy scalloped reins, it +occupied the center of the foreground. The band rode in it, far more +fortunate than our local band whose best was, Charley Wells's depot +'bus. And nobler than all his fellows was the bass-drummer. He had a +canopy over him, a carved and golden canopy, on whose top revolved a +clown's head with its tongue stuck out. On each quarter of this rococo +shallop a golden circus-girl in short skirts gaily skipped rope with +a nubia or fascinator, or whatever it is the women call the thing they +wrap around their heads in cold weather when they hang out the clothes. +There were big pieces of looking-glass let into the sides of the +band-wagon, and every decorator knows that when you put looking-glass on +a thing it is impossible to fix it so that it will be any finer. + +Winding back and forth across the picture was the long train of +tableau-cars and animal cages, diminishing with distance until away, +'way up in the upper left-hand corner the hindmost van was all immersed +in the blue-and-yellow haze just this side of out-of-sight. That with +our own eyes we should behold the glories here set forth we knew right +well. Cruel Fortune might cheat us of the raptures to be had inside the +tents, but the street-parade was ours, for it was free. + +It seems to me that we did not linger so long before these pictures, nor +before those of the rare and costly animals, which, if we but knew it, +were the main reason why we were permitted to go (if we did get to go). +To look at these animals is improving to the mind, and since we could +not go alone, an older person had to accompany us, and... and... I trust +I make myself clear. But we didn't want to improve our minds if it was +a possible thing to avoid it. The pictures of these animals were in +the joggerfy book anyhow, though not in colors, unless we had a box +of paints. There can be no doubt that the show-bill pictures of the +menageries were in colors. I seem to recollect that Mr. Galbraith, who +kept the dry-goods store across the street from the engine-house, was +very much exercised in his mind about the way one of these pictures was +printed. It was the counterfeit presentment of the Hip-po-pot-a-mus, +or Behemoth of Holy Writ. His objection to the hip--you know was not +because its open countenance was so fearsome, but because it was so red. +Six feet by two of flaming crimson across the street in the afternoon +sun made it necessary for him to take the goods to the back window of +the store to show to customers. He didn't like it a bit. + +No. Neither before the large and expensive pictures of the +street-parade, nor the large and expensive wild beasts did we linger. +The swarm was thickest, sand the jabbering loudest, the “O-o-oh's,” the +“M! Looky's” the “Geeminently's” shrillest, in front of where the deeds +of high emprise were set forth. Men with their fists clenched on their +breasts, and their neatly slippered toes touching the backs of their +heads, crashed through paper-covered hoops beneath which horses madly +coursed; they flew through the air with the greatest of ease, the daring +young men on the flying; trapeze, or they posed in living pyramids. + +And as the sons of men assembled themselves together, Satan came also, +the spirit I, that evermore denies. + +“A-a-ah!” sneers his embodiment in one whose crackling voice cannot +make up its mind whether to be bass or treble, “A-a-ah, to the show they +down't do hay-uf what they is in the pitchers.” + +A chilling silence follows. A cold uneasiness strikes into all the +listeners. We are all made wretched by destructive criticism. Let us +alone in our ideals. Let us alone, can't you? + +“Now... now,” pursues the crackle-voiced Mephisto, pointing to where +Japanese jugglers defy the law of gravitation and other experiences of +daily life, “now, they cain't walk up no ladder made out o' reel sharp +swords.” + +“They can so walk up it,” stoutly declares one boy. Hurrah! A champion +to the rescue! The others edge closer to him. They like him. + +“Nah, they cain't. How kin they? They'd cut their feet all to pieces.” + +“They kin so. I seen 'em do it. The time I went with Uncle George I seen +a man, a Japanee.... Yes, sharp. Cut paper with 'em.... A-a-ah, I did +so. I guess I know what I seen an' what I didn't.” + +The little boys breathe easier, but fearing another onslaught, make all +haste to call attention to the most fascinating one of all, the picture +of a little boy standing up on top of his daddy's head. And, as if that +weren't enough, his daddy is standing up on a horse and the horse is +going round the ring lickety-split. And, as if these circumstances +weren't sufficiently trying, that little show-boy is standing on only +one foot. The other is stuck up in the air like five minutes to six, and +he has hold of his toe with his hand. I'll bet you can't do that just +as you are on the ground, let alone on your daddy's head, and him on a +horse that's going like sixty. Now you just try it once. Just try it.... +Aa-ah! Told you you couldn't. + +Now, how the show-actors can do that looks very wonderful to you. It +really is very simple. I'll tell you about it. All show-actors are born +double-jointed. You have only two hip-joints. They have four. And it's +the same all over with them. Where you have only one joint, they have +two. So, you see, the wonder isn't how they can bend themselves every +which way, but how they can keep from doubling up like a foot-rule. + +And another thing. Every day they rub themselves all over with +snake-oil. Snakes are all limber and supple, and it stands to reason +that if you take and try out their oil, which is their express essence, +and then rub that into your skin, it will make you supple and limber, +too. I should think garter-snakes would do all right, if you could catch +enough of them, but they 're so awfully scarce. Fishworms won't do. I +tried 'em. There's no grease in 'em at all. They just dry up. + +And I suppose you know the reason why they stay on the horse's back. +They have rosin on their feet. Did you ever stand up on a horse's back? +I did. It was out to grandpap's, on old Tib.... No, not very long. I +didn't have any rosin on my feet. I was going to put some on, but my +Uncle Jimmy said: “Hay! What you got there?” I told him. “Well,” he +says, “you jist mosey right into the house and put that back in the +fiddle-box where you got it. Go on, now. And if I catch you foolin' with +my things again, I'll.... Well, I don't know what I will do to you.” So +I put it back. Anyhow, I don't think rosin would have helped me stay on +a second longer, because old Tib, with an intelligence you wouldn't have +suspected in her, walked under the wagon-shed and calmly scraped me off +her back. + +And did you ever try to walk the tight-rope? You take the clothes-line +and stretch it in the grape-arbor--better not make it too high at +first--and then you take the clothes-prop for a balance-pole and go +right ahead--er--er as far as you can. The real reason why you fall +off so is that you don't have chalk on your shoes. Got to have lots of +chalk. Then after you get used to the rope wabbling so all-fired fast, +you can do it like a mice. And while I'm about it, I might as well tell +you that if you ever expect to amount to a hill of beans as a trapeze +performer you must have clear-starch with oil of cloves in it to rub on +your hands. Finest thing in the world. My mother wouldn't let me have +any. She said she couldn't have me messing around that way, I blame +her as much as anybody that I am not now a competent performer on the +trapeze. + +I don't know that I had better go into details about the state of mind +boys are in from the time the bills are first put up until after the +circus has actually departed. I don't mean the boys that get to go to +everything that comes along, and that have pennies to spend for candy, +and all like that, whenever they ask for it. I mean the regular, proper, +natural boys, that used to be “Back Home,” boys whose daddies tormented +them with: “Well, we Il see--” that's so exasperating!--or, “I wish you +wouldn't tease, when you know we can't spare the money just at present.” + A perfectly foolish answer, that last. They had money to fritter away at +the grocery, and the butcher-shop, and the dry-goods store, but when it +came to a necessity of life, such as going to the circus, they let on +they couldn't afford it. A likely story. + +“Only jist this little bit of a once. Aw, now, please. Please, cain't I +go? Aw now, I think you might. Aw now, woncha? Aw, paw. I ain't been to +a reely show for ever so long. Aw, the Scripture pammerammer, that don't +count. Aw, paw. Please cain't I go? Aw, please!” And so forth and so on, +with much more of the same sort. No, I can't go into details, it's too +terrible. + +Even those of us whose daddies said plainly and positively: “Now, I +can't let you go. No, Willie. That's the end of it. You can't go.” Even +those, I say, hoped against hope. It simply could not be that what the +human heart so ardently longed for should be denied by a loving father. +This same conviction applies to other things, even when we are grown up. +It is against nature and the constituted scheme of things that we cannot +have what we want so badly. (And, in general, it may be said that we can +have almost anything we want, if we only want it hard enough. That's the +trouble with us. We don't want it hard enough.) We boys lay there in +the shade and pulled the long stalks of grass and nibbled off the sweet, +yellow ends, as we dramatized miracles that could happen just as well as +not, if they only would, consarn 'em! For instance, you might be going +along the street, not thinking of anything but how much you wanted to go +to the circus, and how sorry you were because you hadn't the money, and +your daddy wouldn't give you any; and first thing you 'd know, you 'd +stub your toe on something, and you'd look down and there'd be a half a +dollar that somebody had lost--Gee! If it would only be that way! But we +knew it wouldn't, because only the other Sunday, Brother Longenecker had +said: “The age of miracles is past.” So we had to give up all hopes. Oh, +it's terrible. Just terrible! + +But some of the boys lay there in the grass with their hands under their +heads, looking up at the sky, and making little white spots come in and +out on the corners of their jaws, they had their teeth set so hard, +and were chewing so fiercely. You could almost hear their minds creak, +scheming, scheming, scheming. I suppose there were ways for boys to make +money in those times, but they always fizzled out when you came to try +them, to say nothing of the way they broke into your day. Why, you had +scarcely any time to play in. You 'd go 'round to some neighbor's house +with a magazine, and you'd say: “Good afternoon, Mrs. Slaymaker. Do you +want to subscribe for this?” Just the way you had studied out you would +say. And she'd take it, and go sit down with it, and read it clear +through while you played with the dog, and then when she got all through +with it, and had read all the advertisements, she'd hand it back to you +and say: No, she didn't believe she would. They had so many books and +papers now that she didn't get a chance hardly to read in any of them, +let alone taking any new ornes. Were you getting many new subscribers? +Just commenced, eh? Well, she wished you all the luck in the world. +How was your ma? That's good. Did she hear from your Uncle John's folks +since they moved out to Kansas? + +I have heard that there were boys who, under the dire necessity of going +to the circus, got together enough rags, old iron, and bottles to make +up the price, sold 'em, collected the money, and went. I don't believe +it. I don't believe it. We all had, hidden under the back porch, our +treasure-heap of rusty grates, cracked fire-pots, broken griddles and +lid-lifters, tub-hoops and pokers, but I do not believe that any human +boy ever collected fifty cents' worth. I want you to understand that +fifty cents is a whole lot of money, particularly when it is laid out in +scrap-iron. Only the tin-wagon takes rags, and they pay in tinware, +and that's no good to a boy that wants to go to the circus. And as for +bottles--well, sir, you wash out a whole, whole lot of bottles, a whole +big lot of 'em, a wash-basket full, and tote 'em down to Mr. Case's +drug--and book-store, as much as ever you and your brother can wag, and +see what he gives you. It's simply scandalous. You have no idea of how +mean and stingy a man can be until you try to sell him old bottles. And +the cold-hearted way in which he will throw back ink-bottles that you +worked so hard to clean, and the ones that have reading blown into the +glass--Oh, it's enough to set you against business transactions all +your life long. There's something about bargain and sale that's mean and +censorious, finding this fault and finding that fault, and paying just +as little as ever they can. It gets on one's nerves. It really does. + +The boys that made the little white spots come on the corners of their +jaws as they lay there in the grass, scheming, scheming, scheming, +planned rags, and bottles, and scrap-iron, and more also. Sometimes it +was a plan so much bigger that if they had kept it to themselves, like +the darkey's cow, they would have “all swole up and died.” + +“Sst! Come here once. Tell you sumpum. Now don't you go and blab it out, +now will you? Hope to die? Well.... Now, no kiddin'. Cross your heart? +Well.... Ah, you will, too. I know you. You go and tattle everything you +hear.... Well.... Cheese it! Here comes somebody. Make out we're talkin' +about sumpum else. Ah, he did, did he? What for, I wonder? (Say sumpum, +can't ye?) Why 'nu' ye say sumpum when he was goin' by? Now he'll +suspicion sumpum 's up, and nose around till he.... Aw, they ain't +no use tellin' you anything.... Well. Put your head over so 's I can +whisper. Sure I am.... Well, I could learn, couldn't I? Now don't you +tell a living soul, will you? If anybody asts you, you tell 'em you +don't know anything at all about it. Say, why 'n't you come along? I +promised you the last time. That's jist your mother callin' you. Let on +you don't hear her. Aw, stay. Aw, you don't either have to go. Say. Less +you and me get up early, and go see the circus come in town, will you? I +will, if you will. All right. Remember now. Don't you tell anybody what +I told you. You know.” + + +If a fellow just only could run off with a circus! Wouldn't it be great? +No more splitting kindling and carrying in coal; no more: “Hurry up, +now, or you'll be late for school;” no more poking along in a humdrum +existence, never going any place or seeing anything, but the glad, +free, untrammeled life, the life of a circus-boy, standing up on top of +somebody's head (you could pretend he was your daddy. Who'd ever know +the difference?) and your leg stuck up like five minutes to six, and him +standing on top of a horse--and the horse going around the ring, and the +ring master cracking his whip--aw, say! How about it? + +Maybe the show-people would take you even if you didn't have two joints +to common folks' one, and hadn't had early advantages in the way of +plenty of snakes to try the grease out of. And then... and then.... +Travel all around, and be in a new town every day! And see things! The +water-works, and Main Street, and the Soldiers' Monument, and the Second +Presbyterian Church. All the sights there are to see in strange places. +And then when the show came back to your own home-town next year, people +would wonder whose was that slim and gracile figure in the green silk +tights and spangled breech-clout that capered so nimbly on the bounding +courser's back, that switched the natty switch and shrilly called out: +“Hep! Hep!” They'd screw up their eyes to look hard, and they'd say: +“Yes, sir. It is. It's him. It's Willie Bigelow. Well, of all things!” + And they'd clap their hands, and be so proud of you. And they'd wonder +how it was that they could have been so blind to your many merits when +they had you with them. They'd feel sorry that they ever said you were +a “regular little imp,” if ever there was one, and that you had the Old +Boy in you as big as a horse. They'd feel ashamed of themselves, so they +would. And they'd come and apologize to you for the way they had acted, +and you'd say: “Oh, that's all right. Forgive and forget.” And they'd +miss you at home, too. Your daddy would wish he hadn't whaled you the +way he did, just for nothing at all. And your mother, too, she'd be +sorry for the way she acted to you, tormenting the life and soul out of +you, sending you on errands just when you got a man in the king row, and +making you wash your feet in a bucket before you went to bed, instead of +being satisfied to let you pump on them, as any reasonable mother would. +She'll think about that when you're gone. It'll be lonesome then, with +nobody to bang the doors, and upset the cream-pitcher on the clean +table-cloth, and fall over backward in the rocking-chair and break a +rocker off. Your daddy will sigh and say: + +“I wonder where Willie is to-night. Poor boy, I sometimes fear I was too +harsh with him.” And your mother will try to keep back her tears, but +she can't, and first thing she knows she'll burst out crying, and... +and... and old Maje will go around the house looking for you, and +whining because he can't find his little playmate.... It will seem as if +you were dead--dead to them, and.... Smf! Smf! + +(Confound that orchestra leader anyhow! How many times have I got to +tell him that this is the music-cue for “Where is My Wandering Boy +To-night?”) + +We were all going to get up early enough to see the show come in at the +depot. Very few of us did it. Somehow we couldn't seem to wake up. Here +and there a hardy spirit compasses the feat. + +All the town is asleep when this boy slips out of his front-gate and +snicks the latch behind him softly. It is very still, so still that +though he is more than a mile away from the railroad he can hear Johnny +Mara, the night yardmaster, bawl out: “Run them three empties over on +Number Four track!” the short exhaust of the obedient pony-engine, and +the succeeding crash of the cars as they bump against their fellows. It +is very still, scarey still. The gas-lamp flaring and flickering among +the green maples at the corner has a strange look to him. His footfalls +on the sidewalk sound so loud he takes the soft middle of the dusty +road. He hears some one pursuing him and his bosom contracts with fear, +as he stands to see who it is. Although he hardly knows the boy bound on +the same errand as his, he takes him to his heart, as a chosen friend. +They are kin. + +On the freight-house platform they find other boys. Some of them have +waited up all night so as not to miss it. They are from across the +tracks. They have all the fun, those fellows do. They can swear and chew +tobacco, and play hookey from school and have a good time. They get +to go barefoot before anybody else, and nobody tells them it will thin +their blood to go in swimming so much. Yes, and they can fight, too. +They'd sooner fight than eat. Our boys, conscious of inferiority, keep +to themselves. The boys from across the tracks show off all the bad +words they can think of. One of them has a mouth-harp which he plays +upon, now and then opening his hands hollowed around the instrument. +Patsy Gubbins dances to the music, which is a thing even more reckless +and daredevil than swearing. Patsy's going with a “troupe” some day. Or +else, he's going to get a job firing on an engine. He isn't right sure +which he wants to do the most. + +Now and then a brakeman goes by swinging his lantern. The boys would +like to ask him what time it is, but for one thing they're too bashful. +Being a brakeman is almost as good as going with a “troupe” or a circus. +You get to go to places that way, too, Marysville, and Mechanicsburg, +and Harrod's--that is, if you're on the local freight, and then you lay +over in Cincinnati. Some ways it's better than firing, and some ways it +isn't so good. And then there is another reason why they don't ask +the brakeman what time it is. He'd say it was “forty-five” or maybe +“fifty-three,” and never tell what hour. + +“Say! Do you know it's cold? You wouldn't think it would be so cold in +the summer-time.” + +The maple-trees, from being formless blobs, insensibly begin to look +like lace-work. Presently the heavens and the earth are bathed in liquid +blue that casts a spell so potent on the soul of him that sees it that +he yearns for something he knows not what, except that it is utterly +beyond him, as far beyond him as what he means to be will be from what +he shall attain to. One dreams of romance and renown, of all that should +be and is not. And as he dreams the birds awaken. In the East there +comes a greenish tinge. Far up the track, there is a sullen roar, and +then the hoarse diapason of an engine whistle. The roar strengthens and +strengthens. It is the circus train. + +Under the witchcraft of the dreaming blue, each boy had a firm and +stubborn purpose. Over and over again he rehearsed how he would go up +to the man that runs the show, and say: “Please, mister, can I go with +you?” And the man would say, “Yes.” (As easy as that.) But the purpose +wavered as he saw the roustabouts come tumbling out, all frowsy and +unwashed, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, cross and savage. And the +man whose word they jump to obey, he's kind of discouraging, it's all +business with him. The fellows may plead with their eyes; he never sees +them. If he does, he tells them where to get to out of that and how +quick he wants it done, in language that makes the boldest efforts of +the boys from across the tracks seem puny in comparison. The lads +divide into two parties. One follows the buggy of the boss canvasman to +Vandeman's lots where the stand is made. They will witness the spectacle +of the raising of the tents, but they will also be near the man that +runs the show, and if all goes well it may be he will like your looks +and saunter up to you and say: “Well, bub, and how would you like to +travel with us?” You don't know. Things not half so strange as that have +happened. And if you were right there at the time.... + +The other party lingers awhile looking up wistfully at the unresponsive +windows of the sleeping-cars, behind which are the happy circus-actors. +Perhaps the show-boy that stands up on top of his daddy's head will look +out. If he should raise the window and smile at you, and get to talking +with you maybe he would introduce you to his pa, and tell him that you +would like to go with the show, and his pa would be a nice sort of a +man, and he'd say: “Why, yes. I guess we can fix that all right.” And +there you'd be. + +Or if it didn't come out like that, why, maybe the boy would be another +“Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider,” like it told about in he Ladies' +Repository. It seems there was a man, and one day he went by where there +was a circus, and in a quiet secluded, vine-clad nook only a few +steps from the main tent, he heard somebody sigh, oh, so sadly and so +pitifully! Come to find out, it was Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider. +He had large sensitive violet eyes, and a wealth of clustering ringlets, +and he was very, very unhappy. So the man took from his pocket a Bible +that he happened to have with him, and he read from it to Little Arthur, +which cheered him up right away, because up to that moment he had only +heard of the Bible. (Think of that!) And that night at the show, what do +you s'pose? Little Arthur fell off the horse and hurt himself. And this +man was at the show and he went back in the dressing-room, and held +Little Arthur's hand. And the clown was crying, and the actors were +crying, for they all loved Little Arthur in their rude, untutored way. +And Little Arthur opened his large sensitive violet eyes, and saw the +man, and said off the text that the man taught him that afternoon. + +And then he died. It was a sad story, but it made you wish it had been +you that happened to have a Bible in your pocket as you passed the +secluded, vine-clad nook only a few paces from the main tent, and had +heard Little Arthur sigh so pitifully. It was those sensitive eyes we +looked for in the sleeping-car windows, and all in vain. I think I saw +the wealth of clustering ringlets, or at least the makings of it. I +am almost positive I saw curl-papers as the curtain was drawn aside a +moment. + +But whether a boy stands gazing at the sleepers, or runs over to the +lots, there is something pathetic about it, something almost terrible. +It is the death of an ideal. I can't conceive of a boy coming down to +the depot to see the circus train come in another time. Hitherto, the +show has been to him the ne plus ultra of romance. It comes in the night +from 'way off yonder; it goes in the night to 'way off yonder. It is all +splendor, all deeds of high emprise. It stands to reason then, that the +closer you get to it, the closer you get to pure romance. And it isn't +that way at all. + +What gravels a boy the most of all is to have to do the same old thing +over and over again, day after day, week in, week out. Once he has seen +the circus come in, he cannot blind himself to the fact that everything +is marked and numbered; that all is system, and that everything is done +today exactly as it was done yesterday, and as it will be done tomorrow. + +“What town is this?” he hears a man inquire of another. + +“Blest if I know. What's the odds what town it is?” + +Didn't know what town it was! Didn't care! + +The keen morning air, or something, makes a fellow mighty unromantic, +too. Perhaps it was the thin blue wood-smoke from the field-stoves, and +the smell of the hot coffee and the victuals the waiters are carrying +about, some to the tent where the bare tables are for the canvasmen, +some to the table covered with a red and white table-cloth as befits +performers. These have no rosy cheeks. Their lithe limbs are not richly +decked with silken tights. Insensibly the upper lip curls. They're not +so much. They're only folks. That's all, just folks. + +But when ideals die, great truths are born. To such a boy at such a +moment there comes the firm conviction which increasing years can only +emphasize: Home is but a poor prosaic place, but Home--Ah, my brother, +think on this--Home is where Breakfast is. + +“Hay! Wait for me, you fellows! Hay! Hold on a minute. Well, ain't I +a-comin' jis' 's fast 's ever I kin? What's your rush?” + +It is the exceptional boy has this experience. The normal one preserves +the delicate bloom of romance, by never seeing the show until it makes +its Grand Triumphal Entree in a Pageant of Unparalleled Magnificence far +Surpassing the Pomp and Splendor of Oriental Potentates. + +The hitching-posts are full of whinnering country horses, and people are +in town you wouldn't think existed if you hadn't seen their pictures in +Puck and Yudge, people from over by Muchinippi, and out Noodletoozy way, +big, red-necked men with the long loping step that comes from walking on +the plowed ground. Following them are lanky women with their front teeth +gone, and their figures bowed by drudgery, dragging wide-eyed children +whose uncouth finery betrays the “country jake,” even if the freckles +and the sun-bleached hair could keep the secret. From the far-off +fastnesses, where there are still log-cabins chinked with mud, they have +ventured to see the show come into town, and when they have seen that, +they will retire again beyond our ken. How every sense is numbed and +stunned by the magnificence and splendor of the painted and gilded +wagons as they rumble past, the driver rolling and pitching in his seat, +as he handles the ribbons of eight horses all at once! The farmer's +heart is filled with admiration of his craft, as much as the children's +hearts are at the gaudy pictures. + +The allegorical tableau-car solemnly waggles past, Europe, and Asia, and +Africa, and Australia brilliant in grease-paint and gorgeous cheesecloth +robes. And can you guess who the fat lady is up on the very tip-top of +all, on the tip-top where the wobble is the worst? Our own Columbia! +It must be fine to ride around that way all dressed up in a flag. But +a sourer lot of faces you never saw in your life. No. I am wrong. For +downright melancholy and despondency you must wait till the funny old +clown comes along in his little bit of a buggy drawn by a little bit of +a donkey. + +“And, oh, looky! Here comes the elephants, just the same as in the +joggerfy books. And see the men walking beside them. They come from the +place the elephants do. See, they have on the clothes they wear in that +country. Don't they look proud? Who wouldn't be proud to get to walk +with an elephant? And if you ever do anything to an elephant to make him +mad, he'll always remember it, and some day he'll get even with you. +One time there was a man, and he gave an elephant a chew of tobacco, +and--O-o-ooh! See that man in the cage with the lions! Don't it just +make the cold chills run over you? I wouldn't be there for a million +dollars, would you, ma? + +“What they laughing at down the street? Ma, make Lizzie get down; she's +right in my way. I don't want to see it pretty soon. I want to see it +naow! Oh, ain't it funny? See the old clowns playing on horns! Ain't it +too killing? Aw, look at them ponies. I woosht I had one. Johnny Pym +has got a goat he can hitch up. What was that, pa? What was that went +'OoOOoohm!'” + +“Whoa, Nell, whoa there! Steady, gal, steaday! Ho, there! Ho! +Whoa--whoa-hup! Whad dy y' about? Fool horse. Whoa... whoa so, gal, +soo-o. Lion, I guess, or a tagger, or sumpum or other.” + +And talk about music. You thought the band was grand. You just wait. +Don't you hear it down the street? It'll be along in a minute now. + +There it is. That's the cally-ope. That's what the show bills call: +“The Steam Car of the Muses.”... Mm-well, I don't know but it is just a +leetle off the pitch, especially towards the end of a note, but you +must remember that you can't haul a very big boiler on a wagon, and the +whistles let out an awful lot of steam. It's pretty hard to keep the +pressure even. But it's loud. That's the main thing. And the man that +plays on it--no, not that fellow in the overalls with a wad of greasy +waste in his hand. He 's only the engineer. I mean the artist, the man +that plays on the keys. Well, he knows what the people want. He has +his fingers on the public pulse. Does he give them a Bach fugue, or +Guillmant's “Grand Choeur?” 'Deed, he doesn't. He goes right to the +heart, with “Patrick's Day in the Morning,” and “The Carnival of +Venice,” and “Home, Sweet Home,” and “Oh, Where, Oh Where has my Little +Dog Gone?” He knows his business. A shade off the key, perhaps, but my! +Ain't it grand? So loud and nice! + +“Well, that's all of it.... Why, child, I can't make it any longer than +it is.” + +“What do you want me to drive round into the other street for? You've +seen all there is to see. Got all your trading done, mother? Well, then +I expect we'd better put for home. Now, Eddy, I told you 'No' once, and +that's the end of it. Hush up now! Look here, sir! Do you want me to +take and 'tend to you right before everybody? Well, I will now, if I +hear another whimper out o' ye. Ck-ck-ck! Git ep there, Nelly.” + +Some day, when we get big, and have whole, whole lots of money we're +going to the circus every time it comes to town, to the real circus, the +one you have to pay to get into. For if merely the street parade is so +magnificent, what must the show itself be? + +How people can sit at the table on circus day and stuff, and stuff the +way they do is more than I can understand. You'd think they hadn't any +more chances to eat than they had to go to the show. And they can find +more things to do before they get started! And then, after the house +is all locked up and everything, they've got to go back after a +handkerchief! What does anybody want with a handkerchief at a circus? + +It's exasperating enough to have to choose between going in the +afternoon and not going at all. Why, sure, it's finer at night. Lots +finer. You know that kind of a light the peanut-roaster man has got +down by the post-office. Burns that kind of stuff they use to take out +grease-spots. Ye-ah. Gasoline. Well, at the circus at night, they don't +have just one light like that, but bunches and bunches of them on the +tentpoles. No, silly! Of course not. Of course they don't set the tent +afire. But say! What if they did, eh? The place would be all full +of people, laughing at the country jake that comes out to ride the +trick-mule, and you'd happen to look up and see where the canvas was +ju-u-ust beginning to blaze, and you'd jump up and holler: “Fire! Fire!” + as loud as ever you could because you saw it first, and you'd point to +the place. Excitement? Well, I guess yes. The people would all run every +which way, and fall all over themselves, and the women would squeal--And +do you know what I'd do? Wouldn't just let myself down between the kind +of bedslat benches, and drop to the ground, and lift up the canvas and +there I'd be all safe. And after I was all safe, then I'd go back and +rescue folks. + +We-ell, I s'pose I'd have to rescue a girl. It seems they always do +that. But it would be nicer, I think, to rescue some real rich man. He'd +say: “My noble preserver! How can I sufficiently reward you?” and take +out his pocketbook. And wouldn't say: “Take back your proffered gold,” + and make like I was pushing it away, “take back your proffered gold. I +but did my duty.” And then wouldn't forget all about it. And one day, +after I'd forgotten all about, it, the man would die, and will me a +million dollars, or a thousand, I don't know. Enough to make me rich. + +And say! Wouldn't the animals get excited when they saw the show was +afire? They'd just roar and roar, and upset the cages, and maybe they'd +get loose. O-o-o-Oh! How about that? If there was a lion come at me I'd +climb a tree. What would you do? Ah, your pa's shot-gun nothing! Why, +you crazy, that would only infuriate him the more. What you want to do +is to take an express rifle, like Doo Challoo did, and aim right for his +heart. An express rifle is what you send off and get, and they ship it +to you by express. + +So you see what a fellow misses by having to go to the show in the +afternoon, like the girls and the a-b-abs. The boys from across the +tracks get to go at night. They have all the fun. When they go they +don't have to poke along, and poke along, and keep hold of hands so as +not to get lost.... Aw, hurry up, can't you? Don't you hear the band +playing? It'll be all over before we get there. + +But finally the lots are reached, and there are the tents, with all +kinds of flags snapping from the centerpoles and the guy-ropes. And +there are the sideshows. Alas! You never thought of the sideshows when +you asked if you could go. And now it's too late. It must be fine in the +side-shows. I never got to go to one. I didn't have the money. But if +the big, painted banners, bulging in and out, as the wind plays with +them, are anything to go by, it must be something grand to see the Fat +Lady, and the Circassian Beauty, whose frizzled head will just about fit +a bushel basket, and the Armless Wonder. They say he can take a pair of +scissors with his toes and cut your picture out of paper just elegant. + +Oh, and something else you miss by going in the afternoon. At night you +can sneak around at the back, and when nobody is looking you can just +lift up the canvas and go right in for nothing.... Why, what's wrong +about that? Ah, you're too particular.... And if the canvasman catches +you, you can commence to cry and say you had only forty cents, and +wanted to see the circus so bad, and he'll take it and let you in, +and you can have ten cents, don't you see, to spend for lemonade, +red lemonade, you understand; and peanuts, the littlest bags, and the +“on-riest” peanuts that ever were. + +As far as I can see, the animal part of the show is just the same as it +always was. The people that take you to the show always pretend to be +interested in them, but it's my belief they stop and look only to tease +you. Away, 'way back in ancient times, there used to be a man that took +the folks around and told them what was in each cage, and where it came +from, and how much it cost, and what useful purpose it served in the +wise economy of nature, and all about it. That was before my time. But +I can recollect something they had that they don't have any more. I can +remember when Mr. Barnum first brought his show to our town. It didn't +take much teasing to get to go to that, because in those days Mr. Barnum +was a “biger man than old Grant.” “The Life of P. T. Barnum, Written by +Himself” was on everybody's marble-topped centertable, just the same as +“The History of the Great Rebellion.” You show some elderly person from +out of town the church across the street from the Astor House, and +say: “That's St. Paul's Chapel. General Montgomery's monument is in the +chancel window. George Washington went to meeting there the day he was +inaugurated president,” and your friend will say: “M-hm.” But you tell +him that right across Broadway is where Barnum's Museum used to be, and +he'll brighten right up and remember all about how Barnum strung a +flag across to St. Paul's steeple and what a fuss the vestry of Trinity +Parish made. That's something he knows about, that's part of the history +of our country. + +Well, when Mr. Barnum first came to our town, all around one tent were +vans full of the very identical Moral Waxworks that we had read about, +and had given up all hopes of ever seeing because New York was so far +away. There was the Dying Zouave. Oh, that was a beauty! The Advance +Courier said that “the crimson torrent of his heart's blood spouted in +rhythmic jets as the tide of life ebbed silently away;” but I guess by +the time they got to our town they must have run all out of pokeberry +juice, for the “crimson torrent” didn't spout at all. But his bosom +heaved every so often, and he rolled up his eyes something grand! I +liked it, but my mother said it was horrid. That's the way with women. +They don't like anything that anybody else does. There's no pleasing +'em. And she thought the Drunkard's Family was “kind o' low.” It wasn't +either. It was fine, and taught a great moral lesson. I told her so, but +she said it was low, just the same. She thought the Temperance Family +was nice, but it wasn't anywhere near as good as the Drunkard's Family. +Why, let me tell you. The Drunkard's Wife was in a ragged calico dress, +and her eye was all black and blue, where he had hit her the week +before. And the Drunkard had hold of a black quart bottle, and his nose +was all red, and he wore a plug hat that was even rustier and more caved +in than Elder Drown's, if such a thing were possible. And there was--But +I can't begin to tell you of all the fine things Mr. Barnum had that +year, but never had again. + +Another thing Mr. Barnum had that year that never appeared again. It +may be that after that time the Funny Old Clown did crack a joke, but +I never heard him. The one that Mr. Barnum had got off the most comical +thing you ever heard. I'll never forget it the longest day I live. +Laugh? Why, I nearly took a conniption over it. It seems the clown got +to crying about something.... Now what was it made him cry? Let me see +now.... Ain't it queer I can't remember that? Fudge! Well, never mind +now. It will come to me in a minute. + +I feel kind of sorry for the poor little young ones that grow up and +never know what a clown is like. Oh, yes, they have them to-day, after a +fashion. They stub their toes and fall down the same as ever, but there +is a whole mob of them and you can't take the interest in them that you +could in “the one, the only, the inimitable” clown there used to be, a +character of such importance that he got his name on the bills. He was a +mighty man in those days. The ring-master was a kind of stuck-up fellow, +very important in his own estimation, but he didn't have a spark of +humor. Not a spark. And he'd be swelling around there, all so grand, +and the clown, just to take him down a peg or two, would ask him a +conundrum. And do you think he could ever guess one? Never. Not a one. +And when the clown would tell him what the answer was, he'd be so vexed +at himself that he'd try to take it out on the poor clown, and cut at +him with his long whip. But Mr. Clown was just as spry in his shoes as +he was under the hat, and he'd hop up on the ring-side out of the way, +and squall out: “A-a-aah! Never touched me!” We had that for a byword. +Oh, you'd die laughing at the comical remarks he'd make. And he'd be so +quick about it. The ring-master would say something, and before you'd +think, the clown would make a joke out of it.... I wish I could remember +what it was he said that was so funny, the time he started crying. Seems +to me it was something about his little brother.... Well, no matter. + +Yes, sir, there are heads of families to-day, I'll bet you, that have +grown up without ever having heard a clown sing a comic song, and ask +the audience to join in the chorus. And if you say to such people: “Here +we are again, Mr. Merryman,” or “Bring on another horse,” or “What will +the little lady have now? the banners, my lord?” they look at you so +funny. They don't know what you mean, and they don't know whether to get +huffy or not. Well, I suppose it had to be that the Funny Old Clown with +all his songs, and quips, and conundrums, and comical remarks should +disappear. Perhaps he “didn't pay.” + +I can't see that the rest of the show has changed so very much. Perhaps +the trapeze performances are more marvelous and breath-suspending than +they used to be. But they were far and far beyond what we could dream of +then, and to go still farther as little impresses us as to be told that +people live still even westerly of Idaho. The trapeze performers are +up-to-date in one respect. The fellow that comes down with his arms +folded, one leg stuck out and the other twined around the big rope, +revolving slowly, slowly--well, the band plays the Intermezzo from +“Cavalleria Rusticana” nowadays when he does that. It used to play: “O +Thou, Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer!” But the lady in the riding-habit +still smiles as if it hurt her when her horse walks on its hind legs; +the bareback rider does the very same fancy steps as the horse goes +round the ring in a rocking-chair lope; the attendants still slant the +hurdles almost flat for the horse to jump; they still snake the banners +under the rider's feet as he gives a little hop up, and they still bang +him on the head with the paper-covered hoop to .... Hold on a minute. +Now. + +Now... That story the clown told that was so funny, that had something +to do with those hoops. I wish I could think of it. It would make you +laugh, I know. + +People try to lay the blame of the modern circus's failure to interest +them on the three rings. They say so many things to watch at once keeps +them from being watching properly any one act. They can't give it the +attention it deserves. But I'll tell you what's wrong: There isn't any +Funny Old Clown, a particular one, to give it human interest. It is +all too splendid, too magnificent, too far beyond us. We want to hear +somebody talk once in awhile. + +They pretended that the tent was too big for the clown to be heard, but +I take notice it wasn't too big for the fellow to get up and declaim +“The puffawmance ees not yait hawf ovah. The jaintlemanly agents will +now pawss around the ring with tickets faw the concert.” I used to hate +that man. When he said the performance was not yet half over, he lied +like a dog, consarn his picture! There were only a few more acts to +come. He knew it and we knew it. We wanted the show to go on and on, and +always to be just as exciting as at the very first, and it wouldn't! +We had got to the point where we couldn't be interested in anything any +more. We were as little ones unable to prop their eyelids open and yet +quarreling with bed. We were surfeited, but not satisfied. We sat there +and pouted because there wasn't any more, and yet we couldn't but yawn +at the act before us. We were mad at ourselves, and mad at everybody +else. We clambered down the rattling bedslats seats, sour and sullen. +We didn't want to look at the animals; we didn't want to do this, and +we didn't want to do that. We whined and snarled, and wriggled and shook +ourselves with temper, and we got a good hard slap, side of the head, +right before everybody, and then we yelled as if we were being killed +alive. + +“Now, mister, if I ever take you any place again, you'll know it. I'd +be ashamed of myself if I was you. Hush up! Hush up, I tell you. Now +you mark. You're never going to the show again. Do you hear me? Never! I +mean it. You're never going again.” + +But at eventide there was light. After supper, after a little rest and +a good deal of food, while chopping the kindling for morning (it's +wonderful how useful employ tends to induce a cheerful view of life) +out of her dazzling treasure-heap of jewels, Memory took up, one after +another, a glowing recollection and viewed it with delight. The evening +performance, the one all lighted up with bunches and bunches of lights, +was a-preparing, and in the gentle breeze the far-off music waved as it +had been a flag. A harsh and rumbling noise as of heavy timbers falling +tore through the tissue of sweet sounds. The horses in the barn next +door screamed in their stalls to hear it. Ages and ages ago, on distant +wind-swept plains their ancestors had hearkened to that hunting-cry, and +summoned up their valor and their speed. It still thrilled in the blood +of these patient slaves of man, though countless generations of them had +never even so much as seen a lion. + +“And is that all the difference, pa, that the lion roars at night and +the ostrich in the daytime?” + +Out on the back porch in the deepening dusk we sat, with eyes relaxed +and dreaming, and watched the stars that powdered the dark sky. Before +our inward vision passed in review the day of splendor and renown. We +sighed, at last, but it was the happy sigh of him who has full dined. +Ambition was digesting. In our turn, when we grew up, we, too, were to +do the deeds of high emprise. We were to be somebody. + +(I never heard of anybody sitting up to see the show depart. And yet it +seems to me that would be the best time to run off with it.) + +The next day we visited the lots. It was no dream. See the litter that +mussed up the place. + +We were all there. None had heard the man that runs the show say +genially: “Yes, I think we can arrange to take you with us.” Here was +the ring; here the tent-pole holes, and here a scrap of paper torn from +a hoop the bareback rider leaped through.... Oh, now I know what I was +going to tell you that the clown said. The comicalest thing! + +He picked up one of these hoops and began to sniffle. + +So the ring-master asked him what he was crying about. + +“I--I--was thinking of my mother. Smf! My good old mother!” + +So the ring-master asked him what made him think of his mother. + +“This.” And he held up the paper-covered hoop. + +The ring-master couldn't see how that put the clown in mind of his +mother. He was awful dumb, that man. + +“It looks just like the pancakes she used to make for us.” + +Well, sir, we just hollered and laughed at that. And after we had +quieted down a little, the ringmaster says: “As big as that?” + +“Bigger,” says the clown. “Why, she used to make 'em so big we used 'em +for bedclothes.” + +“Indeed” (Just like that. He took it all in, just as if it was so.) + +“Oh, my, yes! I mind one time I was sleeping with my little brother, and +I waked up just as cold--Brr! But I was cold!” + +“But how could that be, sir? You just now said you had pancakes for +bedclothes.” + +“Yes, but my little brother got hungry in the night, and et up all the +cover.” + +Laugh? Why, they screamed. Me? I thought I'd just about go up. But the +ring master never cracked a smile. He didn't see the joke at all. + +Good-by, old clown, friend of our childhood, goodby, good-by forever! +And you, our other friend, the street parade, must you go, too? And you, +the gorgeous show-bills, must you tread the path toward the sundown? +Good-by! Good-by! In that dreary land where you are going, the Kingdom +of the Ausgespielt, it may comfort you to recollect the young hearts you +have made happy in the days that were, but never more can be again. + + + + +THE COUNTY FAIR + + +Whether or not the name had an influence on the weather, I don't know. +Perhaps it did rain some years, but, as I remember, County Fair time +seems to have had a sky perfectly cloudless, with its blue only a little +dulled around the edges where it came close to the ground and the dust +settled on it. Things far off were sort of hazy, but that might have +been the result of the bonfires of leaves we had been having evenings +after supper. In Fair weather, when the sun had been up long enough +to get a really good start, it was right warm, but in the shade it +was cool, and nights and mornings there was a chill in the air that +threatened worse things to come. + +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. Down cellar the swing-shelf is +cram-jam full of jellyglasses, and jars of fruit. Out on the hen-house +roof are drying what, when the soap-box wagon was first built, promised +barrels and barrels of nuts to be brought up with the pitcher of cider +for our comforting in the long winter evenings, but what turns out, when +the shucks are off, to be a poor, pitiful half-peck, daily depleted by +the urgent necessity of finding out if they are dry enough yet. Folks +are picking apples, and Koontz's cider-mill is in full operation. (Do +you know any place where a fellow can get some nice long straws?) Out in +the fields are champagne-colored pyramids, each with a pale-gold heap +of corn beside it, and the good black earth is dotted with orange blobs +that promise pumpkin-pies for Thanksgiving Day. No. Let me look again. +Those aren't pie-pumpkins; those are cow-pumpkins, and if you want to +see something kind of pitiful, I'll show you Abe Bethard chopping up +one of those yellow globes--with what, do you suppose? With the cavalry +saber his daddy used at Gettysburg. + +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. As a result of all the good +feeding and the outdoor air we have had for three or four months past, +the strawberry shortcakes, and cherry-pies, and green peas, and +new potatoes, and string beans, and roasting-ears, and all such +garden-stuff, and the fresh eggs, broken into the skillet before Speckle +gets done cackling, and the cockerels we pick off the roost Saturday +evenings (you see, we're thinning 'em out; no sense in keeping all of +'em over winter)--as a result, I say, of all this good eating, and the +outdoor life, and the necessity of stirring around a little lively these +days we feel pretty good. And yet we get kind of low in our minds, too. +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. It's gone, the good playtime +when we didn't have to go to school, when the only foot-covering we wore +was a rag around one big toe or the other; the days when we could stay +in swimming all day long except mealtimes; the days of Sabbath-school +picnics and excursions to the Soldiers' Home--it's gone. The harvest +is past, the summer is ended. The green and leafy things have heard the +word, and most of them are taking it pretty seriously, judging by their +looks. But the maples and some more of them, particularly the maples, +with daredevil recklessness, have resolved, as it were, to die with +their boots on, and flame out in such violent and unbelievable colors +that we feel obliged to take testimony in certain outrageous cases, +and file away the exhibits in the Family Bible where nobody will bother +them. The harvest is past, the summer is ended. Rainy days you can see +how played-out and forlorn the whole world looks. But at Fair time, when +the sun shines bright, it appears right cheerful. + +It seems to me the Fair lasted three days. One of them was a holiday +from school, I know, and unless I'm wrong, it wasn't on the first day, +because then they were getting the things in, and it wasn't on the last +day, because then they were taking the things out, so it must have been +on the middle day, when everybody went. Charley Wells had both the depot +'buses out with “County FAIR” painted on muslin hung on the sides. The +Cornet Band rode all round town in one, and so on over to the “scene of +the festivities” as the Weekly Examiner very aptly put it, and then both +'buses stood out in front of the American House, waiting for passengers, +with Dinny Enright calling out: “This sway t' the Fair Groun's! Going +RIGHT over!” Only he always waited till he got a good load before he +turned a wheel. (Dinny's foreman at the chair factory now. Did you know +that? Doing fine. Gets $15 a week, and hasn't drunk a drop for nearly +two years.) + +Everybody goes the middle day of the Fair, everybody that you ever did +know or hear tell of. You'll be going along, kind of half-listening to +the man selling Temperance Bitters, and denouncing the other bitters +because they have “al-cue-hawl” in them, and “al-cue-hawl will make you +drunk,” (which is perfectly true), and kind of half-listening to the man +with the electric machine, declaring: “Ground is the first conductor; +water is the second conductor,” and you'll be thinking how slippery the +grass is to walk on, when a face in the crowd will, as it were, sting +your memory. “I ought to know that man,” says you to yourself. “Now, who +the mischief is he? Barker? No, 't isn't Barker, Barkdull? No. Funny +I can't think of his name. Begins with B I'm pretty certain.” And you +trail along after him, as if you were a detective, sort of keeping out +of his sight, and yet every once in a while getting a good look at him. +“Mmmmmm!” says you. “What is that fellow's name? Why, sure. McConica.” + And you walk up to him and stick out your hand while he's gassing with +somebody, and there's that smile on your face that says: “I know you +but you don't know me,” and he takes it in a limp sort of fashion, and +starts to say: “You have the advantage of--” when, all of a sudden, he +grabs your hand as if he were going to jerk your arm out of its socket +and beat you over the head with the bloody end, and shouts out: “Why, +HELLO, Billy! Well, suffering Cyrus and all hands round! Hold still a +second and let me look at you. Gosh darn your hide, where you been for +so long? I though you'd clean evaporated off the face the earth. Why, +how AIR you? How's everything? That's good. Let me make you acquainted +with my wife. Molly, this is Mr.--” But she says: “Now don't you tell me +what his name is. Let me think. Why, Willie Smith! Well, of all things! +Why, how you've changed! Honest, I wouldn't have knowed you. Do you mind +the time we went sleigh-ridin' the whole posse of us, and got upset down +there by Hanks's place?” And then you start in on “D' you mind?” and +“Don't you recollect?” and you talk about the old school-days, and who's +married, and who's moved out to Kansas, and who's got the Elias Hoover +place now, and how Ella Trimble--You know Ella Diefenbaugh, old Jake +Diefenbaugh's daughter, the one that lisped. Course you do. Well, she +married Ed Trimble, and he died along in the early part of the summer. +Typhoid. Was getting well but he took a relapse, and went off like that! +And now she's left with three little ones, and they guess poor Ella has +a pretty hard time making out. And this old schoolmate that you start +to tell a funny story about is dead, and the freckle-faced boy with the +buck teeth that put the rabbit in the teacher's desk, he's dead, too, +and the boy that used to cry in school when they read: + + “Give me three grains of corn, mother, + Only three grains o f corn; + To save what little life I have, mother, + Till the coming o f the morn.” + +well, he studied law with old judge Rodehaver, and got to be Prosecuting +Attorney, but he took to drinking--politics, you know--and now he's just +gone to the dogs. Smart as a steel-trap, and bright as a dollar. Oh, a +terrible pity! A terrible pity. And as you hear the fate of one after +another of the happy companions of your childhood, and the sadness of +life comes over you, they start to tell something that makes you laugh +again. I tell you. Did you ever see one of these concave glasses, such +as the artists use when they want to get an idea of how a picture looks +all together as a whole, and not as an assemblage of parts? Well, what +the concave glass is to a picture, so such talk is to life. It sort of +draws it all together, and you see it as a whole, its sunshine and its +shadow, its laughter and its tears, its work and its play, its past and +its present. But not its future. The Good Man has mercifully hidden that +from us. + +It does a body good to get such a talk once in a while. + +And there are the young fellows and the girls. This young gentleman in +the rimless eye-glasses, who is now beginning to “go out among 'em” the +last time you saw him was in meeting when Elder Drown was preaching, and +my gentleman stood up in the seat and shouted shrilly: “'T ain't at all, +man. 'T ain't at all!” And this sweet girl-graduate--the last time you +saw her was just after Becky Daly, in the vain effort to “peacify” the +squalling young one, had given her a fresh egg to play with. I kind +o' like the looks of the younger generation of girls. But I don't know +about the young fellows. They look to me like a trifling lot. Nothing +like what they were in our young days. I don't see but what us old +codgers had better hold on a while longer to the County Clerk's office, +and the Sheriff's office, and the Probate judgeship, and the presidency +of the National Bank. It wouldn't be safe to trust the destinies of +the country in the hands of such heedless young whiffets. Engaged to be +married! Oh, get out! What? Those babies? + +I kept awake most of the time the man was lecturing on: “The Republic: +Will it Endure?” but I don't remember that he said anything in it about +the crops. (We can't go 'round meeting the folks all day. We really must +give a glance at the exhibition.) And I am one of those who hold to the +belief that while the farmers can raise ears of corn as long as from +your elbow to your fingertips, as big 'round as a rollingpin, and set +with grains as regular and even as an eight-dollar set of artificial +teeth; as long as they grow potatoes the size of your foot, and such +pretty oats and wheat, and turnips, and squashes, and onions, and apples +and all kinds of truck, and raise them not only in increasing size but +increasing quantities to the acre I feel as if the Republic would last +the year out anyway. Not that I have any notion that mere material +prosperity will make and keep us a free people, but it goes to show that +the farmers are not plodding along, doing as their fathers did before +them, but that they are reading and studying, and taking advantage of +modern methods. There are two ways of increasing your income. One is by +enlarging your output, and the other is by enlarging your share of the +proceeds from the sale of that output. The Grand Dukes will not always +run this country. The farmers saved the Union once by dying for it; +they will save it again by living for it. + +The scientific fellows tell us that we have not nearly reached the +maximum of yield to the acre of crops that are harvested once a year, +but in regard to the crops that are harvested twice a day it looks to me +as if we were doing fairly well. Nowadays we hardly know what is meant +by the expression, “Spring poor.” It is a sinister phrase, and tells +a story of the old, cruel days when farmers begrudged their cattle the +little bite they ate in wintertime, so that when the grass came again +the poor creatures would fall over trying to crop it. They were so +starved and weak that, as the saying went, they had to lean up against +the fence to breathe. They don't do that way now, as one look at the +fine, sleek cows will show you. A cow these days is a different sort of +a being, her coat like satin, and her udder generous, compared with the +wild-eyed things with burrs in their tails, and their flanks crusted +with filth, their udders the size of a kid glove, and yielding such a +little dab of milk and for such a short period. Hear the dairymen boast +now of the miraculous yearly yield in pounds of butter and milk, and +when they say: “You've got to treat a cow as if she were a lady,” it +sounds like good sense. + +Pigs are naturally so untidy about their persons, and have such shocking +table-manners that it seems difficult to treat a sow like a lady, but +that one in the pen yonder, with her litter of sucking pigs, seems +very interesting. Come, let's have a look. Aren't the little pigs dear +things? I'd like to climb in and take one of them up to pet it; do you +s'pose she'd mind it if I did? I can see decided improvement in the +modern hogs over old Mose Batcheller's. If you remember, his were what +were known as “razorbacks.” They could go like the wind, and the fence +was not made that could stop them. If they couldn't root under it, they +could turn themselves sidewise and slide through between the rails. +It was told me that, failing all else, they could give their tails a +swing--you remember the big balls of mud they used to have on their +tails' ends--they could swing their tails after the manner of an athlete +throwing the hammer, and fly over the top of the tallest stake-and-rider +fence ever put up. I don't know whether this is the strict truth or not, +but it is what was told me as a little boy, and I don't think people +would wilfully deceive an innocent child. + +The pigs nowaday aren't as smart as that, but they cut up better at +hog-killing time. They aren't quite so trim; indeed, they are nothing +but cylinders of meat, whittled to a point at the front end, and set on +four pegs, but as you lean on the top-rail of the pens out at the County +Fair and look down upon them, you can picture in your mind, without +much effort, ham, and sidemeat, and bacon, and spare-ribs, and smoked +shoulder, and head-cheese, and liver-wurst, and sausages, and glistening +white lard for crullers and pie-crust--Yes, I think pigs are right +interesting. I know they've got Scripture for it, the folks that think +it is wrong to eat pork, but somehow I feel sorry for them; they miss +such a lot, not only in the eating line, but other ways. They are always +being persecuted, and harassed, and picked at. Whereas the pork-fed man, +it seems to me, sort of hankers to be picked at. It gives him a good +chance to slap somebody slonchways. He feels better after he has seen +his persecutors go away with a cut lip, and fingering of their teeth to +see if they're all there. + +You'll just have to take me gently but firmly by the sleeve and lead me +past the next exhibit, the noisy one, where there's so much cackling +and crowing. I give you fair warning that if you get me started talking +about chickens, the County Fair will have to wait till some other time. +I don't know much about ducks, and geese, and guinea-hens, and pea-fowl, +and turkeys, but chickens--Why, say. We had a hen once (Plymouth Rock +she was; we called her Henrietta), and honestly, that hen knew more than +some folks. One time she--all right. I'll hush. Let's go in here. + +I don't remember whether the pies, and cakes, and canned fruit, and such +are in Pomona Hall or the Fine Arts Hall. Fine Arts Hall I think. They +ought to be. I speak to be one of the judges that give out the premiums +in this department. I'd be generous and let somebody else do the judging +of the cakes, because I don't care much for cake. Oh, I can manage +to choke it down, but I haven't the expert knowledge, practical and +scientific, that I have in the matter of pie. I'd bear my share of the +work when it came to the other things, jellies and preserves, and pies, +but not cake. Wouldn't know just exactly how to go at it in the matter +of jellies. I'd take a glass of currant, and hold it up to the light to +note its crimson glory. And I'd lift off the waxed paper top and peer +in, and maybe give the jelly a shake. And then I'd take a spoon and +taste, closing my eyes so as to appear to deliberate--they'd roll up +in an ecstacy anyhow--and I'd smack my lips, and say: “Mmmmm!” very +thoughtfully, and set the glass back, and write down in my book my +judgment, which would invariably be: “First Prize.” Because if there is +anything on top of this green earth that I think is just about right, it +is currant jelly. Grape jelly is nice, and crab-apple jelly has its good +points, and quince jelly is very delicate, but there is something about +currant jelly that seems to touch the spot. Quince preserves are good +if there is enough apple with the quince, and watermelon preserves are a +great favorite, not because they are so much better tasting, but because +the lucent golden cubes in the spicy syrup appeal so to the eye. But +if you want to know what I think is really good eating in the preserve +line, you just watch my motions when I come to the tomato preserves, +these little fig-tomatoes, and see how quick the red card is put on +them. Yes, indeed. It's been a long time, hasn't it? since you had any +tomato-preserves, you that haven't been “Back Home” lately. + +It's no great trick to put up other fruit so that it will keep, but I'd +look the canned tomatoes over pretty carefully, and if I saw that one +lady had not only put them up so that they hadn't turned foamy, but had +also succeeded with green corn, and that other poser, string beans, +I'd give her first premium, because I'd know she was a first-rate +housekeeper, and a careful woman, and one that deserved encouragement. + +But I'd save myself for the pies. I can tell a rich, short, flaky crust, +and I can tell the kind that is as brown as a dried apple, and tough as +the same on the top, and sad and livery on the bottom. And I know about +fillings, how thick they ought to be, and how they ought to be seasoned, +and all. Particularly pumpkin-pies, because I had early advantages that +way that very few other boys had. I was allowed to scrape the crock that +had held the pumpkin for the pies. So that's how I know as much as I do. + +I suppose, however, when all is said and done, that there is no pie that +can quite come up to an apple-pie. You take nice, short crust that's +been worked up with ice-water, and line the tin with it, and fill it +heaping with sliced, tart apples--not sauce. Mercy, no!--and sweeten +them just right, and put on a lump of butter, and some allspice, and +perhaps a clove, and a little lemon peel, and then put on the cover, +and trim off the edge, and pinch it up in scallops, and draw a couple of +leaves in the top with a sharp knife, and have the oven just right, and +set it in there, and I tell you that when ma opens the oven-door to see +how the pie is coming on, there distils through the house such a perfume +that you cry out in a choking voice: “Say! Ain't dinner 'most ready?” + +But I fully recognize the fact that very often our judgment is warped by +feeling, and I am inclined to believe that even the undoubted merit of +the apple-pie would not prevail against a vinegar-pie, if such should be +presented to me for my decision. A vinegar-pie? Well, it has a top and +bottom crust, the same as any other pie, but its filling is made +of vinegar, diluted with water to the proper degree of sub-acidity, +sweetened with molasses, thickened with flour, and all baked as any +other pie. You smile at its crude simplicity, and wonder why I should +favor it. To you it doesn't tell the story that it does to me. It +doesn't take you back in imagination to “the airly days,” when folks +came over the mountains in covered wagons, and settled in the Western +Reserve, leaving behind them all the civilization of their day, and its +comforts, parting from relatives and friends, knowing full well that +in this life they never more should look upon their faces--leaving +everything behind to make a new home in the western wilds. + +Is was a land of promise that they came to. The virgin soil bore +riotously. There were fruit-trees in the forest that Johnny Appleseed +had planted on his journeyings. The young husband could stand in his +dooryard and kill wild turkeys with his rifle. They fed to loathing +on venison, and squirrels, and all manner of game, and once in a great +while they had the luxury of salt pork. They were well-nourished, +but sometimes they pined for that which was more than mere food. They +hungered for that which should be to the meals' victuals what the flower +is to the plant. + +“I whoosh't--I woosh't was so we could hev pie,” sighed one such. (Let +us call him Uriah Kinney). I think that sounds as if it were his name. + +“Land's sakes!” snapped his wife, exasperated that he should be thinking +of the same thing that she was. “Land's sakes! Haow d' ye s'pose I kin +make a pie when I hain't got e'er a thing to make it aout o'? You gimme +suthirnn to make it aout o', an' you see haow quick--” + +“I ain't a-faultinn ye, Mary Ann,” interposed Uriah gently. “I know haow +'t is. I was on'y tellin' ye. I git I git a kind o' hum'sick sometimes. +'Pears like as if I sh'd feel more resigned like.... Don't ye cry, Mary +Ann. I know, I know. You feel julluk I do 'baout back home, an' all luk +that.” + +O woman! When the heft of thy intellect is thrown against a problem, +something has got to give. Not long after, Uriah sits down to dinner, +and can hardly ask a blessing, he has to swallow so. A pie is on the +table! + +“Gosh, Mary Ann, but this is good!” says he, holding out his hand +for the third piece. “This is lickinn good!” And he celebrates her +achievement far and wide. + +“My Mary Ann med me a pie t' other day, was the all-firedest best pie I +ever et.” + +“Med you what?” + +“Med me a pie.” + +“Pie? Whutch talkinn' baout? Can't git nummore pies naow. Frot 's all +gin aout.” + +“I golly, she med it just the same. Smartest woman y' ever see.” The man +dribbled at the mouth. + +“What sh' make it aout o'?” + +“Vinegar an' worter, I think she said. I d' know 's I ever et anythinn +I relished julluk that. My Mary Ann, tell yew! She's 'baout's smart 's +they make 'em.” + +I wish I knew who she really was whom I have called Mary Ann Kinney, she +that made the first vinegar-pie. I wish I knew where her grave is that +I might lay upon it a bunch of flowers, such as she knew and +liked--sweet-william, and phlox, and larkspur, and wild columbine. It +couldn't make it up to her for all the hardships she underwent when she +was bringing up a family in that wild, western country, and especially +that fall when they all had the “fever 'n' ager” so bad, Uriah and the +twins chilling one day, and Hiram and Sophronia Jane the next, and she +just as miserable as any of them, but keeping up somehow, God only knows +how. It couldn't make it up to her, but as I laid the pretty posies +against the leaning headstone on which is written: + + “A Loving Wife, a Mother Dear, + Faithful Friend Lies Buried Here.” + +I believe she 'd get word of it somehow, and understand what I was +trying to say by it. + +I'll ask to be let off the committee that judges the rest of the +exhibits in the Fine Arts Hall, the quilts and the Battenberg, and the +crocheting, and such. I know the Log Cabin pattern, and the +Mexican Feather pattern, and I think I could make out to tell the +Hen-and-Chickens pattern of quilts, but that's as much as ever. And as +to the real, hand-painted views of fruit-cake, and grapes and apples on +a red table-cloth, I am one of those that can't make allowances for the +fact that she only took two terms. I call to mind one picture that Miss +Alvalou Ashbaker made of her pap, old “Coonrod” Ashbaker. The Lord knows +he was a “humbly critter,” but he wasn't as “humbly” as she made him out +to be, with his eyes bulging out of his head as if he was choking on a +fishbone. And, instead of her dressing him up in his Sunday clothes, I +wish I may never see the back of my neck if that girl didn't paint him +in a red-and-black barred flannel shirt, with porcelain buttons on it! +And his hair looked as if the calf had been at it. Wouldn't you think +somebody would have told her? And that isn't all. She got the premium! + +Neither am I prepared to pass judgment on the fancy penmanship displayed +by Professor Swope, framed elegantly in black walnut, and gilt, +depicting a bounding deer, all made out of hair-line, shaded spirals, +done with his facile pen. (No wonder a deer can jump so, with all those +springs inside him.) Professor Swope writes visiting cards for you, +wonderful birds done in flourishes and holding ribbons in their bills. +He puts your name on the ribbon place. Neatest and tastiest thing you +can imagine. I like to watch him do it, but it makes me feel unhappy, +somehow. I never was much of a scribe, and it's too late for me to learn +now. + +I don't feel so downcast when I examine the specimens of writing done by +the children of District No. 34. I can just see the young ones working +at home on these things, with their tongues stuck out of one corner of +their mouths. + + “Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day” + +and so on, bearing down hard on the downstroke of the curve in the +capital “R,” and clubbing the end of the little “t.” And in the higher +grades, they toil over “An Original Social Letter,” describing to +an imaginary correspondent a visit to Crystal Lake, or the Magnetic +Springs. I can hear them mourn: “What shall I say next?” and “Ma, make +Effie play some place else, won't you? She jist joggles the table like +everything. Now, see what you done! Now I got to write it all over +again. No, I cain't 'scratch it out. How'd it look to the County Fair +all scratched out? Plague take it all!” + +The same hands have done maps of North and South America, and +red-and-blue ink pictures of the circulation of the blood. It does beat +all how smart the young ones are nowadays. I could no more draw off a +picture of the circulation of the blood--get it right, I mean--why, I +wouldn't attempt it. + +I am kind of mixed up in my recollection of the hall right next to the +Fine Arts. You know it had two doors in each end. Sometimes I can +see the central space between the doors, roped off and devoted to +sewing-machines with persons demonstrating that they ran as light as a +feather, and how it was no trouble at all to tuck and gather, and +fell; to organs, which struck me with amaze, because by some witchcraft +(octave coupler, I think they called it) the man could play on keys +that he didn't touch, and pianos, whereon young ladies were prevailed to +perform “Silvery Waves”--that's a lovely piece, I think, don't you?--and + + “Listen to the mocking-bird, TEE-die-eedle-DONG + Lisen to the mocking-bird, teedle-eedle-EE-dle DONG + The mocking-bird still singing oer her grave, + toomatooral-oo-cal-LEE!” + +And then again I can see that central, roped-off space given over +to reckless deviltry, sheer impudent, brazen-faced, bold, +discipline-defying er--er--wickedness. I had heard that people did +things like that, but this was the first time I had ever caught a +glimpse of such carryings-on in the broad open daylight, right before +everybody. I stood there and watched them for hours, expecting every +minute to see fire fall from heaven on them and burn up every son and +daughter of Belial. But it didn't. + +I seem to recollect that it was a hot day, and that, tucked away where +not a breath of air could get to them, were three fellows in their +shirtsleeves, one playing on an organ, one on a yellow clarinet, and +one on a fiddle. Every chance he could get, the fiddler would say to the +organist: “Gimme A, please,” and saw away trying to get into some sort +of tune, but the catgut was never twisted that would hold to pitch +with the perspiration dribbling down his fingers in little rills. The +clarinet man looked as if he wanted to cry, and he had to twitter his +eyelids all the time to keep the sweat from blinding him, and every once +in a while, his soggy reed would let go of a squawk that sounded like +a scared chicken. But the organ groaned on unrelentingly, and the tune +didn't matter so much as the rhythm which was kept up as regular as a +clock, whack! whack! whack! whack! And there were two or three other +fellows with badges on that went around shouting: “Select your podners +for the next quadrille! One more couple wanted right over here!” + +Dancing. M-hm. + +The fiddler “called off” and chanted to the tune, with his mouth on one +side: “Sullootch podners! First couple forward and back. Side couples +the same. Doe see do-o-o-o. Al-lee-man LEFT! Ballunce ALL! Sa-weeny the +corners!” I don't know whether I get the proper order of these commands +or not, or whether my memory serves me as to their effect, but it seems +to me that at “Bal-lunce ALL!” the ladies demurely teetered, first on +one foot and then on the other, like a frozen-toed rooster, while the +gents fairly tore themselves apart with grape-vine twists and fancy +steps, and slapped the dust out of the cracks in the floor. When it came +to “SaWEENG your podners!” the room billowed with flying skirts, and the +ladies squealed like anything. It made you a little dizzy to watch them +do “Graaan' right and left,” and you could understand how those folks +felt--there were always one or two in each set--who had to be hauled +this way and that, not sure whether they were having a good time or +not, but hoping they were, their faces set in a sickly grin, while their +foreheads wrinkled into a puzzled: “How's that? I didn't quite catch +that last remark” expression. I don't know if it affected you in the +same way that it did me, but after I had stood there for a time and +watched those young men and women thus wasting the precious moments that +dropped like priceless pearls into the ocean of Eternity, and were +lost irrevocably, young, men and women giving themselves up to present +enjoyment without one serious thought in their minds as to who was going +to wash the supper dishes, or what would happen if the house took fire +while they were away I say I do not know how the sight of such reckless +frivolity affected you, but I know that after so long a time my face +would get all cramped up from wearing a grin, and I'd have to go out and +look at the reapers and binders to rest myself so I could come back and +look some. There are two things that you simply have to do at the County +Fair, or you aren't right sure you've been. One is to drink a glass of +sweet cider just from the press, (which, I may say in passing, is an +over-rated luxury. Cider has to be just the least bit “frisky” to be +good. I don't mean hard, but “frisky.” You know). And the other is to +buy a whip, if it is only the little toy, fifteen-cent kind. On the +next soap-box to the old fellow that comes every year to sell pictorial +Bibles and red, plush-covered albums, the old fellow in the green +slippers that talks as if he were just ready to drop off to sleep--on +the next soap-box to him is the man that sells the whips. You can buy +one for a dollar, two for a dollar, or four for a dollar, but not one +for fifty cents, or one for a quarter. Don't ask me why, for I don't +know. I am just stating the facts. It can't be done, for I've seen it +tried, and if you keep up the attempt too long, the whip-man will lose +all patience with your unreasonableness, and tell you to go 'long about +your business if you've got any, and not bother the life and soul out of +him, because he won't sell anything but a dollar's worth of whips, and +that's all there is about it. + +He sells other things, handsaws, and pencils, and mouth-harps, and two +knives for a quarter, of such pure steel that he whittles shavings off +a wire nail with 'em, and is particular to hand you the very identical +knife he did it with. He has jewelry, though I don't suppose you could +cut a wire nail with it. You might, at that. + +To him approaches a boy. + +“Got 'ny collar-buttons?” + +“Well, now, I'll just look and see. Here's a beautiful rolled-plate gold +watch-chain, with an elegant jewel charm. Lovely blue jewel.” He dangles +the chain and its rich glass pendant, and it certainly does look fine. +“That'd cost you $2.50 at the store. How'd that strike you?” + +“Hpm. I want a collar-button.” + +“Well, now, you hold on a minute. Lemme look again. Ah, here's a package +'at orta have some in it. Yes, sir, here's four of 'em, enough to last +you a lifetime; front, back, and both sleeves, the kind that flips and +don't tear the buttonholes. Well, by ginger! Now, how'd that git in +here, I want to know? That gold ring? Well, I don't care. It'll have to +go with the collar-buttons. Tell you what I'll do with you: I'll let you +have this elegant solid gold rolled-plate watch-chain and jewel, this +elegant, solid gold ring to git married with--Hay? How about it?--and +these four collar-buttons for--for--twenty-five cents, or a quarter of a +dollar.” + +That boy never took that quarter out of his breeches pocket. It just +jumped out of itself. But I see that you are getting the fidgets. You're +hoping that I'll come to the horse-racing pretty soon. You want to +have it all brought back to you, the big, big race-track which, as you +remember it now, must have been about the next size smaller than the +earth's orbit around the sun. You want me to tell about the old farmer +with the bunch of timothy whiskers under his chin that gets his old +jingling wagon on the track just before a heat is to be trotted, and +all the people yell at him: “Take him out!” You want me to tell how +the trotters looked walking around in their dusters, with the eye-holes +bound with red braid, and how the drivers of the sulkies sat with the +tails of their horses tucked under one leg. Well, I'm not going to +do anything of the kind, and if you don't like it, you can go to the +box-office and demand your money back. I hope you'll get it. First +place, I don't know anything about racing, and consequently I don't +believe it's a good thing for the country. All I know is, that some +horses can go faster than others, but which are the fastest ones I can't +tell by the looks, though I have tried several times.... I did not walk +back. I bought a round-trip ticket. They will tell you that these events +at the County Fair tend to improve the breed of horses. So they do--of +fast horses. But the fast horses are no good. They can't any of them go +as fast as a nickel trolley-car when it gets out where there aren't any +houses. And they not only are no good; they're a positive harm. You know +and I know that just as soon as a man gets cracked after fast horses, +it's good-by John with him. + +In the next place, I wouldn't mind it if it was only interesting to me. +But it isn't. It bores me to death. You sit there and sit there trying +to keep awake while the drivers jockey and jockey, scheming to get the +advantage of the other fellow, and the bell rings so many times for them +to come back after you think: “They're off this time, sure,” that you +get sick of hearing it. And when they do get away, why, who can tell +which horse is in the lead? On the far side of the track they don't +appear to do anything but poke along, and once in a while some fool +horse will “break” and that's annoying. And then when they come into +the stretch, the other folks that see you with the field-glasses, keep +nudging you and asking: “Who 's ahead, mister? Hay? Who's ahead?” And +it's ruinous to the voice to yell: “Go it! Go it! Go IT, ye devil, +you!” with your throat all clenched that way and your face as red as a +turkey-gobbler's. And that second when they are going under the wire, +and the horse you rather like is about a nose behind the other one +that you despise--Oh, tedious, very tedious. Ho hum, Harry! If I wasn't +engaged, I wouldn't marry. Did you think to put a saucer of milk out for +the kitty before you locked up the house? + +No. Horse-racing bores me to death, and as I am one of the charter +members of the Anti-Other-Folks-Enjoyment Society, organized to stop +people from amusing themselves in ways that we don't care for, you +can readily see that it is a matter of principle with me to ignore +horseracing, and not to give it so much encouragement as would come from +mentioning it. + +If you're so interested in improving the breed of horses by competitive +contests, what 's the matter with that one where the prize is $5 for the +team that can haul the heaviest load on a stoneboat, straight pulling? +Pile on enough stones to build a house, pretty near, and the owner +of the team, a young fellow with a face like Keats, goes “Ck! Ck! Ck! +Geet... ep... thah BILL! Geet ep, Doll-ay!” and cracks his whip, and +kisses with his mouth, and the horses dance and tug, and jump around and +strain till the stone-boat slides on the grass, and then men climb on +until the load gets so heavy that the team can't budge it. Then another +team tries, and so on, the competitors jawing and jowering at each other +with: “Ah, that ain't fair! That ain't fair! They started it sideways.” + +“That don't make no difference.” + +“Yes, it does, too, make a difference. Straight ahead four inches. +that's the rule.” + +“Well, didn't they go straight ahead four inches? What's a matter with +ye?” + +“I'll darn soon show ye what's the matter with me, you come any o' your +shenanigan around here.” + +“Mighty ready to accuse other folks o' shenannigan, ain't ye? For half +a cent I'd paste you in the moot.” + +“Now, boys! Now boys! None o' that.” + +Lots more excitement than a horse-race. Lots more improving to the mind, +and beneficial to the country. + +And if you hanker after the human element of skill, what's the matter +with the contest where the women see who can hitch up a horse the +quickest? Didn't you have your favorite picked out from the start? I +did. She was about thirteen years old, dressed in an organdie, and I +think she had light blue ribbons flying from her hat, light blue or +pink, I forget which. Her pa helped her unharness, and you could tell by +the way he look-at her that he thought she was about the smartest +young one for her age in her neighborhood. (You ought to hear her play +“General Grant's Grand March” on the organ he bought for her, a fine +organ with twenty-four stops and two full sets of reeds, and a mirror in +the top, and places to set bouquets and all.) There was a woman in the +contest that seemed, by her actions, to think that the others were just +wasting their time competing with her, but when they got the word “Go!” + (Old Nate Wells was the judge; he sold out the livery-stable business +to Charley, you recollect) her horse backed in wrong, and she got the +harness all twisty-ways, and everything went bewitched. And wasn't she +provoked, though? Served her right, I say. A little woman beside her was +the first to jump into her buggy, and drive off with a strong inhalation +of breath, and that nipping together of the lips that says: “A-a-ah! I +tell ye!” The little girl that we picked out was hopping around like a +scared cockroach, and her pa seemed to be saying: “Now, keep cool! Keep +cool! Don't get flustered,” but when another woman drove off, I know she +almost cried, she felt so bad. But she was third, and when she and her +pa drove around the ring, the people clapped her lots more than the +other two. I guess they must have picked her for a favorite the same as +you and I did. Bless her heart! I hope she got a good man when she grew +up. + +Around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin, where they have the relics, the +spinning-wheel, the flax-hackle, and the bunch of dusty tow that nobody +knows how to spin in these degenerate days; the old flint-lock rifle, +and the powder-horn; the tinder-box, and the blue plate, “more'n a +hundred years old;” the dog-irons, tongs, poker, and turkey-wing of an +ancient fireplace--around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin all the early +part of the day a bunch of dirty canvas has been dangling from a rope +stretched between two trees. It was fenced off from the curious, but +after dinner a stranger in fringy trousers and a black singlet went +around picking out big, strong, adventurous young fellows to stand about +the wooden ring fastened to the bottom of the bunch of canvas, which +went over the smoke-pipe of a sort of underground furnace in which a +roaring fire had been built. As the hot air filled the great bag, it was +the task of these helpers to shake out the wrinkles and to hold it down. +Older and wiser ones forbade their young ones to go near it. Supposing +it should explode; what then? But we have always wanted to fly away +up into the air, and what did we come to the Fair for, if not for +excitement? The balloon swells out amazingly fast, and when the +guy-ropes are loosened and drop to the ground, the elephantine bag +clumsily lunges this way and that, causing shrill squeals from those who +fear to be whelmed in it. The man in the singlet tosses kerosene into +the furnace from a tin cup, and you can see the tall flames leap upward +from the flue into the balloon. It grows tight as a drum. + +“Watch your horses!” he calls out. There is a pause.... “Let go all!” + The mighty shape shoots up twenty feet or so, and the man in the singlet +darts to the corner to cut a lone detaining rope. As he runs he sheds +his fringy trousers. + +“Good-by, everybody!” he cries out, and the sinister possibilities in +that phrase are overlooked in the wonder at seeing him lurch upward +through the air, all glorious in black tights and yellow breech-clout. +Up and up he soars above the tree-tops, and the wind gently wafts him +along, a pendant to a dusky globe hanging in the sky. He is just a speck +now swaying to and fro. The globe plunges upward; the pendant drops like +a shot. There is a rustling sound. It is the intake of the breath of +horror from ten thousand pairs of lungs. Look! Look! The edges of the +parachute ruffle, and then it blossoms out like an opening flower. It +bounces on the air a little, and rocking gently sinks like thistle-down +behind the woods. + +It is all over. The Fair is over. Let's go home. Isn't it wonderful +though, what men can do? You'll see; they'll be flying like birds, one +of these days. That's what we little boys think, but we overhear old +Nate Wells say to Tom Slaymaker, as we pass them: “Well, I d' know. I +d' know 's these here b'loon ascensions is worth the money they cost +the 'Sociation. I seen so many of 'em, they don't interest me nummore. +'Less, o' course, sumpun should happen to the feller.” + + + + +CHRISTMAS BACK HOME + + +It was the time of year when the store windows are mighty interesting. +Plotner's bakery, that away, 'way back in the summer-time, was an +ice-cream saloon, showed a plaster man in the window, with long, white +whiskers, in top boots and a brown coat and peaked hat, all trimmed with +fur, and carrying a little pinetree with arsenical foliage. Over his +head dangled a thicket of canes hanging by their crooks from a twine +string stretched across. They were made of candy striped spirally in red +and white. There were candy men and women in the window, and chocolate +mice with red eyes, and a big cake, all over frosting, with a candy +preacher on it marrying a candy man and lady. The little children stood +outside, with their joggerfies, and arithmetics, and spellers, and +slates bound in red flannel under their arms, and swallowed hard as they +looked. Whenever anybody went in for a penny's worth of yeast and opened +the door, that had a bell fastened to it so that Mrs. Plotner could +hear in the back room, and come to wait on the customer, the smell of +wintergreen and peppermint and lemonsticks and hot taffy gushed out so +strong that they couldn't swallow fast enough, but stood there choking +and dribbling at the mouth. + +Brown's shoe store exhibited green velvet slippers with deers' heads +on them, and Galbraith's windows were hung with fancy dressgoods, and +handkerchiefs with dogs' heads in the corners; but, next to Plotner's, +Case's drug-and-book store was the nicest. When you first went in, it +smelled of cough candy and orris root, but pretty soon you could notice +the smell of drums and new sleds, and about the last smell, (sort of +down at the bottom of things) was the smell of new books, the fish-glue +on the binding, and the muslin covers, and the printer's ink, and that +is a smell that if it ever gets a good hold of you, never lets go. There +were the “Rollo” books, and the “Little Prudy” books, and “Minnie and +Her Pets,” and the “Elm Island” series, and the “Arabian Nights,” with +colored pictures, and There were skates all curled up at the toes, and +balls of red and black leather in alternate quarters, and China mugs, +with “Love the Giver,” and “For a Good Boy” in gilt letters on them. +Kind of Dutch letters they were. And there were dolls with black, shiny +hair, and red cheeks, and blue eyes, with perfectly arched eyebrows. +They had on black shoes and white stockings, with pink garters, and they +almost always toed in a little. They looked so cold in the window with +nothing but a “shimmy” on, and fairly ached to be dressed, and nursed, +and sung to. The little girls outside the window felt an emptiness in +the hollow of their left arms as they gazed. There was one big doll in +the middle all dressed up. It had real hair that you could comb, and it +was wax. Pure wax! Yes, sir. And it could open and shut its eyes, and if +you squeezed its stomach it would cry, of course, not like a real baby, +but more like one of those ducks that stand on a sort of bellows thing. +Though they all “chose” that doll and hoped for miracles, none of them +really expected to find it in her stocking sixteen days later. (They +kept count of the days.) Maybe Bell Brown might get it; her pa bought +her lots of things. She had parlor skates and a parrot, only her ma +wouldn't let her skate in the parlor, it tore up the carpet so, and the +parrot bit her finger like anything. + +The little boys kicked their copper-toed boots to keep warm and +quarreled about which one chose the train of cars first, and then began +to quarrel over an army of soldiers. + +“I choose them!” + +“A-aw! You choosed the ingine and the cars.” + +“Dung care. I choose everything in this whole window.” + +“A-aw! That ain't fair!” + +In the midst of the wrangle somebody finds out that Johnny Pym has +a piece of red glass, and then they begin fighting for turns looking +through it at the snow and the court-house. But not for long. They +fall to bragging about what they are going to get for Christmas. Eddie +Cameron was pretty sure he 'd get a spy-glass. He asked his pa, and his +pa said “Mebby. He'd see about it.” Then, just in time, they looked up +and saw old man Nicholson coming along with his shawl pinned around him. +They ran to the other side of the street because he stops little boys, +and pats them on the head, and asks them if they have found the Savior. +It makes some boys cry when he asks them that. + +The Rowan twins--Alfaretta and Luanna May--are working a pair of +slippers for their pa, one apiece, because it is such slow work. Along +about suppertime they make Elmer Lonnie stay outside and watch for his +coming, and he has to say: “Hello, pa!” very loud, and romp with him +outside the gate so as to give the twins time to gather up the colored +zephyrs and things, and hide them in the lower bureau drawer in the +spare bedroom. At such a time their mother finds an errand that takes +her into the parlor so that she can see that they do not, by any chance, +look into the middle drawer in the farther left-hand corner, under the +pillow-slips. + +One night, just at supper-time, Elmer Lonnie said: “Hello, pa!” and +then they heard pa whispering and Elmer Lonnie came in looking very +solemn--or trying to--and said: “Ma, Miss Waldo wants to know if you +won't please step over there a minute.” + +“Did she say what for? Because I'm right in the midst of getting +supper. I look for your pa any minute now, and I don't want to keep him +waiting.” + +“No 'm, she didn't say what for. She jist said: 'Ast yer ma won't she +please an' step over here a minute.' I wouldn't put anythin' on. 'T +ain't cold. You needn't stay long, only till... I guess she's in some of +a hurry.” + +“Well, if Harriet Waldo thinks 'at I haven't anythin' better to do 'n +trot around after her at her beck an'.... All right, I'll come.” + +The twins got their slippers hid, and Mrs. Rowan threw her shawl over +her head, and went next door to take Mrs. Waldo completely by surprise. +The good woman immediately invented an intricate problem in crochet +work demanding instant solution. Mr. Rowan had brought home a crayon +enlargement of a daguerreotype of Ma, taken before she was married, when +they wore their hair combed down over their ears, and wide lace collars +fastened with a big cameo pin, and puffed sleeves with the armholes +nearly at the elbows. They wore lace mitts then, too. The twins thought +it looked so funny, but Pa said: “It was all the style in them days. +Laws! I mind the first time I took her home from singin' school.... +Tell you where less hide it. In between the straw tick, and the feather +tick.” And Luanna May said: “What if company should come?” Elmer Lonnie +ran over to Mrs. Waldo's to tell Ma that Pa had come home, and wanted +his supper right quick, because he had to get back to the store, there +was so much trade in the evenings now. + +“I declare, Emmeline Rowan, you're gettin' to be a reg'lar gadabout,” + said Mr. Rowan, very savagely. “Gad, gad, gad, from mornin' till night. +Ain't they time in daylight fer you an' Hat Waldo to talk about your +neighbors 'at you can't stay home long enough to git me my supper?” + +He winked at the twins so funny that Alfaretta, who always was kind of +flighty, made a little noise with her soft palate and tried to pass it +off for a cough. Luanna May poked her in the ribs with her elbow, and +Mrs. Rowan spoke up quite loud: “Why, Pa, how you go on! I wasn't but +a minute, an' you hardly ever come before halfpast. And furthermore, +mister, I want to know how I'm to keep this house a-lookin' like +anything an' you a-trackin' in snow like that. Just look at you. I sh'd +think you'd know enough to stomp your feet before you come in. +Luanna May, you come grind the coffee. Alfie, run git your Pa his old +slippers.” That set both of them to giggling, and Mrs. Rowan went out +into the kitchen and began to pound the beefsteak. + +“D' you think she sispicioned anythin'?” asked Mr. Rowan out of one side +of his mouth, and Elmer Lonnie said, “No, sir,” and wondered if his Pa +“sispicioned anythin”' when Ma said, “Run git the old slippers.” + +Mr. Waldo always walked up with Mr. Rowan, and just about that time his +little Mary Ellen was climbing up into his lap and saying: “I bet you +can't guess what I'm a-goin' to buy you for a Christmas gift with my +pennies what I got saved up.” + +“I'll just bet I can.” + +“No, you can't. It's awful pretty--I mean, they're awful pretty. Somepin +you want, too.” How could he guess with her fingering his tarnished cuff +buttons and looking down at them every minute or two? + +“Well, now, let me see. Is it a gold watch?” + +“Nope.” + +“Aw, now! I jist set my heart on a gold watch and chain.” + +“Well, but it'd cost more money 'n I got. Three or fifteen dollars, +mebby.” + +“Well, let me see. Is it a shotgun?” + +“No, sir. Oh, you just can't guess it.” + +“Is it a--a--Is it a horse and buggy?” + +“Aw, now, you're foolin'. No, it ain't a horse and buggy.” + +“I know what it is. It's a dolly with real hair that you can comb, and +all dressed up in a blue dress. One that can shut its eyes when it goes +bye-bye.” + +Little Mary Ellen looks at him very seriously a minute, and sighs, and +says: “No, it ain't that. But if it was, wouldn't you let me play with +it when you was to the store?” And he catches her up in his arms and +says: “You betchy! Now, I ain't goin' to guess any more! I want to be +surprised. You jump down an' run an' ask Ma if supper ain't most ready. +Tell her I'm as hungry as a hound pup.” + +He hears her deliver the message, and also the word her mother sends +back: “Tell him to hold his horses. It 'll be ready in a minute.” + +“It will, eh? Well, I can't wait a minute, an' I'm goin' to take a +hog-bite right out of YOU!” and he snarls and bites her right in the +middle of her stomach, and if there is anything more ticklesome than +that, it hasn't been heard of yet. + +After supper, little Eddie Allgire teases his brother D. to tell him +about Santa Claus. D. is cracking walnuts on a flat-iron held between +his knees. + +“Is they any Santy Claus, D.?” + +“W'y, cert, they is. Who says not?” + +“Bunty Rogers says they ain't no sech a person.” + +“You tell Bunt Rogers that he's a-gittin' too big fer his britches, an' +first thing he knows, he'll whirl round an' see his naked nose. Tell him +I said so.” + +“Well, is they any Santy Claus?” + +“W'y cert. Ain't I a-tellin' you? Laws! ain't you never seen him yet?” + +“I seen that kind of a idol they got down in Plotner's winder.” + +“Well, he looks jist like that, on'y he's alive.” + +“Did you ever see him, D.?” + +“O-oh, well! Think I'm goin' to tell everything I know? Well, I guess +not.” + +“Well, but did you now?” + +“M-well, that 'd be tellin'.” + +“Aw, now, D., tell me.” + +“Look out what you're doin'. Now see that. You pretty near made me mash +my thumb.” + +“Aw, now, D., tell me. I think you might. I don't believe you ever did.” + +“Oh, you don't, hey? Well, if you had 'a saw what I saw. M-m! Little +round eyes an' red nose an' white whiskers, an' heard the sleigh bells, +an' oh, my! them reindeers! Cutest little things! Stompin' their little +feet” Here he stopped, and went on cracking nuts. + +“Tell some more. Woncha, please? Ma, make D. tell me the rest of it.” + +“Huck-uh! Dassant. 'T wouldn't be right. Like's not he won't put anythin' +in my stockin' now fer what I did tell.” + +“How'll he know?” + +“How'll he know? Easy enough. He goes around all the houses evenings now +to see how the young ones act, an' if he finds they're sassy, an' don't +mind their Ma when she tells them to leave the cat alone, an' if they +whine: 'I don' want to go out an' cut the kindlin'. Why cain't D. do +it?' then he puts potatoes an' lumps o' coal in their stockin's. Oh, +he'll be here, course o' the evenin'.” + +“D' you s'pose he's round here now?” Eddie got a little closer to his +brother. + +“I wouldn't wonder. Yes, sir. There he goes now. Sure's you're alive.” + +“Where?” + +“Right over yan. Aw, you don't look. See? There he is. Aw! you're too +slow. Didn't you see him? Now the next time I tell you--Look, look! +There! He run right acrost the floor an' into the closet. Plain 's day. +didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?” + +Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches in a +nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck. + +“W'y, you couldn't help but see him, didn't you take notice to his white +whiskers?” + +“Ye-es,” said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of hypnosis. + +“Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?” + +“M-hm,” said Eddie, the image taking shape in his mind's eye. + +“And his brown coat all trimmed with fur, an' his funny peaked hat? An' +his red nose? W'y, course you did.” The boy nodded his head. He was sure +now. Yes. Faith was lost in sight. He believed. + +“I expect he's in the closet now. Go look.” + +“No. You.” He clung to D. + +“I can't. I got this flat-iron in my lap, an' wouldn't spill the +nut-shells all over the floor. You don't want me to, do you, Ma?” + +Mrs. Allgire shook her head. + +“Well, now,” said D. “Anybody tell you they ain't sich a person as Santy +Claus, you kin jist stand 'em down 'at you know better, 'cause you seen +him, didn't you?” + +Eddie nodded his head. Anyhow, what D. told him was “the Lord said unto +Moses,” and now that he had the evidence of his own eyes--Well, the next +day he defied Bunt Rogers and all his works. To tell the plain truth, +Bunt wasn't too well grounded in his newly cut infidelity. + + +In the public schools the children were no longer singing: + + “None knew thee but to love thee, thou dear one of my heart; + Oh, thy mem'ry is ever fresh and green. + The sweet buds may wither and fond hearts be broken, + Still I love thee, my darling, Daisy Deane.” + +They turned over now to page 53, and there was a picture of Santa Claus +just as in Plotner's window, except that he had a pack on his back and +one leg in the chimney. This is what they sang: + + “Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? + Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? + Up on the house-top, click, click, click + Down through the chimney with good St. Nick.” + +Miss Munsell, who taught the D primary, traded rooms with Miss Crutcher, +who taught the “a-b Abs.” Miss Munsell was a big fat lady, and she +smiled so that the dimples came in both cheeks and her double Chin was +doubter than ever, when she told the children what a dear, nice teacher +Miss Crutcher was, and how fond she was of them, and wouldn't they like +to make a Christmas present to their dear, kind teacher? They all said +“Yes, mam.” Well, now, the way to do would be for each child to bring +money (if Miss Munsell had smiled at a bird in the tree as she did then, +it would have had to come right down and perch in her hand), just as +much money as ever they could, and all must bring something, because it +would make Miss Crutcher feel so bad to think that there was one +little boy or one little girl that didn't love her enough to give her a +Christmas present. And if everybody brought a dime or maybe a quarter, +they could get her such a nice present. If their papas wouldn't let +them have that much money, why surely they would let them have a penny, +wouldn't they, children? And the children said: “Yes, mam.” + +“And now all that love their dear, kind teacher, raise their hands. Why, +there's a little girl over that hasn't her hand up! That's right, dear, +put it up, bless your little heart! Now, we mustn't say a word to Miss +Crutcher, must we? No. And that will be our secret, won't it? And all be +sure to have your money ready by to-morrow. Now, I wonder if you can be +just as still as little mice. I'm going to give this little girl a pin +to drop and see if I can hear it out in the hall.” + +Then she tiptoed down the hall clear to her own room and Mary Ellen +Waldo let the pin drop, and Miss Mussell didn't come back to say whether +she heard the pin drop or not. The children sat in breathless +silence. Selma Morgenroth knocked her slate off and bit her lip with +mortification while the others looked at her as much as to say: “Oh, +my! ain't you 'shamed?” Then Miss Crutchet came back and smiled at the +children, and they smiled back at her because they knew something she +didn't know and couldn't guess at all. It was a secret. + +The next morning Miss Crutchet traded rooms again, and the little +children gave Miss Mussell their money, and she counted it, and it came +to $2.84. The next day she came again because there were three that +hadn't their money, so there was $2.88 at last. Miss Mussell had three +little girls go with her after school to pick out the present. They +chose a silver-plated pickle caster, which is exactly what girls of +seven will choose, and, do you know, it came exactly to $2.88? + +Then, on the last day of school, Miss Mussell came in, and, with the +three little girls standing on the platform and following every move +with their eyes as a dog watches his master, she gave the caster to Miss +Crutchet and Miss Crutchet cried, she was so surprised. They were tears +of joy, she said. After that, she went into Miss Munsell's room, and +three little girls in there gave Miss Mussell a copy of Tennyson's poems +that cost exactly $2.53, which was what Miss Crutchet had collected, and +Miss Mussell cried because she was so surprised. How they could guess +that she wanted a copy of Tennyson's poems, she couldn't think, but +she would always keep the book and prize it because her dear pupils had +given it to her. And just as Selma Morgenroth called out to the monitor, +Charley Freer, who sat in Miss Crutchers chair, while she was absent: +“Teacher! Make Miky Ryan he should ka-vit a-pullin' at my hair yet!” and +the school was laughing because she called Charley Freer “teacher,” in +came Miss Crutchet as cross as anything, and boxed Miky Ryan's ears +and shook Selma Morgenroth for making so much noise. They didn't give +anything, though they promised they would. + +It was not alone in the day schools that there were extra preparations. +The Sunday-schools were getting ready, too, and when Janey Pettit came +home and told her Pa how big her class was, he started to say something, +but her Ma shook her head at him and he looked very serious and seemed +to be trying hard not to smile. He was very much interested, though, +when she told him that Iky Morgenroth, whose father kept the One-Price +Clothing House down on Main Street, had joined, and how he didn't know +enough to take his hat off when he came into church. Patsy Gubbins and +Miky Ryan and six boys from the Baptist Sunday-School had joined, too, +and they all went into Miss Sarepta Downey's class, so that she had two +whole pews full to teach, and they acted just awful. The infant +class was crowded, and there was one little boy that grabbed for the +collection when it was passed in front of him, and got a whole handful +and wouldn't give it up, and they had to twist the money out of his +fist, and he screamed and “hollered” like he was being killed. And +coming home, Sophy Perkins, who goes to the Baptist Church, told +her that there wasn't going to be any Christmas tree at their +Sabbath-school. She said that there wasn't hardly anybody out. The +teachers just sat round and finally went into the pastor's Bible class. +Mr. Pettit said he was surprised to hear it. It couldn't have been the +weather that kept them away, could it? Janey said she didn't know. Then +he asked her what they were going to sing for Christmas, and she +began on “We three kings of Orient are,” and broke off to ask him what +“Orient” meant, and he told her that Orient was out on the Sunbury pike, +about three miles this side of Olive Green, and her Ma said: “Lester +Pettit, I wish't you'd ever grow up and learn how to behave yourself. +Why, honey, it means the East. The three wise men came from the East, +don't you mind?” + +At the Centre Street M. E. Church, where Janey Pettit went to +Sunday-school, there were big doings. Little Lycurgus Emerson, whose +mother sent him down to Littell's in a hurry for two pounds of brown +sugar, and who had already been an hour and a half getting past +Plotner's and Case's, heard Brother Littell and Abel Horn talking over +what they had decided at the “fishery meetin'.” (By the time Curg got +so that he shaved, he knew that “officiary” was the right way to say +it, just as “certificate” is the right way to say “stiffcut.”) There was +going to be a Christmas tree clear up to the ceiling, all stuck full of +candles and strung with pop-corn, and a chimney for Santa Claus to climb +down and give out the presents and call out the names on them. Every +child in the Sunday-school was to get a bag of candy and an orange, and +there were going to be “exercises.” Curg thought it would be kind of +funny to go through gymnastics, but, just then, he saw Uncle Billy +Nicholson come in, and he hid. He didn't want to be patted on the head +and--asked things. + +Uncle Billy had his mouth all puckered up, and his eyebrows looked more +like tooth-brushes than ever. He put down the list of groceries that +Aunt Libby had written out for him, because he couldn't remember things +very well, and commenced to lay down the law. + +“Such carryin's on in the house o' God!” he snorted. “Why the very idy! +Talk about them Pharisees an' Sadducees a-makin' the temple a den o' +thieves! W'y, you're a-turnin' it into a theayter with your play-actin' +tomfoolery! They'll be no blessin' on it, now you mark.” + +“Aunt Libby say whether she wanted stoned raisins?” asked Brother +Littell, who was copying off the list on the order book. + +“I disremember, but you better send up the reg'lar raisins. Gittin' too +many newfangled contraptions these days. They're a-callin' it a theayter +right now, the Babtists is. What you astin' fer your eatin' apples? +Whew! My souls alive! I don't wonder you grocery storekeepers git rich +in a hurry. No, I guess you needn't send 'ny up. Taste too strong o' +money. Don't have no good apples now no more anyways. All so dried up +and pethy. An' what is it but a theayter, I'd like to know? Weth your +lectures about the Ar'tic regions an' your mum-socials, an' all like +that, chargin' money fer to git in the meetin' house. I tell you what it +is, Brother Littell, the women folks 'd take the money they fritter away +on ribbons and artificial flowers an' gold an'costly apparel, which I +have saw them turned away from the love-feast fer wearin', an' 'ud give +it in fer quarterage an' he'p support the preachin' of the Word, they +wouldn't need to be no shows in the meetin' house an' they 'd be more +expeerimental religion.” + +Abel Horn (Abel led the singing in meeting, and had a loud bass voice; +he always began before everybody and ended after everybody) was standing +behind Uncle Billy, and Lycurgus could see him with his head juked +forward and his eyebrows up and his mouth wide open in silent laughter, +very disconcerting to Brother Littell, who didn't want to anger Uncle +Billy, and maybe lose his trade by grinning in his face. + +“An' now you got to go an' put up a Christmas tree right in the altar,” + stormed Uncle Billy, “an' dike it all out with pop-corn an' candles. +You're gittin' as bad 's the Catholics, every bit. Worse, I say, becuz +they never had the Gospel light, an' is jist led round by the priest an' +have to pay to git their sins forgive. But you, you're a-walkin' +right smack dab into it, weth your eyes open, teachin' fer Gospel the +inventions o' men.” + +“W'y what, Uncle Billy?” + +“W'y, this here Santy Claus a-climbin' down a chimley an' a-cuttin' up +didoes fer to make them little ones think they is a reel Santy Claus +'cuz they seen him to the meetin' house. Poot soon when they git a +little older 'n' they find out how you been afoolin' 'em about Santy +Claus, they'll wonder if what you been a-tellin' 'em about the Good Man +ain't off o' the same bolt o' goods, an' another one o' them cunningly +devised fables. Think they'll come any blessin' on tellin' a lie? An' +a-actin' it out? No, sir. No, sir. Ain't ary good thing to a lie, no way +you kin fix it. How kin they be? Who's the father of lies? W'y the Old +Scratch! That's who. An' here you go a--” + +The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and stamped +out, slamming the door after him. + +Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before he +mildly observed “Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like.” + +“Righteous mad, I s'pose,” said Abel Horn. + +“You waited on yit, bub?” asked Brother Littell. “I betchy he's +a-thinkin' right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an' go +to the Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb at the +fur end o' town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there.” + +“Pity him an' a few more of 'em up in the Amen corner wouldn't go,” said +Abel Horn. “Mind the time we sung, 'There is a Stream?' You know +they's a solo in it fer the soprano. Well, 't is kind o' operatic an' +skallyhootin' up an' down the scale. I give the solo to Tilly Wilkerson +an' if that old skeezicks didn't beller right out in the middle of it: +'It's a disgrace tud Divine service!' He did. You could 'a' heard him +clear to the court-house. My! I thought I'd go up. Tilly, she was kind +o' scared an' trimbly, but she stuck to it like a major. Said afterwards +she'd 'a' finished that solo if it was the last act she ever done.” + +“Who's a-goin' to be Santy Claus?” asked Brother Littell, with cheerful +irrevelance. + +“The committee thought that had better be kept a secret,” replied Abel, +with as much dignity as his four feet nine would admit of. + +“Ort to be somebody kind o' heavy-set, ort n't it?” hinted the grocer, +giving a recognizable description of himself. + +“Well, I don' know 'bout that,” contested Abel. “Git somebody kind o' +spry an' he could pad out weth a pilfer. A pussy man 'd find it rather +onhandy comin' down that chimbly an' hoppin' hether an' yan takin' +things off o' the tree. Need somebody with a good strong voice, too, +to call off the names.... Woosh's you'd git them things up to the house +soon 's you kin, Otho. Ma's in a hurry fer 'em.” + +“Betchy two cents,” said Brother Littell to his clerk, Clarence +Bowersox, “'at Abel Horn 'll be Santy Claus.” + +“Git out!” doubted Clarence. + +“'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himself in an' +be the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more call to be Santy +Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-up runt, bald 's a +apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inch tell I was sixteen +'n' then I shot up like a weed.'... Bub, you tell yer Ma if she wants a +turkey fer Christmas she better be gittin' her order in right quick.” + +Only six more days till Christmas now--only five--only four--only +three--only two--Christmas Eve. One day more of holding in such swelling +secrets, and some of the young folks would have popped right wide open. +Families gather about the Franklin stove, Pa and Ma gaping and rubbing +their eyes--saying, “Oh, hum!” and making out that they are just plumb +perishing for the lack of sleep. But the children cannot take the hint. +They don't want to go to bed. The imminence of a great event nerves them +in their hopeless fight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and stare +with bulging eyes at the red coals and dancing flames, spurting out here +and there like tiny sabers. + +The mystic hour draws near. Sometime in the night will come the jingle +of silver bells, and the patter of tiny hoofs. Old Santa will halloo: +“Whoa!” and come sliding down the chimney. The drowsing heads, fuddled +with weariness, wrestle clumsily with the problem, “How is he to get +through the stove without burning himself?” Reason falters and Faith +triumphs. It would be done somehow, and then the reindeer would fly +to the next house, and the next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour +draws near. Like a tidal wave it rolls around the world, foaming at its +crest in a golden spray of gifts and love. The mystic hour. + +“Oh, just a little longer, just a little longer.” + +“No, no. You cain't hardly prop your eyes open now. Come now. Get to +bed. Now, Elmer Lonnie; now, Mary Ellen; now, Janey; now, Eddie; now, +Lycurgus. Don't be naughty at the last minute and say, 'I don't want +to,' or else Santa Claus won't come a-near. No, sir.” + +After the last drink of water and the last “Now I lay me,” a long +pause.... Then from the spare bedroom the loud rustling of stiff paper, +the snap of broken, string, and whispers of, “Won't her eyes stick out +when she sees that!” and, “He's been just fretting for a sled; I'm so +glad it was so 't we could get it for him,” and, “I s'pose we ort n't to +spent so much, but seems like with such nice young ones 's we've got 't +ain't no more 'n right we should do for 'em all we can afford, 'n' +mebby a little more. Janey 's 'stiffcut' said she was 100 in everything, +deportment an' all.” + +At one house something white slips down the staircase to where a good +view can be had through the half-open parlor door. It pauses when a step +cracks loudly in the stillness. The parlor door is slammed to. + +“D' you think he saw?” + +“I don't know. I'm afraid so. Little tyke!” + +Something white creeps back and crawls into bed. A heart thumps +violently under the covers, and two big, round eyes stare up at the dark +ceiling. Somebody has eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and +the gates of Eden have shut behind him forever. + +He does not sense that now; he is glad in the exulting consciousness +that he is “a little kid” no longer. Pretty soon he'll be a man, and +then.... and then.... Oh, what grand things are to happen then! + +The mutual gifts are brought out with many a shamefaced: “It looks awful +little, but 't was the best I could do for the money. You see I spent +more on the children than I lotted to,” and many a cheerful fib of: +“Why, that's exactly what I've been wishing for.” Some poor fools, that +have never learned and never will learn that the truest word ever spoken +is: “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” make their husbands a +present of a parlor lamp or a pair of lace curtains, and their wives +a present of a sack of flour, or enough muslin to make half a dozen +shirts. And there are deeper depths. There are such words as: “What +possessed you to buy me that old thing? Well, I won't have it! Now!” The +stove-door is slammed open and the gift crammed in upon the coals, and +two people sit there with lips puffed out, chests heaving and hearts +burning with hate. + +It is the truth, but cover it up. Cover it up. Turn away the head. On +this Holy Night of Illusion let us forget the truth for once. There +are three hundred and sixty-four other nights in which to consider the +eternal verities. On this one, let us be as little children. “Let us now +go even to Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass.” + +The mystic hour draws nigh. The lights go out, one by one. The watchman +at the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking count the +strokes that tremble in the frosty air. Eleven o'clock. Father and +mother sit silent by the fire. The tree in the corner of the room +flashes its tinselry in the dying light. A cinder tinkles on the hearth. +Their thoughts are one. “He would be nine years old, if he had lived,” + murmurs the mother. Their hands grope for each other, meet and clasp. +Something aches in their throats. The red coals swell and blur into a +formless mass. + +The mystic hour is come. The town sleeps. The moon rides high in the +clear heavens. The wind sighs in the fir trees. Faint and far-off across +the centuries sounds the chant of angels. + +The hour is come. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Back Home, by Eugene Wood + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACK HOME *** + +***** This file should be named 2642-0.txt or 2642-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/4/2642/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/2642-0.zip b/2642-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8612d52 --- /dev/null +++ b/2642-0.zip diff --git a/2642-h.zip b/2642-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b27903 --- /dev/null +++ b/2642-h.zip diff --git a/2642-h/2642-h.htm b/2642-h/2642-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5009148 --- /dev/null +++ b/2642-h/2642-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6854 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Back Home, by Eugene Wood + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Back Home, by Eugene Wood + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Back Home + +Author: Eugene Wood + +Release Date: December 8, 2008 [EBook #2642] +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACK HOME *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + BACK HOME + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Eugene Wood + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO + THE SAINTED MEMORY + OF HER WHOM, IN THE DAYS BACK HOME, + I KNEW AS “MY MA MAG” + AND WHO WAS MORE TO ME THAN I CAN TELL, EVEN + IF MY TARDY WORDS COULD REACH HER + THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED + + “That she who is an angel now + Might sometimes think of me” + </pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Contents + </h3> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> BACK HOME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE SABBATH-SCHOOL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE REVOLVING YEAR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE SWIMMING-HOLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE DEVOURING ELEMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> CIRCUS DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE COUNTY FAIR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> CHRISTMAS BACK HOME </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + GENTLE READER:—Let me make you acquainted with my book, “Back Home.” + (Your right hand, Book, your right hand. Pity's sakes! How many times have + I got to tell you that? Chest up and forward, shoulders back and down, and + turn your toes out more.) + </p> + <p> + It is a little book, Gentle Reader, but please don't let that prejudice + you against it. The General Public, I know, likes to feel heft in its hand + when it buys a book, but I had hoped that you were a peg or two above the + General Public. That mythical being goes on a reading spree about every so + often, and it selects a book which will probably last out the craving, a + book which “it will be impossible to lay down, after it is once begun, + until it is finished.” (I quote from the standard book notice). A few + hours later the following dialogue ensues: + </p> + <p> + “Henry!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you 'most done reading?” + </p> + <p> + “Just as soon as I finish this chapter.” A sigh and a long wait. + </p> + <p> + “Henry!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you lock the side-door?” No answer. + </p> + <p> + “Henry! Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Did I what?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you lock the side-door?” + </p> + <p> + “In a minute now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but did you?” + </p> + <p> + “M-hm. I guess so.” + </p> + <p> + “'Guess so!' Did you lock that side-door? They got in at Hilliard's night + before last and stole a bag of clothes-pins.” + </p> + <p> + “M.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, put down that book, and go and lock the side-door. I'll not get a + wink of sleep this blessed night unless you do.” + </p> + <p> + “In a minute now. Just wait till I finish this...” + </p> + <p> + “Go do it now.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. General Public has a card on his desk that says, “Do it Now,” and so + he lays down his book with a patient sigh, and comes back to it with a + patent grouch. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so it is,” says the voice from the bedroom. “I remember now, I locked + it myself when I put the milk-bottles out.... I'm going to stop taking of + that man unless there's more cream on the top than there has been here + lately.” + </p> + <p> + “M.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you 'most done reading?” + </p> + <p> + “In a minute, just as soon as I finish this chapter.” + </p> + <p> + “How long is that chapter, for mercy's sakes?” + </p> + <p> + “I began another.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you coming to bed pretty soon? You know I can't go to sleep when + you are sitting up.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hush up for one minute, can't ye? It's a funny thing if I can't read + a little once in a while.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a funny thing if I've got to be broke of my rest this way. As much + as I have to look after. I'd hate to be so selfish.... Henry! Won't you + please put the book down and come to bed?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, for goodness sake! Turn over and go to sleep. You make me tired.” + </p> + <p> + Every two or three hours Mrs. General Public wakes up and announces that + she can't get a wink of sleep, not a wink; she wishes he hadn't brought + the plagued old book home; he hasn't the least bit of consideration for + her; please, please, won't he put the book away and come to bed? + </p> + <p> + He reaches “THE END” at 2:30A.M., turns off the gas, and creeps into bed, + his stomach all upset from smoking so much without eating anything, his + eyes feeling like two burnt holes in a blanket, and wishing that he had + the sense he was born with. He'll have to be up at 6:05, and he knows how + he will feel. He also knows how he will feel along about three o'clock in + the afternoon. Smithers is coming then to close up that deal. Smithers is + as sharp as tacks, as slippery as an eel, and as crooked as a dog's hind + leg. Always looking for the best of it. You need all your wits when you + deal with Smithers. Why didn't he take Mrs. General Public's advice, and + get to bed instead of sitting up fuddling himself with that fool + love-story? + </p> + <p> + That's how a book should be to be a great popular success, and one that + all the typewriter girls will have on their desks. I am guiltily conscious + that “Back Home” is not up to standard either in avoirdupois heft or the + power to unfit a man for business. + </p> + <p> + Here's a book. Is it long? No. Is it exciting? No. Any lost diamonds in + it? Nup. Mysterious murders? No. Whopping big fortune, now teetering this + way, and now teetering that, tipping over on the Hero at the last and + smothering him in an avalanche of fifty-dollar bills? No. Does She get + Him? Isn't even that. No “heart interest” at all. What's the use of + putting out good money to make such a book; to have a cover design for it; + to get a man like A. B. Frost to draw illustrations for it, when he costs + so like the mischief, when there's nothing in the book to make a man sit + up till 'way past bedtime? Why print it at all? + </p> + <p> + You may search me. I suppose it's all right, but if it was my money, I'll + bet I could make a better investment of it. If worst came to worst, I + could do like the fellow in the story who went to the gambling-house and + found it closed up, so he shoved the money under the door and went away. + He'd done his part. + </p> + <p> + And yet, on the other hand, I can see how some sort of a case can be made + out for this book of mine. I suppose I am wrong-I generally am in regard + to everything—but it seems to me that quite a large part of the + population of this country must be grown-up people. If I am right in this + contention, then this large part of the population is being unjustly + discriminated against. I believe in doing a reasonable amount for the aid + and comfort of the young things that are just beginning to turn their hair + up under, or who rub a stealthy forefinger over their upper lips to feel + the pleasant rasp, but I don't believe in their monopolizing everything. I + don't think it 's fair. All the books printed—except, of course, + those containing valuable information; we don't buy those books, but go to + the public library for them—all the books printed are concerned with + the problem of How She can get Him, and He can get Her. + </p> + <p> + Well, now. It was either yesterday morning or the day before that you + looked in the glass and beheld there The First Gray Hair. You smiled a + smile that was not all pure pleasure, a smile that petered out into a + sigh, but nevertheless a smile, I will contend. What do you think about + it? You're still on earth, aren't you? You'll last the month out, anyhow, + won't you? Not at all ready to be laid on the shelf? What do you think of + the relative importance of Love, Courtship, and Marriage? One or two other + things in life just about as interesting, aren't there? Take getting a + living, for instance. That 's worthy of one's attention, to a certain + extent. When our young ones ask us: “Pop, what did you say to Mom when you + courted her?” they feel provoked at us for taking it so lightly and so + frivolously. It vexes them for us to reply: “Law, child! I don't remember. + Why, I says to her: 'Will you have me?' And she says: 'Why, yes, and jump + at the chance.' What difference does it make what we said, or whether we + said anything at all? Why should we charge our memories with the + recollections of those few and foolish months of mere instinctive + sex-attraction when all that really counts came after, the years wherein + low passion blossomed into lofty Love, the dear companionship in joy and + sorrow, and in that which is more, far more than either joy or sorrow, + 'the daily round, the common task?'” All that is wonderful to think of in + our courtship is the marvel, for which we should never cease to thank the + Almighty God, that with so little judgment at our disposal we should have + chosen so wisely. + </p> + <p> + If you, Gentle Reader, found your first gray hair day before yesterday + morning, if you can remember, 'way, 'way back ten or fifteen years ago... + er... er... or more, come with me. Let us go “Back Home.” Here's your + transportation, all made out to you, and in your hand. It is no use my + reminding you that no railroad goes to the old home place. It isn't there + any more, even in outward seeming. Cummins's woods, where you had your + robbers' cave, is all cleared off and cut up into building lots. The cool + and echoing covered bridge, plastered with notices of dead and forgotten + Strawberry Festivals and Public Vendues, has long ago been torn down to be + replaced by a smart, red iron bridge. The Volunteer Firemen's + Engine-house, whose brick wall used to flutter with the gay rags of + circus-bills, is gone as if it never were at all. Where the Union + Schoolhouse was is all torn up now. They are putting up a new magnificent + structure, with all the modern improvements, exposed plumbing, and + spankless discipline. The quiet leafy streets echo to the hissing snarl of + trolley cars, and the power-house is right by the Old Swimming-hole above + the dam. The meeting-house, where we attended Sabbath-school, and marveled + at the Greek temple frescoed on the wall behind the pulpit, is now a + church with a big organ, and stained-glass windows, and folding + opera-chairs on a slanting floor. There isn't any “Amen Corner,” any more, + and in these calm and well-bred times nobody ever gets “shouting happy.” + </p> + <p> + But even when “the loved spots that our infancy knew” are physically the + same, a change has come upon them more saddening than words can tell. They + have shrunken and grown shabbier. They are not nearly so spacious and so + splendid as once they were. + </p> + <p> + Some one comes up to you and calls you by your name. His voice echoes in + the chambers of your memory. You hold his hand in yours and try to peer + through the false-face he has on, the mask of a beard or spectacles, or a + changed expression of the countenance. He says he is So-and-so. Why, he + used to sit with you in Miss Crutcher's room, don't you remember? There + was a time when you and he walked together, your arms upon each other's + shoulders. But this is some other one than he. The boy you knew had + freckles, and could spit between his teeth, ever and ever so far. + </p> + <p> + They don't have the same things to eat they used to have, or, if they do, + it all tastes different. Do you remember the old well, with the windlass + and the chain fastened to the rope just above the bucket, the chain that + used to cluck-cluck when the dripping bucket came within reach to be swung + upon the well-curb? How cold the water used to be, right out of the + northwest corner of the well! It made the roof of your mouth ache when you + drank. Everybody said it was such splendid water. It isn't so very cold + these days, and I think it has a sort of funny taste to it. + </p> + <p> + Ah, Gentle Reader, this is not really “Back Home” we gaze upon when we go + there by the train. It is a last year's bird's nest. The nest is there; + the birds are flown, the birds of youth, and noisy health, and ravenous + appetite, and inexperience. You cannot go “Back Home” by train, but here + is the magic wishing-carpet, and here is your transportation in your hand + all made out to you. You and I will make the journey together. Let us in + heart and mind thither ascend. + </p> + <p> + I went to the Old Red School-house with you. Don't you remember me? I was + learning to swim when you could go clear across the river without once + “letting down.” I saw you at the County Fair, and bought a slab of + ice-cream candy just before you did. I was in the infant-class in + Sabbath-school when you spoke in the dialogue at the monthly concert. Look + again. Don't you remember me? I used to stub my toe so; you ought to + recollect me by that. I know plenty of people that you know. I may not + always get their names just right, but then it's been a good while ago. + You Il recognize them, though; you'll know them in a minute. + </p> + <p> + EUGENE WOOD. <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BACK HOME + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hill.) + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hi-hi-hi-yull) + And my heart with joy o'erflows, + Like the dew-drop in the rose,* + Thinking of the old red SCHOOL-HOUSE I o-o-on the hill, + (2d tenor and 1st bass: The hill, the hill.) + + THE MALE QUARTET'S COMPENDIUM. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * I call your attention to the chaste beauty of this line, + and the imperative necessity of the chord of the diminished + seventh for the word “rose.” Also “school-house” in the + last line must be very loud and staccato. Snap it off. +</pre> + <p> + If the audience will kindly come forward and occupy the vacant seats in + the front of the hall, the entertainment will now begin. The male quartet + will first render an appropriate selection and then.... Can't you see them + from where you are? Let me assist you in the visualization. + </p> + <p> + The first tenor, the gentleman on the extreme left, is a stocky little + man, with a large chest and short legs conspicuously curving inward. He + has plenty of white teeth, ash-blonde hair, and goes smooth-shaven for + purely personal reasons. His round, dough-colored face will never look + older (from a distance) than it did when he was nine. The flight of years + adds only deeper creases in the multitude of fine wrinkles, and increasing + difficulty in hoisting his tiny, patent-leather foot up on his plump knee. + </p> + <p> + The second tenor leans toward him in a way to make another man anxious + about his watch, but the second tenor is as honest as the day. He is only + “blending the voices.” He works in the bank. He is going to be married in + June sometime. Don't look around right away, but she's the one in the pink + shirt-waist, the second one from the aisle, the one... two... three... the + sixth row back. See her? Say, they've got it bad, those two. What d' ye + think? She goes down by the bank every day at noon, so as to walk up with + him to luncheon. She lives across the street, and as soon as ever she has + finished her luncheon, there she is, out on the front porch hallooing: + “Oo-hoo!” How about that? And if he so much as looks at another girl—m-M! + </p> + <p> + The first bass is one of these fellows with a flutter in his voice. No, I + don't mean a vibrato. It's a flutter, like a goat's tail. It is considered + real operatic. + </p> + <p> + The second bass has a great, big Adam's apple that slides up and down his + throat like a toy-monkey on a stick. He is tall, and has eyebrows like + clothes-brushes, and he scowls fit to make you run and hide under the bed. + He is really a good-hearted fellow, though. Pity he has the dyspepsia so + bad. Oh, my, yes! Suffers everything with it, poor man. He generally sings + that song about “Drink-ing! DRINK-ang! Drink-awng!” though he's strictly + temperate himself. When he takes that last low note, you hold on to your + chair for fear you'll fall in too. + </p> + <p> + But why bring in the male quartet? + </p> + <p> + Because “The Little Old Red School-house” is more than a mere collocation + of words, accurately descriptive. It is what Mat King would call a + “symblem,” and as such requires the music's dying fall to lull and + enervate a too meticulous and stringent tendency to recollect that it + wasn't little, or old, or red, or on a hill. It might have been big and + new, and built of yellow brick, right next to the Second Presbyterian, and + hence close to the “branch,” so that the spring freshets flooded the + playground, and the water lapped the base of the big rock on which we + played “King on the Castle,”—the big rock so pitifully dwindled of + late years. No matter what he facts are. Sing 'of “The Little Old Red + Schoolhouse On the Hill” and in everybody's heart a chord trembles in + unison. As we hear its witching strains, we are all lodge brethren, from + Maine to California and far across the Western Sea; we are all lodge + brethren, and the air is “Auld Lang Syne,” and we are clasping hands + across, knitted together into one living solidarity; and this, if we but + sensed it, is the real Union, of which the federal compact is but the + outward seeming. It is a Union in which they have neither art nor part + whose parents sent them to private schools, so as not to have them + associate with “that class of people.” It is the true democracy which + batters down the walls that separate us from each other—the walls of + caste distinction, and color prejudice, and national hatred, and religious + contempt, all the petty, anti-social meannesses that quarrel with + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Union of hearts, the Union of hands, + And the flag of our Union forever.” + </pre> + <p> + Old Glory has floated victoriously on many a gallant fight by sea and + land, but never do its silver stars glitter more bravely or its blood-red + stripes curve more proudly on the fawning breeze than when it floats above + the school-house, over the daily battle against ignorance and prejudice + (which is ignorance of our fellows), for freedom and for equal rights. It + is no mere pretty sentimentality that puts the flag there, but the serious + recognition of the bed-rock principle of our Union: That we are all of one + blood, one bounden duty; that all these anti-social prejudices are just as + shameful as illiteracy, and that they must disappear as soon as ever we + shall come to know each other well. Knowledge is power. That is true. And + it is also true: A house divided against itself cannot stand. + </p> + <p> + “The Flag of our Union forever!” is our prayer, our heart's desire for us + and for our children after us. Heroes have died to give us that, heroes + that with glazing eyes beheld the tattered ensign and spent their latest + breath to cheer it as it passed on to triumph. “We who are about to die + salute thee!” The heart swells to think of it. But it swells, too, to + think that, day by day, thousands upon thousands of little children + stretch out their hands toward that Flag and pledge allegiance to it. “We + who are about to LIVE salute thee!” + </p> + <p> + It is no mere chance affair that all our federal buildings should be so + ugly and so begrudged, and that our school-houses should be so beautiful + architecturally—the one nearest my house is built from plans that + took the first prize at the Paris Exposition, in competition with the + whole world—so well-appointed, and so far from being grudged that + the complaint is, that there are not enough of them. + </p> + <p> + That So-and-so should be the President, and such-and-such a party have + control is but a game we play at, amateurs and professionals; the serious + business is, that in this country no child, how poor soever it may be, + shall have the slightest let or hindrance in the equal chance with every + other child to learn to read, and write, and cipher, and do raffia-work. + </p> + <p> + It is a new thing with us to have splendid school-houses. After all, the + norm, as you might say, is still “The Old Red School-house.” You must + recollect how hard the struggle is for the poor farmer, with wheat only a + dollar a bushel, and eggs only six for a quarter; with every year or so + taxes of three and sometimes four dollars on an eighty-acre farm grinding + him to earth. It were folly to expect more in rural districts than a tight + box, with benches and a stove in it. Never-the-less, it is the thing + signified more than its outward seeming that catches and holds the eye + upon the country school-house as you drive past it. You count yourself + fortunate if, mingled with the creaking of the buggy-springs, you hear the + hum of recitation; yet more fortunate if it is recess time, and you can + see the children out at play, the little girls holding to one another's + dress-tails as they solemnly circle to the chant: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh, + Tha malbarry bosh, tha malbarry bosh, + H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh + On a cay-um and frasty marneng.” + </pre> + <p> + The boys are at marbles, if it is muddy enough, or one-old-cat, or + pom-pom-peel-away, with the normal percentage of them in reboant tears—that + is to say, one in three. + </p> + <p> + But even this is not the moment of illumination, when it comes upon you + like a flood how glorious is the land we live in, upon what sure and + certain footing are its institutions, when we know by spiritual insight + that whatsoever be the trial that awaits us, the people of these United + States, we shall be able for it! Yes. We shall be able for it. + </p> + <p> + If you would learn the secret of our nation's greatness, take your stand + some winter's morning just before nine o'clock, where you can overlook a + circle of some two or three miles' radius, the center being the Old Red + School-house. You will see little figures picking their way along the miry + roads, or ploughing through the deep drifts, cutting across the fields, + all drawing to the school-house, Bub in his wammus and his cowhide boots, + his cap with ear-laps, a knitted comforter about his neck, and his hands + glowing in scarlet mittens; and little Sis, in a thick shawl, trudging + along behind him, stepping in his tracks. They chirrup, “Good-morning, + sir!” As far as you can see them you have to watch them, and something + rises in your throat. Lord love 'em! Lord love the children! + </p> + <p> + And then it comes to you, and it makes you catch your breath to think of + it, that every two or three miles all over this land, wherever there are + children at all, there is the Old Red Schoolhouse. At this very hour a + living tide, upbearing the hopes and prayers of God alone knows how many + loving hearts, the tide on which all of our longed-for ships are to come + in, is setting to the school-house. Oh, what is martial glory, what is + conquest of an empire, what is state-craft alongside of this? Happy is the + people that is in such a case! + </p> + <p> + The city schools are now the pattern for the country schools: but in my + day, although a little they were pouring the new wine of frothing + educational reform into the old bottles, they had not quite attained the + full distention of this present. We still had some kind of a good time, + but nothing like the good times they had out at the school near + grandpap's, where I sometimes visited. There you could whisper! Yes, sir, + you could whisper. So long as you didn't talk out loud, it was all right. + And there was no rising at the tap of the bell, forming in line and + walking in lock-step. Seemingly it never entered the school-board's heads + that anybody would ever be sent to state's prison. They left the scholars + unprepared for any such career. They have remedied all that in city + schools. Now, when a boy grows up and goes to Sing Sing, he knows exactly + what to do and how to behave. It all comes back to him. + </p> + <p> + But what I call the finest part of going to school in the country was, + that you didn't go home to dinner. Grandma had a boy only a few years + older than I was, and when I went a-visiting, she fixed us up a “piece.” + They call it “luncheon” now, I think—a foolish, hybrid mongrel of a + word, made up of “lump,” a piece of bread, and “noon,” and “shenk,” a + pouring or drink. But the right name is “piece.” What made this particular + “piece” taste so wonderfully good was that it was in a round-bottomed + basket woven of splints dyed blue, and black and red, and all in such a + funny pattern. It was an Indian basket. My grandma's mother, when she was + a little girl, got that from the squaw of old Chief Wiping-Stick. + </p> + <p> + The “piece” had bread-and-butter (my grandma used to let me churn for her + sometimes, when I went out there), and some of the slices had apple-butter + on them. (One time she let me stir the cider, when it was boiling down in + the big kettle over the chunk-fire out in the yard. The smoke got in my + eyes.) Sometimes there was honey from the hives over by the gooseberry + bushes—the gooseberries had stickers on them—and we had slices + of cold, fried ham. (I was out at grandpap's one time when they butchered. + They had a chunk-fire then, too, to heat the water to scald the hogs. And + say! Did your grandma ever roast pig's tails in the ashes for you?) And + there were crullers. No, I don't mean “doughnuts.” I mean crullers, all + twisted up. They go good with cider. (Sometimes my grandma cut out thin, + pallid little men of cruller dough, and dropped them into the hot lard for + my Uncle Jimmy and me. And when she fished them out, they were all swelled + up and “pussy,” and golden brown). + </p> + <p> + And there was pie. Neither at the school nooning nor at the table did one + put a piece of pie upon a plate and haggle at it with a fork. You took the + piece of pie up in your hand and pointed the sharp end toward you, and + gently crowded it into your face. It didn't require much pressure either. + </p> + <p> + And there were always apples, real apples. I think they must make apples + in factories nowadays. They taste like it. These were real ones, picked + off the trees. Out at grandpap's they had bellflowers, and winesaps, and + seek-no-furthers, and, I think, sheep-noses, and one kind of apple that I + can't find any more, though I have sought it carefully. It was the finest + apple I ever set a tooth in. It was the juiciest and the spiciest apple. + It had sort of a rollicking flavor to it, if you know what I mean. It + certainly was the ne plus ultra of an apple. And the name of it was the + rambo. Dear me, how good it was! think I'd sooner have one right now than + great riches. And all these apples they kept in the apple-hole. You went + out and uncovered the earth and there they were, all in a big nest of + straw; and such a gush of perfume distilled from that pile of them that + just to recollect it makes my mouth all wet. + </p> + <p> + They had a big red apple in those days that I forget the name of. Oh, it + was a whopper! You'd nibble at it and nibble at it before you could get a + purchase on it. Then, after you got your teeth in, you'd pull and pull, + and all of a sudden the apple would go “tock!” and your head would fly + back from the recoil, and you had a bite about the size of your hand. You + “chomped” on it, with your cheek all bulged out, and blame near drowned + yourself with the juice of it. + </p> + <p> + Noon-time the girls used to count the seeds: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “One I love, two I love, three my love I see; + Four I love with all my heart, and five I cast away. + Six he loves; seven she loves; eight... eight...” + </pre> + <p> + I forget what eight is, and all that follows after. And then the others + would tease her with, “Aw, Jennie!” knowing who it was she had named the + apple for, Wes. Rinehart, or 'Lonzo Curl, or whoever. And you'd be + standing there by the stove, kind of grinning and not thinking of anything + in particular when somebody would hit you a clout on your back that just + about broke you in two, and would tell you “to pass it on,” and you'd pass + it on, and the next thing was you'd think the house was coming down. Such + a chasing around and over benches, and upsetting the water-bucket, and + tearing up Jack generally that teacher would say, “Boys! boys! If you + can't play quietly, you'll have to go out of doors!” Play quietly! Why, + the idea! What kind of play is it when you are right still? + </p> + <p> + Outdoors in the country, you can whoop and holler, and carry on, and + nobody complains to the board of health. And there are so many things you + can do. If there is just the least little fall of snow you can make a big + wheel, with spokes in it, by your tracking. I remember that it was called + “fox and geese,” but that's all I can remember about it. If there was a + little more snow you tried to wash the girls' faces in it, and sometimes + got yours washed. If there was a good deal of wet snow you had a snowball + fight, which is great fun, unless you get one right smack dab in your ear—oh, + but I can't begin to tell you all the fun there is at the noon hour in the + country school, that the town children don't know anything about. And when + it was time for school to “take up,” there wasn't any forming in line, + with a monitor to run tell teacher who snatched off Joseph Humphreys' cap + and flung it far away, so he had to get out of the line, and who did this, + and who did that—no penitentiary business at all. Teacher tapped on + the window with a ruler, and the boys and girls came in, red-faced and + puffing, careering through the aisles, knocking things off the desks with + many a burlesque, “oh, exCUSE me!” and falling into their seats, bursting + into sniggers, they didn't know what at. They had an hour and a half + nooning. Counting that it took five minutes to shovel down even grandma's + beautiful “piece,” that left an hour and twenty-five minutes for roaring, + romping play. If you want to know, I think that is fully as educational + and a far better preparation for life than sitting still with your nose + stuck in a book. + </p> + <p> + In the city schools they don't think so. Even the stingy fifteen minutes' + recess, morning and afternoon, has been stolen from the children. Instead + is given the inspiriting physical culture, all making silly motions + together in a nice, warm room, full of second-hand air. Is it any wonder + that one in every three that die between fifteen and twenty-five, dies of + consumption? + </p> + <p> + You must have noticed that almost everybody that amounts to anything spent + his early life in the country. The city schools have great educational + advantages; they have all the up-to-date methods, but the output of the + Old Red Schoolhouse compares very favorably with that of the city schools + for all that. The two-mile walk, morning and evening, had something to do + with it, not only because it and the long nooning were good exercise, but + because it impressed upon the mind that what cost so much effort to get + must surely be worth having. But I think I know another reason. + </p> + <p> + If the city child goes through the arithmetic once, it is as much as ever. + In the Old Red School-house those who hadn't gone through the arithmetic + at least six times, were little thought of. In town, the last subject in + the book was “Permutation,” to which you gave the mere look its + essentially frivolous nature deserved. It was: “End of the line. All out!” + But in the country a very important department followed. It was called + “Problems.” They were twisters, able to make “How old is Ann?” look like a + last year's bird's nest. They make a big fuss about the psychology of the + child's mind nowadays. Well, I tell you they couldn't teach the man that + got up that arithmetic a thing about the operation of the child's mind. He + knew what was what. He didn't put down the answers. He knew that if he + did, weak, erring human nature, tortured by suspense, determined to have + the agony over, would multiply by four and divide by thirteen, and + subtract 127—didn't, either. I didn't say “substract.” I guess I + know they'd get the answer somehow, it didn't matter much how. + </p> + <p> + In the country they ciphered through this part, and handed in their sums + to Teacher, who said she'd take 'em home and look 'em over; she didn't + have time just then. As if that fooled anybody! She had a key! And when + you had done the very last one on the very last page, and there wasn't + anything more except the blank pages, where you had written, “Joe Geiger + loves Molly Meyers,” and, “If my name you wish to see, look on page 103,” + and all such stuff, then you turned over to the beginning, where it says, + “Arithmetic is the science of numbers, and the art of computing by them,” + and once more considered, “Ann had four apples and her brother gave her + two more. How many did she then have?” There were the four apples in a + row, and the two apples, and you that had worried over meadows so long and + so wide, and men mowing them in so many days and a half, had to think how + many apples Ann really did have. Some of the fellows with forked hairs on + their chins and uncertain voices—the big fellows in the back seats, + where the apple-cores and the spit-balls come from knew every example in + the book by heart. + </p> + <p> + And there is yet another reason why the country school has brought forth + men of whom we do well to be proud. At the county-seat, every so often, + the school commissioners held an examination. Thither resorted many, for + the most part anxious to determine if they really knew as much as they + thought they did. If you took that examination and got a “stiff kit” for + eighteen months, you had good cause to hold your head up and step as high + as a blind horse. A “stiff kit” for eighteen months is no small thing, let + me tell you. I don't know if there is anything corresponding to a doctor's + hood for such as win a certificate to teach school for two years + hand-running; but there ought to be. A fellow ought not to be obliged to + resort to such tactics as taking out a folded paper and perusing it in the + hope that some one will ask him: “What you got there, Calvin?” so as to + give you a chance to say, carelessly, “Oh, jist a 'stiff-kit' for two + years.” + </p> + <p> + (When you get as far along as that, you simply have to take a term in the + junior Prep. Department at college, not because there is anything left for + you to learn, but for the sake of putting a gloss on your education, + finishing it off neatly.) + </p> + <p> + And then if you were going to read law with Mr. Parker, or study medicine + with old Doc. Harbaugh, and you kind of run out of clothes, you took that + certificate and hunted up a school and taught it. Sometimes they paid you + as high as $20 a month and board, lots of board, real buckwheat cakes + (“riz” buckwheat, not the prepared kind), and real maple syrup, and real + sausage, the kind that has sage in it; the kind that you can't coax your + butcher to sell you. The pale, tasteless stuff he gives you for sausage I + wouldn't throw out to the chickens. Twenty dollars a month and board! + That's $4 a month more than a hired man gets. + </p> + <p> + But it wasn't alone the demonstration that, strange as it might seem, it + was possible for a man to get his living by his wits (though that has done + much to produce great men) as it was the actual exercise of teaching. + Remember the big boys on the back seats, where the apple-cores and the + spit-balls come from. The school-director that hired you gave you a + searching look-over and said: “M-well-l-l, I'm afraid you haint hardly + qualified for our school—oh, that's all right, sir; that's all + right. Your 'stiff-kit' is first-rate, and you got good recommends, good + recommends; but I was thinkin'—well, I tell you. Might's well out + with it first as last. I d' know's I ort to say so, but this here district + No. 34 is a poot' tol'able hard school to teach. Ya-uss. A poot-ty + tol'able hard school to teach. Now, that's jist the plumb facts in the + matter. We've had four try it this winter a'ready. One of 'em stuck it out + four weeks—I jimminy! he had grit, that feller had. The balance of + 'em didn't take so long to make up their minds. Well, now, if you're a + mind to try it—I was goin' to say you didn't look to me like you had + the heft. Like to have you the worst way. Now, if you want to back out.... + Well, all right. Monday mornin', eh? Well, you got my sympathies.” + </p> + <p> + I believe that some have tried to figure out that St. Martin of Tours, + ought to be the patron saint of the United States. One of his feast-days + falls on July 4, and his colors are red, white and blue. But I rather + prefer, myself, the Boanerges, the two sons of Zebedee. When asked: “Are + ye able to drink of this cup?” they answered: “We are able.” They didn't + in the least know what it was; but they knew they were able for anything + that anybody else was, and, perhaps, able for a little more. At any rate, + they were willing to chance it. That's the United States of America, clear + to the bone and back again to the skin. + </p> + <p> + You ask any really great man: “Have you ever taught a winter term in a + country school?” If he says he hasn't, then depend upon it he isn't a + really great man. People only think he is. The winter term breeds + Boanerges—sons of thunder. Yes, and of lightning, too. Something + struck the big boys in the back seats, as sure as you're a foot high; and + if it wasn't lightning, what was it? Brute strength for brute strength, + they were more than a match for Teacher. It was up to him. It was either + prove himself the superior power, or slink off home and crawl under the + porch. + </p> + <p> + The curriculum of the Old Red School-house, which was, until lately, the + universal curriculum, consisted in reading, writing, and arithmetic or + ciphering. I like the word “ciphering,” because it makes me think of + slates—slates that were always falling on the floor with a rousing + clatter, so that almost always at least one corner was cracked. Some + mitigation of the noise was gained by binding the frame with strips of red + flannel, thus adding warmth and brightness to the color scheme. Just as + some fertile brain conceived the notion of applying a knob of rubber to + each corner, slates went out, and I suppose only doctors buy them nowadays + to hang on the doors of their offices. Maybe the teacher's nerves were too + highly strung to endure the squeaking of gritty pencils, but I think the + real reason for their banishment is, that slates invited too strongly the + game of noughts and crosses, or tit-tat-toe, three in a row, the champion + of indoor sports, and one entirely inimical to the study of the joggerfy + lesson. But if slates favored tit-tat-toe, they also favored ciphering, + and nothing but good can come from that. Paper is now so cheap that you + need not rub out mistakes, but paper and pencil can never surely ground + one in “the science of numbers and the art of computing by them.” What is + written is written, and returns to plague the memory, but if you made a + mistake on the slate, you could spit on it and rub it out with your sleeve + and leave no trace of the error, either on the writing surface or the + tables of the memory. What does the hymn say? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Forget the steps already trod, + And onward urge thy way.” + </pre> + <p> + The girls used to keep a little sponge and some water in a discarded + patchouli bottle with a glass stopper, to wash their slates with; but it + always seemed to me that the human and whole-hearted way was otherwise. + </p> + <p> + Reading, writing, and arithmetic,—these three; and the greatest of + these three is arithmetic. Over against it stands grammar, which may be + said to be derived from reading and writing. Show me a man that, as a boy + at school, excelled in arithmetic and I will show you a useful citizen, a + boss in his own business, a leader of men; show me the boy that preferred + grammar, that read expressively, that wrote a beautiful hand and curled + his capital S's till their tails looked like mainsprings, and I will show + you a dreamer and a sentimentalist—a man that works for other + people. While I have breath in me, I will maintain the supereminence of + arithmetic. There is no room for disputation in arithmetic, no exceptions + to the rule. Twice two is four, and that's all there is about it: but + whether there be pronunciations, they shall cease; whether there be rules + of grammar, they shall vanish away. Why, look here. It's a rule of + grammar, isn't it, that the subject of a sentence must be put in the + nominative case? Let it kick and bite, and hang on to the desks all it + wants to, in it goes and the door is slammed on it. You think so? What is + the word “you?” Second person, plural number, objective case. Oh, no; the + nominative form is “ye.” + </p> + <p> + Don't you remember it says: “Woe unto you, ye lawyers”? Those who fight + against: “Him and me went down town,” fight against the stars in their + courses, for the objective case in every language is bound and determined + to be The Whole Thing. Arithmetic alone is founded on a rock. All else is + fleeting, all else is futile, chaotic—a waste of time. What is + reading but a rival of morphine? There are probably as many men in prison, + sent there by Reading, as by Rum. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not good Reading!” says the publisher. + </p> + <p> + “Not good Rum, either,” says the publican. + </p> + <p> + Fight it out. It's an even thing between the two of you; Literature and + Liquor, Books and Booze, which can take a man's mind off his business most + effectually. + </p> + <p> + Still, merely as a matter of taste, I will defend the quality of + McGuffey's School Readers against all comers. I don't know who McGuffey + was; but certainly he formed the greatest intellects of our age, present + company not excepted. The true test of literature is its eternal + modernity. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. It always seems of the age + in which it is read. Now, almost the earliest lection in McGuffey's First + Reader goes directly to the heart of one of the greatest of modern + problems. It does not palter or beat about the bush. It asks right out, + plump and plain: “Ann, how old are you?” + </p> + <p> + Year by year, until we reached the dizzy height of the Sixth Reader, were + presented to us samples of the best English ever written. If you can find, + up in the garret, a worn and frayed old Reader, take it down and turn its + pages over. See if anything in these degenerate days compares in vital + strength and beauty with the story of the boy that climbed the Natural + Bridge, carving his steps in the soft limestone with his pocket knife. You + cannot read it without a thrill. The same inspired hand wrote “The Blind + Preacher,” and who that ever can read it can forget the climax reached in + that sublime line: “Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ + like a god!” + </p> + <p> + Not long ago I walked among the graves in that spot opposite where Wall + Street slants away from Broadway, and my feet trod on ground worth, in the + market, more than the twenty-dollar gold pieces that would cover it. My + eye lighted upon a flaking brownstone slab, that told me Captain Michael + Cresap rested there. Captain Michael Cresap! The intervening years all + fled away before me, and once again my boyish heart thrilled with that + incomparable oration in McGuffey's Reader, “Who is there to mourn for + Logan? Not one.” Captain Cresap was the man that led the massacre of + Logan's family. + </p> + <p> + And there was more than good literature in those Readers. There was one + piece that told about a little boy alone upon a country road at night. The + black trees groaned and waved their skinny arms at him. The wind-torn + clouds fitfully let a pale and watery moonlight stream a little through. + It was very lonely. Over his shoulder the boy saw indistinct shapes that + followed after, and hid themselves whenever he looked squarely at them. + Then, suddenly, he saw before him in the gloom, a gaunt white specter + waiting for him—waiting to get him, its arms spread wide out in + menace. He was of our breed, though, this boy. He did not turn and run. + With God knows what terror knocking at his ribs, he trudged ahead to meet + his fate, and lo! the grisly specter proved to be a friendly guide-post to + show the way that he should walk in. Brother (for you are my kin that went + with me to public school), in the life that you have lived since you first + read the story of Harry and the Guide-post, has it been an idle tale, or + have you, too, found that what we dreaded most, what seemed to us so + terrible in the future has, after all, been a friendly guide-post, showing + us the way that we should walk in? + </p> + <p> + McGuffey had a Speller, too. It began with simple words in common use, + like a-b ab, and e-b eb, and i-b, ib, proceeding by gradual, if not by + easy stages to honorificatudinibility and disproportionableness, with a + department at the back devoted to twisters like phthisic, and + mullein-stalk, and diphtheria, and gneiss. We used to have a fine old + sport on Friday afternoons, called “choose-up-and-spell-down.” I don't + know if you ever played it. It was a survival, pure and simple, from the + Old Red School-house. There was where it really lived. There was where it + flourished as a gladiatorial spectacle. The crack spellers of District + Number 34 would challenge the crack spellers of the Sinking Spring School. + The whole countryside came to the school-house in wagons at early + candle-lighting time, and watched them fight it out. The interest grew as + the contest narrowed down, until at last there were the two captains left—big + John Rice for District Number 34, and that wiry, nervous, black-haired + girl of 'Lias Hoover's, Polly Ann. She married a man by the name of + Brubaker. I guess you didn't know him. His folks moved here from Clarke + County. Polly Ann's eyes glittered like a snake's, and she kept putting + her knuckles up to the red spots in her cheeks that burned like fire. Old + John, he didn't seem to care a cent. And what do you think Polly Ann + missed on? “Feoffment.” A simple little word like “feoffment!” She hadn't + got further than “pheph—” when she knew that she was wrong, but + Teacher had said “Next!” and big John took it and spelled it right. She + had a fit of nervous crying, and some were for giving her the victory, + after all, because she was a lady. But big John said: “She missed, didn't + she? Well. And I spelled it right, didn't I? Well. She took her chances + same as the rest of us. 'Taint me you got to consider, it's District + Number 34. And furthermore. AND FURTHERMORE. Next time somebuddy asts her + to go home with him from singin'-school, mebby she won't snigger right in + his face, and say 'No! 's' loud 'at everybuddy kin hear it.” + </p> + <p> + It's quite a thing to be a good speller, but there are people who can + spell any word that ever was, and yet if you should ask them right quick + how much is seven times eight, they'd hem and haw and say: “Seven tums + eight? Why—ah, lemme see now. Seven tums—what was it you said? + Oh, seven tums eight. Why—ah, seven tums eight is sixty-three—fifty-six + I mean.” There's nothing really to spelling. It's just an idiosyncrasy. If + there was really anything useful in it, you could do it by machinery—just + the same as you can add by machinery, or write with a typewriter, or play + the piano with one of these things with cut paper in it. Spelling is an + old-fashioned, hand-powered process, and as such doomed to disappear with + the march of improvement. + </p> + <p> + One Friday afternoon we chose up and spelled down, and the next Friday + afternoon we spoke pieces. Doubtless this accounts for our being a nation + of orators. I am far from implying or seeming to imply that this is + anything to brag of. Anybody that can be influenced by a man with a big + mouth, a loud voice, and a rush of words to the face—well, I've got + my opinion of all such. + </p> + <p> + Oratory and poetry—all foolishness, I say. Better far are + drawing-lessons, and raffia-work, and clay-modeling than: “I come not here + to talk,” and “A soldier of the Legion lay dying at Algiers,” and “Old + Ironsides at anchor lay.” (I observe that these lines are more or less + familiar to you, and that you are eager to add selections to the list, all + of them known to me as well as you.) That children, especially boys, + loathe to speak a piece is a fact profoundly significant. They know it is + nothing in the world but foolishness; and if there is one thing above + another that a child hates, it is to be made a fool in public. That's what + makes them work their fingers so, and gulp, and stammer, and tremble at + the knees. That is what sends them to their seats, after all is over, mad + as hornets. This is something that I know about. It happened that, instead + of getting funny pieces to recite as I wanted to, discerning that one + silly turn deserves another, my parents, well-meaning in their way, taught + me solemn things about: “O man immortal, live for something!” and all + such, and I had to humiliate myself by disgorging them in public. The + consequence was, that not only on Friday afternoons but whenever anybody + came to visit the school, I was butchered to make a Roman holiday. Teacher + was so proud of me, and the visitors let on that they were tickled half to + death, but I knew better. I could see the other scholars look at one + another, as much as to say: “Well, if you'll tell me why!” Even in my + shame and anger I could see that. But there is one happy memory of a + Friday afternoon. Determined to show my friends and fellow-citizens that + I, too, was born in Arcadia, and was a living, human boy, I announced to + Teacher: “I got another piece.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, have you?” cried she, sure of an extra O-man-immortal intellectual + treat. “Let us hear it, by all means.” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon I marched up to the platform and declaimed that deathless lyric: + </p> + <p> + “When I was a boy, I was a bold one. My mammy made me a new shirt out o' + dad's old one.” + </p> + <p> + All of it? Certainly. Isn't that enough? That was the only distinctly + popular platform effort I ever made. I am proud of it now. I was proud of + it then. But the news of my triumph was coldly received at home. + </p> + <p> + I don't know whether it has since gone out of date, but in my day and time + a very telling feature of school exhibitions was reading in concert. The + room was packed as full of everybody's ma as it could be, and yet not mash + the children out of shape, and a whole lot of young ones would read a + piece together. Fine? Finest thing you ever heard. I remember one time + teacher must have calculated a leetle mite too close, or else one girl + more was in the class than she had reckoned on; but on the day, the two + end girls just managed to stand upon the platform and that was all. They + recited together: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There was a sound of revelry by night + And Belgium's capital....” + </pre> + <p> + I forget the rest of it. Well, anyhow, they were supposed to make gestures + all together. Teacher had rehearsed the gestures, and they all did it + simultaneously, just as if they had been wound up with a spring. But, as I + said, the two end girls had all they could do to keep on the platform, and + it takes elbow room for: “'T is but the car rattling over the stony + street,” and one girl—well, she said she stepped off on purpose, but + I didn't believe her then and I don't now. We had our laugh about it, + whichever way it was. + </p> + <p> + We had our laugh.... Ah, life was all laughter then. That was before care + came to be the shadow at our heel. That was before black Sorrow met us in + the way, and would not let us pass unless we gave to her our dearest + treasure. That was before we learned that what we covet most is, when we + get it, but a poor thing after all, that whatsoever chalice Fortune + presses to our lips, a tear is in the bottom of the cup. In those happy + days gone by if the rain fell, 't was only for a little while, and + presently the sky was bright again, and the birds whistled merrily among + the wet and shining leaves. Now “the clouds return after the rain.” + </p> + <p> + It can never be with us again as once it was. For us the bell upon the Old + Red School-house calls in vain. We heed it not, we that hearkened for it + years ago. The living tide of youth flows toward the school-house, and we + are not of it. Never again shall we sit at those old desks, whittled and + carved with rude initials, and snap our fingers, eager to tell the answer. + Never again shall we experience the thrill of pride when teacher praised + us openly. Never again shall we sit trembling while the principal, reads + the note, and then scowls at us fiercely with: “Take off your coat, sir!” + Ah, me! Never again, never again. + </p> + <p> + Well, who wants it to be that way again? We're men and women now. We've + duties and responsibilities. Who wants to be a child again? Not I. Let me + stick just at my present age for about a hundred years, and I'll never + utter a word of complaint. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SABBATH-SCHOOL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We-a love the Sunday-school. + We-a love the Sunday-school. + (Girls)—So do I. + (Boys)-So do I. + (School)—We all love the Sunday-school.” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “SPARKLING DEWDROPS.” + </pre> + <p> + Some people believe that when General Conference assigned them to the + Committee on Hymn-Book Revision, power and authority were given unto them + to put a half-sole and a new heel on any and all poetry that might look to + them to be a little run over on one side. If they felt as I do about the + lines that head this article they would have “Sunday” scratched out and + “Sabbath” written in before you could bat an eye. The mere substitution of + one word for another may seem a light matter to a man that has never + composed anything more literary than an obituary for the Western Advocate + of Sister Jane Malinda Sprague, who was born in Westmoreland County, + Pennsylvania, in 1816, removed with her parents at a tender age to New + Sardis, Washington County, Ohio, where, etc., etc. If he wanted to extract + a word he would do it, and never even offer to give the author gas. But I + know just how it hurts. I know or can imagine how the gifted poet that + penned the deathless lines I have quoted must have walked the floor in an + agony until every word and syllable was just to suit him, and so, though I + feel sure he meant to write “Sabbath-school,” I don't dare change it. + </p> + <p> + To most persons one word seems about as good as another, Sunday or + Sabbath, but when there are young people about the house you learn to be + careful how you talk before them. Now, I would not go so far as to say + that “Sunday” is what you might call exactly rowdy, but er... but... er... + Let me illustrate. If a man says, “It's a beautiful Sunday morning,” like + enough he has on red-and-green stockings, baggy knickerbockers, a + violet-and-purple sweater, a cap shaped like a milk-roll, and is smoking a + pipe. He very likely carries a bagful of golf-sticks, or is pumping up his + bicycle. But if a man says, “This beautiful Sabbath morn,” you know for a + certainty that he wears a long-tailed black coat, a boiled shirt, and a + white tie. He is bald from his forehead upward, his upper lip is shaven, + and his views and those of the late Robert Reed on the disgusting habit of + using tobacco are absolutely at one. + </p> + <p> + Not alone a regard for respectability, but the hankering to be + historically accurate, urges me to make the change I speak of. Originally + the institution was a Sunday-school, and not very respectable either. I + should hate to think any of my dear young friends were in the habit of + attending such a low-class affair as Robert Raikes conducted. + Sunday-schools were for “little ragamuffins,” as he called them, who + worked such long hours on week-days (from five in the morning until nine + at night) that if they were to learn the common branches at all it had to + be on a Sunday. A ragged school was bad enough in itself, putting foolish + notions into the heads of gutter-brats and making them discontented and + unhappy in their lot; but to teach a ragged school on Sunday was a little + too much. So Robert Raikes encountered the most violent opposition, + although from that beginning dates popular education in England. + </p> + <p> + To be able to read is no Longer a sign that Pa can afford to do without + the young ones' wages on a Saturday night, and can even pay for their + schooling. It is no longer a mark of wealth or even of hard-won privilege, + but the common fate of all; to know the three R's, and Sunday is not now + set apart for secular instruction. So good and wholesome an institution as + the Sunday-school was not permitted to perish, but was changed to suit the + environment. It is now become the Sabbath-school for the study of the + Bible, a Christian recrudescence of the synagogue. For some eighteen + centuries it was supposed that a regularly ordained minister should have + exclusive charge of this work. At rare intervals nowadays a clergyman may + be found to maintain that because a man has been to college and to the + theological seminary, and has made the study of the Scriptures his + life-work (moved to that decision after careful self-examination) that + therefore he is better fitted to that ministry than Miss Susie Goldrick, + who teaches a class in Sabbath-school very acceptably. Miss Goldrick is in + the second year in the High School, and last Friday afternoon read a + composition on English Literatoor, in which she spoke in terms of high + praise of John Bunion, the well-known author of “Progress and Poverty.” + Miss Goldrick is very conscientious, and always keeps her thumbnail + against the questions printed on the lesson-leaf, so as not to ask twice, + “What did the disciples then do?” + </p> + <p> + It were a grave error to suppose that no secular learning is acquired in + the modern Sabbath-school. I remember once, when quite young, speaking to + my teacher, in the interval between the regular class work and the closing + exercises, about peacocks. I had read of them, but had never seen one. + What did they look like? She said a peacock was something like a + butterfly. I have always remembered that, and when I did finally see a + peacock, I was interested to note the essential accuracy of the + description. + </p> + <p> + Also, one day a new lady taught our class, Miss Evans having gone up to + Marion to spend a Sunday with her brother, who kept a stove store there, + and this new lady borrowed two flower vases from off the pulpit and a + piece of string from Turkey-egg McLaughlin to explain to us boys how the + earth went around the sun. We had too much manners to tell her that we + knew that years and years ago when we were in Miss Humphreys's room. I + don't remember what the earth going around the sun had to do with the + lesson for the day, which was about Samuel anointing David's head with oil—did + I ever tell you how I anointed my own head with coal oil?—but I do + remember that she broke both the vases and cut her finger, and had to keep + sucking it the rest of the time, because she didn't want to get her + handkerchief all bloodied up. It was a kind of fancy handkerchief, made of + thin stuff trimmed with lace—no good. + </p> + <p> + The Sabbath-school may be said to be divided into three courses, namely, + the preparatory or infant-class, the collegiate or Sabbath-school proper, + and the post-graduate or Mr. Parker's Bible-class. + </p> + <p> + What can a mere babe of three or four years learn in Sabbath-school? + sneers the critic. Not much, I grant you, of justification by Faith, or + Effectual Calling; but certain elementary precepts can be impressed upon + the mind while it is still in a plastic condition that never can be wholly + obliterated, come what may in after life. Prime among these elementary + precepts is this: “Always bring a penny.” + </p> + <p> + Some one has said, “Give me the first seven years of a child's life and I + care not who has the remainder.” I cannot endorse this without reserve; + but I maintain as a demonstrated fact: “Bring up a child to contribute a + copper cent, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” It was + recently my high privilege to attend a summer gathering of representative + religious people in the largest auditorium in this country. Sometimes + under that far-spreading roof ten thousand souls were assembled and met + together. This fact could be guessed at with tolerable accuracy from the + known seating capacity, but the interesting thing was that it could be + predicated with mathematical certainty that exactly ten thousand people + were present, because the offertory footed up exactly one hundred dollars. + What an encouragement to these faithful infant-class teachers that have + labored unremittingly, instant in season and out of season, saying over + and over again with infinite patience, “Always bring a penny,” to know + that their labor has not been in vain, and that as a people we have made + it the rule of our lives always to bring a penny—and no more. + </p> + <p> + I have often tried to think what a Sabbath-school must be like in + California, where they have no pennies. It seems hardly possible that the + institution can exist under such a patent disability, and yet it does. Do + they work it on the same principle as the post-office in that far-off land + where you 'cannot buy one postal card because the postmaster cannot make + change, but must buy five postal cards or two two-cent stamps and a + postal? In other words, does a nickel, the smallest extant coin, serve for + five persons for one Sunday or one person for five Sundays? I have often + wondered about this. + </p> + <p> + Subsidiary instruction in the preparatory course consists of sitting right + still and being nice, keeping your fingers out of Johnny Pym's eye, + because it hurts him and makes him cry, not grabbing in the basket when it + goes by, even though it does have pennies in it, coaching in a repertory + of songs like: “Beautiful, Beautiful Little Hands,” “You in Your Little + Corner and I in Mine,” “The Consecrated Cross-Eyed Bear,” “Pass Around the + Wash-Rag”—the grown folks call that “Pass Along the Watchword” and + stories about David and Goliath, Samson and the three hundred foxes with + fire tied to their tails, Moses in the bulrushes, the infant Samuel, Hagar + in the wilderness, and so forth. The clergy have often objected that these + stories, being told at the same period of life with those about Santa + Claus, “One time there was a little boy and he had a dog named Rover,” the + little girl that had hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, and + cheeks as red as blood, because her Ma, who was a queen by occupation, + happened to cut her finger with a black-handled knife along about New + Year's—the clergy, I say, have often objected that all these + matters, being brought to a child's attention at the same period in its + life, are likely to be regarded in after years as of equal evidential + value. I am not much of a hand to argue, myself, but I should like to have + one of these carping critics meet my friend, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, who has + taught the infant-class since 1867, having missed only two Sundays in that + time, once, in 1879, when it stormed so that nobody in town was out, and + once, last winter a year ago, when she slipped off the back porch and hurt + her knee. I can just see Sister Boggs laying down the law to anybody that + finds fault with the infant-class, let him be preacher or who. Why the + very idea! Do you mean to say, sir—I guess Sister Boggs can + straighten him out all right. + </p> + <p> + No less faithful is Mr. Parker, the leading lawyer of the town, who + conducts the Bible-class. I believe one morning he didn't get there until + after the last bell was done ringing, but otherwise his record of + attendance compares favorably with Sister Boggs's. Both teachers agree to + ignore the stated lesson for the day, but whereas Sister Boggs leads her + flock through the flowery meads of narration, Mr. Parker and his class + have camped out by preference for the last forty years in the arid + wilderness of Romans and Hebrews and Corinthians First and Second, + flinging the plentiful dornicks of “Paul says this” and “Paul says that” + at each other's heads in friendly strife. Mr. Parker's class is also very + assiduous in its attendance upon the Young People's meetings, seemingly + holding the dogma, “Once a young person always a young person.” The + prevailing style of hairdressing among the members is to grow the locks + long on the left side of the head, and to bring the thin layer across to + the right, pasted down very carefully with a sort of peeled onion effect. + </p> + <p> + There is a whole lot of them, and they jower away at each other all + through the time between the opening and the closing exercises, having the + liveliest kind of a time getting over about two verses of the Bible and + the whole ground of speculative theology. + </p> + <p> + Immeasurably more impermanent in method and personnel is the regular + collegiate department, the Sabbath-school proper. In the early days, away + back when sugar was sixteen cents a pound, the thing to do was to learn + Scripture verses by heart. If you were a rude, rough boy who didn't + exactly love the Sunday-school as much as the hymn made you say you did, + but still one who had rather sing it than stir up a muss, you hunted for + the shortest verses you could find and said them off. From four to eight + was considered a full day's work. But if you were a boy who put on an + apron and helped your Ma with the dishes, a boy who always wiped your feet + before you came in, a boy that never got kept in at school, a boy that + cried pretty easy, a nice, pale boy, with bulging blue eyes, you came to + Sabbath-school and disgorged verses like buck-shot out of a bag. The + four-to-eight-verse boys sat and listened, and improved their minds. There + was generally one other boy like you in the class, and it was nip-and-tuck + between you which should get the prize, until finally you came one Sunday, + all bloated up with 238 verses in your craw, and he quit discouraged. The + prize was yours. It was a beautiful little Bible with a brass clasp; it + had two tiny silk strings of an old-gold color for bookmarks, and gilt + edges all around that made the leaves stick together at first. It was + printed in diamond type, so small it made your ears ring when you tried to + read it. + </p> + <p> + Other faculties than that of memory were called into action in those days + by problems like these: “Who was the meekest man? Who was the strongest + man? Who was the father of Zebedee's children? Who had the iron bedstead, + and whose thumbs and great-toes were cut off?” To set a child to find + these things in the Bible without a concordance seems to us as futile as + setting him to hunt a needle in a haystack. But our fathers were not so + foolish as we like to think them; they didn't care two pins if we never + discovered who had the iron bedstead, but they knew that, leafing over the + book, we should light upon treasure where we sought it not, kernels of the + sweetest meat in the hardest shells, stories of enthralling interest where + we least expected them, but, most of all, and best of all, texts that long + afterward in time of trouble should come to us, as it were the voice of + one that also had eaten the bread of affliction, calling to us across the + chasm of the centuries and saying: “O, tarry thou the Lord's leisure: be + strong and He shall comfort thine heart.” + </p> + <p> + In the higher classes, that still were not high enough to rank with Mr. + Parker's, the exegetical powers were stimulated in this wise: “'And they + sung a hymn and went out.' Now what do you understand by that?” We told + what we “understood,” and what we “held,” and what we “believed,” and laid + traps for the teacher and tried to corner him with irrelevant texts + wrenched from their context. He had to be an able man and a nimble-witted + man. Mere piety might shine in the prayer-meeting, in the class-room, at + the quarterly love-feast, but not in the Sabbath-school. I remember once + when Brother Butler was away they set John Snyder to teach us. John didn't + know any more than the law allowed, and we made him feel it, until + finally, badgered beyond endurance, he blurted out that all he knew was + that he was a sinner saved by grace. Maybe he couldn't just tell where to + find this, that, and t' other thing in the Bible, but he could turn right + to the place where it said that though a body's sins were as scarlet, yet + they should be white as snow. It was regarded as a very poor sort of an + excuse then, but thinking it over here lately, it has seemed to me that + maybe John had the root of the matter in him after all. + </p> + <p> + The comparative scarcity of polemical athletes and the relative plenty of + the Miss Susie Goldrick kind of teachers, apparently called into being the + Berean Lesson Leaf system, with its Bible cut up into lady-bites of ten or + twelve verses, its Golden Topics, Golden Texts, its apt alliterations, + like: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S AMUEL + EEKS + AUL + ORROWING +</pre> + <p> + and its questions prepared in tabloid form, suitable for the most + enfeebled digestions, see directions printed on inside wrapper. Among the + many evidences of the degeneracy of the age is the scandalous ignorance of + our young people regarding the sacred Scriptures, which at the very lowest + estimate are incontestably the finest English ever written. Those whose + childhood antedates the lesson leaf are not so unfamiliar with that + wondrous treasure-house of thought. It is not for me to say what has + wrought the change. I can only point out that lesson leaves, being about + the right size for shaving papers, barely last from Sunday to Sunday, + while that very identical Bible with the blinding type that I won years + and years ago, by learning verses, is with me still. Yes, and as I often + wonder to discover, some of those very verses that I gobbled down as + heedlessly as any ostrich are with me still. + </p> + <p> + Remain to be considered the opening and closing exercises, principally + devoted, I remember, to learning new tunes and singing old ones out of + books with pretty titles, like “Golden Censer,” “Silver Spray,” “Pearl and + Gold,” “Sparkling Dewdrops,” and “Sabbath Chimes.” I wasn't going to tell + it, but I might as well, I suppose. I can remember as far back as “Musical + Leaves.” There must be quite a lot of people scattered about the country + who sung out of that when they were little. I wish a few of us old codgers + might get together some time and with many a hummed and prefatory, “Do, + mi, Sol, do; Sol, mi... mi-i-i-i,” finally manage to quaver out the sweet + old tunes we learned when we were little tads, each with a penny in his + fat, warm hand: “Shall we Gather at the River?” and “Work, for the Night + is Coming”; and what was the name of that one about: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The waves shall come and the rolling thunder shock + Shall beat upon the house that is founded on a rock, + And it never shall fall, never, never, never.” + </pre> + <p> + What the proper English tune is to “I think when I read that sweet story + of old” I cannot tell, but I am sure it can never melt my heart as that + one in the old “Musical Leaves.” with its twistful repetitions of the last + line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I should like to have been with Him then, + I should like to have been with Him then, + When He took little children like lambs to His fold, + I should like to have been with Him then.” + </pre> + <p> + I fear we could not sing that without breaking down. As we recall it, we + draw an inward fluttering breath, something grips our throats and makes + them ache, our eyes blur, and a tear slips down upon the cheek, not of + sorrow—God knows not all of sorrow—but if we had it all to + live over again, how differently we—oh, well, it's too late now, but + still. + </p> + <p> + Leafing over my little girl's “Arabian Nights” the other day, when I came + to the story of “The Enchanted Horse,” I found myself humming, “Land + ahead! Its fruits are waving.” My father used to lead the singing in + Sabbath-school, and when he was sol-fa-ing that tune to learn it, I was + devouring that story, and was just about at the picture where Prince + What's-his-name rises up into the air on the Enchanted Horse, with his + true love hanging on behind, and all the multitude below holding their + turbans on as they look up and exclaim: “Well, if that don't beat the + Dutch!” + </p> + <p> + And another tune still excites in me the sullen resentment that it did + when I first heard it. In those days, just as a fellow got to the exciting + part in “Frank at Don Carlos's Ranch,” or whatever the book was, there was + kindling to be split, or an armful of wood to be brought in, or a pitcher + of water from the well, or “run over to Mrs. Boggs's and ask her if she + won't please lend me her fluting-iron,” or “run down to Galbraith's and + get me a spool of white thread, Number 60, and hurry right back, because + then I want you to go over to Serepta Downey's and take her that polonaise + pattern she asked me to cut out for her,” or—there was always + something on hand. So what should one of these composers do—I don't + know what ever possessed the man—but go write a Sabbath-school song + with this chorus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There'll be something to do, + There'll be something to do, + There'll be something for children to do: + On that bright shining shore, + Where there's joy evermore, + There'll be something for children to do.” + </pre> + <p> + I suppose he thought that would be an inducement! + </p> + <p> + One of these days America is going to be the musical center of the world. + When that day is fully come, and men sit down to write about it, I hope + they won't forget to give due credit to the reed organ, Stephen Foster, + and the Sabbath-school. The reed organ had a lot to do with musical + culture. It is much decried now by people that prefer a piano that hasn't + been tuned for four years; but the reed organ will come into its own some + day, don't forget. Without it the Sabbath-school could not have been. + Anybody that would have a piano in a Sabbath-school ought to be + prosecuted. + </p> + <p> + When music, heavenly maid, was just coming to after that awful lick the + Puritans hit her, the first sign of returning life was that people began + to tire of the ten or a dozen tunes to which our great-grandfathers droned + and snuffled all their hymns. In those days there was raised up a man + named Stephen Foster, who “heard in his soul the music of wonderful + melodies,” and we have been singing them ever since—“'Way Down upon + the Swanee Ribber,” and “Old Kentucky Home,” and “Nellie Gray,” and the + rest. Then Bradbury and Philip Phillips and many more of them began to + write exactly the same kind of tunes for sacred words. They were just the + thing for the Sabbath-school, but they were more, much more. + </p> + <p> + You know that when a fellow gets so he can shave himself without cutting + half his lip off, when it takes him half an hour to get the part in his + hair to suit him, when he gets in the way of shining his shoes and has a + pretty taste in neckties, he doesn't want to bawl the air of a piece like + the old stick-in-the-muds up in the Amen corner or in Mr. Parker's class. + He wants to sing bass. Air is too high for him anyhow unless he sings it + with a hog noise. Oh, you get out! You do, too, know what a “hog noise” + is. You want to let on you've always lived in town. Likely story if you + never heard anybody in the hog-pasture with a basket of nubbins calling, + “Peeg! Peeg! Boo-eel Booee!” A man's voice breaks into falsetto on the + “Boo-ee!” Well, anyhow, such a young man as I am telling you of would be + ashamed to sing with a hog noise. He wants to sing bass. Now the regular + hymn-tunes change the bass as often as they change the soprano, and if you + go fumbling about for the note, by the time you get it right it is wrong, + because the tune has gone on and left you. The Sabbath-school songs had + the young man Absalom distinctly in view. They made the bass the same all + through the measure, and all the changes were strictly on the do, sol and + fa basis. As far as the other notes in the scale were concerned, the young + man Absalom need not bother his head with them. With do, sol and fa he + could sing through the whole book from cover to cover as good as anybody. + </p> + <p> + When people find out what fun it is to sing by note, it is only a step to + the “Messiah,” two blocks up and turn to the right, as you might say. + After that, it is only going ahead till you get to “Vogner.” Yes, and + many's the day you called the hogs. Don't tell me. + </p> + <p> + Once a month on Sunday evenings there were Sabbath-school concerts. The + young ones sat in the front seats, ten or twelve in a pew. “Now, + children,” said the superintendent, “I want you all to sing loud and show + the folks how nice you can sing. Page 65. Sixty-fi'th page, 'Scatter Seeds + of Kindness.' Now, all sing out now.” We licked our thumbs and scuffled + through the book till we found the place. We scowled at it, and stuck out + our mouths at it, and shrieked at it, and bawled at it, and did the very + best we knew to give an imitation of two hundred little pigs all grabbed + by the hind leg at once. That was what made folks call it a concert. + </p> + <p> + There were addresses to the dear children by persons that teetered on + their toes and dimpled their cheeks in dried-apple smiles as us. Some + complain that they do not know how to talk to children and keep them + interested. Oh, pshaw! Simple as A B C. Once you learn the trick you can + talk to the little folks for an hour and a half on “Banking as Related to + National Finance,” and keep them on the quiver of excitement. Ask + questions. And to be sure that they give the right answers (a very + important thing) remember this: When you wish them to say “Yes, sir,” end + your question with “Don't they?” or “isn't it?” When you wish them to say + “No, sir,” end your question with “Do they?” or “Is it?” When you wish + them to choose between two answers, mention first the one they mustn't + take, then pause, look archly at them, and mention the one they must take. + Thus: + </p> + <p> + Q. —Now, dear children, I wonder if you can tell me where the sun + rises. In the north, doesn't it? + </p> + <p> + A. —Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + Q. —Yes, you are right. In the north. And because it rises in the + north every afternoon at three, how do we walk about? On our feet, do we? + </p> + <p> + A. —No, sir. + </p> + <p> + Q. —No. Of course not. Then how is it we do walk about? On our ears + or—(now the look) on our noses? + </p> + <p> + A. —On our noses. + </p> + <p> + This method, if carefully and systematically employed, was never known to + fail. It is called the Socratic method. + </p> + <p> + The most interesting feature of the monthly Sabbath-school concert is + universally conceded to be the treasurer's report. So much on hand at the + last meeting, so much contributed by each class during the month last + past, so much expended, so much left on hand at present. We used to sit + and listen to it with slack jaws and staring eyes. Money, money, oceans of + money! Thirty-eight cents and seventy-six cents and a dollar four cents! + My! + </p> + <p> + The librarian's report was nowhere. It was a bully library, too, and + contained the “Through by Daylight” Series, and the “Ragged Dick” Series, + and the “Tattered Tom” Series, and the “Frank on the Gunboat” Series, and + the “Frank the Young Naturalist” Series, and the “Elm Island” Series—Did + you ever read “The Ark of Elm Island”, and “Giant Ben of Elm Island”? You + didn't? Ah, you missed it—and the “B. O. W. C.” Series—and + say! there was a book in that library—oo-oo! “Cast up by the Sea,” + all about wreckers, and false lights on the shore, and adventures in + Central Africa, and there's a nigger queen that wants to marry him, and he + don't want to because he loves a girl in England—I think that's kind + of soft—and he kills about a million of them trying to get away. You + want to get that book. Don't let them give you “Patient Henry” or “Charlie + Watson, the Drunkard's Little Son.” They're about boys that take sick and + die—no good. + </p> + <p> + It was a bully library, but the report wasn't interesting. Major + Humphreys's always was. He was the treasurer because he worked in the + bank. He came from the Western Reserve, and said “cut” when he meant coat, + and “hahnt” when he meant heart. I can shut my eyes and hear him read his + report now: “Infant-class, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, one dolla thutty-eight + cents; Miss Dan'ells's class, fawty-six cents; Miss Goldrick's class, + twenty-faw cents; Mr. Pahnker's class, ninety-three cents; Miss Rut's + class, naw repawt.” + </p> + <p> + Poor old Miss Root! There was hardly ever any report from her class. Often + she hadn't a penny to give, and perhaps the other old ladies, who found + the keenest possible delight in doing what they called “running up the + references,” had no more, for they were relics of an age when women + weren't supposed to have money to fling right and left in the foolish way + that women will if they're not looked after—shoes for the baby, and + a new calico dress every two or three years or so. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it is rather interesting for a change now and then to hear these + folks go on about what a terrible thing the Sabbath-school is, and how it + does more harm than good. They get really excited about it, and storm + around as if they expected folks to take them seriously. They know, just + as well as we do, that this wouldn't be any kind of a country at all if we + couldn't look back and remember the Sabbath-school, or if we couldn't fix + up the children Sunday afternoons, and find their lesson leaves for them, + and hunt up a penny to give to the poor heathen, and hear them say the + Golden Text before they go, and tell them to be nice. Papa and mamma watch + them from the window till they turn the corner, and then go back to the + Sunday paper with a secure sort of feeling. They won't learn anything they + oughtn't to at the Sabbath-school. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE REVOLVING YEAR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'It snows!' cries the schoolboy, 'Hurrah!' + And his shout is heard through parlor and hall.” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MCGUFFEY's THIRD READER. +</pre> + <p> + (Well, maybe it was the Second Reader. And if it was the Fourth, what + difference does it make? And, furthermore, who 's doing this thing, you or + me?) + </p> + <p> + Had it not been that never in my life have I ever heard anybody say either + “It snows!” or “Hurrah!” it is improbable that I should have remembered + the first line of a poem describing the effect produced upon different + kinds of people by the sight of the first snowstorm of winter. Had it not + been for the plucky (not to say heroic) effort to rhyme “hall” with + “hurrah” I should not have remembered the second, and still another line + of it, depicting the emotions of a poor widow with a large family and a + small woodpile, is burned into my memory only by reason of the shocking + language it contains, the more shocking in that it was deliberately put + forth to be read by innocent-minded children. Poor Carrie Rinehart! When + she stood up to read that, she got as red as a beet, and I believed her + when she told me afterward that she thought she would sink right through + that floor. Of course, some had to snicker, but the most of us, I am + thankful to say, were a credit to our bringing up, and never let on we + heard it. All the same it was a terrible thing to have to speak right out + loud before everybody. If any of the boys (let alone the girls), had said + that because he felt like saying it, he would have been sent in to the + principal, and that night his daddy would have given him another licking. + </p> + <p> + Even now I cannot bring myself to write the line without toning it down. + </p> + <p> + “'It snows!' cries the widow. 'Oh G—d!'” + </p> + <p> + At the beginning of winter, I will not deny, that the schoolboy might have + shouted: “It's snowin'! Hooee!” when he saw the first snow flakes sifting + down, and realized that the Old Woman was picking her geese. A change is + always exciting, and winter brings many joyous sports and pastimes, + skating, and snowballing, and sliding down hill, and—er—er—I + said skating didn't I? and—er—Oh, yes, sleigh-riding, and—er—Well, + I guess that's about all. + </p> + <p> + Skating, now, that's fine. I know a boy who, when the red ball goes up in + the street-cars, sneaks under his coat a pair of wooden-soled skates, with + runners that curl up over the toes like the stems of capital letters in + the Spencerian copy-book. He is ashamed of the old-fashioned things, which + went out of date long and long before my day, but he says that they are + better than the hockeys. Well, you take a pair of such skates and strap + them on tightly until you can't tell by the feel which is feet and which + is wooden soles, and you glide out upon the ice above the dam for, say + about four hours, with the wind from the northwest and the temperature + about nine below, and I tell you it is something grand. And if you run + over a stick that is frozen in the ice, or somebody bumps into you, or + your feet slide out from under you, and you strike on your ear and part of + your face on the ice, and go about ten feet ah, it's great! Simply great. + And it's nice too, to skate into an air-hole into water about up to your + neck, and have the whole mob around you whooping and “hollering” and + slapping their legs with glee, because they know it isn't deep enough to + drown you, and you look so comical trying to claw out. And when you do get + out, it takes such along time to get your skates of, and you feel so kind + of chilly like, and when you get home your clothes are frozen stiff on you—Oh, + who would willingly miss such sport? + </p> + <p> + And sleigh-riding! Me for sleigh-riding! You take a nice, sharp day in + winter, when the sky is as blue as can be because all the moisture is + frozen out of the air, a day when the snow under the sleigh runners whines + and creaks, as if thousands of tiny wineglasses were being crushed by + them, and the bells go jing-jing, jing-jing on the frosty air which just + about takes the hide off your face; when you hold your mittens up to your + ears and then have to take them down to slap yourself across the chest to + get the blood agoing in your fingers; when you kick your feet together and + dumbly wonder why it is your toes don't click like marbles; when the cold + creeps up under your knitted pulse-warmers, and in at every possible + little leak until it has soaked into your very bones; when you snuggle + down under the lap-robe where it is warm as toast (day before yesterday's + toast) and try to pull your shoulders up over your head; when a little + drop hangs on the end of your nose, which has ceased to feel like a + living, human nose, and now resembles something whittled to a point; when + you hold your breath as long as you can, and your jaw waggles as if you + were playing chin-chopper with it—Ah, that's the sport of kings! And + after you have got as cold as you possibly can get, and simply cannot + stand it a minute longer, you ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and + ride and ride and ride and ride. Once in a while you turn out for another + sleigh, and nearly upset in the process, and you can see that in all + points its occupants are exactly as you are, just as happy and contented. + There aren't any dogs to run out and bark at you. Old Maje and Tige, and + even little Bounce and Guess are snoozing behind the kitchen stove. All + there is is just jing-jing, jing-jing, jing-jing, not a bird-cry or a + sound of living creature. jing-jing, jing-jing..... Well, yes, kind o' + monotonous, but still.... You pass a house, and a woman comes out to + scrape off a plate to the chickens standing on one foot in a corner where + the sun can get at them, and the wind cannot. She scrapes slowly, and + looks at you as much as to say: “I wonder who's sick. Must be somebody + going for the doctor, day like this.” And then she shudders: + “B-b-b-oo-oo-oo!” and runs back into the house and slams the door hard. + You snuffle and look at the chimney that has thick white smoke coming out + of it, and consider that very likely a nice, warm fire is making all that + smoke, and you snuffle again, and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride + and ride and ride and 'ride. And about an hour and a half after you have + given up all hopes, and are getting resigned to your fate, you turn off + the big road and up the lane to the house where you are going on your + pleasure-trip, and you hop out as nimble as a sack of potatoes, and hobble + into the house, and don't say how-de-do or anything, but just make right + for the stove. The people all squall out: “Why, ain't you 'most froze?” + and if you answer, “Yes sum,” it's as much as ever. Generally you can't do + anything but just stand and snuffle and look as if you hadn't a friend on + earth. And about the time you get so that some spots are pretty warm, and + other spots aren't as cold as they were, why then you wrap up, and go home + again with the same experience, only more so. Fine! fine! + </p> + <p> + It's nice, too, when there's a whole crowd out together in a wagon-bed + with straw in it. There's something so cozy in straw! And the tin horns + you blow in each other's ear, and the songs you sing: “Jingle bells, + jingle bells, jingle all the way,” and “Waw-unneeta! Waw-unneeta, ay-usk + thy sowl if we shud part,” and “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and “Johnny + Shmoker,” and that variation of “John Brown's Body,” where every time you + sing over the verse you leave off one more word, and somebody always + forgets, and you laugh fit to kill yourself, and just have a grand time. + And maybe you take a whole lot of canned cove oysters with you, and when + you get out to Makemson's, or wherever it is you're going, Mrs. Makemson + puts the kettle on and makes a stew, cooking the oysters till they are + thoroughly done. And she makes coffee, the kind you can't tell from tea by + the looks, and have to try twice before you can tell by the taste. Ah! + winter brings many joyous sports and pastimes. And you get back home along + about half-past two, and the fire's out, and the folks are in bed, and you + have to be at the store to open up at seven—Laws! I wish it was so I + could go sleigh-riding once more in the long winter evenings, when the + pitcher in the spare bedroom bursts, and makes a noise like a cannon. + </p> + <p> + And sliding down hill, I like that. + </p> + <p> + What? Coasting? Never heard of it. If it's anything like sliding down + hill, it's all right. For a joke you can take a barrel-stave and hold on + to that and slide down. It goes like a scared rabbit, but that isn't so + much the point as that it slews around and spills you into a drift. Sleds + are lower and narrower than they used to be, and they also lack the + artistic adornment of a pink, or a blue, or a black horse, painted with + the same stencil but in different colors, and named “Dexter,” or “Rarus,” + or “Goldsmith Maid.” These are good names, but nobody ever called his sled + by a name. Boggs's hill, back of the lady's house that taught the + infant-class in Sunday-school, was a good hill. It had a creek at the + bottom, and a fine, long ride, eight or ten feet, on the ice. But + Dangler's hill was the boss. It was the one we all made up our minds we + would ride down some day when the snow was just right. We'd go over there' + and look up to the brow of the hill and say: “Gee! But wouldn't a fellow + come down like sixty, though?” + </p> + <p> + “Betchy!” + </p> + <p> + We'd look up again, and somebody would say: “Aw, come on. Less go over to + Boggs's hill.” + </p> + <p> + “Thought you was goin' down Dangler's.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, but all the other fellows is over to Boggs's.” + </p> + <p> + “A-ah, ye're afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't either.” + </p> + <p> + “Y' are teether.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well now—” + </p> + <p> + “I double dare you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I will if you will. You go first.” + </p> + <p> + “Nah, you go first. The fellow that's dared has got to go first. Ain't + that so, Chuck? Ain't that so, Monkey?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll go down if you will, on'y you gotta go first.” + </p> + <p> + “Er—er—Who all 's over at Boggs's hill?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the whole crowd of 'em, Turkey-egg McLaughlin, and Ducky Harshberger, + and—Oh, I don' know who all.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell you what less do. Less wait till it gets all covered with ice, and + all slick and smooth. Then less come over and go down.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, won't she go like sixty then! Jeemses Rivers! Come on, I'll beat you + to the corner.” + </p> + <p> + That was the closest we ever came to going down Dangler's hill. Railroad + hill wasn't so bad, over there by the soap-factory, because they didn't + run trains all the time, and you stood a good chance of missing being run + over by the engine, but Dangler's Well, now, I want to tell you Dangler's + was an awful steep hill, and a long one, and when you think that it was so + steep nobody ever pretended to drive up it even in the summer-time, and + you slide down the hill and think that, once you got to going. + </p> + <p> + Fun's fun, I know, but nobody wants to go home with half his scalp hanging + over one eye, and dripping all over the back porch. Because, you know, a + fellow's mother gets crosser about blood on wood-work than anything else. + Scrubbing doesn't do the least bit of good; it has to be planed off, or + else painted. + </p> + <p> + Let me see, now. Have I missed anything? I'll count 'em off on my fingers. + There's skating, and sleigh-riding, and sliding down hill, and Oh, yes. + Snowballing and making snow-men. Nobody makes a snow-man but once, and + nobody makes a snow-house after it has caved in on him once and like to + killed him. And as for snowballing—Look here. Do you know what's the + nicest thing about winter? Get your feet on a hot stove, and have the lamp + over your left shoulder, and a pan of apples, and something exciting to + read, like “Frank Among the Indians.” Eh, how about it? In other words, + the best thing about winter is when you can forget that it is winter. + </p> + <p> + The excitement that prompts “It snows!” and “Hurrah!” mighty soon peters + out, and along about the latter part of February, when you go to the + window and see that it is snowing again—again? Consarn the luck!—you + and the poor widow with the large family and the small woodpile are + absolutely at one. + </p> + <p> + You do get so sick and tired of winter. School lets out at four o'clock, + and it's almost dark then. There's no time for play, for there's all that + wood and kindling to get in, and Pap's awful cranky when he hops out of + bed these frosty mornings to light the fire, and finds you've been skimpy + with the kindling. And the pump freezes up, and you've got to shovel snow + off the walks and out in the back-yard so Tilly can hang up the clothes + when she comes to do the washing. And your mother is just as particular + about your neck being clean as she is in summer when the water doesn't + make you feel so shivery. And there's the bottle of goose-grease always + handy, and the red flannel to pin around your throat, and your feet in the + bucket of hot water before you go to bed—Aw, put 'em right in. Yes, + I know it's hot. That's what going to make you well. In with 'em. Aw, + child, it isn't going to scald you. Go on now. The water'll be stone-cold + in a minute. “Oh, I don't like winter for a cent. Kitchoo! There, I've + gone and caught fresh cold. + </p> + <p> + “I wish it would hurry up and come spring. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When the days begin to lengthen, + The cold begins to strengthen.” + </pre> + <p> + Now, you know that doesn't stand to reason. Every day the sun inches a + little higher in the heavens. His rays strike us more directly and for a + longer time each day. But it's the cantankerous fact, and it simply has to + stand to reason. That's the answer, and the sum has to be figured out + somehow in accordance with it. Like one time, when I was about sixteen + years old, and in the possession of positive and definite information + about the way the earth went around the sun and all, I was arguing with + one of these old codgers that think they know it all, one of these men + that think it is so smart to tell you: “Sonny, when you get older, you'll + know more 'n you do now—I hope.” Well, he was trying to tell me that + the day lengthened at one end before it did at the other. I did my best to + dispel the foolish notion from his mind, and explained to him how it + simply could not be, but no, sir! he stood me down. Finally, since pure + reasoning was wasted on him, I took the almanac off the nail it hung by, + and—I bedog my riggin's if the old skidama link wasn't right after + all. Sundown keeps coming a minute later every day, while, for quite a + while there, sun-up sticks at the same old time, 7:30 A.M. Did you ever + hear of anything so foolish? + </p> + <p> + “Very early, while it is yet dark,” the alarm clock of old Dame Nature + begins to buzz. It may snow and blow, and winter may seem to have settled + in in earnest, but deep down in the earth, the root-tips, where lie the + brains of vegetables, are gaping and stretching, and ho-humming, and + wishing they could snooze a little longer. When it thaws in the afternoon + and freezes up at sunset as tight as bricks, they tell me that out in the + sugar-camp there are great doings. I don't know about it myself, but I + have heard tell of boring a hole in the maple-tree, and sticking in a + spout, and setting a bucket to catch the drip, and collecting the sap, and + boiling down, and sugaring off. I have heard tell of taffy-pullings, and + how Joe Hendricks stuck a whole gob of maple-wax in Sally Miller's hair, + and how she got even with him by rubbing his face with soot. It is only + hearsay with me, but I'll tell you what I have done: I have eaten real + maple sugar, and nearly pulled out every tooth I had in my head with + maple-wax, and I have even gone so far as to have maple syrup on pancakes. + It's good, too. The maple syrup came on the table in a sort of a glass + flagon with a metal lid to it, and it was considered the height of bad + manners to lick off the last drop of syrup that hung on the nose of the + flagon. And yet it must not be allowed to drip on the table-cloth. It is a + pity we can't get any more maple syrup nowadays, but I don't feel so bad + about the loss of it, as I do to think what awful liars people can be, + declaring on the label that 'deed and double, 'pon their word and honor, + it is pure, genuine, unadulterated maple syrup, when they know just as + well as they know anything that it is only store-sugar boiled up with + maple chips. + </p> + <p> + Along about the same time, the boys come home with a ring of mud around + their mouths, and exhaling spicy breaths like those which blow o'er + Ceylon's isle in the hymn-book. They bear a bundle of roots, whose thick, + pink hide mother whittles off with the butcher-knife and sets to steep. + Put away the store tea and coffee. To-night as we drink the reddish + aromatic brew we return, not only to our own young days, but to the young + days of the nation when our folks moved to the West in a covered wagon; + when grandpap, only a little boy then, about as big as Charley there, got + down the rifle and killed the bear that had climbed into the hog-pen; when + they found old Cherry out in the timber with her calf between her legs, + and two wolves lying where she had horned them to death—we return + to-night to the high, heroic days of old, when our forefathers conquered + the wilderness and our foremothers reared the families that peopled it. + This cup of sassafras to-night in their loving memory! Earth, rest easy on + their moldering bones! + </p> + <p> + Some there be that still take stock in the groundhog. I don't believe he + knows anything about it. And I believe that any animal that had the sense + that he is reputed to have would not have remained a mere ground-hog all + these years. At least not in this country. Anyhow, it's a long ways ahead, + six weeks is, especially at the time when you do wish so fervently that it + would come spring. We keep on shoveling coal in the furnace, and carrying + out ashes, and longing and crying: “Oh, for pity's sakes! When is this + going to stop?” And then, one morning, we awaken with a start Wha—what? + Sh! Keep still, can't you? There is a more canorous and horn-like quality + to the crowing of Gildersleeve's rooster, and his hens chant cheerily as + they kick the litter about. But it wasn't these cheerful sounds that + wakened us with a start. There! Hear that? Hear it? Two or three + long-drawn, reedy notes, and an awkward boggle at a trill, but oh, how + sweet! How sweet! It is the song-sparrow, blessed bird! It won't be long + now; it won't be long. + </p> + <p> + The snow fort in the back-yard still sulks there black and dirty. “I'll go + when I get good and ready, and not before,” it seems to say. Other places + the thinner snow has departed and left behind it mud that seizes upon your + overshoe with an “Oh, what's your rush?” In the middle of the road it lies + as smooth as pancake-batter. A load of building stone stalls, and people + gather on the sidewalk to tell the teamster quietly and unostentatiously + that he ought to have had more sense than to pile it on like that with the + roads the way they are. Every time the cruel whip comes down and the + horses dance under it, the women peering out of the front windows wince, + and cluck “Tchk! Ain't it terrible? He ought to be arrested.” This way and + that the team turns and tugs, but all in vain. Somebody puts on his rubber + boots and wades out to help, fearing not the muddy spokes. Yo hee! Yo hee! + No use. He talks it over with the teamster. You can hear him say: “Well, + suit yourself. If you want to stay here all night.” + </p> + <p> + And then the women exult: “Goody! Goody! Serves him right. Now he has to + take off some of the stone. Lazy man's load!” + </p> + <p> + The mother of children flies to the back-door when school lets out. “Don't + you come in here with all that mud!” she squalls excitedly. “Look at you! + A peck o' dirt on each foot. Right in my nice clean kitchen that I just + scrubbed. Go 'long now and clean your shoes. Go 'long, I tell you. Slave + and slave for you and that's all the thanks I get. You'd keep the place + looking like a hogpen, if I wasn't at you all the time. I never saw such + young ones since the day I was made. Never. Whoopin' and hollerin' and + trackin' in and out. It's enough to drive a body crazy.” + </p> + <p> + (Don't you care. It's just her talk. If it isn't one thing it's another, + cleaning your shoes, or combing your hair, or brushing your clothes, or + using your handkerchief, or shutting the door softly, or holding your + spoon with your fingers and not in your fist, or keeping your finger out + of your glass when you drink—something the whole blessed time. + Forever and eternally picking at a fellow about something. And saying the + same thing over and over so many times. That's the worst of it!) + </p> + <p> + Pap and mother read over the seed catalogues, all about “warm, light + soils,” and “hardy annuals,” and “sow in drills four inches apart.” It + kind of hurries things along when you do that. In the south window of the + kitchen is a box full of black dirt in which will you look out what you're + doing? Little more and you'd have upset it. There are tomato seeds in + that, I'll have you know. Oh, yes, government seeds. Somebody sends 'em, I + don't know who. Congressman, I guess, whoever he is. I don't pretend to + keep track of 'em. And say. When was this watered last? There it is. + Unless I stand over you every minute—My land! If there's anything + done about this house I've got to do it. + </p> + <p> + Between the days when it can't make up its mind whether to snow or to + rain, and tries to do both at once, comes a day when it is warm enough + (almost) to go without an overcoat. The Sunday following you can hardly + hear what the preacher has to say for the whooping and barking. The choir + members have cough drops in their cheeks when they stand up to sing, and + everybody stops in at the drug store with: “Say, Doc, what's good for a + cold?” + </p> + <p> + Eggs have come down. Yesterday they were nine for a quarter; to-day + they're ten. Gildersleeve wants a dollar for a setting of eggs, but he'll + let you have the same number of eggs for thirty cents if you'll wait till + he can run a needle into each one. So afraid you'll raise chickens of your + own. + </p> + <p> + Excited groups gather about rude circles scratched in the mud, and there + is talk of “pureys,” and “reals,” and “aggies,” and “commies,” and “fen + dubs!” There is a rich click about the bulging pockets of the boys, and + every so often in school time something drops on the floor and rolls + noisily across the room. When Miss Daniels asks: “Who did that?” the boys + all look so astonished. Who did what, pray tell? And when she picks up a + marble and inquires: “Whose is this?” nobody can possibly imagine whose it + might be, least of all the boy whose most highly-prized shooter it is. At + this season of the year, too, there is much serious talk as to the + exceeding sinfulness of “playing for keeps.” The little boys, in whose + thumbs lingers the weakness of the arboreal ape, their ancestor, and who + “poke” their marbles, drink in eagerly the doctrine that when you win a + marble you ought to give it back, but the hard-eyed fellows, who can plunk + it every time, sit there and let it go in one ear and out the other, there + being a hole drilled through expressly for the purpose. What? Give up the + rewards of skill? Ah, g'wan! + </p> + <p> + The girls, even to those who have begun to turn their hair up under, are + turning the rope and dismally chanting: “All in together, pigs in the + meadow, nineteen twenty, leave the rope empty,” or whatever the rune is. + </p> + <p> + It won't be long now. It won't be long. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For lo; the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the + flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds + is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the + fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the + tender grape give a good smell. Arise my love, my fair one + and come away.” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE SONG OF SOLOMON. +</pre> + <p> + Out in the woods the leaves that rustled so bravely when we shuffled our + feet through them last fall are sodden and matted. It is warm in the + woods, for the sun strikes down through the bare branches, and the cold + wind is fended off. The fleshy lances of the spring beauty have stabbed + upward through the mulch, and a tiny cup, delicately veined with pink, + hangs its head bashfully. Anemones on brown wire stems aspire without a + leaf, and in moist patches are May pinks, the trailing arbutus of the + grown-ups. As we carry home a bunch, the heads all lopping every way like + the heads of strangled babies, we can almost hear behind us in the echoing + forests a long, heart-broken moan, as of Rachel mourning for her children, + and will not be comforted because they are not. The wild flowers don't + look so pretty in the tin cups of water as they did back in the woods. + There is something cheap and common about them. Throw 'em out. The poor + plants that planned through all the ages how to attract the first smart + insects of the season, and trick them into setting the seeds for next + years' flowers did not reckon that these very means whereby they hoped to + rear a family would prove their undoing at the hands of those who plume + themselves a little on their refinement, they “are so fond of flowers.” + </p> + <p> + Old Winter hates to give up that he is beaten. It's a funny thing, but + when you hear a person sing, “Good-a-by, Summer, good-a-by, good-a-by,” + you always feel kind of sad and sorry. It's going, the time of year when + you can stay out of doors most of the time, when you can go in swimming, + and the Sunday-school picnic, and the circus, and play base-ball and camp + out, and there's no school, and everything nice, and watermelons, and all + like that. Good-by, good-by, and you begin to sniff a little. The + departure of summer is dignified and even splendid, but the earth looks so + sordid and draggle-trailed when winter goes, that onions could not bring a + tear. Old winter likes to tease. Aha! You thought I was gone, did you? + “Not yet, my child, not yet!” And he sends us huckleberry-colored clouds + from the northwest, from which snow-flakes big as copper cents solemnly + waggle down, as if they really expected the schoolboy to shout: “It snows! + Hurrah!” and makes his shout heard through parlor and hall. But they only + leave a few dark freckles on the garden beds. Alas, yes! There is no light + without its shadow, no joy without its sorrow tagging after. It isn't all + marbles and play in the gladsome springtide. Bub has not only to spade up + the garden—there is some sense in that—but he has to dig up + the flower beds, and help his mother set out her footy, trifling plants. + </p> + <p> + The robins have come back, our robins that nest each spring in the old + seek-no-further. To the boy grunting over the spading-fork presents + himself Cock Robin. “How about it? Hey? All right? Hey?” he seems to ask, + cocking his head, and flipping out the curt inquiries with tail-jerks. + Glad of any excuse to stop work, the boy stands statue-still, while Mr. + Robin drags from the upturned clods the long, elastic fish-worms, and then + with a brief “Chip!” flashes out of sight. Be right still now. Don't move. + Here he comes again, and his wife with him. They fly down, he all eager + and alert to wait upon her, she whining and scolding. She doesn't think + it's much of a place for worms. And there's that boy yonder. He's up to + some devilment or other, she just knows. She oughtn't to have come away + and left those eggs. They'll get cold now, she just knows they will. + Anything might happen to them when she 's away, and then he 'll be to + blame, for he coaxed her. He knows she told him she didn't want to come. + But he would have it. For half a cent she'd go back right now. And, + Heavens above! Is he going to be all 'day picking up a few little worms? + </p> + <p> + She cannot finish her sentences for her gulps, for he is tamping down in + her insides the reluctant angleworms that do not want to die, two or three + writhing in his bill at once, until he looks like Jove's eagle with its + mouth full of thunderbolts. And all the time he is chip-chipping and + flirting his tail, and saying: “How's that? All right? Hey? Here's + another. How's that? All right? Hey? Open now. Like that? Here's one. Oh, + a beaut! Here's two fat ones? Great? Hey? Here y' go. Touch the spot? Hey? + More? Sure Mike. Lots of 'em. Wide now. Boss. Hey? Wait a second—yes, + honey. In a second.... I got him. Here's the kind you like. Oh, yes, do. + Do take one more. Oh, you better.” + </p> + <p> + “D' ye think I'm made o' rubber?” she snaps at him. “I know I'll have + indigestion, and you'll be to bla—Mercy land! Them eggs!” and she + gathers up her skirts and flits. He escorts her gallantly, but returns to + pick a few for himself, and to cock his head knowingly at the boy, as much + as to say: “Man of family, by Ned. Or—or soon will be. Oh, yes, any + minute now, any minute.” + </p> + <p> + And if I remember rightly, he even winks at the boy with a wink whose full + significance the boy does not learn till many years after when it dawns + upon him that it meant: “You got to make allowances for 'em. Especially at + such a time. All upset, you know, and worried. Oh, yes. You got to; you + got to make allowances for 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Day by day the air grows balmier and softer on the cheek. Out in the + garden, ranks of yellow-green pikes stand stiffly at “Present. Hump!” and + rosettes of the same color crumple through the warm soil, unconsciously + preparing for a soul tragedy. For an evening will come when a covered dish + will be upon the supper-table, and when the cover is taken off, a subtle + fragrance will betray, if the sense of sight do not, that the chopped-up + lettuces and onions are in a marsh of cider vinegar, demanding to be + eaten. And your big sister will squall out in comic distress: “Oh, ma! You + are too mean for anything! Why did you have 'em tonight? I told you Mr. + Dellabaugh was going to call, and you know how I love spring onions! Well, + I don't care. I'm just going to, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + Things come with such a rush now, it is hard to tell what happens in its + proper order. The apple-trees blossom out like pop-corn over the hot + coals. The Japan quince repeats its farfamed imitation of the Burning Bush + of Moses; the flowering currants are strung with knobs of vivid yellow + fringe; the dead grass from the front yard, the sticks and stalks and old + tomato vines, the bits of rag and the old bones that Guess has gnawed upon + are burning in the alley, and the tormented smoke is darting this way and + that, trying to get out from under the wind that seeks to flatten it to + the ground. All this is spring, and—and yet it isn't. The word is + not yet spoken that sets us free to live the outdoor life; we are yet + prisoners and captives of the house. + </p> + <p> + But, one day in school, the heat that yesterday was nice and cozy becomes + too dry and baking for endurance. The young ones come in from recess red, + not with the brilliant glow of winter, but a sort of scalded red. They + juke their heads forward to escape their collars' moist embrace; they + reach their hands back of them to pull their clinging winter underwear + away. They fan themselves with joggerfies, and puff out: “Phew!” and look + pleadingly at the shut windows. One boy, bolder than his fellows, moans + with a suffering lament: “Miss Daniels, cain't we have the windows open? + It's awful hot!” Frightful dangers lurk in draughts. Fresh air will kill + folks. So, not until the afternoon is the prayer answered. Then the outer + world, so long excluded, enters once more the school-room life. The + mellifluous crowing of distant roosters, the rhythmic creaking of a + thirsty pump, the rumble of a loaded wagon, the clinking of hammers at the + blacksmith shop, the whistle of No. 3 away below town, all blend together + in the soft spring air into one lulling harmony. + </p> + <p> + Winter's alert activity is gone. Who cares for grades and standings now? + The girls, that always are so smart, gape lazily, and stare at vacancy + wishing.... They don't know what they wish, but if He had a lot of money, + why, then they could help the poor, and all like that, and have a new + dress every day. + </p> + <p> + James Sackett—his real name is Jim Bag, but teacher calls him James + Sackett—has his face set toward: “A farmer sold 16 2-3 bu. wheat for + 66 7-8 c. per bu.; 19 2-9 bu. oats for,” etc., etc., but his soul is far + away in Cummins's woods, where there is a robbers' cave that he, and Chuck + Higgins, and Bunt Rogers, and Turkey-egg McLaughlin are going to dig + Saturday afternoons when the chores are done. They are going to—Here + Miss Daniels should slip up behind him and snap his ear, but she, too, is + far away in spirit. Her beau is coming after supper to take her + buggy-riding. She wonders.... She wonders.... Will she have to teach again + next fall? She wonders.... + </p> + <p> + Wait. Wait but a moment. A subtle change is coming. + </p> + <p> + The rim of the revolving year has a brighter and a darker half, a joyous + and a somber half, Autumnal splendors cannot cheer the melancholy that we + feel when summer goes from us, but when summer comes again the heart leaps + up in glee to meet it. Wait but a moment now. Wait. + </p> + <p> + The distant woodland swims in an amethystine haze. A long and fluting + note, honey-sweet as it were blown upon a bottle, comes to us from far. It + is the turtle-dove. The blood beats in our ears. Arise, my love, my fair + one, and come away. + </p> + <p> + So gentle it can scarce be felt, a waft of air blows over us, the first + sweet breath of summer. A veil of faint and subtle perfume drifts around + us. The vines with the tender grape give a good smell. And evermore as its + enchantment is cast about us we are as once we were when first we came + beneath its spell; we are by the smokehouse at the old home place; we + stand in shoes whose copper toes wink and glitter in the sunlight, a + gingham apron sways in the soft breeze, and on the green, upspringing turf + dances the shadow of a tasseled cap. Life was all before us then. Please + God, it is not all behind us now. Please God, our best and wisest days are + yet to come the days when we shall do the work that is worthy of us. Dear + one, mother of my children here and Yonder—and Yonder—the best + and wisest days are yet to come. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come + away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SWIMMING-HOLE + </h2> + <p> + It is agreed by all, I think, that the two happiest periods in a man's + life are his boyhood and about ten years from now. We are exactly in the + position described in the hymn: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Lo! On a narrow neck of land + 'Twixt two unbounded seas we stand, + And cast a wishful eye.” * + + *[I am told, on good authority, that this last line of the + three belongs to another hymn. As it is just what I want to + say, I'm going to let it stand as it is.] +</pre> + <p> + If I remember right, the hymn went to the tune of “Ariel,” and I can see + John Snodgrass, the precentor, sneaking a furtive C from his pitch-pipe, + finding E flat and then sol, and standing up to lead the singing, paddling + the air gently with: Down, left, sing. Well, no matter about that now. + What I am trying to get at, is that we have all a lost Eden in the past + and a Paradise Regained in the future. 'Twixt two unbounded seas of + happiness we stand on the narrow and arid sand-spit of the present and + cast a wishful eye. In hot weather particularly the wishful eye, when + directed toward the lost Eden of boyhood, lights on and lingers near the + Old Swimming-hole. + </p> + <p> + I suppose boys do grow up into a reasonable enjoyment of their faculties + in big seaside cities and on inland farms where there is no accessible + body of water larger than a wash-tub, but I prefer to believe that the + majority of our adult male population in youth went in swimming in the + river up above the dam, where the big sycamore spread out its roots + a-purpose for them to climb out on without muddying their feet. Some, I + suppose, went in at the Copperas Banks below town, where the current had + dug a hole that was “over head and hands,” but that was pretty far and + almost too handy for the boys from across the tracks. + </p> + <p> + The wash-tub fellows will have to be left out of it entirely. It was an + inferior, low-grade Eden they had anyhow, and if they lost it, why, they + 're not out very much that I can see. And I rather pity the boys that + lived by the sea. They had a good time in their way, I suppose, with + sailboats and things, but the ocean is a poor excuse for a swimming-hole. + They say salt-water is easier to swim in; kind of bears you up more. Maybe + so, but I never could see it; and even so, if it does, that slight + advantage is more than made up for by the manifold disadvantages entailed. + First place, there's the tide to figure on. If it was high tide last + Wednesday at half-past ten in the morning, what time will it be high tide + today? A boy can't always go when he wants to, and it is no fun to trudge + away down to the beach only to find half a mile of soft, gawmy mud between + him and the water. And he can't go in wherever it is deep enough and + nobody lives near. People own the beach away out under water, and where he + is allowed to go in may be a perfect submarine jungle of eel-grass or + bottomed with millions of razor-edged barnacles that rip the soles of his + feet into bleeding rags. Then, too, when one swims, more or less water + gets into one's nose and mouth. River-water may not be exactly what a + fastidious person would choose to drink habitually, but there is this in + its favor as compared with sea-water: it will stay down after it is + swallowed; also, it doesn't gum up your hair; also, if you want to take a + cake of soap with you, all you have to look out for is that you don't lose + the soap. Nobody tries to use toilet soap in sea-water more than once. + </p> + <p> + And surf-bathing! If there is a bigger swindle than surf-bathing, the + United States Postal authorities haven't heard of it yet. It is all very + well for the women. They can hang on to the ropes and squeal at the big + waves and have a perfectly lovely time. Some of the really daring ones + crouch down till they actually get their shoulder-blades wet. You have to + see that for yourself to believe it, but it is as true as I am sitting + here. They do so—some of them. But good land! There's no swimming in + surf-bathing, no fun for a man. The water is all bouncing up and down. One + second it is over head and hands, and the next second it is about to your + knees, with a malicious undertow tickling your feet and tugging at your + ankles; and growling: “Aw, you think you're some, don't you? Yes. Well, + for half a cent wouldn't take you out and drown you.” And I don't like the + looks of that boat patrolling up and down between the ropes and the raft. + It is too suggestive, too like the skeleton at the banquet, too blunt a + reminder that maybe what the undertow growls is not all a bluff. + </p> + <p> + Another drawback to the ocean as a swimming-hole is that the distances are + all wrong. If you want to go to the other side of the “crick” you must + take a steamboat. There is no such thing as bundling up your clothes and + holding them out of water with one hand while you swim with the other, + perhaps dropping your knife or necktie in transit. I have never been on + the other side of the “crick” even on a steamboat, but I am pretty sure + that there are no yellow-hammers' nests over there or watermelon patches. + There were above the dam. At the seaside they give you as an objective + point a raft, anchored at what seems only a little distance from where it + gets deep enough to swim in, but which turns out to be a mighty far ways + when the water bounces so. When you get there, blowing like a + quarter-horse and weighing nine tons as you lift yourself out, there is + nothing to do but let your feet hang over while you get rested enough to + swim back. It wasn't like that above the dam. + </p> + <p> + I tell you the ocean is altogether too big. Some profess to admire it on + that account, but it is my belief that they do it to be in style. I admit + that on a bright, blowy day, when you can sit and watch the shining sails + far out on the horizon's rim, it does look right nice, but I account for + it in this way: it puts you in mind of some of these expensive oil + paintings, and that makes you think it is kind of high class. And another + thing: It recalls the picture in the joggerfy that proved the earth was + round because the hull of a ship disappears before the sails, as it would + if the ship was going over a hill. You sweep your eye along where the sky + and water meet, and it seems you can note the curvature of the earth. + Maybe it is that, and maybe it is all in your own eye. I am not saying. + </p> + <p> + There are good points, too, about the sea on a clear night when the moon + is full; or when there is no moon, and the phosphorescence in the water + shows, as if mermaids' children were playing with blue-tipped matches. I + like to see it when a gale is blowing, and the white caps race. Yes, and + when it is a flat calm, with here and there a tiny cat's-paw crinkling the + water into gray-green crepe. And also when—but there! it is no use + cataloguing all kinds of weather and all hours of the day and night. What + I don't approve of in the ocean is its everlasting bigness. It is so + discouraging. It makes a body seem so no-account and insignificant. You + come away feeling meaner than a sheep-killing dog. “Oh, what's the use?” + you say to yourself. “What's the use of my breaking my neck to do anything + or be anybody? Before I was born—before History began—before + any foot of being that could be called a man trod these sands, the waves + beat thus the pulse of time. When I am gone—when all that man has + made, that seems so firm and everlasting, shall have crumbled into the + earth, whence it sprang, this wave, so momentary and so eternal, shall + still surge up the slanting beach, and trail its lacy mantle in + retreat.... O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I + go hence, and be no more seen.” + </p> + <p> + And that's no way for a man to feel. He ought to be confident and sure of + himself. If he hasn't yet done all that he laid out to do, he should feel + that it is in him to do it, and that he will before the time comes for him + to go, and that when it is done it shall be orth while. + </p> + <p> + It is the ocean's everlasting bigness that makes it so cold to swim in. At + the seaside bathing pavilions they have a blackboard whereon they chalk up + “70” or “72” or whatever they think folks will like. They never say in so + many words that a man went down into the water and held a thermometer in + it long enough to get the true temperature, but they lead you to believe + it. All I have to say is that they must have very optimistic thermometers. + I just wish some of these poor little seashore boys could have a chance to + try the Old Swimming-hole up above the dam. Certainly along about early + going-barefoot time the water is a little cool, but you take it in the + middle of August—ah, I tell you! When you come out of the water then + you don't have to run up and down to get your blood in circulation or pile + the warm sand on yourself or hunt for the steam-room. Only thing is, if + you stay in all day, as you want to, it thins your blood, and you get the + “fever 'n' ager.” But you can stay in as long as you want to, that 's the + point, without your lips turning the color of a chicken's gizzard. + </p> + <p> + And there's this about the Old Swimming-hole, or there was in my day: + There were no women and girls fussing around aid squalling: “Now, you stop + splashin' water on me! Quit it now! Quee-yut!” I don't think t looks right + for women folks to have anything to do with water in large quantities. On + a sail-boat, now, they are the very—but perhaps we had better not go + into that. At a picnic, indeed, trey used to take off their shoes and + stockings and paddle their feet in the water, but that was as much as ever + they did. They never thought of going in swimming. Even at the seashore, + now when Woman is so emancipated, they go bathing not swimming. I don't + like to see a woman swim any more than I like to see a woman smoke a + cigar. And for the same reason. It is more fun than she is entitled to. A + woman's place is home minding the baby, and cooking the meals. Nothing + would do her but she had to be born a woman, she had the same liberty of + choice that we men had. Very well, I say, let her take the consequencies. + </p> + <p> + It is only natural, then, that she should refuse to let her boys go + swimming. She pays off her grudge that way. Just because she can't go + herself she is bound the they shan't either. She says they will get + drowned, but we know about that. It is only an excuse to keep them from + having a little fun. She has to say something. They won't get drowned. + Why, the idea! They haven't the least intention of any such thing. + </p> + <p> + “Well, but Robbie, supposing you couldn't help yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “How couldn't help myself?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, get the cramps. Suppose you got the cramps, then what?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, pshaw! Cramps nothin'! They hain't no sich of a thing. And, anyhow, + if I did get 'em, wouldn't jist kick 'em right out. This way.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Robbie, you know you did have a terrible cramp in your foot just + only the other night. Don't you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, that! That ain't nothin'. That ain't the cramps that drownds people. + Didn't I tell you wouldn't fist kick it right out? That's what they all do + when they git the cramps. But they don't nobody git 'em now no more.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want you to go in the water and get drowned. You know you can't + swim.” + </p> + <p> + This is too much. Oh, this is rank injustice! Worse yet, it is bad logic. + </p> + <p> + “How 'm I ever goin' to learn if you don't let me go to learn?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can't go, and that's the end of it.” + </p> + <p> + Isn't that just like a woman? Perfectly unreasonable! Dear! dear! + </p> + <p> + “Now, Ma, listen here. S'posin' we was all goin' some place on a + steamboat, me and you and Pa and the baby and all of us, and—” + </p> + <p> + “That won't ever happen, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “CAN'T YOU LET ME TELL YOU? And s'posin' the boat was to sink, and I could + swim and save you from drown—” + </p> + <p> + “You're not going swimming, and that's all there is about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Other boys' mas lets them go. I don't see why I can't go.” + </p> + <p> + No answer. + </p> + <p> + “Ma, won't you let me go? I won't get drowned, hope to die if I do. Ma, + won't you let me go? Ma! Ma-a!—Maw-ah!” + </p> + <p> + “Stop yelling at me that way. Good land! Do you think I'm deaf?” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you let me go? Please, won't you let—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't. I told you I wouldn't, and I mean it. You might as well make + up your mind to stay at home, for you're—not—going. Hush up + now. This instant, sir! Robbie, do you hear me? Stop crying. Great baby! + wouldn't be ashamed to cry that way, as big as you are!” + </p> + <p> + Mean old Ma! Guess she'd cry too'f she could see the other kids that + waited for him to go and ask her—if she could see them moving off, + tired of waiting. They're 'most up to Lincoln Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Oooooooooooo-hoo—hoo—hoo—hoohoooooooooo-ah! I wanna + gow-ooooo.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?” + </p> + <p> + “Oooooooooooo-hoo-hoo-hoo-oooooooo! I wanna gow-ooooooo.” + </p> + <p> + “Robbie! Did you hoe that corn?” + </p> + <p> + The last boy, the one with the stone-bruise on his heel, limps around the + corner. They have all the fun. His ma won't let him go barefoot because it + spreads his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Robbie! Answer me.” + </p> + <p> + “Mam?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes mam.” + </p> + <p> + “All of it? Did you hoe all of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Prett' near all of it.” Well begun is half done. One hill is a good + beginning, and half done is pretty nearly all. + </p> + <p> + “Go and finish it.” + </p> + <p> + “I will if you'll let me go swimmin'.” + </p> + <p> + It flashes upon him that even now by running he can catch up with the + other fellows. He can finishing the hoeing when he gets back. + </p> + <p> + “You'll do it anyhow, and you're not going swimming. Now, that's the end + of it. You march out to that garden this minute, or I'll take a stick to + you. And don't let me hear another whimper out of you. Robbie! Come back + here and shut that door properly. I shall tell your father how you have + acted. Wouldn't be ashamed—I'd be ashamed to show temper that way.” + </p> + <p> + It says for children to obey their parents, but if more boys minded their + mothers there would be fewer able to swim. While I shrink with horror from + even seeming to encourage dropping the hoe when the sewing-machine gets to + going good, by its thunderous spinning throwing up an impervious wall of + sound to conceal retreat into the back alley, across the street, up the + alley back of Alexander's, and so on up to Fountain Avenue in time to + catch up with the gang, still I regard swimming as an exercise of the + extremest value in the development of the growing boy. It builds up every + muscle. It is particularly beneficial to the lungs. To have a good pair of + lungs is the same thing as having a good constitution. It is nice to have + a healthy boy, and it is nice to have an obedient boy, but if one must + choose which he will have—that's a very difficult question. I think + it should be left to the casuists. Nevertheless, now is the boy's only + chance to grow. He will have abundant opportunities to learn obedience. + </p> + <p> + In the last analysis there are two ways of acquiring the art of swimming, + the sudden way and the slow way. I have never personally known anybody + that learned in the sudden way, but I have heard enough about it to + describe it. It it's the quickest known method. One day the boy its among + the gibbering white monkeys at the river's edge, content to splash in the + water that comes but half way to his crouching knees. The next day he + swims with the big boys as bold as any of them. In the meantime his daddy + has taken him out in a boat, out where it is deep—Oh! Ain't it deep + there?—and thrown him overboard. The boat is kept far enough away to + be out of the boy's reach and yet near enough to be right there in case + anything happens. (I like that “in case anything happens.” It sounds so + cheerful.) It being what Aristotle defines as “a ground-hog case,” the boy + learns to swim immediately. He has to. + </p> + <p> + It seems reasonable that he should. But still and all, I don't just fancy + it. Once when a badly scared man grabbed me by the arms in deep water I + had the fear of drowning take hold of my soul, and it isn't a nice feeling + at all. Somehow when I hear folks praising up this method of teaching a + child to swim, I seem to hear the little fellow's screams that he doesn't + want to be thrown into the water. I can see him clinging to his father for + protection, and finding that heart hard and unpitying. I can see his + fingernails whiten with his clutch on anything that gives a hand-hold. His + father strips off his grip, at first with boisterous laughter, and then + with hot anger at the little fool. He calls him a cry-baby, and slaps his + mouth for him, to stop his noise. The little body sprawls in the air and + strikes with a loud splash, and the child's gargling cry is strangled by + the water whitened by his mad clawings. I can see his head come up, his + eyes bulging, and his face distorted with the awful fear that is ours by + the inheritance of ages. He will sink and come up again, not three times, + but a hundred times. Eventually he will win safe to shore, panting and + trembling, his little heart knocking against his ribs, it is true, but + lord of the water from that time forth. It is a very fine method, yes... + but... well, if it was my boy I had just as lief he tarried with the + little white monkeys at the river's edge. Let him squeal and crouch and + splash and learn how to half drown the other fellow by shooting water at + him with the heel of his hand. Let him alone. He will be watching the + others swim. He will edge out a little farther and kick up his heels while + with his hands he holds on the ground. He will edge out a little farther + still and try to keep his feet on the bottom and swim with his hands. Be + patient in his attempt to combine the two methods of travel. He is not the + only one that fears to be one thing or the other, and regards a mixture of + both as the safest way to get along. + </p> + <p> + No, I cannot say that I wholly approve of the sudden method of learning to + swim. It has the advantange of lumping all the scares of a lifetime into + one and having it over with, and yet I don't suppose the scare of being + thrown into the water by one's daddy is really greater than being ducked + in mid-stream by some hulking, cackle-voiced big boy. It seems greater + though, I suppose, because a fellow cannot very well relieve his feelings + by throwing stones at his daddy and bawling: “Goldarn you anyhow, you—you + big stuff! I'll get hunk with you, now you see if I don't!” Here would be + just the place to make the little boy tie knots in the big boy's + shirt-sleeves, soak the knots in water, and pound them between stones. But + that is kind of common, I think. They told about it at the swimming-hole + above the dam, but nobody was mean enough to do it. Maybe they did it down + at the Copperas Banks below town. The boys from across the tracks went + there, a race apart, whom we feared, and who hated us, if the legend + chalked up on the fences “DAMB THE PRODESTANCE,” meant anything. + </p> + <p> + Under the slow method of learning to swim one had leisure to observe the + different fashions—dog-fashion and cow-fashion, steamboat-fashion, + and such. The little kids and beginners swam dog-fashion, which on that + account was considered contemptible. The fellow was sneered at that + screwed up his face as if in a cloud of suffocating dust, and fought the + water with noise and fury, putting forth enough energy to carry him a + mile, and actually going about two feet if he were headed down stream. + Scientific men say that the use of the limbs, first on one side and then + on the other, is instinctive to all creatures of the monkey tribe. That is + the way they do in an emergency, since that is the way to scramble up + among the tree limbs. I know that it is the easiest way to swim, and the + least effective. When the arms are extended together in the breast stroke, + it is as much superior to dogfashion as man is superior to the ape. I have + always thought that to swim thus with steady and deliberate arm action, + the water parting at the chin and rising just to the root of the underlip, + was the most dignified and manly attitude the human being could put + himself in. Cow-fashion was a burlesque of this, and the swimmer reared + out of water with each stroke, creating tidal waves. It was thought to be + vastly comic. Steamboat-fashion was where a fellow swam on his back, + keeping his body up by a gentle, secret paddling motion with his hands, + while with his feet he lashed the water into foam, like some river + stern-wheeler. If he could cry: “Hoo! hoo! hoo!” in hoarse falsetto to + mimic the whistle, it was an added charm. + </p> + <p> + It was a red-headed boy from across the tracks on his good behavior at the + swimming-hole above the dam that I first saw swim hand-over-hand, or + “sailor-fashion” as we called it, rightly or wrongly, I know not. I can + hear now the crisp, staccato little smack his hand gave the water as he + reached forward. + </p> + <p> + It has ever since been my envy and despair. It is so knowing, so “sporty.” + I class it with being able to wear a pink-barred shirt front with a + diamond-cluster pin in it; with having my clothes so nobby and stylish + that one thread more of modishness would be beyond the human power to + endure; with being genuinely fond of horseracing; with being a first-class + poker player, I mean a really first-class one; with being able to swallow + a drink of whisky as if I liked it instead of having to choke it down with + a shudder; with knowing truly great men like Fitzsimmons, or whoever it is + that is great now, so as to be able to slap him on the back and say: “Why, + hello! Bob, old boy, how are you?” with being delighted with the company + of actors, instead of finding them as thin as tissue-paper—what + wouldn't I give if I could be like that? My life has been a sad one. But I + might find some comfort in it yet if I coin only get that natty little + spat on the water when I lunge forward swimming overhand. + </p> + <p> + We used to think the Old Swimming-hole was a bully place, but I know + better now. The sycamore leaned well out over the water, and there was a + trapeze on the branch that grew parallel with the shore, but the water + near it was never deep enough to dive into. And that is another occasion + of humiliation. I can't dive worth a cent. When I go down to the slip + behind Fulton Market—they sell fish at Fulton Market; just follow + your nose and you can't miss it—and see the rows of little white + monkeys doing nothing but diving, I realize that the Old Swimming-hole + with all its beauties, its green leafiness, its clean, long grass to lie + upon while drying in the sun, or to pull out and bite off the tender, + chrome-yellow ends, was but a provincial, country-fake affair. There were + no watermelon rinds there, no broken berry-baskets, no orange peel, no + nothing. All the fish in it were just common live ones. And there was no + diving. But at the real, proper city swimming-place all the little white + monkeys can dive. Each is gibbering and shrieking: “Hey, Chim-meel + Chimmee! Hey, Chim-mee! Chimmee! Hey, CHIM-MEEEE! How'ss t 'iss?” crossing + himself and tipping over head first, coming up so as to “lay his hair,” + giving a shaking snort to clear his nose and mouth of water, regaining the + ladder with three overhand strokes (every one of them with that natty + little spat that I can't get), climbing up to the string-piece and running + for Chimmy, red-eyed, shivering, and dripping, to ask: “How wass Cat?” And + I can't dive for a cent—that is, I can't dive from a great + elevation. I set my teeth and vow I just will dive from ten feet above the + water, and every time it gets down to a poor, picayune dive off the lowest + round of the ladder. I blame my early education for it. I was taught to be + careful about pitching myself head foremost on rocks and broken bottles. I + used to think it was a fine swimming-hole, and that I was having a grand, + good time, well worth any ordinary licking; but now that I have traveled + around and seen things, I know that it was a poor, provincial, + country-jake affair after all. The first time I swam across and back + without “letting down” it was certainly an immense place, but when I went + back there a year ago last summer—why, pshaw! it wasn't anything at + all. It was a dry summer, I admit, but not as dry as all that. A poor, + pitiful, provincial, two-for-a cent—and yet... and yet... And yet I + sat there after I had dressed, and mused upon the former things—the + life that was, but never could be again; the Eden before whose gate was a + flaming sword turning every way. The night was still and moonless. The + Milky Way slanted across the dark dome above. It was far from the street + lamps that greened among the leafy maples in the silent streets. Gushes of + air stirred the fluttering sycamore, and whispered in the tall larches + that marched down the boundary line of the Blymire property. The last + group of swimmers had turned into the road from around the clump of + willows at the end of the pasture. The boy that is always the last one had + nearly caught up with the others, for the velvet pat of his bare feet in + the deep dust was slowing. Their eager chatter softened and softened, + until it blended with the sounds of night that verge on silence, the fall + of a leaf, the up-springing of a trodden tuft of grass, the sleepy twitter + of a dreaming bird, and the shrilling of locusts patiently turning a + creaking wheel. I heard the thump of hoofs and buggy wheels booming in the + covered bridge, and a shudder came upon me that was not all the chill of + falling dew. Again I was a little boy, standing in a circle of my fellows + and staring at something pale, stretched out upon the ground. Ben Snyder + had dived for It and found It and brought It up and laid It on the long, + clean grass. Some one had said we ought to get a barrel and roll It on the + barrel, but there was none there. And then some one said: “No, it was + against the law to touch anything like That before the Coroner came.” So, + though we wished that something might be done, we were glad the law + stepped in and stringently forbade us touching what our flesh crept to + think of touching. No longer existed for us the boy that had the spy-glass + and the “Swiss Family Robinson.” Something cold and terrible had taken his + place, something that could not see, and yet looked upward with unwinking + eyes. The gloom deepened, and the dew began to fall. We could hear the boy + that ran for the doctor whimpering a long way off. We wanted to go home, + and yet we dared not. Something might get us. And we could not leave That + alone in the dark with It's eyes wide open. The locusts in the grass + turned and turned their creaking wheel, and the wind whispered in the tall + larches. We heard the thump of hoofs and wheels booming in the covered + bridge. It was the doctor, come too late. He put his head down to It's + bosom (the cold trickled down our backs), and then he said it was too + late. If we had known enough, he said, we might have saved him. We slunk + away. It was very lonesome. We kept together, and spoke low. We stopped to + hearken for a moment outside the house where the boy had lived that had + the spy-glass and the “Swiss Family Robinson.” Some one had told his + mother. And then, with a great and terrible fear within us, we ran each to + his own home, swiftly and silently. We knew now why mother did not want us + to go swimming. + </p> + <p> + But the next afternoon when Chuck Grove whistled in our back alley and + held up two fingers, I dropped the hoe and went with him. It was bright + daylight then, and that is different from the night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT + </h2> + <p> + It isn't only Christmas that comes but once a year and when it comes it + brings good cheer; it's any festival that is worth a hill of beans, High + School Commencement, Fourth of July, Sunday-school excursion, Election' + bonfire, Thanksgiving Day (a nice day and one whereon you can eat roast + turkey till you can't choke down another bite, and pumpkin-pie, and + cranberry sauce. Tell you!)—but about the best in the whole lot, and + something the city folks don't have, is Firemen's Tournament. That comes + once a year, generally about the time for putting up tomatoes. + </p> + <p> + The first that most of us know about it is when we see the bills up, + telling how much excursion rates will be to our town from Ostrander and + Mt. Victory, and Wapatomica, and New Berlin, and Foster's, and Caledonia, + and Mechanicsburg—all the towns around on both the railroads. But + before that there was the Citizens' Committee, and then the Executive + Committee, and the Finance Committee, and the Committee on Press and + Publicity, and Printing and Prizes, and Decorations and Badges, and Music, + and Reception to Firemen, and Reception to Guests—as many committees + as there are nails in the fence from your house to mine. And these + committees come around and tell you that we want to show the folks that + we've got public spirit in our town, some spunk, some git-up to us. We + want our town to contrast favorably with Caledonia where they had the + Tournament last year. We want to put it all over the Caledonia people + (they think they're so smart), and we can do it, too, if everybody will + take a-holt and help. Well, we want all we can get. We expect a pretty + generous offer from you, for one. Man that has as pretty and tasty got-up + store as you have, and does the business that you do, ought to show his + appreciation of the town and try to help along.... Oh, anything you're a + mind to give. 'Most anything comes in handy for prizes. But what we + principally need is cash, ready cash. You see, there's a good deal of + expense attached to an enterprise of this character. So many little things + you wouldn't think of, that you've just got to have. But laws! you'll make + it all back and more, too. We cackleate there'll be, at the very least, + ten thousand people in town that day, and it's just naturally bound to be + that some of them will do their trading. + </p> + <p> + Thank you very much, that's very handsome of you. Good day. (What are you + growling about? Lucky to get five cents out of that man.) + </p> + <p> + The Ladies' Aid of Center Street M. E., has secured the store-room + recently vacated by Rouse & Meyers, and is going to serve a dinner + that day for the benefit of the Carpet Fund of their church and about + time, too, I say. I like to broke my neck there a week ago last Sunday + night, when our minister was away. Caught my foot in a hole in the carpet, + and a little more and wouldn't have gone headlong. So, it's: “Why, I've + been meaning for more than a year, to call on you, Mrs.—. Mrs.—(Let + me look at my list. Oh, yes) Mrs. Cooper, but we've had so much sickness + at home—you know my husband's father is staying with us at present, + and he's been in very poor health all winter—and when it hasn't been + sickness, it's been company. You know how it is. And it seemed as if I—just—could—not + make out to get up your way. What a pretty little place you have! So cozy! + I was just saying to Mrs. Thorpe here, it was so seldom you saw a really + pretty residence in this part of town. We think that up on the hill, where + we reside, you know, is about the handsomest.... Yes, there are a great + many wealthy people live up there. The Quackenbushes are enormously + wealthy. I was saying to Mrs. Quackenbush only the other day that I + thought the hill people were almost too exclusive .... Yes, it is a + perfectly lovely day.... Er—er—We're soliciting for the + Firemen's Tournament—well, not for the Tournament exactly, but the + Ladies' Aid are going to give a dinner that day for the Carpet Fund and we + thought perhaps you 'd like to help along.... Oh, any little thing, a + boiled ham or—... Well, we shall want some cake, but we'd druther—or, + at least, rawther—have something more substantial, don't you know, + pie or pickles or jelly, don't you know. And will you bring it or shall I + send Michael with the carriage for it?.... Oh, thank you! If you would. It + would be so much appreciated. So sorry we couldn't make a longer stay, but + now that we've found the way.... Yes, that's very true. Well, + good-afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + The lady of the house watches them as Michael inquires: “Whur next, mum?” + and bangs the door of the carriage. Then she turns and says to herself: + “Huh!” Mrs. Thorpe is that instant observing: “Did you notice that crayon + enlargement she had hanging up? Wouldn't it kill you?” To which the other + lady responds: “Well, between you and I, Mrs. Thorpe, if I couldn't have a + real hand-painted picture I wouldn't have nothing at all.” + </p> + <p> + The lady of the house bakes a cake. She'll show them a thing or two in the + cake line. And while it is in the oven what does that little dev—, + that provoking Freddie, do but see if he can't jump across the kitchen in + two jumps. Fall? What cake wouldn't fall? Of course it falls. But it is + too late now to bake another, and if they don't like it, they know what + they can do. She doesn't know that she's under any obligation to them. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. John Van Meter hears Freddie say off the little speech his mother + taught him—Oh, you may be sure she'd be there as large as life, + taking charge of everything, just as if she had been one of the workers, + when, to my certain knowledge, she hadn't been to one of the committee + meetings, not a one. I declare I don't know what Mr. Craddock is thinking + of to let her boss every body around the way she does—and she smiles + and says: “It's all right. It's just lovely. Tell your mamma Mrs. Van + Meter is ever and ever so much obliged to her. Isn't he a dear boy?” And + when he is gone, she says: “What are we ever going to do with all this + cake? It seems as if everybody has sent cake. And whatever possessed that + woman to attempt a cake, I—can't imagine. Ts! ts! ts! H-well. Oh, + put it somewhere. Maybe we can work it off on the country people. Mrs. + Filkins, your coffee smells PERfectly grand! Perfectly grand. Do you think + we'll have spoons enough?” + </p> + <p> + The Tournament prizes are exhibited in the windows of the leading + furniture emporium at the corner of Main and Center, each with a card + attached bearing the name of the donor in distinctly legible characters. + Old man Hagerman has been mowing all the rag-weed and cuckle-burrs along + the line of march, and the lawns have had an unusual amount of shaving and + sprinkling. Out near the end of Center Street, the grandstand has been + going up, tiers of seats rising from each curb line. The street has been + rolled and sprinkled and scraped until it is in fine condition for a + running track. Why don't you pick up that pebble and throw it over into + the lot? Suppose some runner should slip on that stone and fall and hurt + himself, you'd be to blame. + </p> + <p> + The day before the Tournament, they hang the banner: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “WELCOME VOLUNTEER FIREMEN” + </pre> + <p> + from Case's drugstore across to the Furniture Emporium. Along the line of + march you may see the man of the house up on a step-ladder against the + front porch, with his hands full of drapery and his mouth full of tacks. + His wife is backing toward the geranium bed to get a good view, cocking + her head on one side. + </p> + <p> + “How 'v vif?” he asks as well as he can for the tacks. + </p> + <p> + “Little higher. Oh, not so much. Down a little. Whope! that's .... Oh, + plague take the firemen! Just look at that! Mercy! Mercy!” + </p> + <p> + The man of the house can't turn his head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wouldn't have had it happen for I don't know what! Ts! Ts! Ts! That + lovely silverleaf geranium that Mrs. Pritchard give me a slip of. Broke + right off! Oh, my! My! My! Do you s'pose it'd grow if I was to stick it + into the ground just as it is with all them buds on it?” + </p> + <p> + The man of the house lets one end of the drapery go and empties his mouth + of tacks into his disengaged hand. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. Ow! jabbed right into my gum! But I can tell you this: If + you think I'm going to stick up on this ladder all morning while you carry + on about some fool old geranium that you can just as well fuss with when + I'm gone, why, you're mighty much mistaken.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you needn't take my head off. I feel awful about that geranium.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why don't you look where you're going? Is this right?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I told you. I wish now I'd done it myself. I can't ask you to do a + thing about the house but there's a row raised right away.” + </p> + <p> + People that don't want to go to the trouble of tacking up these alphabet + flags on the edge of the veranda eaves (it takes fourteen of them to spell + “WELCOME FIREMEN”), say they think a handsome flag—a really handsome + one, not one of these twenty-five centers—is as pretty and rich + looking a decoration as a body can put up. + </p> + <p> + Tents are raised in the vacant lots along Center Street, and counters + knocked together for the sale of ice-cold lemonade, lemo, lemo, lemo, made + in the shade, with a spade, by an old maid, lemo, lemo. Here y' are now, + gents, gitch nice cool drink, on'y five a glass. There is even the hook + for the ice-cream candy man to throw the taffy over when he pulls it. I + like to watch him. It makes me dribble at the mouth to think about it. + </p> + <p> + The man that sells the squawking toys and the rubber balloons on sticks is + in town. All he can say is: “Fi' cent.” He will blow up the balloons + tomorrow morning. The men with the black-velvet covered shields, all stuck + full of “souvenirs,” are here, and the men with the little canes. I guess + we'll have a big crowd if it doesn't rain. What does the paper say about + the weather? + </p> + <p> + The boys have been playing a new game for some time past, but it is only + this evening that you notice it. The way of it is this: You take an + express-wagon—it has to have real wheels: these sawed-out wheels are + too baby—and you tie a long rope to the tongue and fix loops on the + rope, so that the boys can put each a loop over his shoulder. (You want a + good many boys.) And you get big, long, thick pieces of rag and you take + and tie them so as to make a big, big, long piece, about as long as from + here to 'way over there. And you lay this in the wagon, kind of in folds + like. Then you go up to where they water the horses and two of you go at + the back end of the wagon and the rest put the loops over their shoulders, + and one boy says, “Are you ready?” and he has a Fourth of July pistol and + he shoots off a cap. And when you hear that, you run like the dickens and + the two boys behind the wagon let out the hose (the big, long, thick piece + of rag) and fix it so it lies about straight on the ground. And when you + have run as far as the hose will reach, the boy with the Fourth of July + pistol says: “Twenty-eight and two-fifths,” and that's the game. And the + kids don't like for big folks to stand and watch them, because they always + make fun so. + </p> + <p> + In other towns they have Boys' Companies organized strictly for Tournament + purposes. There was talk of having one here. Mat. King, the assistant + chief, was all for having one so that we could compete in what he calls + “the juveline contests,” but it fell through somehow. + </p> + <p> + Along about sun-up you hear the big farm-wagons clattering into town, + chairs in the wagon bed, and Paw, and Maw, and Mary Elizabeth, and Martin + Luther, and all the family, clean down to Teedy, the baby. He's named + after Theodore Roosevelt, and they have the letter home now, framed and + hanging up over the organ. But for all the wagon is so full, there is room + for a big basket covered with a red-ended towel. (Seems to me I smell + fried chicken, don't you?) + </p> + <p> + I just thought I'dt see if you'd bite. You've formed your notions of + country people from “The Old Homestead” and these by-gosh-Mirandy novels. + The real farmers, nowadays, drive into town in double-seated carriages + with matched bays, curried so that you can see to comb your hair in their + glossy sides. The single rigs sparkle in the sun, conveying young men and + young women of such clean-cut, high-bred features as to make us wonder. + And yet I don't know why we should wonder, either. They all come from good + old stock. The young fellows run a little too strongly to patent-leather + shoes and their horses are almost too skittish for my liking, but the + girls are all right. If their clothes set better than you thought they + would, why, you must remember that they subscribe for the very same + fashion magazines that you do, and there is such a thing as a mail-order + business in this country, even if you aren't aware of it. + </p> + <p> + All the little boys in town are out with their baskets chanting sadly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PEANUTS? FIVE A BAG +</pre> + <p> + You 'll hear that all day long. + </p> + <p> + But there isn't much going on before the excursion trains come in. Then + things begin to hop. The grand marshal and his aides gallop through the + streets as if they were going for the doctor. The trains of ten and + fifteen coaches pile up in the railroad yard, and the yardmaster nearly + goes out of his mind. People are so anxious to get out of the cars, in + which they have been packed and jammed for hours, that they don't mind a + little thing like being run over by a switching engine. Every platform is + just one solid chunk of summer hats and babies and red shirts and alto + horns. They have been nearly five hours coming fifty miles. Stopped at + every station and sidetracked for all the regular trains. Such a time! + Lots of fun, though. The fellows got out and pulled flowers, and seed + cucumbers, and things and threw them at folks. You never saw such cut-ups + as they are. Pretty good singers, too. Good part of the way, they sung “My + Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,” and “How Can I Bear to Leave Thee,” nice and + slow, you know, a good deal of tenor and not much bass, and plenty of + these “minor chords.” (Yes, I know, some people call them “barber-shop + chords,” but I think “minor” is a nicer name.) + </p> + <p> + The band played “Hiawatha” eighteen times. One old fellow got on at + Huntsville, and he says, to Joe Bangs (that's the leader), “Shay,” he + says, “play 'Turkey in er Straw,' won't you? Aw, go on. Play it. Thass + goof feller. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + Joe, he never heard of the tune. Don't you know it? Goes like this: ... + No, that ain't it. That's “Gray Eagle.” Funny, I can't think how that tune + starts. Well, no matter. They played an arrangement that had “Old Zip + Coon” in it. + </p> + <p> + “Naw,” he says, “tha' ain' it 't all. Go on. Play it. Play 'Turkey in er + Straw.' Ah, ye don't know it. Thass reason. Betch don' know it. Don' know + 'Turkey in er Straw!' Ho! Caw seff ml-m' sishn. Ho! You—you—you + ain' no m'sishn. You—you you're zis bluff.” Only about half-past + eight, too. Think of that! So early in the morning. Ah me! That's one of + the sad features of such an occasion. + </p> + <p> + If there is anything more magnificent than a firemen's parade, I don't + know what it is. The varnished woodwork on the apparatus looks as if it + had just come out of the shop and every bit of bright work glitters fit to + strike you blind. You take, now, a nice hose-reel painted white and + striped into panels with a fine red line, every other panel fruits and + flowers, and every other panel a piece of looking-glass shaped like a cut + of pie and; I tell you, it looks gay. That's what it does. It looks gay. + Some of the hook-and-ladder trucks are just one mass of golden-rod and + hydrangeas, and some of them are all fixed with this red-white-and-blue + paper rope, sort of chenille effect, or more like a feather boa. Everybody + has on white cotton gloves, and those entitled to carry speaking trumpets + have bouquets in the bells of them, salvias, and golden-rod, and + nasturtiums, and marigolds, and all such. + </p> + <p> + The Wapatomicas always have a dog up on top of their wagon. First off, you + would think it didn't help out much, it is such a forlorn looking little + fice; but this dog, I want you to know, waked up the folks late one night, + 'way 'long about ten or eleven o'clock, barking at a fire. Saved the town, + as you might say. And after that, the fire-boys took him for a mascot. I + guess he didn't belong to anybody before. And another wagon has a chair on + it, and in that chair the cutest little girl you almost eyer saw, hair all + frizzed at the ends, and a wide blue sash and her white frock starched as + stiff as a milk-pail. Everybody says: “Aw, ain't she just too sweet?” + </p> + <p> + The Caledonias have tried to make quite a splurge this year. They walk + four abreast, with their arms locked, and their white gloves on each + other's shoulders. Their truck has on it what they call “an allegorical + figure.” There is a kind of a business (looks to me like it is the axle + and wheels of a toy wagon, stood up on end and covered with white paper + muslin and a string tied around the middle) that is supposed to be an + hour-glass. Then there is a scythe covered with cotton batting, and then a + man in a bath-robe (I saw the figure of the goods when the wind blew it + open) also covered with white cotton batting. The man has a wig and beard + of wicking. First, I thought it was Santa Claus, and then I saw the scythe + and knew it must be old Father Time. The hour-glass puzzled me no little + though. The man has cotton batting wings. One of them is a little wabbly, + but what can you expect from Caledonia? They're always trying to butt the + bull off the bridge. They're jealous of our town. Oh, they stooped to all + the mean, underhanded tricks you ever heard of to get the canning factory + to go to their place instead of here. But we know a thing or two + ourselves. Yes, we got the canning factory, all right, all right. + </p> + <p> + Did you notice how neat and trim our boys looked? None of this flub-dub of + scarlet shirts with a big white monogram on the breast, or these + fawn-colored suits with querlycues of braid all over. They spot very + easily. And did you notice how the Caledonias had long, lean men walking + with short, fat men, and nobody keeping step? Our boys were all carefully + graded and matched, and their dark blue uniforms with just the neat nickel + badge, I think, presented the best appearance of all. And I'll tell you + another thing. They'll put it all over the Caledonias this afternoon. They + won't let 'em get a smell. + </p> + <p> + Don't you like the fife-and-drum corps? The fifes set my teeth on edge, + but I could follow the drums all day with their: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tucket a brum, brum brum-brum, tuck-all de brum + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum + Tucket a blip-blip-blip-blip, tucka tuck-all de brum, + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + Part of the time the drummers click their sticks together instead of + hitting the drum-head. That's what makes it sound so nice. I wish I could + play the snare-drum. + </p> + <p> + In the Mechanicsburg band is a boy about fourteen years old, a muscular, + sturdy chunk of a lad. He walks with his heels down, his calves bulged out + behind, his head up, and the regular, proper swagger of a bandsman. He + hasn't any uniform, but he's all right. He plays a solo B part, and he and + the other solo cornet spell each other. On the repeat of every strain my + boy rests, and rubs his lips with his forefinger, while he looks at the + populace with bright, expectant eyes. When he blows, he scowls, and brings + the cushion of muscle on the point of his chin clear up to his under lip, + and he draws his breath through the corners of his mouth. He's the real + thing. Bright boy, too, I judge, the kind that has a quick answer for + everybody, like: “Aw, go chase yerself,” or “Go on, yeh big stiff.” Watch + him on the countermarch when they pass the Radnor cornet band. The Radnors + broke up the Mechanicsburg band last year and they're going to try to do + it again this year. The musicians blow themselves the color of a + huckleberry, and the drummers grit their teeth, and try to pound holes in + their sheep-skins. Aha! It's the Radnor band got rattled in its time this + year. Went all to pieces. The boy snatches, a rest. “Yah!” he squawks. + “Didge ever get left?” and picks up the tune again. I wish I could play + the cornet. Wouldn't play solo B or I wouldn't play any—Ooooooooh! + Did you see that? Took that stick by the other end from the knob and slung + it away, 'way up in the air, whirling like sixty, and caught it when it + came down and never missed a step. Look at him juggle it from hand to + hand, over his shoulder, and behind his back, and under one leg, whirling + so fast that you can hardly see it, and all in perfect step. Whope! I + thought he was going to drop it that time but he didn't. That's something + you don't see in the cities. There, all the drum-major does with his stick + is just to point it the way the band is to go. I like our fashion the + best. Geeminentally! Look at that! I bet it went up in the air forty feet + if it went an inch. I wish I was a drummajor. I guess I'd sooner be a + drum-major than anything else. Oh, well, detective—that's different. + </p> + <p> + Let's go farther along. Don't get too near the judges' stand. I know. It's + the best place to see the finish of an event, but I've been to Firemen's + Tournament before. You let me pick out the seats. Up close to the judges' + stand is all right till you come to the “wet races.” What? Oh, you wait + and see. Fun? Well, I should say so. Hope they'll clear all those boys off + the rail. Here! Get down off that rail. Think we can see through you? + You're thin, but you're not thin enough for that. Yes, I mean you, and + don't you give me any of your impudence either. Look at those women out + there. Right spang in the way of the scraper. Isn't that a woman all over? + A woman and a hen, I don't know which is—Well, hel-lo! Where'd you + come from? How's all the folks? Where's Lizzie? Didn't she come with you? + Aw, isn't that too bad? Scalding hot! Ts! Ts! Ts! Seems as if they made + preserving kettles apurpose so's they'd tip up when you go to pour + anything.... Why, I guess we can. Move over a little, Charley. Can you + squeeze in? That's all right. Pretty thick around here, isn't it? There's + the band starting up. About time, I think. Teedle-eedle umtum, + teedle-eedle, um-tum. “Hiawatha,” of course. What other tune is there on + earth? I've got so I know almost all of it. + </p> + <p> + First is—let me see the program. First is what Mat. King calls “the + juveline contest.” It says here: “Run with truck carrying three ladders + one hundred yards. Take fifteen-foot ladder from truck, raise it against + structure”—that's the judges' stand—“and boy ascend. Time to + be taken when climber grasps top rung of ladder.” They're off. That + pistol-shot started them. Why can't people sit down? See just as well if + they did. New Berlin's, I guess. Pretty good. He's hanging out the slate + with the time on it. Eighteen and four-fifths. Oh, no, never in the world. + Here's the Mt. Victory boys. See that light-haired boy. Go it, towhead! + Ah, they've got the ladder crooked. Eighteen. That's not so bad .... Oh, + quit your fooling. He's nothing of the kind. Honestly? What! that old + skeezicks? Who to, for pity's sake? Well, I thought he was a confirmed old + bachelor, if anybody ever was. Well, sir, that just goes to show that any + man, I don't care who he is, can get married if he—Who were those? + Are those the Caledonia juveniles? I don't think much of 'em, do you? + Seventeen and two-fifths. I wouldn't have thought it. So their team gets + the first prize. Well, we weren't in that. + </p> + <p> + What's next? “First prize, silver water-set, donated by Hon. William + Krouse.” Since when did old Bill Krouse get to be “Honorable?” Yes, well, + don't talk to me about Bill Krouse. I know him and his whole connection + and there isn't an honest hair—“Association trophy will also be + competed for.” Oh, that's the goldlined loving cup we saw in the window. + Our boys have won it twice and the Caledonias have won it twice. If we get + it this time, it will be ours for keeps. “Run with truck one hundred and + fifty yards; take twenty-five foot ladder,” and so forth and so forth, Dan + O'Brien's the boy for scaling ladders. He was going to enlist in the Boer + War, he hates the English so. Down on them the worst way. And say, what do + you think? Last year, at Caledonia, he won the first prize for individual + ladder scaling. And what do you suppose the first prize was? A picture of + Queen Victoria. Isn't that Caledonia all over? there's a kind of rivalry + between our boys and the Caledonias. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Here they come now. Those are the Caledonian. Tell by the truck .... Do +you think so? I don't think they're anything so very much. Nix. You'll +never do it. Look at the way they run with their heads up. That shows +they're all winded. Look at the clumsy way they got the ladder off the +wagon. Blap! The judge thought it was coming through the boards on him. +Oh, pretty good, pretty good, but you just wait till you see our boys. +Look at the fool hanging there on the ladder waiting till the time is +announced. Isn't that Caledonia all over? Yah! Come down! Come down! +What is it? Twenty-five seconds. What's the record? Twenty-four and +four-fifths? Oh, well, it isn't so bad for Caledonia, but you just + what our boys do. Hear those yaps from Caledonia yell! If there's +anything I despise it is for a man to whoop and holler and make a public +spectacle of himself. Who's this? Oh, the Radnors. They're out of it. +Look at them. Pulling every which way. That ladder's too straight up +and down. Twenty-seven and two-fifths. What did I tell you?... What time +does your train go? Well, why don't you and your wife come take supper +with us? Why didn't you look us up noon-time?... I could have told you +better than that. (They went to the Ladies' Aid dinner.) Well, we shan't +have much, I expect, but we'll try and scrape up something more +filling than layer-cake. The idea of expecting to feed hungry people +on layer-cake! It's an imposition.... I didn't notice which one it +was. Doesn't matter any way. Only twenty-eight. Ah, here are our boys. +They've got blue silk running-breeches on. Well, maybe it is sateen. Let +the women folks alone for knowing sateen from silk a mile off. How much +a yard did you say it was? Notice the way they start with their hands +on the ground, just like the pictures on the sporting page of the Sunday +newspapers. Here they come. Oh, I hope they'll win. That's Charley +Rodehaver in front. Run! Oh, why don't you run? Come on! Come on! +Come on! Come on! COME ON! COME ON! COME O—O-oh! See Dan skip up that +ladder! Go it, Dan! Go it, old boy! Hooray-ay! Hooray-ay, ay! What's the +time? Twenty-four! Twenty—four flat! BROKE THE RECORD! Hooray-ay-ay! +Where's Caledonia now? Where's Caledonia now? Oh, I'm so glad our boys +won. There goes the Caledonia chief. I'll bet he feels like thirty +cents, Spanish. Ya-a-a-ah! Ya-a-a-ah! Where's Caledonia now? They can't +beat that, the other fellows can't, and it's our trophy for keeps.... +Oh, some crank in the next row. “Wouldn't I please sit down and not +obstruct the view.” Guess he comes from Caledonia. Looks like it. You +stand up, too, why don't you? Those planks are terribly hard.... I +didn't notice. Yes, that wasn't so bad. Twenty-five and two-fifths. But +it's our trophy. There goes Dan now. Hey, Dan! Good boy, Dan! Wave your +handkerchief at him. Hooray-ay-ay! Good boy, Dan! +</pre> + <p> + Next is a wet race. Now look out. Let's see what the program says: “Run + seventy-five yards to structure, on top of which an empty barrel has been + placed with spout outlet near top. Barrel to be filled with water by means + of buckets from reservoir”—That big tin-lined box opposite is the + reservoir. They are filling it now with a hose attached to the water-plug + yonder—“until water issues from spout.” What are they all laughing + at? Which one? Oh, but isn't she mad? Talk about a wet hen. Why, Charley, + the hose got away from the man that was filling the reservoir and the lady + was splashed. Why don't you use your eyes and see what's going on and not + be bothering me to tell you? Ip! There it goes again. Oh, ho! ho! ho! hee! + hee! didn't I tell you it would be fun? See it run out of his sleeves.... + I always get to coughing when I laugh as hard as that. Oh, dear me! Makes + the tears come. + </p> + <p> + These are the fellows from Luxora. Oh, the clumsy things! Let the ladder + get away from them, and it fell and hit that man in the second row right + on the head. Hope it didn't hurt him much. See 'em scurry with the water + buckets. Aw, get a move on! Get a move! Why, what makes them so slow? + “Water, water!” Well, I should think as much. Not for themselves though. + Those fellows at the bottom of the ladder are catching it, aren't they? + Oh, pshaw, they don't mind it. They get it worse than that at a real fire + when they aren't half so well fixed for it. Why, is there no bottom to + that barrel at all? Why, look!... Say, the judge forgot to close the + valve. There's a hose connected with the bottom of the barrel to run the + water off after each trial and he's forgotten to—... Well, isn't + that too bad! All that work for nothing. I suppose they'll let them try it + over again.... That man must have got a pretty hard rap. They're carrying + him out. His head's all bloody.... Wapatomicas, I guess. Yes, Wapatomicas. + I hope the valve's closed this time. Whope! did you see that? One fellow + got hit with a water bucket and it was about half-full. It's running out + of the spout. Yes, and it's falling on those people right where you wanted + to sit. Hear the girls squeal. Talk about your fun. I don't want any + better fun than this. Look at 'em come down the ladder just holding the + sides with their hands. They couldn't do that if the ladder was dry. + </p> + <p> + Ah, here's our crowd. Come on! Come on! Come on! COME ON! Oh, don't be so + slow with those buckets! Aren't they fine? Say, they don't care if they do + spill a drop or two. Why. Why, what are they coming down for? It isn't + running out of the spout yet. Come back! COME BACK! Oh, pshaw! Just threw + it away by being in too much of a hurry. That judge looks funny, doesn't + he, with a rubber overcoat on and the sun shining? See, he's telling them: + “One bucket more.” They'll let 'em have another trial, of course.... No? + Oh, that's an outrage. That' s not fair. The Caledonias will get it + now.... Yes, sir, they did get it. Oh, well, accidents will happen. What? + “Where's Caledonia now?” Well, they got it by a fluke. What say?... Well + only for—Oh, pshaw! Now, don't tell me that because I was there and—Well, + I say they didn't .... I know better, they didn't.... Oh, shut up. You + don't know what you're talking about. I tell you—Now, Mary, don't + you interfere. I'm not quarreling. I'm just telling this gentleman back of + me that—Well, all right, if you're going to cry. If there was any + fouling done it was the Caledonias that did it, though. + </p> + <p> + The next is where they “run three hundred feet from the judges' stand, + raise ladder, hose company to couple to hydrant, break coupling in hose + and put on nozzle, scale ladder, and fill twenty-five gallon barrel.” Only + the Caledonias, and our boys are entered in this. Now we'll see which is + the best. All right, Mary, I won't say a word.... Say, for country-jakes, + those Caledonias didn't do so badly. I give them that much. Look at the + water fly! I'll bet those folks near the judges' stand wish they'd brought + their umbrellas. Now you see why these are the best seats, don't you? I + told you I'd been to Firemen's Tournaments before. What? You'll have to + talk louder than that if you want me to hear with all this noise.... Oh, + that'll be all right. They'll be so hungry they won't notice it. + </p> + <p> + Here, be careful how you wabble that hose around. Good thing they turned + the water off at the plug just when they did or we'd have been—Here's + our company. Where's Caledonia now? Eh? Pretty work! Pretty work! Say, do + you know that hose full of water's heavy? Now watch Riley. Riley's the one + that's got the nozzle. Always up to some monkeyshine. Ah! See him? See + him? Oh, is n't he soaking them? Oh-ho! Ho! Ho! ha! ha! hee-hee! Yip. + </p> + <p> + Blame clumsy fool!... P-too! Yes, in my mouth and in my ears and down the + back of my neck. All over. Running out of my sleeves. Everything I got on + is just ruined. Completely ruined. Come on. Let's go home. There's nothing + more to see, much. Aw, come on. Well, stay if you want to, but I'm going + home, and get some dry clothes on me. You get me to go to another + Firemen's Tournament and you'll know it. Look at that monkey from + Caledonia laughing at me. For half a cent I'd go up and smack his face for + him.... Aw, let up on your “Where's Caledonia now?” Give us a rest. Well, + are you coming, you folks?... Kind of a fizzle this year, wasn't it? + </p> + <p> + However, after supper, with dry clothes on, it isn't so bad. The streets + are packed. All the firemen are parading and shouting: “Who? Who? Who are + we?” The Caledonias got one more prize than our boys. Well, why shouldn't + they? Entered in three more events. I don't see as that's anything to brag + of or to carry brooms about. All the fife-and-drum corps are out, and the + bands are all playing “Hiawatha” at once, but not together. Not all + either. There's one band in front of Hofmeyer's playing “Oh, Happy Day! + That Fixed my Choce.” That's funny: to play a hymn-tune in front of a + beer-saloon. Hofmeyer seems to think it's all right. He's inviting them in + to have something. “Took the hint?” I don't understand.... Oh, is that so? + I didn't know there were other words to that tune. + </p> + <p> + See that woman with four little ones. Her husband's carrying two more. “I + want to go howm. Why cain't we gow howm? I do' want to gow howm pretty + soon. I want to gow na-ow!” Eh, Mary, how would you like to lug them + around all day and then stand up in the cars all the way home? + </p> + <p> + Well, good-by. Hope you had a nice time. Give my regards to all the folks. + Don't be in such a rush, my friend.... Oh, did you see? It must be the man + that got hit on the head with the ladder. Taking him home on a stretcher. + Gee! That's tough. Skull fractured, eh? Dear! Dear! I hear they have been + keeping company a long time, and were to have been married soon. No wonder + she cried and took on so. Poor girl! Yes, it's the women that suffer .... + Oh, quite a day for accidents. I didn't mind, though, after I had changed + my clothes. I took some quinine, and I guess I'll be all right. Lucky you + got a seat. Well, you're off at last. Good-by. Remember me to all. + Good-by. + </p> + <p> + Well, thank goodness, that's over. Another ten minutes of them and + wouldn't have—Well, Mary, what else could I do but ask them home + after he told me what they didn't have to eat at the Ladies' Aid?... It + was all right. Plenty good enough. Better than they have at home and I'll + bet on it. The table looked beautiful. I'm glad the Tournament doesn't + come but once a year. I'm about ready to drop. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEVOURING ELEMENT + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Silverstone was gloomily considering whether he had not better blow + out the lights in the New York One Price Clothing Store, and lock up for + the night. Kerosene was fifteen cents a gallon, and not a customer had + been in since supper-time. Business was “ofle, simbly ofle.” + </p> + <p> + The streets were empty. There were lights only in the barber shop where + one patron was being lathered while two mandolins and a guitar gave a + correct imitation of two house-flies and a bluebottle in Riley's where, in + default of other occupation, Mr. Riley was counting up; in Oesterle's, + where a hot discussion was going on as to whether Christopher Columbus was + a Dutchman or a Dago, and in Miller's, where Tom Ball was telling Tony, + who impassively wiped the perforated brass plate let into the top of the + bar, that he, Tom Ball, “coul' lick em man ill Logan coun'y.” + </p> + <p> + Lamps shone in every parlor, where little girls labored with: “And one and + two, three and one and two, three,” occasionally coming out to look at the + clock to see if the hour was any nearer being up than it was five minutes + ago. They also shone in sitting-rooms, where boys looked fiercely at “X2 + +2Xy+y2,” mothers placidly darned stockings, and fathers, Weekly Examiner + in hand, patiently struggled to disengage from “boiler-plate” and bogus + news about people snatched from the jaws of death by the timely use of Dr. + McKinnon's Healing Extract of Timothy and Red-top, items of real news, + such as who was sick and what ailed them, who cut his foot with the ax + while splitting stove-wood, and where the cake sale by the Rector's Aid of + Grace P.E. would be held next week. + </p> + <p> + At the prayer-meeting, Uncle Billy Nicholson was giving in his experience + and had just got to that part about: “Sometimes on the mountaintop, and + sometimes in the valley, but still, nevertheless—” when, all of a + sudden, something happened. + </p> + <p> + The mandolins stopped with a jerk. Mr. Riley stood tranced at: “And ten is + thirty-five.” Mr. Ball was stricken dumb in the celebration of his own + great physical powers. The crowd in Oesterle's forgot Columbus, and were + as men beholding a ghost. The drowsy congregation sat up rigid, and Mr. + Silverstone gave a guilty start. He had been thinking of that very thing! + </p> + <p> + The next instant, front doors were wrenched open, and the street echoed + with the sound of windows being raised. Fathers and sons rushed out on the + front porch, followed by little girls, to whom any excuse to stop + practising was like a plank to a drowning man. + </p> + <p> + They had heard aright. Up by the Soldiers' Monument fell the clump of + tired feet, and upon the air floated the wild alarm of—. + </p> + <p> + “FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Poof! FIRE!” + </p> + <p> + Mat King, the assistant chief, kicked off his slippers, and swiftly laced + up his shoes, grabbed his speaking-trumpet and his helmet, and tore out of + the house. If he could only get to the engine-house before Charley Lomax, + the chief! But Charley was the lone customer in the barber's char. With + the lather on one side of his face, he clapped on his hat and broke for + the firebell, four doors below. + </p> + <p> + “Where's it at?” + </p> + <p> + “FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Sm-poohl Fi—(gulp)—FIRE!” + </p> + <p> + “It's Linc Hoover. Hay, Linc! Where's the fire?” + </p> + <p> + “FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! ha, ha! FIRE!” + </p> + <p> + “Hay, Linc! Where's it at? Tell me and I'll run. Hay! Where's it at?” + </p> + <p> + “FIRE! Swope's be—(gulp) Swope's barn. FIRE!” + </p> + <p> + “Which Swope? Henry or the old man?” + </p> + <p> + “FIRE! Pooh! J. K. Swope. Whoo-ha, whooh-ha! Out out on West End Avenue. + Poof!” + </p> + <p> + The news thus being passed, the fresher runners scampered ahead, bawling: + “FOY-URRR' FOY-URRR! and Linc, the hero, slowed down, gasping for breath + and spitting cotton. + </p> + <p> + “Whew!” he whistled, gustily, his arms dropping and his whole frame + collapsing. “Gee! I'm 'bout tuckered. Sm-pooh! Sm-pooh! Run all th' way + f'm—sm-ha, sm-ha!—run all th' way f'm—mouth's all stuck + together—p'too! ha! Pooh! Fm West End Avenue and Swo—Swope's. + Gee! I'm hot's flitter.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep y' coat on when you're all of a prespiration, that way. How'd it + ketch?” + </p> + <p> + “Ount know. 'S comin' by there an' I—whoof! I smelt smoke and—Gosh! + I'm all out o' breath—an' I looked an' I je-e-est could see a light—wisht + I had a drink o' somepin' to rench mum mouth out. Whew! Oh, laws! An' it + was Swope's barn and I run in an' opened the door, didn't stop to knock or + nung, an' I hollered out: 'Yib barn's afire!' an' he run out in his + sockfeet, an' he says: 'My Lord!' he says. 'Linc,' he says, 'run git the + ingine an' I putt.” Linc drew in a long, tremulous breath like a man that + has looked on sorrow. + </p> + <p> + “Why 'n't you—” + </p> + <p> + “Betchy 't was tramps,” interrupted a bystander. “Git in the haymow an' + think they got to have their blamed old pipe a-goin'—” + </p> + <p> + “Cigarettes, more likely,” said another. “More darn devilment comes from + cigarettes—” + </p> + <p> + “Why'n't you—” + </p> + <p> + “Ount know nung 'bout tramps,” said Linc. “All I seen was the fire. I was + a-comin' long a-past there an' I smelt the smoke an' thinks I—What + say?” + </p> + <p> + “Why'n't you telefoam down?” + </p> + <p> + Linc, the hero, shrunk a foot. “I gosh!” he admitted, “I never thought + to.” + </p> + <p> + “Jist'a' telefoamed, you could 'a' saved yourself all that—” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't they weltin' the daylights out o' that bell? All foolishness! Now + they're ringin' the number—one, two, three, four. Yes, sir, that's + up in the West End. You goin'? Come on, then.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Frank, I can't let you go. You've got your lessons to get. Well, now, + mother, make up your mind if you're comin' along. Cora, what on earth are + you doing out here in the night air with nothing around you? Now, you + mosey right back into that parlor, and don't you make a move off that + piano-stool till your hour's up. Do you hear me? No. Frank. I told you + once you couldn't go and that ends it. Stop your whining! I can't have you + running hither and yon all hours of the night, and we not know where you + are. Well, hurry up, then, mother. Take him in with you. Oh, just throw a + shawl over your head. Nobody 'll see you, or if they do they won't care.” + The apparatus trundles by, the bells on the trucks tolling sadly as the + striking gear on the rear axle engages the cam. A hurrying throng scuffles + by in the gloom. The tolling grows fainter, the throng thinner. + </p> + <p> + “Good land! Is she going to be all night? Wish 't I hadn't proposed it. + That's the worst of taking a woman anyplace. Fuss and fiddle by the hour + in front of the looking-glass. Em! (Be all over by the time we get there) + Oh, Em! Em!... EM! (Holler my head offl) EM!.... Well, why don't you + answer me? Well, I didn't hear you. How much long—Oh, I know about— + 'Hour' you mean.... Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Conklin? Hello, Fred. Pleased + to meet you, Miss Shoemaker. Yes, I saw in the paper you were visiting + your sister. This your first visit to our little burg? Yes, we think it's + quite a place. You see, we're trying to make your stay as interesting as + possible.... Oh, no, not altogether on your account. No, no. Ha! Ha-ha-ha! + Hum! ah!... Well, yes, if she ever gets done primping up. Oh, there you + are. Miss Shoemaker, let me make you acquainted with my wife. Now, you + girls'll have to get a move on if you want to see anything.” + </p> + <p> + The male escorts grasp the ladies' arms and shove them ahead, that being + the only way if you are ever going to get any place. The women gasp and + pant and make a great to-do. + </p> + <p> + “Ooh! Wait till I get my breath. Will! Weeull! Don't go so fay-ust! Oooh! + I can't stand it. Oh, well, you're a man.” + </p> + <p> + But when they turn the corner that gives them a good view of the blaze, + fluttering great puffs of flame, and hear the steady crackle and snapping, + as it were, of a great popper full of pop-corn, they, too, catch the + infection, and run with a loud swashing and slatting of skirts, giggling + and squealing about their hair coming down. + </p> + <p> + In the waving orange glare the crowd is seen, shifting and moving. It + seems impossible for the onlookers to remain constant in one spot. The + chief, Charley Lomax, is gesticulating with wide arm movements. He puts + his speaking-trumpet to his mouth. “Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoffi” he says. + </p> + <p> + “Wha-at?” the men halloo back. + </p> + <p> + “Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff.” + </p> + <p> + “What'd he say?” + </p> + <p> + “Search me. John, you run over and ask him what he wants. Or, no; I'll go + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Why in Sam Hill didn't you come sooner?” demands the angry chief. + </p> + <p> + “Well, why in Sam Hill don't you talk so 's a body can understand you? + 'Yoffemoffemoffemoffem.' Who can make sense out o' that?” + </p> + <p> + “The hose ain't long enough to reach from here to the hydrant. You 'n' + some more of 'em run down t' th' house an' git that other reel.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, say, Chief! Look here. I'm awful busy right now. Can't somebody else + go?” + </p> + <p> + “You go an' do what I tell you to, and don't gimme none o' your back + talk.” + </p> + <p> + (Too dag-gon bossy and dictatorial, that Charley Lomax is. Getting 'most + too big for his breeches. Never mind, there's going to be a fire election + week from Tuesday. See whether he'll be chief next year or not. Sending a + man away from the fire right at the most interesting part!) + </p> + <p> + “I'll go, Chief, wommetoo,” puts in jumbo Lee, all in a huddle of words. + “Ije slivsnot. Aw ri. Mon Jim. Shoonmeansmore of 'em go gitth'otherreel.” + </p> + <p> + Jumbo isn't a member of the fire department, though he is wild to join. He + isn't old enough. He is six feet one inch, weighs 180, and won't be + sixteen till the 5th of next February. Nobody ever saw him when he wasn't + eating. They say he clips his words so as to save time for eating. He + takes a cracker out of his pocket, shoves it in his mouth whole, jams his + hat down till his ears stick out, and, with his companions, tears down the + road, seemingly propelled as much by his elbows as by his legs. Why, under + the combined strain of growing and running, he doesn't part a seam + somewhere is a dark mystery. + </p> + <p> + Crash! The roof of the barn caves in and reveals what we had not before + suspected, that Platt's barn, on the other side of the alley, is afire + too. Say! This is getting interesting. The wind is setting directly toward + Swope's house. It has been so terribly dry this last month or so that the + house will go like powder if it ever catches. Why, I think Swope has a + well and cistern both. Used to have, anyway, before they put the + water-works in, and the board of health condemned the wells. Say! There + was a put-up job if there ever was one. Why, sure! Sure he had stock in + the water works. Doc. Muzzey? I guess, yes.... Pity they ever traded off + the hand-engine. They got a light-running hook-and-ladder truck. Won two + prizes at the tournament, just with that truck. But if they had that + hand-engine now though! “Up with her! Down with her!” Have that fire out + in no time! + </p> + <p> + They're not trying to save the barns. They're a dead loss. What little + water they can get from the cisterns and wells around—hasn't it been + dry?—they are using to try to save Swope's house, and the one next + to it. Is that where Lonny Wheeler lives? I knew it was up this way + somewhere. Don't he look ridiculous, sitting up there a-straddle of his + ridgepole, with a tin-cup? A tin-cup, if you please. Over this way a + little. See better. They're wetting down the roof. Line of fellows passing + buckets to the ladder, and a line up the ladder. What big sparks those + are! Puts you in mind of Fourth of July. How the roof steams! Must be hot + up there. + </p> + <p> + O-o-o-oh! + </p> + <p> + A universal indrawn breath from all spectators proclaims their horror. One + of the men on the roof missed his footing and slipped, rolling over and + over till he reached the roof of the porch, where he spread-eagled for a + fall. The women begin to moan. Some poor fellow gone to his death. Or, if + he be so lucky as to miss death itself, he is doomed to languish all his + days a helpless cripple. Like enough the sole support of an aged mother; + or perhaps his wife is sitting up for him at home now, tiptoeing into the + bedroom every little while to look at the sleeping children. That's + generally the way of it. Who is there so free and foot-loose that, if harm + befall him, some woman will not go mourning all her days? It must take the + heart out of brave men to think what their women folk must suffer, mothers + and wives and—Who? Dan O'Brien? Oh, he'll be all right. He'll light + on his feet like a cat. I believe that boy is made of India rubber. He + never gets hurt. Why, one time—Ah! There he goes now up the ladder + as if nothing had happened. Hooray-ayayay! Hooray-ay-ay-ay! I thought he'd + broken his neck as sure as shooting. + </p> + <p> + Wandering about one cannot fail to encounter what the gallant fire-laddies + have rescued from the devouring element. There is the piano with a deep + scratch across the upper part, and the top lid hanging by one hinge. It + caught in the door, and the boys were kind of in a hurry. There is the + parlor carpet, plucked up by the roots, as it were; and two tubs, the + washboard and a bag of clothes-pins; a stuffed chair, with three casters + gone, the coffee-pot, a crayon enlargement, a winter overcoat, a blanket, + a pile of old dresses, the screw-driver and a paper of tacks in the + colander, the couch with a triangular rip in the cover, the coal-scuttle, + a pile of dishes, the ax and wood-saw, a fancy pillow, the sewing-machine + with the top gone, the wash-boiler, the basket of dirty clothes, with the + stove-shaker and the parlor clock in together, and a heap of books, all + spraddled and sprawled every which way. Upon this pitiful mound sits Mrs. + Swope with her baby sound asleep upon her bosom. She mingles her tears + with the sustaining tea that Mrs. Farley has made for her. Swope, still in + his socks and with his wife's shoulder-cape upon him, caught up somehow, + is trying to soothe her. He is as mad as a hornet, and doesn't dare to + show it. All this furniture he had insured. It was all old stuff their + folks had given them. If the gallant fire-laddies had been as discreet as + they were zealous, they would have let the furniture go, and Swope and his + wife would have had an entire, brand-new outfit. As it is, who can ever + make that junk look like anything any more? + </p> + <p> + What's this coming up the road? Jumbo Lee and his friends with the other + hose-reel. Now they will connect it with the hydrant, and have water + a-plenty to save the house. Now the fellows are coming down from the + ladder. Cistern's empty, I suppose. The other reel didn't come any too + soon. How the roof steams! Or is it smoking? + </p> + <p> + “Don't stand around here with that reel! Up to that water-plug. Farther up + the street. Front o' Cummins's.” + </p> + <p> + Jumbo crams another cracker into his mouth and speeds away, hunching the + patient, unresenting air with his elbows. + </p> + <p> + Ah! See—that little flicker of flame on the roof! Do, for pity's + sake, hurry up with that connection! The roof is really burning. See? They + are trying to chop away the burning place. But there's another! And + another! + </p> + <p> + A-a-ah! Hooray-ay! Connection's made! Now you'll see something. Out of the + way there! One side! One side! Up you go!... Wha-at? Is that the best they + can do? Why, it won't run out of the nozzle at all when it's up on the + roof. Not a drop. Feeble little dribble when it's on the ground-level. + There's your water-works for you. It is a good long way from the fire-plug + I know, but there ought to be more pressure than that. Oh, pshaw! If we + only had the old hand-engine! “Up with her! Down with her!” Have that fire + out in no time. The house will have to go now. Too bad! + </p> + <p> + Somebody in the second story is rescuing property from the devouring + element. He has just tossed out a wash-bowl and pitcher. Luckily they both + fell on the sod and rolled apart. He takes down the roller-shade and + flings it out. The lace curtains follow. They catch on the edge of the + veranda roof, and languidly wave there as for some holiday. Bed-clothes + issue and pillows hurtle out. What's he doing now? No use. No use. You + can't get the mattress out of that window. A waste-paper basket, a rag + rug, a brush and comb—as fast as his hands can fly he's throwing out + things. + </p> + <p> + The women began to whimper. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the poor man! The roof will fall in on him! He'll smother to death! + Oh, why doesn't somebody go tell him to come away? Not you! Don't you + think of such a trick! Oh, why does he risk his life for a lot of trash I + wouldn't have around the house?” + </p> + <p> + The smoke oozes out of the open window. It must be choking in there. For a + long time no jettison of household goods appears. Perhaps the man, whoever + he is, has seen his peril and fled while yet it was possible to flee. Ah, + but suppose he has been overcome and lies there huddled in a heap, never + to rouse again? Is there none to save him? Is there none? Ah! A couple of + collars and a magazine flutter out into the light! He is still there. He + is still alive. Plague take the idiot! Why doesn't he come down out of + that? + </p> + <p> + “Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff. Yoffemoff!” + </p> + <p> + But no! He will do it himself. The Chief rushes gallantly into the burning + building and disappears up the dark stair. + </p> + <p> + Desperate measures are now to be resorted to. On the lawn a line of men + forms. They bend their necks, cowering before the fierce glow, but daring + it, and prepared to face it at even closer range. You are to witness now + an exhibition of that heroism which is commoner with us than we think, + that spirit of do and dare which mocks at danger and even welcomes pain. + It is a far finer sentiment than the cold-hearted calculation which looks + ahead, and figures out first whether it is worth while or not. + </p> + <p> + The men dash forward in the withering heat. With frantic haste they fix + the hook into the lattice-work beneath the porch and scamper back. + </p> + <p> + “Yo hee! Yo hee!” + </p> + <p> + The thick rope tautens as the firemen lay their weight to it. You can + almost see the bristling fibers stand up on it. + </p> + <p> + “Yo hee! Yo hee!” + </p> + <p> + With a splintering crash the timber parts, and a piece of lattice-work is + dragged away. + </p> + <p> + Another sortie and another. Bit by bit the porch is ripped and torn to + rubbish. You smile. It seems so futile. What are these kindlings saved + when the whole house is burning? Is this what you call heroism? Yet the + charge at Balaklava was not more futile. It had even less of commonsense, + less of hope of benefit to mankind to back it and inspire it. Heroism is + an instinct, not a thoughtout policy. Its quality is the same, in + two-ounce samples or in car-load lots. + </p> + <p> + The weather-boarding slips down in a sparkling fall. The joists and + stringers, all outlined and gemmed with coals, are, as it were, a golden + grille, through which the world may look unhindered in upon the holy place + of home, heretofore conventually private. There stands the family altar, + pitifully grotesque amid the ruinous splendor of the destroying fire, the + tea-kettle upon it proudly flaunting its steamy plume. What? Is a common + cooking-stove an altar? Yes, verily, in lineal descent. Examine an ancient + altar and you will see its sacrificial stone scored and guttered to catch + the dripping from the roasting meat. Who is the priestess, after an order + older than Melchisedec's, but she that ministers to us that most + comfortable sacrament, wherein we are made partakers not alone of the + outward and visible food which we do carnally press with our teeth, but + also of that inward and spiritual sustenance, the patient and enduring + love of wife and mother, without which there can be no such thing as home? + All other sacraments wherein men break the bread of amity together are but + copies of this pattern, the Blessed Sacrament of the Household Altar, the + first and primal one of all, the one that shall perdure, please God! + throughout all ages of ages. + </p> + <p> + The flames die down. The timbers sink together with a softer fall. The air + grows chill. We fetch a sigh. We cannot bear to look at that mute figure + of the priestess seated on the sordid heap of broken furniture, her + sleeping baby pressed against her breast, her gaze fixed—but seeing + naught—upon her ruined temple. We do not like to think upon such + things. We do not like to think at all. Is there nothing more to laugh at? + </p> + <p> + The firemen, having all borrowed the makings of a cigarette from each + other, put on their hats and coats, left on the hook-and-ladder truck in + the custody of a trusted member. The apparatus trundles off, the bells + dolorously tolling as the striking gear on the rear axle engages the cam. + </p> + <p> + Who is this weeping man approaches, supported by two friends, that comfort + him with: “All right, Tom. You done noble,” uttered in pacifying if not + convincing tones? Heart-brokenly he cries: “I dull le ver' bes' I knowed, + now di' n't I? Charley? Billy, I dub bes' I knowed how. An' nen he says to + me—Oo-hoo-hoo-oooo-oo! He says to me: 'Come ou' that, ye cussed + fool!' Oo-oooo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Smf! Lemme gi' amma ham hankshiff. Leg go my + arm. Waw gi' amma hankshifp. Oo-oo-oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Fmf! I ash you as may + wurl—I ash you as may—man of world, is that—is that + proper way address me? Me! Know who I am? I'm Tom Ball. 'S who I am. I + kill lick em man ill Logan Coun'y. Ai' thasso? Hay? 'S aw ri. Mfi choose + stay up there, aw thas sec—aw thas second floor and rescue + fel-cizzen's propprop'ty from devouring em—from devouring emlement, + thas my bizless. Ai' tham my bizless, Charley? Ai' tham my bizless, Billy? + W'y, sure. Charley, you're goof feller. You too, Billy. You're goof + feller, too. Say. Wur-wur if Miller's is open yet? 'Spose it is? Charley; + I dub bes' I knowed how, di'n't I, now? Affor that Chief come up thas + stairway and say me: 'Come ou' that, ye cussed fool!' Aw say! 'Come ou' + that—'Called me fool, too! Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo!” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Dan! Hurt yourself any? (That's Dan O'Brien. Fell off the roof.) + Well, sir, I thought sure you'd broken your neck. You don't know your + luck. And let me tell you one thing, my bold bucko: You'll do that just + once too often. Now you mark.” + </p> + <p> + The day before the Weekly Examiner goes to press, Mr. Swope hands the + editor a composition entitled: “A Card of Thanks,” signed by John K. and + Amelia M. Swope, and addressed to the firemen and all who showed by their + many acts of kindness, and so forth and so on. + </p> + <p> + “Kind of help to fill up the paper,” says Mr. Swope, covering his retreat. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” replies the editor. When Mr. Swope is good and gone, he says: “Dog + my riggin's if I didn't forget all about writing up that fire. Been so + busy here lately. Good thing he come in. Hay, Andy!” + </p> + <p> + “Watch want?” from the composing-room. + </p> + <p> + “Got room for about two sticks more?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, guess so. If it don't run over that.” + </p> + <p> + A brief silence. Then: + </p> + <p> + “Hay, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it 'had have,' or 'had of?” + </p> + <p> + “What's the connection?” + </p> + <p> + “Why-ah. 'If the gallant fire-laddies, under the able direction of Chief + Charley Lomax, had of had a sufficiency of water with which to cope with + the devouring element—'etc.” + </p> + <p> + “'Had have,' I guess. I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess you're right. Run it that way anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CIRCUS DAY + </h2> + <p> + Only the other day, the man that in all this country knows better than + anybody else how a circus should be advertised, said (with some sadness, I + do believe) that it didn't pay any longer to put up showbills; the money + was better invested in newspaper advertising. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn't pay.” Ah, me! How the commercial spirit of the age plays + whaley with the romance of existence! You shall not look long upon the + showbill now that there is no money to be had from it. “Youth's + sweet-scented manuscript” is about to close, but ere it does, let us turn + back a little to the pages illuminated by the glowing colors of the circus + poster. + </p> + <p> + Saturday afternoon when we went by the enginehouse, its brick wall + fluttered with the rags and tatters of “Esther, the Beautiful Queen,” and + the lecture on “The Republic: Will it Endure?” (Gee! But that was + exciting!) Sunday morning, after Sunday-school, there was a sudden + quickening among the boys. We stopped nibbling on the edges of the lesson + leaf and followed the crowd in scuttling haste. Miraculously, over-night, + the shabby wall had blossomed into thralling splendor. What was Daniel in + the Lions' Den, compared with Herr Alexander in the same? Not, as the + prophet is pictured, in the farthest corner from the lions, and manifestly + saying to himself: “If I was only out of this!” But with his head right + smack dab in the lion's mouth. Right in it. Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + “S' Posin'!” we gasped, all goggle-eyed, “jist s'posin' that there lion + was to shut his mouth! Ga-ash!” + </p> + <p> + The Golden Text? It faded before the lemon-and-scarlet glories of the + Golden Chariot. Drawn by sixteen dappled steeds, each with his neck + arching like a fish-hook and reined with fancy scalloped reins, it + occupied the center of the foreground. The band rode in it, far more + fortunate than our local band whose best was, Charley Wells's depot 'bus. + And nobler than all his fellows was the bass-drummer. He had a canopy over + him, a carved and golden canopy, on whose top revolved a clown's head with + its tongue stuck out. On each quarter of this rococo shallop a golden + circus-girl in short skirts gaily skipped rope with a nubia or fascinator, + or whatever it is the women call the thing they wrap around their heads in + cold weather when they hang out the clothes. There were big pieces of + looking-glass let into the sides of the band-wagon, and every decorator + knows that when you put looking-glass on a thing it is impossible to fix + it so that it will be any finer. + </p> + <p> + Winding back and forth across the picture was the long train of + tableau-cars and animal cages, diminishing with distance until away, 'way + up in the upper left-hand corner the hindmost van was all immersed in the + blue-and-yellow haze just this side of out-of-sight. That with our own + eyes we should behold the glories here set forth we knew right well. Cruel + Fortune might cheat us of the raptures to be had inside the tents, but the + street-parade was ours, for it was free. + </p> + <p> + It seems to me that we did not linger so long before these pictures, nor + before those of the rare and costly animals, which, if we but knew it, + were the main reason why we were permitted to go (if we did get to go). To + look at these animals is improving to the mind, and since we could not go + alone, an older person had to accompany us, and... and... I trust I make + myself clear. But we didn't want to improve our minds if it was a possible + thing to avoid it. The pictures of these animals were in the joggerfy book + anyhow, though not in colors, unless we had a box of paints. There can be + no doubt that the show-bill pictures of the menageries were in colors. I + seem to recollect that Mr. Galbraith, who kept the dry-goods store across + the street from the engine-house, was very much exercised in his mind + about the way one of these pictures was printed. It was the counterfeit + presentment of the Hip-po-pot-a-mus, or Behemoth of Holy Writ. His + objection to the hip—you know was not because its open countenance + was so fearsome, but because it was so red. Six feet by two of flaming + crimson across the street in the afternoon sun made it necessary for him + to take the goods to the back window of the store to show to customers. He + didn't like it a bit. + </p> + <p> + No. Neither before the large and expensive pictures of the street-parade, + nor the large and expensive wild beasts did we linger. The swarm was + thickest, sand the jabbering loudest, the “O-o-oh's,” the “M! Looky's” the + “Geeminently's” shrillest, in front of where the deeds of high emprise + were set forth. Men with their fists clenched on their breasts, and their + neatly slippered toes touching the backs of their heads, crashed through + paper-covered hoops beneath which horses madly coursed; they flew through + the air with the greatest of ease, the daring young men on the flying; + trapeze, or they posed in living pyramids. + </p> + <p> + And as the sons of men assembled themselves together, Satan came also, the + spirit I, that evermore denies. + </p> + <p> + “A-a-ah!” sneers his embodiment in one whose crackling voice cannot make + up its mind whether to be bass or treble, “A-a-ah, to the show they down't + do hay-uf what they is in the pitchers.” + </p> + <p> + A chilling silence follows. A cold uneasiness strikes into all the + listeners. We are all made wretched by destructive criticism. Let us alone + in our ideals. Let us alone, can't you? + </p> + <p> + “Now... now,” pursues the crackle-voiced Mephisto, pointing to where + Japanese jugglers defy the law of gravitation and other experiences of + daily life, “now, they cain't walk up no ladder made out o' reel sharp + swords.” + </p> + <p> + “They can so walk up it,” stoutly declares one boy. Hurrah! A champion to + the rescue! The others edge closer to him. They like him. + </p> + <p> + “Nah, they cain't. How kin they? They'd cut their feet all to pieces.” + </p> + <p> + “They kin so. I seen 'em do it. The time I went with Uncle George I seen a + man, a Japanee.... Yes, sharp. Cut paper with 'em.... A-a-ah, I did so. I + guess I know what I seen an' what I didn't.” + </p> + <p> + The little boys breathe easier, but fearing another onslaught, make all + haste to call attention to the most fascinating one of all, the picture of + a little boy standing up on top of his daddy's head. And, as if that + weren't enough, his daddy is standing up on a horse and the horse is going + round the ring lickety-split. And, as if these circumstances weren't + sufficiently trying, that little show-boy is standing on only one foot. + The other is stuck up in the air like five minutes to six, and he has hold + of his toe with his hand. I'll bet you can't do that just as you are on + the ground, let alone on your daddy's head, and him on a horse that's + going like sixty. Now you just try it once. Just try it.... Aa-ah! Told + you you couldn't. + </p> + <p> + Now, how the show-actors can do that looks very wonderful to you. It + really is very simple. I'll tell you about it. All show-actors are born + double-jointed. You have only two hip-joints. They have four. And it's the + same all over with them. Where you have only one joint, they have two. So, + you see, the wonder isn't how they can bend themselves every which way, + but how they can keep from doubling up like a foot-rule. + </p> + <p> + And another thing. Every day they rub themselves all over with snake-oil. + Snakes are all limber and supple, and it stands to reason that if you take + and try out their oil, which is their express essence, and then rub that + into your skin, it will make you supple and limber, too. I should think + garter-snakes would do all right, if you could catch enough of them, but + they 're so awfully scarce. Fishworms won't do. I tried 'em. There's no + grease in 'em at all. They just dry up. + </p> + <p> + And I suppose you know the reason why they stay on the horse's back. They + have rosin on their feet. Did you ever stand up on a horse's back? I did. + It was out to grandpap's, on old Tib.... No, not very long. I didn't have + any rosin on my feet. I was going to put some on, but my Uncle Jimmy said: + “Hay! What you got there?” I told him. “Well,” he says, “you jist mosey + right into the house and put that back in the fiddle-box where you got it. + Go on, now. And if I catch you foolin' with my things again, I'll.... + Well, I don't know what I will do to you.” So I put it back. Anyhow, I + don't think rosin would have helped me stay on a second longer, because + old Tib, with an intelligence you wouldn't have suspected in her, walked + under the wagon-shed and calmly scraped me off her back. + </p> + <p> + And did you ever try to walk the tight-rope? You take the clothes-line and + stretch it in the grape-arbor—better not make it too high at first—and + then you take the clothes-prop for a balance-pole and go right ahead—er—er + as far as you can. The real reason why you fall off so is that you don't + have chalk on your shoes. Got to have lots of chalk. Then after you get + used to the rope wabbling so all-fired fast, you can do it like a mice. + And while I'm about it, I might as well tell you that if you ever expect + to amount to a hill of beans as a trapeze performer you must have + clear-starch with oil of cloves in it to rub on your hands. Finest thing + in the world. My mother wouldn't let me have any. She said she couldn't + have me messing around that way, I blame her as much as anybody that I am + not now a competent performer on the trapeze. + </p> + <p> + I don't know that I had better go into details about the state of mind + boys are in from the time the bills are first put up until after the + circus has actually departed. I don't mean the boys that get to go to + everything that comes along, and that have pennies to spend for candy, and + all like that, whenever they ask for it. I mean the regular, proper, + natural boys, that used to be “Back Home,” boys whose daddies tormented + them with: “Well, we Il see—” that's so exasperating!—or, “I + wish you wouldn't tease, when you know we can't spare the money just at + present.” A perfectly foolish answer, that last. They had money to fritter + away at the grocery, and the butcher-shop, and the dry-goods store, but + when it came to a necessity of life, such as going to the circus, they let + on they couldn't afford it. A likely story. + </p> + <p> + “Only jist this little bit of a once. Aw, now, please. Please, cain't I + go? Aw now, I think you might. Aw now, woncha? Aw, paw. I ain't been to a + reely show for ever so long. Aw, the Scripture pammerammer, that don't + count. Aw, paw. Please cain't I go? Aw, please!” And so forth and so on, + with much more of the same sort. No, I can't go into details, it's too + terrible. + </p> + <p> + Even those of us whose daddies said plainly and positively: “Now, I can't + let you go. No, Willie. That's the end of it. You can't go.” Even those, I + say, hoped against hope. It simply could not be that what the human heart + so ardently longed for should be denied by a loving father. This same + conviction applies to other things, even when we are grown up. It is + against nature and the constituted scheme of things that we cannot have + what we want so badly. (And, in general, it may be said that we can have + almost anything we want, if we only want it hard enough. That's the + trouble with us. We don't want it hard enough.) We boys lay there in the + shade and pulled the long stalks of grass and nibbled off the sweet, + yellow ends, as we dramatized miracles that could happen just as well as + not, if they only would, consarn 'em! For instance, you might be going + along the street, not thinking of anything but how much you wanted to go + to the circus, and how sorry you were because you hadn't the money, and + your daddy wouldn't give you any; and first thing you 'd know, you 'd stub + your toe on something, and you'd look down and there'd be a half a dollar + that somebody had lost—Gee! If it would only be that way! But we + knew it wouldn't, because only the other Sunday, Brother Longenecker had + said: “The age of miracles is past.” So we had to give up all hopes. Oh, + it's terrible. Just terrible! + </p> + <p> + But some of the boys lay there in the grass with their hands under their + heads, looking up at the sky, and making little white spots come in and + out on the corners of their jaws, they had their teeth set so hard, and + were chewing so fiercely. You could almost hear their minds creak, + scheming, scheming, scheming. I suppose there were ways for boys to make + money in those times, but they always fizzled out when you came to try + them, to say nothing of the way they broke into your day. Why, you had + scarcely any time to play in. You 'd go 'round to some neighbor's house + with a magazine, and you'd say: “Good afternoon, Mrs. Slaymaker. Do you + want to subscribe for this?” Just the way you had studied out you would + say. And she'd take it, and go sit down with it, and read it clear through + while you played with the dog, and then when she got all through with it, + and had read all the advertisements, she'd hand it back to you and say: + No, she didn't believe she would. They had so many books and papers now + that she didn't get a chance hardly to read in any of them, let alone + taking any new ornes. Were you getting many new subscribers? Just + commenced, eh? Well, she wished you all the luck in the world. How was + your ma? That's good. Did she hear from your Uncle John's folks since they + moved out to Kansas? + </p> + <p> + I have heard that there were boys who, under the dire necessity of going + to the circus, got together enough rags, old iron, and bottles to make up + the price, sold 'em, collected the money, and went. I don't believe it. I + don't believe it. We all had, hidden under the back porch, our + treasure-heap of rusty grates, cracked fire-pots, broken griddles and + lid-lifters, tub-hoops and pokers, but I do not believe that any human boy + ever collected fifty cents' worth. I want you to understand that fifty + cents is a whole lot of money, particularly when it is laid out in + scrap-iron. Only the tin-wagon takes rags, and they pay in tinware, and + that's no good to a boy that wants to go to the circus. And as for bottles—well, + sir, you wash out a whole, whole lot of bottles, a whole big lot of 'em, a + wash-basket full, and tote 'em down to Mr. Case's drug—and + book-store, as much as ever you and your brother can wag, and see what he + gives you. It's simply scandalous. You have no idea of how mean and stingy + a man can be until you try to sell him old bottles. And the cold-hearted + way in which he will throw back ink-bottles that you worked so hard to + clean, and the ones that have reading blown into the glass—Oh, it's + enough to set you against business transactions all your life long. + There's something about bargain and sale that's mean and censorious, + finding this fault and finding that fault, and paying just as little as + ever they can. It gets on one's nerves. It really does. + </p> + <p> + The boys that made the little white spots come on the corners of their + jaws as they lay there in the grass, scheming, scheming, scheming, planned + rags, and bottles, and scrap-iron, and more also. Sometimes it was a plan + so much bigger that if they had kept it to themselves, like the darkey's + cow, they would have “all swole up and died.” + </p> + <p> + “Sst! Come here once. Tell you sumpum. Now don't you go and blab it out, + now will you? Hope to die? Well.... Now, no kiddin'. Cross your heart? + Well.... Ah, you will, too. I know you. You go and tattle everything you + hear.... Well.... Cheese it! Here comes somebody. Make out we're talkin' + about sumpum else. Ah, he did, did he? What for, I wonder? (Say sumpum, + can't ye?) Why 'nu' ye say sumpum when he was goin' by? Now he'll + suspicion sumpum 's up, and nose around till he.... Aw, they ain't no use + tellin' you anything.... Well. Put your head over so 's I can whisper. + Sure I am.... Well, I could learn, couldn't I? Now don't you tell a living + soul, will you? If anybody asts you, you tell 'em you don't know anything + at all about it. Say, why 'n't you come along? I promised you the last + time. That's jist your mother callin' you. Let on you don't hear her. Aw, + stay. Aw, you don't either have to go. Say. Less you and me get up early, + and go see the circus come in town, will you? I will, if you will. All + right. Remember now. Don't you tell anybody what I told you. You know.” + </p> + <p> + If a fellow just only could run off with a circus! Wouldn't it be great? + No more splitting kindling and carrying in coal; no more: “Hurry up, now, + or you'll be late for school;” no more poking along in a humdrum + existence, never going any place or seeing anything, but the glad, free, + untrammeled life, the life of a circus-boy, standing up on top of + somebody's head (you could pretend he was your daddy. Who'd ever know the + difference?) and your leg stuck up like five minutes to six, and him + standing on top of a horse—and the horse going around the ring, and + the ring master cracking his whip—aw, say! How about it? + </p> + <p> + Maybe the show-people would take you even if you didn't have two joints to + common folks' one, and hadn't had early advantages in the way of plenty of + snakes to try the grease out of. And then... and then.... Travel all + around, and be in a new town every day! And see things! The water-works, + and Main Street, and the Soldiers' Monument, and the Second Presbyterian + Church. All the sights there are to see in strange places. And then when + the show came back to your own home-town next year, people would wonder + whose was that slim and gracile figure in the green silk tights and + spangled breech-clout that capered so nimbly on the bounding courser's + back, that switched the natty switch and shrilly called out: “Hep! Hep!” + They'd screw up their eyes to look hard, and they'd say: “Yes, sir. It is. + It's him. It's Willie Bigelow. Well, of all things!” And they'd clap their + hands, and be so proud of you. And they'd wonder how it was that they + could have been so blind to your many merits when they had you with them. + They'd feel sorry that they ever said you were a “regular little imp,” if + ever there was one, and that you had the Old Boy in you as big as a horse. + They'd feel ashamed of themselves, so they would. And they'd come and + apologize to you for the way they had acted, and you'd say: “Oh, that's + all right. Forgive and forget.” And they'd miss you at home, too. Your + daddy would wish he hadn't whaled you the way he did, just for nothing at + all. And your mother, too, she'd be sorry for the way she acted to you, + tormenting the life and soul out of you, sending you on errands just when + you got a man in the king row, and making you wash your feet in a bucket + before you went to bed, instead of being satisfied to let you pump on + them, as any reasonable mother would. She'll think about that when you're + gone. It'll be lonesome then, with nobody to bang the doors, and upset the + cream-pitcher on the clean table-cloth, and fall over backward in the + rocking-chair and break a rocker off. Your daddy will sigh and say: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder where Willie is to-night. Poor boy, I sometimes fear I was too + harsh with him.” And your mother will try to keep back her tears, but she + can't, and first thing she knows she'll burst out crying, and... and... + and old Maje will go around the house looking for you, and whining because + he can't find his little playmate.... It will seem as if you were dead—dead + to them, and.... Smf! Smf! + </p> + <p> + (Confound that orchestra leader anyhow! How many times have I got to tell + him that this is the music-cue for “Where is My Wandering Boy To-night?”) + </p> + <p> + We were all going to get up early enough to see the show come in at the + depot. Very few of us did it. Somehow we couldn't seem to wake up. Here + and there a hardy spirit compasses the feat. + </p> + <p> + All the town is asleep when this boy slips out of his front-gate and + snicks the latch behind him softly. It is very still, so still that though + he is more than a mile away from the railroad he can hear Johnny Mara, the + night yardmaster, bawl out: “Run them three empties over on Number Four + track!” the short exhaust of the obedient pony-engine, and the succeeding + crash of the cars as they bump against their fellows. It is very still, + scarey still. The gas-lamp flaring and flickering among the green maples + at the corner has a strange look to him. His footfalls on the sidewalk + sound so loud he takes the soft middle of the dusty road. He hears some + one pursuing him and his bosom contracts with fear, as he stands to see + who it is. Although he hardly knows the boy bound on the same errand as + his, he takes him to his heart, as a chosen friend. They are kin. + </p> + <p> + On the freight-house platform they find other boys. Some of them have + waited up all night so as not to miss it. They are from across the tracks. + They have all the fun, those fellows do. They can swear and chew tobacco, + and play hookey from school and have a good time. They get to go barefoot + before anybody else, and nobody tells them it will thin their blood to go + in swimming so much. Yes, and they can fight, too. They'd sooner fight + than eat. Our boys, conscious of inferiority, keep to themselves. The boys + from across the tracks show off all the bad words they can think of. One + of them has a mouth-harp which he plays upon, now and then opening his + hands hollowed around the instrument. Patsy Gubbins dances to the music, + which is a thing even more reckless and daredevil than swearing. Patsy's + going with a “troupe” some day. Or else, he's going to get a job firing on + an engine. He isn't right sure which he wants to do the most. + </p> + <p> + Now and then a brakeman goes by swinging his lantern. The boys would like + to ask him what time it is, but for one thing they're too bashful. Being a + brakeman is almost as good as going with a “troupe” or a circus. You get + to go to places that way, too, Marysville, and Mechanicsburg, and Harrod's—that + is, if you're on the local freight, and then you lay over in Cincinnati. + Some ways it's better than firing, and some ways it isn't so good. And + then there is another reason why they don't ask the brakeman what time it + is. He'd say it was “forty-five” or maybe “fifty-three,” and never tell + what hour. + </p> + <p> + “Say! Do you know it's cold? You wouldn't think it would be so cold in the + summer-time.” + </p> + <p> + The maple-trees, from being formless blobs, insensibly begin to look like + lace-work. Presently the heavens and the earth are bathed in liquid blue + that casts a spell so potent on the soul of him that sees it that he + yearns for something he knows not what, except that it is utterly beyond + him, as far beyond him as what he means to be will be from what he shall + attain to. One dreams of romance and renown, of all that should be and is + not. And as he dreams the birds awaken. In the East there comes a greenish + tinge. Far up the track, there is a sullen roar, and then the hoarse + diapason of an engine whistle. The roar strengthens and strengthens. It is + the circus train. + </p> + <p> + Under the witchcraft of the dreaming blue, each boy had a firm and + stubborn purpose. Over and over again he rehearsed how he would go up to + the man that runs the show, and say: “Please, mister, can I go with you?” + And the man would say, “Yes.” (As easy as that.) But the purpose wavered + as he saw the roustabouts come tumbling out, all frowsy and unwashed, + rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, cross and savage. And the man whose + word they jump to obey, he's kind of discouraging, it's all business with + him. The fellows may plead with their eyes; he never sees them. If he + does, he tells them where to get to out of that and how quick he wants it + done, in language that makes the boldest efforts of the boys from across + the tracks seem puny in comparison. The lads divide into two parties. One + follows the buggy of the boss canvasman to Vandeman's lots where the stand + is made. They will witness the spectacle of the raising of the tents, but + they will also be near the man that runs the show, and if all goes well it + may be he will like your looks and saunter up to you and say: “Well, bub, + and how would you like to travel with us?” You don't know. Things not half + so strange as that have happened. And if you were right there at the + time.... + </p> + <p> + The other party lingers awhile looking up wistfully at the unresponsive + windows of the sleeping-cars, behind which are the happy circus-actors. + Perhaps the show-boy that stands up on top of his daddy's head will look + out. If he should raise the window and smile at you, and get to talking + with you maybe he would introduce you to his pa, and tell him that you + would like to go with the show, and his pa would be a nice sort of a man, + and he'd say: “Why, yes. I guess we can fix that all right.” And there + you'd be. + </p> + <p> + Or if it didn't come out like that, why, maybe the boy would be another + “Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider,” like it told about in he Ladies' + Repository. It seems there was a man, and one day he went by where there + was a circus, and in a quiet secluded, vine-clad nook only a few steps + from the main tent, he heard somebody sigh, oh, so sadly and so pitifully! + Come to find out, it was Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider. He had large + sensitive violet eyes, and a wealth of clustering ringlets, and he was + very, very unhappy. So the man took from his pocket a Bible that he + happened to have with him, and he read from it to Little Arthur, which + cheered him up right away, because up to that moment he had only heard of + the Bible. (Think of that!) And that night at the show, what do you + s'pose? Little Arthur fell off the horse and hurt himself. And this man + was at the show and he went back in the dressing-room, and held Little + Arthur's hand. And the clown was crying, and the actors were crying, for + they all loved Little Arthur in their rude, untutored way. And Little + Arthur opened his large sensitive violet eyes, and saw the man, and said + off the text that the man taught him that afternoon. + </p> + <p> + And then he died. It was a sad story, but it made you wish it had been you + that happened to have a Bible in your pocket as you passed the secluded, + vine-clad nook only a few paces from the main tent, and had heard Little + Arthur sigh so pitifully. It was those sensitive eyes we looked for in the + sleeping-car windows, and all in vain. I think I saw the wealth of + clustering ringlets, or at least the makings of it. I am almost positive I + saw curl-papers as the curtain was drawn aside a moment. + </p> + <p> + But whether a boy stands gazing at the sleepers, or runs over to the lots, + there is something pathetic about it, something almost terrible. It is the + death of an ideal. I can't conceive of a boy coming down to the depot to + see the circus train come in another time. Hitherto, the show has been to + him the ne plus ultra of romance. It comes in the night from 'way off + yonder; it goes in the night to 'way off yonder. It is all splendor, all + deeds of high emprise. It stands to reason then, that the closer you get + to it, the closer you get to pure romance. And it isn't that way at all. + </p> + <p> + What gravels a boy the most of all is to have to do the same old thing + over and over again, day after day, week in, week out. Once he has seen + the circus come in, he cannot blind himself to the fact that everything is + marked and numbered; that all is system, and that everything is done today + exactly as it was done yesterday, and as it will be done tomorrow. + </p> + <p> + “What town is this?” he hears a man inquire of another. + </p> + <p> + “Blest if I know. What's the odds what town it is?” + </p> + <p> + Didn't know what town it was! Didn't care! + </p> + <p> + The keen morning air, or something, makes a fellow mighty unromantic, too. + Perhaps it was the thin blue wood-smoke from the field-stoves, and the + smell of the hot coffee and the victuals the waiters are carrying about, + some to the tent where the bare tables are for the canvasmen, some to the + table covered with a red and white table-cloth as befits performers. These + have no rosy cheeks. Their lithe limbs are not richly decked with silken + tights. Insensibly the upper lip curls. They're not so much. They're only + folks. That's all, just folks. + </p> + <p> + But when ideals die, great truths are born. To such a boy at such a moment + there comes the firm conviction which increasing years can only emphasize: + Home is but a poor prosaic place, but Home—Ah, my brother, think on + this—Home is where Breakfast is. + </p> + <p> + “Hay! Wait for me, you fellows! Hay! Hold on a minute. Well, ain't I + a-comin' jis' 's fast's ever I kin? What's your rush?” + </p> + <p> + It is the exceptional boy has this experience. The normal one preserves + the delicate bloom of romance, by never seeing the show until it makes its + Grand Triumphal Entree in a Pageant of Unparalleled Magnificence far + Surpassing the Pomp and Splendor of Oriental Potentates. + </p> + <p> + The hitching-posts are full of whinnering country horses, and people are + in town you wouldn't think existed if you hadn't seen their pictures in + Puck and Yudge, people from over by Muchinippi, and out Noodletoozy way, + big, red-necked men with the long loping step that comes from walking on + the plowed ground. Following them are lanky women with their front teeth + gone, and their figures bowed by drudgery, dragging wide-eyed children + whose uncouth finery betrays the “country jake,” even if the freckles and + the sun-bleached hair could keep the secret. From the far-off fastnesses, + where there are still log-cabins chinked with mud, they have ventured to + see the show come into town, and when they have seen that, they will + retire again beyond our ken. How every sense is numbed and stunned by the + magnificence and splendor of the painted and gilded wagons as they rumble + past, the driver rolling and pitching in his seat, as he handles the + ribbons of eight horses all at once! The farmer's heart is filled with + admiration of his craft, as much as the children's hearts are at the gaudy + pictures. + </p> + <p> + The allegorical tableau-car solemnly waggles past, Europe, and Asia, and + Africa, and Australia brilliant in grease-paint and gorgeous cheesecloth + robes. And can you guess who the fat lady is up on the very tip-top of + all, on the tip-top where the wobble is the worst? Our own Columbia! It + must be fine to ride around that way all dressed up in a flag. But a + sourer lot of faces you never saw in your life. No. I am wrong. For + downright melancholy and despondency you must wait till the funny old + clown comes along in his little bit of a buggy drawn by a little bit of a + donkey. + </p> + <p> + “And, oh, looky! Here comes the elephants, just the same as in the + joggerfy books. And see the men walking beside them. They come from the + place the elephants do. See, they have on the clothes they wear in that + country. Don't they look proud? Who wouldn't be proud to get to walk with + an elephant? And if you ever do anything to an elephant to make him mad, + he'll always remember it, and some day he'll get even with you. One time + there was a man, and he gave an elephant a chew of tobacco, and—O-o-ooh! + See that man in the cage with the lions! Don't it just make the cold + chills run over you? I wouldn't be there for a million dollars, would you, + ma? + </p> + <p> + “What they laughing at down the street? Ma, make Lizzie get down; she's + right in my way. I don't want to see it pretty soon. I want to see it + naow! Oh, ain't it funny? See the old clowns playing on horns! Ain't it + too killing? Aw, look at them ponies. I woosht I had one. Johnny Pym has + got a goat he can hitch up. What was that, pa? What was that went + 'OoOOoohm!'” + </p> + <p> + “Whoa, Nell, whoa there! Steady, gal, steaday! Ho, there! Ho! Whoa—whoa-hup! + Whad dy y' about? Fool horse. Whoa... whoa so, gal, soo-o. Lion, I guess, + or a tagger, or sumpum or other.” + </p> + <p> + And talk about music. You thought the band was grand. You just wait. Don't + you hear it down the street? It'll be along in a minute now. + </p> + <p> + There it is. That's the cally-ope. That's what the show bills call: “The + Steam Car of the Muses.”... Mm-well, I don't know but it is just a leetle + off the pitch, especially towards the end of a note, but you must remember + that you can't haul a very big boiler on a wagon, and the whistles let out + an awful lot of steam. It's pretty hard to keep the pressure even. But + it's loud. That's the main thing. And the man that plays on it—no, + not that fellow in the overalls with a wad of greasy waste in his hand. He + 's only the engineer. I mean the artist, the man that plays on the keys. + Well, he knows what the people want. He has his fingers on the public + pulse. Does he give them a Bach fugue, or Guillmant's “Grand Choeur?” + 'Deed, he doesn't. He goes right to the heart, with “Patrick's Day in the + Morning,” and “The Carnival of Venice,” and “Home, Sweet Home,” and “Oh, + Where, Oh Where has my Little Dog Gone?” He knows his business. A shade + off the key, perhaps, but my! Ain't it grand? So loud and nice! + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's all of it.... Why, child, I can't make it any longer than it + is.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to drive round into the other street for? You've seen + all there is to see. Got all your trading done, mother? Well, then I + expect we'd better put for home. Now, Eddy, I told you 'No' once, and + that's the end of it. Hush up now! Look here, sir! Do you want me to take + and 'tend to you right before everybody? Well, I will now, if I hear + another whimper out o' ye. Ck-ck-ck! Git ep there, Nelly.” + </p> + <p> + Some day, when we get big, and have whole, whole lots of money we're going + to the circus every time it comes to town, to the real circus, the one you + have to pay to get into. For if merely the street parade is so + magnificent, what must the show itself be? + </p> + <p> + How people can sit at the table on circus day and stuff, and stuff the way + they do is more than I can understand. You'd think they hadn't any more + chances to eat than they had to go to the show. And they can find more + things to do before they get started! And then, after the house is all + locked up and everything, they've got to go back after a handkerchief! + What does anybody want with a handkerchief at a circus? + </p> + <p> + It's exasperating enough to have to choose between going in the afternoon + and not going at all. Why, sure, it's finer at night. Lots finer. You know + that kind of a light the peanut-roaster man has got down by the + post-office. Burns that kind of stuff they use to take out grease-spots. + Ye-ah. Gasoline. Well, at the circus at night, they don't have just one + light like that, but bunches and bunches of them on the tentpoles. No, + silly! Of course not. Of course they don't set the tent afire. But say! + What if they did, eh? The place would be all full of people, laughing at + the country jake that comes out to ride the trick-mule, and you'd happen + to look up and see where the canvas was ju-u-ust beginning to blaze, and + you'd jump up and holler: “Fire! Fire!” as loud as ever you could because + you saw it first, and you'd point to the place. Excitement? Well, I guess + yes. The people would all run every which way, and fall all over + themselves, and the women would squeal—And do you know what I'd do? + Wouldn't just let myself down between the kind of bedslat benches, and + drop to the ground, and lift up the canvas and there I'd be all safe. And + after I was all safe, then I'd go back and rescue folks. + </p> + <p> + We-ell, I s'pose I'd have to rescue a girl. It seems they always do that. + But it would be nicer, I think, to rescue some real rich man. He'd say: + “My noble preserver! How can I sufficiently reward you?” and take out his + pocketbook. And wouldn't say: “Take back your proffered gold,” and make + like I was pushing it away, “take back your proffered gold. I but did my + duty.” And then wouldn't forget all about it. And one day, after I'd + forgotten all about, it, the man would die, and will me a million dollars, + or a thousand, I don't know. Enough to make me rich. + </p> + <p> + And say! Wouldn't the animals get excited when they saw the show was + afire? They'd just roar and roar, and upset the cages, and maybe they'd + get loose. O-o-o-Oh! How about that? If there was a lion come at me I'd + climb a tree. What would you do? Ah, your pa's shot-gun nothing! Why, you + crazy, that would only infuriate him the more. What you want to do is to + take an express rifle, like Doo Challoo did, and aim right for his heart. + An express rifle is what you send off and get, and they ship it to you by + express. + </p> + <p> + So you see what a fellow misses by having to go to the show in the + afternoon, like the girls and the a-b-abs. The boys from across the tracks + get to go at night. They have all the fun. When they go they don't have to + poke along, and poke along, and keep hold of hands so as not to get + lost.... Aw, hurry up, can't you? Don't you hear the band playing? It'll + be all over before we get there. + </p> + <p> + But finally the lots are reached, and there are the tents, with all kinds + of flags snapping from the centerpoles and the guy-ropes. And there are + the sideshows. Alas! You never thought of the sideshows when you asked if + you could go. And now it's too late. It must be fine in the side-shows. I + never got to go to one. I didn't have the money. But if the big, painted + banners, bulging in and out, as the wind plays with them, are anything to + go by, it must be something grand to see the Fat Lady, and the Circassian + Beauty, whose frizzled head will just about fit a bushel basket, and the + Armless Wonder. They say he can take a pair of scissors with his toes and + cut your picture out of paper just elegant. + </p> + <p> + Oh, and something else you miss by going in the afternoon. At night you + can sneak around at the back, and when nobody is looking you can just lift + up the canvas and go right in for nothing.... Why, what's wrong about + that? Ah, you're too particular.... And if the canvasman catches you, you + can commence to cry and say you had only forty cents, and wanted to see + the circus so bad, and he'll take it and let you in, and you can have ten + cents, don't you see, to spend for lemonade, red lemonade, you understand; + and peanuts, the littlest bags, and the “on-riest” peanuts that ever were. + </p> + <p> + As far as I can see, the animal part of the show is just the same as it + always was. The people that take you to the show always pretend to be + interested in them, but it's my belief they stop and look only to tease + you. Away, 'way back in ancient times, there used to be a man that took + the folks around and told them what was in each cage, and where it came + from, and how much it cost, and what useful purpose it served in the wise + economy of nature, and all about it. That was before my time. But I can + recollect something they had that they don't have any more. I can remember + when Mr. Barnum first brought his show to our town. It didn't take much + teasing to get to go to that, because in those days Mr. Barnum was a + “biger man than old Grant.” “The Life of P. T. Barnum, Written by Himself” + was on everybody's marble-topped centertable, just the same as “The + History of the Great Rebellion.” You show some elderly person from out of + town the church across the street from the Astor House, and say: “That's + St. Paul's Chapel. General Montgomery's monument is in the chancel window. + George Washington went to meeting there the day he was inaugurated + president,” and your friend will say: “M-hm.” But you tell him that right + across Broadway is where Barnum's Museum used to be, and he'll brighten + right up and remember all about how Barnum strung a flag across to St. + Paul's steeple and what a fuss the vestry of Trinity Parish made. That's + something he knows about, that's part of the history of our country. + </p> + <p> + Well, when Mr. Barnum first came to our town, all around one tent were + vans full of the very identical Moral Waxworks that we had read about, and + had given up all hopes of ever seeing because New York was so far away. + There was the Dying Zouave. Oh, that was a beauty! The Advance Courier + said that “the crimson torrent of his heart's blood spouted in rhythmic + jets as the tide of life ebbed silently away;” but I guess by the time + they got to our town they must have run all out of pokeberry juice, for + the “crimson torrent” didn't spout at all. But his bosom heaved every so + often, and he rolled up his eyes something grand! I liked it, but my + mother said it was horrid. That's the way with women. They don't like + anything that anybody else does. There's no pleasing 'em. And she thought + the Drunkard's Family was “kind o' low.” It wasn't either. It was fine, + and taught a great moral lesson. I told her so, but she said it was low, + just the same. She thought the Temperance Family was nice, but it wasn't + anywhere near as good as the Drunkard's Family. Why, let me tell you. The + Drunkard's Wife was in a ragged calico dress, and her eye was all black + and blue, where he had hit her the week before. And the Drunkard had hold + of a black quart bottle, and his nose was all red, and he wore a plug hat + that was even rustier and more caved in than Elder Drown's, if such a + thing were possible. And there was—But I can't begin to tell you of + all the fine things Mr. Barnum had that year, but never had again. + </p> + <p> + Another thing Mr. Barnum had that year that never appeared again. It may + be that after that time the Funny Old Clown did crack a joke, but I never + heard him. The one that Mr. Barnum had got off the most comical thing you + ever heard. I'll never forget it the longest day I live. Laugh? Why, I + nearly took a conniption over it. It seems the clown got to crying about + something.... Now what was it made him cry? Let me see now.... Ain't it + queer I can't remember that? Fudge! Well, never mind now. It will come to + me in a minute. + </p> + <p> + I feel kind of sorry for the poor little young ones that grow up and never + know what a clown is like. Oh, yes, they have them to-day, after a + fashion. They stub their toes and fall down the same as ever, but there is + a whole mob of them and you can't take the interest in them that you could + in “the one, the only, the inimitable” clown there used to be, a character + of such importance that he got his name on the bills. He was a mighty man + in those days. The ring-master was a kind of stuck-up fellow, very + important in his own estimation, but he didn't have a spark of humor. Not + a spark. And he'd be swelling around there, all so grand, and the clown, + just to take him down a peg or two, would ask him a conundrum. And do you + think he could ever guess one? Never. Not a one. And when the clown would + tell him what the answer was, he'd be so vexed at himself that he'd try to + take it out on the poor clown, and cut at him with his long whip. But Mr. + Clown was just as spry in his shoes as he was under the hat, and he'd hop + up on the ring-side out of the way, and squall out: “A-a-aah! Never + touched me!” We had that for a byword. Oh, you'd die laughing at the + comical remarks he'd make. And he'd be so quick about it. The ring-master + would say something, and before you'd think, the clown would make a joke + out of it.... I wish I could remember what it was he said that was so + funny, the time he started crying. Seems to me it was something about his + little brother.... Well, no matter. + </p> + <p> + Yes, sir, there are heads of families to-day, I'll bet you, that have + grown up without ever having heard a clown sing a comic song, and ask the + audience to join in the chorus. And if you say to such people: “Here we + are again, Mr. Merryman,” or “Bring on another horse,” or “What will the + little lady have now? the banners, my lord?” they look at you so funny. + They don't know what you mean, and they don't know whether to get huffy or + not. Well, I suppose it had to be that the Funny Old Clown with all his + songs, and quips, and conundrums, and comical remarks should disappear. + Perhaps he “didn't pay.” + </p> + <p> + I can't see that the rest of the show has changed so very much. Perhaps + the trapeze performances are more marvelous and breath-suspending than + they used to be. But they were far and far beyond what we could dream of + then, and to go still farther as little impresses us as to be told that + people live still even westerly of Idaho. The trapeze performers are + up-to-date in one respect. The fellow that comes down with his arms + folded, one leg stuck out and the other twined around the big rope, + revolving slowly, slowly—well, the band plays the Intermezzo from + “Cavalleria Rusticana” nowadays when he does that. It used to play: “O + Thou, Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer!” But the lady in the riding-habit + still smiles as if it hurt her when her horse walks on its hind legs; the + bareback rider does the very same fancy steps as the horse goes round the + ring in a rocking-chair lope; the attendants still slant the hurdles + almost flat for the horse to jump; they still snake the banners under the + rider's feet as he gives a little hop up, and they still bang him on the + head with the paper-covered hoop to .... Hold on a minute. Now. + </p> + <p> + Now... That story the clown told that was so funny, that had something to + do with those hoops. I wish I could think of it. It would make you laugh, + I know. + </p> + <p> + People try to lay the blame of the modern circus's failure to interest + them on the three rings. They say so many things to watch at once keeps + them from being watching properly any one act. They can't give it the + attention it deserves. But I'll tell you what's wrong: There isn't any + Funny Old Clown, a particular one, to give it human interest. It is all + too splendid, too magnificent, too far beyond us. We want to hear somebody + talk once in awhile. + </p> + <p> + They pretended that the tent was too big for the clown to be heard, but I + take notice it wasn't too big for the fellow to get up and declaim “The + puffawmance ees not yait hawf ovah. The jaintlemanly agents will now pawss + around the ring with tickets faw the concert.” I used to hate that man. + When he said the performance was not yet half over, he lied like a dog, + consarn his picture! There were only a few more acts to come. He knew it + and we knew it. We wanted the show to go on and on, and always to be just + as exciting as at the very first, and it wouldn't! We had got to the point + where we couldn't be interested in anything any more. We were as little + ones unable to prop their eyelids open and yet quarreling with bed. We + were surfeited, but not satisfied. We sat there and pouted because there + wasn't any more, and yet we couldn't but yawn at the act before us. We + were mad at ourselves, and mad at everybody else. We clambered down the + rattling bedslats seats, sour and sullen. We didn't want to look at the + animals; we didn't want to do this, and we didn't want to do that. We + whined and snarled, and wriggled and shook ourselves with temper, and we + got a good hard slap, side of the head, right before everybody, and then + we yelled as if we were being killed alive. + </p> + <p> + “Now, mister, if I ever take you any place again, you'll know it. I'd be + ashamed of myself if I was you. Hush up! Hush up, I tell you. Now you + mark. You're never going to the show again. Do you hear me? Never! I mean + it. You're never going again.” + </p> + <p> + But at eventide there was light. After supper, after a little rest and a + good deal of food, while chopping the kindling for morning (it's wonderful + how useful employ tends to induce a cheerful view of life) out of her + dazzling treasure-heap of jewels, Memory took up, one after another, a + glowing recollection and viewed it with delight. The evening performance, + the one all lighted up with bunches and bunches of lights, was + a-preparing, and in the gentle breeze the far-off music waved as it had + been a flag. A harsh and rumbling noise as of heavy timbers falling tore + through the tissue of sweet sounds. The horses in the barn next door + screamed in their stalls to hear it. Ages and ages ago, on distant + wind-swept plains their ancestors had hearkened to that hunting-cry, and + summoned up their valor and their speed. It still thrilled in the blood of + these patient slaves of man, though countless generations of them had + never even so much as seen a lion. + </p> + <p> + “And is that all the difference, pa, that the lion roars at night and the + ostrich in the daytime?” + </p> + <p> + Out on the back porch in the deepening dusk we sat, with eyes relaxed and + dreaming, and watched the stars that powdered the dark sky. Before our + inward vision passed in review the day of splendor and renown. We sighed, + at last, but it was the happy sigh of him who has full dined. Ambition was + digesting. In our turn, when we grew up, we, too, were to do the deeds of + high emprise. We were to be somebody. + </p> + <p> + (I never heard of anybody sitting up to see the show depart. And yet it + seems to me that would be the best time to run off with it.) + </p> + <p> + The next day we visited the lots. It was no dream. See the litter that + mussed up the place. + </p> + <p> + We were all there. None had heard the man that runs the show say genially: + “Yes, I think we can arrange to take you with us.” Here was the ring; here + the tent-pole holes, and here a scrap of paper torn from a hoop the + bareback rider leaped through.... Oh, now I know what I was going to tell + you that the clown said. The comicalest thing! + </p> + <p> + He picked up one of these hoops and began to sniffle. + </p> + <p> + So the ring-master asked him what he was crying about. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—was thinking of my mother. Smf! My good old mother!” + </p> + <p> + So the ring-master asked him what made him think of his mother. + </p> + <p> + “This.” And he held up the paper-covered hoop. + </p> + <p> + The ring-master couldn't see how that put the clown in mind of his mother. + He was awful dumb, that man. + </p> + <p> + “It looks just like the pancakes she used to make for us.” + </p> + <p> + Well, sir, we just hollered and laughed at that. And after we had quieted + down a little, the ringmaster says: “As big as that?” + </p> + <p> + “Bigger,” says the clown. “Why, she used to make 'em so big we used 'em + for bedclothes.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed” (Just like that. He took it all in, just as if it was so.) + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my, yes! I mind one time I was sleeping with my little brother, and I + waked up just as cold—Brr! But I was cold!” + </p> + <p> + “But how could that be, sir? You just now said you had pancakes for + bedclothes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but my little brother got hungry in the night, and et up all the + cover.” + </p> + <p> + Laugh? Why, they screamed. Me? I thought I'd just about go up. But the + ring master never cracked a smile. He didn't see the joke at all. + </p> + <p> + Good-by, old clown, friend of our childhood, goodby, good-by forever! And + you, our other friend, the street parade, must you go, too? And you, the + gorgeous show-bills, must you tread the path toward the sundown? Good-by! + Good-by! In that dreary land where you are going, the Kingdom of the + Ausgespielt, it may comfort you to recollect the young hearts you have + made happy in the days that were, but never more can be again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COUNTY FAIR + </h2> + <p> + Whether or not the name had an influence on the weather, I don't know. + Perhaps it did rain some years, but, as I remember, County Fair time seems + to have had a sky perfectly cloudless, with its blue only a little dulled + around the edges where it came close to the ground and the dust settled on + it. Things far off were sort of hazy, but that might have been the result + of the bonfires of leaves we had been having evenings after supper. In + Fair weather, when the sun had been up long enough to get a really good + start, it was right warm, but in the shade it was cool, and nights and + mornings there was a chill in the air that threatened worse things to + come. + </p> + <p> + The harvest is past, the summer is ended. Down cellar the swing-shelf is + cram-jam full of jellyglasses, and jars of fruit. Out on the hen-house + roof are drying what, when the soap-box wagon was first built, promised + barrels and barrels of nuts to be brought up with the pitcher of cider for + our comforting in the long winter evenings, but what turns out, when the + shucks are off, to be a poor, pitiful half-peck, daily depleted by the + urgent necessity of finding out if they are dry enough yet. Folks are + picking apples, and Koontz's cider-mill is in full operation. (Do you know + any place where a fellow can get some nice long straws?) Out in the fields + are champagne-colored pyramids, each with a pale-gold heap of corn beside + it, and the good black earth is dotted with orange blobs that promise + pumpkin-pies for Thanksgiving Day. No. Let me look again. Those aren't + pie-pumpkins; those are cow-pumpkins, and if you want to see something + kind of pitiful, I'll show you Abe Bethard chopping up one of those yellow + globes—with what, do you suppose? With the cavalry saber his daddy + used at Gettysburg. + </p> + <p> + The harvest is past, the summer is ended. As a result of all the good + feeding and the outdoor air we have had for three or four months past, the + strawberry shortcakes, and cherry-pies, and green peas, and new potatoes, + and string beans, and roasting-ears, and all such garden-stuff, and the + fresh eggs, broken into the skillet before Speckle gets done cackling, and + the cockerels we pick off the roost Saturday evenings (you see, we're + thinning 'em out; no sense in keeping all of 'em over winter)—as a + result, I say, of all this good eating, and the outdoor life, and the + necessity of stirring around a little lively these days we feel pretty + good. And yet we get kind of low in our minds, too. The harvest is past, + the summer is ended. It's gone, the good playtime when we didn't have to + go to school, when the only foot-covering we wore was a rag around one big + toe or the other; the days when we could stay in swimming all day long + except mealtimes; the days of Sabbath-school picnics and excursions to the + Soldiers' Home—it's gone. The harvest is past, the summer is ended. + The green and leafy things have heard the word, and most of them are + taking it pretty seriously, judging by their looks. But the maples and + some more of them, particularly the maples, with daredevil recklessness, + have resolved, as it were, to die with their boots on, and flame out in + such violent and unbelievable colors that we feel obliged to take + testimony in certain outrageous cases, and file away the exhibits in the + Family Bible where nobody will bother them. The harvest is past, the + summer is ended. Rainy days you can see how played-out and forlorn the + whole world looks. But at Fair time, when the sun shines bright, it + appears right cheerful. + </p> + <p> + It seems to me the Fair lasted three days. One of them was a holiday from + school, I know, and unless I'm wrong, it wasn't on the first day, because + then they were getting the things in, and it wasn't on the last day, + because then they were taking the things out, so it must have been on the + middle day, when everybody went. Charley Wells had both the depot 'buses + out with “County FAIR” painted on muslin hung on the sides. The Cornet + Band rode all round town in one, and so on over to the “scene of the + festivities” as the Weekly Examiner very aptly put it, and then both + 'buses stood out in front of the American House, waiting for passengers, + with Dinny Enright calling out: “This sway t' the Fair Groun's! Going + RIGHT over!” Only he always waited till he got a good load before he + turned a wheel. (Dinny's foreman at the chair factory now. Did you know + that? Doing fine. Gets $15 a week, and hasn't drunk a drop for nearly two + years.) + </p> + <p> + Everybody goes the middle day of the Fair, everybody that you ever did + know or hear tell of. You'll be going along, kind of half-listening to the + man selling Temperance Bitters, and denouncing the other bitters because + they have “al-cue-hawl” in them, and “al-cue-hawl will make you drunk,” + (which is perfectly true), and kind of half-listening to the man with the + electric machine, declaring: “Ground is the first conductor; water is the + second conductor,” and you'll be thinking how slippery the grass is to + walk on, when a face in the crowd will, as it were, sting your memory. “I + ought to know that man,” says you to yourself. “Now, who the mischief is + he? Barker? No, 't isn't Barker, Barkdull? No. Funny I can't think of his + name. Begins with B I'm pretty certain.” And you trail along after him, as + if you were a detective, sort of keeping out of his sight, and yet every + once in a while getting a good look at him. “Mmmmmm!” says you. “What is + that fellow's name? Why, sure. McConica.” And you walk up to him and stick + out your hand while he's gassing with somebody, and there's that smile on + your face that says: “I know you but you don't know me,” and he takes it + in a limp sort of fashion, and starts to say: “You have the advantage of—” + when, all of a sudden, he grabs your hand as if he were going to jerk your + arm out of its socket and beat you over the head with the bloody end, and + shouts out: “Why, HELLO, Billy! Well, suffering Cyrus and all hands round! + Hold still a second and let me look at you. Gosh darn your hide, where you + been for so long? I though you'd clean evaporated off the face the earth. + Why, how AIR you? How's everything? That's good. Let me make you + acquainted with my wife. Molly, this is Mr.—” But she says: “Now + don't you tell me what his name is. Let me think. Why, Willie Smith! Well, + of all things! Why, how you've changed! Honest, I wouldn't have knowed + you. Do you mind the time we went sleigh-ridin' the whole posse of us, and + got upset down there by Hanks's place?” And then you start in on “D' you + mind?” and “Don't you recollect?” and you talk about the old school-days, + and who's married, and who's moved out to Kansas, and who's got the Elias + Hoover place now, and how Ella Trimble—You know Ella Diefenbaugh, + old Jake Diefenbaugh's daughter, the one that lisped. Course you do. Well, + she married Ed Trimble, and he died along in the early part of the summer. + Typhoid. Was getting well but he took a relapse, and went off like that! + And now she's left with three little ones, and they guess poor Ella has a + pretty hard time making out. And this old schoolmate that you start to + tell a funny story about is dead, and the freckle-faced boy with the buck + teeth that put the rabbit in the teacher's desk, he's dead, too, and the + boy that used to cry in school when they read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Give me three grains of corn, mother, + Only three grains o f corn; + To save what little life I have, mother, + Till the coming o f the morn.” + </pre> + <p> + well, he studied law with old judge Rodehaver, and got to be Prosecuting + Attorney, but he took to drinking—politics, you know—and now + he's just gone to the dogs. Smart as a steel-trap, and bright as a dollar. + Oh, a terrible pity! A terrible pity. And as you hear the fate of one + after another of the happy companions of your childhood, and the sadness + of life comes over you, they start to tell something that makes you laugh + again. I tell you. Did you ever see one of these concave glasses, such as + the artists use when they want to get an idea of how a picture looks all + together as a whole, and not as an assemblage of parts? Well, what the + concave glass is to a picture, so such talk is to life. It sort of draws + it all together, and you see it as a whole, its sunshine and its shadow, + its laughter and its tears, its work and its play, its past and its + present. But not its future. The Good Man has mercifully hidden that from + us. + </p> + <p> + It does a body good to get such a talk once in a while. + </p> + <p> + And there are the young fellows and the girls. This young gentleman in the + rimless eye-glasses, who is now beginning to “go out among 'em” the last + time you saw him was in meeting when Elder Drown was preaching, and my + gentleman stood up in the seat and shouted shrilly: “'T ain't at all, man. + 'T ain't at all!” And this sweet girl-graduate—the last time you saw + her was just after Becky Daly, in the vain effort to “peacify” the + squalling young one, had given her a fresh egg to play with. I kind o' + like the looks of the younger generation of girls. But I don't know about + the young fellows. They look to me like a trifling lot. Nothing like what + they were in our young days. I don't see but what us old codgers had + better hold on a while longer to the County Clerk's office, and the + Sheriff's office, and the Probate judgeship, and the presidency of the + National Bank. It wouldn't be safe to trust the destinies of the country + in the hands of such heedless young whiffets. Engaged to be married! Oh, + get out! What? Those babies? + </p> + <p> + I kept awake most of the time the man was lecturing on: “The Republic: + Will it Endure?” but I don't remember that he said anything in it about + the crops. (We can't go 'round meeting the folks all day. We really must + give a glance at the exhibition.) And I am one of those who hold to the + belief that while the farmers can raise ears of corn as long as from your + elbow to your fingertips, as big 'round as a rollingpin, and set with + grains as regular and even as an eight-dollar set of artificial teeth; as + long as they grow potatoes the size of your foot, and such pretty oats and + wheat, and turnips, and squashes, and onions, and apples and all kinds of + truck, and raise them not only in increasing size but increasing + quantities to the acre I feel as if the Republic would last the year out + anyway. Not that I have any notion that mere material prosperity will make + and keep us a free people, but it goes to show that the farmers are not + plodding along, doing as their fathers did before them, but that they are + reading and studying, and taking advantage of modern methods. There are + two ways of increasing your income. One is by enlarging your output, and + the other is by enlarging your share of the proceeds from the sale of that + output. The Grand Dukes will not always run this country. The farmers + saved the Union once by dying for it; they will save it again by living + for it. + </p> + <p> + The scientific fellows tell us that we have not nearly reached the maximum + of yield to the acre of crops that are harvested once a year, but in + regard to the crops that are harvested twice a day it looks to me as if we + were doing fairly well. Nowadays we hardly know what is meant by the + expression, “Spring poor.” It is a sinister phrase, and tells a story of + the old, cruel days when farmers begrudged their cattle the little bite + they ate in wintertime, so that when the grass came again the poor + creatures would fall over trying to crop it. They were so starved and weak + that, as the saying went, they had to lean up against the fence to + breathe. They don't do that way now, as one look at the fine, sleek cows + will show you. A cow these days is a different sort of a being, her coat + like satin, and her udder generous, compared with the wild-eyed things + with burrs in their tails, and their flanks crusted with filth, their + udders the size of a kid glove, and yielding such a little dab of milk and + for such a short period. Hear the dairymen boast now of the miraculous + yearly yield in pounds of butter and milk, and when they say: “You've got + to treat a cow as if she were a lady,” it sounds like good sense. + </p> + <p> + Pigs are naturally so untidy about their persons, and have such shocking + table-manners that it seems difficult to treat a sow like a lady, but that + one in the pen yonder, with her litter of sucking pigs, seems very + interesting. Come, let's have a look. Aren't the little pigs dear things? + I'd like to climb in and take one of them up to pet it; do you s'pose + she'd mind it if I did? I can see decided improvement in the modern hogs + over old Mose Batcheller's. If you remember, his were what were known as + “razorbacks.” They could go like the wind, and the fence was not made that + could stop them. If they couldn't root under it, they could turn + themselves sidewise and slide through between the rails. It was told me + that, failing all else, they could give their tails a swing—you + remember the big balls of mud they used to have on their tails' ends—they + could swing their tails after the manner of an athlete throwing the + hammer, and fly over the top of the tallest stake-and-rider fence ever put + up. I don't know whether this is the strict truth or not, but it is what + was told me as a little boy, and I don't think people would wilfully + deceive an innocent child. + </p> + <p> + The pigs nowaday aren't as smart as that, but they cut up better at + hog-killing time. They aren't quite so trim; indeed, they are nothing but + cylinders of meat, whittled to a point at the front end, and set on four + pegs, but as you lean on the top-rail of the pens out at the County Fair + and look down upon them, you can picture in your mind, without much + effort, ham, and sidemeat, and bacon, and spare-ribs, and smoked shoulder, + and head-cheese, and liver-wurst, and sausages, and glistening white lard + for crullers and pie-crust—Yes, I think pigs are right interesting. + I know they've got Scripture for it, the folks that think it is wrong to + eat pork, but somehow I feel sorry for them; they miss such a lot, not + only in the eating line, but other ways. They are always being persecuted, + and harassed, and picked at. Whereas the pork-fed man, it seems to me, + sort of hankers to be picked at. It gives him a good chance to slap + somebody slonchways. He feels better after he has seen his persecutors go + away with a cut lip, and fingering of their teeth to see if they're all + there. + </p> + <p> + You'll just have to take me gently but firmly by the sleeve and lead me + past the next exhibit, the noisy one, where there's so much cackling and + crowing. I give you fair warning that if you get me started talking about + chickens, the County Fair will have to wait till some other time. I don't + know much about ducks, and geese, and guinea-hens, and pea-fowl, and + turkeys, but chickens—Why, say. We had a hen once (Plymouth Rock she + was; we called her Henrietta), and honestly, that hen knew more than some + folks. One time she—all right. I'll hush. Let's go in here. + </p> + <p> + I don't remember whether the pies, and cakes, and canned fruit, and such + are in Pomona Hall or the Fine Arts Hall. Fine Arts Hall I think. They + ought to be. I speak to be one of the judges that give out the premiums in + this department. I'd be generous and let somebody else do the judging of + the cakes, because I don't care much for cake. Oh, I can manage to choke + it down, but I haven't the expert knowledge, practical and scientific, + that I have in the matter of pie. I'd bear my share of the work when it + came to the other things, jellies and preserves, and pies, but not cake. + Wouldn't know just exactly how to go at it in the matter of jellies. I'd + take a glass of currant, and hold it up to the light to note its crimson + glory. And I'd lift off the waxed paper top and peer in, and maybe give + the jelly a shake. And then I'd take a spoon and taste, closing my eyes so + as to appear to deliberate—they'd roll up in an ecstacy anyhow—and + I'd smack my lips, and say: “Mmmmm!” very thoughtfully, and set the glass + back, and write down in my book my judgment, which would invariably be: + “First Prize.” Because if there is anything on top of this green earth + that I think is just about right, it is currant jelly. Grape jelly is + nice, and crab-apple jelly has its good points, and quince jelly is very + delicate, but there is something about currant jelly that seems to touch + the spot. Quince preserves are good if there is enough apple with the + quince, and watermelon preserves are a great favorite, not because they + are so much better tasting, but because the lucent golden cubes in the + spicy syrup appeal so to the eye. But if you want to know what I think is + really good eating in the preserve line, you just watch my motions when I + come to the tomato preserves, these little fig-tomatoes, and see how quick + the red card is put on them. Yes, indeed. It's been a long time, hasn't + it? since you had any tomato-preserves, you that haven't been “Back Home” + lately. + </p> + <p> + It's no great trick to put up other fruit so that it will keep, but I'd + look the canned tomatoes over pretty carefully, and if I saw that one lady + had not only put them up so that they hadn't turned foamy, but had also + succeeded with green corn, and that other poser, string beans, I'd give + her first premium, because I'd know she was a first-rate housekeeper, and + a careful woman, and one that deserved encouragement. + </p> + <p> + But I'd save myself for the pies. I can tell a rich, short, flaky crust, + and I can tell the kind that is as brown as a dried apple, and tough as + the same on the top, and sad and livery on the bottom. And I know about + fillings, how thick they ought to be, and how they ought to be seasoned, + and all. Particularly pumpkin-pies, because I had early advantages that + way that very few other boys had. I was allowed to scrape the crock that + had held the pumpkin for the pies. So that's how I know as much as I do. + </p> + <p> + I suppose, however, when all is said and done, that there is no pie that + can quite come up to an apple-pie. You take nice, short crust that's been + worked up with ice-water, and line the tin with it, and fill it heaping + with sliced, tart apples—not sauce. Mercy, no!—and sweeten + them just right, and put on a lump of butter, and some allspice, and + perhaps a clove, and a little lemon peel, and then put on the cover, and + trim off the edge, and pinch it up in scallops, and draw a couple of + leaves in the top with a sharp knife, and have the oven just right, and + set it in there, and I tell you that when ma opens the oven-door to see + how the pie is coming on, there distils through the house such a perfume + that you cry out in a choking voice: “Say! Ain't dinner 'most ready?” + </p> + <p> + But I fully recognize the fact that very often our judgment is warped by + feeling, and I am inclined to believe that even the undoubted merit of the + apple-pie would not prevail against a vinegar-pie, if such should be + presented to me for my decision. A vinegar-pie? Well, it has a top and + bottom crust, the same as any other pie, but its filling is made of + vinegar, diluted with water to the proper degree of sub-acidity, sweetened + with molasses, thickened with flour, and all baked as any other pie. You + smile at its crude simplicity, and wonder why I should favor it. To you it + doesn't tell the story that it does to me. It doesn't take you back in + imagination to “the airly days,” when folks came over the mountains in + covered wagons, and settled in the Western Reserve, leaving behind them + all the civilization of their day, and its comforts, parting from + relatives and friends, knowing full well that in this life they never more + should look upon their faces—leaving everything behind to make a new + home in the western wilds. + </p> + <p> + Is was a land of promise that they came to. The virgin soil bore + riotously. There were fruit-trees in the forest that Johnny Appleseed had + planted on his journeyings. The young husband could stand in his dooryard + and kill wild turkeys with his rifle. They fed to loathing on venison, and + squirrels, and all manner of game, and once in a great while they had the + luxury of salt pork. They were well-nourished, but sometimes they pined + for that which was more than mere food. They hungered for that which + should be to the meals' victuals what the flower is to the plant. + </p> + <p> + “I whoosh't—I woosh't was so we could hev pie,” sighed one such. + (Let us call him Uriah Kinney). I think that sounds as if it were his + name. + </p> + <p> + “Land's sakes!” snapped his wife, exasperated that he should be thinking + of the same thing that she was. “Land's sakes! Haow d' ye s'pose I kin + make a pie when I hain't got e'er a thing to make it aout o'? You gimme + suthirnn to make it aout o', an' you see haow quick—” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't a-faultinn ye, Mary Ann,” interposed Uriah gently. “I know haow + 't is. I was on'y tellin' ye. I git I git a kind o' hum'sick sometimes. + 'Pears like as if I sh'd feel more resigned like.... Don't ye cry, Mary + Ann. I know, I know. You feel julluk I do 'baout back home, an' all luk + that.” + </p> + <p> + O woman! When the heft of thy intellect is thrown against a problem, + something has got to give. Not long after, Uriah sits down to dinner, and + can hardly ask a blessing, he has to swallow so. A pie is on the table! + </p> + <p> + “Gosh, Mary Ann, but this is good!” says he, holding out his hand for the + third piece. “This is lickinn good!” And he celebrates her achievement far + and wide. + </p> + <p> + “My Mary Ann med me a pie t' other day, was the all-firedest best pie I + ever et.” + </p> + <p> + “Med you what?” + </p> + <p> + “Med me a pie.” + </p> + <p> + “Pie? Whutch talkinn' baout? Can't git nummore pies naow. Frot 's all gin + aout.” + </p> + <p> + “I golly, she med it just the same. Smartest woman y' ever see.” The man + dribbled at the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “What sh' make it aout o'?” + </p> + <p> + “Vinegar an' worter, I think she said. I d' know 's I ever et anythinn I + relished julluk that. My Mary Ann, tell yew! She's 'baout's smart 's they + make 'em.” + </p> + <p> + I wish I knew who she really was whom I have called Mary Ann Kinney, she + that made the first vinegar-pie. I wish I knew where her grave is that I + might lay upon it a bunch of flowers, such as she knew and liked—sweet-william, + and phlox, and larkspur, and wild columbine. It couldn't make it up to her + for all the hardships she underwent when she was bringing up a family in + that wild, western country, and especially that fall when they all had the + “fever 'n' ager” so bad, Uriah and the twins chilling one day, and Hiram + and Sophronia Jane the next, and she just as miserable as any of them, but + keeping up somehow, God only knows how. It couldn't make it up to her, but + as I laid the pretty posies against the leaning headstone on which is + written: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A Loving Wife, a Mother Dear, + Faithful Friend Lies Buried Here.” + </pre> + <p> + I believe she 'd get word of it somehow, and understand what I was trying + to say by it. + </p> + <p> + I'll ask to be let off the committee that judges the rest of the exhibits + in the Fine Arts Hall, the quilts and the Battenberg, and the crocheting, + and such. I know the Log Cabin pattern, and the Mexican Feather pattern, + and I think I could make out to tell the Hen-and-Chickens pattern of + quilts, but that's as much as ever. And as to the real, hand-painted views + of fruit-cake, and grapes and apples on a red table-cloth, I am one of + those that can't make allowances for the fact that she only took two + terms. I call to mind one picture that Miss Alvalou Ashbaker made of her + pap, old “Coonrod” Ashbaker. The Lord knows he was a “humbly critter,” but + he wasn't as “humbly” as she made him out to be, with his eyes bulging out + of his head as if he was choking on a fishbone. And, instead of her + dressing him up in his Sunday clothes, I wish I may never see the back of + my neck if that girl didn't paint him in a red-and-black barred flannel + shirt, with porcelain buttons on it! And his hair looked as if the calf + had been at it. Wouldn't you think somebody would have told her? And that + isn't all. She got the premium! + </p> + <p> + Neither am I prepared to pass judgment on the fancy penmanship displayed + by Professor Swope, framed elegantly in black walnut, and gilt, depicting + a bounding deer, all made out of hair-line, shaded spirals, done with his + facile pen. (No wonder a deer can jump so, with all those springs inside + him.) Professor Swope writes visiting cards for you, wonderful birds done + in flourishes and holding ribbons in their bills. He puts your name on the + ribbon place. Neatest and tastiest thing you can imagine. I like to watch + him do it, but it makes me feel unhappy, somehow. I never was much of a + scribe, and it's too late for me to learn now. + </p> + <p> + I don't feel so downcast when I examine the specimens of writing done by + the children of District No. 34. I can just see the young ones working at + home on these things, with their tongues stuck out of one corner of their + mouths. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day” + </pre> + <p> + and so on, bearing down hard on the downstroke of the curve in the capital + “R,” and clubbing the end of the little “t.” And in the higher grades, + they toil over “An Original Social Letter,” describing to an imaginary + correspondent a visit to Crystal Lake, or the Magnetic Springs. I can hear + them mourn: “What shall I say next?” and “Ma, make Effie play some place + else, won't you? She jist joggles the table like everything. Now, see what + you done! Now I got to write it all over again. No, I cain't 'scratch it + out. How'd it look to the County Fair all scratched out? Plague take it + all!” + </p> + <p> + The same hands have done maps of North and South America, and red-and-blue + ink pictures of the circulation of the blood. It does beat all how smart + the young ones are nowadays. I could no more draw off a picture of the + circulation of the blood—get it right, I mean—why, I wouldn't + attempt it. + </p> + <p> + I am kind of mixed up in my recollection of the hall right next to the + Fine Arts. You know it had two doors in each end. Sometimes I can see the + central space between the doors, roped off and devoted to sewing-machines + with persons demonstrating that they ran as light as a feather, and how it + was no trouble at all to tuck and gather, and fell; to organs, which + struck me with amaze, because by some witchcraft (octave coupler, I think + they called it) the man could play on keys that he didn't touch, and + pianos, whereon young ladies were prevailed to perform “Silvery Waves”—that's + a lovely piece, I think, don't you?—and + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Listen to the mocking-bird, TEE-die-eedle-DONG + Lisen to the mocking-bird, teedle-eedle-EE-dle DONG + The mocking-bird still singing oer her grave, + toomatooral-oo-cal-LEE!” + </pre> + <p> + And then again I can see that central, roped-off space given over to + reckless deviltry, sheer impudent, brazen-faced, bold, discipline-defying + er—er—wickedness. I had heard that people did things like + that, but this was the first time I had ever caught a glimpse of such + carryings-on in the broad open daylight, right before everybody. I stood + there and watched them for hours, expecting every minute to see fire fall + from heaven on them and burn up every son and daughter of Belial. But it + didn't. + </p> + <p> + I seem to recollect that it was a hot day, and that, tucked away where not + a breath of air could get to them, were three fellows in their + shirtsleeves, one playing on an organ, one on a yellow clarinet, and one + on a fiddle. Every chance he could get, the fiddler would say to the + organist: “Gimme A, please,” and saw away trying to get into some sort of + tune, but the catgut was never twisted that would hold to pitch with the + perspiration dribbling down his fingers in little rills. The clarinet man + looked as if he wanted to cry, and he had to twitter his eyelids all the + time to keep the sweat from blinding him, and every once in a while, his + soggy reed would let go of a squawk that sounded like a scared chicken. + But the organ groaned on unrelentingly, and the tune didn't matter so much + as the rhythm which was kept up as regular as a clock, whack! whack! + whack! whack! And there were two or three other fellows with badges on + that went around shouting: “Select your podners for the next quadrille! + One more couple wanted right over here!” + </p> + <p> + Dancing. M-hm. + </p> + <p> + The fiddler “called off” and chanted to the tune, with his mouth on one + side: “Sullootch podners! First couple forward and back. Side couples the + same. Doe see do-o-o-o. Al-lee-man LEFT! Ballunce ALL! Sa-weeny the + corners!” I don't know whether I get the proper order of these commands or + not, or whether my memory serves me as to their effect, but it seems to me + that at “Bal-lunce ALL!” the ladies demurely teetered, first on one foot + and then on the other, like a frozen-toed rooster, while the gents fairly + tore themselves apart with grape-vine twists and fancy steps, and slapped + the dust out of the cracks in the floor. When it came to “SaWEENG your + podners!” the room billowed with flying skirts, and the ladies squealed + like anything. It made you a little dizzy to watch them do “Graaan' right + and left,” and you could understand how those folks felt—there were + always one or two in each set—who had to be hauled this way and + that, not sure whether they were having a good time or not, but hoping + they were, their faces set in a sickly grin, while their foreheads + wrinkled into a puzzled: “How's that? I didn't quite catch that last + remark” expression. I don't know if it affected you in the same way that + it did me, but after I had stood there for a time and watched those young + men and women thus wasting the precious moments that dropped like + priceless pearls into the ocean of Eternity, and were lost irrevocably, + young, men and women giving themselves up to present enjoyment without one + serious thought in their minds as to who was going to wash the supper + dishes, or what would happen if the house took fire while they were away I + say I do not know how the sight of such reckless frivolity affected you, + but I know that after so long a time my face would get all cramped up from + wearing a grin, and I'd have to go out and look at the reapers and binders + to rest myself so I could come back and look some. There are two things + that you simply have to do at the County Fair, or you aren't right sure + you've been. One is to drink a glass of sweet cider just from the press, + (which, I may say in passing, is an over-rated luxury. Cider has to be + just the least bit “frisky” to be good. I don't mean hard, but “frisky.” + You know). And the other is to buy a whip, if it is only the little toy, + fifteen-cent kind. On the next soap-box to the old fellow that comes every + year to sell pictorial Bibles and red, plush-covered albums, the old + fellow in the green slippers that talks as if he were just ready to drop + off to sleep—on the next soap-box to him is the man that sells the + whips. You can buy one for a dollar, two for a dollar, or four for a + dollar, but not one for fifty cents, or one for a quarter. Don't ask me + why, for I don't know. I am just stating the facts. It can't be done, for + I've seen it tried, and if you keep up the attempt too long, the whip-man + will lose all patience with your unreasonableness, and tell you to go + 'long about your business if you've got any, and not bother the life and + soul out of him, because he won't sell anything but a dollar's worth of + whips, and that's all there is about it. + </p> + <p> + He sells other things, handsaws, and pencils, and mouth-harps, and two + knives for a quarter, of such pure steel that he whittles shavings off a + wire nail with 'em, and is particular to hand you the very identical knife + he did it with. He has jewelry, though I don't suppose you could cut a + wire nail with it. You might, at that. + </p> + <p> + To him approaches a boy. + </p> + <p> + “Got 'ny collar-buttons?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, I'll just look and see. Here's a beautiful rolled-plate gold + watch-chain, with an elegant jewel charm. Lovely blue jewel.” He dangles + the chain and its rich glass pendant, and it certainly does look fine. + “That'd cost you $2.50 at the store. How'd that strike you?” + </p> + <p> + “Hpm. I want a collar-button.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, you hold on a minute. Lemme look again. Ah, here's a package + 'at orta have some in it. Yes, sir, here's four of 'em, enough to last you + a lifetime; front, back, and both sleeves, the kind that flips and don't + tear the buttonholes. Well, by ginger! Now, how'd that git in here, I want + to know? That gold ring? Well, I don't care. It'll have to go with the + collar-buttons. Tell you what I'll do with you: I'll let you have this + elegant solid gold rolled-plate watch-chain and jewel, this elegant, solid + gold ring to git married with—Hay? How about it?—and these + four collar-buttons for—for—twenty-five cents, or a quarter of + a dollar.” + </p> + <p> + That boy never took that quarter out of his breeches pocket. It just + jumped out of itself. But I see that you are getting the fidgets. You're + hoping that I'll come to the horse-racing pretty soon. You want to have it + all brought back to you, the big, big race-track which, as you remember it + now, must have been about the next size smaller than the earth's orbit + around the sun. You want me to tell about the old farmer with the bunch of + timothy whiskers under his chin that gets his old jingling wagon on the + track just before a heat is to be trotted, and all the people yell at him: + “Take him out!” You want me to tell how the trotters looked walking around + in their dusters, with the eye-holes bound with red braid, and how the + drivers of the sulkies sat with the tails of their horses tucked under one + leg. Well, I'm not going to do anything of the kind, and if you don't like + it, you can go to the box-office and demand your money back. I hope you'll + get it. First place, I don't know anything about racing, and consequently + I don't believe it's a good thing for the country. All I know is, that + some horses can go faster than others, but which are the fastest ones I + can't tell by the looks, though I have tried several times.... I did not + walk back. I bought a round-trip ticket. They will tell you that these + events at the County Fair tend to improve the breed of horses. So they do—of + fast horses. But the fast horses are no good. They can't any of them go as + fast as a nickel trolley-car when it gets out where there aren't any + houses. And they not only are no good; they're a positive harm. You know + and I know that just as soon as a man gets cracked after fast horses, it's + good-by John with him. + </p> + <p> + In the next place, I wouldn't mind it if it was only interesting to me. + But it isn't. It bores me to death. You sit there and sit there trying to + keep awake while the drivers jockey and jockey, scheming to get the + advantage of the other fellow, and the bell rings so many times for them + to come back after you think: “They're off this time, sure,” that you get + sick of hearing it. And when they do get away, why, who can tell which + horse is in the lead? On the far side of the track they don't appear to do + anything but poke along, and once in a while some fool horse will “break” + and that's annoying. And then when they come into the stretch, the other + folks that see you with the field-glasses, keep nudging you and asking: + “Who 's ahead, mister? Hay? Who's ahead?” And it's ruinous to the voice to + yell: “Go it! Go it! Go IT, ye devil, you!” with your throat all clenched + that way and your face as red as a turkey-gobbler's. And that second when + they are going under the wire, and the horse you rather like is about a + nose behind the other one that you despise—Oh, tedious, very + tedious. Ho hum, Harry! If I wasn't engaged, I wouldn't marry. Did you + think to put a saucer of milk out for the kitty before you locked up the + house? + </p> + <p> + No. Horse-racing bores me to death, and as I am one of the charter members + of the Anti-Other-Folks-Enjoyment Society, organized to stop people from + amusing themselves in ways that we don't care for, you can readily see + that it is a matter of principle with me to ignore horseracing, and not to + give it so much encouragement as would come from mentioning it. + </p> + <p> + If you're so interested in improving the breed of horses by competitive + contests, what 's the matter with that one where the prize is $5 for the + team that can haul the heaviest load on a stoneboat, straight pulling? + Pile on enough stones to build a house, pretty near, and the owner of the + team, a young fellow with a face like Keats, goes “Ck! Ck! Ck! Geet... + ep... thah BILL! Geet ep, Doll-ay!” and cracks his whip, and kisses with + his mouth, and the horses dance and tug, and jump around and strain till + the stone-boat slides on the grass, and then men climb on until the load + gets so heavy that the team can't budge it. Then another team tries, and + so on, the competitors jawing and jowering at each other with: “Ah, that + ain't fair! That ain't fair! They started it sideways.” + </p> + <p> + “That don't make no difference.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it does, too, make a difference. Straight ahead four inches. that's + the rule.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, didn't they go straight ahead four inches? What's a matter with + ye?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll darn soon show ye what's the matter with me, you come any o' your + shenanigan around here.” + </p> + <p> + “Mighty ready to accuse other folks o' shenannigan, ain't ye? For half a + cent I'd paste you in the moot.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, boys! Now boys! None o' that.” + </p> + <p> + Lots more excitement than a horse-race. Lots more improving to the mind, + and beneficial to the country. + </p> + <p> + And if you hanker after the human element of skill, what's the matter with + the contest where the women see who can hitch up a horse the quickest? + Didn't you have your favorite picked out from the start? I did. She was + about thirteen years old, dressed in an organdie, and I think she had + light blue ribbons flying from her hat, light blue or pink, I forget + which. Her pa helped her unharness, and you could tell by the way he + look-at her that he thought she was about the smartest young one for her + age in her neighborhood. (You ought to hear her play “General Grant's + Grand March” on the organ he bought for her, a fine organ with twenty-four + stops and two full sets of reeds, and a mirror in the top, and places to + set bouquets and all.) There was a woman in the contest that seemed, by + her actions, to think that the others were just wasting their time + competing with her, but when they got the word “Go!” (Old Nate Wells was + the judge; he sold out the livery-stable business to Charley, you + recollect) her horse backed in wrong, and she got the harness all + twisty-ways, and everything went bewitched. And wasn't she provoked, + though? Served her right, I say. A little woman beside her was the first + to jump into her buggy, and drive off with a strong inhalation of breath, + and that nipping together of the lips that says: “A-a-ah! I tell ye!” The + little girl that we picked out was hopping around like a scared cockroach, + and her pa seemed to be saying: “Now, keep cool! Keep cool! Don't get + flustered,” but when another woman drove off, I know she almost cried, she + felt so bad. But she was third, and when she and her pa drove around the + ring, the people clapped her lots more than the other two. I guess they + must have picked her for a favorite the same as you and I did. Bless her + heart! I hope she got a good man when she grew up. + </p> + <p> + Around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin, where they have the relics, the + spinning-wheel, the flax-hackle, and the bunch of dusty tow that nobody + knows how to spin in these degenerate days; the old flint-lock rifle, and + the powder-horn; the tinder-box, and the blue plate, “more'n a hundred + years old;” the dog-irons, tongs, poker, and turkey-wing of an ancient + fireplace—around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin all the early part + of the day a bunch of dirty canvas has been dangling from a rope stretched + between two trees. It was fenced off from the curious, but after dinner a + stranger in fringy trousers and a black singlet went around picking out + big, strong, adventurous young fellows to stand about the wooden ring + fastened to the bottom of the bunch of canvas, which went over the + smoke-pipe of a sort of underground furnace in which a roaring fire had + been built. As the hot air filled the great bag, it was the task of these + helpers to shake out the wrinkles and to hold it down. Older and wiser + ones forbade their young ones to go near it. Supposing it should explode; + what then? But we have always wanted to fly away up into the air, and what + did we come to the Fair for, if not for excitement? The balloon swells out + amazingly fast, and when the guy-ropes are loosened and drop to the + ground, the elephantine bag clumsily lunges this way and that, causing + shrill squeals from those who fear to be whelmed in it. The man in the + singlet tosses kerosene into the furnace from a tin cup, and you can see + the tall flames leap upward from the flue into the balloon. It grows tight + as a drum. + </p> + <p> + “Watch your horses!” he calls out. There is a pause.... “Let go all!” The + mighty shape shoots up twenty feet or so, and the man in the singlet darts + to the corner to cut a lone detaining rope. As he runs he sheds his fringy + trousers. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, everybody!” he cries out, and the sinister possibilities in that + phrase are overlooked in the wonder at seeing him lurch upward through the + air, all glorious in black tights and yellow breech-clout. Up and up he + soars above the tree-tops, and the wind gently wafts him along, a pendant + to a dusky globe hanging in the sky. He is just a speck now swaying to and + fro. The globe plunges upward; the pendant drops like a shot. There is a + rustling sound. It is the intake of the breath of horror from ten thousand + pairs of lungs. Look! Look! The edges of the parachute ruffle, and then it + blossoms out like an opening flower. It bounces on the air a little, and + rocking gently sinks like thistle-down behind the woods. + </p> + <p> + It is all over. The Fair is over. Let's go home. Isn't it wonderful + though, what men can do? You'll see; they'll be flying like birds, one of + these days. That's what we little boys think, but we overhear old Nate + Wells say to Tom Slaymaker, as we pass them: “Well, I d' know. I d' know + 's these here b'loon ascensions is worth the money they cost the + 'Sociation. I seen so many of 'em, they don't interest me nummore. 'Less, + o' course, sumpun should happen to the feller.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHRISTMAS BACK HOME + </h2> + <p> + It was the time of year when the store windows are mighty interesting. + Plotner's bakery, that away, 'way back in the summer-time, was an + ice-cream saloon, showed a plaster man in the window, with long, white + whiskers, in top boots and a brown coat and peaked hat, all trimmed with + fur, and carrying a little pinetree with arsenical foliage. Over his head + dangled a thicket of canes hanging by their crooks from a twine string + stretched across. They were made of candy striped spirally in red and + white. There were candy men and women in the window, and chocolate mice + with red eyes, and a big cake, all over frosting, with a candy preacher on + it marrying a candy man and lady. The little children stood outside, with + their joggerfies, and arithmetics, and spellers, and slates bound in red + flannel under their arms, and swallowed hard as they looked. Whenever + anybody went in for a penny's worth of yeast and opened the door, that had + a bell fastened to it so that Mrs. Plotner could hear in the back room, + and come to wait on the customer, the smell of wintergreen and peppermint + and lemonsticks and hot taffy gushed out so strong that they couldn't + swallow fast enough, but stood there choking and dribbling at the mouth. + </p> + <p> + Brown's shoe store exhibited green velvet slippers with deers' heads on + them, and Galbraith's windows were hung with fancy dressgoods, and + handkerchiefs with dogs' heads in the corners; but, next to Plotner's, + Case's drug-and-book store was the nicest. When you first went in, it + smelled of cough candy and orris root, but pretty soon you could notice + the smell of drums and new sleds, and about the last smell, (sort of down + at the bottom of things) was the smell of new books, the fish-glue on the + binding, and the muslin covers, and the printer's ink, and that is a smell + that if it ever gets a good hold of you, never lets go. There were the + “Rollo” books, and the “Little Prudy” books, and “Minnie and Her Pets,” + and the “Elm Island” series, and the “Arabian Nights,” with colored + pictures, and There were skates all curled up at the toes, and balls of + red and black leather in alternate quarters, and China mugs, with “Love + the Giver,” and “For a Good Boy” in gilt letters on them. Kind of Dutch + letters they were. And there were dolls with black, shiny hair, and red + cheeks, and blue eyes, with perfectly arched eyebrows. They had on black + shoes and white stockings, with pink garters, and they almost always toed + in a little. They looked so cold in the window with nothing but a “shimmy” + on, and fairly ached to be dressed, and nursed, and sung to. The little + girls outside the window felt an emptiness in the hollow of their left + arms as they gazed. There was one big doll in the middle all dressed up. + It had real hair that you could comb, and it was wax. Pure wax! Yes, sir. + And it could open and shut its eyes, and if you squeezed its stomach it + would cry, of course, not like a real baby, but more like one of those + ducks that stand on a sort of bellows thing. Though they all “chose” that + doll and hoped for miracles, none of them really expected to find it in + her stocking sixteen days later. (They kept count of the days.) Maybe Bell + Brown might get it; her pa bought her lots of things. She had parlor + skates and a parrot, only her ma wouldn't let her skate in the parlor, it + tore up the carpet so, and the parrot bit her finger like anything. + </p> + <p> + The little boys kicked their copper-toed boots to keep warm and quarreled + about which one chose the train of cars first, and then began to quarrel + over an army of soldiers. + </p> + <p> + “I choose them!” + </p> + <p> + “A-aw! You choosed the ingine and the cars.” + </p> + <p> + “Dung care. I choose everything in this whole window.” + </p> + <p> + “A-aw! That ain't fair!” + </p> + <p> + In the midst of the wrangle somebody finds out that Johnny Pym has a piece + of red glass, and then they begin fighting for turns looking through it at + the snow and the court-house. But not for long. They fall to bragging + about what they are going to get for Christmas. Eddie Cameron was pretty + sure he 'd get a spy-glass. He asked his pa, and his pa said “Mebby. He'd + see about it.” Then, just in time, they looked up and saw old man + Nicholson coming along with his shawl pinned around him. They ran to the + other side of the street because he stops little boys, and pats them on + the head, and asks them if they have found the Savior. It makes some boys + cry when he asks them that. + </p> + <p> + The Rowan twins—Alfaretta and Luanna May—are working a pair of + slippers for their pa, one apiece, because it is such slow work. Along + about suppertime they make Elmer Lonnie stay outside and watch for his + coming, and he has to say: “Hello, pa!” very loud, and romp with him + outside the gate so as to give the twins time to gather up the colored + zephyrs and things, and hide them in the lower bureau drawer in the spare + bedroom. At such a time their mother finds an errand that takes her into + the parlor so that she can see that they do not, by any chance, look into + the middle drawer in the farther left-hand corner, under the pillow-slips. + </p> + <p> + One night, just at supper-time, Elmer Lonnie said: “Hello, pa!” and then + they heard pa whispering and Elmer Lonnie came in looking very solemn—or + trying to—and said: “Ma, Miss Waldo wants to know if you won't + please step over there a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she say what for? Because I'm right in the midst of getting supper. I + look for your pa any minute now, and I don't want to keep him waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “No 'm, she didn't say what for. She jist said: 'Ast yer ma won't she + please an' step over here a minute.' I wouldn't put anythin' on. 'T ain't + cold. You needn't stay long, only till... I guess she's in some of a + hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if Harriet Waldo thinks 'at I haven't anythin' better to do 'n trot + around after her at her beck an'.... All right, I'll come.” + </p> + <p> + The twins got their slippers hid, and Mrs. Rowan threw her shawl over her + head, and went next door to take Mrs. Waldo completely by surprise. The + good woman immediately invented an intricate problem in crochet work + demanding instant solution. Mr. Rowan had brought home a crayon + enlargement of a daguerreotype of Ma, taken before she was married, when + they wore their hair combed down over their ears, and wide lace collars + fastened with a big cameo pin, and puffed sleeves with the armholes nearly + at the elbows. They wore lace mitts then, too. The twins thought it looked + so funny, but Pa said: “It was all the style in them days. Laws! I mind + the first time I took her home from singin' school.... Tell you where less + hide it. In between the straw tick, and the feather tick.” And Luanna May + said: “What if company should come?” Elmer Lonnie ran over to Mrs. Waldo's + to tell Ma that Pa had come home, and wanted his supper right quick, + because he had to get back to the store, there was so much trade in the + evenings now. + </p> + <p> + “I declare, Emmeline Rowan, you're gettin' to be a reg'lar gadabout,” said + Mr. Rowan, very savagely. “Gad, gad, gad, from mornin' till night. Ain't + they time in daylight fer you an' Hat Waldo to talk about your neighbors + 'at you can't stay home long enough to git me my supper?” + </p> + <p> + He winked at the twins so funny that Alfaretta, who always was kind of + flighty, made a little noise with her soft palate and tried to pass it off + for a cough. Luanna May poked her in the ribs with her elbow, and Mrs. + Rowan spoke up quite loud: “Why, Pa, how you go on! I wasn't but a minute, + an' you hardly ever come before halfpast. And furthermore, mister, I want + to know how I'm to keep this house a-lookin' like anything an' you + a-trackin' in snow like that. Just look at you. I sh'd think you'd know + enough to stomp your feet before you come in. Luanna May, you come grind + the coffee. Alfie, run git your Pa his old slippers.” That set both of + them to giggling, and Mrs. Rowan went out into the kitchen and began to + pound the beefsteak. + </p> + <p> + “D' you think she sispicioned anythin'?” asked Mr. Rowan out of one side + of his mouth, and Elmer Lonnie said, “No, sir,” and wondered if his Pa + “sispicioned anythin”' when Ma said, “Run git the old slippers.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Waldo always walked up with Mr. Rowan, and just about that time his + little Mary Ellen was climbing up into his lap and saying: “I bet you + can't guess what I'm a-goin' to buy you for a Christmas gift with my + pennies what I got saved up.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll just bet I can.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you can't. It's awful pretty—I mean, they're awful pretty. + Somepin you want, too.” How could he guess with her fingering his + tarnished cuff buttons and looking down at them every minute or two? + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, let me see. Is it a gold watch?” + </p> + <p> + “Nope.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, now! I jist set my heart on a gold watch and chain.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but it'd cost more money 'n I got. Three or fifteen dollars, + mebby.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let me see. Is it a shotgun?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. Oh, you just can't guess it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a—a—Is it a horse and buggy?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, now, you're foolin'. No, it ain't a horse and buggy.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what it is. It's a dolly with real hair that you can comb, and all + dressed up in a blue dress. One that can shut its eyes when it goes + bye-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Little Mary Ellen looks at him very seriously a minute, and sighs, and + says: “No, it ain't that. But if it was, wouldn't you let me play with it + when you was to the store?” And he catches her up in his arms and says: + “You betchy! Now, I ain't goin' to guess any more! I want to be surprised. + You jump down an' run an' ask Ma if supper ain't most ready. Tell her I'm + as hungry as a hound pup.” + </p> + <p> + He hears her deliver the message, and also the word her mother sends back: + “Tell him to hold his horses. It 'll be ready in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “It will, eh? Well, I can't wait a minute, an' I'm goin' to take a + hog-bite right out of YOU!” and he snarls and bites her right in the + middle of her stomach, and if there is anything more ticklesome than that, + it hasn't been heard of yet. + </p> + <p> + After supper, little Eddie Allgire teases his brother D. to tell him about + Santa Claus. D. is cracking walnuts on a flat-iron held between his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Is they any Santy Claus, D.?” + </p> + <p> + “W'y, cert, they is. Who says not?” + </p> + <p> + “Bunty Rogers says they ain't no sech a person.” + </p> + <p> + “You tell Bunt Rogers that he's a-gittin' too big fer his britches, an' + first thing he knows, he'll whirl round an' see his naked nose. Tell him I + said so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, is they any Santy Claus?” + </p> + <p> + “W'y cert. Ain't I a-tellin' you? Laws! ain't you never seen him yet?” + </p> + <p> + “I seen that kind of a idol they got down in Plotner's winder.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he looks jist like that, on'y he's alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see him, D.?” + </p> + <p> + “O-oh, well! Think I'm goin' to tell everything I know? Well, I guess + not.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but did you now?” + </p> + <p> + “M-well, that 'd be tellin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, now, D., tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Look out what you're doin'. Now see that. You pretty near made me mash my + thumb.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, now, D., tell me. I think you might. I don't believe you ever did.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you don't, hey? Well, if you had 'a saw what I saw. M-m! Little round + eyes an' red nose an' white whiskers, an' heard the sleigh bells, an' oh, + my! them reindeers! Cutest little things! Stompin' their little feet” Here + he stopped, and went on cracking nuts. + </p> + <p> + “Tell some more. Woncha, please? Ma, make D. tell me the rest of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Huck-uh! Dassant. 'T wouldn't be right. Like's not he won't put anythin' + in my stockin' now fer what I did tell.” + </p> + <p> + “How'll he know?” + </p> + <p> + “How'll he know? Easy enough. He goes around all the houses evenings now + to see how the young ones act, an' if he finds they're sassy, an' don't + mind their Ma when she tells them to leave the cat alone, an' if they + whine: 'I don' want to go out an' cut the kindlin'. Why cain't D. do it?' + then he puts potatoes an' lumps o' coal in their stockin's. Oh, he'll be + here, course o' the evenin'.” + </p> + <p> + “D' you s'pose he's round here now?” Eddie got a little closer to his + brother. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't wonder. Yes, sir. There he goes now. Sure's you're alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Right over yan. Aw, you don't look. See? There he is. Aw! you're too + slow. Didn't you see him? Now the next time I tell you—Look, look! + There! He run right acrost the floor an' into the closet. Plain 's day. + didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches in a + nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck. + </p> + <p> + “W'y, you couldn't help but see him, didn't you take notice to his white + whiskers?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of hypnosis. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?” + </p> + <p> + “M-hm,” said Eddie, the image taking shape in his mind's eye. + </p> + <p> + “And his brown coat all trimmed with fur, an' his funny peaked hat? An' + his red nose? W'y, course you did.” The boy nodded his head. He was sure + now. Yes. Faith was lost in sight. He believed. + </p> + <p> + “I expect he's in the closet now. Go look.” + </p> + <p> + “No. You.” He clung to D. + </p> + <p> + “I can't. I got this flat-iron in my lap, an' wouldn't spill the + nut-shells all over the floor. You don't want me to, do you, Ma?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Allgire shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now,” said D. “Anybody tell you they ain't sich a person as Santy + Claus, you kin jist stand 'em down 'at you know better, 'cause you seen + him, didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + Eddie nodded his head. Anyhow, what D. told him was “the Lord said unto + Moses,” and now that he had the evidence of his own eyes—Well, the + next day he defied Bunt Rogers and all his works. To tell the plain truth, + Bunt wasn't too well grounded in his newly cut infidelity. + </p> + <p> + In the public schools the children were no longer singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “None knew thee but to love thee, thou dear one of my heart; + Oh, thy mem'ry is ever fresh and green. + The sweet buds may wither and fond hearts be broken, + Still I love thee, my darling, Daisy Deane.” + </pre> + <p> + They turned over now to page 53, and there was a picture of Santa Claus + just as in Plotner's window, except that he had a pack on his back and one + leg in the chimney. This is what they sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? + Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? + Up on the house-top, click, click, click + Down through the chimney with good St. Nick.” + </pre> + <p> + Miss Munsell, who taught the D primary, traded rooms with Miss Crutcher, + who taught the “a-b Abs.” Miss Munsell was a big fat lady, and she smiled + so that the dimples came in both cheeks and her double Chin was doubter + than ever, when she told the children what a dear, nice teacher Miss + Crutcher was, and how fond she was of them, and wouldn't they like to make + a Christmas present to their dear, kind teacher? They all said “Yes, mam.” + Well, now, the way to do would be for each child to bring money (if Miss + Munsell had smiled at a bird in the tree as she did then, it would have + had to come right down and perch in her hand), just as much money as ever + they could, and all must bring something, because it would make Miss + Crutcher feel so bad to think that there was one little boy or one little + girl that didn't love her enough to give her a Christmas present. And if + everybody brought a dime or maybe a quarter, they could get her such a + nice present. If their papas wouldn't let them have that much money, why + surely they would let them have a penny, wouldn't they, children? And the + children said: “Yes, mam.” + </p> + <p> + “And now all that love their dear, kind teacher, raise their hands. Why, + there's a little girl over that hasn't her hand up! That's right, dear, + put it up, bless your little heart! Now, we mustn't say a word to Miss + Crutcher, must we? No. And that will be our secret, won't it? And all be + sure to have your money ready by to-morrow. Now, I wonder if you can be + just as still as little mice. I'm going to give this little girl a pin to + drop and see if I can hear it out in the hall.” + </p> + <p> + Then she tiptoed down the hall clear to her own room and Mary Ellen Waldo + let the pin drop, and Miss Mussell didn't come back to say whether she + heard the pin drop or not. The children sat in breathless silence. Selma + Morgenroth knocked her slate off and bit her lip with mortification while + the others looked at her as much as to say: “Oh, my! ain't you 'shamed?” + Then Miss Crutchet came back and smiled at the children, and they smiled + back at her because they knew something she didn't know and couldn't guess + at all. It was a secret. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Miss Crutchet traded rooms again, and the little children + gave Miss Mussell their money, and she counted it, and it came to $2.84. + The next day she came again because there were three that hadn't their + money, so there was $2.88 at last. Miss Mussell had three little girls go + with her after school to pick out the present. They chose a silver-plated + pickle caster, which is exactly what girls of seven will choose, and, do + you know, it came exactly to $2.88? + </p> + <p> + Then, on the last day of school, Miss Mussell came in, and, with the three + little girls standing on the platform and following every move with their + eyes as a dog watches his master, she gave the caster to Miss Crutchet and + Miss Crutchet cried, she was so surprised. They were tears of joy, she + said. After that, she went into Miss Munsell's room, and three little + girls in there gave Miss Mussell a copy of Tennyson's poems that cost + exactly $2.53, which was what Miss Crutchet had collected, and Miss + Mussell cried because she was so surprised. How they could guess that she + wanted a copy of Tennyson's poems, she couldn't think, but she would + always keep the book and prize it because her dear pupils had given it to + her. And just as Selma Morgenroth called out to the monitor, Charley + Freer, who sat in Miss Crutchers chair, while she was absent: “Teacher! + Make Miky Ryan he should ka-vit a-pullin' at my hair yet!” and the school + was laughing because she called Charley Freer “teacher,” in came Miss + Crutchet as cross as anything, and boxed Miky Ryan's ears and shook Selma + Morgenroth for making so much noise. They didn't give anything, though + they promised they would. + </p> + <p> + It was not alone in the day schools that there were extra preparations. + The Sunday-schools were getting ready, too, and when Janey Pettit came + home and told her Pa how big her class was, he started to say something, + but her Ma shook her head at him and he looked very serious and seemed to + be trying hard not to smile. He was very much interested, though, when she + told him that Iky Morgenroth, whose father kept the One-Price Clothing + House down on Main Street, had joined, and how he didn't know enough to + take his hat off when he came into church. Patsy Gubbins and Miky Ryan and + six boys from the Baptist Sunday-School had joined, too, and they all went + into Miss Sarepta Downey's class, so that she had two whole pews full to + teach, and they acted just awful. The infant class was crowded, and there + was one little boy that grabbed for the collection when it was passed in + front of him, and got a whole handful and wouldn't give it up, and they + had to twist the money out of his fist, and he screamed and “hollered” + like he was being killed. And coming home, Sophy Perkins, who goes to the + Baptist Church, told her that there wasn't going to be any Christmas tree + at their Sabbath-school. She said that there wasn't hardly anybody out. + The teachers just sat round and finally went into the pastor's Bible + class. Mr. Pettit said he was surprised to hear it. It couldn't have been + the weather that kept them away, could it? Janey said she didn't know. + Then he asked her what they were going to sing for Christmas, and she + began on “We three kings of Orient are,” and broke off to ask him what + “Orient” meant, and he told her that Orient was out on the Sunbury pike, + about three miles this side of Olive Green, and her Ma said: “Lester + Pettit, I wish't you'd ever grow up and learn how to behave yourself. Why, + honey, it means the East. The three wise men came from the East, don't you + mind?” + </p> + <p> + At the Centre Street M. E. Church, where Janey Pettit went to + Sunday-school, there were big doings. Little Lycurgus Emerson, whose + mother sent him down to Littell's in a hurry for two pounds of brown + sugar, and who had already been an hour and a half getting past Plotner's + and Case's, heard Brother Littell and Abel Horn talking over what they had + decided at the “fishery meetin'.” (By the time Curg got so that he shaved, + he knew that “officiary” was the right way to say it, just as + “certificate” is the right way to say “stiffcut.”) There was going to be a + Christmas tree clear up to the ceiling, all stuck full of candles and + strung with pop-corn, and a chimney for Santa Claus to climb down and give + out the presents and call out the names on them. Every child in the + Sunday-school was to get a bag of candy and an orange, and there were + going to be “exercises.” Curg thought it would be kind of funny to go + through gymnastics, but, just then, he saw Uncle Billy Nicholson come in, + and he hid. He didn't want to be patted on the head and—asked + things. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Billy had his mouth all puckered up, and his eyebrows looked more + like tooth-brushes than ever. He put down the list of groceries that Aunt + Libby had written out for him, because he couldn't remember things very + well, and commenced to lay down the law. + </p> + <p> + “Such carryin's on in the house o' God!” he snorted. “Why the very idy! + Talk about them Pharisees an' Sadducees a-makin' the temple a den o' + thieves! W'y, you're a-turnin' it into a theayter with your play-actin' + tomfoolery! They'll be no blessin' on it, now you mark.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Libby say whether she wanted stoned raisins?” asked Brother Littell, + who was copying off the list on the order book. + </p> + <p> + “I disremember, but you better send up the reg'lar raisins. Gittin' too + many newfangled contraptions these days. They're a-callin' it a theayter + right now, the Babtists is. What you astin' fer your eatin' apples? Whew! + My souls alive! I don't wonder you grocery storekeepers git rich in a + hurry. No, I guess you needn't send 'ny up. Taste too strong o' money. + Don't have no good apples now no more anyways. All so dried up and pethy. + An' what is it but a theayter, I'd like to know? Weth your lectures about + the Ar'tic regions an' your mum-socials, an' all like that, chargin' money + fer to git in the meetin' house. I tell you what it is, Brother Littell, + the women folks 'd take the money they fritter away on ribbons and + artificial flowers an' gold an'costly apparel, which I have saw them + turned away from the love-feast fer wearin', an' 'ud give it in fer + quarterage an' he'p support the preachin' of the Word, they wouldn't need + to be no shows in the meetin' house an' they 'd be more expeerimental + religion.” + </p> + <p> + Abel Horn (Abel led the singing in meeting, and had a loud bass voice; he + always began before everybody and ended after everybody) was standing + behind Uncle Billy, and Lycurgus could see him with his head juked forward + and his eyebrows up and his mouth wide open in silent laughter, very + disconcerting to Brother Littell, who didn't want to anger Uncle Billy, + and maybe lose his trade by grinning in his face. + </p> + <p> + “An' now you got to go an' put up a Christmas tree right in the altar,” + stormed Uncle Billy, “an' dike it all out with pop-corn an' candles. + You're gittin' as bad 's the Catholics, every bit. Worse, I say, becuz + they never had the Gospel light, an' is jist led round by the priest an' + have to pay to git their sins forgive. But you, you're a-walkin' right + smack dab into it, weth your eyes open, teachin' fer Gospel the inventions + o' men.” + </p> + <p> + “W'y what, Uncle Billy?” + </p> + <p> + “W'y, this here Santy Claus a-climbin' down a chimley an' a-cuttin' up + didoes fer to make them little ones think they is a reel Santy Claus 'cuz + they seen him to the meetin' house. Poot soon when they git a little older + 'n' they find out how you been afoolin' 'em about Santy Claus, they'll + wonder if what you been a-tellin' 'em about the Good Man ain't off o' the + same bolt o' goods, an' another one o' them cunningly devised fables. + Think they'll come any blessin' on tellin' a lie? An' a-actin' it out? No, + sir. No, sir. Ain't ary good thing to a lie, no way you kin fix it. How + kin they be? Who's the father of lies? W'y the Old Scratch! That's who. + An' here you go a—” + </p> + <p> + The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and stamped + out, slamming the door after him. + </p> + <p> + Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before he + mildly observed “Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like.” + </p> + <p> + “Righteous mad, I s'pose,” said Abel Horn. + </p> + <p> + “You waited on yit, bub?” asked Brother Littell. “I betchy he's a-thinkin' + right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an' go to the + Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb at the fur end o' + town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there.” + </p> + <p> + “Pity him an' a few more of 'em up in the Amen corner wouldn't go,” said + Abel Horn. “Mind the time we sung, 'There is a Stream?' You know they's a + solo in it fer the soprano. Well, 't is kind o' operatic an' skallyhootin' + up an' down the scale. I give the solo to Tilly Wilkerson an' if that old + skeezicks didn't beller right out in the middle of it: 'It's a disgrace + tud Divine service!' He did. You could 'a' heard him clear to the + court-house. My! I thought I'd go up. Tilly, she was kind o' scared an' + trimbly, but she stuck to it like a major. Said afterwards she'd 'a' + finished that solo if it was the last act she ever done.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's a-goin' to be Santy Claus?” asked Brother Littell, with cheerful + irrevelance. + </p> + <p> + “The committee thought that had better be kept a secret,” replied Abel, + with as much dignity as his four feet nine would admit of. + </p> + <p> + “Ort to be somebody kind o' heavy-set, ort n't it?” hinted the grocer, + giving a recognizable description of himself. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don' know 'bout that,” contested Abel. “Git somebody kind o' spry + an' he could pad out weth a pilfer. A pussy man 'd find it rather onhandy + comin' down that chimbly an' hoppin' hether an' yan takin' things off o' + the tree. Need somebody with a good strong voice, too, to call off the + names.... Woosh's you'd git them things up to the house soon 's you kin, + Otho. Ma's in a hurry fer 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Betchy two cents,” said Brother Littell to his clerk, Clarence Bowersox, + “'at Abel Horn 'll be Santy Claus.” + </p> + <p> + “Git out!” doubted Clarence. + </p> + <p> + “'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himself in an' be + the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more call to be Santy + Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-up runt, bald 's a + apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inch tell I was sixteen 'n' + then I shot up like a weed.'... Bub, you tell yer Ma if she wants a turkey + fer Christmas she better be gittin' her order in right quick.” + </p> + <p> + Only six more days till Christmas now—only five—only four—only + three—only two—Christmas Eve. One day more of holding in such + swelling secrets, and some of the young folks would have popped right wide + open. Families gather about the Franklin stove, Pa and Ma gaping and + rubbing their eyes—saying, “Oh, hum!” and making out that they are + just plumb perishing for the lack of sleep. But the children cannot take + the hint. They don't want to go to bed. The imminence of a great event + nerves them in their hopeless fight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and + stare with bulging eyes at the red coals and dancing flames, spurting out + here and there like tiny sabers. + </p> + <p> + The mystic hour draws near. Sometime in the night will come the jingle of + silver bells, and the patter of tiny hoofs. Old Santa will halloo: “Whoa!” + and come sliding down the chimney. The drowsing heads, fuddled with + weariness, wrestle clumsily with the problem, “How is he to get through + the stove without burning himself?” Reason falters and Faith triumphs. It + would be done somehow, and then the reindeer would fly to the next house, + and the next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour draws near. Like a + tidal wave it rolls around the world, foaming at its crest in a golden + spray of gifts and love. The mystic hour. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just a little longer, just a little longer.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. You cain't hardly prop your eyes open now. Come now. Get to bed. + Now, Elmer Lonnie; now, Mary Ellen; now, Janey; now, Eddie; now, Lycurgus. + Don't be naughty at the last minute and say, 'I don't want to,' or else + Santa Claus won't come a-near. No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + After the last drink of water and the last “Now I lay me,” a long + pause.... Then from the spare bedroom the loud rustling of stiff paper, + the snap of broken, string, and whispers of, “Won't her eyes stick out + when she sees that!” and, “He's been just fretting for a sled; I'm so glad + it was so 't we could get it for him,” and, “I s'pose we ort n't to spent + so much, but seems like with such nice young ones 's we've got 't ain't no + more 'n right we should do for 'em all we can afford, 'n' mebby a little + more. Janey 's 'stiffcut' said she was 100 in everything, deportment an' + all.” + </p> + <p> + At one house something white slips down the staircase to where a good view + can be had through the half-open parlor door. It pauses when a step cracks + loudly in the stillness. The parlor door is slammed to. + </p> + <p> + “D' you think he saw?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. I'm afraid so. Little tyke!” + </p> + <p> + Something white creeps back and crawls into bed. A heart thumps violently + under the covers, and two big, round eyes stare up at the dark ceiling. + Somebody has eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and the gates of + Eden have shut behind him forever. + </p> + <p> + He does not sense that now; he is glad in the exulting consciousness that + he is “a little kid” no longer. Pretty soon he'll be a man, and then.... + and then.... Oh, what grand things are to happen then! + </p> + <p> + The mutual gifts are brought out with many a shamefaced: “It looks awful + little, but 't was the best I could do for the money. You see I spent more + on the children than I lotted to,” and many a cheerful fib of: “Why, + that's exactly what I've been wishing for.” Some poor fools, that have + never learned and never will learn that the truest word ever spoken is: + “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” make their husbands a + present of a parlor lamp or a pair of lace curtains, and their wives a + present of a sack of flour, or enough muslin to make half a dozen shirts. + And there are deeper depths. There are such words as: “What possessed you + to buy me that old thing? Well, I won't have it! Now!” The stove-door is + slammed open and the gift crammed in upon the coals, and two people sit + there with lips puffed out, chests heaving and hearts burning with hate. + </p> + <p> + It is the truth, but cover it up. Cover it up. Turn away the head. On this + Holy Night of Illusion let us forget the truth for once. There are three + hundred and sixty-four other nights in which to consider the eternal + verities. On this one, let us be as little children. “Let us now go even + to Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass.” + </p> + <p> + The mystic hour draws nigh. The lights go out, one by one. The watchman at + the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking count the strokes + that tremble in the frosty air. Eleven o'clock. Father and mother sit + silent by the fire. The tree in the corner of the room flashes its + tinselry in the dying light. A cinder tinkles on the hearth. Their + thoughts are one. “He would be nine years old, if he had lived,” murmurs + the mother. Their hands grope for each other, meet and clasp. Something + aches in their throats. The red coals swell and blur into a formless mass. + </p> + <p> + The mystic hour is come. The town sleeps. The moon rides high in the clear + heavens. The wind sighs in the fir trees. Faint and far-off across the + centuries sounds the chant of angels. + </p> + <p> + The hour is come. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Back Home, by Eugene Wood + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACK HOME *** + +***** This file should be named 2642-h.htm or 2642-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/4/2642/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> diff --git a/2642.txt b/2642.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..51bc235 --- /dev/null +++ b/2642.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6118 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Back Home, by Eugene Wood + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Back Home + +Author: Eugene Wood + +Posting Date: December 8, 2008 [EBook #2642] +Release Date: May, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACK HOME *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer + + + + + +BACK HOME + +By Eugene Wood + + + + + TO + THE SAINTED MEMORY + OF HER WHOM, IN THE DAYS BACK HOME, + I KNEW AS "MY MA MAG" + AND WHO WAS MORE TO ME THAN I CAN TELL, EVEN + IF MY TARDY WORDS COULD REACH HER + THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED + + "That she who is an angel now + Might sometimes think of me" + + + + +CONTENTS + + INTRODUCTION + THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE + THE SABBATH-SCHOOL + THE REVOLVING YEAR + THE SWIMMING-HOLE + THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT + THE DEVOURING ELEMENT + CIRCUS DAY + THE COUNTY FAIR + CHRISTMAS BACK HOME + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +GENTLE READER:--Let me make you acquainted with my book, "Back Home." +(Your right hand, Book, your right hand. Pity's sakes! How many times +have I got to tell you that? Chest up and forward, shoulders back and +down, and turn your toes out more.) + +It is a little book, Gentle Reader, but please don't let that prejudice +you against it. The General Public, I know, likes to feel heft in its +hand when it buys a book, but I had hoped that you were a peg or two +above the General Public. That mythical being goes on a reading spree +about every so often, and it selects a book which will probably last out +the craving, a book which "it will be impossible to lay down, after it +is once begun, until it is finished." (I quote from the standard book +notice). A few hours later the following dialogue ensues: + + +"Henry!" + +"Yes, dear." + +"Aren't you 'most done reading?" + +"Just as soon as I finish this chapter." A sigh and a long wait. + +"Henry!" + +"Yes, dear." + +"Did you lock the side-door?" No answer. + +"Henry! Did you?" + +"Did I what?" + +"Did you lock the side-door?" + +"In a minute now." + +"Yes, but did you?" + +"M-hm. I guess so." + +"'Guess so!' Did you lock that side-door? They got in at Hilliard's +night before last and stole a bag of clothes-pins." + +"M." + +"Oh, put down that book, and go and lock the side-door. I'll not get a +wink of sleep this blessed night unless you do." + +"In a minute now. Just wait till I finish this..." + +"Go do it now." + +Mr. General Public has a card on his desk that says, "Do it Now," and so +he lays down his book with a patient sigh, and comes back to it with a +patent grouch. + +"Oh, so it is," says the voice from the bedroom. "I remember now, I +locked it myself when I put the milk-bottles out.... I'm going to stop +taking of that man unless there's more cream on the top than there has +been here lately." + +"M." + +"Henry!" + +"Oh, what is it?" + +"Aren't you 'most done reading?" + +"In a minute, just as soon as I finish this chapter." + +"How long is that chapter, for mercy's sakes?" + +"I began another." + +"Henry!" + +"What?" + +"Aren't you coming to bed pretty soon? You know I can't go to sleep when +you are sitting up." + +"Oh, hush up for one minute, can't ye? It's a funny thing if I can't +read a little once in a while." + +"It's a funny thing if I've got to be broke of my rest this way. As much +as I have to look after. I'd hate to be so selfish.... Henry! Won't you +please put the book down and come to bed?" + +"Oh, for goodness sake! Turn over and go to sleep. You make me tired." + +Every two or three hours Mrs. General Public wakes up and announces that +she can't get a wink of sleep, not a wink; she wishes he hadn't brought +the plagued old book home; he hasn't the least bit of consideration for +her; please, please, won't he put the book away and come to bed? + +He reaches "THE END" at 2:30A.M., turns off the gas, and creeps into +bed, his stomach all upset from smoking so much without eating anything, +his eyes feeling like two burnt holes in a blanket, and wishing that +he had the sense he was born with. He'll have to be up at 6:05, and he +knows how he will feel. He also knows how he will feel along about three +o'clock in the afternoon. Smithers is coming then to close up that deal. +Smithers is as sharp as tacks, as slippery as an eel, and as crooked as +a dog's hind leg. Always looking for the best of it. You need all +your wits when you deal with Smithers. Why didn't he take Mrs. General +Public's advice, and get to bed instead of sitting up fuddling himself +with that fool love-story? + +That's how a book should be to be a great popular success, and one +that all the typewriter girls will have on their desks. I am guiltily +conscious that "Back Home" is not up to standard either in avoirdupois +heft or the power to unfit a man for business. + +Here's a book. Is it long? No. Is it exciting? No. Any lost diamonds +in it? Nup. Mysterious murders? No. Whopping big fortune, now teetering +this way, and now teetering that, tipping over on the Hero at the last +and smothering him in an avalanche of fifty-dollar bills? No. Does She +get Him? Isn't even that. No "heart interest" at all. What's the use of +putting out good money to make such a book; to have a cover design for +it; to get a man like A. B. Frost to draw illustrations for it, when he +costs so like the mischief, when there's nothing in the book to make a +man sit up till 'way past bedtime? Why print it at all? + +You may search me. I suppose it's all right, but if it was my money, +I'll bet I could make a better investment of it. If worst came to worst, +I could do like the fellow in the story who went to the gambling-house +and found it closed up, so he shoved the money under the door and went +away. He'd done his part. + +And yet, on the other hand, I can see how some sort of a case can be +made out for this book of mine. I suppose I am wrong-I generally am in +regard to everything--but it seems to me that quite a large part of the +population of this country must be grown-up people. If I am right +in this contention, then this large part of the population is being +unjustly discriminated against. I believe in doing a reasonable amount +for the aid and comfort of the young things that are just beginning to +turn their hair up under, or who rub a stealthy forefinger over their +upper lips to feel the pleasant rasp, but I don't believe in their +monopolizing everything. I don't think it 's fair. All the books +printed--except, of course, those containing valuable information; we +don't buy those books, but go to the public library for them--all the +books printed are concerned with the problem of How She can get Him, and +He can get Her. + +Well, now. It was either yesterday morning or the day before that you +looked in the glass and beheld there The First Gray Hair. You smiled a +smile that was not all pure pleasure, a smile that petered out into a +sigh, but nevertheless a smile, I will contend. What do you think +about it? You're still on earth, aren't you? You'll last the month out, +anyhow, won't you? Not at all ready to be laid on the shelf? What do you +think of the relative importance of Love, Courtship, and Marriage? One +or two other things in life just about as interesting, aren't there? +Take getting a living, for instance. That 's worthy of one's attention, +to a certain extent. When our young ones ask us: "Pop, what did you say +to Mom when you courted her?" they feel provoked at us for taking it so +lightly and so frivolously. It vexes them for us to reply: "Law, child! +I don't remember. Why, I says to her: 'Will you have me?' And she says: +'Why, yes, and jump at the chance.' What difference does it make what +we said, or whether we said anything at all? Why should we charge our +memories with the recollections of those few and foolish months of mere +instinctive sex-attraction when all that really counts came after, +the years wherein low passion blossomed into lofty Love, the dear +companionship in joy and sorrow, and in that which is more, far more +than either joy or sorrow, 'the daily round, the common task?'" All that +is wonderful to think of in our courtship is the marvel, for which +we should never cease to thank the Almighty God, that with so little +judgment at our disposal we should have chosen so wisely. + +If you, Gentle Reader, found your first gray hair day before yesterday +morning, if you can remember, 'way, 'way back ten or fifteen years +ago... er... er... or more, come with me. Let us go "Back Home." Here's +your transportation, all made out to you, and in your hand. It is no use +my reminding you that no railroad goes to the old home place. It isn't +there any more, even in outward seeming. Cummins's woods, where you had +your robbers' cave, is all cleared off and cut up into building lots. +The cool and echoing covered bridge, plastered with notices of dead and +forgotten Strawberry Festivals and Public Vendues, has long ago been +torn down to be replaced by a smart, red iron bridge. The Volunteer +Firemen's Engine-house, whose brick wall used to flutter with the gay +rags of circus-bills, is gone as if it never were at all. Where the +Union Schoolhouse was is all torn up now. They are putting up a new +magnificent structure, with all the modern improvements, exposed +plumbing, and spankless discipline. The quiet leafy streets echo to the +hissing snarl of trolley cars, and the power-house is right by the +Old Swimming-hole above the dam. The meeting-house, where we attended +Sabbath-school, and marveled at the Greek temple frescoed on the wall +behind the pulpit, is now a church with a big organ, and stained-glass +windows, and folding opera-chairs on a slanting floor. There isn't any +"Amen Corner," any more, and in these calm and well-bred times nobody +ever gets "shouting happy." + +But even when "the loved spots that our infancy knew" are physically the +same, a change has come upon them more saddening than words can tell. +They have shrunken and grown shabbier. They are not nearly so spacious +and so splendid as once they were. + +Some one comes up to you and calls you by your name. His voice echoes in +the chambers of your memory. You hold his hand in yours and try to peer +through the false-face he has on, the mask of a beard or spectacles, or +a changed expression of the countenance. He says he is So-and-so. Why, +he used to sit with you in Miss Crutcher's room, don't you remember? +There was a time when you and he walked together, your arms upon each +other's shoulders. But this is some other one than he. The boy you knew +had freckles, and could spit between his teeth, ever and ever so far. + +They don't have the same things to eat they used to have, or, if they +do, it all tastes different. Do you remember the old well, with the +windlass and the chain fastened to the rope just above the bucket, the +chain that used to cluck-cluck when the dripping bucket came within +reach to be swung upon the well-curb? How cold the water used to be, +right out of the northwest corner of the well! It made the roof of your +mouth ache when you drank. Everybody said it was such splendid water. It +isn't so very cold these days, and I think it has a sort of funny taste +to it. + +Ah, Gentle Reader, this is not really "Back Home" we gaze upon when +we go there by the train. It is a last year's bird's nest. The nest is +there; the birds are flown, the birds of youth, and noisy health, and +ravenous appetite, and inexperience. You cannot go "Back Home" by train, +but here is the magic wishing-carpet, and here is your transportation in +your hand all made out to you. You and I will make the journey together. +Let us in heart and mind thither ascend. + +I went to the Old Red School-house with you. Don't you remember me? I +was learning to swim when you could go clear across the river without +once "letting down." I saw you at the County Fair, and bought a slab +of ice-cream candy just before you did. I was in the infant-class in +Sabbath-school when you spoke in the dialogue at the monthly concert. +Look again. Don't you remember me? I used to stub my toe so; you ought +to recollect me by that. I know plenty of people that you know. I may +not always get their names just right, but then it's been a good while +ago. You Il recognize them, though; you'll know them in a minute. + +EUGENE WOOD. + + + + +BACK HOME + + + + +THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE + + + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hill.) + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hi-hi-hi-yull) + And my heart with joy o'erflows, + Like the dew-drop in the rose,* + Thinking of the old red SCHOOL-HOUSE I o-o-on the hill, + (2d tenor and 1st bass: The hill, the hill.) + + THE MALE QUARTET'S COMPENDIUM. + + + * I call your attention to the chaste beauty of this line, + and the imperative necessity of the chord of the diminished + seventh for the word "rose." Also "school-house" in the + last line must be very loud and staccato. Snap it off. + + +If the audience will kindly come forward and occupy the vacant seats +in the front of the hall, the entertainment will now begin. The male +quartet will first render an appropriate selection and then.... Can't +you see them from where you are? Let me assist you in the visualization. + +The first tenor, the gentleman on the extreme left, is a stocky little +man, with a large chest and short legs conspicuously curving inward. He +has plenty of white teeth, ash-blonde hair, and goes smooth-shaven for +purely personal reasons. His round, dough-colored face will never look +older (from a distance) than it did when he was nine. The flight of +years adds only deeper creases in the multitude of fine wrinkles, and +increasing difficulty in hoisting his tiny, patent-leather foot up on +his plump knee. + +The second tenor leans toward him in a way to make another man anxious +about his watch, but the second tenor is as honest as the day. He is +only "blending the voices." He works in the bank. He is going to be +married in June sometime. Don't look around right away, but she's the +one in the pink shirt-waist, the second one from the aisle, the one... +two... three... the sixth row back. See her? Say, they've got it bad, +those two. What d' ye think? She goes down by the bank every day at +noon, so as to walk up with him to luncheon. She lives across the +street, and as soon as ever she has finished her luncheon, there she is, +out on the front porch hallooing: "Oo-hoo!" How about that? And if he so +much as looks at another girl--m-M! + +The first bass is one of these fellows with a flutter in his voice. +No, I don't mean a vibrato. It's a flutter, like a goat's tail. It is +considered real operatic. + +The second bass has a great, big Adam's apple that slides up and down +his throat like a toy-monkey on a stick. He is tall, and has eyebrows +like clothes-brushes, and he scowls fit to make you run and hide under +the bed. He is really a good-hearted fellow, though. Pity he has the +dyspepsia so bad. Oh, my, yes! Suffers everything with it, poor man. +He generally sings that song about "Drink-ing! DRINK-ang! Drink-awng!" +though he's strictly temperate himself. When he takes that last low +note, you hold on to your chair for fear you'll fall in too. + +But why bring in the male quartet? + +Because "The Little Old Red School-house" is more than a mere +collocation of words, accurately descriptive. It is what Mat King would +call a "symblem," and as such requires the music's dying fall to lull +and enervate a too meticulous and stringent tendency to recollect that +it wasn't little, or old, or red, or on a hill. It might have been +big and new, and built of yellow brick, right next to the Second +Presbyterian, and hence close to the "branch," so that the spring +freshets flooded the playground, and the water lapped the base of the +big rock on which we played "King on the Castle,"--the big rock so +pitifully dwindled of late years. No matter what he facts are. Sing 'of +"The Little Old Red Schoolhouse On the Hill" and in everybody's heart +a chord trembles in unison. As we hear its witching strains, we are all +lodge brethren, from Maine to California and far across the Western Sea; +we are all lodge brethren, and the air is "Auld Lang Syne," and we are +clasping hands across, knitted together into one living solidarity; +and this, if we but sensed it, is the real Union, of which the federal +compact is but the outward seeming. It is a Union in which they have +neither art nor part whose parents sent them to private schools, so as +not to have them associate with "that class of people." It is the +true democracy which batters down the walls that separate us from each +other--the walls of caste distinction, and color prejudice, and national +hatred, and religious contempt, all the petty, anti-social meannesses +that quarrel with + + "The Union of hearts, the Union of hands, + And the flag of our Union forever." + +Old Glory has floated victoriously on many a gallant fight by sea +and land, but never do its silver stars glitter more bravely or its +blood-red stripes curve more proudly on the fawning breeze than when it +floats above the school-house, over the daily battle against ignorance +and prejudice (which is ignorance of our fellows), for freedom and for +equal rights. It is no mere pretty sentimentality that puts the flag +there, but the serious recognition of the bed-rock principle of our +Union: That we are all of one blood, one bounden duty; that all these +anti-social prejudices are just as shameful as illiteracy, and that they +must disappear as soon as ever we shall come to know each other well. +Knowledge is power. That is true. And it is also true: A house divided +against itself cannot stand. + +"The Flag of our Union forever!" is our prayer, our heart's desire for +us and for our children after us. Heroes have died to give us that, +heroes that with glazing eyes beheld the tattered ensign and spent their +latest breath to cheer it as it passed on to triumph. "We who are about +to die salute thee!" The heart swells to think of it. But it swells, +too, to think that, day by day, thousands upon thousands of little +children stretch out their hands toward that Flag and pledge allegiance +to it. "We who are about to LIVE salute thee!" + +It is no mere chance affair that all our federal buildings should be so +ugly and so begrudged, and that our school-houses should be so beautiful +architecturally--the one nearest my house is built from plans that took +the first prize at the Paris Exposition, in competition with the +whole world--so well-appointed, and so far from being grudged that the +complaint is, that there are not enough of them. + +That So-and-so should be the President, and such-and-such a party +have control is but a game we play at, amateurs and professionals; the +serious business is, that in this country no child, how poor soever it +may be, shall have the slightest let or hindrance in the equal chance +with every other child to learn to read, and write, and cipher, and do +raffia-work. + +It is a new thing with us to have splendid school-houses. After all, the +norm, as you might say, is still "The Old Red School-house." You must +recollect how hard the struggle is for the poor farmer, with wheat only +a dollar a bushel, and eggs only six for a quarter; with every year +or so taxes of three and sometimes four dollars on an eighty-acre farm +grinding him to earth. It were folly to expect more in rural districts +than a tight box, with benches and a stove in it. Never-the-less, it is +the thing signified more than its outward seeming that catches and holds +the eye upon the country school-house as you drive past it. You count +yourself fortunate if, mingled with the creaking of the buggy-springs, +you hear the hum of recitation; yet more fortunate if it is recess time, +and you can see the children out at play, the little girls holding to +one another's dress-tails as they solemnly circle to the chant: + + "H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh, + Tha malbarry bosh, tha malbarry bosh, + H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh + On a cay-um and frasty marneng." + +The boys are at marbles, if it is muddy enough, or one-old-cat, or +pom-pom-peel-away, with the normal percentage of them in reboant +tears--that is to say, one in three. + +But even this is not the moment of illumination, when it comes upon you +like a flood how glorious is the land we live in, upon what sure and +certain footing are its institutions, when we know by spiritual insight +that whatsoever be the trial that awaits us, the people of these United +States, we shall be able for it! Yes. We shall be able for it. + +If you would learn the secret of our nation's greatness, take your stand +some winter's morning just before nine o'clock, where you can overlook a +circle of some two or three miles' radius, the center being the Old Red +School-house. You will see little figures picking their way along the +miry roads, or ploughing through the deep drifts, cutting across the +fields, all drawing to the school-house, Bub in his wammus and his +cowhide boots, his cap with ear-laps, a knitted comforter about his +neck, and his hands glowing in scarlet mittens; and little Sis, in a +thick shawl, trudging along behind him, stepping in his tracks. They +chirrup, "Good-morning, sir!" As far as you can see them you have to +watch them, and something rises in your throat. Lord love 'em! Lord love +the children! + +And then it comes to you, and it makes you catch your breath to think of +it, that every two or three miles all over this land, wherever there are +children at all, there is the Old Red Schoolhouse. At this very hour a +living tide, upbearing the hopes and prayers of God alone knows how many +loving hearts, the tide on which all of our longed-for ships are to come +in, is setting to the school-house. Oh, what is martial glory, what is +conquest of an empire, what is state-craft alongside of this? Happy is +the people that is in such a case! + +The city schools are now the pattern for the country schools: but in +my day, although a little they were pouring the new wine of frothing +educational reform into the old bottles, they had not quite attained the +full distention of this present. We still had some kind of a good +time, but nothing like the good times they had out at the school near +grandpap's, where I sometimes visited. There you could whisper! Yes, +sir, you could whisper. So long as you didn't talk out loud, it was all +right. And there was no rising at the tap of the bell, forming in line +and walking in lock-step. Seemingly it never entered the school-board's +heads that anybody would ever be sent to state's prison. They left the +scholars unprepared for any such career. They have remedied all that in +city schools. Now, when a boy grows up and goes to Sing Sing, he knows +exactly what to do and how to behave. It all comes back to him. + +But what I call the finest part of going to school in the country was, +that you didn't go home to dinner. Grandma had a boy only a few years +older than I was, and when I went a-visiting, she fixed us up a "piece." +They call it "luncheon" now, I think--a foolish, hybrid mongrel of a +word, made up of "lump," a piece of bread, and "noon," and "shenk," +a pouring or drink. But the right name is "piece." What made this +particular "piece" taste so wonderfully good was that it was in a +round-bottomed basket woven of splints dyed blue, and black and red, +and all in such a funny pattern. It was an Indian basket. My grandma's +mother, when she was a little girl, got that from the squaw of old Chief +Wiping-Stick. + +The "piece" had bread-and-butter (my grandma used to let me churn +for her sometimes, when I went out there), and some of the slices had +apple-butter on them. (One time she let me stir the cider, when it was +boiling down in the big kettle over the chunk-fire out in the yard. The +smoke got in my eyes.) Sometimes there was honey from the hives over by +the gooseberry bushes--the gooseberries had stickers on them--and we had +slices of cold, fried ham. (I was out at grandpap's one time when they +butchered. They had a chunk-fire then, too, to heat the water to scald +the hogs. And say! Did your grandma ever roast pig's tails in the ashes +for you?) And there were crullers. No, I don't mean "doughnuts." I mean +crullers, all twisted up. They go good with cider. (Sometimes my grandma +cut out thin, pallid little men of cruller dough, and dropped them into +the hot lard for my Uncle Jimmy and me. And when she fished them out, +they were all swelled up and "pussy," and golden brown). + +And there was pie. Neither at the school nooning nor at the table did +one put a piece of pie upon a plate and haggle at it with a fork. You +took the piece of pie up in your hand and pointed the sharp end toward +you, and gently crowded it into your face. It didn't require much +pressure either. + +And there were always apples, real apples. I think they must make apples +in factories nowadays. They taste like it. These were real ones, picked +off the trees. Out at grandpap's they had bellflowers, and winesaps, and +seek-no-furthers, and, I think, sheep-noses, and one kind of apple that +I can't find any more, though I have sought it carefully. It was the +finest apple I ever set a tooth in. It was the juiciest and the spiciest +apple. It had sort of a rollicking flavor to it, if you know what I +mean. It certainly was the ne plus ultra of an apple. And the name of it +was the rambo. Dear me, how good it was! think I'd sooner have one right +now than great riches. And all these apples they kept in the apple-hole. +You went out and uncovered the earth and there they were, all in a big +nest of straw; and such a gush of perfume distilled from that pile of +them that just to recollect it makes my mouth all wet. + +They had a big red apple in those days that I forget the name of. Oh, it +was a whopper! You'd nibble at it and nibble at it before you could +get a purchase on it. Then, after you got your teeth in, you'd pull and +pull, and all of a sudden the apple would go "tock!" and your head would +fly back from the recoil, and you had a bite about the size of your +hand. You "chomped" on it, with your cheek all bulged out, and blame +near drowned yourself with the juice of it. + +Noon-time the girls used to count the seeds: + + "One I love, two I love, three my love I see; + Four I love with all my heart, and five I cast away. + Six he loves; seven she loves; eight... eight..." + +I forget what eight is, and all that follows after. And then the others +would tease her with, "Aw, Jennie!" knowing who it was she had named +the apple for, Wes. Rinehart, or 'Lonzo Curl, or whoever. And you'd +be standing there by the stove, kind of grinning and not thinking of +anything in particular when somebody would hit you a clout on your back +that just about broke you in two, and would tell you "to pass it on," +and you'd pass it on, and the next thing was you'd think the house was +coming down. Such a chasing around and over benches, and upsetting the +water-bucket, and tearing up Jack generally that teacher would say, +"Boys! boys! If you can't play quietly, you'll have to go out of doors!" +Play quietly! Why, the idea! What kind of play is it when you are right +still? + +Outdoors in the country, you can whoop and holler, and carry on, and +nobody complains to the board of health. And there are so many things +you can do. If there is just the least little fall of snow you can make +a big wheel, with spokes in it, by your tracking. I remember that it was +called "fox and geese," but that's all I can remember about it. If there +was a little more snow you tried to wash the girls' faces in it, and +sometimes got yours washed. If there was a good deal of wet snow you had +a snowball fight, which is great fun, unless you get one right smack dab +in your ear--oh, but I can't begin to tell you all the fun there is at +the noon hour in the country school, that the town children don't know +anything about. And when it was time for school to "take up," there +wasn't any forming in line, with a monitor to run tell teacher who +snatched off Joseph Humphreys' cap and flung it far away, so he had to +get out of the line, and who did this, and who did that--no penitentiary +business at all. Teacher tapped on the window with a ruler, and the boys +and girls came in, red-faced and puffing, careering through the aisles, +knocking things off the desks with many a burlesque, "oh, exCUSE me!" +and falling into their seats, bursting into sniggers, they didn't know +what at. They had an hour and a half nooning. Counting that it took five +minutes to shovel down even grandma's beautiful "piece," that left an +hour and twenty-five minutes for roaring, romping play. If you want to +know, I think that is fully as educational and a far better preparation +for life than sitting still with your nose stuck in a book. + +In the city schools they don't think so. Even the stingy fifteen +minutes' recess, morning and afternoon, has been stolen from the +children. Instead is given the inspiriting physical culture, all making +silly motions together in a nice, warm room, full of second-hand air. +Is it any wonder that one in every three that die between fifteen and +twenty-five, dies of consumption? + +You must have noticed that almost everybody that amounts to anything +spent his early life in the country. The city schools have great +educational advantages; they have all the up-to-date methods, but the +output of the Old Red Schoolhouse compares very favorably with that of +the city schools for all that. The two-mile walk, morning and evening, +had something to do with it, not only because it and the long nooning +were good exercise, but because it impressed upon the mind that what +cost so much effort to get must surely be worth having. But I think I +know another reason. + +If the city child goes through the arithmetic once, it is as much as +ever. In the Old Red School-house those who hadn't gone through the +arithmetic at least six times, were little thought of. In town, the last +subject in the book was "Permutation," to which you gave the mere look +its essentially frivolous nature deserved. It was: "End of the line. All +out!" But in the country a very important department followed. It was +called "Problems." They were twisters, able to make "How old is Ann?" +look like a last year's bird's nest. They make a big fuss about the +psychology of the child's mind nowadays. Well, I tell you they couldn't +teach the man that got up that arithmetic a thing about the operation of +the child's mind. He knew what was what. He didn't put down the answers. +He knew that if he did, weak, erring human nature, tortured by suspense, +determined to have the agony over, would multiply by four and divide by +thirteen, and subtract 127--didn't, either. I didn't say "substract." I +guess I know they'd get the answer somehow, it didn't matter much how. + +In the country they ciphered through this part, and handed in their sums +to Teacher, who said she'd take 'em home and look 'em over; she didn't +have time just then. As if that fooled anybody! She had a key! And when +you had done the very last one on the very last page, and there wasn't +anything more except the blank pages, where you had written, "Joe Geiger +loves Molly Meyers," and, "If my name you wish to see, look on page +103," and all such stuff, then you turned over to the beginning, where +it says, "Arithmetic is the science of numbers, and the art of computing +by them," and once more considered, "Ann had four apples and her brother +gave her two more. How many did she then have?" There were the four +apples in a row, and the two apples, and you that had worried over +meadows so long and so wide, and men mowing them in so many days and +a half, had to think how many apples Ann really did have. Some of the +fellows with forked hairs on their chins and uncertain voices--the big +fellows in the back seats, where the apple-cores and the spit-balls come +from knew every example in the book by heart. + +And there is yet another reason why the country school has brought forth +men of whom we do well to be proud. At the county-seat, every so often, +the school commissioners held an examination. Thither resorted many, for +the most part anxious to determine if they really knew as much as they +thought they did. If you took that examination and got a "stiff kit" +for eighteen months, you had good cause to hold your head up and step +as high as a blind horse. A "stiff kit" for eighteen months is no small +thing, let me tell you. I don't know if there is anything corresponding +to a doctor's hood for such as win a certificate to teach school for +two years hand-running; but there ought to be. A fellow ought not to +be obliged to resort to such tactics as taking out a folded paper and +perusing it in the hope that some one will ask him: "What you got there, +Calvin?" so as to give you a chance to say, carelessly, "Oh, jist a +'stiff-kit' for two years." + +(When you get as far along as that, you simply have to take a term in +the junior Prep. Department at college, not because there is anything +left for you to learn, but for the sake of putting a gloss on your +education, finishing it off neatly.) + +And then if you were going to read law with Mr. Parker, or study +medicine with old Doc. Harbaugh, and you kind of run out of clothes, you +took that certificate and hunted up a school and taught it. Sometimes +they paid you as high as $20 a month and board, lots of board, real +buckwheat cakes ("riz" buckwheat, not the prepared kind), and real maple +syrup, and real sausage, the kind that has sage in it; the kind that you +can't coax your butcher to sell you. The pale, tasteless stuff he gives +you for sausage I wouldn't throw out to the chickens. Twenty dollars a +month and board! That's $4 a month more than a hired man gets. + +But it wasn't alone the demonstration that, strange as it might seem, +it was possible for a man to get his living by his wits (though that +has done much to produce great men) as it was the actual exercise of +teaching. Remember the big boys on the back seats, where the apple-cores +and the spit-balls come from. The school-director that hired you gave +you a searching look-over and said: "M-well-l-l, I'm afraid you haint +hardly qualified for our school--oh, that's all right, sir; that's all +right. Your 'stiff-kit' is first-rate, and you got good recommends, good +recommends; but I was thinkin'--well, I tell you. Might's well out with +it first as last. I d' know's I ort to say so, but this here district +No. 34 is a poot' tol'able hard school to teach. Ya-uss. A poot-ty +tol'able hard school to teach. Now, that's jist the plumb facts in the +matter. We've had four try it this winter a'ready. One of 'em stuck it +out four weeks--I jimminy! he had grit, that feller had. The balance of +'em didn't take so long to make up their minds. Well, now, if you're a +mind to try it--I was goin' to say you didn't look to me like you had +the heft. Like to have you the worst way. Now, if you want to back +out.... Well, all right. Monday mornin', eh? Well, you got my +sympathies." + +I believe that some have tried to figure out that St. Martin of Tours, +ought to be the patron saint of the United States. One of his feast-days +falls on July 4, and his colors are red, white and blue. But I rather +prefer, myself, the Boanerges, the two sons of Zebedee. When asked: "Are +ye able to drink of this cup?" they answered: "We are able." They didn't +in the least know what it was; but they knew they were able for anything +that anybody else was, and, perhaps, able for a little more. At any +rate, they were willing to chance it. That's the United States of +America, clear to the bone and back again to the skin. + +You ask any really great man: "Have you ever taught a winter term in a +country school?" If he says he hasn't, then depend upon it he isn't +a really great man. People only think he is. The winter term breeds +Boanerges--sons of thunder. Yes, and of lightning, too. Something struck +the big boys in the back seats, as sure as you're a foot high; and if it +wasn't lightning, what was it? Brute strength for brute strength, they +were more than a match for Teacher. It was up to him. It was either +prove himself the superior power, or slink off home and crawl under the +porch. + +The curriculum of the Old Red School-house, which was, until lately, the +universal curriculum, consisted in reading, writing, and arithmetic or +ciphering. I like the word "ciphering," because it makes me think of +slates--slates that were always falling on the floor with a rousing +clatter, so that almost always at least one corner was cracked. Some +mitigation of the noise was gained by binding the frame with strips of +red flannel, thus adding warmth and brightness to the color scheme. Just +as some fertile brain conceived the notion of applying a knob of rubber +to each corner, slates went out, and I suppose only doctors buy them +nowadays to hang on the doors of their offices. Maybe the teacher's +nerves were too highly strung to endure the squeaking of gritty pencils, +but I think the real reason for their banishment is, that slates invited +too strongly the game of noughts and crosses, or tit-tat-toe, three in +a row, the champion of indoor sports, and one entirely inimical to the +study of the joggerfy lesson. But if slates favored tit-tat-toe, they +also favored ciphering, and nothing but good can come from that. Paper +is now so cheap that you need not rub out mistakes, but paper and pencil +can never surely ground one in "the science of numbers and the art of +computing by them." What is written is written, and returns to plague +the memory, but if you made a mistake on the slate, you could spit on it +and rub it out with your sleeve and leave no trace of the error, either +on the writing surface or the tables of the memory. What does the hymn +say? + + "Forget the steps already trod, + And onward urge thy way." + +The girls used to keep a little sponge and some water in a discarded +patchouli bottle with a glass stopper, to wash their slates with; but it +always seemed to me that the human and whole-hearted way was otherwise. + +Reading, writing, and arithmetic,--these three; and the greatest of +these three is arithmetic. Over against it stands grammar, which may be +said to be derived from reading and writing. Show me a man that, as +a boy at school, excelled in arithmetic and I will show you a useful +citizen, a boss in his own business, a leader of men; show me the boy +that preferred grammar, that read expressively, that wrote a +beautiful hand and curled his capital S's till their tails looked like +mainsprings, and I will show you a dreamer and a sentimentalist--a man +that works for other people. While I have breath in me, I will maintain +the supereminence of arithmetic. There is no room for disputation in +arithmetic, no exceptions to the rule. Twice two is four, and that's +all there is about it: but whether there be pronunciations, they shall +cease; whether there be rules of grammar, they shall vanish away. Why, +look here. It's a rule of grammar, isn't it, that the subject of a +sentence must be put in the nominative case? Let it kick and bite, and +hang on to the desks all it wants to, in it goes and the door is slammed +on it. You think so? What is the word "you?" Second person, plural +number, objective case. Oh, no; the nominative form is "ye." + +Don't you remember it says: "Woe unto you, ye lawyers"? Those who fight +against: "Him and me went down town," fight against the stars in +their courses, for the objective case in every language is bound and +determined to be The Whole Thing. Arithmetic alone is founded on a rock. +All else is fleeting, all else is futile, chaotic--a waste of time. What +is reading but a rival of morphine? There are probably as many men in +prison, sent there by Reading, as by Rum. + +"Oh, not good Reading!" says the publisher. + +"Not good Rum, either," says the publican. + +Fight it out. It's an even thing between the two of you; Literature and +Liquor, Books and Booze, which can take a man's mind off his business +most effectually. + +Still, merely as a matter of taste, I will defend the quality of +McGuffey's School Readers against all comers. I don't know who McGuffey +was; but certainly he formed the greatest intellects of our age, +present company not excepted. The true test of literature is its eternal +modernity. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. It always seems of the +age in which it is read. Now, almost the earliest lection in McGuffey's +First Reader goes directly to the heart of one of the greatest of modern +problems. It does not palter or beat about the bush. It asks right out, +plump and plain: "Ann, how old are you?" + +Year by year, until we reached the dizzy height of the Sixth Reader, +were presented to us samples of the best English ever written. If you +can find, up in the garret, a worn and frayed old Reader, take it +down and turn its pages over. See if anything in these degenerate days +compares in vital strength and beauty with the story of the boy that +climbed the Natural Bridge, carving his steps in the soft limestone with +his pocket knife. You cannot read it without a thrill. The same inspired +hand wrote "The Blind Preacher," and who that ever can read it can +forget the climax reached in that sublime line: "Socrates died like a +philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a god!" + +Not long ago I walked among the graves in that spot opposite where Wall +Street slants away from Broadway, and my feet trod on ground worth, in +the market, more than the twenty-dollar gold pieces that would cover +it. My eye lighted upon a flaking brownstone slab, that told me Captain +Michael Cresap rested there. Captain Michael Cresap! The intervening +years all fled away before me, and once again my boyish heart thrilled +with that incomparable oration in McGuffey's Reader, "Who is there +to mourn for Logan? Not one." Captain Cresap was the man that led the +massacre of Logan's family. + +And there was more than good literature in those Readers. There was one +piece that told about a little boy alone upon a country road at +night. The black trees groaned and waved their skinny arms at him. +The wind-torn clouds fitfully let a pale and watery moonlight stream +a little through. It was very lonely. Over his shoulder the boy saw +indistinct shapes that followed after, and hid themselves whenever he +looked squarely at them. Then, suddenly, he saw before him in the gloom, +a gaunt white specter waiting for him--waiting to get him, its arms +spread wide out in menace. He was of our breed, though, this boy. He did +not turn and run. With God knows what terror knocking at his ribs, he +trudged ahead to meet his fate, and lo! the grisly specter proved to be +a friendly guide-post to show the way that he should walk in. Brother +(for you are my kin that went with me to public school), in the life +that you have lived since you first read the story of Harry and the +Guide-post, has it been an idle tale, or have you, too, found that what +we dreaded most, what seemed to us so terrible in the future has, after +all, been a friendly guide-post, showing us the way that we should walk +in? + +McGuffey had a Speller, too. It began with simple words in common use, +like a-b ab, and e-b eb, and i-b, ib, proceeding by gradual, if not by +easy stages to honorificatudinibility and disproportionableness, with +a department at the back devoted to twisters like phthisic, and +mullein-stalk, and diphtheria, and gneiss. We used to have a fine old +sport on Friday afternoons, called "choose-up-and-spell-down." I don't +know if you ever played it. It was a survival, pure and simple, from the +Old Red School-house. There was where it really lived. There was +where it flourished as a gladiatorial spectacle. The crack spellers of +District Number 34 would challenge the crack spellers of the Sinking +Spring School. The whole countryside came to the school-house in wagons +at early candle-lighting time, and watched them fight it out. The +interest grew as the contest narrowed down, until at last there were the +two captains left--big John Rice for District Number 34, and that wiry, +nervous, black-haired girl of 'Lias Hoover's, Polly Ann. She married +a man by the name of Brubaker. I guess you didn't know him. His folks +moved here from Clarke County. Polly Ann's eyes glittered like a +snake's, and she kept putting her knuckles up to the red spots in her +cheeks that burned like fire. Old John, he didn't seem to care a cent. +And what do you think Polly Ann missed on? "Feoffment." A simple little +word like "feoffment!" She hadn't got further than "pheph--" when she +knew that she was wrong, but Teacher had said "Next!" and big John took +it and spelled it right. She had a fit of nervous crying, and some were +for giving her the victory, after all, because she was a lady. But big +John said: "She missed, didn't she? Well. And I spelled it right, didn't +I? Well. She took her chances same as the rest of us. 'Taint me you got +to consider, it's District Number 34. And furthermore. AND FURTHERMORE. +Next time somebuddy asts her to go home with him from singin'-school, +mebby she won't snigger right in his face, and say 'No! 's' loud 'at +everybuddy kin hear it." + +It's quite a thing to be a good speller, but there are people who can +spell any word that ever was, and yet if you should ask them right quick +how much is seven times eight, they'd hem and haw and say: "Seven tums +eight? Why--ah, lemme see now. Seven tums--what was it you said? Oh, +seven tums eight. Why--ah, seven tums eight is sixty-three--fifty-six I +mean." There's nothing really to spelling. It's just an idiosyncrasy. +If there was really anything useful in it, you could do it by +machinery--just the same as you can add by machinery, or write with a +typewriter, or play the piano with one of these things with cut paper +in it. Spelling is an old-fashioned, hand-powered process, and as such +doomed to disappear with the march of improvement. + +One Friday afternoon we chose up and spelled down, and the next Friday +afternoon we spoke pieces. Doubtless this accounts for our being a +nation of orators. I am far from implying or seeming to imply that this +is anything to brag of. Anybody that can be influenced by a man with a +big mouth, a loud voice, and a rush of words to the face--well, I've got +my opinion of all such. + +Oratory and poetry--all foolishness, I say. Better far are +drawing-lessons, and raffia-work, and clay-modeling than: "I come not +here to talk," and "A soldier of the Legion lay dying at Algiers," and +"Old Ironsides at anchor lay." (I observe that these lines are more or +less familiar to you, and that you are eager to add selections to the +list, all of them known to me as well as you.) That children, especially +boys, loathe to speak a piece is a fact profoundly significant. They +know it is nothing in the world but foolishness; and if there is one +thing above another that a child hates, it is to be made a fool in +public. That's what makes them work their fingers so, and gulp, and +stammer, and tremble at the knees. That is what sends them to their +seats, after all is over, mad as hornets. This is something that I know +about. It happened that, instead of getting funny pieces to recite as I +wanted to, discerning that one silly turn deserves another, my parents, +well-meaning in their way, taught me solemn things about: "O man +immortal, live for something!" and all such, and I had to humiliate +myself by disgorging them in public. The consequence was, that not only +on Friday afternoons but whenever anybody came to visit the school, I +was butchered to make a Roman holiday. Teacher was so proud of me, and +the visitors let on that they were tickled half to death, but I knew +better. I could see the other scholars look at one another, as much +as to say: "Well, if you'll tell me why!" Even in my shame and anger +I could see that. But there is one happy memory of a Friday afternoon. +Determined to show my friends and fellow-citizens that I, too, was born +in Arcadia, and was a living, human boy, I announced to Teacher: "I got +another piece." + +"Oh, have you?" cried she, sure of an extra O-man-immortal intellectual +treat. "Let us hear it, by all means." + +Whereupon I marched up to the platform and declaimed that deathless +lyric: + +"When I was a boy, I was a bold one. My mammy made me a new shirt out o' +dad's old one." + +All of it? Certainly. Isn't that enough? That was the only distinctly +popular platform effort I ever made. I am proud of it now. I was proud +of it then. But the news of my triumph was coldly received at home. + +I don't know whether it has since gone out of date, but in my day +and time a very telling feature of school exhibitions was reading in +concert. The room was packed as full of everybody's ma as it could be, +and yet not mash the children out of shape, and a whole lot of young +ones would read a piece together. Fine? Finest thing you ever heard. I +remember one time teacher must have calculated a leetle mite too close, +or else one girl more was in the class than she had reckoned on; but on +the day, the two end girls just managed to stand upon the platform and +that was all. They recited together: + + "There was a sound of revelry by night + And Belgium's capital...." + +I forget the rest of it. Well, anyhow, they were supposed to make +gestures all together. Teacher had rehearsed the gestures, and they all +did it simultaneously, just as if they had been wound up with a spring. +But, as I said, the two end girls had all they could do to keep on the +platform, and it takes elbow room for: "'T is but the car rattling +over the stony street," and one girl--well, she said she stepped off on +purpose, but I didn't believe her then and I don't now. We had our laugh +about it, whichever way it was. + +We had our laugh.... Ah, life was all laughter then. That was before +care came to be the shadow at our heel. That was before black Sorrow +met us in the way, and would not let us pass unless we gave to her our +dearest treasure. That was before we learned that what we covet most +is, when we get it, but a poor thing after all, that whatsoever chalice +Fortune presses to our lips, a tear is in the bottom of the cup. In +those happy days gone by if the rain fell, 't was only for a little +while, and presently the sky was bright again, and the birds whistled +merrily among the wet and shining leaves. Now "the clouds return after +the rain." + +It can never be with us again as once it was. For us the bell upon the +Old Red School-house calls in vain. We heed it not, we that +hearkened for it years ago. The living tide of youth flows toward the +school-house, and we are not of it. Never again shall we sit at those +old desks, whittled and carved with rude initials, and snap our fingers, +eager to tell the answer. Never again shall we experience the thrill of +pride when teacher praised us openly. Never again shall we sit trembling +while the principal, reads the note, and then scowls at us fiercely +with: "Take off your coat, sir!" Ah, me! Never again, never again. + +Well, who wants it to be that way again? We're men and women now. We've +duties and responsibilities. Who wants to be a child again? Not I. Let +me stick just at my present age for about a hundred years, and I'll +never utter a word of complaint. + + + + +THE SABBATH-SCHOOL + + + "We-a love the Sunday-school. + We-a love the Sunday-school. + (Girls)--So do I. + (Boys)-So do I. + (School)--We all love the Sunday-school." + + + "SPARKLING DEWDROPS." + + +Some people believe that when General Conference assigned them to the +Committee on Hymn-Book Revision, power and authority were given unto +them to put a half-sole and a new heel on any and all poetry that might +look to them to be a little run over on one side. If they felt as I +do about the lines that head this article they would have "Sunday" +scratched out and "Sabbath" written in before you could bat an eye. The +mere substitution of one word for another may seem a light matter to a +man that has never composed anything more literary than an obituary for +the Western Advocate of Sister Jane Malinda Sprague, who was born in +Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania, in 1816, removed with her parents at +a tender age to New Sardis, Washington County, Ohio, where, etc., etc. +If he wanted to extract a word he would do it, and never even offer to +give the author gas. But I know just how it hurts. I know or can imagine +how the gifted poet that penned the deathless lines I have quoted must +have walked the floor in an agony until every word and syllable was +just to suit him, and so, though I feel sure he meant to write +"Sabbath-school," I don't dare change it. + +To most persons one word seems about as good as another, Sunday or +Sabbath, but when there are young people about the house you learn to be +careful how you talk before them. Now, I would not go so far as to say +that "Sunday" is what you might call exactly rowdy, but er... but... +er... Let me illustrate. If a man says, "It's a beautiful Sunday +morning," like enough he has on red-and-green stockings, baggy +knickerbockers, a violet-and-purple sweater, a cap shaped like a +milk-roll, and is smoking a pipe. He very likely carries a bagful of +golf-sticks, or is pumping up his bicycle. But if a man says, "This +beautiful Sabbath morn," you know for a certainty that he wears a +long-tailed black coat, a boiled shirt, and a white tie. He is bald from +his forehead upward, his upper lip is shaven, and his views and those +of the late Robert Reed on the disgusting habit of using tobacco are +absolutely at one. + +Not alone a regard for respectability, but the hankering to be +historically accurate, urges me to make the change I speak of. +Originally the institution was a Sunday-school, and not very respectable +either. I should hate to think any of my dear young friends were in the +habit of attending such a low-class affair as Robert Raikes conducted. +Sunday-schools were for "little ragamuffins," as he called them, who +worked such long hours on week-days (from five in the morning until nine +at night) that if they were to learn the common branches at all it had +to be on a Sunday. A ragged school was bad enough in itself, putting +foolish notions into the heads of gutter-brats and making them +discontented and unhappy in their lot; but to teach a ragged school +on Sunday was a little too much. So Robert Raikes encountered the most +violent opposition, although from that beginning dates popular education +in England. + +To be able to read is no Longer a sign that Pa can afford to do without +the young ones' wages on a Saturday night, and can even pay for +their schooling. It is no longer a mark of wealth or even of hard-won +privilege, but the common fate of all; to know the three R's, and Sunday +is not now set apart for secular instruction. So good and wholesome an +institution as the Sunday-school was not permitted to perish, but was +changed to suit the environment. It is now become the Sabbath-school for +the study of the Bible, a Christian recrudescence of the synagogue. +For some eighteen centuries it was supposed that a regularly ordained +minister should have exclusive charge of this work. At rare intervals +nowadays a clergyman may be found to maintain that because a man has +been to college and to the theological seminary, and has made the study +of the Scriptures his life-work (moved to that decision after careful +self-examination) that therefore he is better fitted to that ministry +than Miss Susie Goldrick, who teaches a class in Sabbath-school very +acceptably. Miss Goldrick is in the second year in the High School, and +last Friday afternoon read a composition on English Literatoor, in which +she spoke in terms of high praise of John Bunion, the well-known author +of "Progress and Poverty." Miss Goldrick is very conscientious, +and always keeps her thumbnail against the questions printed on the +lesson-leaf, so as not to ask twice, "What did the disciples then do?" + +It were a grave error to suppose that no secular learning is acquired in +the modern Sabbath-school. I remember once, when quite young, speaking +to my teacher, in the interval between the regular class work and the +closing exercises, about peacocks. I had read of them, but had never +seen one. What did they look like? She said a peacock was something like +a butterfly. I have always remembered that, and when I did finally see +a peacock, I was interested to note the essential accuracy of the +description. + +Also, one day a new lady taught our class, Miss Evans having gone up to +Marion to spend a Sunday with her brother, who kept a stove store there, +and this new lady borrowed two flower vases from off the pulpit and a +piece of string from Turkey-egg McLaughlin to explain to us boys how the +earth went around the sun. We had too much manners to tell her that we +knew that years and years ago when we were in Miss Humphreys's room. I +don't remember what the earth going around the sun had to do with the +lesson for the day, which was about Samuel anointing David's head with +oil--did I ever tell you how I anointed my own head with coal oil?--but +I do remember that she broke both the vases and cut her finger, and had +to keep sucking it the rest of the time, because she didn't want to get +her handkerchief all bloodied up. It was a kind of fancy handkerchief, +made of thin stuff trimmed with lace--no good. + +The Sabbath-school may be said to be divided into three courses, namely, +the preparatory or infant-class, the collegiate or Sabbath-school +proper, and the post-graduate or Mr. Parker's Bible-class. + +What can a mere babe of three or four years learn in Sabbath-school? +sneers the critic. Not much, I grant you, of justification by Faith, or +Effectual Calling; but certain elementary precepts can be impressed +upon the mind while it is still in a plastic condition that never can +be wholly obliterated, come what may in after life. Prime among these +elementary precepts is this: "Always bring a penny." + +Some one has said, "Give me the first seven years of a child's life +and I care not who has the remainder." I cannot endorse this without +reserve; but I maintain as a demonstrated fact: "Bring up a child to +contribute a copper cent, and when he is old he will not depart from +it." It was recently my high privilege to attend a summer gathering +of representative religious people in the largest auditorium in this +country. Sometimes under that far-spreading roof ten thousand souls were +assembled and met together. This fact could be guessed at with tolerable +accuracy from the known seating capacity, but the interesting thing was +that it could be predicated with mathematical certainty that exactly ten +thousand people were present, because the offertory footed up +exactly one hundred dollars. What an encouragement to these faithful +infant-class teachers that have labored unremittingly, instant in season +and out of season, saying over and over again with infinite patience, +"Always bring a penny," to know that their labor has not been in vain, +and that as a people we have made it the rule of our lives always to +bring a penny--and no more. + +I have often tried to think what a Sabbath-school must be like in +California, where they have no pennies. It seems hardly possible that +the institution can exist under such a patent disability, and yet it +does. Do they work it on the same principle as the post-office in +that far-off land where you 'cannot buy one postal card because the +postmaster cannot make change, but must buy five postal cards or +two two-cent stamps and a postal? In other words, does a nickel, the +smallest extant coin, serve for five persons for one Sunday or one +person for five Sundays? I have often wondered about this. + +Subsidiary instruction in the preparatory course consists of sitting +right still and being nice, keeping your fingers out of Johnny Pym's +eye, because it hurts him and makes him cry, not grabbing in the basket +when it goes by, even though it does have pennies in it, coaching in a +repertory of songs like: "Beautiful, Beautiful Little Hands," "You in +Your Little Corner and I in Mine," "The Consecrated Cross-Eyed Bear," +"Pass Around the Wash-Rag"--the grown folks call that "Pass Along the +Watchword" and stories about David and Goliath, Samson and the three +hundred foxes with fire tied to their tails, Moses in the bulrushes, the +infant Samuel, Hagar in the wilderness, and so forth. The clergy have +often objected that these stories, being told at the same period of life +with those about Santa Claus, "One time there was a little boy and he +had a dog named Rover," the little girl that had hair as black as ebony, +skin as white as snow, and cheeks as red as blood, because her Ma, +who was a queen by occupation, happened to cut her finger with a +black-handled knife along about New Year's--the clergy, I say, have +often objected that all these matters, being brought to a child's +attention at the same period in its life, are likely to be regarded in +after years as of equal evidential value. I am not much of a hand to +argue, myself, but I should like to have one of these carping critics +meet my friend, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, who has taught the infant-class +since 1867, having missed only two Sundays in that time, once, in 1879, +when it stormed so that nobody in town was out, and once, last winter a +year ago, when she slipped off the back porch and hurt her knee. I can +just see Sister Boggs laying down the law to anybody that finds fault +with the infant-class, let him be preacher or who. Why the very idea! +Do you mean to say, sir--I guess Sister Boggs can straighten him out all +right. + +No less faithful is Mr. Parker, the leading lawyer of the town, who +conducts the Bible-class. I believe one morning he didn't get there +until after the last bell was done ringing, but otherwise his record of +attendance compares favorably with Sister Boggs's. Both teachers agree +to ignore the stated lesson for the day, but whereas Sister Boggs leads +her flock through the flowery meads of narration, Mr. Parker and his +class have camped out by preference for the last forty years in the +arid wilderness of Romans and Hebrews and Corinthians First and Second, +flinging the plentiful dornicks of "Paul says this" and "Paul says that" +at each other's heads in friendly strife. Mr. Parker's class is also +very assiduous in its attendance upon the Young People's meetings, +seemingly holding the dogma, "Once a young person always a young +person." The prevailing style of hairdressing among the members is to +grow the locks long on the left side of the head, and to bring the thin +layer across to the right, pasted down very carefully with a sort of +peeled onion effect. + +There is a whole lot of them, and they jower away at each other all +through the time between the opening and the closing exercises, having +the liveliest kind of a time getting over about two verses of the Bible +and the whole ground of speculative theology. + +Immeasurably more impermanent in method and personnel is the regular +collegiate department, the Sabbath-school proper. In the early days, +away back when sugar was sixteen cents a pound, the thing to do was +to learn Scripture verses by heart. If you were a rude, rough boy who +didn't exactly love the Sunday-school as much as the hymn made you say +you did, but still one who had rather sing it than stir up a muss, you +hunted for the shortest verses you could find and said them off. From +four to eight was considered a full day's work. But if you were a boy +who put on an apron and helped your Ma with the dishes, a boy who always +wiped your feet before you came in, a boy that never got kept in at +school, a boy that cried pretty easy, a nice, pale boy, with bulging +blue eyes, you came to Sabbath-school and disgorged verses like +buck-shot out of a bag. The four-to-eight-verse boys sat and listened, +and improved their minds. There was generally one other boy like you +in the class, and it was nip-and-tuck between you which should get the +prize, until finally you came one Sunday, all bloated up with 238 verses +in your craw, and he quit discouraged. The prize was yours. It was a +beautiful little Bible with a brass clasp; it had two tiny silk strings +of an old-gold color for bookmarks, and gilt edges all around that made +the leaves stick together at first. It was printed in diamond type, so +small it made your ears ring when you tried to read it. + +Other faculties than that of memory were called into action in those +days by problems like these: "Who was the meekest man? Who was the +strongest man? Who was the father of Zebedee's children? Who had the +iron bedstead, and whose thumbs and great-toes were cut off?" To set a +child to find these things in the Bible without a concordance seems +to us as futile as setting him to hunt a needle in a haystack. But our +fathers were not so foolish as we like to think them; they didn't care +two pins if we never discovered who had the iron bedstead, but they +knew that, leafing over the book, we should light upon treasure where +we sought it not, kernels of the sweetest meat in the hardest shells, +stories of enthralling interest where we least expected them, but, most +of all, and best of all, texts that long afterward in time of trouble +should come to us, as it were the voice of one that also had eaten the +bread of affliction, calling to us across the chasm of the centuries +and saying: "O, tarry thou the Lord's leisure: be strong and He shall +comfort thine heart." + +In the higher classes, that still were not high enough to rank with Mr. +Parker's, the exegetical powers were stimulated in this wise: "'And they +sung a hymn and went out.' Now what do you understand by that?" We told +what we "understood," and what we "held," and what we "believed," and +laid traps for the teacher and tried to corner him with irrelevant +texts wrenched from their context. He had to be an able man and a +nimble-witted man. Mere piety might shine in the prayer-meeting, in the +class-room, at the quarterly love-feast, but not in the Sabbath-school. +I remember once when Brother Butler was away they set John Snyder to +teach us. John didn't know any more than the law allowed, and we made +him feel it, until finally, badgered beyond endurance, he blurted out +that all he knew was that he was a sinner saved by grace. Maybe he +couldn't just tell where to find this, that, and t' other thing in the +Bible, but he could turn right to the place where it said that though +a body's sins were as scarlet, yet they should be white as snow. It was +regarded as a very poor sort of an excuse then, but thinking it over +here lately, it has seemed to me that maybe John had the root of the +matter in him after all. + +The comparative scarcity of polemical athletes and the relative plenty +of the Miss Susie Goldrick kind of teachers, apparently called into +being the Berean Lesson Leaf system, with its Bible cut up into +lady-bites of ten or twelve verses, its Golden Topics, Golden Texts, its +apt alliterations, like: + + S AMUEL + EEKS + AUL + ORROWING + +and its questions prepared in tabloid form, suitable for the most +enfeebled digestions, see directions printed on inside wrapper. Among +the many evidences of the degeneracy of the age is the scandalous +ignorance of our young people regarding the sacred Scriptures, which +at the very lowest estimate are incontestably the finest English ever +written. Those whose childhood antedates the lesson leaf are not so +unfamiliar with that wondrous treasure-house of thought. It is not for +me to say what has wrought the change. I can only point out that lesson +leaves, being about the right size for shaving papers, barely last from +Sunday to Sunday, while that very identical Bible with the blinding type +that I won years and years ago, by learning verses, is with me still. +Yes, and as I often wonder to discover, some of those very verses that I +gobbled down as heedlessly as any ostrich are with me still. + +Remain to be considered the opening and closing exercises, principally +devoted, I remember, to learning new tunes and singing old ones out of +books with pretty titles, like "Golden Censer," "Silver Spray," "Pearl +and Gold," "Sparkling Dewdrops," and "Sabbath Chimes." I wasn't going to +tell it, but I might as well, I suppose. I can remember as far back as +"Musical Leaves." There must be quite a lot of people scattered about +the country who sung out of that when they were little. I wish a few of +us old codgers might get together some time and with many a hummed and +prefatory, "Do, mi, Sol, do; Sol, mi... mi-i-i-i," finally manage to +quaver out the sweet old tunes we learned when we were little tads, each +with a penny in his fat, warm hand: "Shall we Gather at the River?" +and "Work, for the Night is Coming"; and what was the name of that one +about: + + "The waves shall come and the rolling thunder shock + Shall beat upon the house that is founded on a rock, + And it never shall fall, never, never, never." + +What the proper English tune is to "I think when I read that sweet story +of old" I cannot tell, but I am sure it can never melt my heart as that +one in the old "Musical Leaves." with its twistful repetitions of the +last line: + + "I should like to have been with Him then, + I should like to have been with Him then, + When He took little children like lambs to His fold, + I should like to have been with Him then." + +I fear we could not sing that without breaking down. As we recall it, we +draw an inward fluttering breath, something grips our throats and makes +them ache, our eyes blur, and a tear slips down upon the cheek, not of +sorrow--God knows not all of sorrow--but if we had it all to live over +again, how differently we--oh, well, it's too late now, but still. + +Leafing over my little girl's "Arabian Nights" the other day, when I +came to the story of "The Enchanted Horse," I found myself humming, +"Land ahead! Its fruits are waving." My father used to lead the singing +in Sabbath-school, and when he was sol-fa-ing that tune to learn it, I +was devouring that story, and was just about at the picture where Prince +What's-his-name rises up into the air on the Enchanted Horse, with his +true love hanging on behind, and all the multitude below holding their +turbans on as they look up and exclaim: "Well, if that don't beat the +Dutch!" + +And another tune still excites in me the sullen resentment that it +did when I first heard it. In those days, just as a fellow got to the +exciting part in "Frank at Don Carlos's Ranch," or whatever the book +was, there was kindling to be split, or an armful of wood to be brought +in, or a pitcher of water from the well, or "run over to Mrs. Boggs's +and ask her if she won't please lend me her fluting-iron," or "run down +to Galbraith's and get me a spool of white thread, Number 60, and hurry +right back, because then I want you to go over to Serepta Downey's +and take her that polonaise pattern she asked me to cut out for her," +or--there was always something on hand. So what should one of these +composers do--I don't know what ever possessed the man--but go write a +Sabbath-school song with this chorus: + + "There'll be something to do, + There'll be something to do, + There'll be something for children to do: + On that bright shining shore, + Where there's joy evermore, + There'll be something for children to do." + +I suppose he thought that would be an inducement! + +One of these days America is going to be the musical center of the +world. When that day is fully come, and men sit down to write about it, +I hope they won't forget to give due credit to the reed organ, Stephen +Foster, and the Sabbath-school. The reed organ had a lot to do with +musical culture. It is much decried now by people that prefer a piano +that hasn't been tuned for four years; but the reed organ will come into +its own some day, don't forget. Without it the Sabbath-school could not +have been. Anybody that would have a piano in a Sabbath-school ought to +be prosecuted. + +When music, heavenly maid, was just coming to after that awful lick the +Puritans hit her, the first sign of returning life was that people began +to tire of the ten or a dozen tunes to which our great-grandfathers +droned and snuffled all their hymns. In those days there was raised up a +man named Stephen Foster, who "heard in his soul the music of wonderful +melodies," and we have been singing them ever since--"'Way Down upon +the Swanee Ribber," and "Old Kentucky Home," and "Nellie Gray," and the +rest. Then Bradbury and Philip Phillips and many more of them began to +write exactly the same kind of tunes for sacred words. They were just +the thing for the Sabbath-school, but they were more, much more. + +You know that when a fellow gets so he can shave himself without cutting +half his lip off, when it takes him half an hour to get the part in his +hair to suit him, when he gets in the way of shining his shoes and has +a pretty taste in neckties, he doesn't want to bawl the air of a piece +like the old stick-in-the-muds up in the Amen corner or in Mr. Parker's +class. He wants to sing bass. Air is too high for him anyhow unless he +sings it with a hog noise. Oh, you get out! You do, too, know what a +"hog noise" is. You want to let on you've always lived in town. Likely +story if you never heard anybody in the hog-pasture with a basket of +nubbins calling, "Peeg! Peeg! Boo-eel Booee!" A man's voice breaks into +falsetto on the "Boo-ee!" Well, anyhow, such a young man as I am telling +you of would be ashamed to sing with a hog noise. He wants to sing bass. +Now the regular hymn-tunes change the bass as often as they change the +soprano, and if you go fumbling about for the note, by the time you get +it right it is wrong, because the tune has gone on and left you. The +Sabbath-school songs had the young man Absalom distinctly in view. They +made the bass the same all through the measure, and all the changes were +strictly on the do, sol and fa basis. As far as the other notes in the +scale were concerned, the young man Absalom need not bother his head +with them. With do, sol and fa he could sing through the whole book from +cover to cover as good as anybody. + +When people find out what fun it is to sing by note, it is only a step +to the "Messiah," two blocks up and turn to the right, as you might say. +After that, it is only going ahead till you get to "Vogner." Yes, and +many's the day you called the hogs. Don't tell me. + +Once a month on Sunday evenings there were Sabbath-school concerts. +The young ones sat in the front seats, ten or twelve in a pew. "Now, +children," said the superintendent, "I want you all to sing loud +and show the folks how nice you can sing. Page 65. Sixty-fi'th page, +'Scatter Seeds of Kindness.' Now, all sing out now." We licked our +thumbs and scuffled through the book till we found the place. We scowled +at it, and stuck out our mouths at it, and shrieked at it, and bawled +at it, and did the very best we knew to give an imitation of two hundred +little pigs all grabbed by the hind leg at once. That was what made +folks call it a concert. + +There were addresses to the dear children by persons that teetered on +their toes and dimpled their cheeks in dried-apple smiles as us. Some +complain that they do not know how to talk to children and keep them +interested. Oh, pshaw! Simple as A B C. Once you learn the trick you can +talk to the little folks for an hour and a half on "Banking as Related +to National Finance," and keep them on the quiver of excitement. Ask +questions. And to be sure that they give the right answers (a very +important thing) remember this: When you wish them to say "Yes, sir," +end your question with "Don't they?" or "isn't it?" When you wish them +to say "No, sir," end your question with "Do they?" or "Is it?" When +you wish them to choose between two answers, mention first the one they +mustn't take, then pause, look archly at them, and mention the one they +must take. Thus: + +Q. --Now, dear children, I wonder if you can tell me where the sun +rises. In the north, doesn't it? + +A. --Yes, sir. + +Q. --Yes, you are right. In the north. And because it rises in the north +every afternoon at three, how do we walk about? On our feet, do we? + +A. --No, sir. + +Q. --No. Of course not. Then how is it we do walk about? On our ears +or--(now the look) on our noses? + +A. --On our noses. + +This method, if carefully and systematically employed, was never known +to fail. It is called the Socratic method. + +The most interesting feature of the monthly Sabbath-school concert is +universally conceded to be the treasurer's report. So much on hand at +the last meeting, so much contributed by each class during the month +last past, so much expended, so much left on hand at present. We used +to sit and listen to it with slack jaws and staring eyes. Money, money, +oceans of money! Thirty-eight cents and seventy-six cents and a dollar +four cents! My! + +The librarian's report was nowhere. It was a bully library, too, and +contained the "Through by Daylight" Series, and the "Ragged Dick" +Series, and the "Tattered Tom" Series, and the "Frank on the Gunboat" +Series, and the "Frank the Young Naturalist" Series, and the "Elm +Island" Series--Did you ever read "The Ark of Elm Island", and "Giant +Ben of Elm Island"? You didn't? Ah, you missed it--and the "B. O. W. C." +Series--and say! there was a book in that library--oo-oo! "Cast up +by the Sea," all about wreckers, and false lights on the shore, and +adventures in Central Africa, and there's a nigger queen that wants to +marry him, and he don't want to because he loves a girl in England--I +think that's kind of soft--and he kills about a million of them trying +to get away. You want to get that book. Don't let them give you "Patient +Henry" or "Charlie Watson, the Drunkard's Little Son." They're about +boys that take sick and die--no good. + +It was a bully library, but the report wasn't interesting. Major +Humphreys's always was. He was the treasurer because he worked in the +bank. He came from the Western Reserve, and said "cut" when he meant +coat, and "hahnt" when he meant heart. I can shut my eyes and hear +him read his report now: "Infant-class, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, one +dolla thutty-eight cents; Miss Dan'ells's class, fawty-six cents; Miss +Goldrick's class, twenty-faw cents; Mr. Pahnker's class, ninety-three +cents; Miss Rut's class, naw repawt." + +Poor old Miss Root! There was hardly ever any report from her class. +Often she hadn't a penny to give, and perhaps the other old ladies, who +found the keenest possible delight in doing what they called "running up +the references," had no more, for they were relics of an age when women +weren't supposed to have money to fling right and left in the foolish +way that women will if they're not looked after--shoes for the baby, and +a new calico dress every two or three years or so. + +Yes, it is rather interesting for a change now and then to hear these +folks go on about what a terrible thing the Sabbath-school is, and how +it does more harm than good. They get really excited about it, and storm +around as if they expected folks to take them seriously. They know, just +as well as we do, that this wouldn't be any kind of a country at all if +we couldn't look back and remember the Sabbath-school, or if we couldn't +fix up the children Sunday afternoons, and find their lesson leaves for +them, and hunt up a penny to give to the poor heathen, and hear them say +the Golden Text before they go, and tell them to be nice. Papa and mamma +watch them from the window till they turn the corner, and then go back +to the Sunday paper with a secure sort of feeling. They won't learn +anything they oughtn't to at the Sabbath-school. + + + + +THE REVOLVING YEAR + + + "'It snows!' cries the schoolboy, 'Hurrah!' + And his shout is heard through parlor and hall." + + + MCGUFFEY's THIRD READER. + + +(Well, maybe it was the Second Reader. And if it was the Fourth, what +difference does it make? And, furthermore, who 's doing this thing, you +or me?) + + +Had it not been that never in my life have I ever heard anybody say +either "It snows!" or "Hurrah!" it is improbable that I should have +remembered the first line of a poem describing the effect produced upon +different kinds of people by the sight of the first snowstorm of winter. +Had it not been for the plucky (not to say heroic) effort to rhyme +"hall" with "hurrah" I should not have remembered the second, and still +another line of it, depicting the emotions of a poor widow with a large +family and a small woodpile, is burned into my memory only by reason +of the shocking language it contains, the more shocking in that it was +deliberately put forth to be read by innocent-minded children. Poor +Carrie Rinehart! When she stood up to read that, she got as red as a +beet, and I believed her when she told me afterward that she thought she +would sink right through that floor. Of course, some had to snicker, but +the most of us, I am thankful to say, were a credit to our bringing up, +and never let on we heard it. All the same it was a terrible thing to +have to speak right out loud before everybody. If any of the boys (let +alone the girls), had said that because he felt like saying it, he would +have been sent in to the principal, and that night his daddy would have +given him another licking. + +Even now I cannot bring myself to write the line without toning it down. + +"'It snows!' cries the widow. 'Oh G--d!'" + +At the beginning of winter, I will not deny, that the schoolboy might +have shouted: "It's snowin'! Hooee!" when he saw the first snow flakes +sifting down, and realized that the Old Woman was picking her geese. +A change is always exciting, and winter brings many joyous sports +and pastimes, skating, and snowballing, and sliding down hill, +and--er--er--I said skating didn't I? and--er--Oh, yes, sleigh-riding, +and--er--Well, I guess that's about all. + +Skating, now, that's fine. I know a boy who, when the red ball goes up +in the street-cars, sneaks under his coat a pair of wooden-soled skates, +with runners that curl up over the toes like the stems of capital +letters in the Spencerian copy-book. He is ashamed of the old-fashioned +things, which went out of date long and long before my day, but he says +that they are better than the hockeys. Well, you take a pair of such +skates and strap them on tightly until you can't tell by the feel which +is feet and which is wooden soles, and you glide out upon the ice above +the dam for, say about four hours, with the wind from the northwest and +the temperature about nine below, and I tell you it is something grand. +And if you run over a stick that is frozen in the ice, or somebody bumps +into you, or your feet slide out from under you, and you strike on your +ear and part of your face on the ice, and go about ten feet ah, it's +great! Simply great. And it's nice too, to skate into an air-hole into +water about up to your neck, and have the whole mob around you whooping +and "hollering" and slapping their legs with glee, because they know it +isn't deep enough to drown you, and you look so comical trying to claw +out. And when you do get out, it takes such along time to get your +skates of, and you feel so kind of chilly like, and when you get home +your clothes are frozen stiff on you--Oh, who would willingly miss such +sport? + +And sleigh-riding! Me for sleigh-riding! You take a nice, sharp day in +winter, when the sky is as blue as can be because all the moisture is +frozen out of the air, a day when the snow under the sleigh runners +whines and creaks, as if thousands of tiny wineglasses were being +crushed by them, and the bells go jing-jing, jing-jing on the frosty +air which just about takes the hide off your face; when you hold your +mittens up to your ears and then have to take them down to slap yourself +across the chest to get the blood agoing in your fingers; when you kick +your feet together and dumbly wonder why it is your toes don't click +like marbles; when the cold creeps up under your knitted pulse-warmers, +and in at every possible little leak until it has soaked into your very +bones; when you snuggle down under the lap-robe where it is warm as +toast (day before yesterday's toast) and try to pull your shoulders up +over your head; when a little drop hangs on the end of your nose, +which has ceased to feel like a living, human nose, and now resembles +something whittled to a point; when you hold your breath as long as +you can, and your jaw waggles as if you were playing chin-chopper with +it--Ah, that's the sport of kings! And after you have got as cold as you +possibly can get, and simply cannot stand it a minute longer, you ride +and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride. +Once in a while you turn out for another sleigh, and nearly upset in the +process, and you can see that in all points its occupants are exactly as +you are, just as happy and contented. There aren't any dogs to run out +and bark at you. Old Maje and Tige, and even little Bounce and Guess +are snoozing behind the kitchen stove. All there is is just jing-jing, +jing-jing, jing-jing, not a bird-cry or a sound of living creature. +jing-jing, jing-jing..... Well, yes, kind o' monotonous, but still.... +You pass a house, and a woman comes out to scrape off a plate to the +chickens standing on one foot in a corner where the sun can get at them, +and the wind cannot. She scrapes slowly, and looks at you as much as to +say: "I wonder who's sick. Must be somebody going for the doctor, day +like this." And then she shudders: "B-b-b-oo-oo-oo!" and runs back into +the house and slams the door hard. You snuffle and look at the chimney +that has thick white smoke coming out of it, and consider that very +likely a nice, warm fire is making all that smoke, and you snuffle +again, and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride +and 'ride. And about an hour and a half after you have given up all +hopes, and are getting resigned to your fate, you turn off the big road +and up the lane to the house where you are going on your pleasure-trip, +and you hop out as nimble as a sack of potatoes, and hobble into the +house, and don't say how-de-do or anything, but just make right for the +stove. The people all squall out: "Why, ain't you 'most froze?" and +if you answer, "Yes sum," it's as much as ever. Generally you can't do +anything but just stand and snuffle and look as if you hadn't a friend +on earth. And about the time you get so that some spots are pretty warm, +and other spots aren't as cold as they were, why then you wrap up, and +go home again with the same experience, only more so. Fine! fine! + +It's nice, too, when there's a whole crowd out together in a wagon-bed +with straw in it. There's something so cozy in straw! And the tin horns +you blow in each other's ear, and the songs you sing: "Jingle bells, +jingle bells, jingle all the way," and "Waw-unneeta! Waw-unneeta, ay-usk +thy sowl if we shud part," and "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and "Johnny +Shmoker," and that variation of "John Brown's Body," where every time +you sing over the verse you leave off one more word, and somebody always +forgets, and you laugh fit to kill yourself, and just have a grand time. +And maybe you take a whole lot of canned cove oysters with you, and when +you get out to Makemson's, or wherever it is you're going, Mrs. Makemson +puts the kettle on and makes a stew, cooking the oysters till they are +thoroughly done. And she makes coffee, the kind you can't tell from tea +by the looks, and have to try twice before you can tell by the taste. +Ah! winter brings many joyous sports and pastimes. And you get back home +along about half-past two, and the fire's out, and the folks are in bed, +and you have to be at the store to open up at seven--Laws! I wish it was +so I could go sleigh-riding once more in the long winter evenings, +when the pitcher in the spare bedroom bursts, and makes a noise like a +cannon. + +And sliding down hill, I like that. + +What? Coasting? Never heard of it. If it's anything like sliding down +hill, it's all right. For a joke you can take a barrel-stave and hold on +to that and slide down. It goes like a scared rabbit, but that isn't +so much the point as that it slews around and spills you into a drift. +Sleds are lower and narrower than they used to be, and they also lack +the artistic adornment of a pink, or a blue, or a black horse, painted +with the same stencil but in different colors, and named "Dexter," or +"Rarus," or "Goldsmith Maid." These are good names, but nobody ever +called his sled by a name. Boggs's hill, back of the lady's house that +taught the infant-class in Sunday-school, was a good hill. It had a +creek at the bottom, and a fine, long ride, eight or ten feet, on the +ice. But Dangler's hill was the boss. It was the one we all made up our +minds we would ride down some day when the snow was just right. We'd +go over there' and look up to the brow of the hill and say: "Gee! But +wouldn't a fellow come down like sixty, though?" + +"Betchy!" + +We'd look up again, and somebody would say: "Aw, come on. Less go over +to Boggs's hill." + +"Thought you was goin' down Dangler's." + +"Yes, I know, but all the other fellows is over to Boggs's." + +"A-ah, ye're afraid." + +"Ain't either." + +"Y' are teether." + +"I dare you." + +"Oh, well now--" + +"I double dare you." + +"All right. I will if you will. You go first." + +"Nah, you go first. The fellow that's dared has got to go first. Ain't +that so, Chuck? Ain't that so, Monkey?" + +"I'll go down if you will, on'y you gotta go first." + +"Er--er--Who all 's over at Boggs's hill?" + +"Oh, the whole crowd of 'em, Turkey-egg McLaughlin, and Ducky +Harshberger, and--Oh, I don' know who all." + +"Tell you what less do. Less wait till it gets all covered with ice, and +all slick and smooth. Then less come over and go down." + +"Say, won't she go like sixty then! Jeemses Rivers! Come on, I'll beat +you to the corner." + +That was the closest we ever came to going down Dangler's hill. Railroad +hill wasn't so bad, over there by the soap-factory, because they didn't +run trains all the time, and you stood a good chance of missing being +run over by the engine, but Dangler's Well, now, I want to tell you +Dangler's was an awful steep hill, and a long one, and when you think +that it was so steep nobody ever pretended to drive up it even in the +summer-time, and you slide down the hill and think that, once you got to +going. + +Fun's fun, I know, but nobody wants to go home with half his scalp +hanging over one eye, and dripping all over the back porch. Because, +you know, a fellow's mother gets crosser about blood on wood-work than +anything else. Scrubbing doesn't do the least bit of good; it has to be +planed off, or else painted. + +Let me see, now. Have I missed anything? I'll count 'em off on my +fingers. There's skating, and sleigh-riding, and sliding down hill, and +Oh, yes. Snowballing and making snow-men. Nobody makes a snow-man but +once, and nobody makes a snow-house after it has caved in on him once +and like to killed him. And as for snowballing--Look here. Do you know +what's the nicest thing about winter? Get your feet on a hot stove, +and have the lamp over your left shoulder, and a pan of apples, and +something exciting to read, like "Frank Among the Indians." Eh, how +about it? In other words, the best thing about winter is when you can +forget that it is winter. + +The excitement that prompts "It snows!" and "Hurrah!" mighty soon peters +out, and along about the latter part of February, when you go to the +window and see that it is snowing again--again? Consarn the luck!--you +and the poor widow with the large family and the small woodpile are +absolutely at one. + +You do get so sick and tired of winter. School lets out at four o'clock, +and it's almost dark then. There's no time for play, for there's all +that wood and kindling to get in, and Pap's awful cranky when he hops +out of bed these frosty mornings to light the fire, and finds you've +been skimpy with the kindling. And the pump freezes up, and you've got +to shovel snow off the walks and out in the back-yard so Tilly can hang +up the clothes when she comes to do the washing. And your mother is just +as particular about your neck being clean as she is in summer when +the water doesn't make you feel so shivery. And there's the bottle +of goose-grease always handy, and the red flannel to pin around your +throat, and your feet in the bucket of hot water before you go to +bed--Aw, put 'em right in. Yes, I know it's hot. That's what going to +make you well. In with 'em. Aw, child, it isn't going to scald you. Go +on now. The water'll be stone-cold in a minute. "Oh, I don't like winter +for a cent. Kitchoo! There, I've gone and caught fresh cold. + +"I wish it would hurry up and come spring. + + "When the days begin to lengthen, + The cold begins to strengthen." + +Now, you know that doesn't stand to reason. Every day the sun inches a +little higher in the heavens. His rays strike us more directly and for a +longer time each day. But it's the cantankerous fact, and it simply has +to stand to reason. That's the answer, and the sum has to be figured out +somehow in accordance with it. Like one time, when I was about sixteen +years old, and in the possession of positive and definite information +about the way the earth went around the sun and all, I was arguing with +one of these old codgers that think they know it all, one of these +men that think it is so smart to tell you: "Sonny, when you get older, +you'll know more 'n you do now--I hope." Well, he was trying to tell me +that the day lengthened at one end before it did at the other. I did my +best to dispel the foolish notion from his mind, and explained to him +how it simply could not be, but no, sir! he stood me down. Finally, +since pure reasoning was wasted on him, I took the almanac off the nail +it hung by, and--I bedog my riggin's if the old skidama link wasn't +right after all. Sundown keeps coming a minute later every day, while, +for quite a while there, sun-up sticks at the same old time, 7:30 A.M. +Did you ever hear of anything so foolish? + +"Very early, while it is yet dark," the alarm clock of old Dame Nature +begins to buzz. It may snow and blow, and winter may seem to have +settled in in earnest, but deep down in the earth, the root-tips, where +lie the brains of vegetables, are gaping and stretching, and ho-humming, +and wishing they could snooze a little longer. When it thaws in the +afternoon and freezes up at sunset as tight as bricks, they tell me +that out in the sugar-camp there are great doings. I don't know about +it myself, but I have heard tell of boring a hole in the maple-tree, +and sticking in a spout, and setting a bucket to catch the drip, and +collecting the sap, and boiling down, and sugaring off. I have heard +tell of taffy-pullings, and how Joe Hendricks stuck a whole gob of +maple-wax in Sally Miller's hair, and how she got even with him by +rubbing his face with soot. It is only hearsay with me, but I'll tell +you what I have done: I have eaten real maple sugar, and nearly pulled +out every tooth I had in my head with maple-wax, and I have even gone so +far as to have maple syrup on pancakes. It's good, too. The maple syrup +came on the table in a sort of a glass flagon with a metal lid to it, +and it was considered the height of bad manners to lick off the last +drop of syrup that hung on the nose of the flagon. And yet it must not +be allowed to drip on the table-cloth. It is a pity we can't get any +more maple syrup nowadays, but I don't feel so bad about the loss of it, +as I do to think what awful liars people can be, declaring on the label +that 'deed and double, 'pon their word and honor, it is pure, genuine, +unadulterated maple syrup, when they know just as well as they know +anything that it is only store-sugar boiled up with maple chips. + +Along about the same time, the boys come home with a ring of mud around +their mouths, and exhaling spicy breaths like those which blow o'er +Ceylon's isle in the hymn-book. They bear a bundle of roots, whose +thick, pink hide mother whittles off with the butcher-knife and sets +to steep. Put away the store tea and coffee. To-night as we drink the +reddish aromatic brew we return, not only to our own young days, but +to the young days of the nation when our folks moved to the West in a +covered wagon; when grandpap, only a little boy then, about as big as +Charley there, got down the rifle and killed the bear that had climbed +into the hog-pen; when they found old Cherry out in the timber with her +calf between her legs, and two wolves lying where she had horned them +to death--we return to-night to the high, heroic days of old, when our +forefathers conquered the wilderness and our foremothers reared the +families that peopled it. This cup of sassafras to-night in their loving +memory! Earth, rest easy on their moldering bones! + +Some there be that still take stock in the groundhog. I don't believe +he knows anything about it. And I believe that any animal that had +the sense that he is reputed to have would not have remained a mere +ground-hog all these years. At least not in this country. Anyhow, it's +a long ways ahead, six weeks is, especially at the time when you do wish +so fervently that it would come spring. We keep on shoveling coal in the +furnace, and carrying out ashes, and longing and crying: "Oh, for pity's +sakes! When is this going to stop?" And then, one morning, we awaken +with a start Wha--what? Sh! Keep still, can't you? There is a more +canorous and horn-like quality to the crowing of Gildersleeve's rooster, +and his hens chant cheerily as they kick the litter about. But it wasn't +these cheerful sounds that wakened us with a start. There! Hear that? +Hear it? Two or three long-drawn, reedy notes, and an awkward boggle at +a trill, but oh, how sweet! How sweet! It is the song-sparrow, blessed +bird! It won't be long now; it won't be long. + +The snow fort in the back-yard still sulks there black and dirty. "I'll +go when I get good and ready, and not before," it seems to say. Other +places the thinner snow has departed and left behind it mud that seizes +upon your overshoe with an "Oh, what's your rush?" In the middle of +the road it lies as smooth as pancake-batter. A load of building stone +stalls, and people gather on the sidewalk to tell the teamster quietly +and unostentatiously that he ought to have had more sense than to pile +it on like that with the roads the way they are. Every time the cruel +whip comes down and the horses dance under it, the women peering out of +the front windows wince, and cluck "Tchk! Ain't it terrible? He ought +to be arrested." This way and that the team turns and tugs, but all in +vain. Somebody puts on his rubber boots and wades out to help, fearing +not the muddy spokes. Yo hee! Yo hee! No use. He talks it over with the +teamster. You can hear him say: "Well, suit yourself. If you want to +stay here all night." + +And then the women exult: "Goody! Goody! Serves him right. Now he has to +take off some of the stone. Lazy man's load!" + +The mother of children flies to the back-door when school lets out. +"Don't you come in here with all that mud!" she squalls excitedly. "Look +at you! A peck o' dirt on each foot. Right in my nice clean kitchen that +I just scrubbed. Go 'long now and clean your shoes. Go 'long, I tell +you. Slave and slave for you and that's all the thanks I get. You'd +keep the place looking like a hogpen, if I wasn't at you all the time. I +never saw such young ones since the day I was made. Never. Whoopin' and +hollerin' and trackin' in and out. It's enough to drive a body crazy." + +(Don't you care. It's just her talk. If it isn't one thing it's another, +cleaning your shoes, or combing your hair, or brushing your clothes, or +using your handkerchief, or shutting the door softly, or holding your +spoon with your fingers and not in your fist, or keeping your finger out +of your glass when you drink--something the whole blessed time. Forever +and eternally picking at a fellow about something. And saying the same +thing over and over so many times. That's the worst of it!) + +Pap and mother read over the seed catalogues, all about "warm, light +soils," and "hardy annuals," and "sow in drills four inches apart." It +kind of hurries things along when you do that. In the south window of +the kitchen is a box full of black dirt in which will you look out what +you're doing? Little more and you'd have upset it. There are tomato +seeds in that, I'll have you know. Oh, yes, government seeds. Somebody +sends 'em, I don't know who. Congressman, I guess, whoever he is. I +don't pretend to keep track of 'em. And say. When was this watered last? +There it is. Unless I stand over you every minute--My land! If there's +anything done about this house I've got to do it. + +Between the days when it can't make up its mind whether to snow or to +rain, and tries to do both at once, comes a day when it is warm enough +(almost) to go without an overcoat. The Sunday following you can hardly +hear what the preacher has to say for the whooping and barking. The +choir members have cough drops in their cheeks when they stand up to +sing, and everybody stops in at the drug store with: "Say, Doc, what's +good for a cold?" + +Eggs have come down. Yesterday they were nine for a quarter; to-day +they're ten. Gildersleeve wants a dollar for a setting of eggs, but +he'll let you have the same number of eggs for thirty cents if you'll +wait till he can run a needle into each one. So afraid you'll raise +chickens of your own. + +Excited groups gather about rude circles scratched in the mud, and there +is talk of "pureys," and "reals," and "aggies," and "commies," and "fen +dubs!" There is a rich click about the bulging pockets of the boys, and +every so often in school time something drops on the floor and rolls +noisily across the room. When Miss Daniels asks: "Who did that?" the +boys all look so astonished. Who did what, pray tell? And when she picks +up a marble and inquires: "Whose is this?" nobody can possibly imagine +whose it might be, least of all the boy whose most highly-prized shooter +it is. At this season of the year, too, there is much serious talk as +to the exceeding sinfulness of "playing for keeps." The little boys, in +whose thumbs lingers the weakness of the arboreal ape, their ancestor, +and who "poke" their marbles, drink in eagerly the doctrine that when +you win a marble you ought to give it back, but the hard-eyed fellows, +who can plunk it every time, sit there and let it go in one ear and out +the other, there being a hole drilled through expressly for the purpose. +What? Give up the rewards of skill? Ah, g'wan! + +The girls, even to those who have begun to turn their hair up under, are +turning the rope and dismally chanting: "All in together, pigs in the +meadow, nineteen twenty, leave the rope empty," or whatever the rune is. + +It won't be long now. It won't be long. + + "For lo; the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the + flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds + is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the + fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the + tender grape give a good smell. Arise my love, my fair one + and come away." + + + THE SONG OF SOLOMON. + +Out in the woods the leaves that rustled so bravely when we shuffled +our feet through them last fall are sodden and matted. It is warm in the +woods, for the sun strikes down through the bare branches, and the cold +wind is fended off. The fleshy lances of the spring beauty have stabbed +upward through the mulch, and a tiny cup, delicately veined with pink, +hangs its head bashfully. Anemones on brown wire stems aspire without +a leaf, and in moist patches are May pinks, the trailing arbutus of the +grown-ups. As we carry home a bunch, the heads all lopping every way +like the heads of strangled babies, we can almost hear behind us in the +echoing forests a long, heart-broken moan, as of Rachel mourning for +her children, and will not be comforted because they are not. The wild +flowers don't look so pretty in the tin cups of water as they did back +in the woods. There is something cheap and common about them. Throw 'em +out. The poor plants that planned through all the ages how to attract +the first smart insects of the season, and trick them into setting +the seeds for next years' flowers did not reckon that these very means +whereby they hoped to rear a family would prove their undoing at the +hands of those who plume themselves a little on their refinement, they +"are so fond of flowers." + +Old Winter hates to give up that he is beaten. It's a funny thing, but +when you hear a person sing, "Good-a-by, Summer, good-a-by, good-a-by," +you always feel kind of sad and sorry. It's going, the time of year when +you can stay out of doors most of the time, when you can go in swimming, +and the Sunday-school picnic, and the circus, and play base-ball and +camp out, and there's no school, and everything nice, and watermelons, +and all like that. Good-by, good-by, and you begin to sniff a little. +The departure of summer is dignified and even splendid, but the earth +looks so sordid and draggle-trailed when winter goes, that onions could +not bring a tear. Old winter likes to tease. Aha! You thought I +was gone, did you? "Not yet, my child, not yet!" And he sends us +huckleberry-colored clouds from the northwest, from which snow-flakes +big as copper cents solemnly waggle down, as if they really expected +the schoolboy to shout: "It snows! Hurrah!" and makes his shout heard +through parlor and hall. But they only leave a few dark freckles on the +garden beds. Alas, yes! There is no light without its shadow, no joy +without its sorrow tagging after. It isn't all marbles and play in the +gladsome springtide. Bub has not only to spade up the garden--there is +some sense in that--but he has to dig up the flower beds, and help his +mother set out her footy, trifling plants. + +The robins have come back, our robins that nest each spring in the old +seek-no-further. To the boy grunting over the spading-fork presents +himself Cock Robin. "How about it? Hey? All right? Hey?" he seems +to ask, cocking his head, and flipping out the curt inquiries +with tail-jerks. Glad of any excuse to stop work, the boy stands +statue-still, while Mr. Robin drags from the upturned clods the long, +elastic fish-worms, and then with a brief "Chip!" flashes out of sight. +Be right still now. Don't move. Here he comes again, and his wife with +him. They fly down, he all eager and alert to wait upon her, she whining +and scolding. She doesn't think it's much of a place for worms. And +there's that boy yonder. He's up to some devilment or other, she just +knows. She oughtn't to have come away and left those eggs. They'll get +cold now, she just knows they will. Anything might happen to them when +she 's away, and then he 'll be to blame, for he coaxed her. He knows +she told him she didn't want to come. But he would have it. For half a +cent she'd go back right now. And, Heavens above! Is he going to be all +'day picking up a few little worms? + +She cannot finish her sentences for her gulps, for he is tamping down +in her insides the reluctant angleworms that do not want to die, two +or three writhing in his bill at once, until he looks like Jove's +eagle with its mouth full of thunderbolts. And all the time he is +chip-chipping and flirting his tail, and saying: "How's that? All right? +Hey? Here's another. How's that? All right? Hey? Open now. Like that? +Here's one. Oh, a beaut! Here's two fat ones? Great? Hey? Here y' go. +Touch the spot? Hey? More? Sure Mike. Lots of 'em. Wide now. Boss. Hey? +Wait a second--yes, honey. In a second.... I got him. Here's the kind +you like. Oh, yes, do. Do take one more. Oh, you better." + +"D' ye think I'm made o' rubber?" she snaps at him. "I know I'll have +indigestion, and you'll be to bla--Mercy land! Them eggs!" and she +gathers up her skirts and flits. He escorts her gallantly, but returns +to pick a few for himself, and to cock his head knowingly at the boy, +as much as to say: "Man of family, by Ned. Or--or soon will be. Oh, yes, +any minute now, any minute." + +And if I remember rightly, he even winks at the boy with a wink whose +full significance the boy does not learn till many years after when +it dawns upon him that it meant: "You got to make allowances for 'em. +Especially at such a time. All upset, you know, and worried. Oh, yes. +You got to; you got to make allowances for 'em." + +Day by day the air grows balmier and softer on the cheek. Out in the +garden, ranks of yellow-green pikes stand stiffly at "Present. +Hump!" and rosettes of the same color crumple through the warm soil, +unconsciously preparing for a soul tragedy. For an evening will come +when a covered dish will be upon the supper-table, and when the cover is +taken off, a subtle fragrance will betray, if the sense of sight do not, +that the chopped-up lettuces and onions are in a marsh of cider vinegar, +demanding to be eaten. And your big sister will squall out in comic +distress: "Oh, ma! You are too mean for anything! Why did you have 'em +tonight? I told you Mr. Dellabaugh was going to call, and you know how I +love spring onions! Well, I don't care. I'm just going to, anyhow." + +Things come with such a rush now, it is hard to tell what happens in +its proper order. The apple-trees blossom out like pop-corn over the hot +coals. The Japan quince repeats its farfamed imitation of the Burning +Bush of Moses; the flowering currants are strung with knobs of vivid +yellow fringe; the dead grass from the front yard, the sticks and stalks +and old tomato vines, the bits of rag and the old bones that Guess has +gnawed upon are burning in the alley, and the tormented smoke is darting +this way and that, trying to get out from under the wind that seeks to +flatten it to the ground. All this is spring, and--and yet it isn't. The +word is not yet spoken that sets us free to live the outdoor life; we +are yet prisoners and captives of the house. + +But, one day in school, the heat that yesterday was nice and cozy +becomes too dry and baking for endurance. The young ones come in from +recess red, not with the brilliant glow of winter, but a sort of scalded +red. They juke their heads forward to escape their collars' moist +embrace; they reach their hands back of them to pull their clinging +winter underwear away. They fan themselves with joggerfies, and puff +out: "Phew!" and look pleadingly at the shut windows. One boy, bolder +than his fellows, moans with a suffering lament: "Miss Daniels, cain't +we have the windows open? It's awful hot!" Frightful dangers lurk in +draughts. Fresh air will kill folks. So, not until the afternoon is the +prayer answered. Then the outer world, so long excluded, enters once +more the school-room life. The mellifluous crowing of distant roosters, +the rhythmic creaking of a thirsty pump, the rumble of a loaded wagon, +the clinking of hammers at the blacksmith shop, the whistle of No. 3 +away below town, all blend together in the soft spring air into one +lulling harmony. + +Winter's alert activity is gone. Who cares for grades and standings now? +The girls, that always are so smart, gape lazily, and stare at vacancy +wishing.... They don't know what they wish, but if He had a lot of +money, why, then they could help the poor, and all like that, and have a +new dress every day. + +James Sackett--his real name is Jim Bag, but teacher calls him James +Sackett--has his face set toward: "A farmer sold 16 2-3 bu. wheat for +66 7-8 c. per bu.; 19 2-9 bu. oats for," etc., etc., but his soul is +far away in Cummins's woods, where there is a robbers' cave that he, and +Chuck Higgins, and Bunt Rogers, and Turkey-egg McLaughlin are going +to dig Saturday afternoons when the chores are done. They are going +to--Here Miss Daniels should slip up behind him and snap his ear, but +she, too, is far away in spirit. Her beau is coming after supper to take +her buggy-riding. She wonders.... She wonders.... Will she have to teach +again next fall? She wonders.... + +Wait. Wait but a moment. A subtle change is coming. + +The rim of the revolving year has a brighter and a darker half, a joyous +and a somber half, Autumnal splendors cannot cheer the melancholy that +we feel when summer goes from us, but when summer comes again the heart +leaps up in glee to meet it. Wait but a moment now. Wait. + +The distant woodland swims in an amethystine haze. A long and fluting +note, honey-sweet as it were blown upon a bottle, comes to us from far. +It is the turtle-dove. The blood beats in our ears. Arise, my love, my +fair one, and come away. + +So gentle it can scarce be felt, a waft of air blows over us, the first +sweet breath of summer. A veil of faint and subtle perfume drifts around +us. The vines with the tender grape give a good smell. And evermore as +its enchantment is cast about us we are as once we were when first we +came beneath its spell; we are by the smokehouse at the old home place; +we stand in shoes whose copper toes wink and glitter in the sunlight, +a gingham apron sways in the soft breeze, and on the green, upspringing +turf dances the shadow of a tasseled cap. Life was all before us then. +Please God, it is not all behind us now. Please God, our best and wisest +days are yet to come the days when we shall do the work that is worthy +of us. Dear one, mother of my children here and Yonder--and Yonder--the +best and wisest days are yet to come. Arise, my love, my fair one, and +come away. + + + + +THE SWIMMING-HOLE + + +It is agreed by all, I think, that the two happiest periods in a man's +life are his boyhood and about ten years from now. We are exactly in the +position described in the hymn: + + "Lo! On a narrow neck of land + 'Twixt two unbounded seas we stand, + And cast a wishful eye."* + + *[I am told, on good authority, that this last line of the + three belongs to another hymn. As it is just what I want to + say, I'm going to let it stand as it is.] + +If I remember right, the hymn went to the tune of "Ariel," and I can see +John Snodgrass, the precentor, sneaking a furtive C from his pitch-pipe, +finding E flat and then sol, and standing up to lead the singing, +paddling the air gently with: Down, left, sing. Well, no matter about +that now. What I am trying to get at, is that we have all a lost Eden +in the past and a Paradise Regained in the future. 'Twixt two unbounded +seas of happiness we stand on the narrow and arid sand-spit of the +present and cast a wishful eye. In hot weather particularly the wishful +eye, when directed toward the lost Eden of boyhood, lights on and +lingers near the Old Swimming-hole. + +I suppose boys do grow up into a reasonable enjoyment of their faculties +in big seaside cities and on inland farms where there is no accessible +body of water larger than a wash-tub, but I prefer to believe that the +majority of our adult male population in youth went in swimming in the +river up above the dam, where the big sycamore spread out its roots +a-purpose for them to climb out on without muddying their feet. Some, I +suppose, went in at the Copperas Banks below town, where the current had +dug a hole that was "over head and hands," but that was pretty far and +almost too handy for the boys from across the tracks. + +The wash-tub fellows will have to be left out of it entirely. It was an +inferior, low-grade Eden they had anyhow, and if they lost it, why, they +'re not out very much that I can see. And I rather pity the boys that +lived by the sea. They had a good time in their way, I suppose, +with sailboats and things, but the ocean is a poor excuse for a +swimming-hole. They say salt-water is easier to swim in; kind of bears +you up more. Maybe so, but I never could see it; and even so, if it +does, that slight advantage is more than made up for by the manifold +disadvantages entailed. First place, there's the tide to figure on. If +it was high tide last Wednesday at half-past ten in the morning, what +time will it be high tide today? A boy can't always go when he wants to, +and it is no fun to trudge away down to the beach only to find half a +mile of soft, gawmy mud between him and the water. And he can't go in +wherever it is deep enough and nobody lives near. People own the beach +away out under water, and where he is allowed to go in may be a perfect +submarine jungle of eel-grass or bottomed with millions of razor-edged +barnacles that rip the soles of his feet into bleeding rags. Then, +too, when one swims, more or less water gets into one's nose and mouth. +River-water may not be exactly what a fastidious person would choose +to drink habitually, but there is this in its favor as compared with +sea-water: it will stay down after it is swallowed; also, it doesn't gum +up your hair; also, if you want to take a cake of soap with you, all you +have to look out for is that you don't lose the soap. Nobody tries to +use toilet soap in sea-water more than once. + +And surf-bathing! If there is a bigger swindle than surf-bathing, the +United States Postal authorities haven't heard of it yet. It is all very +well for the women. They can hang on to the ropes and squeal at the big +waves and have a perfectly lovely time. Some of the really daring ones +crouch down till they actually get their shoulder-blades wet. You +have to see that for yourself to believe it, but it is as true as I +am sitting here. They do so--some of them. But good land! There's no +swimming in surf-bathing, no fun for a man. The water is all bouncing up +and down. One second it is over head and hands, and the next second it +is about to your knees, with a malicious undertow tickling your feet and +tugging at your ankles; and growling: "Aw, you think you're some, don't +you? Yes. Well, for half a cent wouldn't take you out and drown you." +And I don't like the looks of that boat patrolling up and down between +the ropes and the raft. It is too suggestive, too like the skeleton at +the banquet, too blunt a reminder that maybe what the undertow growls is +not all a bluff. + +Another drawback to the ocean as a swimming-hole is that the distances +are all wrong. If you want to go to the other side of the "crick" +you must take a steamboat. There is no such thing as bundling up your +clothes and holding them out of water with one hand while you swim with +the other, perhaps dropping your knife or necktie in transit. I have +never been on the other side of the "crick" even on a steamboat, but +I am pretty sure that there are no yellow-hammers' nests over there or +watermelon patches. There were above the dam. At the seaside they give +you as an objective point a raft, anchored at what seems only a little +distance from where it gets deep enough to swim in, but which turns out +to be a mighty far ways when the water bounces so. When you get there, +blowing like a quarter-horse and weighing nine tons as you lift yourself +out, there is nothing to do but let your feet hang over while you get +rested enough to swim back. It wasn't like that above the dam. + +I tell you the ocean is altogether too big. Some profess to admire it +on that account, but it is my belief that they do it to be in style. +I admit that on a bright, blowy day, when you can sit and watch the +shining sails far out on the horizon's rim, it does look right nice, +but I account for it in this way: it puts you in mind of some of these +expensive oil paintings, and that makes you think it is kind of high +class. And another thing: It recalls the picture in the joggerfy that +proved the earth was round because the hull of a ship disappears before +the sails, as it would if the ship was going over a hill. You sweep your +eye along where the sky and water meet, and it seems you can note the +curvature of the earth. Maybe it is that, and maybe it is all in your +own eye. I am not saying. + +There are good points, too, about the sea on a clear night when the moon +is full; or when there is no moon, and the phosphorescence in the water +shows, as if mermaids' children were playing with blue-tipped matches. I +like to see it when a gale is blowing, and the white caps race. Yes, and +when it is a flat calm, with here and there a tiny cat's-paw crinkling +the water into gray-green crepe. And also when--but there! it is no use +cataloguing all kinds of weather and all hours of the day and night. +What I don't approve of in the ocean is its everlasting bigness. It is +so discouraging. It makes a body seem so no-account and insignificant. +You come away feeling meaner than a sheep-killing dog. "Oh, what's the +use?" you say to yourself. "What's the use of my breaking my neck to do +anything or be anybody? Before I was born--before History began--before +any foot of being that could be called a man trod these sands, the waves +beat thus the pulse of time. When I am gone--when all that man has made, +that seems so firm and everlasting, shall have crumbled into the earth, +whence it sprang, this wave, so momentary and so eternal, shall still +surge up the slanting beach, and trail its lacy mantle in retreat.... O +spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence, and +be no more seen." + +And that's no way for a man to feel. He ought to be confident and sure +of himself. If he hasn't yet done all that he laid out to do, he should +feel that it is in him to do it, and that he will before the time comes +for him to go, and that when it is done it shall be orth while. + +It is the ocean's everlasting bigness that makes it so cold to swim in. +At the seaside bathing pavilions they have a blackboard whereon they +chalk up "70" or "72" or whatever they think folks will like. They never +say in so many words that a man went down into the water and held a +thermometer in it long enough to get the true temperature, but they +lead you to believe it. All I have to say is that they must have very +optimistic thermometers. I just wish some of these poor little seashore +boys could have a chance to try the Old Swimming-hole up above the dam. +Certainly along about early going-barefoot time the water is a little +cool, but you take it in the middle of August--ah, I tell you! When you +come out of the water then you don't have to run up and down to get your +blood in circulation or pile the warm sand on yourself or hunt for the +steam-room. Only thing is, if you stay in all day, as you want to, it +thins your blood, and you get the "fever 'n' ager." But you can stay in +as long as you want to, that 's the point, without your lips turning the +color of a chicken's gizzard. + +And there's this about the Old Swimming-hole, or there was in my day: +There were no women and girls fussing around aid squalling: "Now, you +stop splashin' water on me! Quit it now! Quee-yut!" I don't think t +looks right for women folks to have anything to do with water in large +quantities. On a sail-boat, now, they are the very--but perhaps we had +better not go into that. At a picnic, indeed, trey used to take off +their shoes and stockings and paddle their feet in the water, but that +was as much as ever they did. They never thought of going in swimming. +Even at the seashore, now when Woman is so emancipated, they go bathing +not swimming. I don't like to see a woman swim any more than I like to +see a woman smoke a cigar. And for the same reason. It is more fun +than she is entitled to. A woman's place is home minding the baby, and +cooking the meals. Nothing would do her but she had to be born a woman, +she had the same liberty of choice that we men had. Very well, I say, +let her take the consequencies. + +It is only natural, then, that she should refuse to let her boys go +swimming. She pays off her grudge that way. Just because she can't go +herself she is bound the they shan't either. She says they will get +drowned, but we know about that. It is only an excuse to keep them from +having a little fun. She has to say something. They won't get drowned. +Why, the idea! They haven't the least intention of any such thing. + +"Well, but Robbie, supposing you couldn't help yourself?" + +"How couldn't help myself?" + +"Why, get the cramps. Suppose you got the cramps, then what?" + +"Aw, pshaw! Cramps nothin'! They hain't no sich of a thing. And, anyhow, +if I did get 'em, wouldn't jist kick 'em right out. This way." + +"Now, Robbie, you know you did have a terrible cramp in your foot just +only the other night. Don't you remember?" + +"Aw, that! That ain't nothin'. That ain't the cramps that drownds +people. Didn't I tell you wouldn't fist kick it right out? That's what +they all do when they git the cramps. But they don't nobody git 'em now +no more." + +"I don't want you to go in the water and get drowned. You know you can't +swim." + +This is too much. Oh, this is rank injustice! Worse yet, it is bad +logic. + +"How 'm I ever goin' to learn if you don't let me go to learn?" + +"Well, you can't go, and that's the end of it." + +Isn't that just like a woman? Perfectly unreasonable! Dear! dear! + +"Now, Ma, listen here. S'posin' we was all goin' some place on a +steamboat, me and you and Pa and the baby and all of us, and--" + +"That won't ever happen, I guess." + +"CAN'T YOU LET ME TELL YOU? And s'posin' the boat was to sink, and I +could swim and save you from drown--" + +"You're not going swimming, and that's all there is about it." + +"Other boys' mas lets them go. I don't see why I can't go." + +No answer. + +"Ma, won't you let me go? I won't get drowned, hope to die if I do. Ma, +won't you let me go? Ma! Ma-a!--Maw-ah!" + +"Stop yelling at me that way. Good land! Do you think I'm deaf?" + +"Won't you let me go? Please, won't you let--" + +"No, I won't. I told you I wouldn't, and I mean it. You might as well +make up your mind to stay at home, for you're--not--going. Hush up now. +This instant, sir! Robbie, do you hear me? Stop crying. Great baby! +wouldn't be ashamed to cry that way, as big as you are!" + +Mean old Ma! Guess she'd cry too'f she could see the other kids that +waited for him to go and ask her--if she could see them moving off, +tired of waiting. They're 'most up to Lincoln Avenue. + +"Oooooooooooo-hoo--hoo--hoo--hoohoooooooooo-ah! I wanna gow-ooooo." + +"Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?" + +"Oooooooooooo-hoo-hoo-hoo-oooooooo! I wanna gow-ooooooo." + +"Robbie! Did you hoe that corn?" + +The last boy, the one with the stone-bruise on his heel, limps around +the corner. They have all the fun. His ma won't let him go barefoot +because it spreads his feet. + +"Robbie! Answer me." + +"Mam?" + +"Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?" + +"Yes mam." + +"All of it? Did you hoe all of it?" + +"Prett' near all of it." Well begun is half done. One hill is a good +beginning, and half done is pretty nearly all. + +"Go and finish it." + +"I will if you'll let me go swimmin'." + +It flashes upon him that even now by running he can catch up with the +other fellows. He can finishing the hoeing when he gets back. + +"You'll do it anyhow, and you're not going swimming. Now, that's the end +of it. You march out to that garden this minute, or I'll take a stick to +you. And don't let me hear another whimper out of you. Robbie! Come back +here and shut that door properly. I shall tell your father how you have +acted. Wouldn't be ashamed--I'd be ashamed to show temper that way." + +It says for children to obey their parents, but if more boys minded +their mothers there would be fewer able to swim. While I shrink +with horror from even seeming to encourage dropping the hoe when the +sewing-machine gets to going good, by its thunderous spinning throwing +up an impervious wall of sound to conceal retreat into the back alley, +across the street, up the alley back of Alexander's, and so on up +to Fountain Avenue in time to catch up with the gang, still I regard +swimming as an exercise of the extremest value in the development of the +growing boy. It builds up every muscle. It is particularly beneficial +to the lungs. To have a good pair of lungs is the same thing as having +a good constitution. It is nice to have a healthy boy, and it is nice to +have an obedient boy, but if one must choose which he will have--that's +a very difficult question. I think it should be left to the casuists. +Nevertheless, now is the boy's only chance to grow. He will have +abundant opportunities to learn obedience. + +In the last analysis there are two ways of acquiring the art of +swimming, the sudden way and the slow way. I have never personally known +anybody that learned in the sudden way, but I have heard enough about it +to describe it. It it's the quickest known method. One day the boy its +among the gibbering white monkeys at the river's edge, content to splash +in the water that comes but half way to his crouching knees. The next +day he swims with the big boys as bold as any of them. In the meantime +his daddy has taken him out in a boat, out where it is deep--Oh! Ain't +it deep there?--and thrown him overboard. The boat is kept far enough +away to be out of the boy's reach and yet near enough to be right there +in case anything happens. (I like that "in case anything happens." It +sounds so cheerful.) It being what Aristotle defines as "a ground-hog +case," the boy learns to swim immediately. He has to. + +It seems reasonable that he should. But still and all, I don't just +fancy it. Once when a badly scared man grabbed me by the arms in deep +water I had the fear of drowning take hold of my soul, and it isn't a +nice feeling at all. Somehow when I hear folks praising up this method +of teaching a child to swim, I seem to hear the little fellow's screams +that he doesn't want to be thrown into the water. I can see him clinging +to his father for protection, and finding that heart hard and unpitying. +I can see his fingernails whiten with his clutch on anything that gives +a hand-hold. His father strips off his grip, at first with boisterous +laughter, and then with hot anger at the little fool. He calls him a +cry-baby, and slaps his mouth for him, to stop his noise. The little +body sprawls in the air and strikes with a loud splash, and the child's +gargling cry is strangled by the water whitened by his mad clawings. I +can see his head come up, his eyes bulging, and his face distorted with +the awful fear that is ours by the inheritance of ages. He will sink and +come up again, not three times, but a hundred times. Eventually he will +win safe to shore, panting and trembling, his little heart knocking +against his ribs, it is true, but lord of the water from that time +forth. It is a very fine method, yes... but... well, if it was my boy I +had just as lief he tarried with the little white monkeys at the river's +edge. Let him squeal and crouch and splash and learn how to half drown +the other fellow by shooting water at him with the heel of his hand. +Let him alone. He will be watching the others swim. He will edge out a +little farther and kick up his heels while with his hands he holds on +the ground. He will edge out a little farther still and try to keep his +feet on the bottom and swim with his hands. Be patient in his attempt to +combine the two methods of travel. He is not the only one that fears to +be one thing or the other, and regards a mixture of both as the safest +way to get along. + +No, I cannot say that I wholly approve of the sudden method of learning +to swim. It has the advantange of lumping all the scares of a lifetime +into one and having it over with, and yet I don't suppose the scare of +being thrown into the water by one's daddy is really greater than being +ducked in mid-stream by some hulking, cackle-voiced big boy. It seems +greater though, I suppose, because a fellow cannot very well relieve +his feelings by throwing stones at his daddy and bawling: "Goldarn you +anyhow, you--you big stuff! I'll get hunk with you, now you see if I +don't!" Here would be just the place to make the little boy tie knots +in the big boy's shirt-sleeves, soak the knots in water, and pound them +between stones. But that is kind of common, I think. They told about it +at the swimming-hole above the dam, but nobody was mean enough to do it. +Maybe they did it down at the Copperas Banks below town. The boys from +across the tracks went there, a race apart, whom we feared, and who +hated us, if the legend chalked up on the fences "DAMB THE PRODESTANCE," +meant anything. + +Under the slow method of learning to swim one had leisure to observe the +different fashions--dog-fashion and cow-fashion, steamboat-fashion, +and such. The little kids and beginners swam dog-fashion, which on that +account was considered contemptible. The fellow was sneered at that +screwed up his face as if in a cloud of suffocating dust, and fought the +water with noise and fury, putting forth enough energy to carry him a +mile, and actually going about two feet if he were headed down stream. +Scientific men say that the use of the limbs, first on one side and then +on the other, is instinctive to all creatures of the monkey tribe. That +is the way they do in an emergency, since that is the way to scramble up +among the tree limbs. I know that it is the easiest way to swim, and +the least effective. When the arms are extended together in the breast +stroke, it is as much superior to dogfashion as man is superior to the +ape. I have always thought that to swim thus with steady and deliberate +arm action, the water parting at the chin and rising just to the root of +the underlip, was the most dignified and manly attitude the human being +could put himself in. Cow-fashion was a burlesque of this, and the +swimmer reared out of water with each stroke, creating tidal waves. It +was thought to be vastly comic. Steamboat-fashion was where a fellow +swam on his back, keeping his body up by a gentle, secret paddling +motion with his hands, while with his feet he lashed the water into +foam, like some river stern-wheeler. If he could cry: "Hoo! hoo! hoo!" +in hoarse falsetto to mimic the whistle, it was an added charm. + +It was a red-headed boy from across the tracks on his good behavior at +the swimming-hole above the dam that I first saw swim hand-over-hand, or +"sailor-fashion" as we called it, rightly or wrongly, I know not. I can +hear now the crisp, staccato little smack his hand gave the water as he +reached forward. + +It has ever since been my envy and despair. It is so knowing, so +"sporty." I class it with being able to wear a pink-barred shirt front +with a diamond-cluster pin in it; with having my clothes so nobby and +stylish that one thread more of modishness would be beyond the human +power to endure; with being genuinely fond of horseracing; with being +a first-class poker player, I mean a really first-class one; with being +able to swallow a drink of whisky as if I liked it instead of having +to choke it down with a shudder; with knowing truly great men like +Fitzsimmons, or whoever it is that is great now, so as to be able to +slap him on the back and say: "Why, hello! Bob, old boy, how are you?" +with being delighted with the company of actors, instead of finding them +as thin as tissue-paper--what wouldn't I give if I could be like that? +My life has been a sad one. But I might find some comfort in it yet if +I coin only get that natty little spat on the water when I lunge forward +swimming overhand. + +We used to think the Old Swimming-hole was a bully place, but I know +better now. The sycamore leaned well out over the water, and there was +a trapeze on the branch that grew parallel with the shore, but the water +near it was never deep enough to dive into. And that is another occasion +of humiliation. I can't dive worth a cent. When I go down to the slip +behind Fulton Market--they sell fish at Fulton Market; just follow your +nose and you can't miss it--and see the rows of little white monkeys +doing nothing but diving, I realize that the Old Swimming-hole with all +its beauties, its green leafiness, its clean, long grass to lie upon +while drying in the sun, or to pull out and bite off the tender, +chrome-yellow ends, was but a provincial, country-fake affair. There +were no watermelon rinds there, no broken berry-baskets, no orange peel, +no nothing. All the fish in it were just common live ones. And there was +no diving. But at the real, proper city swimming-place all the little +white monkeys can dive. Each is gibbering and shrieking: "Hey, Chim-meel +Chimmee! Hey, Chim-mee! Chimmee! Hey, CHIM-MEEEE! How'ss t 'iss?" +crossing himself and tipping over head first, coming up so as to "lay +his hair," giving a shaking snort to clear his nose and mouth of water, +regaining the ladder with three overhand strokes (every one of them +with that natty little spat that I can't get), climbing up to the +string-piece and running for Chimmy, red-eyed, shivering, and dripping, +to ask: "How wass Cat?" And I can't dive for a cent--that is, I can't +dive from a great elevation. I set my teeth and vow I just will dive +from ten feet above the water, and every time it gets down to a poor, +picayune dive off the lowest round of the ladder. I blame my early +education for it. I was taught to be careful about pitching myself head +foremost on rocks and broken bottles. I used to think it was a fine +swimming-hole, and that I was having a grand, good time, well worth any +ordinary licking; but now that I have traveled around and seen things, I +know that it was a poor, provincial, country-jake affair after all. +The first time I swam across and back without "letting down" it was +certainly an immense place, but when I went back there a year ago last +summer--why, pshaw! it wasn't anything at all. It was a dry summer, +I admit, but not as dry as all that. A poor, pitiful, provincial, +two-for-a cent--and yet... and yet... And yet I sat there after I had +dressed, and mused upon the former things--the life that was, but never +could be again; the Eden before whose gate was a flaming sword turning +every way. The night was still and moonless. The Milky Way slanted +across the dark dome above. It was far from the street lamps that +greened among the leafy maples in the silent streets. Gushes of air +stirred the fluttering sycamore, and whispered in the tall larches that +marched down the boundary line of the Blymire property. The last group +of swimmers had turned into the road from around the clump of willows at +the end of the pasture. The boy that is always the last one had nearly +caught up with the others, for the velvet pat of his bare feet in the +deep dust was slowing. Their eager chatter softened and softened, until +it blended with the sounds of night that verge on silence, the fall of a +leaf, the up-springing of a trodden tuft of grass, the sleepy twitter +of a dreaming bird, and the shrilling of locusts patiently turning a +creaking wheel. I heard the thump of hoofs and buggy wheels booming +in the covered bridge, and a shudder came upon me that was not all the +chill of falling dew. Again I was a little boy, standing in a circle of +my fellows and staring at something pale, stretched out upon the ground. +Ben Snyder had dived for It and found It and brought It up and laid It +on the long, clean grass. Some one had said we ought to get a barrel and +roll It on the barrel, but there was none there. And then some one +said: "No, it was against the law to touch anything like That before +the Coroner came." So, though we wished that something might be done, +we were glad the law stepped in and stringently forbade us touching what +our flesh crept to think of touching. No longer existed for us the boy +that had the spy-glass and the "Swiss Family Robinson." Something cold +and terrible had taken his place, something that could not see, and yet +looked upward with unwinking eyes. The gloom deepened, and the dew began +to fall. We could hear the boy that ran for the doctor whimpering a long +way off. We wanted to go home, and yet we dared not. Something might get +us. And we could not leave That alone in the dark with It's eyes wide +open. The locusts in the grass turned and turned their creaking wheel, +and the wind whispered in the tall larches. We heard the thump of hoofs +and wheels booming in the covered bridge. It was the doctor, come too +late. He put his head down to It's bosom (the cold trickled down our +backs), and then he said it was too late. If we had known enough, he +said, we might have saved him. We slunk away. It was very lonesome. We +kept together, and spoke low. We stopped to hearken for a moment outside +the house where the boy had lived that had the spy-glass and the "Swiss +Family Robinson." Some one had told his mother. And then, with a great +and terrible fear within us, we ran each to his own home, swiftly and +silently. We knew now why mother did not want us to go swimming. + +But the next afternoon when Chuck Grove whistled in our back alley and +held up two fingers, I dropped the hoe and went with him. It was bright +daylight then, and that is different from the night. + + + + +THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT + +It isn't only Christmas that comes but once a year and when it comes it +brings good cheer; it's any festival that is worth a hill of beans, High +School Commencement, Fourth of July, Sunday-school excursion, Election' +bonfire, Thanksgiving Day (a nice day and one whereon you can eat roast +turkey till you can't choke down another bite, and pumpkin-pie, and +cranberry sauce. Tell you!)--but about the best in the whole lot, and +something the city folks don't have, is Firemen's Tournament. That comes +once a year, generally about the time for putting up tomatoes. + +The first that most of us know about it is when we see the bills up, +telling how much excursion rates will be to our town from Ostrander +and Mt. Victory, and Wapatomica, and New Berlin, and Foster's, +and Caledonia, and Mechanicsburg--all the towns around on both the +railroads. But before that there was the Citizens' Committee, and then +the Executive Committee, and the Finance Committee, and the Committee +on Press and Publicity, and Printing and Prizes, and Decorations and +Badges, and Music, and Reception to Firemen, and Reception to Guests--as +many committees as there are nails in the fence from your house to mine. +And these committees come around and tell you that we want to show the +folks that we've got public spirit in our town, some spunk, some git-up +to us. We want our town to contrast favorably with Caledonia where they +had the Tournament last year. We want to put it all over the Caledonia +people (they think they're so smart), and we can do it, too, if +everybody will take a-holt and help. Well, we want all we can get. We +expect a pretty generous offer from you, for one. Man that has as pretty +and tasty got-up store as you have, and does the business that you do, +ought to show his appreciation of the town and try to help along.... +Oh, anything you're a mind to give. 'Most anything comes in handy for +prizes. But what we principally need is cash, ready cash. You see, +there's a good deal of expense attached to an enterprise of this +character. So many little things you wouldn't think of, that you've +just got to have. But laws! you'll make it all back and more, too. We +cackleate there'll be, at the very least, ten thousand people in town +that day, and it's just naturally bound to be that some of them will do +their trading. + +Thank you very much, that's very handsome of you. Good day. (What are +you growling about? Lucky to get five cents out of that man.) + +The Ladies' Aid of Center Street M. E., has secured the store-room +recently vacated by Rouse & Meyers, and is going to serve a dinner that +day for the benefit of the Carpet Fund of their church and about time, +too, I say. I like to broke my neck there a week ago last Sunday night, +when our minister was away. Caught my foot in a hole in the carpet, and +a little more and wouldn't have gone headlong. So, it's: "Why, I've been +meaning for more than a year, to call on you, Mrs.--. Mrs.--(Let me +look at my list. Oh, yes) Mrs. Cooper, but we've had so much sickness +at home--you know my husband's father is staying with us at present, +and he's been in very poor health all winter--and when it hasn't been +sickness, it's been company. You know how it is. And it seemed as if +I--just--could--not make out to get up your way. What a pretty little +place you have! So cozy! I was just saying to Mrs. Thorpe here, it was +so seldom you saw a really pretty residence in this part of town. We +think that up on the hill, where we reside, you know, is about the +handsomest.... Yes, there are a great many wealthy people live up +there. The Quackenbushes are enormously wealthy. I was saying to Mrs. +Quackenbush only the other day that I thought the hill people were +almost too exclusive .... Yes, it is a perfectly lovely day.... +Er--er--We're soliciting for the Firemen's Tournament--well, not for the +Tournament exactly, but the Ladies' Aid are going to give a dinner +that day for the Carpet Fund and we thought perhaps you 'd like to help +along.... Oh, any little thing, a boiled ham or--... Well, we shall want +some cake, but we'd druther--or, at least, rawther--have something more +substantial, don't you know, pie or pickles or jelly, don't you know. +And will you bring it or shall I send Michael with the carriage for +it?.... Oh, thank you! If you would. It would be so much appreciated. +So sorry we couldn't make a longer stay, but now that we've found the +way.... Yes, that's very true. Well, good-afternoon." + +The lady of the house watches them as Michael inquires: "Whur next, +mum?" and bangs the door of the carriage. Then she turns and says to +herself: "Huh!" Mrs. Thorpe is that instant observing: "Did you notice +that crayon enlargement she had hanging up? Wouldn't it kill you?" To +which the other lady responds: "Well, between you and I, Mrs. Thorpe, if +I couldn't have a real hand-painted picture I wouldn't have nothing at +all." + +The lady of the house bakes a cake. She'll show them a thing or two in +the cake line. And while it is in the oven what does that little dev--, +that provoking Freddie, do but see if he can't jump across the kitchen +in two jumps. Fall? What cake wouldn't fall? Of course it falls. But it +is too late now to bake another, and if they don't like it, they know +what they can do. She doesn't know that she's under any obligation to +them. + +Mrs. John Van Meter hears Freddie say off the little speech his mother +taught him--Oh, you may be sure she'd be there as large as life, taking +charge of everything, just as if she had been one of the workers, +when, to my certain knowledge, she hadn't been to one of the committee +meetings, not a one. I declare I don't know what Mr. Craddock is +thinking of to let her boss every body around the way she does--and she +smiles and says: "It's all right. It's just lovely. Tell your mamma Mrs. +Van Meter is ever and ever so much obliged to her. Isn't he a dear boy?" +And when he is gone, she says: "What are we ever going to do with +all this cake? It seems as if everybody has sent cake. And whatever +possessed that woman to attempt a cake, I--can't imagine. Ts! ts! ts! +H-well. Oh, put it somewhere. Maybe we can work it off on the country +people. Mrs. Filkins, your coffee smells PERfectly grand! Perfectly +grand. Do you think we'll have spoons enough?" + +The Tournament prizes are exhibited in the windows of the leading +furniture emporium at the corner of Main and Center, each with a card +attached bearing the name of the donor in distinctly legible characters. +Old man Hagerman has been mowing all the rag-weed and cuckle-burrs along +the line of march, and the lawns have had an unusual amount of shaving +and sprinkling. Out near the end of Center Street, the grandstand has +been going up, tiers of seats rising from each curb line. The street has +been rolled and sprinkled and scraped until it is in fine condition for +a running track. Why don't you pick up that pebble and throw it over +into the lot? Suppose some runner should slip on that stone and fall and +hurt himself, you'd be to blame. + +The day before the Tournament, they hang the banner: + + "WELCOME VOLUNTEER FIREMEN" + +from Case's drugstore across to the Furniture Emporium. Along the line +of march you may see the man of the house up on a step-ladder against +the front porch, with his hands full of drapery and his mouth full of +tacks. His wife is backing toward the geranium bed to get a good view, +cocking her head on one side. + +"How 'v vif?" he asks as well as he can for the tacks. + +"Little higher. Oh, not so much. Down a little. Whope! that's .... Oh, +plague take the firemen! Just look at that! Mercy! Mercy!" + +The man of the house can't turn his head. + +"Oh, I wouldn't have had it happen for I don't know what! Ts! Ts! Ts! +That lovely silverleaf geranium that Mrs. Pritchard give me a slip of. +Broke right off! Oh, my! My! My! Do you s'pose it'd grow if I was to +stick it into the ground just as it is with all them buds on it?" + +The man of the house lets one end of the drapery go and empties his +mouth of tacks into his disengaged hand. + +"I don't know. Ow! jabbed right into my gum! But I can tell you this: +If you think I'm going to stick up on this ladder all morning while you +carry on about some fool old geranium that you can just as well fuss +with when I'm gone, why, you're mighty much mistaken." + +"Well, you needn't take my head off. I feel awful about that geranium." + +"Well, why don't you look where you're going? Is this right?" + +"Yes, I told you. I wish now I'd done it myself. I can't ask you to do a +thing about the house but there's a row raised right away." + +People that don't want to go to the trouble of tacking up these alphabet +flags on the edge of the veranda eaves (it takes fourteen of them to +spell "WELCOME FIREMEN"), say they think a handsome flag--a really +handsome one, not one of these twenty-five centers--is as pretty and +rich looking a decoration as a body can put up. + +Tents are raised in the vacant lots along Center Street, and counters +knocked together for the sale of ice-cold lemonade, lemo, lemo, lemo, +made in the shade, with a spade, by an old maid, lemo, lemo. Here y' are +now, gents, gitch nice cool drink, on'y five a glass. There is even the +hook for the ice-cream candy man to throw the taffy over when he pulls +it. I like to watch him. It makes me dribble at the mouth to think about +it. + +The man that sells the squawking toys and the rubber balloons on sticks +is in town. All he can say is: "Fi' cent." He will blow up the balloons +tomorrow morning. The men with the black-velvet covered shields, all +stuck full of "souvenirs," are here, and the men with the little canes. +I guess we'll have a big crowd if it doesn't rain. What does the paper +say about the weather? + +The boys have been playing a new game for some time past, but it is +only this evening that you notice it. The way of it is this: You take +an express-wagon--it has to have real wheels: these sawed-out wheels +are too baby--and you tie a long rope to the tongue and fix loops on the +rope, so that the boys can put each a loop over his shoulder. (You want +a good many boys.) And you get big, long, thick pieces of rag and you +take and tie them so as to make a big, big, long piece, about as long as +from here to 'way over there. And you lay this in the wagon, kind of in +folds like. Then you go up to where they water the horses and two of you +go at the back end of the wagon and the rest put the loops over their +shoulders, and one boy says, "Are you ready?" and he has a Fourth of +July pistol and he shoots off a cap. And when you hear that, you run +like the dickens and the two boys behind the wagon let out the hose (the +big, long, thick piece of rag) and fix it so it lies about straight on +the ground. And when you have run as far as the hose will reach, the boy +with the Fourth of July pistol says: "Twenty-eight and two-fifths," +and that's the game. And the kids don't like for big folks to stand and +watch them, because they always make fun so. + +In other towns they have Boys' Companies organized strictly for +Tournament purposes. There was talk of having one here. Mat. King, the +assistant chief, was all for having one so that we could compete in what +he calls "the juveline contests," but it fell through somehow. + + +Along about sun-up you hear the big farm-wagons clattering into town, +chairs in the wagon bed, and Paw, and Maw, and Mary Elizabeth, and +Martin Luther, and all the family, clean down to Teedy, the baby. He's +named after Theodore Roosevelt, and they have the letter home now, +framed and hanging up over the organ. But for all the wagon is so full, +there is room for a big basket covered with a red-ended towel. (Seems to +me I smell fried chicken, don't you?) + +I just thought I'dt see if you'd bite. You've formed your notions +of country people from "The Old Homestead" and these by-gosh-Mirandy +novels. The real farmers, nowadays, drive into town in double-seated +carriages with matched bays, curried so that you can see to comb +your hair in their glossy sides. The single rigs sparkle in the sun, +conveying young men and young women of such clean-cut, high-bred +features as to make us wonder. And yet I don't know why we should +wonder, either. They all come from good old stock. The young fellows +run a little too strongly to patent-leather shoes and their horses are +almost too skittish for my liking, but the girls are all right. If their +clothes set better than you thought they would, why, you must remember +that they subscribe for the very same fashion magazines that you do, and +there is such a thing as a mail-order business in this country, even if +you aren't aware of it. + +All the little boys in town are out with their baskets chanting sadly: + + PEANUTS? FIVE A BAG + +You 'll hear that all day long. + +But there isn't much going on before the excursion trains come in. Then +things begin to hop. The grand marshal and his aides gallop through +the streets as if they were going for the doctor. The trains of ten and +fifteen coaches pile up in the railroad yard, and the yardmaster nearly +goes out of his mind. People are so anxious to get out of the cars, in +which they have been packed and jammed for hours, that they don't mind +a little thing like being run over by a switching engine. Every platform +is just one solid chunk of summer hats and babies and red shirts and +alto horns. They have been nearly five hours coming fifty miles. Stopped +at every station and sidetracked for all the regular trains. Such a +time! Lots of fun, though. The fellows got out and pulled flowers, and +seed cucumbers, and things and threw them at folks. You never saw such +cut-ups as they are. Pretty good singers, too. Good part of the way, +they sung "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," and "How Can I Bear to Leave +Thee," nice and slow, you know, a good deal of tenor and not much bass, +and plenty of these "minor chords." (Yes, I know, some people call them +"barber-shop chords," but I think "minor" is a nicer name.) + +The band played "Hiawatha" eighteen times. One old fellow got on at +Huntsville, and he says, to Joe Bangs (that's the leader), "Shay," he +says, "play 'Turkey in er Straw,' won't you? Aw, go on. Play it. Thass +goof feller. Go on." + +Joe, he never heard of the tune. Don't you know it? Goes like this: ... +No, that ain't it. That's "Gray Eagle." Funny, I can't think how that +tune starts. Well, no matter. They played an arrangement that had "Old +Zip Coon" in it. + +"Naw," he says, "tha' ain' it 't all. Go on. Play it. Play 'Turkey in +er Straw.' Ah, ye don't know it. Thass reason. Betch don' know it. Don' +know 'Turkey in er Straw!' Ho! Caw seff ml-m' sishn. Ho! You--you--you +ain' no m'sishn. You--you you're zis bluff." Only about half-past eight, +too. Think of that! So early in the morning. Ah me! That's one of the +sad features of such an occasion. + +If there is anything more magnificent than a firemen's parade, I don't +know what it is. The varnished woodwork on the apparatus looks as if it +had just come out of the shop and every bit of bright work glitters fit +to strike you blind. You take, now, a nice hose-reel painted white and +striped into panels with a fine red line, every other panel fruits and +flowers, and every other panel a piece of looking-glass shaped like a +cut of pie and; I tell you, it looks gay. That's what it does. It looks +gay. Some of the hook-and-ladder trucks are just one mass of +golden-rod and hydrangeas, and some of them are all fixed with this +red-white-and-blue paper rope, sort of chenille effect, or more like a +feather boa. Everybody has on white cotton gloves, and those entitled to +carry speaking trumpets have bouquets in the bells of them, salvias, and +golden-rod, and nasturtiums, and marigolds, and all such. + +The Wapatomicas always have a dog up on top of their wagon. First off, +you would think it didn't help out much, it is such a forlorn looking +little fice; but this dog, I want you to know, waked up the folks late +one night, 'way 'long about ten or eleven o'clock, barking at a fire. +Saved the town, as you might say. And after that, the fire-boys took him +for a mascot. I guess he didn't belong to anybody before. And another +wagon has a chair on it, and in that chair the cutest little girl you +almost eyer saw, hair all frizzed at the ends, and a wide blue sash and +her white frock starched as stiff as a milk-pail. Everybody says: "Aw, +ain't she just too sweet?" + +The Caledonias have tried to make quite a splurge this year. They walk +four abreast, with their arms locked, and their white gloves on each +other's shoulders. Their truck has on it what they call "an allegorical +figure." There is a kind of a business (looks to me like it is the axle +and wheels of a toy wagon, stood up on end and covered with white paper +muslin and a string tied around the middle) that is supposed to be an +hour-glass. Then there is a scythe covered with cotton batting, and then +a man in a bath-robe (I saw the figure of the goods when the wind blew +it open) also covered with white cotton batting. The man has a wig and +beard of wicking. First, I thought it was Santa Claus, and then I saw +the scythe and knew it must be old Father Time. The hour-glass puzzled +me no little though. The man has cotton batting wings. One of them is +a little wabbly, but what can you expect from Caledonia? They're always +trying to butt the bull off the bridge. They're jealous of our town. Oh, +they stooped to all the mean, underhanded tricks you ever heard of to +get the canning factory to go to their place instead of here. But we +know a thing or two ourselves. Yes, we got the canning factory, all +right, all right. + +Did you notice how neat and trim our boys looked? None of this flub-dub +of scarlet shirts with a big white monogram on the breast, or these +fawn-colored suits with querlycues of braid all over. They spot very +easily. And did you notice how the Caledonias had long, lean men +walking with short, fat men, and nobody keeping step? Our boys were all +carefully graded and matched, and their dark blue uniforms with just the +neat nickel badge, I think, presented the best appearance of all. And +I'll tell you another thing. They'll put it all over the Caledonias this +afternoon. They won't let 'em get a smell. + +Don't you like the fife-and-drum corps? The fifes set my teeth on edge, +but I could follow the drums all day with their: + + Tucket a brum, brum brum-brum, tuck-all de brum + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum + Tucket a blip-blip-blip-blip, tucka tuck-all de brum, + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum! + +Part of the time the drummers click their sticks together instead of +hitting the drum-head. That's what makes it sound so nice. I wish I +could play the snare-drum. + +In the Mechanicsburg band is a boy about fourteen years old, a muscular, +sturdy chunk of a lad. He walks with his heels down, his calves bulged +out behind, his head up, and the regular, proper swagger of a bandsman. +He hasn't any uniform, but he's all right. He plays a solo B part, and +he and the other solo cornet spell each other. On the repeat of every +strain my boy rests, and rubs his lips with his forefinger, while he +looks at the populace with bright, expectant eyes. When he blows, he +scowls, and brings the cushion of muscle on the point of his chin clear +up to his under lip, and he draws his breath through the corners of his +mouth. He's the real thing. Bright boy, too, I judge, the kind that has +a quick answer for everybody, like: "Aw, go chase yerself," or "Go on, +yeh big stiff." Watch him on the countermarch when they pass the Radnor +cornet band. The Radnors broke up the Mechanicsburg band last year +and they're going to try to do it again this year. The musicians blow +themselves the color of a huckleberry, and the drummers grit their +teeth, and try to pound holes in their sheep-skins. Aha! It's the Radnor +band got rattled in its time this year. Went all to pieces. The boy +snatches, a rest. "Yah!" he squawks. "Didge ever get left?" and picks up +the tune again. I wish I could play the cornet. Wouldn't play solo B or +I wouldn't play any--Ooooooooh! Did you see that? Took that stick by the +other end from the knob and slung it away, 'way up in the air, whirling +like sixty, and caught it when it came down and never missed a step. +Look at him juggle it from hand to hand, over his shoulder, and behind +his back, and under one leg, whirling so fast that you can hardly see +it, and all in perfect step. Whope! I thought he was going to drop it +that time but he didn't. That's something you don't see in the cities. +There, all the drum-major does with his stick is just to point it the +way the band is to go. I like our fashion the best. Geeminentally! Look +at that! I bet it went up in the air forty feet if it went an inch. I +wish I was a drummajor. I guess I'd sooner be a drum-major than anything +else. Oh, well, detective--that's different. + +Let's go farther along. Don't get too near the judges' stand. I know. +It's the best place to see the finish of an event, but I've been to +Firemen's Tournament before. You let me pick out the seats. Up close to +the judges' stand is all right till you come to the "wet races." What? +Oh, you wait and see. Fun? Well, I should say so. Hope they'll clear all +those boys off the rail. Here! Get down off that rail. Think we can see +through you? You're thin, but you're not thin enough for that. Yes, I +mean you, and don't you give me any of your impudence either. Look at +those women out there. Right spang in the way of the scraper. Isn't +that a woman all over? A woman and a hen, I don't know which is--Well, +hel-lo! Where'd you come from? How's all the folks? Where's Lizzie? +Didn't she come with you? Aw, isn't that too bad? Scalding hot! Ts! Ts! +Ts! Seems as if they made preserving kettles apurpose so's they'd tip +up when you go to pour anything.... Why, I guess we can. Move over a +little, Charley. Can you squeeze in? That's all right. Pretty thick +around here, isn't it? There's the band starting up. About time, I +think. Teedle-eedle umtum, teedle-eedle, um-tum. "Hiawatha," of course. +What other tune is there on earth? I've got so I know almost all of it. + +First is--let me see the program. First is what Mat. King calls "the +juveline contest." It says here: "Run with truck carrying three ladders +one hundred yards. Take fifteen-foot ladder from truck, raise it against +structure"--that's the judges' stand--"and boy ascend. Time to be taken +when climber grasps top rung of ladder." They're off. That pistol-shot +started them. Why can't people sit down? See just as well if they did. +New Berlin's, I guess. Pretty good. He's hanging out the slate with the +time on it. Eighteen and four-fifths. Oh, no, never in the world. Here's +the Mt. Victory boys. See that light-haired boy. Go it, towhead! Ah, +they've got the ladder crooked. Eighteen. That's not so bad .... Oh, +quit your fooling. He's nothing of the kind. Honestly? What! that old +skeezicks? Who to, for pity's sake? Well, I thought he was a confirmed +old bachelor, if anybody ever was. Well, sir, that just goes to show +that any man, I don't care who he is, can get married if he--Who were +those? Are those the Caledonia juveniles? I don't think much of 'em, do +you? Seventeen and two-fifths. I wouldn't have thought it. So their team +gets the first prize. Well, we weren't in that. + +What's next? "First prize, silver water-set, donated by Hon. William +Krouse." Since when did old Bill Krouse get to be "Honorable?" Yes, +well, don't talk to me about Bill Krouse. I know him and his whole +connection and there isn't an honest hair--"Association trophy will +also be competed for." Oh, that's the goldlined loving cup we saw in the +window. Our boys have won it twice and the Caledonias have won it twice. +If we get it this time, it will be ours for keeps. "Run with truck one +hundred and fifty yards; take twenty-five foot ladder," and so forth +and so forth, Dan O'Brien's the boy for scaling ladders. He was going to +enlist in the Boer War, he hates the English so. Down on them the worst +way. And say, what do you think? Last year, at Caledonia, he won the +first prize for individual ladder scaling. And what do you suppose the +first prize was? A picture of Queen Victoria. Isn't that Caledonia all +over? there's a kind of rivalry between our boys and the Caledonias. + +Here they come now. Those are the Caledonian. Tell by the truck .... Do +you think so? I don't think they're anything so very much. Nix. You'll +never do it. Look at the way they run with their heads up. That shows +they're all winded. Look at the clumsy way they got the ladder off the +wagon. Blap! The judge thought it was coming through the boards on him. +Oh, pretty good, pretty good, but you just wait till you see our boys. +Look at the fool hanging there on the ladder waiting till the time is +announced. Isn't that Caledonia all over? Yah! Come down! Come down! +What is it? Twenty-five seconds. What's the record? Twenty-four and +four-fifths? Oh, well, it isn't so bad for Caledonia, but you just + what our boys do. Hear those yaps from Caledonia yell! If there's +anything I despise it is for a man to whoop and holler and make a public +spectacle of himself. Who's this? Oh, the Radnors. They're out of it. +Look at them. Pulling every which way. That ladder's too straight up +and down. Twenty-seven and two-fifths. What did I tell you?... What time +does your train go? Well, why don't you and your wife come take supper +with us? Why didn't you look us up noon-time?... I could have told you +better than that. (They went to the Ladies' Aid dinner.) Well, we shan't +have much, I expect, but we'll try and scrape up something more +filling than layer-cake. The idea of expecting to feed hungry people +on layer-cake! It's an imposition.... I didn't notice which one it +was. Doesn't matter any way. Only twenty-eight. Ah, here are our boys. +They've got blue silk running-breeches on. Well, maybe it is sateen. Let +the women folks alone for knowing sateen from silk a mile off. How much +a yard did you say it was? Notice the way they start with their hands +on the ground, just like the pictures on the sporting page of the Sunday +newspapers. Here they come. Oh, I hope they'll win. That's Charley +Rodehaver in front. Run! Oh, why don't you run? Come on! Come on! +Come on! Come on! COME ON! COME ON! COME O--O-oh! See Dan skip up that +ladder! Go it, Dan! Go it, old boy! Hooray-ay! Hooray-ay, ay! What's the +time? Twenty-four! Twenty--four flat! BROKE THE RECORD! Hooray-ay-ay! +Where's Caledonia now? Where's Caledonia now? Oh, I'm so glad our boys +won. There goes the Caledonia chief. I'll bet he feels like thirty +cents, Spanish. Ya-a-a-ah! Ya-a-a-ah! Where's Caledonia now? They can't +beat that, the other fellows can't, and it's our trophy for keeps.... +Oh, some crank in the next row. "Wouldn't I please sit down and not +obstruct the view." Guess he comes from Caledonia. Looks like it. You +stand up, too, why don't you? Those planks are terribly hard.... I +didn't notice. Yes, that wasn't so bad. Twenty-five and two-fifths. But +it's our trophy. There goes Dan now. Hey, Dan! Good boy, Dan! Wave your +handkerchief at him. Hooray-ay-ay! Good boy, Dan! + +Next is a wet race. Now look out. Let's see what the program says: "Run +seventy-five yards to structure, on top of which an empty barrel has +been placed with spout outlet near top. Barrel to be filled with water +by means of buckets from reservoir"--That big tin-lined box opposite +is the reservoir. They are filling it now with a hose attached to the +water-plug yonder--"until water issues from spout." What are they all +laughing at? Which one? Oh, but isn't she mad? Talk about a wet hen. +Why, Charley, the hose got away from the man that was filling the +reservoir and the lady was splashed. Why don't you use your eyes and see +what's going on and not be bothering me to tell you? Ip! There it goes +again. Oh, ho! ho! ho! hee! hee! didn't I tell you it would be fun? See +it run out of his sleeves.... I always get to coughing when I laugh as +hard as that. Oh, dear me! Makes the tears come. + +These are the fellows from Luxora. Oh, the clumsy things! Let the ladder +get away from them, and it fell and hit that man in the second row right +on the head. Hope it didn't hurt him much. See 'em scurry with the water +buckets. Aw, get a move on! Get a move! Why, what makes them so slow? +"Water, water!" Well, I should think as much. Not for themselves though. +Those fellows at the bottom of the ladder are catching it, aren't they? +Oh, pshaw, they don't mind it. They get it worse than that at a real +fire when they aren't half so well fixed for it. Why, is there no bottom +to that barrel at all? Why, look!... Say, the judge forgot to close the +valve. There's a hose connected with the bottom of the barrel to run the +water off after each trial and he's forgotten to--... Well, isn't that +too bad! All that work for nothing. I suppose they'll let them try +it over again.... That man must have got a pretty hard rap. They're +carrying him out. His head's all bloody.... Wapatomicas, I guess. Yes, +Wapatomicas. I hope the valve's closed this time. Whope! did you see +that? One fellow got hit with a water bucket and it was about half-full. +It's running out of the spout. Yes, and it's falling on those people +right where you wanted to sit. Hear the girls squeal. Talk about your +fun. I don't want any better fun than this. Look at 'em come down the +ladder just holding the sides with their hands. They couldn't do that if +the ladder was dry. + +Ah, here's our crowd. Come on! Come on! Come on! COME ON! Oh, don't be +so slow with those buckets! Aren't they fine? Say, they don't care if +they do spill a drop or two. Why. Why, what are they coming down for? +It isn't running out of the spout yet. Come back! COME BACK! Oh, pshaw! +Just threw it away by being in too much of a hurry. That judge looks +funny, doesn't he, with a rubber overcoat on and the sun shining? See, +he's telling them: "One bucket more." They'll let 'em have another +trial, of course.... No? Oh, that's an outrage. That' s not fair. The +Caledonias will get it now.... Yes, sir, they did get it. Oh, well, +accidents will happen. What? "Where's Caledonia now?" Well, they got it +by a fluke. What say?... Well only for--Oh, pshaw! Now, don't tell +me that because I was there and--Well, I say they didn't .... I know +better, they didn't.... Oh, shut up. You don't know what you're talking +about. I tell you--Now, Mary, don't you interfere. I'm not quarreling. +I'm just telling this gentleman back of me that--Well, all right, if +you're going to cry. If there was any fouling done it was the Caledonias +that did it, though. + +The next is where they "run three hundred feet from the judges' stand, +raise ladder, hose company to couple to hydrant, break coupling in hose +and put on nozzle, scale ladder, and fill twenty-five gallon barrel." +Only the Caledonias, and our boys are entered in this. Now we'll see +which is the best. All right, Mary, I won't say a word.... Say, for +country-jakes, those Caledonias didn't do so badly. I give them that +much. Look at the water fly! I'll bet those folks near the judges' stand +wish they'd brought their umbrellas. Now you see why these are the best +seats, don't you? I told you I'd been to Firemen's Tournaments before. +What? You'll have to talk louder than that if you want me to hear with +all this noise.... Oh, that'll be all right. They'll be so hungry they +won't notice it. + +Here, be careful how you wabble that hose around. Good thing they turned +the water off at the plug just when they did or we'd have been--Here's +our company. Where's Caledonia now? Eh? Pretty work! Pretty work! Say, +do you know that hose full of water's heavy? Now watch Riley. Riley's +the one that's got the nozzle. Always up to some monkeyshine. Ah! +See him? See him? Oh, is n't he soaking them? Oh-ho! Ho! Ho! ha! ha! +hee-hee! Yip. + +Blame clumsy fool!... P-too! Yes, in my mouth and in my ears and down +the back of my neck. All over. Running out of my sleeves. Everything +I got on is just ruined. Completely ruined. Come on. Let's go home. +There's nothing more to see, much. Aw, come on. Well, stay if you want +to, but I'm going home, and get some dry clothes on me. You get me to go +to another Firemen's Tournament and you'll know it. Look at that monkey +from Caledonia laughing at me. For half a cent I'd go up and smack his +face for him.... Aw, let up on your "Where's Caledonia now?" Give us a +rest. Well, are you coming, you folks?... Kind of a fizzle this year, +wasn't it? + +However, after supper, with dry clothes on, it isn't so bad. The streets +are packed. All the firemen are parading and shouting: "Who? Who? Who +are we?" The Caledonias got one more prize than our boys. Well, why +shouldn't they? Entered in three more events. I don't see as that's +anything to brag of or to carry brooms about. All the fife-and-drum +corps are out, and the bands are all playing "Hiawatha" at once, but +not together. Not all either. There's one band in front of Hofmeyer's +playing "Oh, Happy Day! That Fixed my Choce." That's funny: to play a +hymn-tune in front of a beer-saloon. Hofmeyer seems to think it's all +right. He's inviting them in to have something. "Took the hint?" I don't +understand.... Oh, is that so? I didn't know there were other words to +that tune. + +See that woman with four little ones. Her husband's carrying two more. +"I want to go howm. Why cain't we gow howm? I do' want to gow howm +pretty soon. I want to gow na-ow!" Eh, Mary, how would you like to lug +them around all day and then stand up in the cars all the way home? + +Well, good-by. Hope you had a nice time. Give my regards to all the +folks. Don't be in such a rush, my friend.... Oh, did you see? It must +be the man that got hit on the head with the ladder. Taking him home on +a stretcher. Gee! That's tough. Skull fractured, eh? Dear! Dear! I +hear they have been keeping company a long time, and were to have been +married soon. No wonder she cried and took on so. Poor girl! Yes, it's +the women that suffer .... Oh, quite a day for accidents. I didn't mind, +though, after I had changed my clothes. I took some quinine, and I +guess I'll be all right. Lucky you got a seat. Well, you're off at last. +Good-by. Remember me to all. Good-by. + +Well, thank goodness, that's over. Another ten minutes of them and +wouldn't have--Well, Mary, what else could I do but ask them home after +he told me what they didn't have to eat at the Ladies' Aid?... It was +all right. Plenty good enough. Better than they have at home and I'll +bet on it. The table looked beautiful. I'm glad the Tournament doesn't +come but once a year. I'm about ready to drop. + + + + +THE DEVOURING ELEMENT + + +Mr. Silverstone was gloomily considering whether he had not better blow +out the lights in the New York One Price Clothing Store, and lock up for +the night. Kerosene was fifteen cents a gallon, and not a customer had +been in since supper-time. Business was "ofle, simbly ofle." + +The streets were empty. There were lights only in the barber shop where +one patron was being lathered while two mandolins and a guitar gave a +correct imitation of two house-flies and a bluebottle in Riley's +where, in default of other occupation, Mr. Riley was counting up; +in Oesterle's, where a hot discussion was going on as to whether +Christopher Columbus was a Dutchman or a Dago, and in Miller's, where +Tom Ball was telling Tony, who impassively wiped the perforated brass +plate let into the top of the bar, that he, Tom Ball, "coul' lick em man +ill Logan coun'y." + +Lamps shone in every parlor, where little girls labored with: "And one +and two, three and one and two, three," occasionally coming out to look +at the clock to see if the hour was any nearer being up than it was +five minutes ago. They also shone in sitting-rooms, where boys looked +fiercely at "X2 +2Xy+y2," mothers placidly darned stockings, and +fathers, Weekly Examiner in hand, patiently struggled to disengage from +"boiler-plate" and bogus news about people snatched from the jaws of +death by the timely use of Dr. McKinnon's Healing Extract of Timothy and +Red-top, items of real news, such as who was sick and what ailed them, +who cut his foot with the ax while splitting stove-wood, and where the +cake sale by the Rector's Aid of Grace P.E. would be held next week. + +At the prayer-meeting, Uncle Billy Nicholson was giving in his +experience and had just got to that part about: "Sometimes on +the mountaintop, and sometimes in the valley, but still, +nevertheless--" when, all of a sudden, something happened. + +The mandolins stopped with a jerk. Mr. Riley stood tranced at: "And ten +is thirty-five." Mr. Ball was stricken dumb in the celebration of his +own great physical powers. The crowd in Oesterle's forgot Columbus, and +were as men beholding a ghost. The drowsy congregation sat up rigid, and +Mr. Silverstone gave a guilty start. He had been thinking of that very +thing! + +The next instant, front doors were wrenched open, and the street echoed +with the sound of windows being raised. Fathers and sons rushed out on +the front porch, followed by little girls, to whom any excuse to stop +practising was like a plank to a drowning man. + +They had heard aright. Up by the Soldiers' Monument fell the clump of +tired feet, and upon the air floated the wild alarm of--. + +"FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Poof! FIRE!" + +Mat King, the assistant chief, kicked off his slippers, and swiftly +laced up his shoes, grabbed his speaking-trumpet and his helmet, and +tore out of the house. If he could only get to the engine-house before +Charley Lomax, the chief! But Charley was the lone customer in the +barber's char. With the lather on one side of his face, he clapped on +his hat and broke for the firebell, four doors below. + +"Where's it at?" + +"FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Sm-poohl Fi--(gulp)--FIRE!" + +"It's Linc Hoover. Hay, Linc! Where's the fire?" + +"FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! ha, ha! FIRE!" + +"Hay, Linc! Where's it at? Tell me and I'll run. Hay! Where's it at?" + +"FIRE! Swope's be--(gulp) Swope's barn. FIRE!" + +"Which Swope? Henry or the old man?" + +"FIRE! Pooh! J. K. Swope. Whoo-ha, whooh-ha! Out out on West End Avenue. +Poof!" + +The news thus being passed, the fresher runners scampered ahead, +bawling: "FOY-URRR' FOY-URRR! and Linc, the hero, slowed down, gasping +for breath and spitting cotton. + +"Whew!" he whistled, gustily, his arms dropping and his whole frame +collapsing. "Gee! I'm 'bout tuckered. Sm-pooh! Sm-pooh! Run all th' +way f'm--sm-ha, sm-ha!--run all th' way f'm--mouth's all stuck +together--p'too! ha! Pooh! Fm West End Avenue and Swo--Swope's. Gee! I'm +hot's flitter." + +"Keep y' coat on when you're all of a prespiration, that way. How'd it +ketch?" + +"Ount know. 'S comin' by there an' I--whoof! I smelt smoke and--Gosh! +I'm all out o' breath--an' I looked an' I je-e-est could see a +light--wisht I had a drink o' somepin' to rench mum mouth out. Whew! Oh, +laws! An' it was Swope's barn and I run in an' opened the door, didn't +stop to knock or nung, an' I hollered out: 'Yib barn's afire!' an' he +run out in his sockfeet, an' he says: 'My Lord!' he says. 'Linc,' he +says, 'run git the ingine an' I putt." Linc drew in a long, tremulous +breath like a man that has looked on sorrow. + +"Why 'n't you--" + +"Betchy 't was tramps," interrupted a bystander. "Git in the haymow an' +think they got to have their blamed old pipe a-goin'--" + +"Cigarettes, more likely," said another. "More darn devilment comes from +cigarettes--" + +"Why'n't you--" + +"Ount know nung 'bout tramps," said Linc. "All I seen was the fire. I +was a-comin' long a-past there an' I smelt the smoke an' thinks I--What +say?" + +"Why'n't you telefoam down?" + +Linc, the hero, shrunk a foot. "I gosh!" he admitted, "I never thought +to." + +"Jist'a' telefoamed, you could 'a' saved yourself all that--" + +"Ain't they weltin' the daylights out o' that bell? All foolishness! Now +they're ringin' the number--one, two, three, four. Yes, sir, that's up +in the West End. You goin'? Come on, then." + +"No, Frank, I can't let you go. You've got your lessons to get. Well, +now, mother, make up your mind if you're comin' along. Cora, what on +earth are you doing out here in the night air with nothing around you? +Now, you mosey right back into that parlor, and don't you make a move +off that piano-stool till your hour's up. Do you hear me? No. Frank. +I told you once you couldn't go and that ends it. Stop your whining! I +can't have you running hither and yon all hours of the night, and we not +know where you are. Well, hurry up, then, mother. Take him in with you. +Oh, just throw a shawl over your head. Nobody 'll see you, or if they +do they won't care." The apparatus trundles by, the bells on the trucks +tolling sadly as the striking gear on the rear axle engages the cam. A +hurrying throng scuffles by in the gloom. The tolling grows fainter, the +throng thinner. + +"Good land! Is she going to be all night? Wish 't I hadn't proposed it. +That's the worst of taking a woman anyplace. Fuss and fiddle by the +hour in front of the looking-glass. Em! (Be all over by the time we get +there) Oh, Em! Em!... EM! (Holler my head offl) EM!.... Well, why don't +you answer me? Well, I didn't hear you. How much long--Oh, I know +about-- 'Hour' you mean.... Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Conklin? Hello, Fred. +Pleased to meet you, Miss Shoemaker. Yes, I saw in the paper you were +visiting your sister. This your first visit to our little burg? Yes, +we think it's quite a place. You see, we're trying to make your stay as +interesting as possible.... Oh, no, not altogether on your account. No, +no. Ha! Ha-ha-ha! Hum! ah!... Well, yes, if she ever gets done primping +up. Oh, there you are. Miss Shoemaker, let me make you acquainted with +my wife. Now, you girls'll have to get a move on if you want to see +anything." + +The male escorts grasp the ladies' arms and shove them ahead, that being +the only way if you are ever going to get any place. The women gasp and +pant and make a great to-do. + +"Ooh! Wait till I get my breath. Will! Weeull! Don't go so fay-ust! +Oooh! I can't stand it. Oh, well, you're a man." + +But when they turn the corner that gives them a good view of the +blaze, fluttering great puffs of flame, and hear the steady crackle and +snapping, as it were, of a great popper full of pop-corn, they, too, +catch the infection, and run with a loud swashing and slatting of +skirts, giggling and squealing about their hair coming down. + +In the waving orange glare the crowd is seen, shifting and moving. It +seems impossible for the onlookers to remain constant in one spot. The +chief, Charley Lomax, is gesticulating with wide arm movements. He puts +his speaking-trumpet to his mouth. "Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoffi" he says. + +"Wha-at?" the men halloo back. + +"Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff." + +"What'd he say?" + +"Search me. John, you run over and ask him what he wants. Or, no; I'll +go myself." + +"Why in Sam Hill didn't you come sooner?" demands the angry chief. + +"Well, why in Sam Hill don't you talk so 's a body can understand you? +'Yoffemoffemoffemoffem.' Who can make sense out o' that?" + +"The hose ain't long enough to reach from here to the hydrant. You 'n' +some more of 'em run down t' th' house an' git that other reel." + +"Aw, say, Chief! Look here. I'm awful busy right now. Can't somebody +else go?" + +"You go an' do what I tell you to, and don't gimme none o' your back +talk." + +(Too dag-gon bossy and dictatorial, that Charley Lomax is. Getting +'most too big for his breeches. Never mind, there's going to be a fire +election week from Tuesday. See whether he'll be chief next year or not. +Sending a man away from the fire right at the most interesting part!) + +"I'll go, Chief, wommetoo," puts in jumbo Lee, all in a huddle of +words. "Ije slivsnot. Aw ri. Mon Jim. Shoonmeansmore of 'em go +gitth'otherreel." + +Jumbo isn't a member of the fire department, though he is wild to join. +He isn't old enough. He is six feet one inch, weighs 180, and won't +be sixteen till the 5th of next February. Nobody ever saw him when +he wasn't eating. They say he clips his words so as to save time for +eating. He takes a cracker out of his pocket, shoves it in his mouth +whole, jams his hat down till his ears stick out, and, with his +companions, tears down the road, seemingly propelled as much by his +elbows as by his legs. Why, under the combined strain of growing and +running, he doesn't part a seam somewhere is a dark mystery. + +Crash! The roof of the barn caves in and reveals what we had not before +suspected, that Platt's barn, on the other side of the alley, is afire +too. Say! This is getting interesting. The wind is setting directly +toward Swope's house. It has been so terribly dry this last month or +so that the house will go like powder if it ever catches. Why, I think +Swope has a well and cistern both. Used to have, anyway, before they put +the water-works in, and the board of health condemned the wells. Say! +There was a put-up job if there ever was one. Why, sure! Sure he had +stock in the water works. Doc. Muzzey? I guess, yes.... Pity they ever +traded off the hand-engine. They got a light-running hook-and-ladder +truck. Won two prizes at the tournament, just with that truck. But if +they had that hand-engine now though! "Up with her! Down with her!" Have +that fire out in no time! + +They're not trying to save the barns. They're a dead loss. What little +water they can get from the cisterns and wells around--hasn't it been +dry?--they are using to try to save Swope's house, and the one next +to it. Is that where Lonny Wheeler lives? I knew it was up this way +somewhere. Don't he look ridiculous, sitting up there a-straddle of his +ridgepole, with a tin-cup? A tin-cup, if you please. Over this way +a little. See better. They're wetting down the roof. Line of fellows +passing buckets to the ladder, and a line up the ladder. What big sparks +those are! Puts you in mind of Fourth of July. How the roof steams! Must +be hot up there. + +O-o-o-oh! + +A universal indrawn breath from all spectators proclaims their horror. +One of the men on the roof missed his footing and slipped, rolling over +and over till he reached the roof of the porch, where he spread-eagled +for a fall. The women begin to moan. Some poor fellow gone to his death. +Or, if he be so lucky as to miss death itself, he is doomed to languish +all his days a helpless cripple. Like enough the sole support of an aged +mother; or perhaps his wife is sitting up for him at home now, tiptoeing +into the bedroom every little while to look at the sleeping children. +That's generally the way of it. Who is there so free and foot-loose +that, if harm befall him, some woman will not go mourning all her days? +It must take the heart out of brave men to think what their women folk +must suffer, mothers and wives and--Who? Dan O'Brien? Oh, he'll be all +right. He'll light on his feet like a cat. I believe that boy is made of +India rubber. He never gets hurt. Why, one time--Ah! There he goes +now up the ladder as if nothing had happened. Hooray-ayayay! +Hooray-ay-ay-ay! I thought he'd broken his neck as sure as shooting. + +Wandering about one cannot fail to encounter what the gallant +fire-laddies have rescued from the devouring element. There is the piano +with a deep scratch across the upper part, and the top lid hanging by +one hinge. It caught in the door, and the boys were kind of in a hurry. +There is the parlor carpet, plucked up by the roots, as it were; and +two tubs, the washboard and a bag of clothes-pins; a stuffed chair, +with three casters gone, the coffee-pot, a crayon enlargement, a winter +overcoat, a blanket, a pile of old dresses, the screw-driver and a paper +of tacks in the colander, the couch with a triangular rip in the cover, +the coal-scuttle, a pile of dishes, the ax and wood-saw, a fancy pillow, +the sewing-machine with the top gone, the wash-boiler, the basket of +dirty clothes, with the stove-shaker and the parlor clock in together, +and a heap of books, all spraddled and sprawled every which way. Upon +this pitiful mound sits Mrs. Swope with her baby sound asleep upon her +bosom. She mingles her tears with the sustaining tea that Mrs. Farley +has made for her. Swope, still in his socks and with his wife's +shoulder-cape upon him, caught up somehow, is trying to soothe her. He +is as mad as a hornet, and doesn't dare to show it. All this furniture +he had insured. It was all old stuff their folks had given them. If the +gallant fire-laddies had been as discreet as they were zealous, they +would have let the furniture go, and Swope and his wife would have had +an entire, brand-new outfit. As it is, who can ever make that junk look +like anything any more? + +What's this coming up the road? Jumbo Lee and his friends with the other +hose-reel. Now they will connect it with the hydrant, and have water +a-plenty to save the house. Now the fellows are coming down from the +ladder. Cistern's empty, I suppose. The other reel didn't come any too +soon. How the roof steams! Or is it smoking? + +"Don't stand around here with that reel! Up to that water-plug. Farther +up the street. Front o' Cummins's." + +Jumbo crams another cracker into his mouth and speeds away, hunching the +patient, unresenting air with his elbows. + +Ah! See--that little flicker of flame on the roof! Do, for pity's sake, +hurry up with that connection! The roof is really burning. See? They are +trying to chop away the burning place. But there's another! And another! + +A-a-ah! Hooray-ay! Connection's made! Now you'll see something. Out of +the way there! One side! One side! Up you go!... Wha-at? Is that the +best they can do? Why, it won't run out of the nozzle at all when it's +up on the roof. Not a drop. Feeble little dribble when it's on the +ground-level. There's your water-works for you. It is a good long way +from the fire-plug I know, but there ought to be more pressure than +that. Oh, pshaw! If we only had the old hand-engine! "Up with her! Down +with her!" Have that fire out in no time. The house will have to go now. +Too bad! + +Somebody in the second story is rescuing property from the devouring +element. He has just tossed out a wash-bowl and pitcher. Luckily they +both fell on the sod and rolled apart. He takes down the roller-shade +and flings it out. The lace curtains follow. They catch on the edge +of the veranda roof, and languidly wave there as for some holiday. +Bed-clothes issue and pillows hurtle out. What's he doing now? No use. +No use. You can't get the mattress out of that window. A waste-paper +basket, a rag rug, a brush and comb--as fast as his hands can fly he's +throwing out things. + +The women began to whimper. + +"Oh, the poor man! The roof will fall in on him! He'll smother to death! +Oh, why doesn't somebody go tell him to come away? Not you! Don't you +think of such a trick! Oh, why does he risk his life for a lot of trash +I wouldn't have around the house?" + +The smoke oozes out of the open window. It must be choking in there. +For a long time no jettison of household goods appears. Perhaps the man, +whoever he is, has seen his peril and fled while yet it was possible to +flee. Ah, but suppose he has been overcome and lies there huddled in a +heap, never to rouse again? Is there none to save him? Is there none? +Ah! A couple of collars and a magazine flutter out into the light! He +is still there. He is still alive. Plague take the idiot! Why doesn't he +come down out of that? + +"Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff. Yoffemoff!" + +But no! He will do it himself. The Chief rushes gallantly into the +burning building and disappears up the dark stair. + +Desperate measures are now to be resorted to. On the lawn a line of +men forms. They bend their necks, cowering before the fierce glow, but +daring it, and prepared to face it at even closer range. You are to +witness now an exhibition of that heroism which is commoner with us +than we think, that spirit of do and dare which mocks at danger and +even welcomes pain. It is a far finer sentiment than the cold-hearted +calculation which looks ahead, and figures out first whether it is worth +while or not. + +The men dash forward in the withering heat. With frantic haste they fix +the hook into the lattice-work beneath the porch and scamper back. + +"Yo hee! Yo hee!" + +The thick rope tautens as the firemen lay their weight to it. You can +almost see the bristling fibers stand up on it. + +"Yo hee! Yo hee!" + +With a splintering crash the timber parts, and a piece of lattice-work +is dragged away. + +Another sortie and another. Bit by bit the porch is ripped and torn to +rubbish. You smile. It seems so futile. What are these kindlings saved +when the whole house is burning? Is this what you call heroism? Yet +the charge at Balaklava was not more futile. It had even less of +commonsense, less of hope of benefit to mankind to back it and inspire +it. Heroism is an instinct, not a thoughtout policy. Its quality is the +same, in two-ounce samples or in car-load lots. + +The weather-boarding slips down in a sparkling fall. The joists and +stringers, all outlined and gemmed with coals, are, as it were, a golden +grille, through which the world may look unhindered in upon the holy +place of home, heretofore conventually private. There stands the family +altar, pitifully grotesque amid the ruinous splendor of the destroying +fire, the tea-kettle upon it proudly flaunting its steamy plume. What? +Is a common cooking-stove an altar? Yes, verily, in lineal descent. +Examine an ancient altar and you will see its sacrificial stone scored +and guttered to catch the dripping from the roasting meat. Who is +the priestess, after an order older than Melchisedec's, but she that +ministers to us that most comfortable sacrament, wherein we are made +partakers not alone of the outward and visible food which we do carnally +press with our teeth, but also of that inward and spiritual sustenance, +the patient and enduring love of wife and mother, without which there +can be no such thing as home? All other sacraments wherein men break +the bread of amity together are but copies of this pattern, the Blessed +Sacrament of the Household Altar, the first and primal one of all, the +one that shall perdure, please God! throughout all ages of ages. + +The flames die down. The timbers sink together with a softer fall. The +air grows chill. We fetch a sigh. We cannot bear to look at that mute +figure of the priestess seated on the sordid heap of broken furniture, +her sleeping baby pressed against her breast, her gaze fixed--but +seeing naught--upon her ruined temple. We do not like to think upon such +things. We do not like to think at all. Is there nothing more to laugh +at? + +The firemen, having all borrowed the makings of a cigarette from each +other, put on their hats and coats, left on the hook-and-ladder truck in +the custody of a trusted member. The apparatus trundles off, the bells +dolorously tolling as the striking gear on the rear axle engages the +cam. + +Who is this weeping man approaches, supported by two friends, that +comfort him with: "All right, Tom. You done noble," uttered in pacifying +if not convincing tones? Heart-brokenly he cries: "I dull le ver' bes' I +knowed, now di' n't I? Charley? Billy, I dub bes' I knowed how. An' nen +he says to me--Oo-hoo-hoo-oooo-oo! He says to me: 'Come ou' that, ye +cussed fool!' Oo-oooo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Smf! Lemme gi' amma ham hankshiff. +Leg go my arm. Waw gi' amma hankshifp. Oo-oo-oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Fmf! I +ash you as may wurl--I ash you as may--man of world, is that--is that +proper way address me? Me! Know who I am? I'm Tom Ball. 'S who I am. I +kill lick em man ill Logan Coun'y. Ai' thasso? Hay? 'S aw ri. Mfi choose +stay up there, aw thas sec--aw thas second floor and rescue fel-cizzen's +propprop'ty from devouring em--from devouring emlement, thas my bizless. +Ai' tham my bizless, Charley? Ai' tham my bizless, Billy? W'y, sure. +Charley, you're goof feller. You too, Billy. You're goof feller, too. +Say. Wur-wur if Miller's is open yet? 'Spose it is? Charley; I dub bes' +I knowed how, di'n't I, now? Affor that Chief come up thas stairway and +say me: 'Come ou' that, ye cussed fool!' Aw say! 'Come ou' that--'Called +me fool, too! Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo!" + +"Hello, Dan! Hurt yourself any? (That's Dan O'Brien. Fell off the roof.) +Well, sir, I thought sure you'd broken your neck. You don't know your +luck. And let me tell you one thing, my bold bucko: You'll do that just +once too often. Now you mark." + + +The day before the Weekly Examiner goes to press, Mr. Swope hands the +editor a composition entitled: "A Card of Thanks," signed by John K. +and Amelia M. Swope, and addressed to the firemen and all who showed by +their many acts of kindness, and so forth and so on. + +"Kind of help to fill up the paper," says Mr. Swope, covering his +retreat. + +"Sure," replies the editor. When Mr. Swope is good and gone, he says: +"Dog my riggin's if I didn't forget all about writing up that fire. Been +so busy here lately. Good thing he come in. Hay, Andy!" + +"Watch want?" from the composing-room. + +"Got room for about two sticks more?" + +"Yes, guess so. If it don't run over that." + +A brief silence. Then: + +"Hay, Andy?" + +"What?" + +"Is it 'had have,' or 'had of?" + +"What's the connection?" + +"Why-ah. 'If the gallant fire-laddies, under the able direction of Chief +Charley Lomax, had of had a sufficiency of water with which to cope with +the devouring element--'etc." + +"'Had have,' I guess. I don't know." + +"Guess you're right. Run it that way anyhow." + + + + +CIRCUS DAY + + +Only the other day, the man that in all this country knows better than +anybody else how a circus should be advertised, said (with some sadness, +I do believe) that it didn't pay any longer to put up showbills; the +money was better invested in newspaper advertising. + +"It doesn't pay." Ah, me! How the commercial spirit of the age plays +whaley with the romance of existence! You shall not look long upon +the showbill now that there is no money to be had from it. "Youth's +sweet-scented manuscript" is about to close, but ere it does, let us +turn back a little to the pages illuminated by the glowing colors of the +circus poster. + +Saturday afternoon when we went by the enginehouse, its brick wall +fluttered with the rags and tatters of "Esther, the Beautiful Queen," +and the lecture on "The Republic: Will it Endure?" (Gee! But that was +exciting!) Sunday morning, after Sunday-school, there was a sudden +quickening among the boys. We stopped nibbling on the edges of the +lesson leaf and followed the crowd in scuttling haste. Miraculously, +over-night, the shabby wall had blossomed into thralling splendor. What +was Daniel in the Lions' Den, compared with Herr Alexander in the same? +Not, as the prophet is pictured, in the farthest corner from the lions, +and manifestly saying to himself: "If I was only out of this!" But with +his head right smack dab in the lion's mouth. Right in it. Yes, sir. + +"S' Posin'!" we gasped, all goggle-eyed, "jist s'posin' that there lion +was to shut his mouth! Ga-ash!" + +The Golden Text? It faded before the lemon-and-scarlet glories of the +Golden Chariot. Drawn by sixteen dappled steeds, each with his neck +arching like a fish-hook and reined with fancy scalloped reins, it +occupied the center of the foreground. The band rode in it, far more +fortunate than our local band whose best was, Charley Wells's depot +'bus. And nobler than all his fellows was the bass-drummer. He had a +canopy over him, a carved and golden canopy, on whose top revolved a +clown's head with its tongue stuck out. On each quarter of this rococo +shallop a golden circus-girl in short skirts gaily skipped rope with +a nubia or fascinator, or whatever it is the women call the thing they +wrap around their heads in cold weather when they hang out the clothes. +There were big pieces of looking-glass let into the sides of the +band-wagon, and every decorator knows that when you put looking-glass on +a thing it is impossible to fix it so that it will be any finer. + +Winding back and forth across the picture was the long train of +tableau-cars and animal cages, diminishing with distance until away, +'way up in the upper left-hand corner the hindmost van was all immersed +in the blue-and-yellow haze just this side of out-of-sight. That with +our own eyes we should behold the glories here set forth we knew right +well. Cruel Fortune might cheat us of the raptures to be had inside the +tents, but the street-parade was ours, for it was free. + +It seems to me that we did not linger so long before these pictures, nor +before those of the rare and costly animals, which, if we but knew it, +were the main reason why we were permitted to go (if we did get to go). +To look at these animals is improving to the mind, and since we could +not go alone, an older person had to accompany us, and... and... I trust +I make myself clear. But we didn't want to improve our minds if it was +a possible thing to avoid it. The pictures of these animals were in +the joggerfy book anyhow, though not in colors, unless we had a box +of paints. There can be no doubt that the show-bill pictures of the +menageries were in colors. I seem to recollect that Mr. Galbraith, who +kept the dry-goods store across the street from the engine-house, was +very much exercised in his mind about the way one of these pictures was +printed. It was the counterfeit presentment of the Hip-po-pot-a-mus, +or Behemoth of Holy Writ. His objection to the hip--you know was not +because its open countenance was so fearsome, but because it was so red. +Six feet by two of flaming crimson across the street in the afternoon +sun made it necessary for him to take the goods to the back window of +the store to show to customers. He didn't like it a bit. + +No. Neither before the large and expensive pictures of the +street-parade, nor the large and expensive wild beasts did we linger. +The swarm was thickest, sand the jabbering loudest, the "O-o-oh's," the +"M! Looky's" the "Geeminently's" shrillest, in front of where the deeds +of high emprise were set forth. Men with their fists clenched on their +breasts, and their neatly slippered toes touching the backs of their +heads, crashed through paper-covered hoops beneath which horses madly +coursed; they flew through the air with the greatest of ease, the daring +young men on the flying; trapeze, or they posed in living pyramids. + +And as the sons of men assembled themselves together, Satan came also, +the spirit I, that evermore denies. + +"A-a-ah!" sneers his embodiment in one whose crackling voice cannot +make up its mind whether to be bass or treble, "A-a-ah, to the show they +down't do hay-uf what they is in the pitchers." + +A chilling silence follows. A cold uneasiness strikes into all the +listeners. We are all made wretched by destructive criticism. Let us +alone in our ideals. Let us alone, can't you? + +"Now... now," pursues the crackle-voiced Mephisto, pointing to where +Japanese jugglers defy the law of gravitation and other experiences of +daily life, "now, they cain't walk up no ladder made out o' reel sharp +swords." + +"They can so walk up it," stoutly declares one boy. Hurrah! A champion +to the rescue! The others edge closer to him. They like him. + +"Nah, they cain't. How kin they? They'd cut their feet all to pieces." + +"They kin so. I seen 'em do it. The time I went with Uncle George I seen +a man, a Japanee.... Yes, sharp. Cut paper with 'em.... A-a-ah, I did +so. I guess I know what I seen an' what I didn't." + +The little boys breathe easier, but fearing another onslaught, make all +haste to call attention to the most fascinating one of all, the picture +of a little boy standing up on top of his daddy's head. And, as if that +weren't enough, his daddy is standing up on a horse and the horse is +going round the ring lickety-split. And, as if these circumstances +weren't sufficiently trying, that little show-boy is standing on only +one foot. The other is stuck up in the air like five minutes to six, and +he has hold of his toe with his hand. I'll bet you can't do that just +as you are on the ground, let alone on your daddy's head, and him on a +horse that's going like sixty. Now you just try it once. Just try it.... +Aa-ah! Told you you couldn't. + +Now, how the show-actors can do that looks very wonderful to you. It +really is very simple. I'll tell you about it. All show-actors are born +double-jointed. You have only two hip-joints. They have four. And it's +the same all over with them. Where you have only one joint, they have +two. So, you see, the wonder isn't how they can bend themselves every +which way, but how they can keep from doubling up like a foot-rule. + +And another thing. Every day they rub themselves all over with +snake-oil. Snakes are all limber and supple, and it stands to reason +that if you take and try out their oil, which is their express essence, +and then rub that into your skin, it will make you supple and limber, +too. I should think garter-snakes would do all right, if you could catch +enough of them, but they 're so awfully scarce. Fishworms won't do. I +tried 'em. There's no grease in 'em at all. They just dry up. + +And I suppose you know the reason why they stay on the horse's back. +They have rosin on their feet. Did you ever stand up on a horse's back? +I did. It was out to grandpap's, on old Tib.... No, not very long. I +didn't have any rosin on my feet. I was going to put some on, but my +Uncle Jimmy said: "Hay! What you got there?" I told him. "Well," he +says, "you jist mosey right into the house and put that back in the +fiddle-box where you got it. Go on, now. And if I catch you foolin' with +my things again, I'll.... Well, I don't know what I will do to you." So +I put it back. Anyhow, I don't think rosin would have helped me stay on +a second longer, because old Tib, with an intelligence you wouldn't have +suspected in her, walked under the wagon-shed and calmly scraped me off +her back. + +And did you ever try to walk the tight-rope? You take the clothes-line +and stretch it in the grape-arbor--better not make it too high at +first--and then you take the clothes-prop for a balance-pole and go +right ahead--er--er as far as you can. The real reason why you fall +off so is that you don't have chalk on your shoes. Got to have lots of +chalk. Then after you get used to the rope wabbling so all-fired fast, +you can do it like a mice. And while I'm about it, I might as well tell +you that if you ever expect to amount to a hill of beans as a trapeze +performer you must have clear-starch with oil of cloves in it to rub on +your hands. Finest thing in the world. My mother wouldn't let me have +any. She said she couldn't have me messing around that way, I blame +her as much as anybody that I am not now a competent performer on the +trapeze. + +I don't know that I had better go into details about the state of mind +boys are in from the time the bills are first put up until after the +circus has actually departed. I don't mean the boys that get to go to +everything that comes along, and that have pennies to spend for candy, +and all like that, whenever they ask for it. I mean the regular, proper, +natural boys, that used to be "Back Home," boys whose daddies tormented +them with: "Well, we Il see--" that's so exasperating!--or, "I wish you +wouldn't tease, when you know we can't spare the money just at present." +A perfectly foolish answer, that last. They had money to fritter away at +the grocery, and the butcher-shop, and the dry-goods store, but when it +came to a necessity of life, such as going to the circus, they let on +they couldn't afford it. A likely story. + +"Only jist this little bit of a once. Aw, now, please. Please, cain't I +go? Aw now, I think you might. Aw now, woncha? Aw, paw. I ain't been to +a reely show for ever so long. Aw, the Scripture pammerammer, that don't +count. Aw, paw. Please cain't I go? Aw, please!" And so forth and so on, +with much more of the same sort. No, I can't go into details, it's too +terrible. + +Even those of us whose daddies said plainly and positively: "Now, I +can't let you go. No, Willie. That's the end of it. You can't go." Even +those, I say, hoped against hope. It simply could not be that what the +human heart so ardently longed for should be denied by a loving father. +This same conviction applies to other things, even when we are grown up. +It is against nature and the constituted scheme of things that we cannot +have what we want so badly. (And, in general, it may be said that we can +have almost anything we want, if we only want it hard enough. That's the +trouble with us. We don't want it hard enough.) We boys lay there in +the shade and pulled the long stalks of grass and nibbled off the sweet, +yellow ends, as we dramatized miracles that could happen just as well as +not, if they only would, consarn 'em! For instance, you might be going +along the street, not thinking of anything but how much you wanted to go +to the circus, and how sorry you were because you hadn't the money, and +your daddy wouldn't give you any; and first thing you 'd know, you 'd +stub your toe on something, and you'd look down and there'd be a half a +dollar that somebody had lost--Gee! If it would only be that way! But we +knew it wouldn't, because only the other Sunday, Brother Longenecker had +said: "The age of miracles is past." So we had to give up all hopes. Oh, +it's terrible. Just terrible! + +But some of the boys lay there in the grass with their hands under their +heads, looking up at the sky, and making little white spots come in and +out on the corners of their jaws, they had their teeth set so hard, +and were chewing so fiercely. You could almost hear their minds creak, +scheming, scheming, scheming. I suppose there were ways for boys to make +money in those times, but they always fizzled out when you came to try +them, to say nothing of the way they broke into your day. Why, you had +scarcely any time to play in. You 'd go 'round to some neighbor's house +with a magazine, and you'd say: "Good afternoon, Mrs. Slaymaker. Do you +want to subscribe for this?" Just the way you had studied out you would +say. And she'd take it, and go sit down with it, and read it clear +through while you played with the dog, and then when she got all through +with it, and had read all the advertisements, she'd hand it back to you +and say: No, she didn't believe she would. They had so many books and +papers now that she didn't get a chance hardly to read in any of them, +let alone taking any new ornes. Were you getting many new subscribers? +Just commenced, eh? Well, she wished you all the luck in the world. +How was your ma? That's good. Did she hear from your Uncle John's folks +since they moved out to Kansas? + +I have heard that there were boys who, under the dire necessity of going +to the circus, got together enough rags, old iron, and bottles to make +up the price, sold 'em, collected the money, and went. I don't believe +it. I don't believe it. We all had, hidden under the back porch, our +treasure-heap of rusty grates, cracked fire-pots, broken griddles and +lid-lifters, tub-hoops and pokers, but I do not believe that any human +boy ever collected fifty cents' worth. I want you to understand that +fifty cents is a whole lot of money, particularly when it is laid out in +scrap-iron. Only the tin-wagon takes rags, and they pay in tinware, +and that's no good to a boy that wants to go to the circus. And as for +bottles--well, sir, you wash out a whole, whole lot of bottles, a whole +big lot of 'em, a wash-basket full, and tote 'em down to Mr. Case's +drug--and book-store, as much as ever you and your brother can wag, and +see what he gives you. It's simply scandalous. You have no idea of how +mean and stingy a man can be until you try to sell him old bottles. And +the cold-hearted way in which he will throw back ink-bottles that you +worked so hard to clean, and the ones that have reading blown into the +glass--Oh, it's enough to set you against business transactions all +your life long. There's something about bargain and sale that's mean and +censorious, finding this fault and finding that fault, and paying just +as little as ever they can. It gets on one's nerves. It really does. + +The boys that made the little white spots come on the corners of their +jaws as they lay there in the grass, scheming, scheming, scheming, +planned rags, and bottles, and scrap-iron, and more also. Sometimes it +was a plan so much bigger that if they had kept it to themselves, like +the darkey's cow, they would have "all swole up and died." + +"Sst! Come here once. Tell you sumpum. Now don't you go and blab it out, +now will you? Hope to die? Well.... Now, no kiddin'. Cross your heart? +Well.... Ah, you will, too. I know you. You go and tattle everything you +hear.... Well.... Cheese it! Here comes somebody. Make out we're talkin' +about sumpum else. Ah, he did, did he? What for, I wonder? (Say sumpum, +can't ye?) Why 'nu' ye say sumpum when he was goin' by? Now he'll +suspicion sumpum 's up, and nose around till he.... Aw, they ain't +no use tellin' you anything.... Well. Put your head over so 's I can +whisper. Sure I am.... Well, I could learn, couldn't I? Now don't you +tell a living soul, will you? If anybody asts you, you tell 'em you +don't know anything at all about it. Say, why 'n't you come along? I +promised you the last time. That's jist your mother callin' you. Let on +you don't hear her. Aw, stay. Aw, you don't either have to go. Say. Less +you and me get up early, and go see the circus come in town, will you? I +will, if you will. All right. Remember now. Don't you tell anybody what +I told you. You know." + + +If a fellow just only could run off with a circus! Wouldn't it be great? +No more splitting kindling and carrying in coal; no more: "Hurry up, +now, or you'll be late for school;" no more poking along in a humdrum +existence, never going any place or seeing anything, but the glad, +free, untrammeled life, the life of a circus-boy, standing up on top of +somebody's head (you could pretend he was your daddy. Who'd ever know +the difference?) and your leg stuck up like five minutes to six, and him +standing on top of a horse--and the horse going around the ring, and the +ring master cracking his whip--aw, say! How about it? + +Maybe the show-people would take you even if you didn't have two joints +to common folks' one, and hadn't had early advantages in the way of +plenty of snakes to try the grease out of. And then... and then.... +Travel all around, and be in a new town every day! And see things! The +water-works, and Main Street, and the Soldiers' Monument, and the Second +Presbyterian Church. All the sights there are to see in strange places. +And then when the show came back to your own home-town next year, people +would wonder whose was that slim and gracile figure in the green silk +tights and spangled breech-clout that capered so nimbly on the bounding +courser's back, that switched the natty switch and shrilly called out: +"Hep! Hep!" They'd screw up their eyes to look hard, and they'd say: +"Yes, sir. It is. It's him. It's Willie Bigelow. Well, of all things!" +And they'd clap their hands, and be so proud of you. And they'd wonder +how it was that they could have been so blind to your many merits when +they had you with them. They'd feel sorry that they ever said you were +a "regular little imp," if ever there was one, and that you had the Old +Boy in you as big as a horse. They'd feel ashamed of themselves, so they +would. And they'd come and apologize to you for the way they had acted, +and you'd say: "Oh, that's all right. Forgive and forget." And they'd +miss you at home, too. Your daddy would wish he hadn't whaled you the +way he did, just for nothing at all. And your mother, too, she'd be +sorry for the way she acted to you, tormenting the life and soul out of +you, sending you on errands just when you got a man in the king row, and +making you wash your feet in a bucket before you went to bed, instead of +being satisfied to let you pump on them, as any reasonable mother would. +She'll think about that when you're gone. It'll be lonesome then, with +nobody to bang the doors, and upset the cream-pitcher on the clean +table-cloth, and fall over backward in the rocking-chair and break a +rocker off. Your daddy will sigh and say: + +"I wonder where Willie is to-night. Poor boy, I sometimes fear I was too +harsh with him." And your mother will try to keep back her tears, but +she can't, and first thing she knows she'll burst out crying, and... +and... and old Maje will go around the house looking for you, and +whining because he can't find his little playmate.... It will seem as if +you were dead--dead to them, and.... Smf! Smf! + +(Confound that orchestra leader anyhow! How many times have I got to +tell him that this is the music-cue for "Where is My Wandering Boy +To-night?") + +We were all going to get up early enough to see the show come in at the +depot. Very few of us did it. Somehow we couldn't seem to wake up. Here +and there a hardy spirit compasses the feat. + +All the town is asleep when this boy slips out of his front-gate and +snicks the latch behind him softly. It is very still, so still that +though he is more than a mile away from the railroad he can hear Johnny +Mara, the night yardmaster, bawl out: "Run them three empties over on +Number Four track!" the short exhaust of the obedient pony-engine, and +the succeeding crash of the cars as they bump against their fellows. It +is very still, scarey still. The gas-lamp flaring and flickering among +the green maples at the corner has a strange look to him. His footfalls +on the sidewalk sound so loud he takes the soft middle of the dusty +road. He hears some one pursuing him and his bosom contracts with fear, +as he stands to see who it is. Although he hardly knows the boy bound on +the same errand as his, he takes him to his heart, as a chosen friend. +They are kin. + +On the freight-house platform they find other boys. Some of them have +waited up all night so as not to miss it. They are from across the +tracks. They have all the fun, those fellows do. They can swear and chew +tobacco, and play hookey from school and have a good time. They get +to go barefoot before anybody else, and nobody tells them it will thin +their blood to go in swimming so much. Yes, and they can fight, too. +They'd sooner fight than eat. Our boys, conscious of inferiority, keep +to themselves. The boys from across the tracks show off all the bad +words they can think of. One of them has a mouth-harp which he plays +upon, now and then opening his hands hollowed around the instrument. +Patsy Gubbins dances to the music, which is a thing even more reckless +and daredevil than swearing. Patsy's going with a "troupe" some day. Or +else, he's going to get a job firing on an engine. He isn't right sure +which he wants to do the most. + +Now and then a brakeman goes by swinging his lantern. The boys would +like to ask him what time it is, but for one thing they're too bashful. +Being a brakeman is almost as good as going with a "troupe" or a circus. +You get to go to places that way, too, Marysville, and Mechanicsburg, +and Harrod's--that is, if you're on the local freight, and then you lay +over in Cincinnati. Some ways it's better than firing, and some ways it +isn't so good. And then there is another reason why they don't ask +the brakeman what time it is. He'd say it was "forty-five" or maybe +"fifty-three," and never tell what hour. + +"Say! Do you know it's cold? You wouldn't think it would be so cold in +the summer-time." + +The maple-trees, from being formless blobs, insensibly begin to look +like lace-work. Presently the heavens and the earth are bathed in liquid +blue that casts a spell so potent on the soul of him that sees it that +he yearns for something he knows not what, except that it is utterly +beyond him, as far beyond him as what he means to be will be from what +he shall attain to. One dreams of romance and renown, of all that should +be and is not. And as he dreams the birds awaken. In the East there +comes a greenish tinge. Far up the track, there is a sullen roar, and +then the hoarse diapason of an engine whistle. The roar strengthens and +strengthens. It is the circus train. + +Under the witchcraft of the dreaming blue, each boy had a firm and +stubborn purpose. Over and over again he rehearsed how he would go up +to the man that runs the show, and say: "Please, mister, can I go with +you?" And the man would say, "Yes." (As easy as that.) But the purpose +wavered as he saw the roustabouts come tumbling out, all frowsy and +unwashed, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, cross and savage. And the +man whose word they jump to obey, he's kind of discouraging, it's all +business with him. The fellows may plead with their eyes; he never sees +them. If he does, he tells them where to get to out of that and how +quick he wants it done, in language that makes the boldest efforts of +the boys from across the tracks seem puny in comparison. The lads +divide into two parties. One follows the buggy of the boss canvasman to +Vandeman's lots where the stand is made. They will witness the spectacle +of the raising of the tents, but they will also be near the man that +runs the show, and if all goes well it may be he will like your looks +and saunter up to you and say: "Well, bub, and how would you like to +travel with us?" You don't know. Things not half so strange as that have +happened. And if you were right there at the time.... + +The other party lingers awhile looking up wistfully at the unresponsive +windows of the sleeping-cars, behind which are the happy circus-actors. +Perhaps the show-boy that stands up on top of his daddy's head will look +out. If he should raise the window and smile at you, and get to talking +with you maybe he would introduce you to his pa, and tell him that you +would like to go with the show, and his pa would be a nice sort of a +man, and he'd say: "Why, yes. I guess we can fix that all right." And +there you'd be. + +Or if it didn't come out like that, why, maybe the boy would be another +"Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider," like it told about in he Ladies' +Repository. It seems there was a man, and one day he went by where there +was a circus, and in a quiet secluded, vine-clad nook only a few +steps from the main tent, he heard somebody sigh, oh, so sadly and so +pitifully! Come to find out, it was Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider. +He had large sensitive violet eyes, and a wealth of clustering ringlets, +and he was very, very unhappy. So the man took from his pocket a Bible +that he happened to have with him, and he read from it to Little Arthur, +which cheered him up right away, because up to that moment he had only +heard of the Bible. (Think of that!) And that night at the show, what do +you s'pose? Little Arthur fell off the horse and hurt himself. And this +man was at the show and he went back in the dressing-room, and held +Little Arthur's hand. And the clown was crying, and the actors were +crying, for they all loved Little Arthur in their rude, untutored way. +And Little Arthur opened his large sensitive violet eyes, and saw the +man, and said off the text that the man taught him that afternoon. + +And then he died. It was a sad story, but it made you wish it had been +you that happened to have a Bible in your pocket as you passed the +secluded, vine-clad nook only a few paces from the main tent, and had +heard Little Arthur sigh so pitifully. It was those sensitive eyes we +looked for in the sleeping-car windows, and all in vain. I think I saw +the wealth of clustering ringlets, or at least the makings of it. I +am almost positive I saw curl-papers as the curtain was drawn aside a +moment. + +But whether a boy stands gazing at the sleepers, or runs over to the +lots, there is something pathetic about it, something almost terrible. +It is the death of an ideal. I can't conceive of a boy coming down to +the depot to see the circus train come in another time. Hitherto, the +show has been to him the ne plus ultra of romance. It comes in the night +from 'way off yonder; it goes in the night to 'way off yonder. It is all +splendor, all deeds of high emprise. It stands to reason then, that the +closer you get to it, the closer you get to pure romance. And it isn't +that way at all. + +What gravels a boy the most of all is to have to do the same old thing +over and over again, day after day, week in, week out. Once he has seen +the circus come in, he cannot blind himself to the fact that everything +is marked and numbered; that all is system, and that everything is done +today exactly as it was done yesterday, and as it will be done tomorrow. + +"What town is this?" he hears a man inquire of another. + +"Blest if I know. What's the odds what town it is?" + +Didn't know what town it was! Didn't care! + +The keen morning air, or something, makes a fellow mighty unromantic, +too. Perhaps it was the thin blue wood-smoke from the field-stoves, and +the smell of the hot coffee and the victuals the waiters are carrying +about, some to the tent where the bare tables are for the canvasmen, +some to the table covered with a red and white table-cloth as befits +performers. These have no rosy cheeks. Their lithe limbs are not richly +decked with silken tights. Insensibly the upper lip curls. They're not +so much. They're only folks. That's all, just folks. + +But when ideals die, great truths are born. To such a boy at such a +moment there comes the firm conviction which increasing years can only +emphasize: Home is but a poor prosaic place, but Home--Ah, my brother, +think on this--Home is where Breakfast is. + +"Hay! Wait for me, you fellows! Hay! Hold on a minute. Well, ain't I +a-comin' jis''s fast's ever I kin? What's your rush?" + +It is the exceptional boy has this experience. The normal one preserves +the delicate bloom of romance, by never seeing the show until it makes +its Grand Triumphal Entree in a Pageant of Unparalleled Magnificence far +Surpassing the Pomp and Splendor of Oriental Potentates. + +The hitching-posts are full of whinnering country horses, and people are +in town you wouldn't think existed if you hadn't seen their pictures in +Puck and Yudge, people from over by Muchinippi, and out Noodletoozy way, +big, red-necked men with the long loping step that comes from walking on +the plowed ground. Following them are lanky women with their front teeth +gone, and their figures bowed by drudgery, dragging wide-eyed children +whose uncouth finery betrays the "country jake," even if the freckles +and the sun-bleached hair could keep the secret. From the far-off +fastnesses, where there are still log-cabins chinked with mud, they have +ventured to see the show come into town, and when they have seen that, +they will retire again beyond our ken. How every sense is numbed and +stunned by the magnificence and splendor of the painted and gilded +wagons as they rumble past, the driver rolling and pitching in his seat, +as he handles the ribbons of eight horses all at once! The farmer's +heart is filled with admiration of his craft, as much as the children's +hearts are at the gaudy pictures. + +The allegorical tableau-car solemnly waggles past, Europe, and Asia, and +Africa, and Australia brilliant in grease-paint and gorgeous cheesecloth +robes. And can you guess who the fat lady is up on the very tip-top of +all, on the tip-top where the wobble is the worst? Our own Columbia! +It must be fine to ride around that way all dressed up in a flag. But +a sourer lot of faces you never saw in your life. No. I am wrong. For +downright melancholy and despondency you must wait till the funny old +clown comes along in his little bit of a buggy drawn by a little bit of +a donkey. + +"And, oh, looky! Here comes the elephants, just the same as in the +joggerfy books. And see the men walking beside them. They come from the +place the elephants do. See, they have on the clothes they wear in that +country. Don't they look proud? Who wouldn't be proud to get to walk +with an elephant? And if you ever do anything to an elephant to make him +mad, he'll always remember it, and some day he'll get even with you. +One time there was a man, and he gave an elephant a chew of tobacco, +and--O-o-ooh! See that man in the cage with the lions! Don't it just +make the cold chills run over you? I wouldn't be there for a million +dollars, would you, ma? + +"What they laughing at down the street? Ma, make Lizzie get down; she's +right in my way. I don't want to see it pretty soon. I want to see it +naow! Oh, ain't it funny? See the old clowns playing on horns! Ain't it +too killing? Aw, look at them ponies. I woosht I had one. Johnny Pym +has got a goat he can hitch up. What was that, pa? What was that went +'OoOOoohm!'" + +"Whoa, Nell, whoa there! Steady, gal, steaday! Ho, there! Ho! +Whoa--whoa-hup! Whad dy y' about? Fool horse. Whoa... whoa so, gal, +soo-o. Lion, I guess, or a tagger, or sumpum or other." + +And talk about music. You thought the band was grand. You just wait. +Don't you hear it down the street? It'll be along in a minute now. + +There it is. That's the cally-ope. That's what the show bills call: +"The Steam Car of the Muses."... Mm-well, I don't know but it is just a +leetle off the pitch, especially towards the end of a note, but you +must remember that you can't haul a very big boiler on a wagon, and the +whistles let out an awful lot of steam. It's pretty hard to keep the +pressure even. But it's loud. That's the main thing. And the man that +plays on it--no, not that fellow in the overalls with a wad of greasy +waste in his hand. He 's only the engineer. I mean the artist, the man +that plays on the keys. Well, he knows what the people want. He has +his fingers on the public pulse. Does he give them a Bach fugue, or +Guillmant's "Grand Choeur?" 'Deed, he doesn't. He goes right to the +heart, with "Patrick's Day in the Morning," and "The Carnival of +Venice," and "Home, Sweet Home," and "Oh, Where, Oh Where has my Little +Dog Gone?" He knows his business. A shade off the key, perhaps, but my! +Ain't it grand? So loud and nice! + +"Well, that's all of it.... Why, child, I can't make it any longer than +it is." + +"What do you want me to drive round into the other street for? You've +seen all there is to see. Got all your trading done, mother? Well, then +I expect we'd better put for home. Now, Eddy, I told you 'No' once, and +that's the end of it. Hush up now! Look here, sir! Do you want me to +take and 'tend to you right before everybody? Well, I will now, if I +hear another whimper out o' ye. Ck-ck-ck! Git ep there, Nelly." + +Some day, when we get big, and have whole, whole lots of money we're +going to the circus every time it comes to town, to the real circus, the +one you have to pay to get into. For if merely the street parade is so +magnificent, what must the show itself be? + +How people can sit at the table on circus day and stuff, and stuff the +way they do is more than I can understand. You'd think they hadn't any +more chances to eat than they had to go to the show. And they can find +more things to do before they get started! And then, after the house +is all locked up and everything, they've got to go back after a +handkerchief! What does anybody want with a handkerchief at a circus? + +It's exasperating enough to have to choose between going in the +afternoon and not going at all. Why, sure, it's finer at night. Lots +finer. You know that kind of a light the peanut-roaster man has got +down by the post-office. Burns that kind of stuff they use to take out +grease-spots. Ye-ah. Gasoline. Well, at the circus at night, they don't +have just one light like that, but bunches and bunches of them on the +tentpoles. No, silly! Of course not. Of course they don't set the tent +afire. But say! What if they did, eh? The place would be all full +of people, laughing at the country jake that comes out to ride the +trick-mule, and you'd happen to look up and see where the canvas was +ju-u-ust beginning to blaze, and you'd jump up and holler: "Fire! Fire!" +as loud as ever you could because you saw it first, and you'd point to +the place. Excitement? Well, I guess yes. The people would all run every +which way, and fall all over themselves, and the women would squeal--And +do you know what I'd do? Wouldn't just let myself down between the kind +of bedslat benches, and drop to the ground, and lift up the canvas and +there I'd be all safe. And after I was all safe, then I'd go back and +rescue folks. + +We-ell, I s'pose I'd have to rescue a girl. It seems they always do +that. But it would be nicer, I think, to rescue some real rich man. He'd +say: "My noble preserver! How can I sufficiently reward you?" and take +out his pocketbook. And wouldn't say: "Take back your proffered gold," +and make like I was pushing it away, "take back your proffered gold. I +but did my duty." And then wouldn't forget all about it. And one day, +after I'd forgotten all about, it, the man would die, and will me a +million dollars, or a thousand, I don't know. Enough to make me rich. + +And say! Wouldn't the animals get excited when they saw the show was +afire? They'd just roar and roar, and upset the cages, and maybe they'd +get loose. O-o-o-Oh! How about that? If there was a lion come at me I'd +climb a tree. What would you do? Ah, your pa's shot-gun nothing! Why, +you crazy, that would only infuriate him the more. What you want to do +is to take an express rifle, like Doo Challoo did, and aim right for his +heart. An express rifle is what you send off and get, and they ship it +to you by express. + +So you see what a fellow misses by having to go to the show in the +afternoon, like the girls and the a-b-abs. The boys from across the +tracks get to go at night. They have all the fun. When they go they +don't have to poke along, and poke along, and keep hold of hands so as +not to get lost.... Aw, hurry up, can't you? Don't you hear the band +playing? It'll be all over before we get there. + +But finally the lots are reached, and there are the tents, with all +kinds of flags snapping from the centerpoles and the guy-ropes. And +there are the sideshows. Alas! You never thought of the sideshows when +you asked if you could go. And now it's too late. It must be fine in the +side-shows. I never got to go to one. I didn't have the money. But if +the big, painted banners, bulging in and out, as the wind plays with +them, are anything to go by, it must be something grand to see the Fat +Lady, and the Circassian Beauty, whose frizzled head will just about fit +a bushel basket, and the Armless Wonder. They say he can take a pair of +scissors with his toes and cut your picture out of paper just elegant. + +Oh, and something else you miss by going in the afternoon. At night you +can sneak around at the back, and when nobody is looking you can just +lift up the canvas and go right in for nothing.... Why, what's wrong +about that? Ah, you're too particular.... And if the canvasman catches +you, you can commence to cry and say you had only forty cents, and +wanted to see the circus so bad, and he'll take it and let you in, +and you can have ten cents, don't you see, to spend for lemonade, +red lemonade, you understand; and peanuts, the littlest bags, and the +"on-riest" peanuts that ever were. + +As far as I can see, the animal part of the show is just the same as it +always was. The people that take you to the show always pretend to be +interested in them, but it's my belief they stop and look only to tease +you. Away, 'way back in ancient times, there used to be a man that took +the folks around and told them what was in each cage, and where it came +from, and how much it cost, and what useful purpose it served in the +wise economy of nature, and all about it. That was before my time. But +I can recollect something they had that they don't have any more. I can +remember when Mr. Barnum first brought his show to our town. It didn't +take much teasing to get to go to that, because in those days Mr. Barnum +was a "biger man than old Grant." "The Life of P. T. Barnum, Written by +Himself" was on everybody's marble-topped centertable, just the same as +"The History of the Great Rebellion." You show some elderly person from +out of town the church across the street from the Astor House, and +say: "That's St. Paul's Chapel. General Montgomery's monument is in the +chancel window. George Washington went to meeting there the day he was +inaugurated president," and your friend will say: "M-hm." But you tell +him that right across Broadway is where Barnum's Museum used to be, and +he'll brighten right up and remember all about how Barnum strung a +flag across to St. Paul's steeple and what a fuss the vestry of Trinity +Parish made. That's something he knows about, that's part of the history +of our country. + +Well, when Mr. Barnum first came to our town, all around one tent were +vans full of the very identical Moral Waxworks that we had read about, +and had given up all hopes of ever seeing because New York was so far +away. There was the Dying Zouave. Oh, that was a beauty! The Advance +Courier said that "the crimson torrent of his heart's blood spouted in +rhythmic jets as the tide of life ebbed silently away;" but I guess by +the time they got to our town they must have run all out of pokeberry +juice, for the "crimson torrent" didn't spout at all. But his bosom +heaved every so often, and he rolled up his eyes something grand! I +liked it, but my mother said it was horrid. That's the way with women. +They don't like anything that anybody else does. There's no pleasing +'em. And she thought the Drunkard's Family was "kind o' low." It wasn't +either. It was fine, and taught a great moral lesson. I told her so, but +she said it was low, just the same. She thought the Temperance Family +was nice, but it wasn't anywhere near as good as the Drunkard's Family. +Why, let me tell you. The Drunkard's Wife was in a ragged calico dress, +and her eye was all black and blue, where he had hit her the week +before. And the Drunkard had hold of a black quart bottle, and his nose +was all red, and he wore a plug hat that was even rustier and more caved +in than Elder Drown's, if such a thing were possible. And there was--But +I can't begin to tell you of all the fine things Mr. Barnum had that +year, but never had again. + +Another thing Mr. Barnum had that year that never appeared again. It +may be that after that time the Funny Old Clown did crack a joke, but +I never heard him. The one that Mr. Barnum had got off the most comical +thing you ever heard. I'll never forget it the longest day I live. +Laugh? Why, I nearly took a conniption over it. It seems the clown got +to crying about something.... Now what was it made him cry? Let me see +now.... Ain't it queer I can't remember that? Fudge! Well, never mind +now. It will come to me in a minute. + +I feel kind of sorry for the poor little young ones that grow up and +never know what a clown is like. Oh, yes, they have them to-day, after a +fashion. They stub their toes and fall down the same as ever, but there +is a whole mob of them and you can't take the interest in them that you +could in "the one, the only, the inimitable" clown there used to be, a +character of such importance that he got his name on the bills. He was a +mighty man in those days. The ring-master was a kind of stuck-up fellow, +very important in his own estimation, but he didn't have a spark of +humor. Not a spark. And he'd be swelling around there, all so grand, +and the clown, just to take him down a peg or two, would ask him a +conundrum. And do you think he could ever guess one? Never. Not a one. +And when the clown would tell him what the answer was, he'd be so vexed +at himself that he'd try to take it out on the poor clown, and cut at +him with his long whip. But Mr. Clown was just as spry in his shoes as +he was under the hat, and he'd hop up on the ring-side out of the way, +and squall out: "A-a-aah! Never touched me!" We had that for a byword. +Oh, you'd die laughing at the comical remarks he'd make. And he'd be so +quick about it. The ring-master would say something, and before you'd +think, the clown would make a joke out of it.... I wish I could remember +what it was he said that was so funny, the time he started crying. Seems +to me it was something about his little brother.... Well, no matter. + +Yes, sir, there are heads of families to-day, I'll bet you, that have +grown up without ever having heard a clown sing a comic song, and ask +the audience to join in the chorus. And if you say to such people: "Here +we are again, Mr. Merryman," or "Bring on another horse," or "What will +the little lady have now? the banners, my lord?" they look at you so +funny. They don't know what you mean, and they don't know whether to get +huffy or not. Well, I suppose it had to be that the Funny Old Clown with +all his songs, and quips, and conundrums, and comical remarks should +disappear. Perhaps he "didn't pay." + +I can't see that the rest of the show has changed so very much. Perhaps +the trapeze performances are more marvelous and breath-suspending than +they used to be. But they were far and far beyond what we could dream of +then, and to go still farther as little impresses us as to be told that +people live still even westerly of Idaho. The trapeze performers are +up-to-date in one respect. The fellow that comes down with his arms +folded, one leg stuck out and the other twined around the big rope, +revolving slowly, slowly--well, the band plays the Intermezzo from +"Cavalleria Rusticana" nowadays when he does that. It used to play: "O +Thou, Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer!" But the lady in the riding-habit +still smiles as if it hurt her when her horse walks on its hind legs; +the bareback rider does the very same fancy steps as the horse goes +round the ring in a rocking-chair lope; the attendants still slant the +hurdles almost flat for the horse to jump; they still snake the banners +under the rider's feet as he gives a little hop up, and they still bang +him on the head with the paper-covered hoop to .... Hold on a minute. +Now. + +Now... That story the clown told that was so funny, that had something +to do with those hoops. I wish I could think of it. It would make you +laugh, I know. + +People try to lay the blame of the modern circus's failure to interest +them on the three rings. They say so many things to watch at once keeps +them from being watching properly any one act. They can't give it the +attention it deserves. But I'll tell you what's wrong: There isn't any +Funny Old Clown, a particular one, to give it human interest. It is +all too splendid, too magnificent, too far beyond us. We want to hear +somebody talk once in awhile. + +They pretended that the tent was too big for the clown to be heard, but +I take notice it wasn't too big for the fellow to get up and declaim +"The puffawmance ees not yait hawf ovah. The jaintlemanly agents will +now pawss around the ring with tickets faw the concert." I used to hate +that man. When he said the performance was not yet half over, he lied +like a dog, consarn his picture! There were only a few more acts to +come. He knew it and we knew it. We wanted the show to go on and on, and +always to be just as exciting as at the very first, and it wouldn't! +We had got to the point where we couldn't be interested in anything any +more. We were as little ones unable to prop their eyelids open and yet +quarreling with bed. We were surfeited, but not satisfied. We sat there +and pouted because there wasn't any more, and yet we couldn't but yawn +at the act before us. We were mad at ourselves, and mad at everybody +else. We clambered down the rattling bedslats seats, sour and sullen. +We didn't want to look at the animals; we didn't want to do this, and +we didn't want to do that. We whined and snarled, and wriggled and shook +ourselves with temper, and we got a good hard slap, side of the head, +right before everybody, and then we yelled as if we were being killed +alive. + +"Now, mister, if I ever take you any place again, you'll know it. I'd +be ashamed of myself if I was you. Hush up! Hush up, I tell you. Now +you mark. You're never going to the show again. Do you hear me? Never! I +mean it. You're never going again." + +But at eventide there was light. After supper, after a little rest and +a good deal of food, while chopping the kindling for morning (it's +wonderful how useful employ tends to induce a cheerful view of life) +out of her dazzling treasure-heap of jewels, Memory took up, one after +another, a glowing recollection and viewed it with delight. The evening +performance, the one all lighted up with bunches and bunches of lights, +was a-preparing, and in the gentle breeze the far-off music waved as it +had been a flag. A harsh and rumbling noise as of heavy timbers falling +tore through the tissue of sweet sounds. The horses in the barn next +door screamed in their stalls to hear it. Ages and ages ago, on distant +wind-swept plains their ancestors had hearkened to that hunting-cry, and +summoned up their valor and their speed. It still thrilled in the blood +of these patient slaves of man, though countless generations of them had +never even so much as seen a lion. + +"And is that all the difference, pa, that the lion roars at night and +the ostrich in the daytime?" + +Out on the back porch in the deepening dusk we sat, with eyes relaxed +and dreaming, and watched the stars that powdered the dark sky. Before +our inward vision passed in review the day of splendor and renown. We +sighed, at last, but it was the happy sigh of him who has full dined. +Ambition was digesting. In our turn, when we grew up, we, too, were to +do the deeds of high emprise. We were to be somebody. + +(I never heard of anybody sitting up to see the show depart. And yet it +seems to me that would be the best time to run off with it.) + +The next day we visited the lots. It was no dream. See the litter that +mussed up the place. + +We were all there. None had heard the man that runs the show say +genially: "Yes, I think we can arrange to take you with us." Here was +the ring; here the tent-pole holes, and here a scrap of paper torn from +a hoop the bareback rider leaped through.... Oh, now I know what I was +going to tell you that the clown said. The comicalest thing! + +He picked up one of these hoops and began to sniffle. + +So the ring-master asked him what he was crying about. + +"I--I--was thinking of my mother. Smf! My good old mother!" + +So the ring-master asked him what made him think of his mother. + +"This." And he held up the paper-covered hoop. + +The ring-master couldn't see how that put the clown in mind of his +mother. He was awful dumb, that man. + +"It looks just like the pancakes she used to make for us." + +Well, sir, we just hollered and laughed at that. And after we had +quieted down a little, the ringmaster says: "As big as that?" + +"Bigger," says the clown. "Why, she used to make 'em so big we used 'em +for bedclothes." + +"Indeed" (Just like that. He took it all in, just as if it was so.) + +"Oh, my, yes! I mind one time I was sleeping with my little brother, and +I waked up just as cold--Brr! But I was cold!" + +"But how could that be, sir? You just now said you had pancakes for +bedclothes." + +"Yes, but my little brother got hungry in the night, and et up all the +cover." + +Laugh? Why, they screamed. Me? I thought I'd just about go up. But the +ring master never cracked a smile. He didn't see the joke at all. + +Good-by, old clown, friend of our childhood, goodby, good-by forever! +And you, our other friend, the street parade, must you go, too? And you, +the gorgeous show-bills, must you tread the path toward the sundown? +Good-by! Good-by! In that dreary land where you are going, the Kingdom +of the Ausgespielt, it may comfort you to recollect the young hearts you +have made happy in the days that were, but never more can be again. + + + + +THE COUNTY FAIR + + +Whether or not the name had an influence on the weather, I don't know. +Perhaps it did rain some years, but, as I remember, County Fair time +seems to have had a sky perfectly cloudless, with its blue only a little +dulled around the edges where it came close to the ground and the dust +settled on it. Things far off were sort of hazy, but that might have +been the result of the bonfires of leaves we had been having evenings +after supper. In Fair weather, when the sun had been up long enough +to get a really good start, it was right warm, but in the shade it +was cool, and nights and mornings there was a chill in the air that +threatened worse things to come. + +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. Down cellar the swing-shelf is +cram-jam full of jellyglasses, and jars of fruit. Out on the hen-house +roof are drying what, when the soap-box wagon was first built, promised +barrels and barrels of nuts to be brought up with the pitcher of cider +for our comforting in the long winter evenings, but what turns out, when +the shucks are off, to be a poor, pitiful half-peck, daily depleted by +the urgent necessity of finding out if they are dry enough yet. Folks +are picking apples, and Koontz's cider-mill is in full operation. (Do +you know any place where a fellow can get some nice long straws?) Out in +the fields are champagne-colored pyramids, each with a pale-gold heap +of corn beside it, and the good black earth is dotted with orange blobs +that promise pumpkin-pies for Thanksgiving Day. No. Let me look again. +Those aren't pie-pumpkins; those are cow-pumpkins, and if you want to +see something kind of pitiful, I'll show you Abe Bethard chopping up +one of those yellow globes--with what, do you suppose? With the cavalry +saber his daddy used at Gettysburg. + +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. As a result of all the good +feeding and the outdoor air we have had for three or four months past, +the strawberry shortcakes, and cherry-pies, and green peas, and +new potatoes, and string beans, and roasting-ears, and all such +garden-stuff, and the fresh eggs, broken into the skillet before Speckle +gets done cackling, and the cockerels we pick off the roost Saturday +evenings (you see, we're thinning 'em out; no sense in keeping all of +'em over winter)--as a result, I say, of all this good eating, and the +outdoor life, and the necessity of stirring around a little lively these +days we feel pretty good. And yet we get kind of low in our minds, too. +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. It's gone, the good playtime +when we didn't have to go to school, when the only foot-covering we wore +was a rag around one big toe or the other; the days when we could stay +in swimming all day long except mealtimes; the days of Sabbath-school +picnics and excursions to the Soldiers' Home--it's gone. The harvest +is past, the summer is ended. The green and leafy things have heard the +word, and most of them are taking it pretty seriously, judging by their +looks. But the maples and some more of them, particularly the maples, +with daredevil recklessness, have resolved, as it were, to die with +their boots on, and flame out in such violent and unbelievable colors +that we feel obliged to take testimony in certain outrageous cases, +and file away the exhibits in the Family Bible where nobody will bother +them. The harvest is past, the summer is ended. Rainy days you can see +how played-out and forlorn the whole world looks. But at Fair time, when +the sun shines bright, it appears right cheerful. + +It seems to me the Fair lasted three days. One of them was a holiday +from school, I know, and unless I'm wrong, it wasn't on the first day, +because then they were getting the things in, and it wasn't on the last +day, because then they were taking the things out, so it must have been +on the middle day, when everybody went. Charley Wells had both the depot +'buses out with "County FAIR" painted on muslin hung on the sides. The +Cornet Band rode all round town in one, and so on over to the "scene of +the festivities" as the Weekly Examiner very aptly put it, and then both +'buses stood out in front of the American House, waiting for passengers, +with Dinny Enright calling out: "This sway t' the Fair Groun's! Going +RIGHT over!" Only he always waited till he got a good load before he +turned a wheel. (Dinny's foreman at the chair factory now. Did you know +that? Doing fine. Gets $15 a week, and hasn't drunk a drop for nearly +two years.) + +Everybody goes the middle day of the Fair, everybody that you ever did +know or hear tell of. You'll be going along, kind of half-listening to +the man selling Temperance Bitters, and denouncing the other bitters +because they have "al-cue-hawl" in them, and "al-cue-hawl will make you +drunk," (which is perfectly true), and kind of half-listening to the man +with the electric machine, declaring: "Ground is the first conductor; +water is the second conductor," and you'll be thinking how slippery the +grass is to walk on, when a face in the crowd will, as it were, sting +your memory. "I ought to know that man," says you to yourself. "Now, who +the mischief is he? Barker? No, 't isn't Barker, Barkdull? No. Funny +I can't think of his name. Begins with B I'm pretty certain." And you +trail along after him, as if you were a detective, sort of keeping out +of his sight, and yet every once in a while getting a good look at him. +"Mmmmmm!" says you. "What is that fellow's name? Why, sure. McConica." +And you walk up to him and stick out your hand while he's gassing with +somebody, and there's that smile on your face that says: "I know you +but you don't know me," and he takes it in a limp sort of fashion, and +starts to say: "You have the advantage of--" when, all of a sudden, he +grabs your hand as if he were going to jerk your arm out of its socket +and beat you over the head with the bloody end, and shouts out: "Why, +HELLO, Billy! Well, suffering Cyrus and all hands round! Hold still a +second and let me look at you. Gosh darn your hide, where you been for +so long? I though you'd clean evaporated off the face the earth. Why, +how AIR you? How's everything? That's good. Let me make you acquainted +with my wife. Molly, this is Mr.--" But she says: "Now don't you tell me +what his name is. Let me think. Why, Willie Smith! Well, of all things! +Why, how you've changed! Honest, I wouldn't have knowed you. Do you mind +the time we went sleigh-ridin' the whole posse of us, and got upset down +there by Hanks's place?" And then you start in on "D' you mind?" and +"Don't you recollect?" and you talk about the old school-days, and who's +married, and who's moved out to Kansas, and who's got the Elias Hoover +place now, and how Ella Trimble--You know Ella Diefenbaugh, old Jake +Diefenbaugh's daughter, the one that lisped. Course you do. Well, she +married Ed Trimble, and he died along in the early part of the summer. +Typhoid. Was getting well but he took a relapse, and went off like that! +And now she's left with three little ones, and they guess poor Ella has +a pretty hard time making out. And this old schoolmate that you start +to tell a funny story about is dead, and the freckle-faced boy with the +buck teeth that put the rabbit in the teacher's desk, he's dead, too, +and the boy that used to cry in school when they read: + + "Give me three grains of corn, mother, + Only three grains o f corn; + To save what little life I have, mother, + Till the coming o f the morn." + +well, he studied law with old judge Rodehaver, and got to be Prosecuting +Attorney, but he took to drinking--politics, you know--and now he's just +gone to the dogs. Smart as a steel-trap, and bright as a dollar. Oh, a +terrible pity! A terrible pity. And as you hear the fate of one after +another of the happy companions of your childhood, and the sadness of +life comes over you, they start to tell something that makes you laugh +again. I tell you. Did you ever see one of these concave glasses, such +as the artists use when they want to get an idea of how a picture looks +all together as a whole, and not as an assemblage of parts? Well, what +the concave glass is to a picture, so such talk is to life. It sort of +draws it all together, and you see it as a whole, its sunshine and its +shadow, its laughter and its tears, its work and its play, its past and +its present. But not its future. The Good Man has mercifully hidden that +from us. + +It does a body good to get such a talk once in a while. + +And there are the young fellows and the girls. This young gentleman in +the rimless eye-glasses, who is now beginning to "go out among 'em" the +last time you saw him was in meeting when Elder Drown was preaching, and +my gentleman stood up in the seat and shouted shrilly: "'T ain't at all, +man. 'T ain't at all!" And this sweet girl-graduate--the last time you +saw her was just after Becky Daly, in the vain effort to "peacify" the +squalling young one, had given her a fresh egg to play with. I kind +o' like the looks of the younger generation of girls. But I don't know +about the young fellows. They look to me like a trifling lot. Nothing +like what they were in our young days. I don't see but what us old +codgers had better hold on a while longer to the County Clerk's office, +and the Sheriff's office, and the Probate judgeship, and the presidency +of the National Bank. It wouldn't be safe to trust the destinies of +the country in the hands of such heedless young whiffets. Engaged to be +married! Oh, get out! What? Those babies? + +I kept awake most of the time the man was lecturing on: "The Republic: +Will it Endure?" but I don't remember that he said anything in it about +the crops. (We can't go 'round meeting the folks all day. We really must +give a glance at the exhibition.) And I am one of those who hold to the +belief that while the farmers can raise ears of corn as long as from +your elbow to your fingertips, as big 'round as a rollingpin, and set +with grains as regular and even as an eight-dollar set of artificial +teeth; as long as they grow potatoes the size of your foot, and such +pretty oats and wheat, and turnips, and squashes, and onions, and apples +and all kinds of truck, and raise them not only in increasing size but +increasing quantities to the acre I feel as if the Republic would last +the year out anyway. Not that I have any notion that mere material +prosperity will make and keep us a free people, but it goes to show that +the farmers are not plodding along, doing as their fathers did before +them, but that they are reading and studying, and taking advantage of +modern methods. There are two ways of increasing your income. One is by +enlarging your output, and the other is by enlarging your share of the +proceeds from the sale of that output. The Grand Dukes will not always +run this country. The farmers saved the Union once by dying for it; +they will save it again by living for it. + +The scientific fellows tell us that we have not nearly reached the +maximum of yield to the acre of crops that are harvested once a year, +but in regard to the crops that are harvested twice a day it looks to me +as if we were doing fairly well. Nowadays we hardly know what is meant +by the expression, "Spring poor." It is a sinister phrase, and tells +a story of the old, cruel days when farmers begrudged their cattle the +little bite they ate in wintertime, so that when the grass came again +the poor creatures would fall over trying to crop it. They were so +starved and weak that, as the saying went, they had to lean up against +the fence to breathe. They don't do that way now, as one look at the +fine, sleek cows will show you. A cow these days is a different sort of +a being, her coat like satin, and her udder generous, compared with the +wild-eyed things with burrs in their tails, and their flanks crusted +with filth, their udders the size of a kid glove, and yielding such a +little dab of milk and for such a short period. Hear the dairymen boast +now of the miraculous yearly yield in pounds of butter and milk, and +when they say: "You've got to treat a cow as if she were a lady," it +sounds like good sense. + +Pigs are naturally so untidy about their persons, and have such shocking +table-manners that it seems difficult to treat a sow like a lady, but +that one in the pen yonder, with her litter of sucking pigs, seems +very interesting. Come, let's have a look. Aren't the little pigs dear +things? I'd like to climb in and take one of them up to pet it; do you +s'pose she'd mind it if I did? I can see decided improvement in the +modern hogs over old Mose Batcheller's. If you remember, his were what +were known as "razorbacks." They could go like the wind, and the fence +was not made that could stop them. If they couldn't root under it, they +could turn themselves sidewise and slide through between the rails. +It was told me that, failing all else, they could give their tails a +swing--you remember the big balls of mud they used to have on their +tails' ends--they could swing their tails after the manner of an athlete +throwing the hammer, and fly over the top of the tallest stake-and-rider +fence ever put up. I don't know whether this is the strict truth or not, +but it is what was told me as a little boy, and I don't think people +would wilfully deceive an innocent child. + +The pigs nowaday aren't as smart as that, but they cut up better at +hog-killing time. They aren't quite so trim; indeed, they are nothing +but cylinders of meat, whittled to a point at the front end, and set on +four pegs, but as you lean on the top-rail of the pens out at the County +Fair and look down upon them, you can picture in your mind, without +much effort, ham, and sidemeat, and bacon, and spare-ribs, and smoked +shoulder, and head-cheese, and liver-wurst, and sausages, and glistening +white lard for crullers and pie-crust--Yes, I think pigs are right +interesting. I know they've got Scripture for it, the folks that think +it is wrong to eat pork, but somehow I feel sorry for them; they miss +such a lot, not only in the eating line, but other ways. They are always +being persecuted, and harassed, and picked at. Whereas the pork-fed man, +it seems to me, sort of hankers to be picked at. It gives him a good +chance to slap somebody slonchways. He feels better after he has seen +his persecutors go away with a cut lip, and fingering of their teeth to +see if they're all there. + +You'll just have to take me gently but firmly by the sleeve and lead me +past the next exhibit, the noisy one, where there's so much cackling +and crowing. I give you fair warning that if you get me started talking +about chickens, the County Fair will have to wait till some other time. +I don't know much about ducks, and geese, and guinea-hens, and pea-fowl, +and turkeys, but chickens--Why, say. We had a hen once (Plymouth Rock +she was; we called her Henrietta), and honestly, that hen knew more than +some folks. One time she--all right. I'll hush. Let's go in here. + +I don't remember whether the pies, and cakes, and canned fruit, and such +are in Pomona Hall or the Fine Arts Hall. Fine Arts Hall I think. They +ought to be. I speak to be one of the judges that give out the premiums +in this department. I'd be generous and let somebody else do the judging +of the cakes, because I don't care much for cake. Oh, I can manage +to choke it down, but I haven't the expert knowledge, practical and +scientific, that I have in the matter of pie. I'd bear my share of the +work when it came to the other things, jellies and preserves, and pies, +but not cake. Wouldn't know just exactly how to go at it in the matter +of jellies. I'd take a glass of currant, and hold it up to the light to +note its crimson glory. And I'd lift off the waxed paper top and peer +in, and maybe give the jelly a shake. And then I'd take a spoon and +taste, closing my eyes so as to appear to deliberate--they'd roll up +in an ecstacy anyhow--and I'd smack my lips, and say: "Mmmmm!" very +thoughtfully, and set the glass back, and write down in my book my +judgment, which would invariably be: "First Prize." Because if there is +anything on top of this green earth that I think is just about right, it +is currant jelly. Grape jelly is nice, and crab-apple jelly has its good +points, and quince jelly is very delicate, but there is something about +currant jelly that seems to touch the spot. Quince preserves are good +if there is enough apple with the quince, and watermelon preserves are a +great favorite, not because they are so much better tasting, but because +the lucent golden cubes in the spicy syrup appeal so to the eye. But +if you want to know what I think is really good eating in the preserve +line, you just watch my motions when I come to the tomato preserves, +these little fig-tomatoes, and see how quick the red card is put on +them. Yes, indeed. It's been a long time, hasn't it? since you had any +tomato-preserves, you that haven't been "Back Home" lately. + +It's no great trick to put up other fruit so that it will keep, but I'd +look the canned tomatoes over pretty carefully, and if I saw that one +lady had not only put them up so that they hadn't turned foamy, but had +also succeeded with green corn, and that other poser, string beans, +I'd give her first premium, because I'd know she was a first-rate +housekeeper, and a careful woman, and one that deserved encouragement. + +But I'd save myself for the pies. I can tell a rich, short, flaky crust, +and I can tell the kind that is as brown as a dried apple, and tough as +the same on the top, and sad and livery on the bottom. And I know about +fillings, how thick they ought to be, and how they ought to be seasoned, +and all. Particularly pumpkin-pies, because I had early advantages that +way that very few other boys had. I was allowed to scrape the crock that +had held the pumpkin for the pies. So that's how I know as much as I do. + +I suppose, however, when all is said and done, that there is no pie that +can quite come up to an apple-pie. You take nice, short crust that's +been worked up with ice-water, and line the tin with it, and fill it +heaping with sliced, tart apples--not sauce. Mercy, no!--and sweeten +them just right, and put on a lump of butter, and some allspice, and +perhaps a clove, and a little lemon peel, and then put on the cover, +and trim off the edge, and pinch it up in scallops, and draw a couple of +leaves in the top with a sharp knife, and have the oven just right, and +set it in there, and I tell you that when ma opens the oven-door to see +how the pie is coming on, there distils through the house such a perfume +that you cry out in a choking voice: "Say! Ain't dinner 'most ready?" + +But I fully recognize the fact that very often our judgment is warped by +feeling, and I am inclined to believe that even the undoubted merit of +the apple-pie would not prevail against a vinegar-pie, if such should be +presented to me for my decision. A vinegar-pie? Well, it has a top and +bottom crust, the same as any other pie, but its filling is made +of vinegar, diluted with water to the proper degree of sub-acidity, +sweetened with molasses, thickened with flour, and all baked as any +other pie. You smile at its crude simplicity, and wonder why I should +favor it. To you it doesn't tell the story that it does to me. It +doesn't take you back in imagination to "the airly days," when folks +came over the mountains in covered wagons, and settled in the Western +Reserve, leaving behind them all the civilization of their day, and its +comforts, parting from relatives and friends, knowing full well that +in this life they never more should look upon their faces--leaving +everything behind to make a new home in the western wilds. + +Is was a land of promise that they came to. The virgin soil bore +riotously. There were fruit-trees in the forest that Johnny Appleseed +had planted on his journeyings. The young husband could stand in his +dooryard and kill wild turkeys with his rifle. They fed to loathing +on venison, and squirrels, and all manner of game, and once in a great +while they had the luxury of salt pork. They were well-nourished, +but sometimes they pined for that which was more than mere food. They +hungered for that which should be to the meals' victuals what the flower +is to the plant. + +"I whoosh't--I woosh't was so we could hev pie," sighed one such. (Let +us call him Uriah Kinney). I think that sounds as if it were his name. + +"Land's sakes!" snapped his wife, exasperated that he should be thinking +of the same thing that she was. "Land's sakes! Haow d' ye s'pose I kin +make a pie when I hain't got e'er a thing to make it aout o'? You gimme +suthirnn to make it aout o', an' you see haow quick--" + +"I ain't a-faultinn ye, Mary Ann," interposed Uriah gently. "I know haow +'t is. I was on'y tellin' ye. I git I git a kind o' hum'sick sometimes. +'Pears like as if I sh'd feel more resigned like.... Don't ye cry, Mary +Ann. I know, I know. You feel julluk I do 'baout back home, an' all luk +that." + +O woman! When the heft of thy intellect is thrown against a problem, +something has got to give. Not long after, Uriah sits down to dinner, +and can hardly ask a blessing, he has to swallow so. A pie is on the +table! + +"Gosh, Mary Ann, but this is good!" says he, holding out his hand +for the third piece. "This is lickinn good!" And he celebrates her +achievement far and wide. + +"My Mary Ann med me a pie t' other day, was the all-firedest best pie I +ever et." + +"Med you what?" + +"Med me a pie." + +"Pie? Whutch talkinn' baout? Can't git nummore pies naow. Frot 's all +gin aout." + +"I golly, she med it just the same. Smartest woman y' ever see." The man +dribbled at the mouth. + +"What sh' make it aout o'?" + +"Vinegar an' worter, I think she said. I d' know 's I ever et anythinn +I relished julluk that. My Mary Ann, tell yew! She's 'baout's smart 's +they make 'em." + +I wish I knew who she really was whom I have called Mary Ann Kinney, she +that made the first vinegar-pie. I wish I knew where her grave is that +I might lay upon it a bunch of flowers, such as she knew and +liked--sweet-william, and phlox, and larkspur, and wild columbine. It +couldn't make it up to her for all the hardships she underwent when she +was bringing up a family in that wild, western country, and especially +that fall when they all had the "fever 'n' ager" so bad, Uriah and the +twins chilling one day, and Hiram and Sophronia Jane the next, and she +just as miserable as any of them, but keeping up somehow, God only knows +how. It couldn't make it up to her, but as I laid the pretty posies +against the leaning headstone on which is written: + + "A Loving Wife, a Mother Dear, + Faithful Friend Lies Buried Here." + +I believe she 'd get word of it somehow, and understand what I was +trying to say by it. + +I'll ask to be let off the committee that judges the rest of the +exhibits in the Fine Arts Hall, the quilts and the Battenberg, and the +crocheting, and such. I know the Log Cabin pattern, and the +Mexican Feather pattern, and I think I could make out to tell the +Hen-and-Chickens pattern of quilts, but that's as much as ever. And as +to the real, hand-painted views of fruit-cake, and grapes and apples on +a red table-cloth, I am one of those that can't make allowances for the +fact that she only took two terms. I call to mind one picture that Miss +Alvalou Ashbaker made of her pap, old "Coonrod" Ashbaker. The Lord knows +he was a "humbly critter," but he wasn't as "humbly" as she made him out +to be, with his eyes bulging out of his head as if he was choking on a +fishbone. And, instead of her dressing him up in his Sunday clothes, I +wish I may never see the back of my neck if that girl didn't paint him +in a red-and-black barred flannel shirt, with porcelain buttons on it! +And his hair looked as if the calf had been at it. Wouldn't you think +somebody would have told her? And that isn't all. She got the premium! + +Neither am I prepared to pass judgment on the fancy penmanship displayed +by Professor Swope, framed elegantly in black walnut, and gilt, +depicting a bounding deer, all made out of hair-line, shaded spirals, +done with his facile pen. (No wonder a deer can jump so, with all those +springs inside him.) Professor Swope writes visiting cards for you, +wonderful birds done in flourishes and holding ribbons in their bills. +He puts your name on the ribbon place. Neatest and tastiest thing you +can imagine. I like to watch him do it, but it makes me feel unhappy, +somehow. I never was much of a scribe, and it's too late for me to learn +now. + +I don't feel so downcast when I examine the specimens of writing done by +the children of District No. 34. I can just see the young ones working +at home on these things, with their tongues stuck out of one corner of +their mouths. + + "Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day" + +and so on, bearing down hard on the downstroke of the curve in the +capital "R," and clubbing the end of the little "t." And in the higher +grades, they toil over "An Original Social Letter," describing to +an imaginary correspondent a visit to Crystal Lake, or the Magnetic +Springs. I can hear them mourn: "What shall I say next?" and "Ma, make +Effie play some place else, won't you? She jist joggles the table like +everything. Now, see what you done! Now I got to write it all over +again. No, I cain't 'scratch it out. How'd it look to the County Fair +all scratched out? Plague take it all!" + +The same hands have done maps of North and South America, and +red-and-blue ink pictures of the circulation of the blood. It does beat +all how smart the young ones are nowadays. I could no more draw off a +picture of the circulation of the blood--get it right, I mean--why, I +wouldn't attempt it. + +I am kind of mixed up in my recollection of the hall right next to the +Fine Arts. You know it had two doors in each end. Sometimes I can +see the central space between the doors, roped off and devoted to +sewing-machines with persons demonstrating that they ran as light as a +feather, and how it was no trouble at all to tuck and gather, and +fell; to organs, which struck me with amaze, because by some witchcraft +(octave coupler, I think they called it) the man could play on keys +that he didn't touch, and pianos, whereon young ladies were prevailed to +perform "Silvery Waves"--that's a lovely piece, I think, don't you?--and + + "Listen to the mocking-bird, TEE-die-eedle-DONG + Lisen to the mocking-bird, teedle-eedle-EE-dle DONG + The mocking-bird still singing oer her grave, + toomatooral-oo-cal-LEE!" + +And then again I can see that central, roped-off space given over +to reckless deviltry, sheer impudent, brazen-faced, bold, +discipline-defying er--er--wickedness. I had heard that people did +things like that, but this was the first time I had ever caught a +glimpse of such carryings-on in the broad open daylight, right before +everybody. I stood there and watched them for hours, expecting every +minute to see fire fall from heaven on them and burn up every son and +daughter of Belial. But it didn't. + +I seem to recollect that it was a hot day, and that, tucked away where +not a breath of air could get to them, were three fellows in their +shirtsleeves, one playing on an organ, one on a yellow clarinet, and +one on a fiddle. Every chance he could get, the fiddler would say to the +organist: "Gimme A, please," and saw away trying to get into some sort +of tune, but the catgut was never twisted that would hold to pitch +with the perspiration dribbling down his fingers in little rills. The +clarinet man looked as if he wanted to cry, and he had to twitter his +eyelids all the time to keep the sweat from blinding him, and every once +in a while, his soggy reed would let go of a squawk that sounded like +a scared chicken. But the organ groaned on unrelentingly, and the tune +didn't matter so much as the rhythm which was kept up as regular as a +clock, whack! whack! whack! whack! And there were two or three other +fellows with badges on that went around shouting: "Select your podners +for the next quadrille! One more couple wanted right over here!" + +Dancing. M-hm. + +The fiddler "called off" and chanted to the tune, with his mouth on one +side: "Sullootch podners! First couple forward and back. Side couples +the same. Doe see do-o-o-o. Al-lee-man LEFT! Ballunce ALL! Sa-weeny the +corners!" I don't know whether I get the proper order of these commands +or not, or whether my memory serves me as to their effect, but it seems +to me that at "Bal-lunce ALL!" the ladies demurely teetered, first on +one foot and then on the other, like a frozen-toed rooster, while the +gents fairly tore themselves apart with grape-vine twists and fancy +steps, and slapped the dust out of the cracks in the floor. When it came +to "SaWEENG your podners!" the room billowed with flying skirts, and the +ladies squealed like anything. It made you a little dizzy to watch them +do "Graaan' right and left," and you could understand how those folks +felt--there were always one or two in each set--who had to be hauled +this way and that, not sure whether they were having a good time or +not, but hoping they were, their faces set in a sickly grin, while their +foreheads wrinkled into a puzzled: "How's that? I didn't quite catch +that last remark" expression. I don't know if it affected you in the +same way that it did me, but after I had stood there for a time and +watched those young men and women thus wasting the precious moments that +dropped like priceless pearls into the ocean of Eternity, and were +lost irrevocably, young, men and women giving themselves up to present +enjoyment without one serious thought in their minds as to who was going +to wash the supper dishes, or what would happen if the house took fire +while they were away I say I do not know how the sight of such reckless +frivolity affected you, but I know that after so long a time my face +would get all cramped up from wearing a grin, and I'd have to go out and +look at the reapers and binders to rest myself so I could come back and +look some. There are two things that you simply have to do at the County +Fair, or you aren't right sure you've been. One is to drink a glass of +sweet cider just from the press, (which, I may say in passing, is an +over-rated luxury. Cider has to be just the least bit "frisky" to be +good. I don't mean hard, but "frisky." You know). And the other is to +buy a whip, if it is only the little toy, fifteen-cent kind. On the +next soap-box to the old fellow that comes every year to sell pictorial +Bibles and red, plush-covered albums, the old fellow in the green +slippers that talks as if he were just ready to drop off to sleep--on +the next soap-box to him is the man that sells the whips. You can buy +one for a dollar, two for a dollar, or four for a dollar, but not one +for fifty cents, or one for a quarter. Don't ask me why, for I don't +know. I am just stating the facts. It can't be done, for I've seen it +tried, and if you keep up the attempt too long, the whip-man will lose +all patience with your unreasonableness, and tell you to go 'long about +your business if you've got any, and not bother the life and soul out of +him, because he won't sell anything but a dollar's worth of whips, and +that's all there is about it. + +He sells other things, handsaws, and pencils, and mouth-harps, and two +knives for a quarter, of such pure steel that he whittles shavings off +a wire nail with 'em, and is particular to hand you the very identical +knife he did it with. He has jewelry, though I don't suppose you could +cut a wire nail with it. You might, at that. + +To him approaches a boy. + +"Got 'ny collar-buttons?" + +"Well, now, I'll just look and see. Here's a beautiful rolled-plate gold +watch-chain, with an elegant jewel charm. Lovely blue jewel." He dangles +the chain and its rich glass pendant, and it certainly does look fine. +"That'd cost you $2.50 at the store. How'd that strike you?" + +"Hpm. I want a collar-button." + +"Well, now, you hold on a minute. Lemme look again. Ah, here's a package +'at orta have some in it. Yes, sir, here's four of 'em, enough to last +you a lifetime; front, back, and both sleeves, the kind that flips and +don't tear the buttonholes. Well, by ginger! Now, how'd that git in +here, I want to know? That gold ring? Well, I don't care. It'll have to +go with the collar-buttons. Tell you what I'll do with you: I'll let you +have this elegant solid gold rolled-plate watch-chain and jewel, this +elegant, solid gold ring to git married with--Hay? How about it?--and +these four collar-buttons for--for--twenty-five cents, or a quarter of a +dollar." + +That boy never took that quarter out of his breeches pocket. It just +jumped out of itself. But I see that you are getting the fidgets. You're +hoping that I'll come to the horse-racing pretty soon. You want to +have it all brought back to you, the big, big race-track which, as you +remember it now, must have been about the next size smaller than the +earth's orbit around the sun. You want me to tell about the old farmer +with the bunch of timothy whiskers under his chin that gets his old +jingling wagon on the track just before a heat is to be trotted, and +all the people yell at him: "Take him out!" You want me to tell how +the trotters looked walking around in their dusters, with the eye-holes +bound with red braid, and how the drivers of the sulkies sat with the +tails of their horses tucked under one leg. Well, I'm not going to +do anything of the kind, and if you don't like it, you can go to the +box-office and demand your money back. I hope you'll get it. First +place, I don't know anything about racing, and consequently I don't +believe it's a good thing for the country. All I know is, that some +horses can go faster than others, but which are the fastest ones I can't +tell by the looks, though I have tried several times.... I did not walk +back. I bought a round-trip ticket. They will tell you that these events +at the County Fair tend to improve the breed of horses. So they do--of +fast horses. But the fast horses are no good. They can't any of them go +as fast as a nickel trolley-car when it gets out where there aren't any +houses. And they not only are no good; they're a positive harm. You know +and I know that just as soon as a man gets cracked after fast horses, +it's good-by John with him. + +In the next place, I wouldn't mind it if it was only interesting to me. +But it isn't. It bores me to death. You sit there and sit there trying +to keep awake while the drivers jockey and jockey, scheming to get the +advantage of the other fellow, and the bell rings so many times for them +to come back after you think: "They're off this time, sure," that you +get sick of hearing it. And when they do get away, why, who can tell +which horse is in the lead? On the far side of the track they don't +appear to do anything but poke along, and once in a while some fool +horse will "break" and that's annoying. And then when they come into +the stretch, the other folks that see you with the field-glasses, keep +nudging you and asking: "Who 's ahead, mister? Hay? Who's ahead?" And +it's ruinous to the voice to yell: "Go it! Go it! Go IT, ye devil, +you!" with your throat all clenched that way and your face as red as a +turkey-gobbler's. And that second when they are going under the wire, +and the horse you rather like is about a nose behind the other one +that you despise--Oh, tedious, very tedious. Ho hum, Harry! If I wasn't +engaged, I wouldn't marry. Did you think to put a saucer of milk out for +the kitty before you locked up the house? + +No. Horse-racing bores me to death, and as I am one of the charter +members of the Anti-Other-Folks-Enjoyment Society, organized to stop +people from amusing themselves in ways that we don't care for, you +can readily see that it is a matter of principle with me to ignore +horseracing, and not to give it so much encouragement as would come from +mentioning it. + +If you're so interested in improving the breed of horses by competitive +contests, what 's the matter with that one where the prize is $5 for the +team that can haul the heaviest load on a stoneboat, straight pulling? +Pile on enough stones to build a house, pretty near, and the owner +of the team, a young fellow with a face like Keats, goes "Ck! Ck! Ck! +Geet... ep... thah BILL! Geet ep, Doll-ay!" and cracks his whip, and +kisses with his mouth, and the horses dance and tug, and jump around and +strain till the stone-boat slides on the grass, and then men climb on +until the load gets so heavy that the team can't budge it. Then another +team tries, and so on, the competitors jawing and jowering at each other +with: "Ah, that ain't fair! That ain't fair! They started it sideways." + +"That don't make no difference." + +"Yes, it does, too, make a difference. Straight ahead four inches. +that's the rule." + +"Well, didn't they go straight ahead four inches? What's a matter with +ye?" + +"I'll darn soon show ye what's the matter with me, you come any o' your +shenanigan around here." + +"Mighty ready to accuse other folks o' shenannigan, ain't ye? For half +a cent I'd paste you in the moot." + +"Now, boys! Now boys! None o' that." + +Lots more excitement than a horse-race. Lots more improving to the mind, +and beneficial to the country. + +And if you hanker after the human element of skill, what's the matter +with the contest where the women see who can hitch up a horse the +quickest? Didn't you have your favorite picked out from the start? I +did. She was about thirteen years old, dressed in an organdie, and I +think she had light blue ribbons flying from her hat, light blue or +pink, I forget which. Her pa helped her unharness, and you could tell by +the way he look-at her that he thought she was about the smartest +young one for her age in her neighborhood. (You ought to hear her play +"General Grant's Grand March" on the organ he bought for her, a fine +organ with twenty-four stops and two full sets of reeds, and a mirror in +the top, and places to set bouquets and all.) There was a woman in the +contest that seemed, by her actions, to think that the others were just +wasting their time competing with her, but when they got the word "Go!" +(Old Nate Wells was the judge; he sold out the livery-stable business +to Charley, you recollect) her horse backed in wrong, and she got the +harness all twisty-ways, and everything went bewitched. And wasn't she +provoked, though? Served her right, I say. A little woman beside her was +the first to jump into her buggy, and drive off with a strong inhalation +of breath, and that nipping together of the lips that says: "A-a-ah! I +tell ye!" The little girl that we picked out was hopping around like a +scared cockroach, and her pa seemed to be saying: "Now, keep cool! Keep +cool! Don't get flustered," but when another woman drove off, I know she +almost cried, she felt so bad. But she was third, and when she and her +pa drove around the ring, the people clapped her lots more than the +other two. I guess they must have picked her for a favorite the same as +you and I did. Bless her heart! I hope she got a good man when she grew +up. + +Around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin, where they have the relics, the +spinning-wheel, the flax-hackle, and the bunch of dusty tow that nobody +knows how to spin in these degenerate days; the old flint-lock rifle, +and the powder-horn; the tinder-box, and the blue plate, "more'n a +hundred years old;" the dog-irons, tongs, poker, and turkey-wing of an +ancient fireplace--around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin all the early +part of the day a bunch of dirty canvas has been dangling from a rope +stretched between two trees. It was fenced off from the curious, but +after dinner a stranger in fringy trousers and a black singlet went +around picking out big, strong, adventurous young fellows to stand about +the wooden ring fastened to the bottom of the bunch of canvas, which +went over the smoke-pipe of a sort of underground furnace in which a +roaring fire had been built. As the hot air filled the great bag, it was +the task of these helpers to shake out the wrinkles and to hold it down. +Older and wiser ones forbade their young ones to go near it. Supposing +it should explode; what then? But we have always wanted to fly away +up into the air, and what did we come to the Fair for, if not for +excitement? The balloon swells out amazingly fast, and when the +guy-ropes are loosened and drop to the ground, the elephantine bag +clumsily lunges this way and that, causing shrill squeals from those who +fear to be whelmed in it. The man in the singlet tosses kerosene into +the furnace from a tin cup, and you can see the tall flames leap upward +from the flue into the balloon. It grows tight as a drum. + +"Watch your horses!" he calls out. There is a pause.... "Let go all!" +The mighty shape shoots up twenty feet or so, and the man in the singlet +darts to the corner to cut a lone detaining rope. As he runs he sheds +his fringy trousers. + +"Good-by, everybody!" he cries out, and the sinister possibilities in +that phrase are overlooked in the wonder at seeing him lurch upward +through the air, all glorious in black tights and yellow breech-clout. +Up and up he soars above the tree-tops, and the wind gently wafts him +along, a pendant to a dusky globe hanging in the sky. He is just a speck +now swaying to and fro. The globe plunges upward; the pendant drops like +a shot. There is a rustling sound. It is the intake of the breath of +horror from ten thousand pairs of lungs. Look! Look! The edges of the +parachute ruffle, and then it blossoms out like an opening flower. It +bounces on the air a little, and rocking gently sinks like thistle-down +behind the woods. + +It is all over. The Fair is over. Let's go home. Isn't it wonderful +though, what men can do? You'll see; they'll be flying like birds, one +of these days. That's what we little boys think, but we overhear old +Nate Wells say to Tom Slaymaker, as we pass them: "Well, I d' know. I +d' know 's these here b'loon ascensions is worth the money they cost +the 'Sociation. I seen so many of 'em, they don't interest me nummore. +'Less, o' course, sumpun should happen to the feller." + + + + +CHRISTMAS BACK HOME + + +It was the time of year when the store windows are mighty interesting. +Plotner's bakery, that away, 'way back in the summer-time, was an +ice-cream saloon, showed a plaster man in the window, with long, white +whiskers, in top boots and a brown coat and peaked hat, all trimmed with +fur, and carrying a little pinetree with arsenical foliage. Over his +head dangled a thicket of canes hanging by their crooks from a twine +string stretched across. They were made of candy striped spirally in red +and white. There were candy men and women in the window, and chocolate +mice with red eyes, and a big cake, all over frosting, with a candy +preacher on it marrying a candy man and lady. The little children stood +outside, with their joggerfies, and arithmetics, and spellers, and +slates bound in red flannel under their arms, and swallowed hard as they +looked. Whenever anybody went in for a penny's worth of yeast and opened +the door, that had a bell fastened to it so that Mrs. Plotner could +hear in the back room, and come to wait on the customer, the smell of +wintergreen and peppermint and lemonsticks and hot taffy gushed out so +strong that they couldn't swallow fast enough, but stood there choking +and dribbling at the mouth. + +Brown's shoe store exhibited green velvet slippers with deers' heads +on them, and Galbraith's windows were hung with fancy dressgoods, and +handkerchiefs with dogs' heads in the corners; but, next to Plotner's, +Case's drug-and-book store was the nicest. When you first went in, it +smelled of cough candy and orris root, but pretty soon you could notice +the smell of drums and new sleds, and about the last smell, (sort of +down at the bottom of things) was the smell of new books, the fish-glue +on the binding, and the muslin covers, and the printer's ink, and that +is a smell that if it ever gets a good hold of you, never lets go. There +were the "Rollo" books, and the "Little Prudy" books, and "Minnie and +Her Pets," and the "Elm Island" series, and the "Arabian Nights," with +colored pictures, and There were skates all curled up at the toes, and +balls of red and black leather in alternate quarters, and China mugs, +with "Love the Giver," and "For a Good Boy" in gilt letters on them. +Kind of Dutch letters they were. And there were dolls with black, shiny +hair, and red cheeks, and blue eyes, with perfectly arched eyebrows. +They had on black shoes and white stockings, with pink garters, and they +almost always toed in a little. They looked so cold in the window with +nothing but a "shimmy" on, and fairly ached to be dressed, and nursed, +and sung to. The little girls outside the window felt an emptiness in +the hollow of their left arms as they gazed. There was one big doll in +the middle all dressed up. It had real hair that you could comb, and it +was wax. Pure wax! Yes, sir. And it could open and shut its eyes, and if +you squeezed its stomach it would cry, of course, not like a real baby, +but more like one of those ducks that stand on a sort of bellows thing. +Though they all "chose" that doll and hoped for miracles, none of them +really expected to find it in her stocking sixteen days later. (They +kept count of the days.) Maybe Bell Brown might get it; her pa bought +her lots of things. She had parlor skates and a parrot, only her ma +wouldn't let her skate in the parlor, it tore up the carpet so, and the +parrot bit her finger like anything. + +The little boys kicked their copper-toed boots to keep warm and +quarreled about which one chose the train of cars first, and then began +to quarrel over an army of soldiers. + +"I choose them!" + +"A-aw! You choosed the ingine and the cars." + +"Dung care. I choose everything in this whole window." + +"A-aw! That ain't fair!" + +In the midst of the wrangle somebody finds out that Johnny Pym has +a piece of red glass, and then they begin fighting for turns looking +through it at the snow and the court-house. But not for long. They +fall to bragging about what they are going to get for Christmas. Eddie +Cameron was pretty sure he 'd get a spy-glass. He asked his pa, and his +pa said "Mebby. He'd see about it." Then, just in time, they looked up +and saw old man Nicholson coming along with his shawl pinned around him. +They ran to the other side of the street because he stops little boys, +and pats them on the head, and asks them if they have found the Savior. +It makes some boys cry when he asks them that. + +The Rowan twins--Alfaretta and Luanna May--are working a pair of +slippers for their pa, one apiece, because it is such slow work. Along +about suppertime they make Elmer Lonnie stay outside and watch for his +coming, and he has to say: "Hello, pa!" very loud, and romp with him +outside the gate so as to give the twins time to gather up the colored +zephyrs and things, and hide them in the lower bureau drawer in the +spare bedroom. At such a time their mother finds an errand that takes +her into the parlor so that she can see that they do not, by any chance, +look into the middle drawer in the farther left-hand corner, under the +pillow-slips. + +One night, just at supper-time, Elmer Lonnie said: "Hello, pa!" and +then they heard pa whispering and Elmer Lonnie came in looking very +solemn--or trying to--and said: "Ma, Miss Waldo wants to know if you +won't please step over there a minute." + +"Did she say what for? Because I'm right in the midst of getting +supper. I look for your pa any minute now, and I don't want to keep him +waiting." + +"No 'm, she didn't say what for. She jist said: 'Ast yer ma won't she +please an' step over here a minute.' I wouldn't put anythin' on. 'T +ain't cold. You needn't stay long, only till... I guess she's in some of +a hurry." + +"Well, if Harriet Waldo thinks 'at I haven't anythin' better to do 'n +trot around after her at her beck an'.... All right, I'll come." + +The twins got their slippers hid, and Mrs. Rowan threw her shawl over +her head, and went next door to take Mrs. Waldo completely by surprise. +The good woman immediately invented an intricate problem in crochet +work demanding instant solution. Mr. Rowan had brought home a crayon +enlargement of a daguerreotype of Ma, taken before she was married, when +they wore their hair combed down over their ears, and wide lace collars +fastened with a big cameo pin, and puffed sleeves with the armholes +nearly at the elbows. They wore lace mitts then, too. The twins thought +it looked so funny, but Pa said: "It was all the style in them days. +Laws! I mind the first time I took her home from singin' school.... +Tell you where less hide it. In between the straw tick, and the feather +tick." And Luanna May said: "What if company should come?" Elmer Lonnie +ran over to Mrs. Waldo's to tell Ma that Pa had come home, and wanted +his supper right quick, because he had to get back to the store, there +was so much trade in the evenings now. + +"I declare, Emmeline Rowan, you're gettin' to be a reg'lar gadabout," +said Mr. Rowan, very savagely. "Gad, gad, gad, from mornin' till night. +Ain't they time in daylight fer you an' Hat Waldo to talk about your +neighbors 'at you can't stay home long enough to git me my supper?" + +He winked at the twins so funny that Alfaretta, who always was kind of +flighty, made a little noise with her soft palate and tried to pass it +off for a cough. Luanna May poked her in the ribs with her elbow, and +Mrs. Rowan spoke up quite loud: "Why, Pa, how you go on! I wasn't but +a minute, an' you hardly ever come before halfpast. And furthermore, +mister, I want to know how I'm to keep this house a-lookin' like +anything an' you a-trackin' in snow like that. Just look at you. I sh'd +think you'd know enough to stomp your feet before you come in. +Luanna May, you come grind the coffee. Alfie, run git your Pa his old +slippers." That set both of them to giggling, and Mrs. Rowan went out +into the kitchen and began to pound the beefsteak. + +"D' you think she sispicioned anythin'?" asked Mr. Rowan out of one side +of his mouth, and Elmer Lonnie said, "No, sir," and wondered if his Pa +"sispicioned anythin"' when Ma said, "Run git the old slippers." + +Mr. Waldo always walked up with Mr. Rowan, and just about that time his +little Mary Ellen was climbing up into his lap and saying: "I bet you +can't guess what I'm a-goin' to buy you for a Christmas gift with my +pennies what I got saved up." + +"I'll just bet I can." + +"No, you can't. It's awful pretty--I mean, they're awful pretty. Somepin +you want, too." How could he guess with her fingering his tarnished cuff +buttons and looking down at them every minute or two? + +"Well, now, let me see. Is it a gold watch?" + +"Nope." + +"Aw, now! I jist set my heart on a gold watch and chain." + +"Well, but it'd cost more money 'n I got. Three or fifteen dollars, +mebby." + +"Well, let me see. Is it a shotgun?" + +"No, sir. Oh, you just can't guess it." + +"Is it a--a--Is it a horse and buggy?" + +"Aw, now, you're foolin'. No, it ain't a horse and buggy." + +"I know what it is. It's a dolly with real hair that you can comb, and +all dressed up in a blue dress. One that can shut its eyes when it goes +bye-bye." + +Little Mary Ellen looks at him very seriously a minute, and sighs, and +says: "No, it ain't that. But if it was, wouldn't you let me play with +it when you was to the store?" And he catches her up in his arms and +says: "You betchy! Now, I ain't goin' to guess any more! I want to be +surprised. You jump down an' run an' ask Ma if supper ain't most ready. +Tell her I'm as hungry as a hound pup." + +He hears her deliver the message, and also the word her mother sends +back: "Tell him to hold his horses. It 'll be ready in a minute." + +"It will, eh? Well, I can't wait a minute, an' I'm goin' to take a +hog-bite right out of YOU!" and he snarls and bites her right in the +middle of her stomach, and if there is anything more ticklesome than +that, it hasn't been heard of yet. + +After supper, little Eddie Allgire teases his brother D. to tell him +about Santa Claus. D. is cracking walnuts on a flat-iron held between +his knees. + +"Is they any Santy Claus, D.?" + +"W'y, cert, they is. Who says not?" + +"Bunty Rogers says they ain't no sech a person." + +"You tell Bunt Rogers that he's a-gittin' too big fer his britches, an' +first thing he knows, he'll whirl round an' see his naked nose. Tell him +I said so." + +"Well, is they any Santy Claus?" + +"W'y cert. Ain't I a-tellin' you? Laws! ain't you never seen him yet?" + +"I seen that kind of a idol they got down in Plotner's winder." + +"Well, he looks jist like that, on'y he's alive." + +"Did you ever see him, D.?" + +"O-oh, well! Think I'm goin' to tell everything I know? Well, I guess +not." + +"Well, but did you now?" + +"M-well, that 'd be tellin'." + +"Aw, now, D., tell me." + +"Look out what you're doin'. Now see that. You pretty near made me mash +my thumb." + +"Aw, now, D., tell me. I think you might. I don't believe you ever did." + +"Oh, you don't, hey? Well, if you had 'a saw what I saw. M-m! Little +round eyes an' red nose an' white whiskers, an' heard the sleigh bells, +an' oh, my! them reindeers! Cutest little things! Stompin' their little +feet" Here he stopped, and went on cracking nuts. + +"Tell some more. Woncha, please? Ma, make D. tell me the rest of it." + +"Huck-uh! Dassant. 'T wouldn't be right. Like's not he won't put anythin' +in my stockin' now fer what I did tell." + +"How'll he know?" + +"How'll he know? Easy enough. He goes around all the houses evenings now +to see how the young ones act, an' if he finds they're sassy, an' don't +mind their Ma when she tells them to leave the cat alone, an' if they +whine: 'I don' want to go out an' cut the kindlin'. Why cain't D. do +it?' then he puts potatoes an' lumps o' coal in their stockin's. Oh, +he'll be here, course o' the evenin'." + +"D' you s'pose he's round here now?" Eddie got a little closer to his +brother. + +"I wouldn't wonder. Yes, sir. There he goes now. Sure's you're alive." + +"Where?" + +"Right over yan. Aw, you don't look. See? There he is. Aw! you're too +slow. Didn't you see him? Now the next time I tell you--Look, look! +There! He run right acrost the floor an' into the closet. Plain 's day. +didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?" + +Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches in a +nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck. + +"W'y, you couldn't help but see him, didn't you take notice to his white +whiskers?" + +"Ye-es," said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of hypnosis. + +"Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?" + +"M-hm," said Eddie, the image taking shape in his mind's eye. + +"And his brown coat all trimmed with fur, an' his funny peaked hat? An' +his red nose? W'y, course you did." The boy nodded his head. He was sure +now. Yes. Faith was lost in sight. He believed. + +"I expect he's in the closet now. Go look." + +"No. You." He clung to D. + +"I can't. I got this flat-iron in my lap, an' wouldn't spill the +nut-shells all over the floor. You don't want me to, do you, Ma?" + +Mrs. Allgire shook her head. + +"Well, now," said D. "Anybody tell you they ain't sich a person as Santy +Claus, you kin jist stand 'em down 'at you know better, 'cause you seen +him, didn't you?" + +Eddie nodded his head. Anyhow, what D. told him was "the Lord said unto +Moses," and now that he had the evidence of his own eyes--Well, the next +day he defied Bunt Rogers and all his works. To tell the plain truth, +Bunt wasn't too well grounded in his newly cut infidelity. + + +In the public schools the children were no longer singing: + + "None knew thee but to love thee, thou dear one of my heart; + Oh, thy mem'ry is ever fresh and green. + The sweet buds may wither and fond hearts be broken, + Still I love thee, my darling, Daisy Deane." + +They turned over now to page 53, and there was a picture of Santa Claus +just as in Plotner's window, except that he had a pack on his back and +one leg in the chimney. This is what they sang: + + "Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? + Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? + Up on the house-top, click, click, click + Down through the chimney with good St. Nick." + +Miss Munsell, who taught the D primary, traded rooms with Miss Crutcher, +who taught the "a-b Abs." Miss Munsell was a big fat lady, and she +smiled so that the dimples came in both cheeks and her double Chin was +doubter than ever, when she told the children what a dear, nice teacher +Miss Crutcher was, and how fond she was of them, and wouldn't they like +to make a Christmas present to their dear, kind teacher? They all said +"Yes, mam." Well, now, the way to do would be for each child to bring +money (if Miss Munsell had smiled at a bird in the tree as she did then, +it would have had to come right down and perch in her hand), just as +much money as ever they could, and all must bring something, because it +would make Miss Crutcher feel so bad to think that there was one +little boy or one little girl that didn't love her enough to give her a +Christmas present. And if everybody brought a dime or maybe a quarter, +they could get her such a nice present. If their papas wouldn't let +them have that much money, why surely they would let them have a penny, +wouldn't they, children? And the children said: "Yes, mam." + +"And now all that love their dear, kind teacher, raise their hands. Why, +there's a little girl over that hasn't her hand up! That's right, dear, +put it up, bless your little heart! Now, we mustn't say a word to Miss +Crutcher, must we? No. And that will be our secret, won't it? And all be +sure to have your money ready by to-morrow. Now, I wonder if you can be +just as still as little mice. I'm going to give this little girl a pin +to drop and see if I can hear it out in the hall." + +Then she tiptoed down the hall clear to her own room and Mary Ellen +Waldo let the pin drop, and Miss Mussell didn't come back to say whether +she heard the pin drop or not. The children sat in breathless +silence. Selma Morgenroth knocked her slate off and bit her lip with +mortification while the others looked at her as much as to say: "Oh, +my! ain't you 'shamed?" Then Miss Crutchet came back and smiled at the +children, and they smiled back at her because they knew something she +didn't know and couldn't guess at all. It was a secret. + +The next morning Miss Crutchet traded rooms again, and the little +children gave Miss Mussell their money, and she counted it, and it came +to $2.84. The next day she came again because there were three that +hadn't their money, so there was $2.88 at last. Miss Mussell had three +little girls go with her after school to pick out the present. They +chose a silver-plated pickle caster, which is exactly what girls of +seven will choose, and, do you know, it came exactly to $2.88? + +Then, on the last day of school, Miss Mussell came in, and, with the +three little girls standing on the platform and following every move +with their eyes as a dog watches his master, she gave the caster to Miss +Crutchet and Miss Crutchet cried, she was so surprised. They were tears +of joy, she said. After that, she went into Miss Munsell's room, and +three little girls in there gave Miss Mussell a copy of Tennyson's poems +that cost exactly $2.53, which was what Miss Crutchet had collected, and +Miss Mussell cried because she was so surprised. How they could guess +that she wanted a copy of Tennyson's poems, she couldn't think, but +she would always keep the book and prize it because her dear pupils had +given it to her. And just as Selma Morgenroth called out to the monitor, +Charley Freer, who sat in Miss Crutchers chair, while she was absent: +"Teacher! Make Miky Ryan he should ka-vit a-pullin' at my hair yet!" and +the school was laughing because she called Charley Freer "teacher," in +came Miss Crutchet as cross as anything, and boxed Miky Ryan's ears +and shook Selma Morgenroth for making so much noise. They didn't give +anything, though they promised they would. + +It was not alone in the day schools that there were extra preparations. +The Sunday-schools were getting ready, too, and when Janey Pettit came +home and told her Pa how big her class was, he started to say something, +but her Ma shook her head at him and he looked very serious and seemed +to be trying hard not to smile. He was very much interested, though, +when she told him that Iky Morgenroth, whose father kept the One-Price +Clothing House down on Main Street, had joined, and how he didn't know +enough to take his hat off when he came into church. Patsy Gubbins and +Miky Ryan and six boys from the Baptist Sunday-School had joined, too, +and they all went into Miss Sarepta Downey's class, so that she had two +whole pews full to teach, and they acted just awful. The infant +class was crowded, and there was one little boy that grabbed for the +collection when it was passed in front of him, and got a whole handful +and wouldn't give it up, and they had to twist the money out of his +fist, and he screamed and "hollered" like he was being killed. And +coming home, Sophy Perkins, who goes to the Baptist Church, told +her that there wasn't going to be any Christmas tree at their +Sabbath-school. She said that there wasn't hardly anybody out. The +teachers just sat round and finally went into the pastor's Bible class. +Mr. Pettit said he was surprised to hear it. It couldn't have been the +weather that kept them away, could it? Janey said she didn't know. Then +he asked her what they were going to sing for Christmas, and she +began on "We three kings of Orient are," and broke off to ask him what +"Orient" meant, and he told her that Orient was out on the Sunbury pike, +about three miles this side of Olive Green, and her Ma said: "Lester +Pettit, I wish't you'd ever grow up and learn how to behave yourself. +Why, honey, it means the East. The three wise men came from the East, +don't you mind?" + +At the Centre Street M. E. Church, where Janey Pettit went to +Sunday-school, there were big doings. Little Lycurgus Emerson, whose +mother sent him down to Littell's in a hurry for two pounds of brown +sugar, and who had already been an hour and a half getting past +Plotner's and Case's, heard Brother Littell and Abel Horn talking over +what they had decided at the "fishery meetin'." (By the time Curg got +so that he shaved, he knew that "officiary" was the right way to say +it, just as "certificate" is the right way to say "stiffcut.") There was +going to be a Christmas tree clear up to the ceiling, all stuck full of +candles and strung with pop-corn, and a chimney for Santa Claus to climb +down and give out the presents and call out the names on them. Every +child in the Sunday-school was to get a bag of candy and an orange, and +there were going to be "exercises." Curg thought it would be kind of +funny to go through gymnastics, but, just then, he saw Uncle Billy +Nicholson come in, and he hid. He didn't want to be patted on the head +and--asked things. + +Uncle Billy had his mouth all puckered up, and his eyebrows looked more +like tooth-brushes than ever. He put down the list of groceries that +Aunt Libby had written out for him, because he couldn't remember things +very well, and commenced to lay down the law. + +"Such carryin's on in the house o' God!" he snorted. "Why the very idy! +Talk about them Pharisees an' Sadducees a-makin' the temple a den o' +thieves! W'y, you're a-turnin' it into a theayter with your play-actin' +tomfoolery! They'll be no blessin' on it, now you mark." + +"Aunt Libby say whether she wanted stoned raisins?" asked Brother +Littell, who was copying off the list on the order book. + +"I disremember, but you better send up the reg'lar raisins. Gittin' too +many newfangled contraptions these days. They're a-callin' it a theayter +right now, the Babtists is. What you astin' fer your eatin' apples? +Whew! My souls alive! I don't wonder you grocery storekeepers git rich +in a hurry. No, I guess you needn't send 'ny up. Taste too strong o' +money. Don't have no good apples now no more anyways. All so dried up +and pethy. An' what is it but a theayter, I'd like to know? Weth your +lectures about the Ar'tic regions an' your mum-socials, an' all like +that, chargin' money fer to git in the meetin' house. I tell you what it +is, Brother Littell, the women folks 'd take the money they fritter away +on ribbons and artificial flowers an' gold an'costly apparel, which I +have saw them turned away from the love-feast fer wearin', an' 'ud give +it in fer quarterage an' he'p support the preachin' of the Word, they +wouldn't need to be no shows in the meetin' house an' they 'd be more +expeerimental religion." + +Abel Horn (Abel led the singing in meeting, and had a loud bass voice; +he always began before everybody and ended after everybody) was standing +behind Uncle Billy, and Lycurgus could see him with his head juked +forward and his eyebrows up and his mouth wide open in silent laughter, +very disconcerting to Brother Littell, who didn't want to anger Uncle +Billy, and maybe lose his trade by grinning in his face. + +"An' now you got to go an' put up a Christmas tree right in the altar," +stormed Uncle Billy, "an' dike it all out with pop-corn an' candles. +You're gittin' as bad 's the Catholics, every bit. Worse, I say, becuz +they never had the Gospel light, an' is jist led round by the priest an' +have to pay to git their sins forgive. But you, you're a-walkin' +right smack dab into it, weth your eyes open, teachin' fer Gospel the +inventions o' men." + +"W'y what, Uncle Billy?" + +"W'y, this here Santy Claus a-climbin' down a chimley an' a-cuttin' up +didoes fer to make them little ones think they is a reel Santy Claus +'cuz they seen him to the meetin' house. Poot soon when they git a +little older 'n' they find out how you been afoolin' 'em about Santy +Claus, they'll wonder if what you been a-tellin' 'em about the Good Man +ain't off o' the same bolt o' goods, an' another one o' them cunningly +devised fables. Think they'll come any blessin' on tellin' a lie? An' +a-actin' it out? No, sir. No, sir. Ain't ary good thing to a lie, no way +you kin fix it. How kin they be? Who's the father of lies? W'y the Old +Scratch! That's who. An' here you go a--" + +The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and stamped +out, slamming the door after him. + +Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before he +mildly observed "Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like." + +"Righteous mad, I s'pose," said Abel Horn. + +"You waited on yit, bub?" asked Brother Littell. "I betchy he's +a-thinkin' right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an' go +to the Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb at the +fur end o' town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there." + +"Pity him an' a few more of 'em up in the Amen corner wouldn't go," said +Abel Horn. "Mind the time we sung, 'There is a Stream?' You know +they's a solo in it fer the soprano. Well, 't is kind o' operatic an' +skallyhootin' up an' down the scale. I give the solo to Tilly Wilkerson +an' if that old skeezicks didn't beller right out in the middle of it: +'It's a disgrace tud Divine service!' He did. You could 'a' heard him +clear to the court-house. My! I thought I'd go up. Tilly, she was kind +o' scared an' trimbly, but she stuck to it like a major. Said afterwards +she'd 'a' finished that solo if it was the last act she ever done." + +"Who's a-goin' to be Santy Claus?" asked Brother Littell, with cheerful +irrevelance. + +"The committee thought that had better be kept a secret," replied Abel, +with as much dignity as his four feet nine would admit of. + +"Ort to be somebody kind o' heavy-set, ort n't it?" hinted the grocer, +giving a recognizable description of himself. + +"Well, I don' know 'bout that," contested Abel. "Git somebody kind o' +spry an' he could pad out weth a pilfer. A pussy man 'd find it rather +onhandy comin' down that chimbly an' hoppin' hether an' yan takin' +things off o' the tree. Need somebody with a good strong voice, too, +to call off the names.... Woosh's you'd git them things up to the house +soon 's you kin, Otho. Ma's in a hurry fer 'em." + +"Betchy two cents," said Brother Littell to his clerk, Clarence +Bowersox, "'at Abel Horn 'll be Santy Claus." + +"Git out!" doubted Clarence. + +"'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himself in an' +be the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more call to be Santy +Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-up runt, bald 's a +apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inch tell I was sixteen +'n' then I shot up like a weed.'... Bub, you tell yer Ma if she wants a +turkey fer Christmas she better be gittin' her order in right quick." + +Only six more days till Christmas now--only five--only four--only +three--only two--Christmas Eve. One day more of holding in such swelling +secrets, and some of the young folks would have popped right wide open. +Families gather about the Franklin stove, Pa and Ma gaping and rubbing +their eyes--saying, "Oh, hum!" and making out that they are just plumb +perishing for the lack of sleep. But the children cannot take the hint. +They don't want to go to bed. The imminence of a great event nerves them +in their hopeless fight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and stare +with bulging eyes at the red coals and dancing flames, spurting out here +and there like tiny sabers. + +The mystic hour draws near. Sometime in the night will come the jingle +of silver bells, and the patter of tiny hoofs. Old Santa will halloo: +"Whoa!" and come sliding down the chimney. The drowsing heads, fuddled +with weariness, wrestle clumsily with the problem, "How is he to get +through the stove without burning himself?" Reason falters and Faith +triumphs. It would be done somehow, and then the reindeer would fly +to the next house, and the next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour +draws near. Like a tidal wave it rolls around the world, foaming at its +crest in a golden spray of gifts and love. The mystic hour. + +"Oh, just a little longer, just a little longer." + +"No, no. You cain't hardly prop your eyes open now. Come now. Get to +bed. Now, Elmer Lonnie; now, Mary Ellen; now, Janey; now, Eddie; now, +Lycurgus. Don't be naughty at the last minute and say, 'I don't want +to,' or else Santa Claus won't come a-near. No, sir." + +After the last drink of water and the last "Now I lay me," a long +pause.... Then from the spare bedroom the loud rustling of stiff paper, +the snap of broken, string, and whispers of, "Won't her eyes stick out +when she sees that!" and, "He's been just fretting for a sled; I'm so +glad it was so 't we could get it for him," and, "I s'pose we ort n't to +spent so much, but seems like with such nice young ones 's we've got 't +ain't no more 'n right we should do for 'em all we can afford, 'n' +mebby a little more. Janey 's 'stiffcut' said she was 100 in everything, +deportment an' all." + +At one house something white slips down the staircase to where a good +view can be had through the half-open parlor door. It pauses when a step +cracks loudly in the stillness. The parlor door is slammed to. + +"D' you think he saw?" + +"I don't know. I'm afraid so. Little tyke!" + +Something white creeps back and crawls into bed. A heart thumps +violently under the covers, and two big, round eyes stare up at the dark +ceiling. Somebody has eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and +the gates of Eden have shut behind him forever. + +He does not sense that now; he is glad in the exulting consciousness +that he is "a little kid" no longer. Pretty soon he'll be a man, and +then.... and then.... Oh, what grand things are to happen then! + +The mutual gifts are brought out with many a shamefaced: "It looks awful +little, but 't was the best I could do for the money. You see I spent +more on the children than I lotted to," and many a cheerful fib of: +"Why, that's exactly what I've been wishing for." Some poor fools, that +have never learned and never will learn that the truest word ever spoken +is: "It is more blessed to give than to receive," make their husbands a +present of a parlor lamp or a pair of lace curtains, and their wives +a present of a sack of flour, or enough muslin to make half a dozen +shirts. And there are deeper depths. There are such words as: "What +possessed you to buy me that old thing? Well, I won't have it! Now!" The +stove-door is slammed open and the gift crammed in upon the coals, and +two people sit there with lips puffed out, chests heaving and hearts +burning with hate. + +It is the truth, but cover it up. Cover it up. Turn away the head. On +this Holy Night of Illusion let us forget the truth for once. There +are three hundred and sixty-four other nights in which to consider the +eternal verities. On this one, let us be as little children. "Let us now +go even to Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass." + +The mystic hour draws nigh. The lights go out, one by one. The watchman +at the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking count the +strokes that tremble in the frosty air. Eleven o'clock. Father and +mother sit silent by the fire. The tree in the corner of the room +flashes its tinselry in the dying light. A cinder tinkles on the hearth. +Their thoughts are one. "He would be nine years old, if he had lived," +murmurs the mother. Their hands grope for each other, meet and clasp. +Something aches in their throats. The red coals swell and blur into a +formless mass. + +The mystic hour is come. The town sleeps. The moon rides high in the +clear heavens. The wind sighs in the fir trees. Faint and far-off across +the centuries sounds the chant of angels. + +The hour is come. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Back Home, by Eugene Wood + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BACK HOME *** + +***** This file should be named 2642.txt or 2642.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/4/2642/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/2642.zip b/2642.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..dea863b --- /dev/null +++ b/2642.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d93e9ff --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #2642 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2642) diff --git a/old/bckhm10.txt b/old/bckhm10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c9e825d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/bckhm10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6377 @@ +****The Project Gutenberg Etext of Back Home, by Eugene Wood**** + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + +*It must legally be the first thing seen when opening the book.* +In fact, our legal advisors said we can't even change margins. + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Title: Back Home + +Author: Eugene Wood + +May, 2001 [Etext #2642] + + +****The Project Gutenberg Etext of Back Home, by Eugene Wood**** +******This file should be named bckhm10.txt or bckhm10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, bckhm11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, bckhm10a.txt + + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + + +Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions, +all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a +copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any +of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text +files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+ +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users. + +At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third +of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we +manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly +from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an +assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few +more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we +don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person. + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- +Mellon University). + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> +hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org +if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if +it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . . + +We would prefer to send you this information by email. + +****** + +To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser +to view http://promo.net/pg. This site lists Etexts by +author and by title, and includes information about how +to get involved with Project Gutenberg. You could also +download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here. This +is one of our major sites, please email hart@pobox.com, +for a more complete list of our various sites. + +To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any +Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror +sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed +at http://promo.net/pg). + +Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better. + +Example FTP session: + +ftp metalab.unc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg +cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext01, etc. +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99] +GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books] + +*** + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** + +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +We are planning on making some changes in our donation structure +in 2000, so you might want to email me, hart@pobox.com beforehand. + + + + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer. + + + + + +Back Home + +by Eugene Wood + + + + + TO + THE SAINTED MEMORY + OF HER WHOM, IN THE DAYS BACK HOME, + I KNEW AS "MY MA MAG" + AND WHO WAS MORE TO ME THAN I CAN TELL, EVEN + IF MY TARDY WORDS COULD REACH HER + THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED + + "That she who is an angel now + Might sometimes think of me" + + + + +CONTENTS + +INTRODUCTION +THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE +THE SABBATH-SCHOOL +THE REVOLVING YEAR +THE SWIMMING-HOLE +THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT +THE DEVOURING ELEMENT +CIRCUS DAY +THE COUNTY FAIR +CHRISTMAS BACK HOME + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +GENTLE READER: - Let me make you acquainted with my book, +"Back Home." (Your right hand, Book, your right hand. Pity's sakes! +How many times have I got to tell you that? Chest up and forward, +shoulders back and down, and turn your toes out more.) + +It is a little book, Gentle Reader, but please don't let that +prejudice you against it. The General Public, I know, likes to feel +heft in its hand when it buys a book, but I had hoped that you +were a peg or two above the General Public. That mythical being +goes on a reading spree about every so often, and it selects a book +which will probably last out the craving, a book which "it will be +impossible to lay down, after it is once begun, until it is +finished." (I quote from the standard book notice). A few hours later +the following dialogue ensues: + + +"Henry!" + +"Yes, dear." + +"Aren't you 'most done reading?" + +"Just as soon as I finish this chapter." A sigh and a long wait. + +"Henry!" + +"Yes, dear." + +"Did you lock the side-door?" No answer. + +"Henry! Did you?" + +"Did I what?" + +"Did you lock the side-door?" + +"In a minute now." + +"Yes, but did you?" + +"M-hm. I guess so." + +"'Guess so!' Did you lock that side-door? They got in at Hilliard's +night before last and stole a bag of clothes-pins." + +"M." + +"Oh, put down that book, and go and lock the side-door. I'll not +get a wink of sleep this blessed night unless you do." + +"In a minute now. Just wait till I finish this . . . " + +"Go do it now." + +Mr. General Public has a card on his desk that says, "Do it Now," +and so he lays down his book with a patient sigh, and comes back to +it with a patent grouch. + +"Oh, so it is," says the voice from the bedroom. "I remember now, +I locked it myself when I put the milk-bottles out . . . . I'm +going to stop taking of that man unless there's more cream on the +top than there has been here lately." + +"M." + +"Henry!" + +"Oh, what is it?" + +"Aren't you 'most done reading?" + +"In a minute, just as soon as I finish this chapter." + +"How long is that chapter, for mercy's sakes?" + +"I began another." + +"Henry!" + +"What?" + +"Aren't you coming to bed pretty soon? You know I can't go to +sleep when you are sitting up." + +"Oh, hush up for one minute, can't ye? It's a funny thing if I +can't read a little once in a while." + +"It's a funny thing if I've got to be broke of my rest this way. As +much as I have to look after. I'd hate to be so selfish . . . . +Henry! Won't you please put the book down and come to bed?" + +"Oh, for goodness sake! Turn over and go to sleep. You make me +tired." + +Every two or three hours Mrs. General Public wakes up and announces +that she can't get a wink of sleep, not a wink; she wishes he hadn't +brought the plagued old book home; he hasn't the least bit of +consideration for her; please, please, won't he put the book away +and come to bed? + +He reaches "THE END" at 2:30A.M., turns off the gas, and creeps into +bed, his stomach all upset from smoking so much without eating +anything, his eyes feeling like two burnt holes in a blanket, and +wishing that he had the sense he was born with. He'll have to be up +at 6:05, and he knows how he will feel. He also knows how he will +feel along about three o'clock in the afternoon. Smithers is coming +then to close up that deal. Smithers is as sharp as tacks, as +slippery as an eel, and as crooked as a dog's hind leg. Always +looking for the best of it. You need all your wits when you deal +with Smithers. Why didn't he take Mrs. General Public's advice, and +get to bed instead of sitting up fuddling himself with that fool +love-story? + +That's how a book should be to be a great popular success, and one +that all the typewriter girls will have on their desks. I am +guiltily conscious that "Back Home" is not up to standard either +in avoirdupois heft or the power to unfit a man for business. + +Here's a book. Is it long? No. Is it exciting? No. Any lost +diamonds in it? Nup. Mysterious murders? No. Whopping big +fortune, now teetering this way, and now teetering that, tipping +over on the Hero at the last and smothering him in an avalanche of +fifty-dollar bills? No. Does She get Him? Isn't even that. No +"heart interest" at all. What's the use of putting out good money +to make such a book; to have a cover design for it; to get a man +like A. B. Frost to draw illustrations for it, when he costs so +like the mischief, when there's nothing in the book to make a man +sit up till 'way past bedtime? Why print it at all? + +You may search me. I suppose it's all right, but if it was my +money, I'll bet I could make a better investment of it. If worst +came to worst, I could do like the fellow in the story who went to +the gambling-house and found it closed up, so he shoved the money +under the door and went away. He'd done his part. + +And yet, on the other hand, I can see how some sort of a case can +be made out for this book of mine. I suppose I am wrong - I +generally am in regard to everything - but it seems to me that +quite a large part of the population of this country must be +grown-up people. If I am right in this contention, then this large +part of the population is being unjustly discriminated against. I +believe in doing a reasonable amount for the aid and comfort of the +young things that are just beginning to turn their hair up under, +or who rub a stealthy forefinger over their upper lips to feel the +pleasant rasp, but I don't believe in their monopolizing everything. +I don't think it 's fair. All the books printed - except, of +course, those containing valuable information; we don't buy those +books, but go to the public library for them - all the books printed +are concerned with the problem of How She can get Him, and He can +get Her. + +Well, now. It was either yesterday morning or the day before that +you looked in the glass and beheld there The First Gray Hair. You +smiled a smile that was not all pure pleasure, a smile that petered +out into a sigh, but nevertheless a smile, I will contend. What +do you think about it? You're still on earth, aren't you? You'll +last the month out, anyhow, won't you? Not at all ready to be laid +on the shelf? What do you think of the relative importance of +Love, Courtship, and Marriage? One or two other things in life +just about as interesting, aren't there? Take getting a living, +for instance. That 's worthy of one's attention, to a certain +extent. When our young ones ask us: "Pop, what did you say to Mom +when you courted her?" they feel provoked at us for taking it so +lightly and so frivolously. It vexes them for us to reply: "Law, +child! I don't remember. Why, I says to her: 'Will you have me?" +And she says: 'Why, yes, and jump at the chance.'" What difference +does it make what we said, or whether we said anything at all? Why +should we charge our memories with the recollections of those few +and foolish months of mere instinctive sex-attraction when all that +really counts came after, the years wherein low passion blossomed +into lofty Love, the dear companionship in joy and sorrow, and in +that which is more, far more than either joy or sorrow, "the +daily round, the common task?" All that is wonderful to think of +in our courtship is the marvel, for which we should never cease to +thank the Almighty God, that with so little judgment at our disposal +we should have chosen so wisely. + +If you, Gentle Reader, found your first gray hair day before +yesterday morning, if you can remember, 'way, 'way back ten or +fifteen years ago . . . er . . . er . . . or more, come with me. +Let us go "Back Home." Here's your transportation, all made out to +you, and in your hand. It is no use my reminding you that no +railroad goes to the old home place. It isn't there any more, even +in outward seeming. Cummins's woods, where you had your robbers' +cave, is all cleared off and cut up into building lots. The cool +and echoing covered bridge, plastered with notices of dead and +forgotten Strawberry Festivals and Public Vendues, has long ago +been torn down to be replaced by a smart, red iron bridge. The +Volunteer Firemen's Engine-house, whose brick wall used to flutter +with the gay rags of circus-bills, is gone as if it never were at +all. Where the Union Schoolhouse was is all torn up now. They are +putting up a new magnificent structure, with all the modern +improvements, exposed plumbing, and spankless discipline. The quiet +leafy streets echo to the hissing snarl of trolley cars, and the +power-house is right by the Old Swimming-hole above the dam. The +meeting-house, where we attended Sabbath-school, and marveled at +the Greek temple frescoed on the wall behind the pulpit, is now a +church with a big organ, and stained-glass windows, and folding +opera-chairs on a slanting floor. There isn't any "Amen Corner," +any more, and in these calm and well-bred times nobody ever gets +"shouting happy." + +But even when "the loved spots that our infancy knew" are +physically the same, a change has come upon them more saddening +than words can tell. They have shrunken and grown shabbier. They +are not nearly so spacious and so splendid as once they were. + +Some one comes up to you and calls you by your name. His voice +echoes in the chambers of your memory. You hold his hand in yours +and try to peer through the false-face he has on, the mask of a +beard or spectacles, or a changed expression of the countenance. +He says he is So-and-so. Why, he used to sit with you in Miss +Crutcher's room, don't you remember? There was a time when you and +he walked together, your arms upon each other's shoulders. But this +is some other one than he. The boy you knew had freckles, and could +spit between his teeth, ever and ever so far. + +They don't have the same things to eat they used to have, or, if +they do, it all tastes different. Do you remember the old well, +with the windlass and the chain fastened to the rope just above +the bucket, the chain that used to cluck-cluck when the dripping +bucket came within reach to be swung upon the well-curb? How cold +the water used to be, right out of the northwest corner of the well! +It made the roof of your mouth ache when you drank. Everybody said +it was such splendid water. It isn't so very cold these days, and I +think it has a sort of funny taste to it. + +Ah, Gentle Reader, this is not really "Back Home" we gaze upon when +we go there by the train. It is a last year's bird's nest. The +nest is there; the birds are flown, the birds of youth, and noisy +health, and ravenous appetite, and inexperience. You cannot go +"Back Home" by train, but here is the magic wishing-carpet, and here +is your transportation in your hand all made out to you. You and I +will make the journey together. Let us in heart and mind thither +ascend. + +I went to the Old Red School-house with you. Don't you remember me? +I was learning to swim when you could go clear across the river +without once "letting down." I saw you at the County Fair, and +bought a slab of ice-cream candy just before you did. I was in the +infant-class in Sabbath-school when you spoke in the dialogue at +the monthly concert. Look again. Don't you remember me? I used +to stub my toe so; you ought to recollect me by that. I know plenty +of people that you know. I may not always get their names just +right, but then it's been a good while ago. You Il recognize them, +though; you'll know them in a minute. + +EUGENE WOOD. + + + + + +BACK HOME + + + + +THE OLD RED SCHOOL-HOUSE + + + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hill.) + Oh, the little old red school-house on the hill, + (2d bass: On the hi-hi-hi-yull) + And my heart with joy o'erflows, + Like the dew-drop in the rose,* + Thinking of the old red SCHOOL-HOUSE I o-o-on the hill, + (2d tenor and 1st bass: The hill, the hill.) + +THE MALE QUARTET'S COMPENDIUM. + + +* I call your attention to the chaste beauty of this line, and the +imperative necessity of the chord of the diminished seventh for the +word "rose." Also "school-house" in the last line must be very loud +and staccato. Snap it off. + + + + +If the audience will kindly come forward and occupy the vacant seats +in the front of the hall, the entertainment will now begin. The male +quartet will first render an appropriate selection and then . . . . +Can't you see them from where you are? Let me assist you in the +visualization. + +The first tenor, the gentleman on the extreme left, is a stocky +little man, with a large chest and short legs conspicuously curving +inward. He has plenty of white teeth, ash-blonde hair, and goes +smooth-shaven for purely personal reasons. His round, dough-colored +face will never look older (from a distance) than it did when he was +nine. The flight of years adds only deeper creases in the multitude +of fine wrinkles, and increasing difficulty in hoisting his tiny, +patent-leather foot up on his plump knee. + +The second tenor leans toward him in a way to make another man +anxious about his watch, but the second tenor is as honest as the +day. He is only "blending the voices." He works in the bank. He +is going to be married in June sometime. Don't look around right +away, but she's the one in the pink shirt-waist, the second one from +the aisle, the one . . . two . . . three . . . the sixth +row back. See her? Say, they've got it bad, those two. What d' +ye think? She goes down by the bank every day at noon, so as to +walk up with him to luncheon. She lives across the street, and as +soon as ever she has finished her luncheon, there she is, out on the +front porch hallooing: "Oo-hoo!" How about that? And if he so much +as looks at another girl - m-M! + +The first bass is one of these fellows with a flutter in his voice. +No, I don't mean a vibrato. It's a flutter, like a goat's tail. +It is considered real operatic. + +The second bass has a great, big Adam's apple that slides up and +down his throat like a toy-monkey on a stick. He is tall, and has +eyebrows like clothes-brushes, and he scowls fit to make you run +and hide under the bed. He is really a good-hearted fellow, though. +Pity he has the dyspepsia so bad. Oh, my, yes! Suffers everything +with it, poor man. He generally sings that song about "Drink-ing! +DRINK-ang! Drink-awng!" though he's strictly temperate himself. +When he takes that last low note, you hold on to your chair for fear +you'll fall in too. + +But why bring in the male quartet? + +Because "The Little Old Red School-house" is more than a mere +collocation of words, accurately descriptive. It is what Mat King +would call a "symblem," and as such requires the music's dying fall +to lull and enervate a too meticulous and stringent tendency to +recollect that it wasn't little, or old, or red, or on a hill. It +might have been big and new, and built of yellow brick, right next +to the Second Presbyterian, and hence close to the "branch," so that +the spring freshets flooded the playground, and the water lapped +the base of the big rock on which we played "King on the Castle," - +the big rock so pitifully dwindled of late years. No matter what +he facts are. Sing 'of "The Little Old Red Schoolhouse On the Hill" +and in everybody's heart a chord trembles in unison. As we hear its +witching strains, we are all lodge brethren, from Maine to California +and far across the Western Sea; we are all lodge brethren, and the +air is "Auld Lang Syne," and we are clasping hands across, knitted +together into one living solidarity; and this, if we but sensed it, +is the real Union, of which the federal compact is but the outward +seeming. It is a Union in which they have neither art nor part +whose parents sent them to private schools, so as not to have them +associate with "that class of people." It is the true democracy +which batters down the walls that separate us from each other - +the walls of caste distinction, and color prejudice, and national +hatred, and religious contempt, all the petty, anti-social meannesses +that quarrel with + + "The Union of hearts, the Union of hands, + And the flag of our Union forever." + +Old Glory has floated victoriously on many a gallant fight by sea +and land, but never do its silver stars glitter more bravely or its +blood-red stripes curve more proudly on the fawning breeze than when +it floats above the school-house, over the daily battle against +ignorance and prejudice (which is ignorance of our fellows), for +freedom and for equal rights. It is no mere pretty sentimentality +that puts the flag there, but the serious recognition of the bed-rock +principle of our Union: That we are all of one blood, one bounden +duty; that all these anti-social prejudices are just as shameful as +illiteracy, and that they must disappear as soon as ever we shall +come to know each other well. Knowledge is power. That is true. +And it is also true: A house divided against itself cannot stand. + +"The Flag of our Union forever!" is our prayer, our heart's desire +for us and for our children after us. Heroes have died to give us +that, heroes that with glazing eyes beheld the tattered ensign and +spent their latest breath to cheer it as it passed on to triumph. +"We who are about to die salute thee!" The heart swells to think +of it. But it swells, too, to think that, day by day, thousands +upon thousands of little children stretch out their hands toward +that Flag and pledge allegiance to it. "We who are about to +LIVE salute thee!" + +It is no mere chance affair that all our federal buildings should +be so ugly and so begrudged, and that our school-houses should be +so beautiful architecturally - the one nearest my house is built +from plans that took the first prize at the Paris Exposition, in +competition with the whole world - so well-appointed, and so far +from being grudged that the complaint is, that there are not enough +of them. + +That So-and-so should be the President, and such-and-such a party +have control is but a game we play at, amateurs and professionals; +the serious business is, that in this country no child, how poor +soever it may be, shall have the slightest let or hindrance in the +equal chance with every other child to learn to read, and write, +and cipher, and do raffia-work. + +It is a new thing with us to have splendid school-houses. After +all, the norm, as you might say, is still "The Old Red School-house." +You must recollect how hard the struggle is for the poor farmer, +with wheat only a dollar a bushel, and eggs only six for a quarter; +with every year or so taxes of three and sometimes four dollars +on an eighty-acre farm grinding him to earth. It were folly to +expect more in rural districts than a tight box, with benches and +a stove in it. Never-the-less, it is the thing signified more than +its outward seeming that catches and holds the eye upon the country +school-house as you drive past it. You count yourself fortunate if, +mingled with the creaking of the buggy-springs, you hear the hum of +recitation; yet more fortunate if it is recess time, and you can +see the children out at play, the little girls holding to one +another's dress-tails as they solemnly circle to the chant: + + "H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh, + Tha malbarry bosh, tha malbarry bosh, + H-yar way gow rand tha malbarry bosh + On a cay-um and frasty marneng." + +The boys are at marbles, if it is muddy enough, or one-old-cat, or +pom-pom-peel-away, with the normal percentage of them in reboant +tears - that is to say, one in three. + +But even this is not the moment of illumination, when it comes upon +you like a flood how glorious is the land we live in, upon what +sure and certain footing are its institutions, when we know by +spiritual insight that whatsoever be the trial that awaits us, the +people of these United States, we shall be able for it! Yes. We +shall be able for it. + +If you would learn the secret of our nation's greatness, take your +stand some winter's morning just before nine o'clock, where you can +overlook a circle of some two or three miles' radius, the center +being the Old Red School-house. You will see little figures picking +their way along the miry roads, or ploughing through the deep drifts, +cutting across the fields, all drawing to the school-house, Bub in +his wammus and his cowhide boots, his cap with ear-laps, a knitted +comforter about his neck, and his hands glowing in scarlet mittens; +and little Sis, in a thick shawl, trudging along behind him, stepping +in his tracks. They chirrup, "Good-morning, sir!" As far as you +can see them you have to watch them, and something rises in your +throat. Lord love 'em! Lord love the children! + +And then it comes to you, and it makes you catch your breath to +think of it, that every two or three miles all over this land, +wherever there are children at all, there is the Old Red +Schoolhouse. At this very hour a living tide, upbearing the hopes +and prayers of God alone knows how many loving hearts, the tide +on which all of our longed-for ships are to come in, is setting +to the school-house. Oh, what is martial glory, what is conquest +of an empire, what is state-craft alongside of this? Happy is +the people that is in such a case! + +The city schools are now the pattern for the country schools: but +in my day, although a little they were pouring the new wine of +frothing educational reform into the old bottles, they had not +quite attained the full distention of this present. We still had +some kind of a good time, but nothing like the good times they +had out at the school near grandpap's, where I sometimes visited. +There you could whisper! Yes, sir, you could whisper. So long +as you didn't talk out loud, it was all right. And there was no +rising at the tap of the bell, forming in line and walking in +lock-step. Seemingly it never entered the school-board's heads +that anybody would ever be sent to state's prison. They left the +scholars unprepared for any such career. They have remedied all +that in city schools. Now, when a boy grows up and goes to Sing +Sing, he knows exactly what to do and how to behave. It all comes +back to him. + +But what I call the finest part of going to school in the country +was, that you didn't go home to dinner. Grandma had a boy only a +few years older than I was, and when I went a-visiting, she fixed +us up a "piece." They call it "luncheon" now, I think - a foolish, +hybrid mongrel of a word, made up of "lump," a piece of bread, and +"noon," and "shenk," a pouring or drink. But the right name is +"piece." What made this particular "piece" taste so wonderfully +good was that it was in a round-bottomed basket woven of splints +dyed blue, and black and red, and all in such a funny pattern. It +was an Indian basket. My grandma's mother, when she was a little +girl, got that from the squaw of old Chief Wiping-Stick. + +The "piece" had bread-and-butter (my grandma used to let me churn +for her sometimes, when I went out there), and some of the slices +had apple-butter on them. (One time she let me stir the cider, +when it was boiling down in the big kettle over the chunk-fire out +in the yard. The smoke got in my eyes.) Sometimes there was honey +from the hives over by the gooseberry bushes - the gooseberries +had stickers on them - and we had slices of cold, fried ham. (I +was out at grandpap's one time when they butchered. They had a +chunk-fire then, too, to heat the water to scald the hogs. And +say! Did your grandma ever roast pig's tails in the ashes for you?) +And there were crullers. No, I don't mean "doughnuts." I mean +crullers, all twisted up. They go good with cider. (Sometimes my +grandma cut out thin, pallid little men of cruller dough, and dropped +them into the hot lard for my Uncle Jimmy and me. And when she +fished them out, they were all swelled up and "pussy," and golden +brown. + +And there was pie. Neither at the school nooning nor at the table +did one put a piece of pie upon a plate and haggle at it with a +fork. You took the piece of pie up in your hand and pointed the +sharp end toward you, and gently crowded it into your face. It +didn't require much pressure either. + +And there were always apples, real apples. I think they must make +apples in factories nowadays. They taste like it. These were real +ones, picked off the trees. Out at grandpap's they had bellflowers, +and winesaps, and seek-no-furthers, and, I think, sheep-noses, and +one kind of apple that I can't find any more, though I have sought +it carefully. It was the finest apple I ever set a tooth in. It +was the juiciest and the spiciest apple. It had sort of a rollicking +flavor to it, if you know what I mean. It certainly was the ne plus +ultra of an apple. And the name of it was the rambo. Dear me, how +good it was! think I'd sooner have one right now than great riches. +And all these apples they kept in the apple-hole. You went out and +uncovered the earth and there they were, all in a big nest of straw; +and such a gush of perfume distilled from that pile of them that +just to recollect it makes my mouth all wet. + +They had a big red apple in those days that I forget the name of. +Oh, it was a whopper! You'd nibble at it and nibble at it before +you could get a purchase on it. Then, after you got your teeth in, +you'd pull and pull, and all of a sudden the apple would go "tock!" +and your head would fly back from the recoil, and you had a bite +about the size of your hand. You "chomped" on it, with your cheek +all bulged out, and blame near drowned yourself with the juice of it. + +Noon-time the girls used to count the seeds: + +"One I love, two I love, three my love I see; +Four I love with all my heart, and five I cast away. +Six he loves; seven she loves; eight . . . eight . . . " + +I forget what eight is, and all that follows after. And then the +others would tease her with, "Aw, Jennie!" knowing who it was she +had named the apple for, Wes. Rinehart, or 'Lonzo Curl, or whoever. +And you'd be standing there by the stove, kind of grinning and not +thinking of anything in particular when somebody would hit you a +clout on your back that just about broke you in two, and would tell +you "to pass it on," and you'd pass it on, and the next thing was +you'd think the house was coming down. Such a chasing around and +over benches, and upsetting the water-bucket, and tearing up Jack +generally that teacher would say, "Boys! boys! If you can't play +quietly, you'll have to go out of doors!" Play quietly! Why, the +idea! What kind of play is it when you are right still? + +Outdoors in the country, you can whoop and holler, and carry on, +and nobody complains to the board of health. And there are so many +things you can do. If there is just the least little fall of snow +you can make a big wheel, with spokes in it, by your tracking. I +remember that it was called "fox and geese," but that's all I can +remember about it. If there was a little more snow you tried to +wash the girls' faces in it, and sometimes got yours washed. If +there was a good deal of wet snow you had a snowball fight, which +is great fun, unless you get one right smack dab in your ear - oh, +but I can't begin to tell you all the fun there is at the noon hour +in the country school, that the town children don't know anything +about. And when it was time for school to "take up," there wasn't +any forming in line, with a monitor to run tell teacher who +snatched off Joseph Humphreys' cap and flung it far away, so he had +to get out of the line, and who did this, and who did that - no +penitentiary business at all. Teacher tapped on the window with a +ruler, and the boys and girls came in, red-faced and puffing, +careering through the aisles, knocking things off the desks with +many a burlesque, "oh, exCUSE me!" and falling into their seats, +bursting into sniggers, they didn't know what at. They had an hour +and a half nooning. Counting that it took five minutes to shovel +down even grandma's beautiful "piece," that left an hour and +twenty-five minutes for roaring, romping play. If you want to know, +I think that is fully as educational and a far better preparation +for life than sitting still with your nose stuck in a book. + +In the city schools they don't think so. Even the stingy fifteen +minutes' recess, morning and afternoon, has been stolen from the +children. Instead is given the inspiriting physical culture, all +making silly motions together in a nice, warm room, full of +second-hand air. Is it any wonder that one in every three that +die between fifteen and twenty-five, dies of consumption? + +You must have noticed that almost everybody that amounts to +anything spent his early life in the country. The city schools +have great educational advantages; they have all the up-to-date +methods, but the output of the Old Red Schoolhouse compares very +favorably with that of the city schools for all that. The +two-mile walk, morning and evening, had something to do with it, +not only because it and the long nooning were good exercise, but +because it impressed upon the mind that what cost so much effort +to get must surely be worth having. But I think I know another +reason. + +If the city child goes through the arithmetic once, it is as much +as ever. In the Old Red School-house those who hadn't gone through +the arithmetic at least six times, were little thought of. In town, +the last subject in the book was "Permutation," to which you gave +the mere look its essentially frivolous nature deserved. It was: +"End of the line. All out!" But in the country a very important +department followed. It was called "Problems." They were twisters, +able to make "How old is Ann?" look like a last year's bird's nest. +They make a big fuss about the psychology of the child's mind +nowadays. Well, I tell you they couldn't teach the man that got up +that arithmetic a thing about the operation of the child's mind. +He knew what was what. He didn't put down the answers. He knew +that if he did, weak, erring human nature, tortured by suspense, +determined to have the agony over, would multiply by four and +divide by thirteen, and subtract 127 - didn't, either. I didn't +say "substract." I guess I know they'd get the answer somehow, +it didn't matter much how. + +In the country they ciphered through this part, and handed in +their sums to Teacher, who said she'd take 'em home and look 'em +over; she didn't have time just then. As if that fooled anybody! +She had a key! And when you had done the very last one on the +very last page, and there wasn't anything more except the blank +pages, where you had written, "Joe Geiger loves Molly Meyers, +"and," If my name you wish to see, look on page 103," and all such +stuff, then you turned over to the beginning, where it says, +"Arithmetic is the science of numbers, and the art of computing by +them," and once more considered, "Ann had four apples and her +brother gave her two more. How many did she then have?" There +were the four apples in a row, and the two apples, and you that +had worried over meadows so long and so wide, and men mowing them +in so many days and a half, had to think how many apples Ann +really did have. Some of the fellows with forked hairs on their +chins and uncertain voices - the big fellows in the back seats, +where the apple-cores and the spit-balls come from knew every +example in the book by heart. + +And there is yet another reason why the country school has brought +forth men of whom we do well to be proud. At the county-seat, +every so often, the school commissioners held an examination. +Thither resorted many, for the most part anxious to determine if +they really knew as much as they thought they did. If you took +that examination and got a "stiff kit" for eighteen months, you +had good cause to hold your head up and step as high as a blind +horse. A "stiff kit" for eighteen months is no small thing, let +me tell you. I don't know if there is anything corresponding +to a doctor's hood for such as win a certificate to teach school +for two years hand-running; but there ought to be. A fellow ought +not to be obliged to resort to such tactics as taking out a folded +paper and perusing it in the hope that some one will ask him: +"What you got there, Calvin?" so as to give you a chance to say, +carelessly, "Oh, jist a 'stiff-kit' for two years." + +(When you get as far along as that, you simply have to take a term +in the junior Prep. Department at college, not because there is +anything left for you to learn, but for the sake of putting a gloss +on your education, finishing it off neatly.) + +And then if you were going to read law with Mr. Parker, or study +medicine with old Doc. Harbaugh, and you kind of run out of clothes, +you took that certificate and hunted up a school and taught it. +Sometimes they paid you as high as $20 a month and board, lots of +board, real buckwheat cakes ("riz" buckwheat, not the prepared kind), +and real maple syrup, and real sausage, the kind that has sage in +it; the kind that you can't coax your butcher to sell you. The +pale, tasteless stuff he gives you for sausage I wouldn't throw out +to the chickens. Twenty dollars a month and board! That's $4 a +month more than a hired man gets. + +But it wasn't alone the demonstration that, strange as it might +seem, it was possible for a man to get his living by his wits +(though that has done much to produce great men) as it was the +actual exercise of teaching. Remember the big boys on the back +seats, where the apple-cores and the spit-balls come from. The +school-director that hired you gave you a searching look-over and +said: "M-well-l-l, I'm afraid you haint hardly qualified for our +school - oh, that's all right, sir; that's all right. Your +'stiff-kit' is first-rate, and you got good recommends, good +recommends; but I was thinkin' - well, I tell you. Might's well +out with it first as last. I d' know's I ort to say so, but this +here district No. 34 is a poot' tol'able hard school to teach. +Ya-uss. A poot-ty tol'able hard school to teach. Now, that's jist +the plumb facts in the matter. We've had four try it this winter +a'ready. One of 'em stuck it out four weeks - I jimminy! he had +grit, that feller had. The balance of 'em didn't take so long to +make up their minds. Well, now, if you're a mind to try it - I was +goin' to say you didn't look to me like you had the heft. + +Like to have you the worst way. Now, if you want to back out . . . . +Well, all right. Monday mornin', eh? Well, you got my sympathies." + +I believe that some have tried to figure out that St. Martin of +Tours, ought to be the patron saint of the United States. One of +his feast-days falls on July 4, and his colors are red, white and +blue. But I rather prefer, myself, the Boanerges, the two sons of +Zebedee. When asked: "Are ye able to drink of this cup?" they +answered: "We are able." They didn't in the least know what it was; +but they knew they were able for anything that anybody else was, +and, perhaps, able for a little more. At any rate, they were +willing to chance it. That's the United States of America, clear +to the bone and back again to the skin. + +You ask any really great man: "Have you ever taught a winter term +in a country school?" If he says he hasn't, then depend upon it he +isn't a really great man. People only think he is. The winter term +breeds Boanerges - sons of thunder. Yes, and of lightning, too. +Something struck the big boys in the back seats, as sure as you're a +foot high; and if it wasn't lightning, what was it? Brute strength +for brute strength, they were more than a match for Teacher. It was +up to him. It was either prove himself the superior power, or slink +off home and crawl under the porch. + +The curriculum of the Old Red School-house, which was, until lately, +the universal curriculum, consisted in reading, writing, and +arithmetic or ciphering. I like the word "ciphering," because it +makes me think of slates - slates that were always falling on the +floor with a rousing clatter, so that almost always at least one +corner was cracked. Some mitigation of the noise was gained by +binding the frame with strips of red flannel, thus adding warmth +and brightness to the color scheme. Just as some fertile brain +conceived the notion of applying a knob of rubber to each corner, +slates went out, and I suppose only doctors buy them nowadays to +hang on the doors of their offices. Maybe the teacher's nerves were +too highly strung to endure the squeaking of gritty pencils, but I +think the real reason for their banishment is, that slates invited +too strongly the game of noughts and crosses, or tit-tat-toe, three +in a row, the champion of indoor sports, and one entirely inimical +to the study of the joggerfy lesson. But if slates favored +tit-tat-toe, they also favored ciphering, and nothing but good can +come from that. Paper is now so cheap that you need not rub out +mistakes, but paper and pencil can never surely ground one in "the +science of numbers and the art of computing by them." What is +written is written, and returns to plague the memory, but if you +made a mistake on the slate, you could spit on it and rub it out +with your sleeve and leave no trace of the error, either on the +writing surface or the tables of the memory. What does the hymn +say? + + "Forget the steps already trod, + And onward urge thy way." + +The girls used to keep a little sponge and some water in a +discarded patchouli bottle with a glass stopper, to wash their +slates with; but it always seemed to me that the human and +whole-hearted way was otherwise. + +Reading, writing, and arithmetic, - these three; and the greatest +of these three is arithmetic. Over against it stands grammar, +which may be said to be derived from reading and writing. Show me +a man that, as a boy at school, excelled in arithmetic and I will +show you a useful citizen, a boss in his own business, a leader of +men; show me the boy that preferred grammar, that read expressively, +that wrote a beautiful hand and curled his capital S's till their +tails looked like mainsprings, and I will show you a dreamer and a +sentimentalist - a man that works for other people. While I have +breath in me, I will maintain the supereminence of arithmetic. +There is no room for disputation in arithmetic, no exceptions to +the rule. Twice two is four, and that's all there is about it: but +whether there be pronunciations, they shall cease; whether there be +rules of grammar, they shall vanish away. Why, look here. It's a +rule of grammar, isn't it, that the subject of a sentence must be +put in the nominative case? Let it kick and bite, and hang on to +the desks all it wants to, in it goes and the door is slammed on it. +You think so? What is the word "you?" Second person, plural +number, objective case. Oh, no; the nominative form is "ye." + +Don't you remember it says: "Woe unto you, ye lawyers"? Those who +fight against: "Him and me went down town," fight against the stars +in their courses, for the objective case in every language is bound +and determined to be The Whole Thing. Arithmetic alone is founded +on a rock. All else is fleeting, all else is futile, chaotic - a +waste of time. What is reading but a rival of morphine? There are +probably as many men in prison, sent there by Reading, as by Rum. + +"Oh, not good Reading!" says the publisher. + +"Not good Rum, either," says the publican. + +Fight it out. It's an even thing between the two of you; Literature +and Liquor, Books and Booze, which can take a man's mind off his +business most effectually. + +Still, merely as a matter of taste, I will defend the quality of +McGuffey's School Readers against all comers. I don't know who +McGuffey was; but certainly he formed the greatest intellects of +our age, present company not excepted. The true test of literature +is its eternal modernity. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. It +always seems of the age in which it is read. Now, almost the +earliest lection in McGuffey's First Reader goes directly to the +heart of one of the greatest of modern problems. It does not palter +or beat about the bush. It asks right out, plump and plain: "Ann, +how old are you?" + +Year by year, until we reached the dizzy height of the Sixth Reader, +were presented to us samples of the best English ever written. If +you can find, up in the garret, a worn and frayed old Reader, take +it down and turn its pages over. See if anything in these +degenerate days compares in vital strength and beauty with the +story of the boy that climbed the Natural Bridge, carving his steps +in the soft limestone with his pocket knife. You cannot read it +without a thrill. The same inspired hand wrote "The Blind Preacher," +and who that ever can read it can forget the climax reached in that +sublime line: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ +like a god!" + +Not long ago I walked among the graves in that spot opposite where +Wall Street slants away from Broadway, and my feet trod on ground +worth, in the market, more than the twenty-dollar gold pieces that +would cover it. My eye lighted upon a flaking brownstone slab, +that told me Captain Michael Cresap rested there. Captain Michael +Cresap! The intervening years all fled away before me, and once +again my boyish heart thrilled with that incomparable oration in +McGuffey's Reader, "Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one." +Captain Cresap was the man that led the massacre of Logan's family. + +And there was more than good literature in those Readers. There +was one piece that told about a little boy alone upon a country +road at night. The black trees groaned and waved their skinny +arms at him. The wind-torn clouds fitfully let a pale and watery +moonlight stream a little through. It was very lonely. Over his +shoulder the boy saw indistinct shapes that followed after, and +hid themselves whenever he looked squarely at them. Then, +suddenly, he saw before him in the gloom, a gaunt white specter +waiting for him - waiting to get him, its arms spread wide out in +menace. He was of our breed, though, this boy. He did not turn +and run. With God knows what terror knocking at his ribs, he +trudged ahead to meet his fate, and lo! the grisly specter proved +to be a friendly guide-post to show the way that he should walk in. +Brother (for you are my kin that went with me to public school, in +the life that you have lived since you first read the story of +Harry and the Guide-post, has it been an idle tale, or have you, +too, found that what we dreaded most, what seemed to us so terrible +in the future has, after all, been a friendly guide-post, showing us +the way that we should walk in? + +McGuffey had a Speller, too. It began with simple words in common +use, like a-b ab, and e-b eb, and i-b, ib, proceeding by gradual, +if not by easy stages to honorificatudinibility and +disproportionableness, with a department at the back devoted to +twisters like phthisic, and mullein-stalk, and diphtheria, and +gneiss. We used to have a fine old sport on Friday afternoons, +called "choose-up-and-spell-down." I don't know if you ever played +it. It was a survival, pure and simple, from the Old Red +School-house. There was where it really lived. There was where it +flourished as a gladiatorial spectacle. The crack spellers of +District Number 34 would challenge the crack spellers of the Sinking +Spring School. The whole countryside came to the school-house in +wagons at early candle-lighting time, and watched them fight it out. +The interest grew as the contest narrowed down, until at last there +were the two captains left - big John Rice for District Number 34, +and that wiry, nervous, black-haired girl of 'Lias Hoover's, Polly +Ann. She married a man by the name of Brubaker. I guess you didn't +know him. His folks moved here from Clarke County. Polly Ann's +eyes glittered like a snake's, and she kept putting her knuckles up +to the red spots in her cheeks that burned like fire. Old John, +he didn't seem to care a cent. And what do you think Polly Ann +missed on? "Feoffment." A simple little word like "feoffment!" +She hadn't got further than pheph -- " when she knew that she +was wrong, but Teacher had said "Next!" and big John took it and +spelled it right. She had a fit of nervous crying, and some were +for giving her the victory, after all, because she was a lady. But +big John said: "She missed, didn't she? Well. And I spelled it +right, didn't I? Well. She took her chances same as the rest of +us. 'Taint me you got to consider, it's District Number 34. And +furthermore. AND FURTHERMORE. Next time somebuddy asts her to +go home with him from singin'-school, mebby she won't snigger right +in his face, and say 'No! 's' loud 'at everybuddy kin hear it." + +It's quite a thing to be a good speller, but there are people who +can spell any word that ever was, and yet if you should ask them +right quick how much is seven times eight, they'd hem and haw and +say: "Seven tums eight? Why - ah, lemme see now. Seven tums - +what was it you said? Oh, seven tums eight. Why - ah, seven +tums eight is sixty-three - fifty-six I mean." There's nothing +really to spelling. It's just an idiosyncrasy. If there was +really anything useful in it, you could do it by machinery -just +the same as you can add by machinery, or write with a typewriter, +or play the piano with one of these things with cut paper in it. +Spelling is an old-fashioned, hand-powered process, and as such +doomed to disappear with the march of improvement. + +One Friday afternoon we chose up and spelled down, and the next +Friday afternoon we spoke pieces. Doubtless this accounts for our +being a nation of orators. I am far from implying or seeming to +imply that this is anything to brag of. Anybody that can be +influenced by a man with a big mouth, a loud voice, and a rush of +words to the face - well, I've got my opinion of all such. + +Oratory and poetry - all foolishness, I say. Better far are +drawing-lessons, and raffia-work, and clay-modeling than: "I come +not here to talk," and "A soldier of the Legion lay dying at +Algiers," and "Old Ironsides at anchor lay." (I observe that these +lines are more or less familiar to you, and that you are eager to +add selections to the list, all of them known to me as well as you.) +That children, especially boys, loathe to speak a piece is a fact +profoundly significant. They know it is nothing in the world but +foolishness; and if there is one thing above another that a child +hates, it is to be made a fool in public. That's what makes them +work their fingers so, and gulp, and stammer, and tremble at the +knees. That is what sends them to their seats, after all is over, +mad as hornets. This is something that I know about. It happened +that, instead of getting funny pieces to recite as I wanted to, +discerning that one silly turn deserves another, my parents, +well-meaning in their way, taught me solemn things about: "O man +immortal, live for something!" and all such, and I had to humiliate +myself by disgorging them in public. The consequence was, that +not only on Friday afternoons but whenever anybody came to visit +the school, I was butchered to make a Roman holiday. Teacher was +so proud of me, and the visitors let on that they were tickled half +to death, but I knew better. I could see the other scholars look +at one another, as much as to say: "Well, if you'll tell me why!" +Even in my shame and anger I could see that. But there is one +happy memory of a Friday afternoon. Determined to show my friends +and fellow-citizens that I, too, was born in Arcadia, and was a +living, human boy, I announced to Teacher: "I got another piece." + +"Oh, have you?" cried she, sure of an extra O-man-immortal +intellectual treat. "Let us hear it, by all means." + +Whereupon I marched up to the platform and declaimed that deathless +lyric: + +"When I was a boy, I was a bold one. +My mammy made me a new shirt out o' dad's old one." + +All of it? Certainly. Isn't that enough? That was the +only distinctly popular platform effort I ever made. I am proud +of it now. I was proud of it then. But the news of my triumph +was coldly received at home. + +I don't know whether it has since gone out of date, but in my day +and time a very telling feature of school exhibitions was reading +in concert. The room was packed as full of everybody's ma as it +could be, and yet not mash the children out of shape, and a whole +lot of young ones would read a piece together. Fine? Finest +thing you ever heard. I remember one time teacher must have +calculated a leetle mite too close, or else one girl more was in +the class than she had reckoned on; but on the day, the two end +girls just managed to stand upon the platform and that was all. +They recited together: + +"There was a sound of revelry by night +And Belgium's capital . . . . " + +I forget the rest of it. Well, anyhow, they were supposed to make +gestures all together. Teacher had rehearsed the gestures, and they +all did it simultaneously, just as if they had been wound up with a +spring. But, as I said, the two end girls had all they could do to +keep on the platform, and it takes elbow room for: "'T is but the car +rattling over the stony street," and one girl - well, she said she +stepped off on purpose, but I didn't believe her then and I don't +now. We had our laugh about it, whichever way it was. + +We had our laugh . . . . Ah, life was all laughter then. That was +before care came to be the shadow at our heel. That was before +black Sorrow met us in the way, and would not let us pass unless +we gave to her our dearest treasure. That was before we learned +that what we covet most is, when we get it, but a poor thing after +all, that whatsoever chalice Fortune presses to our lips, a tear is +in the bottom of the cup. In those happy days gone by if the rain +fell, 't was only for a little while, and presently the sky was +bright again, and the birds whistled merrily among the wet and +shining leaves. Now "the clouds return after the rain." + +It can never be with us again as once it was. For us the bell upon +the Old Red School-house calls in vain. We heed it not, we that +hearkened for it years ago. The living tide of youth flows toward +the school-house, and we are not of it. Never again shall we sit +at those old desks, whittled and carved with rude initials, and snap +our fingers, eager to tell the answer. Never again shall we +experience the thrill of pride when teacher praised us openly. +Never again shall we sit trembling while the principal, reads the +note, and then scowls at us fiercely with: "Take off your coat, +sir!" Ah, me! Never again, never again. + +Well, who wants it to be that way again? We're men and women now. +We've duties and responsibilities. Who wants to be a child again? +Not I. Let me stick just at my present age for about a hundred +years, and I'll never utter a word of complaint. + + + + +THE SABBATH-SCHOOL + + + "We-a love the Sunday-school. + We-a love the Sunday-school. + (Girls) - So do I. + (Boys)-So do I. + (School) - We all love the Sunday-school." + + +SPARKLING DEWDROPS." + +Some people believe that when General Conference assigned them to +the Committee on Hymn-Book Revision, power and authority were given +unto them to put a half-sole and a new heel on any and all poetry +that might look to them to be a little run over on one side. If +they felt as I do about the lines that head this article they would +have "Sunday" scratched out and "Sabbath" written in before you +could bat an eye. The mere substitution of one word for another +may seem a light matter to a man that has never composed anything +more literary than an obituary for the Western Advocate of Sister +Jane Malinda Sprague, who was born in Westmoreland County, +Pennsylvania, in 1816, removed with her parents at a tender age to +New Sardis, Washington County, Ohio, where, etc., etc. If he +wanted to extract a word he would do it, and never even offer to +give the author gas. But I know just how it hurts. I know or can +imagine how the gifted poet that penned the deathless lines I have +quoted must have walked the floor in an agony until every word and +syllable was just to suit him, and so, though I feel sure he meant +to write "Sabbath-school," I don't dare change it. + +To most persons one word seems about as good as another, Sunday or +Sabbath, but when there are young people about the house you learn +to be careful how you talk before them. Now, I would not go so far +as to say that "Sunday" is what you might call exactly rowdy, but +er . . . but . . . er . . . Let me illustrate. If a man says, "It's +a beautiful Sunday morning," like enough he has on red-and-green +stockings, baggy knickerbockers, a violet-and-purple sweater, a cap +shaped like a milk-roll, and is smoking a pipe. He very likely +carries a bagful of golf-sticks, or is pumping up his bicycle. +But if a man says, "This beautiful Sabbath morn," you know for a +certainty that he wears a long-tailed black coat, a boiled shirt, +and a white tie. He is bald from his forehead upward, his upper +lip is shaven, and his views and those of the late Robert Reed on +the disgusting habit of using tobacco are absolutely at one. + +Not alone a regard for respectability, but the hankering to be +historically accurate, urges me to make the change I speak of. +Originally the institution was a Sunday-school, and not very +respectable either. I should hate to think any of my dear young +friends were in the habit of attending such a low-class affair as +Robert Raikes conducted. Sunday-schools were for "little +ragamuffins," as he called them, who worked such long hours on +week-days (from five in the morning until nine at night) that if +they were to learn the common branches at all it had to be on a +Sunday. A ragged school was bad enough in itself, putting foolish +notions into the heads of gutter-brats and making them discontented +and unhappy in their lot; but to teach a ragged school on Sunday +was a little too much. So Robert Raikes encountered the most violent +opposition, although from that beginning dates popular education in +England. + +To be able to read is no Longer a sign that Pa can afford to do +without the young ones' wages on a Saturday night, and can even pay +for their schooling. It is no longer a mark of wealth or even of +hard-won privilege, but the common fate of all; to know the three +R's, and Sunday is not now set apart for secular instruction. So +good and wholesome an institution as the Sunday-school was not +permitted to perish, but was changed to suit the environment. It +is now become the Sabbath-school for the study of the Bible, a +Christian recrudescence of the synagogue. For some eighteen +centuries it was supposed that a regularly ordained minister should +have exclusive charge of this work. At rare intervals nowadays a +clergyman may be found to maintain that because a man has been to +college and to the theological seminary, and has made the study of +the Scriptures his life-work (moved to that decision after careful +self-examination) that therefore he is better fitted to that ministry +than Miss Susie Goldrick, who teaches a class in Sabbath-school +very acceptably. Miss Goldrick is in the second year in the High +School, and last Friday afternoon read a composition on English +Literatoor, in which she spoke in terms of high praise of John +Bunion, the well-known author of " Progress and Poverty." Miss +Goldrick is very conscientious, and always keeps her thumbnail +against the questions printed on the lesson-leaf, so as not to +ask twice, "What did the disciples then do?" + +It were a grave error to suppose that no secular learning is +acquired in the modern Sabbath-school. I remember once, when quite +young, speaking to my teacher, in the interval between the regular +class work and the closing exercises, about peacocks. I had read +of them, but had never seen one. What did they look like? She +said a peacock was something like a butterfly. I have always +remembered that, and when I did finally see a peacock, I was +interested to note the essential accuracy of the description. + +Also, one day a new lady taught our class, Miss Evans having gone +up to Marion to spend a Sunday with her brother, who kept a stove +store there, and this new lady borrowed two flower vases from off +the pulpit and a piece of string from Turkey-egg McLaughlin to +explain to us boys how the earth went around the sun. We had too +much manners to tell her that we knew that years and years ago when +we were in Miss Humphreys's room. I don't remember what the earth +going around the sun had to do with the lesson for the day, which +was about Samuel anointing David's head with oil - did I ever tell +you how I anointed my own head with coal oil? - but I do remember +that she broke both the vases and cut her finger, and had to keep +sucking it the rest of the time, because she didn't want to get +her handkerchief all bloodied up. It was a kind of fancy +handkerchief, made of thin stuff trimmed with lace - no good. + +The Sabbath-school may be said to be divided into three courses, +namely, the preparatory or infant-class, the collegiate or +Sabbath-school proper, and the post-graduate or Mr. Parker's +Bible-class. + +What can a mere babe of three or four years learn in Sabbath-school? +sneers the critic. Not much, I grant you, of justification by +Faith, or Effectual Calling; but certain elementary precepts can +be impressed upon the mind while it is still in a plastic condition +that never can be wholly obliterated, come what may in after life. +Prime among these elementary precepts is this: "Always bring a penny." + +Some one has said, "Give me the first seven years of a child's life +and I care not who has the remainder." I cannot endorse this without +reserve; but I maintain as a demonstrated fact: "Bring up a child +to contribute a copper cent, and when he is old he will not depart +from it." It was recently my high privilege to attend a summer +gathering of representative religious people in the largest +auditorium in this country. Sometimes under that far-spreading roof +ten thousand souls were assembled and met together. This fact could +be guessed at with tolerable accuracy from the known seating +capacity, but the interesting thing was that it could be predicated +with mathematical certainty that exactly ten thousand people were +present, because the offertory footed up exactly one hundred dollars. +What an encouragement to these faithful infant-class teachers that +have labored unremittingly, instant in season and out of season, +saying over and over again with infinite patience, "Always bring a +penny," to know that their labor has not been in vain, and that as +a people we have made it the rule of our lives always to bring a +penny - and no more. + +I have often tried to think what a Sabbath-school must be like in +California, where they have no pennies. It seems hardly possible +that the institution can exist under such a patent disability, and +yet it does. Do they work it on the same principle as the +post-office in that far-off land where you 'cannot buy one postal +card because the postmaster cannot make change, but must buy five +postal cards or two two-cent stamps and a postal? In other words, +does a nickel, the smallest extant coin, serve for five persons +for one Sunday or one person for five Sundays? I have often +wondered about this. + +Subsidiary instruction in the preparatory course consists of sitting +right still and being nice, keeping your fingers out of Johnny Pym's +eye, because it hurts him and makes him cry, not grabbing in the +basket when it goes by, even though it does have pennies in it, +coaching in a repertory of songs like: "Beautiful, Beautiful Little +Hands," "You in Your Little Corner and I in Mine," " The Consecrated +Cross-Eyed Bear," "Pass Around the Wash-Rag" - the grown folks call +that "Pass Along the Watchword" and stories about David and Goliath, +Samson and the three hundred foxes with fire tied to their tails, +Moses in the bulrushes, the infant Samuel, Hagar in the wilderness, +and so forth. The clergy have often objected that these stories, +being told at the same period of life with those about Santa Claus, +"One time there was a little boy and he had a dog named Rover," the +little girl that had hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, +and cheeks as red as blood, because her Ma, who was a queen by +occupation, happened to cut her finger with a black-handled knife +along about New Year's - the clergy, I say, have often objected that +all these matters, being brought to a child's attention at the same +period in its life, are likely to be regarded in after years as of +equal evidential value. I am not much of a hand to argue, myself, +but I should like to have one of these carping critics meet my +friend, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, who has taught the infant-class since +1867, having missed only two Sundays in that time, once, in 1879, +when it stormed so that nobody in town was out, and once, last +winter a year ago, when she slipped off the back porch and hurt her +knee. I can just see Sister Boggs laying down the law to anybody +that finds fault with the infant-class, let him be preacher or who. +Why the very idea! Do you mean to say, sir - I guess Sister Boggs +can straighten him out all right. + +No less faithful is Mr. Parker, the leading lawyer of the town, who +conducts the Bible-class. I believe one morning he didn't get there +until after the last bell was done ringing, but otherwise his record +of attendance compares favorably with Sister Boggs's. Both teachers +agree to ignore the stated lesson for the day, but whereas Sister +Boggs leads her flock through the flowery meads of narration, Mr. +Parker and his class have camped out by preference for the last forty +years in the arid wilderness of Romans and Hebrews and Corinthians +First and Second, flinging the plentiful dornicks of "Paul says this" +and "Paul says that" at each other's heads in friendly strife. Mr. +Parker's class is also very assiduous in its attendance upon the +Young People's meetings, seemingly holding the dogma, "Once a young +person always a young person." The prevailing style of hairdressing +among the members is to grow the locks long on the left side of the +head, and to bring the thin layer across to the right, pasted down +very carefully with a sort of peeled onion effect. + +There is a whole lot of them, and they jower away at each other all +through the time between the opening and the closing exercises, +having the liveliest kind of a time getting over about two verses +of the Bible and the whole ground of speculative theology. + +Immeasurably more impermanent in method and personnel is the regular +collegiate department, the Sabbath-school proper. In the early days, +away back when sugar was sixteen cents a pound, the thing to do was +to learn Scripture verses by heart. If you were a rude, rough boy +who didn't exactly love the Sunday-school as much as the hymn made +you say you did, but still one who had rather sing it than stir up a +muss, you hunted for the shortest verses you could find and said them +off. From four to eight was considered a full day's work. But if +you were a boy who put on an apron and helped your Ma with the +dishes, a boy who always wiped your feet before you came in, a boy +that never got kept in at school, a boy that cried pretty easy, a +nice, pale boy, with bulging blue eyes, you came to Sabbath-school +and disgorged verses like buck-shot out of a bag. The +four-to-eight-verse boys sat and listened, and improved their minds. +There was generally one other boy like you in the class, and it +was nip-and-tuck between you which should get the prize, until +finally you came one Sunday, all bloated up with 238 verses in your +craw, and he quit discouraged. The prize was yours. It was a +beautiful little Bible with a brass clasp; it had two tiny silk +strings of an old-gold color for bookmarks, and gilt edges all +around that made the leaves stick together at first. It was +printed in diamond type, so small it made your ears ring when you +tried to read it. + +Other faculties than that of memory were called into action in those +days by problems like these: "Who was the meekest man? Who was the +strongest man? Who was the father of Zebedee's children? Who had +the iron bedstead, and whose thumbs and great-toes were cut off?" +To set a child to find these things in the Bible without a +concordance seems to us as futile as setting him to hunt a needle +in a haystack. But our fathers were not so foolish as we like to +think them; they didn't care two pins if we never discovered who had +the iron bedstead, but they knew that, leafing over the book, we +should light upon treasure where we sought it not, kernels of the +sweetest meat in the hardest shells, stories of enthralling interest +where we least expected them, but, most of all, and best of all, +texts that long afterward in time of trouble should come to us, as +it were the voice of one that also had eaten the bread of affliction, +calling to us across the chasm of the centuries and saying: "O, +tarry thou the Lord's leisure: be strong and He shall comfort thine +heart." + +In the higher classes, that still were not high enough to rank with +Mr. Parker's, the exegetical powers were stimulated in this wise: +"'And they sung a hymn and went out.' Now what do you understand +by that?" We told what we "understood," and what we "held," and +what we "believed," and laid traps for the teacher and tried to +corner him with irrelevant texts wrenched from their context. He +had to be an able man and a nimble-witted man. Mere piety might +shine in the prayer-meeting, in the class-room, at the quarterly +love-feast, but not in the Sabbath-school. I remember once when +Brother Butler was away they set John Snyder to teach us. John +didn't know any more than the law allowed, and we made him feel it, +until finally, badgered beyond endurance, he blurted out that all +he knew was that he was a sinner saved by grace. Maybe he couldn't +just tell where to find this, that, and t' other thing in the +Bible, but he could turn right to the place where it said that +though a body's sins were as scarlet, yet they should be white as +snow. It was regarded as a very poor sort of an excuse then, but +thinking it over here lately, it has seemed to me that maybe John +had the root of the matter in him after all. + +The comparative scarcity of polemical athletes and the relative +plenty of the Miss Susie Goldrick kind of teachers, apparently +called into being the Berean Lesson Leaf system, with its Bible cut +up into lady-bites of ten or twelve verses, its Golden Topics, +Golden Texts, its apt alliterations, like: + + S AMUEL + EEKS + AUL + ORROWING + +and its questions prepared in tabloid form, suitable for the most +enfeebled digestions, see directions printed on inside wrapper. +Among the many evidences of the degeneracy of the age is the +scandalous ignorance of our young people regarding the sacred +Scriptures, which at the very lowest estimate are incontestably the +finest English ever written. Those whose childhood antedates the +lesson leaf are not so unfamiliar with that wondrous treasure-house +of thought. It is not for me to say what has wrought the change. +I can only point out that lesson leaves, being about the right size +for shaving papers, barely last from Sunday to Sunday, while that +very identical Bible with the blinding type that I won years and +years ago, by learning verses, is with me still. Yes, and as I +often wonder to discover, some of those very verses that I gobbled +down as heedlessly as any ostrich are with me still. + +Remain to be considered the opening and closing exercises, +principally devoted, I remember, to learning new tunes and singing +old ones out of books with pretty titles, like "Golden Censer," +"Silver Spray," "Pearl and Gold," "Sparkling Dewdrops," and +"Sabbath Chimes." I wasn't going to tell it, but I might as well, +I suppose. I can remember as far back as "Musical Leaves." There +must be quite a lot of people scattered about the country who sung +out of that when they were little. I wish a few of us old codgers +might get together some time and with many a hummed and prefatory, +"Do, mi, Sol, do; Sol, mi . . . mi-i-i-i," finally manage to quaver +out the sweet old tunes we learned when we were little tads, each +with a penny in his fat, warm hand: "Shall we Gather at the River?" +and "Work, for the Night is Coming"; and what was the name of that +one about: + + "The waves shall come and the rolling thunder shock + Shall beat upon the house that is founded on a rock, + And it never shall fall, never, never, never." + +What the proper English tune is to "I think when I read that sweet +story of old" I cannot tell, but I am sure it can never melt my +heart as that one in the old "Musical Leaves." with its twistful +repetitions of the last line: + + "I should like to have been with Him then, + I should like to have been with Him then, + When He took little children like lambs to His fold, + I should like to have been with Him then." + +I fear we could not sing that without breaking down. As we recall +it, we draw an inward fluttering breath, something grips our +throats and makes them ache, our eyes blur, and a tear slips down +upon the cheek, not of sorrow - God knows not all of sorrow - but +if we had it all to live over again, how differently we - oh, well, +it's too late now, but still. + +Leafing over my little girl's "Arabian Nights" the other day, when +I came to the story of "The Enchanted Horse," I found myself humming, +"Land ahead! Its fruits are waving." My father used to lead the +singing in Sabbath-school, and when he was sol-fa-ing that tune to +learn it, I was devouring that story, and was just about at the +picture where Prince What's-his-name rises up into the air on the +Enchanted Horse, with his true love hanging on behind, and all the +multitude below holding their turbans on as they look up and exclaim: +"Well, if that don't beat the Dutch!" + +And another tune still excites in me the sullen resentment that it +did when I first heard it. In those days, just as a fellow got to +the exciting part in "Frank at Don Carlos's Ranch," or whatever the +book was, there was kindling to be split, or an armful of wood to +be brought in, or a pitcher of water from the well, or "run over to +Mrs. Boggs's and ask her if she won't please lend me her +fluting-iron," or "run down to Galbraith's and get me a spool of +white thread, Number 60, and hurry right back, because then I want +you to go over to Serepta Downey's and take her that polonaise +pattern she asked me to cut out for her," or - there was always +something on hand. So what should one of these composers do - I +don't know what ever possessed the man - but go write a +Sabbath-school song with this chorus: + + "There'll be something to do, + There'll be something to do, + There'll be something for children to do: + On that bright shining shore, + Where there's joy evermore, + There'll be something for children to do." + +I suppose he thought that would be an inducement! + +One of these days America is going to be the musical center of the +world. When that day is fully come, and men sit down to write about +it, I hope they won't forget to give due credit to the reed organ, +Stephen Foster, and the Sabbath-school. The reed organ had a lot +to do with musical culture. It is much decried now by people that +prefer a piano that hasn't been tuned for four years; but the reed +organ will come into its own some day, don't forget. Without it +the Sabbath-school could not have been. Anybody that would have a +piano in a Sabbath-school ought to be prosecuted. + +When music, heavenly maid, was just coming to after that awful lick +the Puritans hit her, the first sign of returning life was that +people began to tire of the ten or a dozen tunes to which our +great-grandfathers droned and snuffled all their hymns. In those +days there was raised up a man named Stephen Foster, who "heard in +his soul the music of wonderful melodies," and we have been singing +them ever since - "'Way Down upon the Swanee Ribber," and "Old +Kentucky Home," and "Nellie Gray," and the rest. Then Bradbury and +Philip Phillips and many more of them began to write exactly the +same kind of tunes for sacred words. They were just the thing for +the Sabbath-school, but they were more, much more. + +You know that when a fellow gets so he can shave himself without +cutting half his lip off, when it takes him half an hour to get the +part in his hair to suit him, when he gets in the way of shining +his shoes and has a pretty taste in neckties, he doesn't want to bawl +the air of a piece like the old stick-in-the-muds up in the Amen +corner or in Mr. Parker's class. He wants to sing bass. Air is +too high for him anyhow unless he sings it with a hog noise. Oh, +you get out! You do, too, know what a "hog noise" is. You want to +let on you've always lived in town. Likely story if you never heard +anybody in the hog-pasture with a basket of nubbins calling, "Peeg! +Peeg! Boo-eel Booee!" A man's voice breaks into falsetto on the +"Boo-ee!" Well, anyhow, such a young man as I am telling you of +would be ashamed to sing with a hog noise. He wants to sing bass. +Now the regular hymn-tunes change the bass as often as they change +the soprano, and if you go fumbling about for the note, by the time +you get it right it is wrong, because the tune has gone on and left +you. The Sabbath-school songs had the young man Absalom distinctly +in view. They made the bass the same all through the measure, and +all the changes were strictly on the do, sol and fa basis. As far +as the other notes in the scale were concerned, the young man +Absalom need not bother his head with them. With do, sol and fa he +could sing through the whole book from cover to cover as good as +anybody. + +When people find out what fun it is to sing by note, it is only a +step to the "Messiah," two blocks up and turn to the right, as you +might say. After that, it is only going ahead till you get to +"Vogner." Yes, and many's the day you called the hogs. Don't tell +me. + +Once a month on Sunday evenings there were Sabbath-school concerts. +The young ones sat in the front seats, ten or twelve in a pew. +"Now, children," said the superintendent, "I want you all to sing +loud and show the folks how nice you can sing. Page 65. Sixty-fi'th +page, 'Scatter Seeds of Kindness.' Now, all sing out now." We +licked our thumbs and scuffled through the book till we found the +place. We scowled at it, and stuck out our mouths at it, and +shrieked at it, and bawled at it, and did the very best we knew to +give an imitation of two hundred little pigs all grabbed by the hind +leg at once. That was what made folks call it a concert. + +There were addresses to the dear children by persons that teetered +on their toes and dimpled their cheeks in dried-apple smiles as us. +Some complain that they do not know how to talk to children and +keep them interested. Oh, pshaw! Simple as A B C. Once you learn +the trick you can talk to the little folks for an hour and a half +on "Banking as Related to National Finance," and keep them on the +quiver of excitement. Ask questions. And to be sure that they give +the right answers (a very important thing) remember this: When you +wish them to say "Yes, sir," end your question with "Don't they?" or +"isn't it?" When you wish them to say "No, sir," end your question +with "Do they?" or "Is it?" When you wish them to choose between +two answers, mention first the one they mustn't take, then pause, +look archly at them, and mention the one they must take. Thus: + +Q. - Now, dear children, I wonder if you can tell me where the sun +rises. In the north, doesn't it ? + +A. - Yes, sir. + +Q. - Yes, you are right. In the north. And because it rises in +the north every afternoon at three, how do we walk about? On our +feet, do we? + +A. - No, sir. + +Q. - No. Of course not. Then how is it we do walk about? On +our ears or - (now the look) on our noses? + +A. - On our noses. + +This method, if carefully and systematically employed, was never +known to fail. It is called the Socratic method. + +The most interesting feature of the monthly Sabbath-school concert +is universally conceded to be the treasurer's report. So much on +hand at the last meeting, so much contributed by each class during +the month last past, so much expended, so much left on hand at +present. We used to sit and listen to it with slack jaws and +staring eyes. Money, money, oceans of money! Thirty-eight cents +and seventy-six cents and a dollar four cents! My! + +The librarian's report was nowhere. It was a bully library, too, +and contained the "Through by Daylight" Series, and the "Ragged +Dick" Series, and the "Tattered Tom" Series, and the "Frank on the +Gunboat" Series, and the "Frank the Young Naturalist" Series, and +the "Elm Island" Series - Did you ever read "The Ark of Elm Island", +and "Giant Ben of Elm Island"? You didn't? Ah, you missed it +- and the "B. O. W. C." Series - and say! there was a book in that +library - oo-oo! "Cast up by the Sea," all about wreckers, and +false lights on the shore, and adventures in Central Africa, and +there's a nigger queen that wants to marry him, and he don't want +to because he loves a girl in England - I think that's kind of soft + - and he kills about a million of them trying to get away. You +want to get that book. Don't let them give you "Patient Henry" or +"Charlie Watson, the Drunkard's Little Son." They're about boys +that take sick and die - no good. + +It was a bully library, but the report wasn't interesting. Major +Humphreys's always was. He was the treasurer because he worked in +the bank. He came from the Western Reserve, and said "cut" when he +meant coat, and "hahnt" when he meant heart. I can shut my eyes +and hear him read his report now: "Infant-class, Mrs. Sarah M. Boggs, +one dolla thutty-eight cents; Miss Dan'ells's class, fawty-six cents; +Miss Goldrick's class, twenty-faw cents; Mr. Pahnker's class, +ninety-three cents; Miss Rut's class, naw repawt." + +Poor old Miss Root! There was hardly ever any report from her class. +Often she hadn't a penny to give, and perhaps the other old ladies, +who found the keenest possible delight in doing what they called +"running up the references," had no more, for they were relics of +an age when women weren't supposed to have money to fling right and +left in the foolish way that women will if they're not looked after + - shoes for the baby, and a new calico dress every two or three +years or so. + +Yes, it is rather interesting for a change now and then to hear +these folks go on about what a terrible thing the Sabbath-school is, +and how it does more harm than good. They get really excited about +it, and storm around as if they expected folks to take them seriously. +They know, just as well as we do, that this wouldn't be any kind of +a country at all if we couldn't look back and remember the +Sabbath-school, or if we couldn't fix up the children Sunday +afternoons, and find their lesson leaves for them, and hunt up a +penny to give to the poor heathen, and hear them say the Golden Text +before they go, and tell them to be nice. Papa and mamma watch +them from the window till they turn the corner, and then go back to +the Sunday paper with a secure sort of feeling. They won't learn +anything they oughtn't to at the Sabbath-school. + + + + +THE REVOLVING YEAR + + + "'It snows!' cries the schoolboy, 'Hurrah!' + And his shout is heard through parlor and hall." + + +MCGUFFEY's THIRD READER. + + +(Well, maybe it was the Second Reader. And if it was the Fourth, +what difference does it make? And, furthermore, who 's doing this +thing, you or me?) + + +Had it not been that never in my life have I ever heard anybody say +either "It snows!" or "Hurrah!" it is improbable that I should have +remembered the first line of a poem describing the effect produced +upon different kinds of people by the sight of the first snowstorm +of winter. Had it not been for the plucky (not to say heroic) +effort to rhyme "hall" with "hurrah" I should not have remembered +the second, and still another line of it, depicting the emotions +of a poor widow with a large family and a small woodpile, is burned +into my memory only by reason of the shocking language it contains, +the more shocking in that it was deliberately put forth to be read +by innocent-minded children. Poor Carrie Rinehart! When she stood +up to read that, she got as red as a beet, and I believed her when +she told me afterward that she thought she would sink right through +that floor. Of course, some had to snicker, but the most of us, I +am thankful to say, were a credit to our bringing up, and never let +on we heard it. All the same it was a terrible thing to have to +speak right out loud before everybody. If any of the boys (let +alone the girls), had said that because he felt like saying it, he +would have been sent in to the principal, and that night his daddy +would have given him another licking. + +Even now I cannot bring myself to write the line without toning it +down. + +"'It snows!' cries the widow. 'Oh G - d!'" + +At the beginning of winter, I will not deny, that the schoolboy might +have shouted: "It's snowin'! Hooee!" when he saw the first snow +flakes sifting down, and realized that the Old Woman was picking her +geese. A change is always exciting, and winter brings many joyous +sports and pastimes, skating, and snowballing, and sliding down hill, +and - er - er - I said skating didn't I? and - er - Oh, yes, +sleigh-riding, and - er - Well, I guess that's about all. + +Skating, now, that's fine. I know a boy who, when the red ball goes +up in the street-cars, sneaks under his coat a pair of wooden-soled +skates, with runners that curl up over the toes like the stems of +capital letters in the Spencerian copy-book. He is ashamed of the +old-fashioned things, which went out of date long and long before my +day, but he says that they are better than the hockeys. Well, you +take a pair of such skates and strap them on tightly until you can't +tell by the feel which is feet and which is wooden soles, and you +glide out upon the ice above the dam for, say about four hours, with +the wind from the northwest and the temperature about nine below, and +I tell you it is something grand. And if you run over a stick that +is frozen in the ice, or somebody bumps into you, or your feet slide +out from under you, and you strike on your ear and part of your face +on the ice, and go about ten feet ah, it's great! Simply great. And +it's nice too, to skate into an air-hole into water about up to your +neck, and have the whole mob around you whooping and "hollering" and +slapping their legs with glee, because they know it isn't deep +enough to drown you, and you look so comical trying to claw out. And +when you do get out, it takes such along time to get your skates of, +and you feel so kind of chilly like, and when you get home your +clothes are frozen stiff on you - Oh, who would willingly miss such +sport? + +And sleigh-riding! Me for sleigh-riding! You take a nice, sharp +day in winter, when the sky is as blue as can be because all the +moisture is frozen out of the air, a day when the snow under the +sleigh runners whines and creaks, as if thousands of tiny wineglasses +were being crushed by them, and the bells go jing-jing, jing-jing +on the frosty air which just about takes the hide off your face; +when you hold your mittens up to your ears and then have to take +them down to slap yourself across the chest to get the blood agoing +in your fingers; when you kick your feet together and dumbly wonder +why it is your toes don't click like marbles; when the cold creeps +up under your knitted pulse-warmers, and in at every possible little +leak until it has soaked into your very bones; when you snuggle down +under the lap-robe where it is warm as toast (day before yesterday's +toast) and try to pull your shoulders up over your head; when a +little drop hangs on the end of your nose, which has ceased to feel +like a living, human nose, and now resembles something whittled to a +point; when you hold your breath as long as you can, and your jaw +waggles as if you were playing chin-chopper with it - Ah, that's the +sport of kings! And after you have got as cold as you possibly can +get, and simply cannot stand it a minute longer, you ride and ride +and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride. Once +in a while you turn out for another sleigh, and nearly upset in the +process, and you can see that in all points its occupants are exactly +as you are, just as happy and contented. There aren't any dogs to +run out and bark at you. Old Maje and Tige, and even little Bounce +and Guess are snoozing behind the kitchen stove. All there is is +just jing-jing, jing-jing, jing-jing, not a bird-cry or a sound of +living creature. jing-jing, jing-jing. . . . . Well, yes, kind o' +monotonous, but still . . . . You pass a house, and a woman comes +out to scrape off a plate to the chickens standing on one foot in a +corner where the sun can get at them, and the wind cannot. She +scrapes slowly, and looks at you as much as to say: "I wonder who's +sick. Must be somebody going for the doctor, day like this." And +then she shudders: "B-b-b-oo-oo-oo!" and runs back into the house +and slams the door hard. You snuffle and look at the chimney that +has thick white smoke coming out of it, and consider that very +likely a nice, warm fire is making all that smoke, and you snuffle +again, and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and +ride and 'ride. And about an hour and a half after you have given +up all hopes, and are getting resigned to your fate, you turn off +the big road and up the lane to the house where you are going on +your pleasure-trip, and you hop out as nimble as a sack of potatoes, +and hobble into the house, and don't say how-de-do or anything, but +just make right for the stove. The people all squall out: "Why, +ain't you 'most froze?" and if you answer, "Yes sum," it's as much +as ever. Generally you can't do anything but just stand and snuffle +and look as if you hadn't a friend on earth. And about the time you +get so that some spots are pretty warm, and other spots aren't as +cold as they were, why then you wrap up, and go home again with the +same experience, only more so. Fine! fine! + +It's nice, too, when there's a whole crowd out together in a +wagon-bed with straw in it. There's something so cozy in straw! +And the tin horns you blow in each other's ear, and the songs you +sing: "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way," and +"Waw-unneeta! Waw-unneeta, ay-usk thy sowl if we shud part," and +"Nearer, my God, to Thee," and "Johnny Shmoker," and that variation +of "John Brown's Body," where every time you sing over the verse +you leave off one more word, and somebody always forgets, and you +laugh fit to kill yourself, and just have a grand time. And maybe +you take a whole lot of canned cove oysters with you, and when you +get out to Makemson's, or wherever it is you're going, Mrs. +Makemson puts the kettle on and makes a stew, cooking the oysters +till they are thoroughly done. And she makes coffee, the kind you +can't tell from tea by the looks, and have to try twice before you +can tell by the taste. Ah! winter brings many joyous sports and +pastimes. And you get back home along about half-past two, and the +fire's out, and the folks are in bed, and you have to be at the +store to open up at seven - Laws! I wish it was so I could go +sleigh-riding once more in the long winter evenings, when the pitcher +in the spare bedroom bursts, and makes a noise like a cannon. + +And sliding down hill, I like that. + +What? Coasting? Never heard of it. If it's anything like sliding +down hill, it's all right. For a joke you can take a barrel-stave +and hold on to that and slide down. It goes like a scared rabbit, +but that isn't so much the point as that it slews around and spills +you into a drift. Sleds are lower and narrower than they used to be, +and they also lack the artistic adornment of a pink, or a blue, or a +black horse, painted with the same stencil but in different colors, +and named "Dexter," or "Rarus,'' or"Goldsmith Maid." These are good +names, but nobody ever called his sled by a name. Boggs's hill, +back of the lady's house that taught the infant-class in +Sunday-school, was a good hill. It had a creek at the bottom, and a +fine, long ride, eight or ten feet, on the ice. But Dangler's hill +was the boss. It was the one we all made up our minds we would ride +down some day when the snow was just right. We'd go over there' and +look up to the brow of the hill and say: "Gee! But wouldn't a fellow +come down like sixty, though?" + +"Betchy!" + +We'd look up again, and somebody would say: "Aw, come on. Less go +over to Boggs's hill." + +"Thought you was goin' down Dangler's." + +"Yes, I know, but all the other fellows is over to Boggs's." + +"A-ah, ye're afraid." + +"Ain't either." + +"Y' are teether." + +"I dare you." + +"Oh, well now -- " + +"I double dare you." + +"All right. I will if you will. You go first." + +"Nah, you go first. The fellow that's dared has got to go first. +Ain't that so, Chuck? Ain't that so, Monkey?" + +"I'll go down if you will, on'y you gotta go first." + +"Er - er - Who all 's over at Boggs's hill?" + +"Oh, the whole crowd of 'em, Turkey-egg McLaughlin, and Ducky +Harshberger, and - Oh, I don' know who all." + +"Tell you what less do. Less wait till it gets all covered with +ice, and all slick and smooth. Then less come over and go down." + +"Say, won't she go like sixty then! Jeemses Rivers! Come on, I'll +beat you to the corner." + +That was the closest we ever came to going down Dangler's hill. +Railroad hill wasn't so bad, over there by the soap-factory, because +they didn't run trains all the time, and you stood a good chance of +missing being run over by the engine, but Dangler's Well, now, I +want to tell you Dangler's was an awful steep hill, and a long one, +and when you think that it was so steep nobody ever pretended to +drive up it even in the summer-time, and you slide down the hill and +think that, once you got to going. + +Fun's fun, I know, but nobody wants to go home with half his scalp +hanging over one eye, and dripping all over the back porch. Because, +you know, a fellow's mother gets crosser about blood on wood-work +than anything else. Scrubbing doesn't do the least bit of good; it +has to be planed off, or else painted. + +Let me see, now. Have I missed anything? I'll count 'em off on my +fingers. There's skating, and sleigh-riding, and sliding down hill, +and Oh, yes. Snowballing and making snow-men. Nobody makes a +snow-man but once, and nobody makes a snow-house after it has caved +in on him once and like to killed him. And as for snowballing - Look +here. Do you know what's the nicest thing about winter? Get your +feet on a hot stove, and have the lamp over your left shoulder, and +a pan of apples, and something exciting to read, like "Frank Among +the Indians." Eh, how about it? In other words, the best thing +about winter is when you can forget that it is winter. + +The excitement that prompts "It snows!" and "Hurrah!" mighty soon +peters out, and along about the latter part of February, when you go +to the window and see that it is snowing again - again? Consarn the +luck! - you and the poor widow with the large family and the small +woodpile are absolutely at one. + +You do get so sick and tired of winter. School lets out at four +o'clock, and it's almost dark then. There's no time for play, for +there's all that wood and kindling to get in, and Pap's awful cranky +when he hops out of bed these frosty mornings to light the fire, and +finds you've been skimpy with the kindling. And the pump freezes up, +and you've got to shovel snow off the walks and out in the back-yard +so Tilly can hang up the clothes when she comes to do the washing. +And your mother is just as particular about your neck being clean as +she is in summer when the water doesn't make you feel so shivery. +And there's the bottle of goose-grease always handy, and the red +flannel to pin around your throat, and your feet in the bucket of hot +water before you go to bed - Aw, put 'em right in. Yes, I know it's +hot. That's what going to make you well. In with 'em. Aw, child, +it isn't going to scald you. Go on now. The water'll be stone-cold +in a minute." Oh, I don't like winter for a cent. Kitchoo! There, +I've gone and caught fresh cold. + +I wish it would hurry up and come spring. + + "When the days begin to lengthen, + The cold begins to strengthen." + +Now, you know that doesn't stand to reason. Every day the sun +inches a little higher in the heavens. His rays strike us more +directly and for a longer time each day. But it's the cantankerous +fact, and it simply has to stand to reason. That's the answer, and +the sum has to be figured out somehow in accordance with it. Like +one time, when I was about sixteen years old, and in the possession +of positive and definite information about the way the earth went +around the sun and all, I was arguing with one of these old codgers +that think they know it all, one of these men that think it is so +smart to tell you: "Sonny, when you get older, you'll know more 'n +you do now - I hope. "Well, he was trying to tell me that the day +lengthened at one end before it did at the other. I did my best to +dispel the foolish notion from his mind, and explained to him how +it simply could not be, but no, sir! he stood me down. Finally, +since pure reasoning was wasted on him, I took the almanac off the +nail it hung by, and - I bedog my riggin's if the old skidama +link wasn't right after all. Sundown keeps coming a minute later +every day, while, for quite a while there, sun-up sticks at the same +old time, 7:3o A.M. Did you ever hear of anything so foolish? + +"Very early, while it is yet dark," the alarm clock of old Dame +Nature begins to buzz. It may snow and blow, and winter may seem +to have settled in in earnest, but deep down in the earth, the +root-tips, where lie the brains of vegetables, are gaping and +stretching, and ho-humming, and wishing they could snooze a little +longer. When it thaws in the afternoon and freezes up at sunset as +tight as bricks, they tell me that out in the sugar-camp there are +great doings. I don't know about it myself, but I have heard tell +of boring a hole in the maple-tree, and sticking in a spout, and +setting a bucket to catch the, drip, and collecting the sap, and +boiling down, and sugaring off. I have heard tell of taffy-pullings, +and how Joe Hendricks stuck a whole gob of maple-wax in Sally +Miller's hair, and how she got even with him by rubbing his face +with soot. It is only hearsay with me, but I'll tell you what I +have done: I have eaten real maple sugar, and nearly pulled out +every tooth I had in my head with maple-wax, and I have even gone +so far as to have maple syrup on pancakes. It's good, too. The +maple syrup came on the table in a sort of a glass flagon with a +metal lid to it, and it was considered the height of bad manners to +lick off the last drop of syrup that hung on the nose of the flagon. +And yet it must not be allowed to drip on the table-cloth. It is a +pity we can't get any more maple syrup nowadays, but I don't feel +so bad about the loss of it, as I do to think what awful liars +people can be, declaring on the label that 'deed and double, 'pon +their word and honor, it is pure, genuine, unadulterated maple syrup, +when they know just as well as they know anything that it is only +store-sugar boiled up with maple chips. + +Along about the same time, the boys come home with a ring of mud +around their mouths, and exhaling spicy breaths like those which +blow o'er Ceylon's isle in the hymn-book. They bear a bundle of +roots, whose thick, pink hide mother whittles off with the +butcher-knife and sets to steep. Put away the store tea and coffee. +To-night as we drink the reddish aromatic brew we return, not only +to our own young days, but to the young days of the nation when our +folks moved to the West in a covered wagon; when grandpap, only a +little boy then, about as big as Charley there, got down the rifle +and killed the bear that had climbed into the hog-pen; when they +found old Cherry out in the timber with her calf between her legs, +and two wolves lying where she had horned them to death - we return +to-night to the high, heroic days of old, when our forefathers +conquered the wilderness and our foremothers reared the families +that peopled it. This cup of sassafras to-night in their loving +memory! Earth, rest easy on their moldering bones! + +Some there be that still take stock in the groundhog. I don't +believe he knows anything about it. And I believe that any animal +that had the sense that he is reputed to have would not have +remained a mere ground-hog all these years. At least not in this +country. Anyhow, it's a long ways ahead, six weeks is, especially +at the time when you do wish so fervently that it would come spring. +We keep on shoveling coal in the furnace, and carrying out ashes, +and longing and crying: "Oh, for pity's sakes! When is this going +to stop?" And then, one morning, we awaken with a start Wha - what? +Sh! Keep still, can't you? There is a more canorous and horn-like +quality to the crowing of Gildersleeve's rooster, and his hens chant +cheerily as they kick the litter about. But it wasn't these cheerful +sounds that wakened us with a start. There! Hear that? Hear it? +Two or three long-drawn, reedy notes, and an awkward boggle at a +trill, but oh, how sweet! How sweet! It is the song-sparrow, +blessed bird! It won't be long now; it won't be long. + +The snow fort in the back-yard still sulks there black and dirty. +"I'll go when I get good and ready, and not before," it seems to +say. Other places the thinner snow has departed and left behind it +mud that seizes upon your overshoe with an "Oh, what's your rush?" +In the middle of the road it lies as smooth as pancake-batter. A +load of building stone stalls, and people gather on the sidewalk to +tell the teamster quietly and unostentatiously that he ought to have +had more sense than to pile it on like that with the roads the way +they are. Every time the cruel whip comes down and the horses dance +under it, the women peering out of the front windows wince, and +cluck "Tchk! Ain't it terrible? He ought to be arrested." This way +and that the team turns and tugs, but all in vain. Somebody puts +on his rubber boots and wades out to help, fearing not the muddy +spokes. Yo hee! Yo hee! No use. He talks it over with the +teamster. You can hear him say: "Well, suit yourself. If you want +to stay here all night." + +And then the women exult: "Goody! Goody! Serves him right. Now +he has to take off some of the stone. Lazy man's load!" + +The mother of children flies to the back-door when school lets out. +"Don't you come in here with all that mud!" she squalls excitedly. +"Look at you! A peck o' dirt on each foot. Right in my nice clean +kitchen that I just scrubbed. Go 'long now and clean your shoes. +Go 'long, I tell you. Slave and slave for you and that's all the +thanks I get. You'd keep the place looking like a hogpen, if I +wasn't at you all the time. I never saw such young ones since the +day I was made. Never. Whoopin' and hollerin' and trackin' in and +out. It's enough to drive a body crazy." + +(Don't you care. It's just her talk. If it isn't one thing it's +another, cleaning your shoes, or combing your hair, or brushing your +clothes, or using your handkerchief, or shutting the door softly, +or holding your spoon with your fingers and not in your fist, or +keeping your finger out of your glass when you drink - something the +whole blessed time. Forever and eternally picking at a fellow about +something. And saying the same thing over and over so many times. +That's the worst of it!) + +Pap and mother read over the seed catalogues, all about "warm, light +soils," and "hardy annuals," and "sow in drills four inches apart." +It kind of hurries things along when you do that. In the south +window of the kitchen is a box full of black dirt in which will you +look out what you're doing? Little more and you'd have upset it. +There are tomato seeds in that, I'll have you know. Oh, yes, +government seeds. Somebody sends 'em, I don't know who. Congressman, +I guess, whoever he is. I don't pretend to keep track of 'em. And +say. When was this watered last? There it is. Unless I stand +over you every minute - My land! If there's anything done about +this house I've got to do it. + +Between the days when it can't make up its mind whether to snow or +to rain, and tries to do both at once, comes a day when it is warm +enough (almost) to go without an overcoat. The Sunday following +you can hardly hear what the preacher has to say for the whooping +and barking. The choir members have cough drops in their cheeks +when they stand up to sing, and everybody stops in at the drug store +with: "Say, Doc, what's good for a cold?" + +Eggs have come down. Yesterday they were nine for a quarter; to-day +they're ten. Gildersleeve wants a dollar for a setting of eggs, but +he'll let you have the same number of eggs for thirty cents if you'll +wait till he can run a needle into each one. So afraid you'll raise +chickens of your own. + +Excited groups gather about rude circles scratched in the mud, and +there is talk of "pureys," and "reals," and "aggies," and "commies," +and "fen dubs!" There is a rich click about the bulging pockets of +the boys, and every so often in school time something drops on the +floor and rolls noisily across the room. When Miss Daniels asks: +"Who did that?" the boys all look so astonished. Who did what, pray +tell? And when she picks up a marble and inquires: "Whose is this?" +nobody can possibly imagine whose it might be, least of all the boy +whose most highly-prized shooter it is. At this season of the year, +too, there is much serious talk as to the exceeding sinfulness of +"playing for keeps." The little boys, in whose thumbs lingers the +weakness of the arboreal ape, their ancestor, and who "poke" their +marbles, drink in eagerly the doctrine that when you win a marble +you ought to give it back, but the hard-eyed fellows, who can plunk +it every time, sit there and let it go in one ear and out the other, +there being a hole drilled through expressly for the purpose. What? +Give up the rewards of skill? Ah, g'wan! + +The girls, even to those who have begun to turn their hair up under, +are turning the rope and dismally chanting: "All in together, pigs +in the meadow, nineteen twenty, leave the rope empty," or whatever +the rune is. + +It won't be long now. It won't be long. + + "For lo; the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the + flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds + is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the + fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the + tender grape give a good smell. Arise my love, my fair one + and come away." + +THE SONG OF SOLOMON. + + +Out in the woods the leaves that rustled so bravely when we shuffled +our feet through them last fall are sodden and matted. It is warm +in the woods, for the sun strikes down through the bare branches, +and the cold wind is fended off. The fleshy lances of the spring +beauty have stabbed upward through the mulch, and a tiny cup, +delicately veined with pink, hangs its head bashfully. Anemones on +brown wire stems aspire without a leaf, and in moist patches are May +pinks, the trailing arbutus of the grown-ups. As we carry home a +bunch, the heads all lopping every way like the heads of strangled +babies, we can almost hear behind us in the echoing forests a long, +heart-broken moan, as of Rachel mourning for her children, and will +not be comforted because they are not. The wild flowers don't look +so pretty in the tin cups of water as they did back in the woods. +There is something cheap and common about them. Throw 'em out. The +poor plants that planned through all the ages how to attract the +first smart insects of the season, and trick them into setting the +seeds for next years' flowers did not reckon that these very means +whereby they hoped to rear a family would prove their undoing at the +hands of those who plume themselves a little on their refinement, +they "are so fond of flowers." + +Old Winter hates to give up that he is beaten. It's a funny thing, +but when you hear a person sing, "Good-a-by, Summer, good-a-by, +good-a-by," you always feel kind of sad and sorry. It's going, the +time of year when you can stay out of doors most of the time, when +you can go in swimming, and the Sunday-school picnic, and the circus, +and play base-ball and camp out, and there's no school, and +everything nice, and watermelons, and all like that. Good-by, +good-by, and you begin to sniff a little. The departure of summer +is dignified and even splendid, but the earth looks so sordid and +draggle-trailed when winter goes, that onions could not bring a tear. +Old winter likes to tease. Aha! You thought I was gone, did you? +Not yet, my child, not yet!" And he sends us huckleberry-colored +clouds from the northwest, from which snow-flakes big as copper +cents solemnly waggle down, as if they really expected the schoolboy +to shout: "It snows! Hurrah!" and makes his shout heard through +parlor and hall. But they only leave a few dark freckles on the +garden beds. Alas, yes! There is no light without its shadow, no +joy without its sorrow tagging after. It isn't all marbles and play +in the gladsome springtide. Bub has not only to spade up the garden + - there is some sense in that - but he has to dig up the flower +beds, and help his mother set out her footy, trifling plants. + +The robins have come back, our robins that nest each spring in the +old seek-no-further. To the boy grunting over the spading-fork +presents himself Cock Robin. "How about it? Hey? All right? Hey?" +he seems to ask, cocking his head, and flipping out the curt +inquiries with tail-jerks. Glad of any excuse to stop work, the +boy stands statue-still, while Mr. Robin drags from the upturned +clods the long, elastic fish-worms, and then with a brief "Chip!" +flashes out of sight. Be right still now. Don't move. Here he +comes again, and his wife with him. They fly down, he all eager +and alert to wait upon her, she whining and scolding. She doesn't +think it's much of a place for worms. And there's that boy yonder. +He's up to some devilment or other, she just knows. She oughtn't +to have come away and left those eggs. They'll get cold now, she +just knows they will. Anything might happen to them when she 's +away, and then he 'll be to blame, for he coaxed her. He knows she +told him she didn't want to come. But he would have it. For half +a cent she'd go back right now. And, Heavens above! Is he going +to be all 'day picking up a few little worms? + +She cannot finish her sentences for her gulps, for he is tamping +down in her insides the reluctant angleworms that do not want to +die, two or three writhing in his bill at once, until he looks like +Jove's eagle with its mouth full of thunderbolts. And all the time +he is chip-chipping and flirting his tail, and saying: "How's that? +All right? Hey? Here's another. How's that? All right? Hey? +Open now. Like that? Here's one. + +Oh, a beaut! Here's two fat ones? Great? Hey? Here y' go. Touch +the spot? Hey? More? Sure Mike. Lots of 'em. Wide now. Boss. +Hey? Wait a second - yes, honey. In a second. . . . I got him. +Here's the kind you like. Oh, yes, do. Do take one more. Oh, you +better." + +"D' ye think I'm made o' rubber?" she snaps at him. "I know I'll +have indigestion, and you'll be to bla - Mercy land! Them eggs!" +and she gathers up her skirts and flits. He escorts her gallantly, +but returns to pick a few for himself, and to cock his head +knowingly at the boy, as much as to say: "Man of family, by Ned. +Or - or soon will be. Oh, yes, any minute now, any minute." + +And if I remember rightly, he even winks at the boy with a wink whose +full significance the boy does not learn till many years after when +it dawns upon him that it meant: "You got to make allowances for 'em. +Especially at such a time. All upset, you know, and worried. Oh, +yes. You got to; you got to make allowances for 'em." + +Day by day the air grows balmier and softer on the cheek. Out in +the garden, ranks of yellow-green pikes stand stiffly at "Present. +Hump!" and rosettes of the same color crumple through the warm soil, +unconsciously preparing for a soul tragedy. For an evening will +come when a covered dish will be upon the supper-table, and when +the cover is taken off, a subtle fragrance will betray, if the sense +of sight do not, that the chopped-up lettuces and onions are in a +marsh of cider vinegar, demanding to be eaten. And your big sister +will squall out in comic distress: "Oh, ma! You are too mean for +anything! Why did you have 'em tonight? I told you Mr. Dellabaugh +was going to call, and you know how I love spring onions! Well, I +don't care. I'm just going to, anyhow." + +Things come with such a rush now, it is hard to tell what happens +in its proper order. The apple-trees blossom out like pop-corn +over the hot coals. The Japan quince repeats its farfamed imitation +of the Burning Bush of Moses; the flowering currants are strung with +knobs of vivid yellow fringe; the dead grass from the front yard, +the sticks and stalks and old tomato vines, the bits of rag and the +old bones that Guess has gnawed upon are burning in the alley, and +the tormented smoke is darting this way and that, trying to get out +from under the wind that seeks to flatten it to the ground. All +this is spring, and - and yet it isn't. The word is not yet spoken +that sets us free to live the outdoor life; we are yet prisoners and +captives of the house. + +But, one day in school, the heat that yesterday was nice and cozy +becomes too dry and baking for endurance. The young ones come in +from recess red, not with the brilliant glow of winter, but a sort +of scalded red. They juke their heads forward to escape their +collars' moist embrace; they reach their hands back of them to pull +their clinging winter underwear away. They fan themselves with +joggerfies, and puff out: "Phew!" and look pleadingly at the shut +windows. One boy, bolder than his fellows, moans with a suffering +lament: "Miss Daniels, cain't we have the windows open? It's awful +hot!" Frightful dangers lurk in draughts. Fresh air will kill +folks. So, not until the afternoon is the prayer answered. Then +the outer world, so long excluded, enters once more the school-room +life. The mellifluous crowing of distant roosters, the rhythmic +creaking of a thirsty pump, the rumble of a loaded wagon, the +clinking of hammers at the blacksmith shop, the whistle of No. 3 +away below town, all blend together in the soft spring air into one +lulling harmony. + +Winter's alert activity is gone. Who cares for grades and standings +now? The girls, that always are so smart, gape lazily, and stare +at vacancy wishing . . . . They don't know what they wish, but if +He had a lot of money, why, then they could help the poor, and all +like that, and have a new dress every day. + +James Sackett - his real name is Jim Bag, but teacher calls him +James Sackett - has his face set toward: "A farmer sold 16 2-3 bu. +wheat for 66 7-8 c. per bu.; 19 2-9 bu. oats for," etc., etc., but +his soul is far away in Cummins's woods, where there is a robbers' +cave that he, and Chuck Higgins, and Bunt Rogers, and Turkey-egg +McLaughlin are going to dig Saturday afternoons when the chores +are done. They are going to - Here Miss Daniels should slip up +behind him and snap his ear, but she, too, is far away in spirit. +Her beau is coming after supper to take her buggy-riding. She +wonders. . . . She wonders. . . . Will she have to teach again next +fall? She wonders. . . . + +Wait. Wait but a moment. A subtle change is coming. + +The rim of the revolving year has a brighter and a darker half, a +joyous and a somber half, Autumnal splendors cannot cheer the +melancholy that we feel when summer goes from us, but when summer +comes again the heart leaps up in glee to meet it. Wait but a +moment now. Wait. + +The distant woodland swims in an amethystine haze. A long and +fluting note, honey-sweet as it were blown upon a bottle, comes to +us from far. It is the turtle-dove. The blood beats in our ears. +Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. + +So gentle it can scarce be felt, a waft of air blows over us, the +first sweet breath of summer. A veil of faint and subtle perfume +drifts around us. The vines with the tender grape give a good smell. +And evermore as its enchantment is cast about us we are as once we +were when first we came beneath its spell; we are by the smokehouse +at the old home place; we stand in shoes whose copper toes wink and +glitter in the sunlight, a gingham apron sways in the soft breeze, +and on the green, upspringing turf dances the shadow of a tasseled +cap. Life was all before us then. Please God, it is not all behind +us now. Please God, our best and wisest days are yet to come the +days when we shall do the work that is worthy of us. Dear one, +mother of my children here and Yonder - and Yonder - the best and +wisest days are yet to come. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come +away. + + + + +THE SWIMMING-HOLE + + +It is agreed by all, I think, that the two happiest periods in a +man's life are his boyhood and about ten years from now. We are +exactly in the position described in the hymn: + + "Lo! On a narrow neck of land + 'Twixt two unbounded seas we stand, + And cast a wishful eye."* + +*[I am told, on good authority, that this last line of the three +belongs to another hymn. As it is just what I want to say, I'm +going to let it stand as it is.] + +If I remember right, the hymn went to the tune of "Ariel," and I can +see John Snodgrass, the precentor, sneaking a furtive C from his +pitch-pipe, finding E flat and then sol, and standing up to lead the +singing, paddling the air gently with: Down, left, sing. Well, no +matter about that now. What I am trying to get at, is that we have +all a lost Eden in the past and a Paradise Regained in the future. +'Twixt two unbounded seas of happiness we stand on the narrow and +arid sand-spit of the present and cast a wishful eye. In hot weather +particularly the wishful eye, when directed toward the lost Eden of +boyhood, lights on and lingers near the Old Swimming-hole. + +I suppose boys do grow up into a reasonable enjoyment of their +faculties in big seaside cities and on inland farms where there is +no accessible body of water larger than a wash-tub, but I prefer to +believe that the majority of our adult male population in youth went +in swimming in the river up above the dam, where the big sycamore +spread out its roots a-purpose for them to climb out on without +muddying their feet. Some, I suppose, went in at the Copperas Banks +below town, where the current had dug a hole that was "over head and +hands," but that was pretty far and almost too handy for the boys +from across the tracks. + +The wash-tub fellows will have to be left out of it entirely. It +was an inferior, low-grade Eden they had anyhow, and if they lost it, +why, they 're not out very much that I can see. And I rather pity +the boys that lived by the sea. They had a good time in their way, +I suppose, with sailboats and things, but the ocean is a poor excuse +for a swimming-hole. They say salt-water is easier to swim in; kind +of bears you up more. Maybe so, but I never could see it; and even +so, if it does, that slight advantage is more than made up for by +the manifold disadvantages entailed. First place, there's the tide +to figure on. If it was high tide last Wednesday at half-past ten +in the morning, what time will it be high tide today? A boy can't +always go when he wants to, and it is no fun to trudge away down to +the beach only to find half a mile of soft, gawmy mud between him +and the water. And he can't go in wherever it is deep enough and +nobody lives near. People own the beach away out under water, and +where he is allowed to go in may be a perfect submarine jungle of +eel-grass or bottomed with millions of razor-edged barnacles that +rip the soles of his feet into bleeding rags. Then, too, when one +swims, more or less water gets into one's nose and mouth. River-water +may not be exactly what a fastidious person would choose to drink +habitually, but there is this in its favor as compared with sea-water: +it will stay down after it is swallowed; also, it doesn't gum up your +hair; also, if you want to take a cake of soap with you, all you have +to look out for is that you don't lose the soap. Nobody tries to +use toilet soap in sea-water more than once. + +And surf-bathing! If there is a bigger swindle than surf-bathing, +the United States Postal authorities haven't heard of it yet. It is +all very well for the women. They can hang on to the ropes and +squeal at the big waves and have a perfectly lovely time. Some of +the really daring ones crouch down till they actually get their +shoulder-blades wet. You have to see that for yourself to believe +it, but it is as true as I am sitting here. They do so - some of +them. But good land! There's no swimming in surf-bathing, no fun +for a man. The water is all bouncing up and down. One second it +is over head and hands, and the next second it is about to your +knees, with a malicious undertow tickling your feet and tugging at +your ankles; and growling: "Aw, you think you're some, don't you? +Yes. Well, for half a cent wouldn't take you out and drown you,." And +I don't like the looks of that boat patrolling up and down between +the ropes and the raft. It is too suggestive, too like the skeleton +at the banquet, too blunt a reminder that maybe what the undertow +growls is not all a bluff. + +Another drawback to the ocean as a swimming-hole is that the +distances are all wrong. If you want to go to the other side of the +"crick" you must take a steamboat. There is no such thing as +bundling up your clothes and holding them out of water with one hand +while you swim with the other, perhaps dropping your knife or +necktie in transit. I have never been on the other side of the +"crick" even on a steamboat, but I am pretty sure that there are no +yellow-hammers' nests over there or watermelon patches. There were +above the dam. At the seaside they give you as an objective point +a raft, anchored at what seems only a little distance from where it +gets deep enough to swim in, but which turns out to be a mighty far +ways when the water bounces so. When you get there, blowing like +a quarter-horse and weighing nine tons as you lift yourself out, +there is nothing to do but let your feet hang over while you get +rested enough to swim back. It wasn't like that above the dam. + +I tell you the ocean is altogether too big. Some profess to admire +it on that account, but it is my belief that they do it to be in +style. I admit that on a bright, blowy day, when you can sit and +watch the shining sails far out on the horizon's rim, it does look +right nice, but I account for it in this way: it puts you in mind +of some of these expensive oil paintings, and that makes you think +it is kind of high class. And another thing: It recalls the picture +in the joggerfy that proved the earth was round because the hull of +a ship disappears before the sails, as it would if the ship was +going over a hill. You sweep your eye along where the sky and water +meet, and it seems you can note the curvature of the earth. Maybe +it is that, and maybe it is all in your own eye. I am not saying. + +There are good points, too, about the sea on a clear night when the +moon is full; or when there is no moon, and the phosphorescence in +the water shows, as if mermaids' children were playing with +blue-tipped matches. I like to see it when a gale is blowing, and +the white caps race. Yes, and when it is a flat calm, with here and +there a tiny cat's-paw crinkling the water into gray-green crepe. +And also when - but there! it is no use cataloguing all kinds of +weather and all hours of the day and night. What I don't approve of +in the ocean is its everlasting bigness. It is so discouraging. It +makes a body seem so no-account and insignificant. You come away +feeling meaner than a sheep-killing dog. "Oh, what's the use?" +you say to yourself. "What's the use of my breaking my neck to do +anything or be anybody? Before I was born - before History began + - before any foot of being that could be called a man trod these +sands, the waves beat thus the pulse of time. When I am gone - when +all that man has made, that seems so firm and everlasting, shall +have crumbled into the earth, whence it sprang, this wave, so +momentary and so eternal, shall still surge up the slanting beach, +and trail its lacy mantle in retreat . . . . O spare me a little, +that I may recover my strength before I go hence, and be no more +seen." + +And that's no way for a man to feel. He ought to be confident and +sure of himself. If he hasn't yet done all that he laid out to do, +he should feel that it is in him to do it, and that he will before +the time comes for him to go, and that when it is done it shall be +orth while. + +It is the ocean's everlasting bigness that makes it so cold to swim +in. At the seaside bathing pavilions they have a blackboard whereon +they chalk up "70" or "72" or whatever they think folks will like. +They never say in so many words that a man went down into the water +and held a thermometer in it long enough to get the true temperature, +but they lead you to believe it. All I have to say is that they +must have very optimistic thermometers. I just wish some of these +poor little seashore boys could have a chance to try the Old +Swimming-hole up above the dam. Certainly along about early +going-barefoot time the water is a little cool, but you take it in +the middle of August - ah, I tell you! When you come out of the +water then you don't have to run up and down to get your blood in +circulation or pile the warm sand on yourself or hunt for the +steam-room. Only thing is, if you stay in all day, as you want to, +it thins your blood, and you get the "fever 'n' ager." But you can +stay in as long as you want to, that 's the point, without your +lips turning the color of a chicken's gizzard. + +And there's this about the Old Swimming-hole, or there was in my +day: There were no women and girls fussing around aid squalling: +"Now, you stop splashin' water on me! Quit it now! Quee-yut!" +I don't think t looks right for women folks to have anything to do +with water in large quantities. On a sail-boat, now, they are the +very - but perhaps we had better not go into that. At a picnic, +indeed, trey used to take off their shoes and stockings and paddle +their feet in the water, but that was as much as ever they did. +They never thought of going in swimming. Even at the seashore, now +when Woman is so emancipated, they go bathing not swimming. I don't +like to see a woman swim any more than I like to see a woman smoke +a cigar. And for the same reason. It is more fun than she is +entitled to. A woman's place is home minding the baby, and cooking +the meals. Nothing would do her but she had to be born a woman, +she had the same liberty of choice that we men had. Very well, I +say, let her take the consequencies. + +It is only natural, then, that she should refuse to let her boys go +swimming. She pays off her grudge that way. Just because she can't +go herself she is bound the they shan't either. She says they will +get drowned, but we know about that. It is only an excuse to keep +them from having a little fun. She has to say something. They +won't get drowned. Why, the idea! They haven't the least intention +of any such thing. + +"Well, but Robbie, supposing you couldn't help yourself?" + +"How couldn't help myself?" + +"Why, get the cramps. Suppose you got the cramps, then what?" + +"Aw, pshaw! Cramps nothin'! They hain't no sich of a thing. And, +anyhow, if I did get 'em, wouldn't jist kick 'em right out. This way." + +"Now, Robbie, you know you did have a terrible cramp in your foot +just only the other night. Don't you remember?" + +"Aw, that! That ain't nothin'. That ain't the cramps that drownds +people. Didn't I tell you wouldn't fist kick it right out? That's what +they all do when they git the cramps. But they don't nobody git 'em +now no more." + +"I don't want you to go in the water and get drowned. You know you +can't swim." + +This is too much. Oh, this is rank injustice! Worse yet, it is bad +logic. + +"How 'm I ever goin' to learn if you don't let me go to learn?" + +"Well, you can't go, and that's the end of it." + +Isn't that just like a woman? Perfectly unreasonable! Dear! dear! + +"Now, Ma, listen here. S'posin' we was all goin' some place on a +steamboat, me and you and Pa and the baby and all of us, and - " + +"That won't ever happen, I guess." + +"CAN'T YOU LET ME TELL YOU? And s'posin' the boat was to sink, and +I could swim and save you from drown - " + +"You're not going swimming, and that's all there is about it." + +"Other boys' mas lets them go. I don't see why I can't go." + +No answer. + +"Ma, won't you let me go? I won't get drowned, hope to die if I do. +Ma, won't you let me go? Ma! Ma-a! - Maw-ah!" + +"Stop yelling at me that way. Good land! Do you think I'm deaf?" + +"Won't you let me go? Please, won't you let - " + +"No, I won't. I told you I wouldn't, and I mean it. You might as +well make up your mind to stay at home, for you're - not - going. +Hush up now. This instant, sir! Robbie, do you hear me? Stop +crying. Great baby! wouldn't be ashamed to cry that way, as big as you +are!" + +Mean old Ma! Guess she'd cry too'f she could see the other kids that +waited for him to go and ask her - if she could see them moving off, +tired of waiting. They're 'most up to Lincoln Avenue. + +"Oooooooooooo-hoo - hoo - hoo - hoohoooooooooo-ah! I wanna gow-ooooo." + +"Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?" + +"Oooooooooooo-hoo-hoo-hoo-oooooooo! I wanna gow-ooooooo." + +"Robbie! Did you hoe that corn?" + +The last boy, the one with the stone-bruise on his heel, limps around +the corner. They have all the fun. His ma won't let him go barefoot +because it spreads his feet. + +"Robbie! Answer me." + +"Mam?" + +"Did you hoe that corn your father told you to?" + +"Yes mam." + +"All of it? Did you hoe all of it?" + +" Prett' near all of it." Well begun is half done. One hill is a +good beginning, and half done is pretty nearly all. + +"Go and finish it." + +"I will if you'll let me go swimmin'." + +It flashes upon him that even now by running he can catch up with +the other fellows. He can finishing the hoeing when he gets back. + +"You'll do it anyhow, and you're not going swimming. Now, that's +the end of it. You march out to that garden this minute, or I'll +take a stick to you. And don't let me hear another whimper out of +you. Robbie! Come back here and shut that door properly. I shall +tell your father how you have acted. wouldn't be ashamed - I'd be +ashamed to show temper that way." + +It says for children to obey their parents, but if more boys minded +their mothers there would be fewer able to swim. While I shrink +with horror from even seeming to encourage dropping the hoe when the +sewing-machine gets to going good, by its thunderous spinning +throwing up an impervious wall of sound to conceal retreat into the +back alley, across the street, up the alley back of Alexander's, and +so on up to Fountain Avenue in time to catch up with the gang, still +I regard swimming as an exercise of the extremest value in the +development of the growing boy. It builds up every muscle. It is +particularly beneficial to the lungs. To have a good pair of lungs +is the same thing as having a good constitution. It is nice to have +a healthy boy, and it is nice to have an obedient boy, but if one +must choose which he will have - that's a very difficult question. +I think it should be left to the casuists. Nevertheless, now is the +boy's only chance to grow. He will have abundant opportunities to +learn obedience. + +In the last analysis there are two ways of acquiring the art of +swimming, the sudden way and the slow way. I have never personally +known anybody that learned in the sudden way, but I have heard enough +about it to describe it. It it's the quickest known method. One day +the boy its among the gibbering white monkeys at the river's edge, +content to splash in the water that comes but half way to his +crouching knees. The next day he swims with the big boys as bold as +any of them. In the meantime his daddy has taken him out in a boat, +out where it is deep - Oh! Ain't it deep there? - and thrown him +overboard. The boat is kept far enough away to be out of the boy's +reach and yet near enough to be right there in case anything happens. +(I like that "in case anything happens." It sounds so cheerful.) +It being what Aristotle defines as "a ground-hog case," the boy +learns to swim immediately. He has to. + +It seems reasonable that he should. But still and all, I don't just +fancy it. Once when a badly scared man grabbed me by the arms in +deep water I had the fear of drowning take hold of my soul, and it +isn't a nice feeling at all. Somehow when I hear folks praising up +this method of teaching a child to swim, I seem to hear the little +fellow's screams that he doesn't want to be thrown into the water. +I can see him clinging to his father for protection, and finding that +heart hard and unpitying. I can see his fingernails whiten with his +clutch on anything that gives a hand-hold. His father strips off +his grip, at first with boisterous laughter, and then with hot anger +at the little fool. He calls him a cry-baby, and slaps his mouth for +him, to stop his noise. The little body sprawls in the air and +strikes with a loud splash, and the child's gargling cry is strangled +by the water whitened by his mad clawings. I can see his head come +up, his eyes bulging, and his face distorted with the awful fear that +is ours by the inheritance of ages. He will sink and come up again, +not three times, but a hundred times. Eventually he will win safe +to shore, panting and trembling, his little heart knocking against +his ribs, it is true, but lord of the water from that time forth. +It is a very fine method, yes . . . but . . . well, if it was +my boy I had just as lief he tarried with the little white monkeys +at the river's edge. Let him squeal and crouch and splash and learn +how to half drown the other fellow by shooting water at him with the +heel of his hand. Let him alone. He will be watching the others +swim. He will edge out a little farther and kick up his heels while +with his hands he holds on the ground. He will edge out a little +farther still and try to keep his feet on the bottom and swim with +his hands. Be patient in his attempt to combine the two methods of +travel. He is not the only one that fears to be one thing or the +other, and regards a mixture of both as the safest way to get along. + +No, I cannot say that I wholly approve of the sudden method of +learning to swim. It has the advantange of lumping all the scares +of a lifetime into one and having it over with, and yet I don't +suppose the scare of being thrown into the water by one's daddy is +really greater than being ducked in mid-stream by some hulking, +cackle-voiced big boy. It seems greater though, I suppose, because +a fellow cannot very well relieve his feelings by throwing stones +at his daddy and bawling: "Goldarn you anyhow, you - you big stuff! +I'll get hunk with you, now you see if I don't!" Here would be just +the place to make the little boy tie knots in the big boy's +shirt-sleeves, soak the knots in water, and pound them between stones. +But that is kind of common, I think. They told about it at the +swimming-hole above the dam, but nobody was mean enough to do it. +Maybe they did it down at the Copperas Banks below town. The boys +from across the tracks went there, a race apart, whom we feared, and +who hated us, if the legend chalked up on the fences "DAMB THE +PRODESTANCE," meant anything. + +Under the slow method of learning to swim one had leisure to +observe the different fashions - dog-fashion and cow-fashion, +steamboat-fashion, and such. The little kids and beginners swam +dog-fashion, which on that account was considered contemptible. The +fellow was sneered at that screwed up his face as if in a cloud of +suffocating dust, and fought the water with noise and fury, putting +forth enough energy to carry him a mile, and actually going about +two feet if he were headed down stream. Scientific men say that +the use of the limbs, first on one side and then on the other, is +instinctive to all creatures of the monkey tribe. That is the way +they do in an emergency, since that is the way to scramble up among +the tree limbs. I know that it is the easiest way to swim, and the +least effective. When the arms are extended together in the breast +stroke, it is as much superior to dogfashion as man is superior to +the ape. I have always thought that to swim thus with steady and +deliberate arm action, the water parting at the chin and rising just +to the root of the underlip, was the most dignified and manly +attitude the human being could put himself in. Cow-fashion was a +burlesque of this, and the swimmer reared out of water with each +stroke, creating tidal waves. It was thought to be vastly comic. +Steamboat-fashion was where a fellow swam on his back, keeping his +body up by a gentle, secret paddling motion with his hands, while +with his feet he lashed the water into foam, like some river +stern-wheeler. If he could cry: "Hoo! hoo! hoo!" in hoarse falsetto +to mimic the whistle, it was an added charm. + +It was a red-headed boy from across the tracks on his good behavior +at the swimming-hole above the dam that I first saw swim +hand-over-hand, or "sailor-fashion" as we called it, rightly or +wrongly, I know not. I can hear now the crisp, staccato little +smack his hand gave the water as he reached forward. + +It has ever since been my envy and despair. It is so knowing, so +"sporty." I class it with being able to wear a pink-barred shirt +front with a diamond-cluster pin in it; with having my clothes so +nobby and stylish that one thread more of modishness would be beyond +the human power to endure; with being genuinely fond of horseracing; +with being a first-class poker player, I mean a really first-class +one; with being able to swallow a drink of whisky as if I liked it +instead of having to choke it down with a shudder; with knowing truly +great men like Fitzsimmons, or whoever it is that is great now, so +as to be able to slap him on the back and say: "Why, hello! Bob, old +boy, how are you?" with being delighted with the company of actors, +instead of finding them as thin as tissue-paper - what wouldn't I +give if I could be like that? My life has been a sad one. But I +might find some comfort in it yet if I coin only get that natty +little spat on the water when I lunge forward swimming overhand. + +We used to think the Old Swimming-hole was a bully place, but I +know better now. The sycamore leaned well out over the water, and +there was a trapeze on the branch that grew parallel with the shore, +but the water near it was never deep enough to dive into. And that +is another occasion of humiliation. I can't dive worth a cent. +When I go down to the slip behind Fulton Market - they sell fish at +Fulton Market; just follow your nose and you can't miss it - and +see the rows of little white monkeys doing nothing but diving, I +realize that the Old Swimming-hole with all its beauties, its green +leafiness, its clean, long grass to lie upon while drying in the +sun, or to pull out and bite off the tender, chrome-yellow ends, +was but a provincial, country-fake affair. There were no watermelon +rinds there, no broken berry-baskets, no orange peel, no nothing. +All the fish in it were just common live ones. And there was no +diving. But at the real, proper city swimming-place all the little +white monkeys can dive. Each is gibbering and shrieking: "Hey, +Chim-meel Chimmee! Hey, Chim-mee! Chimmee! Hey, CHIM-MEEEE! +How'ss t 'iss?" crossing himself and tipping over head first, +coming up so as to "lay his hair," giving a shaking snort to clear +his nose and mouth of water, regaining the ladder with three +overhand strokes (every one of them with that natty little spat +that I can't get), climbing up to the string-piece and running for +Chimmy, red-eyed, shivering, and dripping, to ask: "How wass Cat?" +And I can't dive for a cent - that is, I can't dive from a great +elevation. I set my teeth and vow I just will dive from ten feet +above the water, and every time it gets down to a poor, picayune +dive off the lowest round of the ladder. I blame my early education +for it. I was taught to be careful about pitching myself head +foremost on rocks and broken bottles. I used to think it was a fine +swimming-hole, and that I was having a grand, good time, well worth +any ordinary licking; but now that I have traveled around and seen +things, I know that it was a poor, provincial, country-jake affair +after all. The first time I swam across and back without "letting +down" it was certainly an immense place, but when I went back there +a year ago last summer - why, pshaw! it wasn't anything at all. It +was a dry summer, I admit, but not as dry as all that. A poor, +pitiful, provincial, two-for-a cent - and yet . . . and yet . . . +And yet I sat there after I had dressed, and mused upon the former +things - the life that was, but never could be again; the Eden +before whose gate was a flaming sword turning every way. The night +was still and moonless. The Milky Way slanted across the dark dome +above. It was far from the street lamps that greened among the +leafy maples in the silent streets. Gushes of air stirred the +fluttering sycamore, and whispered in the tall larches that marched +down the boundary line of the Blymire property. The last group of +swimmers had turned into the road from around the clump of willows +at the end of the pasture. The boy that is always the last one had +nearly caught up with the others, for the velvet pat of his bare +feet in the deep dust was slowing. Their eager chatter softened and +softened, until it blended with the sounds of night that verge on +silence, the fall of a leaf, the up-springing of a trodden tuft of +grass, the sleepy twitter of a dreaming bird, and the shrilling of +locusts patiently turning a creaking wheel. I heard the thump of +hoofs and buggy wheels booming in the covered bridge, and a shudder +came upon me that was not all the chill of falling dew. Again I +was a little boy, standing in a circle of my fellows and staring at +something pale, stretched out upon the ground. Ben Snyder had +dived for It and found It and brought It up and laid It on the long, +clean grass. Some one had said we ought to get a barrel and roll +It on the barrel, but there was none there. And then some one said: +"No, it was against the law to touch anything like That before the +Coroner came." So, though we wished that something might be done, +we were glad the law stepped in and stringently forbade us touching +what our flesh crept to think of touching. No longer existed for +us the boy that had the spy-glass and the "Swiss Family Robinson." +Something cold and terrible had taken his place, something that +could not see, and yet looked upward with unwinking eyes. The +gloom deepened, and the dew began to fall. We could hear the boy +that ran for the doctor whimpering a long way off. We wanted to +go home, and yet we dared not. Something might get us. And we +could not leave That alone in the dark with It's eyes wide open. +The locusts in the grass turned and turned their creaking wheel, +and the wind whispered in the tall larches. We heard the thump of +hoofs and wheels booming in the covered bridge. It was the doctor, +come too late. He put his head down to It's bosom (the cold +trickled down our backs), and then he said it was too late. If we +had known enough, he said, we might have saved him. We slunk away. +It was very lonesome. We kept together, and spoke low. We +stopped to hearken for a moment outside the house where the boy had +lived that had the spy-glass and the 'Swiss Family Robinson." Some +one had told his mother. And then, with a great and terrible fear +within us, we ran each to his own home, swiftly and silently. We +knew now why mother did not want us to go swimming. + +But the next afternoon when Chuck Grove whistled in our back alley +and held up two fingers, I dropped the hoe and went with him. It +was bright daylight then, and that is different from the night. + + + + +THE FIREMEN'S TOURNAMENT + +It isn't only Christmas that comes but once a year and when it +comes it brings good cheer; it's any festival that is worth a hill +of beans, High School Commencement, Fourth of July, Sunday-school +excursion, Election' bonfire, Thanksgiving Day (a nice day and one +whereon you can eat roast turkey till you can't choke down another +bite, and pumpkin-pie, and cranberry sauce. Tell you!) - but about +the best in the whole lot, and something the city folks don't have, +is Firemen's Tournament. That comes once a year, generally about +the time for putting up tomatoes. + +The first that most of us know about it is when we see the bills +up, telling how much excursion rates will be to our town from +Ostrander and Mt. Victory, and Wapatomica, and New Berlin, +and Foster's, and Caledonia, and Mechanicsburg - all the towns +around on both the railroads. But before that there was the +Citizens' Committee, and then the Executive Committee, and the +Finance Committee, and the Committee on Press and Publicity, and +Printing and Prizes, and Decorations and Badges, and Music, and +Reception to Firemen, and Reception to Guests - as many committees +as there are nails in the fence from your house to mine. And these +committees come around and tell you that we want to show the folks +that we've got public spirit in our town, some spunk, some git-up +to us. We want our town to contrast favorably with Caledonia where +they had the Tournament last year. We want to put it all over the +Caledonia people (they think they're so smart), and we can do it, +too, if everybody will take a-holt and help. Well, we want all we +can get. We expect a pretty generous offer from you, for one. Man +that has as pretty and tasty got-up store as you have, and does the +business that you do, ought to show his appreciation of the town +and try to help along . . . . Oh, anything you're a mind to give. +'Most anything comes in handy for prizes. But what we principally +need is cash, ready cash. You see, there's a good deal of expense +attached to an enterprise of this character. So many little things +you wouldn't think of, that you've just got to have. But laws! +you'll make it all back and more, too. We cackleate there'll be, +at the very least, ten thousand people in town that day, and it's +just naturally bound to be that some of them will do their trading. + +Thank you very much. that's very handsome of you. Good day. +(What are you growling about? Lucky to get five cents out of +that man.) + +The Ladies' Aid of Center Street M. E., has secured the store-room +recently vacated by Rouse & Meyers, and is going to serve a dinner +that day for the benefit of the Carpet Fund of their church and +about time, too, I say. I like to broke my neck there a week ago +last Sunday night, when our minister was away. Caught my foot in a +hole in the carpet, and a little more and wouldn't have gone +headlong. So, it's: "Why, I've been meaning for more than a year, +to call on you, Mrs. -- . Mrs. -- (Let me look at my list. Oh, +yes) Mrs. Cooper, but we've had so much sickness at home - you +know my husband's father is staying with us at present, and he's +been in very poor health all winter -and when it hasn't been +sickness, it's been company. You know how it is. And it seemed +as if I - just - could - not make out to get up your way. What a +pretty little place you have! So cozy! I was just saying to Mrs. +Thorpe here, it was so seldom you saw a really pretty residence +in this part of town. We think that up on the hill, where we +reside, you know, is about the handsomest . . . . Yes, there are a +great many wealthy people live up there. The Quackenbushes are +enormously wealthy. I was saying to Mrs. Quackenbush only the +other day that I thought the hill people were almost too exclusive + . . . . Yes, it is a perfectly lovely day . . . . Er - er - +We're soliciting for the Firemen's Tournament - well, not for the +Tournament exactly, but the Ladies' Aid are going to give a +dinner that day for the Carpet Fund and we thought perhaps you +'d like to help along . . . . Oh, any little thing, a boiled ham or + - . . . Well, we shall want some cake, but we'd druther - or, at +least, rawther - have something more substantial, don't you know, +pie or pickles or jelly, don't you know. And will you bring it +or shall I send Michael with the carriage for it? . . . . Oh, +thank you! If you would. It would be so much appreciated. So +sorry we couldn't make a longer stay, but now that we've found +the way . . . . Yes, that's very true. Well, good-afternoon." + +The lady of the house watches them as Michael inquires: "Whur +next, mum?" and bangs the door of the carriage. Then she turns +and says to herself: "Huh!" Mrs. Thorpe is that instant observing: +"Did you notice that crayon enlargement she had hanging up? +Wouldn't it kill you?" To which the other lady responds: "Well, +between you and I, Mrs. Thorpe, if I couldn't have a real +hand-painted picture I wouldn't have nothing at all." + +The lady of the house bakes a cake. She'll show them a thing or +two in the cake line. And while it is in the oven what does that +little dev -, that provoking Freddie, do but see if he can't jump +across the kitchen in two jumps. Fall? What cake wouldn't fall? +Of course it falls. But it is too late now to bake another, and if +they don't like it, they know what they can do. She doesn't know +that she's under any obligation to them. + +Mrs. John Van Meter hears Freddie say off the little speech his +mother taught him - Oh, you may be sure she'd be there as large as +life, taking charge of everything, just as if she had been one of +the workers, when, to my certain knowledge, she hadn't been to +one of the committee meetings, not a one. I declare I don't know +what Mr. Craddock is thinking of to let her boss every body around +the way she does - and she smiles and says: "It's all right. It's +just lovely. Tell your mamma Mrs. Van Meter is ever and ever so +much obliged to her. Isn't he a dear boy?" And when he is gone, +she says: "What are we ever going to do with all this cake? It +seems as if everybody has sent cake. And whatever possessed that +woman to attempt a cake, I - can't imagine. Ts! ts! ts! H-well. +Oh, put it somewhere. Maybe we can work it off on the country +people. Mrs. Filkins, your coffee smells PERfectly grand! +Perfectly grand. Do you think we'll have spoons enough?" + +The Tournament prizes are exhibited in the windows of the leading +furniture emporium at the corner of Main and Center, each with a +card attached bearing the name of the donor in distinctly legible +characters. Old man Hagerman has been mowing all the rag-weed and +cuckle-burrs along the line of march, and the lawns have had an +unusual amount of shaving and sprinkling. Out near the end of +Center Street, the grandstand has been going up, tiers of seats +rising from each curb line. The street has been rolled and +sprinkled and scraped until it is in fine condition for a +running track. Why don't you pick up that pebble and throw it +over into the lot? Suppose some runner should slip on that stone +and fall and hurt himself, you'd be to blame. + +The day before the Tournament, they hang the banner: + +"WELCOME VOLUNTEER FIREMEN" + +from Case's drugstore across to the Furniture Emporium. Along +the line of march you may see the man of the house up on a +step-ladder against the front porch, with his hands full of drapery +and his mouth full of tacks. His wife is backing toward the geranium +bed to get a good view, cocking her head on one side. + +" How 'v vif?" he asks as well as he can for the tacks. + +"Little higher. Oh, not so much. Down a little. Whope! that's +. . . . Oh, plague take the firemen! Just look at that! Mercy! +Mercy!" + +The man of the house can't turn his head. + +"Oh, I wouldn't have had it happen for I don't know what! Ts! Ts! +Ts! That lovely silverleaf geranium that Mrs. Pritchard give me +a slip of. Broke right off! Oh, my! My! My! Do you s'pose it'd +grow if I was to stick it into the ground just as it is with all them +buds on it?" + +The man of the house lets one end of the drapery go and empties his +mouth of tacks into his disengaged hand. + +"I don't know. Ow! jabbed right into my gum! But I can tell you +this: If you think I'm going to stick up on this ladder all morning +while you carry on about some fool old geranium that you can just +as well fuss with when I'm gone, why, you're mighty much mistaken." + +"Well, you needn't take my head off. I feel awful about that +geranium." + +"Well, why don't you look where you're going? Is this right?" + +"Yes, I told you. I wish now I'd done it myself. I can't ask you +to do a thing about the house but there's a row raised right away." + +People that don't want to go to the trouble of tacking up these +alphabet flags on the edge of the veranda eaves (it takes fourteen +of them to spell "WELCOME FIREMEN"), say they think a handsome flag + -- a really handsome one, not one of these twenty-five centers - +is as pretty and rich looking a decoration as a body can put up. + +Tents are raised in the vacant lots along Center Street, and +counters knocked together for the sale of ice-cold lemonade, lemo, +lemo, lemo, made in the shade, with a spade, by an old maid, lemo, +lemo. Here y' are now, gents, gitch nice cool drink, on'y five a +glass. There is even the hook for the ice-cream candy man to throw +the taffy over when he pulls it. I like to watch him. It makes me +dribble at the mouth to think about it. + +The man that sells the squawking toys and the rubber balloons +on sticks is in town. All he can say is:," Fi' cent." He will blow +up the balloons tomorrow morning. The men with the black-velvet +covered shields, all stuck full of "souvenirs," are here, and the +men with the little canes. I guess we'll have a big crowd if it +doesn't rain. What does the paper say about the weather? + +The boys have been playing a new game for some time past, but +it is only this evening that you notice it. The way of it is this: +You take an express-wagon - it has to have real wheels: these +sawed-out wheels are too baby - and you tie a long rope to the +tongue and fix loops on the rope, so that the boys can put each a +loop over his shoulder. (You want a good many boys.) And you +get big, long, thick pieces of rag and you take and tie them so as +to make a big, big, long piece, about as long as from here to 'way +over there. And you lay this in the wagon, kind of in folds like. +Then you go up to where they water the horses and two of you go +at the back end of the wagon and the rest put the loops over their +shoulders, and one boy says, "Are you ready ?" and he has a +Fourth of July pistol and he shoots off a cap. And when you hear +that, you run like the dickens and the two boys behind the wagon +let out the hose (the big, long, thick piece of rag) and fix it so it +lies about straight on the ground. And when you have run as far +as the hose will reach, the boy with the Fourth of July pistol says: +"Twenty-eight and two-fifths," and that's the game. And the kids +don't like for big folks to stand and watch them, because they +always make fun so. + +In other towns they have Boys' Companies organized strictly for +Tournament purposes. There was talk of having one here. Mat. +King, the assistant chief, was all for having one so that we could +compete in what he calls "the juveline contests," but it fell +through somehow. + + +Along about sun-up you hear the big farm-wagons clattering into +town, chairs in the wagon bed, and Paw, and Maw, and Mary +Elizabeth, and Martin Luther, and all the family, clean down to +Teedy, the baby. He's named after Theodore Roosevelt, and they +have the letter home now, framed and hanging up over the organ. +But for all the wagon is so full, there is room for a big basket +covered with a red-ended towel. (Seems to me I smell fried chicken, +don't you?) + +I just thought I'dt see if you'd bite. You've formed your notions +of country people from "The Old Homestead" and these by-gosh-Mirandy +novels. The real farmers, nowadays, drive into town in double-seated +carriages with matched bays, curried so that you can see to comb +your hair in their glossy sides. The single rigs sparkle in the sun, +conveying young men and young women of such clean-cut, high-bred +features as to make us wonder. And yet I don't know why we should +wonder, either. They all come from good old stock. The young +fellows run a little too strongly to patent-leather shoes and their +horses are almost too skittish for my liking, but the girls are all +right. If their clothes set better than you thought they would, why, +you must remember that they subscribe for the very same fashion +magazines that you do, and there is such a thing as a mail-order +business in this country, even if you aren't aware of it. + +All the little boys in town are out with their baskets chanting sadly: + +PEANUTS? FIVE A BAG + +You 'll hear that all day long. + +But there isn't much going on before the excursion trains come in. +Then things begin to hop. The grand marshal and his aides gallop +through the streets as if they were going for the doctor. The +trains of ten and fifteen coaches pile up in the railroad yard, +and the yardmaster nearly goes out of his mind. People are so +anxious to get out of the cars, in which they have been packed +and jammed for hours, that they don't mind a little thing like +being run over by a switching engine. Every platform is just one +solid chunk of summer hats and babies and red shirts and alto horns. +They have been nearly five hours coming fifty miles. Stopped at +every station and sidetracked for all the regular trains. Such a +time! Lots of fun, though. The fellows got out and pulled flowers, +and seed cucumbers, and things and threw them at folks. You never +saw such cut-ups as they are. Pretty good singers, too. Good +part of the way, they sung "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," and +"How Can I Bear to Leave Thee," nice and slow, you know, a good +deal of tenor and not much bass, and plenty of these" minor chords." +(Yes, I know, some people call them "barber-shop chords," but I +think "minor" is a nicer name.) + +The band played "Hiawatha" eighteen times. One old fellow got +on at Huntsville, and he says, to Joe Bangs (that's the leader), +"Shay," he says, "play 'Turkey in er Straw,' won't you? Aw, go on. +Play it. Thass goof feller. Go on." + +Joe, he never heard of the tune. Don't you know it? Goes like this: + . . . No, that ain't it. That's "Gray Eagle." Funny, I can't +think how that tune starts. Well, no matter. They played an +arrangement that had "Old Zip Coon" in it. + +"Naw," he says, "tha' ain' it 't all. Go on. Play it. Play 'Turkey +in er Straw.' Ah, ye don't know it. Thass reason. Betch don' know +it. Don' know 'Turkey in er Straw!' Ho! Caw seff ml-m' sishn. +Ho! You - you - you ain' no m'sishn. You - you you're zis bluff." +Only about half-past eight, too. Think of that! So early in the +morning. Ah me! That's one of the sad features of such an occasion. + +If there is anything more magnificent than a firemen's parade, I +don't know what it is. The varnished woodwork on the apparatus +looks as if it had just come out of the shop and every bit of bright +work glitters fit to strike you blind. You take, now, a nice +hose-reel painted white and striped into panels with a fine red +line, every other panel fruits and flowers, and every other panel a +piece of looking-glass shaped like a cut of pie and; I tell you, it +looks gay. That's what it does. It looks gay. Some of the +hook-and-ladder trucks are just one mass of golden-rod and hydrangeas, +and some of them are all fixed with this red-white-and-blue paper +rope, sort of chenille effect, or more like a feather boa. Everybody +has on white cotton gloves, and those entitled to carry speaking +trumpets have bouquets in the bells of them, salvias, and golden-rod, +and nasturtiums, and marigolds, and all such. + +The Wapatomicas always have a dog up on top of their wagon. First +off, you would think it didn't help out much, it is such a forlorn +looking little fice; but this dog, I want you to know, waked up the +folks late one night, 'way 'long about ten or eleven o'clock, barking +at a fire. Saved the town, as you might say. And after that, the +fire-boys took him for a mascot. I guess he didn't belong to anybody +before. And another wagon has a chair on it, and in that chair the +cutest little girl you almost eyer saw, hair all frizzed at the ends, +and a wide blue sash and her white frock starched as stiff as a +milk-pail. Everybody says: "Aw, ain't she just too sweet ?" + +The Caledonias have tried to make quite a splurge this year. They +walk four abreast, with their arms locked, and their white gloves on +each other's shoulders. Their truck has on it what they call "an +allegorical figure." There is a kind of a business (looks to me +like it is the axle and wheels of a toy wagon, stood up on end and +covered with white paper muslin and a string tied around the middle) +that is supposed to be an hour-glass. Then there is a scythe covered +with cotton batting, and then a man in a bath-robe (I saw the figure +of the goods when the wind blew it open) also covered with white +cotton batting. The man has a wig and beard of wicking. First, I +thought it was Santa Claus, and then I saw the scythe and knew it +must be old Father Time. The hour-glass puzzled me no little though. +The man has cotton batting wings. One of them is a little wabbly, +but what can you expect from Caledonia? They're always trying to +butt the bull off the bridge. They're jealous of our town. Oh, +they stooped to all the mean, underhanded tricks you ever heard of +to get the canning factory to go to their place instead of here. +But we know a thing or two ourselves. Yes, we got the canning +factory, all right, all right. + +Did you notice how neat and trim our boys looked? None of this +flub-dub of scarlet shirts with a big white monogram on the breast, +or these fawn-colored suits with querlycues of braid all over. They +spot very easily. And did you notice how the Caledonias had long, +lean men walking with short, fat men, and nobody keeping step? Our +boys were all carefully graded and matched, and their dark blue +uniforms with just the neat nickel badge, I think, presented the +best appearance of all. And I'll tell you another thing. They'll +put it all over the Caledonias this afternoon. They won't let 'em +get a smell. + +Don't you like the fife-and-drum corps? The fifes set my teeth +on edge, but I could follow the drums all day with their: + + Tucket a brum, brum brum-brum, tuck-all de brum + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum + Tucket a blip-blip-blip-blip, tucka tuck-all de brum, + Tucket a brum-brum, tuck-all de brum-brum-brum! + +Part of the time the drummers click their sticks together instead +of hitting the drum-head. That's what makes it sound so nice. I +wish I could play the snare-drum. + +In the Mechanicsburg band is a boy about fourteen years old, a +muscular, sturdy chunk of a lad. He walks with his heels down, +his calves bulged out behind, his head up, and the regular, proper +swagger of a bandsman. He hasn't any uniform, but he's all right. +He plays a solo B part, and he and the other solo cornet spell each +other. On the repeat of every strain my boy rests, and rubs his +lips with his forefinger, while he looks at the populace with +bright, expectant eyes. When he blows, he scowls, and brings the +cushion of muscle on the point of his chin clear up to his under +lip, and he draws his breath through the corners of his mouth. +He's the real thing. Bright boy, too, I judge, the kind that has +a quick answer for everybody, like: "Aw, go chase yerself," or +"Go on, yeh big stiff." Watch him on the countermarch when they +pass the Radnor cornet band. The Radnors broke up the Mechanicsburg +band last year and they're going to try to do it again this year. +The musicians blow themselves the color of a huckleberry, and the +drummers grit their teeth, and try to pound holes in their +sheep-skins. Aha! It's the Radnor band got rattled in its time +this year. Went all to pieces. The boy snatches, a rest. "Yah!" +he squawks. "Didge ever get left?" and picks up the tune again. I +wish I could play the cornet. Wouldn't play solo B or I wouldn't +play any - Ooooooooh! Did you see that? Took that stick by the +other end from the knob and slung it away, 'way up in the air, +whirling like sixty, and caught it when it came down and never +missed a step. Look at him juggle it from hand to hand, over his +shoulder, and behind his back, and under one leg, whirling so fast +that you can hardly see it, and all in perfect step. Whope! I +thought he was going to drop it that time but he didn't. That's +something you don't see in the cities. There, all the drum-major +does with his stick is just to point it the way the band is to go. +I like our fashion the best. Geeminentally! Look at that! I bet +it went up in the air forty feet if it went an inch. I wish I was +a drummajor. I guess I'd sooner be a drum-major than anything else. +Oh, well, detective - that's different. + +Let's go farther along. Don't get too near the judges' stand. I +know. It's the best place to see the finish of an event, but I've +been to Firemen's Tournament before. You let me pick out the seats. +Up close to the judges' stand is all right till you come to the +'wet races." What? Oh, you wait and see. Fun? Well, I should +say so. Hope they'll clear all those boys off the rail. Here! +Get down off that rail. Think we can see through you? You're thin, +but you're not thin enough for that. Yes, I mean you, and don't +you give me any of your impudence either. Look at those women out +there. Right spang in the way of the scraper. Isn't that a woman +all over? A woman and a hen, I don't know which is - Well, hel-lo! +Where'd you come from? How's all the folks? Where's Lizzie? +Didn't she come with you? Aw, isn't that too bad? Scalding hot! +Ts! Ts! Ts! Seems as if they made preserving kettles apurpose so's +they'd tip up when you go to pour anything . . . . Why, I guess we +can. Move over a little, Charley. Can you squeeze in? That's all +right. Pretty thick around here, isn't it? There's the band +starting up. About time, I think. Teedle-eedle umtum, teedle-eedle, +um-tum. "Hiawatha,"of course. What other tune is there on earth? +I've got so I know almost all of it. + +First is - let me see the program. First is what Mat. King calls +"the juveline contest." It says here: "Run with truck carrying +three ladders one hundred yards. Take fifteen-foot ladder from +truck, raise it against structure" - that's the judges' stand - +"and boy ascend. Time to be taken when climber grasps top rung of +ladder." They're off. That pistol-shot started them. Why can't +people sit down? See just as well if they did. New Berlin's, I +guess. Pretty good. He's hanging out the slate with the time on +it. Eighteen and four-fifths. Oh, no, never in the world. Here's +the Mt. Victory boys. See that light-haired boy. Go it, towhead! +Ah, they've got the ladder crooked. Eighteen. That's not so bad +. . . . Oh, quit your fooling. He's nothing of the kind. Honestly? +What! that old skeezicks? Who to, for pity's sake? Well, I thought +he was a confirmed old bachelor, if anybody ever was. Well, sir, +that just goes to show that any man, I don't care who he is, can +get married if he - Who were those? Are those the Caledonia +juveniles? I don't think much of 'em, do you? Seventeen and +two-fifths. I wouldn't have thought it. So their team gets the +first prize. Well, we weren't in that. + +What's next? "First prize, silver water-set, donated by Hon. +William Krouse." Since when did old Bill Krouse get to be +"Honorable?" Yes, well, don't talk to me about Bill Krouse. I +know him and his whole connection and there isn't an honest hair - +"Association trophy will also be competed for." Oh, that's the +goldlined loving cup we saw in the window. Our boys have won +it twice and the Caledonias have won it twice. If we get it this +time, it will be ours for keeps. "Run with truck one hundred and +fifty yards; take twenty-five foot ladder," and so forth and so +forth, Dan O'Brien's the boy for scaling ladders. He was going to +enlist in the Boer War, he hates the English so. Down on them +the worst way. And say, what do you think? Last year, at +Caledonia, he won the first prize for individual ladder scaling. +And what do you suppose the first prize was? A picture of Queen +Victoria. Isn't that Caledonia all over? there's a kind of +rivalry between our boys and the Caledonias. + +Here they come now. Those are the Caledonian. Tell by the truck + . . . . Do you think so? I don't think they're anything so very +much. Nix. You'll never do it. Look at the way they run with +their heads up. That shows they're all winded. Look at the clumsy +way they got the ladder off the wagon. Blap! The judge thought it +was coming through the boards on him. Oh, pretty good, pretty good, +but you just wait till you see our boys. Look at the fool hanging +there on the ladder waiting till the time is announced. Isn't that +Caledonia all over? Yah! Come down! Come down! What is it? +Twenty-five seconds. What's the record? Twenty-four and four-fifths? + Oh, well, it isn't so bad for Caledonia, but you just wait and see +what our boys do. Hear those yaps from Caledonia yell! If there's +anything I despise it is for a man to whoop and holler and make a +public spectacle of himself. Who's this? Oh, the Radnors. +They're out of it. Look at them. Pulling every which way. That +ladder's too straight up and down. Twenty-seven and two-fifths. +What did I tell you? . . . What time does your train go? Well, +why don't you and your wife come take supper with us? Why didn't +you look us up noon-time? . . . I could have told you better than +that. (They went to the Ladies' Aid dinner.) Well, we shan't have +much, I expect, but we'll try and scrape up something more filling +than layer-cake. The idea of expecting to feed hungry people on +layer-cake! It's an imposition . . . . I didn't notice which +one it was. Doesn't matter any way. Only twenty-eight. Ah, here +are our boys. They've got blue silk running-breeches on. Well, +maybe it is sateen. Let the women folks alone for knowing sateen +from silk a mile off. How much a yard did you say it was? Notice +the way they start with their hands on the ground, just like the +pictures on the sporting page of the Sunday newspapers. Here they +come. Oh, I hope they'll win. That's Charley Rodehaver in front. +Run! Oh, why don't you run? Come on! Come on! Come on! Come +on! COME ON! COME ON! COME O - O-oh! See Dan skip up that +ladder! Go it, Dan! Go it, old boy! Hooray-ay! Hooray-ay, ay! +What's the time? Twenty-four! Twenty- four flat! BROKE THE +RECORD! Hooray-ay-ay! Where's Caledonia now? Where's Caledonia +now? Oh, I'm so glad our boys won. There goes the Caledonia chief. +I'll bet he feels like thirty cents, Spanish. Ya-a-a-ah! Ya-a-a-ah! +Where's Caledonia now? They can't beat that, the other fellows +can't, and it's our trophy for keeps . . . . Oh, some crank in the +next row. "Wouldn't I please sit down and not obstruct the view." +Guess he comes from Caledonia. Looks like it. You stand up, too, +why don't you? Those planks are terribly hard . . . . I didn't +notice. Yes, that wasn't so bad. Twenty-five and two-fifths. But +it's our trophy. There goes Dan now. Hey, Dan! Good boy, Dan! +Wave your handkerchief at him. Hooray-ay-ay! Good boy, Dan! + +Next is a wet race. Now look out. Let's see what the program +says: "Run seventy-five yards to structure, on top of which an +empty barrel has been placed with spout outlet near top. Barrel +to be filled with water by means of buckets from reservoir" - +That big tin-lined box opposite is the reservoir. They are filling +it now with a hose attached to the water-plug yonder - "until water +issues from spout." What are they all laughing at? Which one? Oh, +but isn't she mad? Talk about a wet hen. Why, Charley, the hose +got away from the man that was filling the reservoir and the lady +was splashed. Why don't you use your eyes and see what's going on +and not be bothering me to tell you? Ip! There it goes again. Oh, +ho! ho! ho! hee! hee! didn't I tell you it would be fun? See it +run out of his sleeves . . . . I always get to coughing when I laugh +as hard as that. Oh, dear me! Makes the tears come. + +These are the fellows from Luxora. Oh, the clumsy things! Let +the ladder get away from them, and it fell and hit that man in the +second row right on the head. Hope it didn't hurt him much. See +'em scurry with the water buckets. Aw, get a move on! Get a move! +Why, what makes them so slow? "Water, water!" Well, I should think +as much. Not for themselves though. Those fellows at the bottom +of the ladder are catching it, aren't they? Oh, pshaw, they don't +mind it. They get it worse than that at a real fire when they aren't +half so well fixed for it. Why, is there no bottom to that barrel +at all? Why, look! . . . Say, the judge forgot to close the valve. +There's a hose connected with the bottom of the barrel to run the +water off after each trial and he's forgotten to - . . . Well, +isn't that too bad! All that work for nothing. I suppose they'll +let them try it over again . . . . That man must have got a pretty +hard rap. They're carrying him out. His head's all bloody . . . . +Wapatomicas, I guess. Yes, Wapatomicas. I hope the valve's closed +this time. Whope! did you see that? One fellow got hit with a +water bucket and it was about half-full. It's running out of the +spout. Yes, and it's falling on those people right where you wanted +to sit. Hear the girls squeal. Talk about your fun. I don't want +any better fun than this. Look at 'em come down the ladder just +holding the sides with their hands. They couldn't do that if the +ladder was dry. + +Ah, here's our crowd. Come on! Come on! Come on! COME ON! Oh, +don't be so slow with those buckets! Aren't they fine? Say, they +don't care if they do spill a drop or two. Why. Why, what are +they coming down for? It isn't running out of the spout yet. Come +back! COME BACK! Oh, pshaw! Just threw it away by being in too +much of a hurry. That judge looks funny, doesn't he, with a rubber +overcoat on and the sun shining? See, he's telling them: "One bucket +more." They'll let 'em have another trial, of course . . . . No? +Oh, that's an outrage. That' s not fair. The Caledonias will get +it now. . . . Yes, sir, they did get it. Oh, well, accidents will +happen. What? "Where's Caledonia now?" Well, they got it by a +fluke. What say? . . . Well only for - Oh, pshaw! Now, don't +tell me that because I was there and - Well, I say they didn't + . . . . I know better, they didn't . . . . Oh, shut up. You don't +know what you're talking about. I tell you - Now, Mary, don't you +interfere. I'm not quarreling. I'm just telling this gentleman +back of me that - Well, all right, if you're going to cry. If +there was any fouling done it was the Caledonias that did it, though. + +The next is where they "run three hundred feet from the judges' +stand, raise ladder, hose company to couple to hydrant, break +coupling in hose and put on nozzle, scale ladder, and fill +twenty-five gallon barrel." Only the Caledonias. and our boys are +entered in this. Now we'll see which is the best. All right, Mary, +I won't say a word . . . . Say, for country-jakes, those Caledonias +didn't do so badly. I give them that much. Look at the water fly! +I'll bet those folks near the judges' stand wish they'd brought +their umbrellas. Now you see why these are the best seats, don't +you? I told you I'd been to Firemen's Tournaments before. What? +You'll have to talk louder than that if you want me to hear with +all this noise . . . . Oh, that'll be all right. They'll be so +hungry they won't notice it. + +Here, be careful how you wabble that hose around. Good thing +they turned the water off at the plug just when they did or we'd +have been - Here's our company. Where's Caledonia now? Eh? +Pretty work! Pretty work! Say, do you know that hose full of +water's heavy? Now watch Riley. Riley's the one that's got the +nozzle. Always up to some monkeyshine. Ah! See him? See him? +Oh, is n"t he soaking them? Oh-ho! Ho! Ho! ha! ha! hee-hee! Yip. + +Blame clumsy fool! . . . P-too! Yes, in my mouth and in my +ears and down the back of my neck. All over. Running out of my +sleeves. Everything I got on is just ruined. Completely ruined. +Come on. Let's go home. There's nothing more to see, much. +Aw, come on. Well, stay if you want to, but I'm going home, and +get some dry clothes on me. You get me to go to another Firemen's +Tournament and you'll know it. Look at that monkey from Caledonia +laughing at me. For half a cent I'd go up and smack his face for +him . . . . Aw, let up on your "Where's Caledonia now?" Give us +a rest. Well, are you coming, you folks? . . . Kind of a fizzle +this year, wasn't it? + +However, after supper, with dry clothes on, it isn't so bad. The +streets are packed. All the firemen are parading and shouting: +"Who? Who? Who are we?" The Caledonias got one more prize than +our boys. Well, why shouldn't they? Entered in three more events. +I don't see as that's anything to brag of or to carry brooms +about. All the fife-and-drum corps are out, and the bands are all +playing "Hiawatha" at once, but not together. Not all either. +There's one band in front of Hofmeyer's playing "Oh, Happy Day! +That Fixed my Choce." That's funny: to play a hymn-tune in front +of a beer-saloon. Hofmeyer seems to think it's all right. He's +inviting them in to have something. "Took the hint?" I don't +understand . . . . Oh, is that so? I didn't know there were other +words to that tune. + +See that woman with four little ones. Her husband's carrying two +more. "I want to go howm. Why cain't we gow howm? I do' want to +gow howm pretty soon. I want to gow na-ow!" Eh, Mary, how would +you like to lug them around all day and then stand up in the cars +all the way home? + +Well, good-by. Hope you had a nice time. Give my regards to all +the folks. Don't be in such a rush, my friend . . . . Oh, did you +see? It must be the man that got hit on the head with the ladder. +Taking him home on a stretcher. Gee! That's tough. Skull +fractured, eh? Dear! Dear! I hear they have been keeping company +a long time, and were to have been married soon. No wonder she +cried and took on so. Poor girl! Yes, it's the women that suffer +. . . . Oh, quite a day for accidents. I didn't mind, though, +after I had changed my clothes. I took some quinine, and I guess +I'll be all right. Lucky you got a seat. Well, you're off at last. +Good-by. Remember me to all. Good-by. + +Well, thank goodness, that's over. Another ten minutes of them +and wouldn't have - Well, Mary, what else could I do but ask them +home after he told me what they didn't have to eat at the Ladies' +Aid? . . . It was all right. Plenty good enough. Better than +they have at home and I'll bet on it. The table looked beautiful. +I'm glad the Tournament doesn't come but once a year. I'm about +ready to drop. + + + + +THE DEVOURING ELEMENT + + +Mr. Silverstone was gloomily considering whether he had not better +blow out the lights in the New York One Price Clothing Store, and +lock up for the night. Kerosene was fifteen cents a gallon, and +not a customer had been in since supper-time. Business was "ofle, +simbly ofle." + +The streets were empty. There were lights only in the barber shop +where one patron was being lathered while two mandolins and a guitar +gave a correct imitation of two house-flies and a bluebottle in +Riley's where, in default of other occupation, Mr. Riley was counting +up; in Oesterle's, where a hot discussion was going on as to whether +Christopher Columbus was a Dutchman or a Dago, and in Miller's, where +Tom Ball was telling Tony, who impassively wiped the perforated brass +plate let into the top of the bar, that he, Tom Ball, "coul' lick em +man ill Logan coun'y." + +Lamps shone in every parlor, where little girls labored with: +"And one and two, three and one and two, three," occasionally +coming out to look at the clock to see if the hour was any nearer +being up than it was five minutes ago. They also shone in +sitting-rooms, where boys looked fiercely at "X2 +2Xy+y2," mothers +placidly darned stockings, and fathers, Weekly Examiner in hand, +patiently struggled to disengage from "boiler-plate" and bogus news +about people snatched from the jaws of death by the timely use of +Dr. McKinnon's Healing Extract of Timothy and Red-top, items of real +news, such as who was sick and what ailed them, who cut his foot with +the ax while splitting stove-wood, and where the cake sale by the +Rector's Aid of Grace P.E. would be held next week. + +At the prayer-meeting, Uncle Billy Nicholson was giving in his +experience and had just got to that part about: "Sometimes on the +mountaintop, and sometimes in the valley, but still, nevertheless +- " when, all of a sudden, something happened, + +The mandolins stopped with a jerk. Mr. Riley stood tranced at: +"And ten is thirty-five." Mr. Ball was stricken dumb in the +celebration of his own great physical powers. The crowd in Oesterle's +forgot Columbus, and were as men beholding a ghost. The drowsy +congregation sat up rigid, and Mr. Silverstone gave a guilty start. +He had been thinking of that very thing! + +The next instant, front doors were wrenched open, and the street +echoed with the sound of windows being raised. Fathers and sons +rushed out on the front porch, followed by little girls, to whom +any excuse to stop practising was like a plank to a drowning man. + +They had heard aright. Up by the Soldiers' Monument fell the +clump of tired feet, and upon the air floated the wild alarm of -. + +"FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Poof! FIRE!" + +Mat King, the assistant chief, kicked off his slippers, and swiftly +laced up his shoes, grabbed his speaking-trumpet and his helmet, +and tore out of the house. If he could only get to the engine-house +before Charley Lomax, the chief! But Charley was the lone customer +in the barber's char. With the lather on one side of his face, he +clapped on his hat and broke for the firebell, four doors below. + +"Where's it at?" + +"FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! Sm-poohl Fi- (gulp) - FIRE!" + +"It's Linc Hoover. Hay, Linc! Where's the fire?" + +"FIRE! Pooh-ha! FIRE! ha, ha! FIRE!" + +"Hay, Linc! Where's it at? Tell me and I'll run. Hay! Where's +it at?" + +"FIRE! Swope's be - (gulp) Swope's barn. FIRE!" + +"Which Swope? Henry or the old man?" + +"FIRE! Pooh! J. K. Swope. Whoo-ha, whooh-ha! Out out on West +End Avenue. Poof!" + +The news thus being passed, the fresher runners scampered ahead, +bawling: "FOY-URRR' FOY-URRR! and Linc, the hero, slowed down, +gasping for breath and spitting cotton. + +"Whew!" he whistled, gustily, his arms dropping and his whole +frame collapsing. "Gee! I'm 'bout tuckered. Sm-pooh! Sm-pooh! +Run all th' way f'm - sm-ha, sm-ha! - run all th' way f'm - mouth's +all stuck together - p'too! ha! Pooh! Fm West End Avenue and +Swo - Swope's. Gee! I'm hot's flitter." + +"Keep y' coat on when you're all of a prespiration, that way. +How'd it ketch ?" + +"Ount know. 'S comin' by there an' I - whoof! I smelt smoke and - +Gosh! I'm all out o' breath - an' I looked an' I je-e-est could see +a light - wisht I had a drink o' somepin' to rench mum mouth out. +Whew! Oh, laws! An' it was Swope's barn and I run in an' opened +the door, didn't stop to knock or nung, an' I hollered out: 'Yib +barn's afire!' an' he run out in his sockfeet, an' he says: 'My Lord!' +he says. 'Linc,' he says, 'run git the ingine an' I putt." Linc drew +in a long, tremulous breath like a man that has looked on sorrow. + +"Why 'n't you - " + +"Betchy 't was tramps," interrupted a bystander. "Git in the +haymow an' think they got to have their blamed old pipe a-goin' -" + +"Cigarettes, more likely," said another. "More darn devilment +comes from cigarettes -" + +"Why'n't you - " + +"Ount know nung 'bout tramps," said Linc. "All I seen was the +fire. I was a-comin' long a-past there an' I smelt the smoke an' +thinks I - What say?" + +"Why'n't you telefoam down?" + +Linc, the hero, shrunk a foot. "I gosh!" he admitted, "I never +thought to." + +"Jist'a' telefoamed, you could 'a' saved yourself all that - " + +"Ain't they weltin' the daylights out o' that bell? All foolishness! +Now they're ringin' the number -- one, two, three, four. Yes, sir, +that's up in the West End. You goin'? Come on, then." + +"No, Frank, I can't let you go. You've got your lessons to get. +Well, now, mother, make up your mind if you're comin' along. Cora, +what on earth are you doing out here in the night air with nothing +around you? Now, you mosey right back into that parlor, and don't +you make a move off that piano-stool till your hour's up. Do you +hear me? No. Frank. I told you once you couldn't go and that ends +it. Stop your whining! I can't have you running hither and yon all +hours of the night, and we not know where you are. Well, hurry up, +then, mother. Take him in with you. Oh, just throw a shawl over +your head. Nobody 'll see you, or if they do they won't care." +The apparatus trundles by, the bells on the trucks tolling sadly as +the striking gear on the rear axle engages the cam. A hurrying +throng scuffles by in the gloom. The tolling grows fainter, the +throng thinner. + +"Good land! Is she going to be all night? Wish 't I hadn't +proposed it. That's the worst of taking a woman anyplace. Fuss +and fiddle by the hour in front of the looking-glass. Em! (Be all +over by the time we get there) Oh, Em! Em! . . . EM! (Holler +my head offl) EM! . . . . "Well, why don't you answer me? Well, I + didn't hear you. How much long - Oh, I know about your 'minute.' +'Hour' you mean . . . . Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Conklin? Hello, Fred. +Pleased to meet you, Miss Shoemaker. Yes, I saw in the paper you +were visiting your sister. This your first visit to our little burg? +Yes, we think it's quite a place. You see, we're trying to make your +stay as interesting as possible . . . . Oh, no, not altogether on your +account. No, no. Ha! Ha-ha-ha! Hum! ah! . . . Well, yes, if she +ever gets done primping up. Oh, there you are. Miss Shoemaker, let +me make you acquainted with my wife. Now, you girls'll have to get +a move on if you want to see anything." + +The male escorts grasp the ladies' arms and shove them ahead, that +being the only way if you are ever going to get any place. The women +gasp and pant and make a great to-do. + +"Ooh! Wait till I get my breath. Will! Weeull! Don't go so +fay-ust! Oooh! I can't stand it. Oh, well, you're a man." + +But when they turn the corner that gives them a good view of the +blaze, fluttering great puffs of flame, and hear the steady crackle +and snapping, as it were, of a great popper full of pop-corn, they, +too, catch the infection, and run with a loud swashing and slatting +of skirts, giggling and squealing about their hair coming down. + +In the waving orange glare the crowd is seen, shifting and moving. +It seems impossible for the onlookers to remain constant in one +spot. The chief, Charley Lomax, is gesticulating with wide arm +movements. He puts his speaking-trumpet to his mouth. +"Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoffi" he says. + +"Wha-at?" the men halloo back. + +"Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff." + +"What'd he say?" + +"Search me. John, you run over and ask him what he wants. Or, +no; I'll go myself." + +"Why in Sam Hill didn't you come sooner?" demands the angry chief. + +"Well, why in Sam Hill don't you talk so 's a body can understand +you? 'Yoffemoffemoffemoffem.' Who can make sense out o' that?" + +"The hose ain't long enough to reach from here to the hydrant. +You 'n' some more of 'em run down t' th' house an' git that other +reel." + +"Aw, say, Chief! Look here. I'm awful busy right now. Can't +somebody else go?" + +"You go an' do what I tell you to, and don't gimme none o' your +back talk." + +(Too dag-gon bossy and dictatorial, that Charley Lomax is. Getting +'most too big for his breeches. Never mind. there's going to be a +fire election week from Tuesday. See whether he'll be chief next +year or not. Sending a man away from the fire right at the most +interesting part!) + +"I'll go, Chief, wommetoo," puts in jumbo Lee, all in a huddle +of words. "Ije slivsnot. Aw ri. Mon Jim. Shoonmeansmore of +'em go gitth'otherreel." + +Jumbo isn't a member of the fire department, though he is wild to +join. He isn't old enough. He is six feet one inch, weighs 180, +and won't be sixteen till the 5th of next February. Nobody ever +saw him when he wasn't eating. They say he clips his words so +as to save time for eating. He takes a cracker out of his pocket, +shoves it in his mouth whole, jams his hat down till his ears stick +out, and, with his companions, tears down the road, seemingly +propelled as much by his elbows as by his legs. Why, under the +combined strain of growing and running, he doesn't part a seam +somewhere is a dark mystery. + +Crash! The roof of the barn caves in and reveals what we had not +before suspected, that Platt's barn, on the other side of the alley, +is afire too. Say! This is getting interesting. The wind is +setting directly toward Swope's house. It has been so terribly dry +this last month or so that the house will go like powder if it ever +catches. Why, I think Swope has a well and cistern both. Used +to have, anyway, before they put the water-works in, and the board +of health condemned the wells. Say! There was a put-up job if +there ever was one. Why, sure! Sure he had stock in the water +works. Doc. Muzzey? I guess, yes . . . . Pity they ever +traded off the hand-engine. They got a light-running +hook-and-ladder truck. Won two prizes at the tournament, just +with that truck. But if they had that hand-engine now though! +"Up with her! Down with her!" Have that fire out in no time! + +They're not trying to save the barns. They're a dead loss. What +little water they can get from the cisterns and wells around - +hasn't it been dry? - they are using to try to save Swope's house, +and the one next to it. Is that where Lonny Wheeler lives? I +knew it was up this way somewhere. Don't he look ridiculous, +sitting up there a-straddle of his ridgepole, with a tin-cup? A +tin-cup, if you please. Over this way a little. See better. +They're wetting down the roof. Line of fellows passing buckets to +the ladder, and a line up the ladder. What big sparks those are! +Puts you in mind of Fourth of July. How the roof steams! Must be +hot up there. + +O-o-o-oh! + +A universal indrawn breath from all spectators proclaims their +horror. One of the men on the roof missed his footing and slipped, +rolling over and over till he reached the roof of the porch, where +he spread-eagled for a fall. The women begin to moan. Some poor +fellow gone to his death. Or, if he be so lucky as to miss death +itself, he is doomed to languish all his days a helpless cripple. +Like enough the sole support of an aged mother; or perhaps his +wife is sitting up for him at home now, tiptoeing into the bedroom +every little while to look at the sleeping children. That's +generally the way of it. Who is there so free and foot-loose that, +if harm befall him, some woman will not go mourning all her days? +It must take the heart out of brave men to think what their women +folk must suffer, mothers and wives and - Who? Dan O'Brien? Oh, +he'll be all right. He'll light on his feet like a cat. I believe +that boy is made of India rubber. He never gets hurt. Why, one +time - Ah! There he goes now up the ladder as if nothing had +happened. Hooray-ayayay! Hooray-ay-ay-ay! I thought he'd broken +his neck as sure as shooting. + +Wandering about one cannot fail to encounter what the gallant +fire-laddies have rescued from the devouring element. There is +the piano with a deep scratch across the upper part, and the top +lid hanging by one hinge. It caught in the door, and the boys +were kind of in a hurry. There is the parlor carpet, plucked up by +the roots, as it were; and two tubs, the washboard and a bag of +clothes-pins; a stuffed chair, with three casters gone, the +coffee-pot, a crayon enlargement, a winter overcoat, a blanket, a +pile of old dresses, the screw-driver and a paper of tacks in the +colander, the couch with a triangular rip in the cover, the +coal-scuttle, a pile of dishes, the ax and wood-saw, a fancy +pillow, the sewing-machine with the top gone, the wash-boiler, +the basket of dirty clothes, with the stove-shaker and the parlor +clock in together, and a heap of books, all spraddled and sprawled +every which way. Upon this pitiful mound sits Mrs. Swope with her +baby sound asleep upon her bosom. She mingles her tears with the +sustaining tea that Mrs. Farley has made for her. Swope, still in +his socks and with his wife's shoulder-cape upon him, caught up +somehow, is trying to soothe her. He is as mad as a hornet, and +doesn't dare to show it. All this furniture he had insured. It +was all old stuff their folks had given them. If the gallant +fire-laddies had been as discreet as they were zealous, they would +have let the furniture go, and Swope and his wife would have had an +entire, brand-new outfit. As it is, who can ever make that junk +look like anything any more? + +What's this coming up the road? Jumbo Lee and his friends with +the other hose-reel. Now they will connect it with the hydrant, +and have water a-plenty to save the house. Now the fellows are +coming down from the ladder. Cistern's empty, I suppose. The +other reel didn't come any too soon. How the roof steams! Or is +it smoking? + +"Don't stand around here with that reel! Up to that water-plug. +Farther up the street. Front o' Cummins's." + +Jumbo crams another cracker into his mouth and speeds away, +hunching the patient, unresenting air with his elbows. + +Ah! See - that little flicker of flame on the roof! Do, for pity's +sake, hurry up with that connection! The roof is really burning. +See? They are trying to chop away the burning place. But there's +another! And another! + +A-a-ah! Hooray-ay! Connection's made! Now you'll see something. +Out of the way there! One side! One side! Up you go! . . . +Wha-at? Is that the best they can do? Why, it won't run out of +the nozzle at all when it's up on the roof. Not a drop. +Feeble little dribble when it's on the ground-level. There's your +water-works for you. It is a good long way from the fire-plug I +know, but there ought to be more pressure than that. Oh, pshaw! +If we only had the old hand-engine! "Up with her! Down with her!" +Have that fire out in no time. The house will have to go now. +Too bad! + +Somebody in the second story is rescuing property from the devouring +element. He has just tossed out a wash-bowl and pitcher. Luckily +they both fell on the sod and rolled apart. He takes down the +roller-shade and flings it out. The lace curtains follow. They +catch on the edge of the veranda roof, and languidly wave there as +for some holiday. Bed-clothes issue and pillows hurtle out. What's +he doing now? No use. No use. You can't get the mattress out of +that window. A waste-paper basket, a rag rug, a brush and comb - as +fast as his hands can fly he's throwing out things. + +The women began to whimper. + +"Oh, the poor man! The roof will fall in on him! He'll smother to +death! Oh, why doesn't somebody go tell him to come away? Not +you! Don't you think of such a trick! Oh, why does he risk his life +for a lot of trash I wouldn't have around the house?" + +The smoke oozes out of the open window. It must be choking in there. +For a long time no jettison of household goods appears. Perhaps +the man, whoever he is, has seen his peril and fled while yet it was +possible to flee. Ah, but suppose he has been overcome and lies +there huddled in a heap, never to rouse again? Is there none to +save him? Is there none? Ah! A couple of collars and a magazine +flutter out into the light! He is still there. He is still alive. +Plague take the idiot! Why doesn't he come down out of that? + +"Yoffemoffemoffemoffemoff. Yoffemoff!" + +But no! He will do it himself. The Chief rushes gallantly into the +burning building and disappears up the dark stair. + +Desperate measures are now to be resorted to. On the lawn a line +of men forms. They bend their necks, cowering before the fierce +glow, but daring it, and prepared to face it at even closer range. +You are to witness now an exhibition of that heroism which is +commoner with us than we think, that spirit of do and dare which +mocks at danger and even welcomes pain. It is a far finer sentiment +than the cold-hearted calculation which looks ahead, and figures +out first whether it is worth while or not. + +The men dash forward in the withering heat. With frantic haste +they fix the hook into the lattice-work beneath the porch and +scamper back. + +"Yo hee! Yo hee!" + +The thick rope tautens as the firemen lay their weight to it. You +can almost see the bristling fibers stand up on it. + +"Yo hee! Yo hee!" + +With a splintering crash the timber parts, and a piece of +lattice-work is dragged away. + +Another sortie and another. Bit by bit the porch is ripped and +torn to rubbish. You smile. It seems so futile. What are these +kindlings saved when the whole house is burning? Is this what +you call heroism? Yet the charge at Balaklava was not more futile. +It had even less of commonsense, less of hope of benefit to mankind +to back it and inspire it. Heroism is an instinct, not a thoughtout +policy. Its quality is the same, in two-ounce samples or in +car-load lots. + +The weather-boarding slips down in a sparkling fall. The joists +and stringers, all outlined and gemmed with coals, are, as it +were, a golden grille, through which the world may look unhindered +in upon the holy place of home, heretofore conventually private. +There stands the family altar, pitifully grotesque amid the ruinous +splendor of the destroying fire, the tea-kettle upon it proudly +flaunting its steamy plume. What? Is a common cooking-stove an +altar? Yes, verily, in lineal descent. Examine an ancient altar +and you will see its sacrificial stone scored and guttered to catch +the dripping from the roasting meat. Who is the priestess, after +an order older than Melchisedec's, but she that ministers to us +that most comfortable sacrament, wherein we are made partakers not +alone of the outward and visible food which we do carnally press +with our teeth, but also of that inward and spiritual sustenance, +the patient and enduring love of wife and mother, without which +there can be no such thing as home? All other sacraments wherein +men break the bread of amity together are but copies of this pattern, +the Blessed Sacrament of the Household Altar, the first and primal +one of all, the one that shall perdure, please God! throughout all +ages of ages. + +The flames die down. The timbers sink together with a softer +fall. The air grows chill. We fetch a sigh. We cannot bear to +look at that mute figure of the priestess seated on the sordid heap +of broken furniture, her sleeping baby pressed against her breast, +her gaze fixed - but seeing naught - upon her ruined temple. We +do not like to think upon such things. We do not like to think at +all. Is there nothing more to laugh at? + +The firemen, having all borrowed the makings of a cigarette from +each other, put on their hats and coats, left on the hook-and-ladder +truck in the custody of a trusted member. The apparatus trundles +off, the bells dolorously tolling as the striking gear on the rear +axle engages the cam. + +Who is this weeping man approaches, supported by two friends, that +comfort him with: "All right, Tom. You done noble," uttered in +pacifying if not convincing tones? Heart-brokenly he cries: "I dull +le ver' bes' I knowed, now di' n't I? Charley? Billy, I dub bes' +I knowed how. An' nen he says to me - Oo-hoo-hoo-oooo-oo! He says +to me: 'Come ou' that, ye cussed fool!' Oo-oooo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Smf! +Lemme gi' amma ham hankshiff. Leg go my arm. Waw gi' amma hankshifp. +Oo-oo-oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo! Fmf! I ash you as may wurl - I ash you +as may - man of world, is that - is that proper way address me? +Me! Know who I am? I'm Tom Ball. 'S who I am. I kill lick em +man ill Logan Coun'y. Ai' thasso? Hay? 'S aw ri. Mfi choose +stay up there, aw thas sec - aw thas second floor and rescue +fel-cizzen's propprop'ty from devouring em - from devouring emlement, +thas my bizless. Ai' tham my bizless, Charley? Ai' tham my bizless, +Billy? W'y, sure. Charley, you're goof feller. You too, Billy. +You're goof feller, too. Say. Wur-wur if Miller's is open yet? +'Spose it is? Charley; I dub bes' I knowed how, di'n't I, now? +Affor that Chief come up thas stairway and say me: 'Come ou' that, +ye cussed fool!' Aw say! 'Come ou' that - 'Called me fool, too! +Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo!" + +"Hello, Dan! Hurt yourself any? (That's Dan O'Brien. Fell off the +roof.) Well, sir, I thought sure you'd broken your neck. You +don't know your luck. And let me tell you one thing, my bold bucko: +You'll do that just once too often. Now you mark." + + +The day before the Weekly Examiner goes to press, Mr. Swope hands +the editor a composition entitled: "A Card of Thanks," signed by +John K. and Amelia M. Swope, and addressed to the firemen and all +who showed by their many acts of kindness, and so forth and so on. + +"Kind of help to fill up the paper," says Mr. Swope, covering his +retreat. + +"Sure," replies the editor. When Mr. Swope is good and gone, he +says: "Dog my riggin's if I didn't forget all about writing up +that fire. Been so busy here lately. Good thing he come in. Hay, +Andy!" + +"Watch want?" from the composing-room. + +"Got room for about two sticks more?" + +"Yes, guess so. If it don't run over that." + +A brief silence. Then: + +"Hay, Andy?" + +"What ?" + +"Is it 'had have,' or 'had of ?" + +"What's the connection?" + +"Why-ah. 'If the gallant fire-laddies, under the able direction of +Chief Charley Lomax, had of had a sufficiency of water with which +to cope with the devouring element - 'etc." + +"'Had have,' I guess. I don't know." + +"Guess you're right. Run it that way anyhow." + + + + +CIRCUS DAY + + +Only the other day, the man that in all this country knows better +than anybody else how a circus should be advertised, said (with +some sadness, I do believe) that it didn't pay any longer to put up +showbills; the money was better invested in newspaper advertising. + +"It doesn't pay." Ah, me! How the commercial spirit of the age +plays whaley with the romance of existence! You shall not look. +long upon the showbill now that there is no money to be had from it. +"Youth's sweet-scented manuscript" is about to close, but ere it +does, let us turn back a little to the pages illuminated by the +glowing colors of the circus poster. + +Saturday afternoon when we went by the enginehouse, its brick +wall fluttered with the rags and tatters of "Esther, the Beautiful +Queen," and the lecture on "The Republic: Will it Endure?" (Gee! +But that was exciting!) Sunday morning, after Sunday-school, there +was a sudden quickening among the boys. We stopped nibbling on the +edges of the lesson leaf and followed the crowd in scuttling haste. +Miraculously, over-night, the shabby wall had blossomed into +thralling splendor. What was Daniel in the Lions' Den, compared +with Herr Alexander in the same? Not, as the prophet is pictured, +in the farthest corner from the lions, and manifestly saying to +himself: "If I was only out of this!" But with his head right smack +dab in the lion's mouth. Right in it. Yes, sir. + +"S' Posin'!" we gasped, all goggle-eyed, "jist s'posin' that there +lion was to shut his mouth! Ga-ash!" + +The Golden Text? It faded before the lemon-and-scarlet glories of +the Golden Chariot. Drawn by sixteen dappled steeds, each with +his neck arching like a fish-hook and reined with fancy scalloped +reins, it occupied the center of the foreground. The band rode in +it, far more fortunate than our local band whose best was, Charley +Wells's depot 'bus. And nobler than all his fellows was the +bass-drummer. He had a canopy over him, a carved and golden canopy, +on whose top revolved a clown's head with its tongue stuck out. On +each quarter of this rococo shallop a golden circus-girl in short +skirts gaily skipped rope with a nubia or fascinator, or whatever +it is the women call the thing they wrap around their heads in cold +weather when they hang out the clothes. There were big pieces of +looking-glass let into the sides of the band-wagon, and every +decorator knows that when you put looking-glass on a thing it is +impossible to fix it so that it will be any finer. + +Winding back and forth across the picture was the long train of +tableau-cars and animal cages, diminishing with distance until away, +'way up in the upper left-hand corner the hindmost van was all +immersed in the blue-and-yellow haze just this side of out-of-sight. +That with our own eyes we should behold the glories here set forth +we knew right well. Cruel Fortune might cheat us of the raptures +to be had inside the tents, but the street-parade was ours, for it +was free. + +It seems to me that we did not linger so long before these pictures, +nor before those of the rare and costly animals, which, if we but +knew it, were the main reason why we were permitted to go (if we +did get to go). To look at these animals is improving to the mind, +and since we could not go alone, an older person had to accompany us, +and . . . and . . . I trust I make myself clear. But we didn't want +to improve our minds if it was a possible thing to avoid it. The +pictures of these animals were in the joggerfy book anyhow, though +not in colors, unless we had a box of paints. There can be no doubt +that the show-bill pictures of the menageries were in colors. I +seem to recollect that Mr. Galbraith, who kept the dry-goods store +across the street from the engine-house, was very much exercised in +his mind about the way one of these pictures was printed. It was +the counterfeit presentment of the Hip-po-pot-a-mus, or Behemoth of +Holy Writ. His objection to the hip - you know was not because its +open countenance was so fearsome, but because it was so red. Six +feet by two of flaming crimson across the street in the afternoon +sun made it necessary for him to take the goods to the back window +of the store to show to customers. He didn't like it a bit. + +No. Neither before the large and expensive pictures of the +street-parade, nor the large and expensive wild beasts did we +linger. The swarm was thickest, sand the jabbering loudest, the +"O-o-oh's," the "M! Looky's" the "Geeminently's" shrillest, in +front of where the deeds of high emprise were set forth. Men +with their fists clenched on their breasts, and their neatly +slippered toes touching the backs of their heads, crashed through +paper-covered hoops beneath which horses madly coursed; they +flew through the air with the greatest of ease, the daring young +men on the flying; trapeze, or they posed in living pyramids. + +And as the sons of men assembled themselves together, Satan came +also, the spirit I, that evermore denies. + +"A-a-ah!" sneers his embodiment in one whose crackling voice +cannot make up its mind whether to be bass or treble, "A-a-ah, +to the show they down't do hay-uf what they is in the pitchers." + +A chilling silence follows. A cold uneasiness strikes into all +the listeners. We are all made wretched by destructive criticism. +Let us alone in our ideals. Let us alone, can't you? + +"Now . . . now," pursues the crackle-voiced Mephisto, pointing to +where Japanese jugglers defy the law of gravitation and other +experiences of daily life, "now, they cain't walk up no ladder +made out o' reel sharp swords." + +"They can so walk up it," stoutly declares one boy. Hurrah! A +champion to the rescue! The others edge closer to him. They +like him. + +"Nah, they cain't. How kin they? They'd cut their feet all to +pieces." + +"They kin so. I seen 'em do it. The time I went with Uncle +George I seen a man, a Japanee . . . . Yes, sharp. Cut paper with +'em. . . . A-a-ah, I did so. I guess I know what I seen an' what +I didn't." + +The little boys breathe easier, but fearing another onslaught, make +all haste to call attention to the most fascinating one of all, the +picture of a little boy standing up on top of his daddy's head. +And, as if that weren't enough, his daddy is standing up on a +horse and the horse is going round the ring lickety-split. And, +as if these circumstances weren't sufficiently trying, that little +show-boy is standing on only one foot. The other is stuck up in +the air like five minutes to six, and he has hold of his toe with his +hand. I'll bet you can't do that just as you are on the ground, let +alone on your daddy's head, and him on a horse that's going like +sixty. Now you just try it once. Just try it. . . . Aa-ah! Told +you you couldn't. + +Now, how the show-actors can do that looks very wonderful to you. +It really is very simple. I'll tell you about it. All show-actors +are born double-jointed. You have only two hip-joints. They have +four. And it's the same all over with them. Where you have only +one joint, they have two. So, you see, the wonder isn't how they +can bend themselves every which way, but how they can keep from +doubling up like a foot-rule. + +And another thing. Every day they rub themselves all over with +snake-oil. Snakes are all limber and supple, and it stands to +reason that if you take and try out their oil, which is their +express essence, and then rub that into your skin, it will make +you supple and limber, too. I should think garter-snakes would do +all right, if you could catch enough of them, but they 're so +awfully scarce. Fishworms won't do. I tried 'em. There's no +grease in 'em at all. They just dry up. + +And I suppose you know the reason why they stay on the horse's +back. They have rosin on their feet. Did you ever stand up on a +horse's back? I did. It was out to grandpap's, on old Tib. . . . +No, not very long. I didn't have any rosin on my feet. I was +going to put some on, but my Uncle Jimmy said: "Hay! What you +got there?" I told him. "Well," he says, "you jist mosey right +into the house and put that back in the fiddle-box where you got +it. Go on, now. And if I catch you foolin' with my things again, +I'll . . . . Well, I don't know what I will do to you." So I put +it back. Anyhow, I don't think rosin would have helped me stay on +a second longer, because old Tib, with an intelligence you wouldn't +have suspected in her, walked under the wagon-shed and calmly +scraped me off her back. + +And did you ever try to walk the tight-rope? You take the +clothes-line and stretch it in the grape-arbor - better not make +it too high at first - and then you take the clothes-prop for a +balance-pole and go right ahead - er - er as far as you can. The +real reason why you fall off so is that you don't have chalk on +your shoes. Got to have lots of chalk. Then after you get used +to the rope wabbling so all-fired fast, you can do it like a mice. +And while I'm about it, I might as well tell you that if you ever +expect to amount to a hill of beans as a trapeze performer you +must have clear-starch with oil of cloves in it to rub on your +hands. Finest thing in the world. My mother wouldn't let me have +any. She said she couldn't have me messing around that way, I +blame her as much as anybody that I am not now a competent +performer on the trapeze. + +I don't know that I had better go into details about the state of +mind boys are in from the time the bills are first put up until +after the circus has actually departed. I don't mean the boys that +get to go to everything that comes along, and that have pennies to +spend for candy, and all like that, whenever they ask for it. I +mean the regular, proper, natural boys, that used to be "Back Home," +boys whose daddies tormented them with: "Well, we Il see - " that's +so exasperating! - or, "I wish you wouldn't tease, when you know +we can't spare the money just at present." A perfectly foolish +answer, that last. They had money to fritter away at the grocery, +and the butcher-shop, and the dry-goods store, but when it came to +a necessity of life, such as going to the circus, they let on they +couldn't afford it. A likely story. + +"Only jist this little bit of a once. Aw, now, please. Please, +cain't I go? Aw now, I think you might. Aw now, woncha? Aw, +paw. I ain't been to a reely show for ever so long. Aw, the +Scripture pammerammer, that don't count. Aw, paw. Please +cain't I go? Aw, please!" And so forth and so on, with much more +of the same sort. No, I can't go into details. it's too terrible. + +Even those of us whose daddies said plainly and positively: "Now, +I can't let you go. No, Willie. That's the end of it. You can't +go." Even those, I say, hoped against hope. It simply could not +be that what the human heart so ardently longed for should be +denied by a loving father. This same conviction applies to other +things, even when we are grown up. It is against nature and the +constituted scheme of things that we cannot have what we want so +badly. (And, in general, it may be said that we can have almost +anything we want, if we only want it hard enough. That's the +trouble with us. We don't want it hard enough.) We boys lay there +in the shade and pulled the long stalks of grass and nibbled off the +sweet, yellow ends, as we dramatized miracles that could happen just +as well as not, if they only would, consarn 'em! For instance, you +might be going along the street, not thinking of anything but how +much you wanted to go to the circus, and how sorry you were because +you hadn't the money, and your daddy wouldn't give you any; and +first thing you 'd know, you 'd stub your toe on something, and +you'd look down and there'd be a half a dollar that somebody had +lost - Gee! If it would only be that way! But we knew it wouldn't, +because only the other Sunday, Brother Longenecker had said: "The +age of miracles is past." So we had to give up all hopes. Oh, it's +terrible. Just terrible! + +But some of the boys lay there in the grass with their hands under +their heads, looking up at the sky, and making little white spots +come in and out on the corners of their jaws, they had their teeth +set so hard, and were chewing so fiercely. You could almost hear +their minds creak, scheming, scheming, scheming. I suppose there +were ways for boys to make money in those times, but they always +fizzled out when you came to try them, to say nothing of the way +they broke into your day. Why, you had scarcely any time to play +in. You 'd go 'round to some neighbor's house with a magazine, and +you'd say: "Good afternoon, Mrs. Slaymaker. Do you want to subscribe +for this?" Just the way you had studied out you would say. And +she'd take it, and go sit down with it, and read it clear through +while you played with the dog, and then when she got all through +with it, and had read all the advertisements, she'd hand it back to +you and say: No, she didn't believe she would. They had so many +books and papers now that she didn't get a chance hardly to read in +any of them, let alone taking any new ornes. Were you getting many +new subscribers? _ Just commenced, eh? Well, she wished you all +the luck in the world. How was your ma? That's good. Did she +hear from your Uncle John's folks since they moved out to Kansas? + +I have heard that there were boys who, under the dire necessity of +going to the circus, got together enough rags, old iron, and bottles +to make up the price, sold 'em, collected the money, and went. I +don't believe it. I don't believe it. We all had, hidden under +the back porch, our treasure-heap of rusty grates, cracked fire-pots, +broken griddles and lid-lifters, tub-hoops and pokers, but I do not +believe that any human boy ever collected fifty cents' worth. I +want you to understand that fifty cents is a whole lot of money, +particularly when it is laid out in scrap-iron. Only the tin-wagon +takes rags, and they pay in tinware, and that's no good to a boy +that wants to go to the circus. And as for bottles - well, sir, +you wash out a whole, whole lot of bottles, a whole big lot of 'em, +a wash-basket full, and tote 'em down to Mr. Case's drug- and +book-store, as much as ever you and your brother can wag, and see +what he gives you. It's simply scandalous. You have no idea of how +mean and stingy a man can be until you try to sell him old bottles. +And the cold-hearted way in which he will throw back ink-bottles +that you worked so hard to clean, and the ones that have reading +blown into the glass - Oh, it's enough to set you against business +transactions all your life long. There's something about bargain +and sale that's mean and censorious, finding this fault and finding +that fault, and paying just as little as ever they can. It gets on +one's nerves. It really does. + +The boys that made the little white spots come on the corners of +their jaws as they lay there in the grass, scheming, scheming, +scheming, planned rags, and bottles, and scrap-iron, and more also. +Sometimes it was a plan so much bigger that if they had kept it to +themselves, like the darkey's cow, they would have "all swole up +and died." + +"Sst! Come here once. Tell you sumpum. Now don't you go and blab +it out, now will you? Hope to die? Well . . . . Now, no kiddin'. +Cross your heart? Well . . . . Ah, you will, too. I know you. +You go and tattle everything you hear . . . . Well. . . . Cheese +it! Here comes somebody. Make out we're talkin' about sumpum else. +Ah, he did, did he? What for, I wonder? (Say sumpum, can't ye?) +Why 'nu' ye say sumpum when he was goin' by? Now he'll suspicion +sumpum 's up, and nose around till he . . . . Aw, they ain't no use +tellin' you anything . . . . Well. Put your head over so 's I can +whisper. Sure I am. . . . Well, I could learn, couldn't I? Now +don't you tell a living soul, will you? If anybody asts you, you +tell 'em you don't know anything at all about it. Say, why 'n't +you come along? I promised you the last time. That's jist your +mother callin' you. Let on you don't hear her. Aw, stay. Aw, +you don't either have to go. Say. Less you and me get up early, +and go see the circus come in town, will you? I will, if you will. +All right. Remember now. Don't you tell anybody what I told you. +You know." + + +If a fellow just only could run off with a circus! Wouldn't it be +great? No more splitting kindling and carrying in coal; no more: +"Hurry up, now, or you'll be late for school;" no more poking +along in a humdrum existence, never going any place or seeing +anything, but the glad, free, untrammeled life, the life of a +circus-boy, standing up on top of somebody's head (you could pretend +he was your daddy. Who'd ever know the difference?) and your leg +stuck up like five minutes to six, and him standing on top of a +horse - and the horse going around the ring, and the ring master +cracking his whip - aw, say! How about it? + +Maybe the show-people would take you even if you didn't have two +joints to common folks' one, and hadn't had early advantages in the +way of plenty of snakes to try the grease out of. And then . . . +and then. . . . Travel all around, and be in a new town every day! +And see things! The water-works, and Main Street, and the Soldiers' +Monument, and the Second Presbyterian Church. All the sights there +are to see in strange places. And then when the show came back to +your own home-town next year, people would wonder whose was that +slim and gracile figure in the green silk tights and spangled +breech-clout that capered so nimbly on the bounding courser's back, +that switched the natty switch and shrilly called out: "Hep! Hep!" +They'd screw up their eyes to look hard, and they'd say: "Yes, sir. +It is. It's him. It's Willie Bigelow. Well, of all things!" And +they'd clap their hands, and be so proud of you. And they'd wonder +how it was that they could have been so blind to your many merits +when they had you with them. They'd feel sorry that they ever said +you were a "regular little imp," if ever there was one, and that +you had the Old Boy in you as big as a horse. They'd feel ashamed +of themselves, so they would. And they'd come and apologize to +you for the way they had acted, and you'd say: "Oh, that's all +right. Forgive and forget." And they'd miss you at home, too. +Your daddy would wish he hadn't whaled you the way he did, just for +nothing at all. And your mother, too, she'd be sorry for the way +she acted to you, tormenting the life and soul out of you, sending +you on errands just when you got a man in the king row, and making +you wash your feet in a bucket before you went to bed, instead of +being satisfied to let you pump on them, as any reasonable mother +would. She'll think about that when you're gone. It'll be lonesome +then, with nobody to bang the doors, and upset the cream-pitcher on +the clean table-cloth, and fall over backward in the rocking-chair +and break a rocker off. Your daddy will sigh and say: + +"I wonder where Willie is to-night. Poor boy, I sometimes fear I +was too harsh with him." And your mother will try to keep back her +tears, but she can't, and first thing she knows she'll burst out +crying, and . . . and . . . and old Maje will go around the house +looking for you, and whining because he can't find his little +playmate . . . . It will seem as if you were dead - dead to them, +and . . . . Smf! Smf! + +(Confound that orchestra leader anyhow! How many times have I got +to tell him that this is the music-cue for "Where is My Wandering +Boy To-night?") + +We were all going to get up early enough to see the show come in +at the depot. Very few of us did it. Somehow we couldn't seem to +wake up. Here and there a hardy spirit compasses the feat. + +All the town is asleep when this boy slips out of his front-gate +and snicks the latch behind him softly. It is very still, so still +that though he is more than a mile away from the railroad he can +hear Johnny Mara, the night yardmaster, bawl out: "Run them three +empties over on Number Four track!" the short exhaust of the +obedient pony-engine, and the succeeding crash of the cars as they +bump against their fellows. It is very still, scarey still. The +gas-lamp flaring and flickering among the green maples at the +corner has a strange look to him. His footfalls on the sidewalk +sound so loud he takes the soft middle of the dusty road. He hears +some one pursuing him and his bosom contracts with fear, as he +stands to see who it is. Although he hardly knows the boy bound +on the same errand as his, he takes him to his heart, as a chosen +friend. They are kin. + +On the freight-house platform they find other boys. Some of them +have waited up all night so as not to miss it. They are from across +the tracks. They have all the fun, those fellows do. They can +swear and chew tobacco, and play hookey from school and have a good +time. They get to go barefoot before anybody else, and nobody tells +them it will thin their blood to go in swimming so much. Yes, and +they can fight, too. They'd sooner fight than eat. Our boys, +conscious of inferiority, keep to themselves. The boys from across +the tracks show off all the bad words they can think of. One of +them has a mouth-harp which he plays upon, now and then opening his +hands hollowed around the instrument. Patsy Gubbins dances to the +music, which is a thing even more reckless and daredevil than +swearing. Patsy's going with a "troupe" some day. Or else, he's +going to get a job firing on an engine. He isn't right sure which +he wants to do the most. + +Now and then a brakeman goes by swinging his lantern. The boys +would like to ask him what time it is, but for one thing they're +too bashful. Being a brakeman is almost as good as going with a +"troupe" or a circus. You get to go to places that way, too, +Marysville, and Mechanicsburg, and Harrod's - that is, if you're +on the local freight, and then you lay over in Cincinnati. Some +ways it's better than firing, and some ways it isn't so good. And +then there is another reason why they don't ask the brakeman what +time it is. He'd say it was "forty-five" or maybe "fifty-three," +and never tell what hour. + +"Say! Do you know it's cold? You wouldn't think it would be so +cold in the summer-time." + +The maple-trees, from being formless blobs, insensibly begin to +look like lace-work. Presently the heavens and the earth are +bathed in liquid blue that casts a spell so potent on the soul of +him that sees it that he yearns for something he knows not what, +except that it is utterly beyond him, as far beyond him as what he +means to be will be from what he shall attain to. One dreams of +romance and renown, of all that should be and is not. And as he +dreams the birds awaken. In the East there comes a greenish +tinge. Far up the track, there is a sullen roar, and then the +hoarse diapason of an engine whistle. The roar strengthens and +strengthens. It is the circus train. + +Under the witchcraft of the dreaming blue, each boy had a firm +and stubborn purpose. Over and over again he rehearsed how he +would go up to the man that runs the show, and say: "Please, +mister, can I go with you?" And the man would say, "Yes." (As +easy as that.) But the purpose wavered as he saw the roustabouts +come tumbling out, all frowsy and unwashed, rubbing the sleep out +of their eyes, cross and savage. And the man whose word they jump +to obey, he's kind of discouraging. it's all business with him. +The fellows may plead with their eyes; he never sees them. If he +does, he tells them where to get to out of that and how quick he +wants it done, in language that makes the boldest efforts of the +boys from across the tracks seem puny in comparison. The lads +divide into two parties. One follows the buggy of the boss canvasman +to Vandeman's lots where the stand is made. They will witness the +spectacle of the raising of the tents, but they will also be near the +man that runs the show, and if all goes well it may be he will like +your looks and saunter up to you and say: "Well, bub, and how would +you like to travel with us?" You don't know. Things not half so +strange as that have happened. And if you were right there at the +time . . . . + +The other party lingers awhile looking up wistfully at the +unresponsive windows of the sleeping-cars, behind which are the +happy circus-actors. Perhaps the show-boy that stands up on top +of his daddy's head will look out. If he should raise the window +and smile at you, and get to talking with you maybe he would +introduce you to his pa, and tell him that you would like to go +with the show, and his pa would be a nice sort of a man, and he'd +say: "Why, yes. I guess we can fix that all right." And there +you'd be. + +Or if it didn't come out like that, why, maybe the boy would be +another "Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider," like it told about +in he Ladies' Repository. It seems there was a man, and one day +he went by where there was a circus, and in a quiet secluded, +vine-clad nook only a few steps from the main tent, he heard +somebody sigh, oh, so sadly and so pitifully! Come to find out, +it was Little Arthur, the Boy Circus-rider. He had large +sensitive violet eyes, and a wealth of clustering ringlets, and he +was very, very unhappy. So the man took from his pocket a Bible +that he happened to have with him, and he read from it to Little +Arthur, which cheered him up right away, because up to that moment +he had only heard of the Bible. (Think of that!) And that night +at the show, what do you s'pose? Little Arthur fell off the horse +and hurt himself. And this man was at the show and he went back +in the dressing-room, and held Little Arthur's hand. And the clown +was crying, and the actors were crying, for they all loved Little +Arthur in their rude, untutored way. And Little Arthur opened his +large sensitive violet eyes, and saw the man, and said off the text +that the man taught him that afternoon. + +And then he died. It was a sad story, but it made you wish it had +been you that happened to have a Bible in your pocket as you passed +the secluded, vine-clad nook only a few paces from the main tent, +and had heard Little Arthur sigh so pitifully. It was those +sensitive eyes we looked for in the sleeping-car windows, and all +in vain. I think I saw the wealth of clustering ringlets, or at +least the makings of it. I am almost positive I saw curl-papers +as the curtain was drawn aside a moment. + +But whether a boy stands gazing at the sleepers, or runs over to +the lots, there is something pathetic about it, something almost +terrible. It is the death of an ideal. I can't conceive of a boy +coming down to the depot to see the circus train come in another +time. Hitherto, the show has been to him the ne plus ultra of +romance. It comes in the night from 'way off yonder; it goes in +the night to 'way off yonder. It is all splendor, all deeds of +high emprise. It stands to reason then, that the closer you get +to it, the closer you get to pure romance. And it isn't that way +at all. + +What gravels a boy the most of all is to have to do the same old +thing over and over again, day after day, week in, week out. Once +he has seen the circus come in, he cannot blind himself to the fact +that everything is marked and numbered; that all is system, and that +everything is done today exactly as it was done yesterday, and as +it will be done tomorrow. + +"What town is this?" he hears a man inquire of another. + +"Blest if I know. What's the odds what town it is?" + +Didn't know what town it was! Didn't care! + +The keen morning air, or something, makes a fellow mighty +unromantic, too. Perhaps it was the thin blue wood-smoke from +the field-stoves, and the smell of the hot coffee and the victuals +the waiters are carrying about, some to the tent where the bare +tables are for the canvasmen, some to the table covered with a +red and white table-cloth as befits performers. These have no +rosy cheeks. Their lithe limbs are not richly decked with silken +tights. Insensibly the upper lip curls. They're not so much. +They're only folks. That's all, just folks. + +But when ideals die, great truths are born. To such a boy at such +a moment there comes the firm conviction which increasing years can +only emphasize: Home is but a poor prosaic place, but Home - Ah, +my brother, think on this - Home is where Breakfast is. + +"Hay! Wait for me, you fellows! Hay! Hold on a minute. Well, +ain't I a-comin' jis''s fast's ever I kin? What's your rush?" + +It is the exceptional boy has this experience. The normal one +preserves the delicate bloom of romance, by never seeing the +show until it makes its Grand Triumphal Entree in a Pageant of +Unparalleled Magnificence far Surpassing the Pomp and +Splendor of Oriental Potentates. + +The hitching-posts are full of whinnering country horses, and +people are in town you wouldn't think existed if you hadn't seen +their pictures in Puck and Yudge, people from over by Muchinippi, +and out Noodletoozy way, big, red-necked men with the long loping +step that comes from walking on the plowed ground. Following +them are lanky women with their front teeth gone, and their figures +bowed by drudgery, dragging wide-eyed children whose uncouth finery +betrays the "country jake," even if the freckles and the sun-bleached +hair could keep the secret. From the far-off fastnesses, where +there are still log-cabins chinked with mud, they have ventured to +see the show come into town, and when they have seen that, they will +retire again beyond our ken. How every sense is numbed and stunned +by the magnificence and splendor of the painted and gilded wagons as +they rumble past, the driver rolling and pitching in his seat, as he +handles the ribbons of eight horses all at once! The farmer's heart +is filled with admiration of his craft, as much as the children's +hearts are at the gaudy pictures. + +The allegorical tableau-car solemnly waggles past, Europe, and Asia, +and Africa, and Australia brilliant in grease-paint and gorgeous +cheesecloth robes. And can you guess who the fat lady is up on the +very tip-top of all, on the tip-top where the wobble is the worst? +Our own Columbia! It must be fine to ride around that way all +dressed up in a flag. But a sourer lot of faces you never saw in +your life. No. I am wrong. For downright melancholy and +despondency you must wait till the funny old clown comes along in +his little bit of a buggy drawn by a little bit of a donkey. + +"And, oh, looky! Here comes the elephants, just the same as in the +joggerfy books. And see the men walking beside them. They come +from the place the elephants do. See, they have on the clothes +they wear in that country. Don't they look proud? Who wouldn't be +proud to get to walk with an elephant? And if you ever do anything +to an elephant to make him mad, he'll always remember it, and some +day he'll get even with you. One time there was a man, and he gave +an elephant a chew of tobacco, and - O-o-ooh! See that man in the +cage with the lions! Don't it just make the cold chills run over +you? I wouldn't be there for a million dollars, would you, ma? + +"What they laughing at down the street? Ma, make Lizzie get down; +she's right in my way. I don't want to see it pretty soon. I want +to see it naow! Oh, ain't it funny? See the old clowns playing on +horns! Ain't it too killing? Aw, look at them ponies. I woosht I +had one. Johnny Pym has got a goat he can hitch up. What was that, +pa? What was that went 'OoOOoohm!'" + +"Whoa, Nell, whoa there! Steady, gal, steaday! Ho, there! Ho! +Whoa -whoa-hup! Whad dy y' about? Fool horse. Whoa . . . whoa so, +gal, soo-o. Lion, I guess, or a tagger, or sumpum or other." + +And talk about music. You thought the band was grand. You just wait. +Don't you hear it down the street? It'll be along in a minute now. + +There it is. That's the cally-ope. That's what the show bills call: +"The Steam Car of the Muses." . . . Mm-well, I don't know but +it is just a leetle off the pitch, especially towards the end of a +note, but you must remember that you can't haul a very big boiler on +a wagon, and the whistles let out an awful lot of steam. It's +pretty hard to keep the pressure even. But it's loud. That's the +main thing. And the man that plays on it - no, not that fellow in +the overalls with a wad of greasy waste in his hand. He 's only the +engineer. I mean the artist, the man that plays on the keys. Well, +he knows what the people want. He has his fingers on the public +pulse. Does he give them a Bach fugue, or Guillmant's "Grand Choeur?" +'Deed, he doesn't. He goes right to the heart, with "Patrick's Day +in the Morning," and "The Carnival of Venice," and "Home, Sweet Home," +and "Oh, Where, Oh Where has my Little Dog Gone?" He knows his +business. A shade off the key, perhaps, but my! Ain't it grand? So +loud and nice! + +"Well, that's all of it . . . . Why, child, I can't make it any +longer than it is. + +What do you want me to drive round into the other street for? You've +seen all there is to see. Got all your trading done, mother? Well, +then I expect we'd better put for home. Now, Eddy, I told you 'No' +once, and that's the end of it. Hush up now! Look here, sir! Do +you want me to take and 'tend to you right before everybody? Well, +I will now, if I hear another whimper out o' ye. Ck-ck-ck! Git ep +there, Nelly." + +Some day, when we get big, and have whole, whole lots of money we're +going to the circus every time it comes to town, to the real circus, +the one you have to pay to get into. For if merely the street +parade is so magnificent, what must the show itself be? + +How people can sit at the table on circus day and stuff, and stuff +the way they do is more than I can understand. You'd think they +hadn't any more chances to eat than they had to go to the show. +And they can find more things to do before they get started! And +then, after the house is all locked up and everything, they've got +to go back after a handkerchief! What does anybody want with a +handkerchief at a circus? + +It's exasperating enough to have to choose between going in the +afternoon and not going at all. Why, sure, it's finer at night. +Lots finer. You know that kind of a light the peanut-roaster man +has got down by the post-office. Burns that kind of stuff they use +to take out grease-spots. Ye-ah. Gasoline. Well, at the circus at +night, they don't have just one light like that, but bunches and +bunches of them on the tentpoles. No, silly! Of course not. Of +course they don't set the tent afire. But say! What if they did, +eh? The place would be all full of people, laughing at the country +jake that comes out to ride the trick-mule, and you'd happen to +look up and see where the canvas was ju-u-ust beginning to blaze, +and you'd jump up and holler: "Fire! Fire!" as loud as ever you +could because you saw it first, and you'd point to the place. +Excitement? Well, I guess yes. The people would all run every +which way, and fall all over themselves, and the women would squeal + - And do you know what I'd do? Wouldn't just let myself down +between the kind of bedslat benches, and drop to the ground, and +lift up the canvas and there I'd be all safe. And after I was all +safe, then I'd go back and rescue folks. + +We-ell, I s'pose I'd have to rescue a girl. It seems they always +do that. But it would be nicer, I think, to rescue some real rich +man. He'd say: "My noble preserver! How can I sufficiently reward +you?" and take out his pocketbook. And wouldn't say: "Take back +your proffered gold," and make like I was pushing it away, "take +back your proffered gold. I but did my duty." And then wouldn't +forget all about it. And one day, after I'd forgotten all about, +it, the man would die, and will me a million dollars, or a thousand, +I don't know. Enough to make me rich. + +And say! Wouldn't the animals get excited when they saw the show +was afire? They'd just roar and roar, and upset the cages, and +maybe they'd get loose. O-o-o-Oh! How about that? If there was +a lion come at me I'd climb a tree. What would you do? Ah, your +pa's shot-gun nothing! Why, you crazy, that would only infuriate +him the more. What you want to do is to take an express rifle, +like Doo Challoo did, and aim right for his heart. An express +rifle is what you send off and get, and they ship it to you by +express. + +So you see what a fellow misses by having to go to the show in the +afternoon, like the girls and the a-b-abs. The boys from across +the tracks get to go at night. They have all the fun. When they +go they don't have to poke along, and poke along, and keep hold of +hands so as not to get lost. . . . Aw, hurry up, can't you? Don't +you hear the band playing? It'll be all over before we get there. + +But finally the lots are reached, and there are the tents, with all +kinds of flags snapping from the centerpoles and the guy-ropes. +And there are the sideshows. Alas! You never thought of the +sideshows when you asked if you could go. And now it's too late. +It must be fine in the side-shows. I never got to go to one. I +didn't have the money. But if the big, painted banners, bulging in +and out, as the wind plays with them, are anything to go by, it must +be something grand to see the Fat Lady, and the Circassian Beauty, +whose frizzled head will just about fit a bushel basket, and the +Armless Wonder. They say he can take a pair of scissors with his +toes and cut your picture out of paper just elegant. + +Oh, and something else you miss by going in the afternoon. At night +you can sneak around at the back, and when nobody is looking you +can just lift up the canvas and go right in for nothing . . . . Why, +what's wrong about that? Ah, you're too particular . . . . And if +the canvasman catches you, you can commence to cry and say you had +only forty cents, and wanted to see the circus so bad, and he'll take +it and let you in, and you can have ten cents, don't you see, to +spend for lemonade, red lemonade, you understand; and peanuts, the +littlest bags, and the "on-riest" peanuts that ever were. + +As far as I can see, the animal part of the show is just the same +as it always was. The people that take you to the show always +pretend to be interested in them, but it's my belief they stop and +look only to tease you. Away, 'way back in ancient times, there +used to be a man that took the folks around and told them what was +in each cage, and where it came from, and how much it cost, and +what useful purpose it served in the wise economy of nature, and +all about it. That was before my time. But I can recollect +something they had that they don't have any more. I can remember +when Mr. Barnum first brought his show to our town. It didn't take +much teasing to get to go to that, because in those days Mr. Barnum +was a "biger man than old Grant." "The Life of P. T. Barnum, +Written by Himself" was on everybody's marble-topped centertable, +just the same as "The History of the Great Rebellion." You show +some elderly person from out of town the church across the street +from the Astor House, and say: "That's St. Paul's Chapel. General +Montgomery's monument is in the chancel window. George Washington +went to meeting there the day he was inaugurated president," and +your friend will say: "M-hm." But you tell him that right across +Broadway is where Barnum's Museum used to be, and he'll brighten +right up and remember all about how Barnum strung a flag across to +St. Paul's steeple and what a fuss the vestry of Trinity Parish made. +That's something he knows about. that's part of the history of our +country. + +Well, when Mr. Barnum first came to our town, all around one tent +were vans full of the very identical Moral Waxworks that we had +read about, and had given up all hopes of ever seeing because New +York was so far away. There was the Dying Zouave. Oh, that was a +beauty! The Advance Courier said that "the crimson torrent of his +heart's blood spouted in rhythmic jets as the tide of life ebbed +silently away;" but I guess by the time they got to our town they +must have run all out of pokeberry juice, for the "crimson torrent" +didn't spout at all. But his bosom heaved every so often, and he +rolled up his eyes something grand! I liked it, but my mother said +it was horrid. That's the way with women. They don't like anything +that anybody else does. There's no pleasing 'em. And she thought +the Drunkard's Family was "kind o' low." It wasn't either. It was +fine, and taught a great moral lesson. I told her so, but she said +it was low, just the same. She thought the Temperance Family was +nice, but it wasn't anywhere near as good as the Drunkard's Family. +Why, let me tell you. The Drunkard's Wife was in a ragged calico +dress, and her eye was all black and blue, where he had hit her the +week before. And the Drunkard had hold of a black quart bottle, +and his nose was all red, and he wore a plug hat that was even +rustier and more caved in than Elder Drown's, if such a thing were +possible. And there was - But I can't begin to tell you of all +the fine things Mr. Barnum had that year, but never had again. + +Another thing Mr. Barnum had that year that never appeared again. +It may be that after that time the Funny Old Clown did crack a +joke, but I never heard him. The one that Mr. Barnum had got off +the most comical thing you ever heard. I'll never forget it the +longest day I live. Laugh? Why, I nearly took a conniption over +it. It seems the clown got to crying about something . . . . Now +what was it made him cry? Let me see now . . . . Ain't it queer I +can't remember that? Fudge! Well, never mind now. It will come +to me in a minute. + +I feel kind of sorry for the poor little young ones that grow up +and never know what a clown is like. Oh, yes, they have them +to-day, after a fashion. They stub their toes and fall down the +same as ever, but there is a whole mob of them and you can't take +the interest in them that you could in "the one, the only, the +inimitable" clown there used to be, a character of such +importance that he got his name on the bills. He was a mighty +man in those days. The ring-master was a kind of stuck-up fellow, +very important in his own estimation, but he didn't have a spark +of humor. Not a spark. And he'd be swelling around there, all so +grand, and the clown, just to take him down a peg or two, would +ask him a conundrum. And do you think he could ever guess one? +Never. Not a one. And when the clown would tell him what the +answer was, he'd be so vexed at himself that he'd try to take it +out on the poor clown, and cut at him with his long whip. But Mr. +Clown was just as spry in his shoes as he was under the hat, and +he'd hop up on the ring-side out of the way, and squall out: +"A-a-aah! Never touched me!" We had that for a byword. Oh, +you'd die laughing at the comical remarks he'd make. And he'd be +so quick about it. The ring-master would say something, and before +you'd think, the clown would make a joke out of it . . . . I wish +I could remember what it was he said that was so funny, the time +he started crying. Seems to me it was something about his little +brother . . . . Well, no matter. + +Yes, sir, there are heads of families to-day, I'll bet you, that +have grown up without ever having heard a clown sing a comic song, +and ask the audience to join in the chorus. And if you say to +such people: "Here we are again, Mr. Merryman," or "Bring on another +horse," or "What will the little lady have now? the banners, my +lord?" they look at you so funny. They don't know what you mean, +and they don't know whether to get huffy or not. Well, I suppose +it had to be that the Funny Old Clown with all his songs, and quips, +and conundrums, and comical remarks should disappear. Perhaps he +"didn't pay." + +I can't see that the rest of the show has changed so very much. +Perhaps the trapeze performances are more marvelous and +breath-suspending than they used to be. But they were far and +far beyond what we could dream of then, and to go still farther as +little impresses us as to be told that people live still even +westerly of Idaho. The trapeze performers are up-to-date in one +respect. The fellow that comes down with his arms folded, one leg +stuck out and the other twined around the big rope, revolving +slowly, slowly - well, the band plays the Intermezzo from "Cavalleria +Rusticana" nowadays when he does that. It used to play: "O Thou, +Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer!" But the lady in the riding-habit +still smiles as if it hurt her when her horse walks on its hind legs; +the bareback rider does the very same fancy steps as the horse goes +round the ring in a rocking-chair lope; the attendants still slant +the hurdles almost flat for the horse to jump; they still snake the +banners under the rider's feet as he gives a little hop up, and +they still bang him on the head with the paper-covered hoop to + . . . . Hold on a minute. Now. + +Now . . . That story the clown told that was so funny, that had +something to do with those hoops. I wish I could think of it. It +would make you laugh, I know. + +People try to lay the blame of the modern circus's failure to +interest them on the three rings. They say so many things to watch +at once keeps them from being watching properly any one act. They +can't give it the attention it deserves. But I'll tell you what's +wrong: There isn't any Funny Old Clown, a particular one, to give +it human interest. It is all too splendid, too magnificent, too +far beyond us. We want to hear somebody talk once in awhile. + +They pretended that the tent was too big for the clown to be heard, +but I take notice it wasn't too big for the fellow to get up and +declaim "The puffawmance ees not yait hawf ovah. The jaintlemanly +agents will now pawss around the ring with tickets faw the concert." +I used to hate that man. When he said the performance was not yet +half over, he lied like a dog, consarn his picture! There were +only a few more acts to come. He knew it and we knew it. We wanted +the show to go on and on, and always to be just as exciting as at +the very first, and it wouldn't! We had got to the point where we +couldn't be interested in anything any more. We were as little +ones unable to prop their eyelids open and yet quarreling with bed. +We were surfeited, but not satisfied. We sat there and pouted +because there wasn't any more, and yet we couldn't but yawn at the +act before us. We were mad at ourselves, and mad at everybody else. +We clambered down the rattling bedslats seats, sour and sullen. We +didn't want to look at the animals; we didn't want to do this, and +we didn't want to do that. We whined and snarled, and wriggled and +shook ourselves with temper, and we got a good hard slap, side of +the head, right before everybody, and then we yelled as if we were +being killed alive. + +"Now, mister, if I ever take you any place again, you'll know it. +I'd be ashamed of myself if I was you. Hush up! Hush up, I tell +you. Now you mark. You're never going to the show again. Do +you hear me? Never! I mean it. You're never going again." + +But at eventide there was light. After supper, after a little rest +and a good deal of food, while chopping the kindling for morning +(it's wonderful how useful employ tends to induce a cheerful view +of life) out of her dazzling treasure-heap of jewels, Memory took +up, one after another, a glowing recollection and viewed it with +delight. The evening performance, the one all lighted up with +bunches and bunches of lights, was a-preparing, and in the gentle +breeze the far-off music waved as it had been a flag. A harsh +and rumbling noise as of heavy timbers falling tore through the +tissue of sweet sounds. The horses in the barn next door screamed +in their stalls to hear it. Ages and ages ago, on distant +wind-swept plains their ancestors had hearkened to that hunting-cry, +and summoned up their valor and their speed. It still thrilled in +the blood of these patient slaves of man, though countless +generations of them had never even so much as seen a lion. + +"And is that all the difference, pa, that the lion roars at night +and the ostrich in the daytime?" + +Out on the back porch in the deepening dusk we sat, with eyes +relaxed and dreaming, and watched the stars that powdered the +dark sky. Before our inward vision passed in review the day of +splendor and renown. We sighed, at last, but it was the happy +sigh of him who has full dined. Ambition was digesting. In our +turn, when we grew up, we, too, were to do the deeds of high +emprise. We were to be somebody. + +(I never heard of anybody sitting up to see the show depart. And +yet it seems to me that would be the best time to run off with it.) + +The next day we visited the lots. It was no dream. See the litter +that mussed up the place. + +We were all there. None had heard the man that runs the show say +genially: "Yes, I think we can arrange to take you with us." Here +was the ring; here the tent-pole holes, and here a scrap of paper +torn from a hoop the bareback rider leaped through . . . . Oh, now +I know what I was going to tell you that the clown said. The +comicalest thing! + +He picked up one of these hoops and began to sniffle. + +So the ring-master asked him what he was crying about. + +"I - I -was thinking of my mother. Smf! My good old mother!" + +So the ring-master asked him what made him think of his mother. + +"This." And he held up the paper-covered hoop. + +The ring-master couldn't see how that put the clown in mind of his +mother. He was awful dumb, that man. + +"It looks just like the pancakes she used to make for us." + +Well, sir, we just hollered and laughed at that. And after we had +quieted down a little, the ringmaster says: "As big as that?" + +"Bigger," says the clown. "Why, she used to make 'em so big we +used 'em for bedclothes." + +"Indeed" (Just like that. He took it all in, just as if it was so.) + +"Oh, my, yes! I mind one time I was sleeping with my little +brother, and I waked up just as cold - Brr! But I was cold!" + +"But how could that be, sir? You just now said you had pancakes +for bedclothes." + +"Yes, but my little brother got hungry in the night, and et up all +the cover." + +Laugh? Why, they screamed. Me? I thought I'd just about go up. +But the ring master never cracked a smile. He didn't see the joke +at all. + +Good-by, old clown, friend of our childhood, goodby, good-by +forever! And you, our other friend, the street parade, must you +go, too? And you, the gorgeous show-bills, must you tread the +path toward the sundown? Good-by! Good-by! In that dreary land +where you are going, the Kingdom of the Ausgespielt, it may comfort +you to recollect the young hearts you have made happy in the days +that were, but never more can be again. + + + + +THE COUNTY FAIR + + +Whether or not the name had an influence on the weather, I don't +know. Perhaps it did rain some years, but, as I remember, County +Fair time seems to have had a sky perfectly cloudless, with its +blue only a little dulled around the edges where it came close to +the ground and the dust settled on it. Things far off were sort of +hazy, but that might have been the result of the bonfires of leaves +we had been having evenings after supper. In Fair weather, when the +sun had been up long enough to get a really good start, it was right +warm, but in the shade it was cool, and nights and mornings there +was a chill in the air that threatened worse things to come. + +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. Down cellar the +swing-shelf is cram-jam full of jellyglasses, and jars of fruit. +Out on the hen-house roof are drying what, when the soap-box wagon +was first built, promised barrels and barrels of nuts to be brought +up with the pitcher of cider for our comforting in the long winter +evenings, but what turns out, when the shucks are off, to be a +poor, pitiful half-peck, daily depleted by the urgent necessity of +finding out if they are dry enough yet. Folks are picking apples, +and Koontz's cider-mill is in full operation. (Do you know any +place where a fellow can get some nice long straws?) Out in the +fields are champagne-colored pyramids, each with a pale-gold heap +of corn beside it, and the good black earth is dotted with orange +blobs that promise pumpkin-pies for Thanksgiving Day. No. Let me +look again. Those aren't pie-pumpkins; those are cow-pumpkins, and +if you want to see something kind of pitiful, I'll show you Abe +Bethard chopping up one of those yellow globes -with what, do you +suppose? With the cavalry saber his daddy used at Gettysburg. + +The harvest is past, the summer is ended. As a result of all the +good feeding and the outdoor air we have had for three or four +months past, the strawberry shortcakes, and cherry-pies, and +green peas, and new potatoes, and string beans, and roasting-ears, +and all such garden-stuff, and the fresh eggs, broken into the +skillet before Speckle gets done cackling, and the cockerels we +pick off the roost Saturday evenings (you see, we're thinning 'em +out; no sense in keeping all of 'em over winter) - as a result, I +say, of all this good eating, and the outdoor life, and the +necessity of stirring around a little lively these days we feel +pretty good. And yet we get kind of low in our minds, too. The +harvest is past, the summer is ended. It's gone, the good playtime +when we didn't have to go to school, when the only foot-covering we +wore was a rag around one big toe or the other; the days when we +could stay in swimming all day long except mealtimes; the days of +Sabbath-school picnics and excursions to the Soldiers' Home - it's +gone. The harvest is past, the summer is ended. The green and +leafy things have heard the word, and most of them are taking it +pretty seriously, judging by their looks. But the maples and some +more of them, particularly the maples, with daredevil recklessness, +have resolved, as it were, to die with their boots on, and flame +out in such violent and unbelievable colors that we feel obliged +to take testimony in certain outrageous cases, and file away the +exhibits in the Family Bible where nobody will bother them. The +harvest is past, the summer is ended. Rainy days you can see how +played-out and forlorn the whole world looks. But at Fair time, +when the sun shines bright, it appears right cheerful. + +It seems to me the Fair lasted three days. One of them was a +holiday from school, I know, and unless I'm wrong, it wasn't on +the first day, because then they were getting the things in, and +it wasn't on the last day, because then they were taking the things +out, so it must have been on the middle day, when everybody went. +Charley Wells had both the depot 'buses out with "County FAIR" +painted on muslin hung on the sides. The Cornet Band rode all round +town in one, and so on over to the "scene of the festivities" as +the Weekly Examiner very aptly put it, and then both 'buses stood +out in front of the American House, waiting for passengers, with +Dinny Enright calling out: "This sway t' the Fair Groun's! Going +RIGHT over!" Only he always waited till he got a good load before +he turned a wheel. (Dinny's foreman at the chair factory now. Did +you know that? Doing fine. Gets $15 a week, and hasn't drunk a +drop for nearly two years.) + +Everybody goes the middle day of the Fair, everybody that you +ever did know or hear tell of. You'll be going along, kind of +half-listening to the man selling Temperance Bitters, and denouncing +the other bitters because they have "al-cue-hawl" in them, and +"al-cue-hawl will make you drunk," (which is perfectly true), and +kind of half-listening to the man with the electric machine, +declaring: "Ground is the first conductor; water is the second +conductor," and you'll be thinking how slippery the grass is to +walk on, when a face in the crowd will, as it were, sting your +memory. "I ought to know that man," says you to yourself. "Now, +who the mischief is he? Barker? No, 't isn't Barker, Barkdull? +No. Funny I can't think of his name. Begins with B I'm pretty +certain." And you trail along after him, as if you were a detective, +sort of keeping out of his sight, and yet every once in a while +getting a good look at him. "Mmmmmm!" says you. "What is that +fellow's name? Why, sure. McConica." And you walk up to him and +stick out your hand while he's gassing with somebody, and there's +that smile on your face that says: "I know you but you don't know +me," and he takes it in a limp sort of fashion, and starts to say: +"You have the advantage of - " when, all of a sudden, he grabs your +hand as if he were going to jerk your arm out of its socket and beat +you over the head with the bloody end, and shouts out: "Why, HELLO, +Billy! Well, suffering Cyrus and all hands round! Hold still a +second and let me look at you. Gosh darn your hide, where you been +for so long? I though you'd clean evaporated off the face the earth. +Why, how AIR you? How's everything? That's good. Let me make you +acquainted with my wife. Molly, this is Mr. - " But she says: "Now +don't you tell me what his name is. Let me think. Why, Willie +Smith! Well, of all things! Why, how you've changed! Honest, I +wouldn't have knowed you. Do you mind the time we went sleigh-ridin' +the whole posse of us, and got upset down there by Hanks's place?" +And then you start in on "D' you mind?" and "Don't you recollect?" +and you talk about the old school-days, and who's married, and who's +moved out to Kansas, and who's got the Elias Hoover place now, and +how Ella Trimble - You know Ella Diefenbaugh, old Jake Diefenbaugh's +daughter, the one that lisped. Course you do. Well, she married Ed +Trimble, and he died along in the early part of the summer. Typhoid. +Was getting well but he took a relapse, and went off like that! And +now she's left with three little ones, and they guess poor Ella has +a pretty hard time making out. And this old schoolmate that you +start to tell a funny story about is dead, and the freckle-faced boy +with the buck teeth that put the rabbit in the teacher's desk, he's +dead, too, and the boy that used to cry in school when they read: + + "Give me three grains of corn, mother, + Only three grains o f corn; + To save what little life I have, mother, + Till the coming o f the morn." + +well, he studied law with old judge Rodehaver, and got to be +Prosecuting Attorney, but he took to drinking - politics, you know + - and now he's just gone to the dogs. Smart as a steel-trap, and +bright as a dollar. Oh, a terrible pity! A terrible pity. And as +you hear the fate of one after another of the happy companions +of your childhood, and the sadness of life comes over you, they +start to tell something that makes you laugh again. I tell you. +Did you ever see one of these concave glasses, such as the artists +use when they want to get an idea of how a picture looks all +together as a whole, and not as an assemblage of parts? Well, +what the concave glass is to a picture, so such talk is to life. +It sort of draws it all together, and you see it as a whole, its +sunshine and its shadow, its laughter and its tears, its work and +its play, its past and its present. But not its future. The Good +Man has mercifully hidden that from us. + +It does a body good to get such a talk once in a while. + +And there are the young fellows and the girls. This young gentleman +in the rimless eye-glasses, who is now beginning to "go out among +'em" the last time you saw him was in meeting when Elder Drown was +preaching, and my gentleman stood up in the seat and shouted shrilly: +"'T ain't at all, man. 'T ain't at all!" And this sweet +girl-graduate - the last time you saw her was just after Becky Daly, +in the vain effort to "peacify" the squalling young one, had given +her a fresh egg to play with. I kind o' like the looks of the younger +generation of girls. But I don't know about the young fellows. They +look to me like a trifling lot. Nothing like what they were in our +young days. I don't see but what us old codgers had better hold on +a while longer to the County Clerk's office, and the Sheriff's +office, and the Probate judgeship, and the presidency of the National +Bank. It wouldn't be safe to trust the destinies of the country in +the hands of such heedless young whiffets. Engaged to be married! +Oh, get out! What? Those babies? + +I kept awake most of the time the man was lecturing on: "The +Republic: Will it Endure?" but I don't remember that he said +anything in it about the crops. (We can't go 'round meeting the +folks all day. We really must give a glance at the exhibition.) +And I am one of those who hold to the belief that while the farmers +can raise ears of corn as long as from your elbow to your fingertips, +as big 'round as a rollingpin, and set with grains as regular and +even as an eight-dollar set of artificial teeth; as long as they +grow potatoes the size of your foot, and such pretty oats and wheat, +and turnips, and squashes, and onions, and apples and all kinds of +truck, and raise them not only in increasing size but increasing +quantities to the acre I feel as if the Republic would last the +year out anyway. Not that I have any notion that mere material +prosperity will make and keep us a free people, but it goes to show +that the farmers are not plodding along, doing as their fathers did +before them, but that they are reading and studying, and taking +advantage of modern methods. There are two ways of increasing your +income. One is by enlarging your output, and the other is by +enlarging your share of the proceeds from the sale of that output. + The Grand Dukes will not always run this country. The farmers +saved the Union once by dying for it; they will save it again by +living for it. + +The scientific fellows tell us that we have not nearly reached the +maximum of yield to the acre of crops that are harvested once a +year, but in regard to the crops that are harvested twice a day it +looks to me as if we were doing fairly well. Nowadays we hardly +know what is meant by the expression, "Spring poor." It is a +sinister phrase, and tells a story of the old, cruel days when +farmers begrudged their cattle the little bite they ate in +wintertime, so that when the grass came again the poor creatures +would fall over trying to crop it. They were so starved and weak +that, as the saying went, they had to lean up against the fence to +breathe. They don't do that way now, as one look at the fine, +sleek cows will show you. A cow these days is a different sort of +a being, her coat like satin, and her udder generous, compared with +the wild-eyed things with burrs in their tails, and their flanks +crusted with filth, their udders the size of a kid glove, and +yielding such a little dab of milk and for such a short period. +Hear the dairymen boast now of the miraculous yearly yield in pounds +of butter and milk, and when they say: "You've got to treat a cow +as if she were a lady," it sounds like good sense. + +Pigs are naturally so untidy about their persons, and have such +shocking table-manners that it seems difficult to treat a sow like +a lady, but that one in the pen yonder, with her litter of sucking +pigs, seems very interesting. Come, let's have a look. Aren't the +little pigs dear things? I'd like to climb in and take one of them +up to pet it; do you s'pose she'd mind it if I did? I can see +decided improvement in the modern hogs over old Mose Batcheller's. +If you remember, his were what were known as "razorbacks." They +could go like the wind, and the fence was not made that could stop +them. If they couldn't root under it, they could turn themselves +sidewise and slide through between the rails. It was told me that, +failing all else, they could give their tails a swing - you remember +the big balls of mud they used to have on their tails' ends - they +could swing their tails after the manner of an athlete throwing the +hammer, and fly over the top of the tallest stake-and-rider fence +ever put up. I don't know whether this is the strict truth or not, +but it is what was told me as a little boy, and I don't think +people would wilfully deceive an innocent child. + +The pigs nowaday aren't as smart as that, but they cut up better +at hog-killing time. They aren't quite so trim; indeed, they are +nothing but cylinders of meat, whittled to a point at the front end, +and set on four pegs, but as you lean on the top-rail of the pens +out at the County Fair and look down upon them, you can picture in +your mind, without much effort, ham, and sidemeat, and bacon, and +spare-ribs, and smoked shoulder, and head-cheese, and liver-wurst, +and sausages, and glistening white lard for crullers and pie-crust - +Yes, I think pigs are right interesting. I know they've got +Scripture for it, the folks that think it is wrong to eat pork, but +somehow I feel sorry for them; they miss such a lot, not only in +the eating line, but other ways. They are always being persecuted, +and harassed, and picked at. Whereas the pork-fed man, it seems to +me, sort of hankers to be picked at. It gives him a good chance +to slap somebody slonchways. He feels better after he has seen +his persecutors go away with a cut lip, and fingering of their +teeth to see if they're all there. + +You'll just have to take me gently but firmly by the sleeve and +lead me past the next exhibit, the noisy one, where there's so +much cackling and crowing. I give you fair warning that if you +get me started talking about chickens, the County Fair will have +to wait till some other time. I don't know much about ducks, and +geese, and guinea-hens, and pea-fowl, and turkeys, but chickens - +Why, say. We had a hen once (Plymouth Rock she was; we called her +Henrietta), and honestly, that hen knew more than some folks. One +time she - all right. I'll hush. Let's go in here. + +I don't remember whether the pies, and cakes, and canned fruit, +and such are in Pomona Hall or the Fine Arts Hall. Fine Arts Hall +I think. They ought to be. I speak to be one of the judges that +give out the premiums in this department. I'd be generous and let +somebody else do the judging of the cakes, because I don't care +much for cake. Oh, I can manage to choke it down, but I haven't +the expert knowledge, practical and scientific, that I have in the +matter of pie. I'd bear my share of the work when it came to the +other things, jellies and preserves, and pies, but not cake. +Wouldn't know just exactly how to go at it in the matter of jellies. +I'd take a glass of currant, and hold it up to the light to note +its crimson glory. And I'd lift off the waxed paper top and peer +in, and maybe give the jelly a shake. And then I'd take a spoon +and taste, closing my eyes so as to appear to deliberate - they'd +roll up in an ecstacy anyhow - and I'd smack my lips, and say: +"Mmmmm!" very thoughtfully, and set the glass back, and write down +in my book my judgment, which would invariably be: "First Prize." +Because if there is anything on top of this green earth that I think +is just about right, it is currant jelly. Grape jelly is nice, and +crab-apple jelly has its good points, and quince jelly is very +delicate, but there is something about currant jelly that seems to +touch the spot. Quince preserves are good if there is enough apple +with the quince, and watermelon preserves are a great favorite, not +because they are so much better tasting, but because the lucent +golden cubes in the spicy syrup appeal so to the eye. But if you +want to know what I think is really good eating in the preserve +line, you just watch my motions when I come to the tomato preserves, +these little fig-tomatoes, and see how quick the red card is put on +them. Yes, indeed. It's been a long time, hasn't it? since you +had any tomato-preserves, you that haven't been "Back Home" lately. + +It's no great trick to put up other fruit so that it will keep, but +I'd look the canned tomatoes over pretty carefully, and if I saw +that one lady had not only put them up so that they hadn't turned +foamy, but had also succeeded with green corn, and that other +poser, string beans, I'd give her first premium, because I'd know +she was a first-rate housekeeper, and a careful woman, and one +that deserved encouragement. + +But I'd save myself for the pies. I can tell a rich, short, flaky +crust, and I can tell the kind that is as brown as a dried apple, +and tough as the same on the top, and sad and livery on the bottom. +And I know about fillings, how thick they ought to be, and how they +ought to be seasoned, and all. Particularly pumpkin-pies, because +I had early advantages that way that very few other boys had. I +was allowed to scrape the crock that had held the pumpkin for the +pies. So that's how I know as much as I do. + +I suppose, however, when all is said and done, that there is no +pie that can quite come up to an apple-pie. You take nice, short +crust that's been worked up with ice-water, and line the tin with +it, and fill it heaping with sliced, tart apples -not sauce. Mercy, +no! - and sweeten them just right, and put on a lump of butter, and +some allspice, and perhaps a clove, and a little lemon peel, and +then put on the cover, and trim off the edge, and pinch it up in +scallops, and draw a couple of leaves in the top with a sharp knife, +and have the oven just right, and set it in there, and I tell you +that when ma opens the oven-door to see how the pie is coming on, +there distils through the house such a perfume that you cry out in +a choking voice: "Say! Ain't dinner 'most ready?" + +But I fully recognize the fact that very often our judgment is +warped by feeling, and I am inclined to believe that even the +undoubted merit of the apple-pie would not prevail against a +vinegar-pie, if such should be presented to me for my decision. +A vinegar-pie? Well, it has a top and bottom crust, the same as +any other pie, but its filling is made of vinegar, diluted with +water to the proper degree of sub-acidity, sweetened with molasses, +thickened with flour, and all baked as any other pie. You smile at +its crude simplicity, and wonder why I should favor it. To you it +doesn't tell the story that it does to me. It doesn't take you +back in imagination to "the airly days," when folks came over the +mountains in covered wagons, and settled in the Western Reserve, +leaving behind them all the civilization of their day, and its +comforts, parting from relatives and friends, knowing full well that +in this life they never more should look upon their faces - leaving +everything behind to make a new home in the western wilds. + +Is was a land of promise that they came to. The virgin soil bore +riotously. There were fruit-trees in the forest that Johnny +Appleseed had planted on his journeyings. The young husband +could stand in his dooryard and kill wild turkeys with his rifle. +They fed to loathing on venison, and squirrels, and all manner of +game, and once in a great while they had the luxury of salt pork. +They were well-nourished, but sometimes they pined for that which +was more than mere food. They hungered for that which should be +to the meals' victuals what the flower is to the plant. + +"I whoosh't - I woosh't was so we could hev pie," sighed one such. +(Let us call him Uriah Kinney. I think that sounds as if it were +his name. + +"Land's sakes!" snapped his wife, exasperated that he should be +thinking of the same thing that she was. "Land's sakes! Haow d' +ye s'pose I kin make a pie when I hain't got e'er a thing to make it +aout o'? You gimme suthirnn to make it aout o', an' you see haow +quick - " + +"I ain't a-faultinn ye, Mary Ann," interposed Uriah gently. "I +know haow 't is. I was on'y tellin' ye. I git I git a kind o' +hum'sick sometimes. 'Pears like as if I sh'd feel more resigned +like . . . . Don't ye cry, Mary Ann. I know, I know. You feel +julluk I do 'baout back home, an' all luk that." + +O woman! When the heft of thy intellect is thrown against a +problem, something has got to give. Not long after, Uriah sits +down to dinner, and can hardly ask a blessing, he has to swallow +so. A pie is on the table! + +"Gosh, Mary Ann, but this is good!" says he, holding out his hand +for the third piece. "This is lickinn good!" And he celebrates her +achievement far and wide. + +"My Mary Ann med me a pie t' other day, was the all-firedest best +pie I ever et." + +"Med you what?" + +"Med me a pie." + +"Pie? Whutch talkinn' baout? Can't git nummore pies naow. Frot 's +all gin aout." + +"I golly, she med it just the same. Smartest woman y' ever see." +The man dribbled at the mouth. + +"What sh' make it aout o'?" + +"Vinegar an' worter, I think she said. I d' know 's I ever et +anythinn I relished julluk that. My Mary Ann, tell yew! She's +'baout's smart 's they make 'em." + +I wish I knew who she really was whom I have called Mary Ann Kinney, +she that made the first vinegar-pie. I wish I knew where her grave +is that I might lay upon it a bunch of flowers, such as she knew +and liked - sweet-william, and phlox, and larkspur, and wild +columbine. It couldn't make it up to her for all the hardships she +underwent when she was bringing up a family in that wild, western +country, and especially that fall when they all had the "fever 'n' +ager" so bad, Uriah and the twins chilling one day, and Hiram and +Sophronia Jane the next, and she just as miserable as any of them, +but keeping up somehow, God only knows how. It couldn't make it up +to her, but as I laid the pretty posies against the leaning +headstone on which is written: + + "A Loving Wife , a Mother Dear, + Faithful Friend Lies Buried Here." + +I believe she 'd get word of it somehow, and understand what I was +trying to say by it. + +I'll ask to be let off the committee that judges the rest of the +exhibits in the Fine Arts Hall, the quilts and the Battenberg, and +the crocheting, and such. I know the Log Cabin pattern, and the +Mexican Feather pattern, and I think I could make out to tell the +Hen-and-Chickens pattern of quilts, but that's as much as ever. +And as to the real, hand-painted views of fruit-cake, and grapes +and apples on a red table-cloth, I am one of those that can't make +allowances for the fact that she only took two terms. I call to +mind one picture that Miss Alvalou Ashbaker made of her pap, old +"Coonrod" Ashbaker. The Lord knows he was a "humbly critter," but +he wasn't as "humbly" as she made him out to be, with his eyes +bulging out of his head as if he was choking on a fishbone. And, +instead of her dressing him up in his Sunday clothes, I wish I may +never see the back of my neck if that girl didn't paint him in a +red-and-black barred flannel shirt, with porcelain buttons on it! +And his hair looked as if the calf had been at it. Wouldn't you +think somebody would have told her? And that isn't all. She got +the premium! + +Neither am I prepared to pass judgment on the fancy penmanship +displayed by Professor Swope, framed elegantly in black walnut, and +gilt, depicting a bounding deer, all made out of hair-line, shaded +spirals, done with his facile pen. (No wonder a deer can jump so, +with all those springs inside him.) Professor Swope writes visiting +cards for you, wonderful birds done in flourishes and holding +ribbons in their bills. He puts your name on the ribbon place. +Neatest and tastiest thing you can imagine. I like to watch him do +it, but it makes me feel unhappy, somehow. I never was much of a +scribe, and it's too late for me to learn now. + +I don't feel so downcast when I examine the specimens of writing +done by the children of District No. 34. I can just see the young +ones working at home on these things, with their tongues stuck out +of one corner of their mouths. + + "Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day + Rome was not built in a day" + +and so on, bearing down hard on the downstroke of the curve in the +capital "R," and clubbing the end of the little "t." And in the +higher grades, they toil over "An Original Social Letter," +describing to an imaginary correspondent a visit to Crystal Lake, +or the Magnetic Springs. I can hear them mourn: "What shall I say +next?" and "Ma, make Effie play some place else, won't you? She +jist joggles the table like everything. Now, see what you done! +Now I got to write it all over again. No, I cain't 'scratch it out. +How'd it look to the County Fair all scratched out? Plague take +it all!" + +The same hands have done maps of North and South America, and +red-and-blue ink pictures of the circulation of the blood. It +does beat all how smart the young ones are nowadays. I could no +more draw off a picture of the circulation of the blood - get it +right, I mean - why, I wouldn't attempt it. + +I am kind of mixed up in my recollection of the hall right next to +the Fine Arts. You know it had two doors in each end. Sometimes +I can see the central space between the doors, roped off and devoted +to sewing-machines with persons demonstrating that they ran as light +as a feather, and how it was no trouble at all to tuck and gather, +and fell; to organs, which struck me with amaze, because by some +witchcraft (octave coupler, I think they called it) the man could +play on keys that he didn't touch, and pianos, whereon young ladies +were prevailed to perform "Silvery Waves" - that's a lovely piece, +I think, don't you? - and + + "Listen to the mocking-bird, TEE-die-eedle-DONG + Lisen to the mocking-bird, teedle-eedle-EE-dle DONG + The mocking-bird still singing oer her grave, + toomatooral-oo-cal-LEE!" + +And then again I can see that central, roped-off space given over +to reckless deviltry, sheer impudent, brazen-faced, bold, +discipline-defying er - er - wickedness. I had heard that people +did things like that, but this was the first time I had ever caught +a glimpse of such carryings-on in the broad open daylight, right +before everybody. I stood there and watched them for hours, +expecting every minute to see fire fall from heaven on them and +burn up every son and daughter of Belial. But it didn't. + +I seem to recollect that it was a hot day, and that, tucked away +where not a breath of air could get to them, were three fellows in +their shirtsleeves, one playing on an organ, one on a yellow +clarinet, and one on a fiddle. Every chance he could get, the +fiddler would say to the organist: "Gimme A, please," and saw away +trying to get into some sort of tune, but the catgut was never +twisted that would hold to pitch with the perspiration dribbling +down his fingers in little rills. The clarinet man looked as if +he wanted to cry, and he had to twitter his eyelids all the time to +keep the sweat from blinding him, and every once in a while, his +soggy reed would let go of a squawk that sounded like a scared +chicken. But the organ groaned on unrelentingly, and the tune +didn't matter so much as the rhythm which was kept up as regular +as a clock, whack! whack! whack! whack! And there were two or +three other fellows with badges on that went around shouting: +"Select your podners for the next quadrille! One more couple +wanted right over here!" + +Dancing. M-hm. + +The fiddler "called off" and chanted to the tune, with his mouth +on one side: "Sullootch podners! First couple forward and back. +Side couples the same. Doe see do-o-o-o. Al-lee-man LEFT! +Ballunce ALL! Sa-weeny the corners!" I don't know whether I get +the proper order of these commands or not, or whether my memory +serves me as to their effect, but it seems to me that at "Bal-lunce +ALL!" the ladies demurely teetered, first on one foot and then on +the other, like a frozen-toed rooster, while the gents fairly tore +themselves apart with grape-vine twists and fancy steps, and slapped +the dust out of the cracks in the floor. When it came to "SaWEENG +your podners!" the room billowed with flying skirts, and the ladies +squealed like anything. It made you a little dizzy to watch them +do "Graaan' right and left," and you could understand how those +folks felt - there were always one or two in each set - who had to +be hauled this way and that, not sure whether they were having a +good time or not, but hoping they were, their faces set in a sickly +grin, while their foreheads wrinkled into a puzzled: "How's that? +I didn't quite catch that last remark" expression. I don't know +if it affected you in the same way that it did me, but after I had +stood there for a time and watched those young men and women thus +wasting the precious moments that dropped like priceless pearls +into the ocean of Eternity, and were lost irrevocably, young, men +and women giving themselves up to present enjoyment without one +serious thought in their minds as to who was going to wash the +supper dishes, or what would happen if the house took fire while +they were away I say I do not know how the sight of such reckless +frivolity affected you, but I know that after so long a time my +face would get all cramped up from wearing a grin, and I'd have to +go out and look at the reapers and binders to rest myself so I +could come back and look some. There are two things that you +simply have to do at the County Fair, or you aren't right sure +you've been. One is to drink a glass of sweet cider just from +the press, (which, I may say in passing, is an over-rated luxury. +Cider has to be just the least bit "frisky" to be good. I don't +mean hard, but" frisky." You know). And the other is to buy a +whip, if it is only the, little toy, fifteen-cent kind. On the +next soap-box to the old fellow that comes every year to sell +pictorial Bibles and red, plush-covered albums, the old fellow in +the green slippers that talks as if he were just ready to drop off +to sleep - on the next soap-box to him is the man that sells the +whips. You can buy one for a dollar, two for a dollar, or four for +a dollar, but not one for fifty cents, or one for a quarter. Don't +ask me why, for I don't know. I am just stating the facts. It +can't be done, for I've seen it tried, and if you keep up the +attempt too long, the whip-man will lose all patience with your +unreasonableness, and tell you to go 'long about your business if +you've got any, and not bother the life and soul out of him, +because he won't sell anything but a dollar's worth of whips, and +that's all there is about it. + +He sells other things, handsaws, and pencils, and mouth-harps, +and two knives for a quarter, of such pure steel that he whittles +shavings off a wire nail with 'em, and is particular to hand you +the very identical knife he did it with. He has jewelry, though I +don't suppose you could cut a wire nail with it. You might, at +that. + +To him approaches a boy. + +"Got 'ny collar-buttons?" + +"Well, now, I'll just look and see. Here's a beautiful rolled-plate +gold watch-chain, with an elegant jewel charm. Lovely blue jewel." +He dangles the chain and its rich glass pendant, and it certainly +does look fine. "That'd cost you $2.50 at the store. How'd that +strike you ?" + +"Hpm. I want a collar-button." + +"Well, now, you hold on a minute. Lemme look again. Ah, here's a +package 'at orta have some in it. Yes, sir, here's four of 'em, +enough to last you a lifetime; front, back, and both sleeves, +the kind that flips and don't tear the buttonholes. Well, by +ginger! Now, how'd that git in here, I want to know? That gold +ring? Well, I don't care. It'll have to go with the collar-buttons. +Tell you what I'll do with you: I'll let you have this elegant solid +gold rolled-plate watch-chain and jewel, this elegant, solid gold +ring to git married with - Hay? How about it? - and these four +collar-buttons for - for - twenty-five cents, or a quarter of a +dollar." + +That boy never took that quarter out of his breeches pocket. It +just jumped out of itself. But I see that you are getting the +fidgets. You're hoping that I'll come to the horse-racing pretty +soon. You want to have it all brought back to you, the big, big +race-track which, as you remember it now, must have been about the +next size smaller than the earth's orbit around the sun. You want +me to tell about the old farmer with the bunch of timothy whiskers +under his chin that gets his old jingling wagon on the track just +before a heat is to be trotted, and all the people yell at him: +"Take him out!" You want me to tell how the trotters looked walking +around in their dusters, with the eye-holes bound with red braid, +and how the drivers of the sulkies sat with the tails of their +horses tucked under one leg. Well, I'm not going to do anything of +the kind, and if you don't like it, you can go to the box-office +and demand your money back. I hope you'll get it. First place, +I don't know anything about racing, and consequently I don't believe +it's a good thing for the country. All I know is, that some horses +can go faster than others, but which are the fastest ones I can't +tell by the looks, though I have tried several times . . . . I did +not walk back. I bought a round-trip ticket. They will tell you +that these events at the County Fair tend to improve the breed of +horses. So they do - of fast horses. But the fast horses are no +good. They can't any of them go as fast as a nickel trolley-car +when it gets out where there aren't any houses. And they not only +are no good; they're a positive harm. You know and I know that just +as soon as a man gets cracked after fast horses, it's good-by John +with him. + +In the next place, I wouldn't mind it if it was only interesting to +me. But it isn't. It bores me to death. You sit there and sit +there trying to keep awake while the drivers jockey and jockey, +scheming to get the advantage of the other fellow, and the bell +rings so many times for them to come back after you think: "They're +off this time, sure," that you get sick of hearing it. And when +they do get away, why, who can tell which horse is in the lead? On +the far side of the track they don't appear to do anything but poke +along, and once in a while some fool horse will "break" and that's +annoying. And then when they come into the stretch, the other folks +that see you with the field-glasses, keep nudging you and asking: +"Who 's ahead, mister? Hay? Who's ahead?" And it's ruinous to +the voice to yell: "Go it! Go it! Go IT, ye devil, you!" with +your throat all clenched that way and your face as red as a +turkey-gobbler's. And that second when they are going under the +wire, and the horse you rather like is about a nose behind the other +one that you despise - Oh, tedious, very tedious. Ho hum, Harry! +If I wasn't engaged, I wouldn't marry. Did you think to put a +saucer of milk out for the kitty before you locked up the house? + +No. Horse-racing bores me to death, and as I am one of the charter +members of the Anti-Other-Folks-Enjoyment Society, organized to +stop people from amusing themselves in ways that we don't care for, +you can readily see that it is a matter of principle with me to +ignore horseracing, and not to give it so much encouragement as +would come from mentioning it. + +If you're so interested in improving the breed of horses by +competitive contests, what 's the matter with that one where the +prize is $5 for the team that can haul the heaviest load on a +stoneboat, straight pulling? Pile on enough stones to build a +house, pretty near, and the owner of the team, a young fellow with +a face like Keats, goes "Ck! Ck! Ck! Geet . . . ep . . . thah +BILL! Geet ep, Doll-ay!" and cracks his whip, and kisses with his +mouth, and the horses dance and tug, and jump around and strain +till the stone-boat slides on the grass, and then men climb on +until the load gets so heavy that the team can't budge it. Then +another team tries, and so on, the competitors jawing and jowering +at each other with: "Ah, that ain't fair! That ain't fair! They +started it sideways." + +"That don't make no difference." + +"Yes, it does, too, make a difference. Straight ahead four inches. +that's the rule." + +"Well, didn't they go straight ahead four inches? What's a matter +with ye?" + +"I'll darn soon show ye what's the matter with me, you come any o' +your shenanigan around here." + +" Mighty ready to accuse other folks o' shenannigan, ain't ye? For +half a cent I'd paste you in the moot." + +"Now, boys! Now boys! None o' that." + +Lots more excitement than a horse-race. Lots more improving to +the mind, and beneficial to the country. + +And if you hanker after the human element of skill, what's the +matter with the contest where the women see who can hitch up a +horse the quickest? Didn't you have your favorite picked out from +the start? I did. She was about thirteen years old, dressed in +an organdie, and I think she had light blue ribbons flying from +her hat, light blue or pink, I forget which. Her pa helped her +unharness, and you could tell by the way he look-at her that he +thought she was about the smartest young one for her age in her +neighborhood. (You ought to hear her play "General Grant's +Grand March" on the organ he bought for her, a fine organ with +twenty-four stops and two full sets of reeds, and a mirror in the +top, and places to set bouquets and all.) There was a woman in +the contest that seemed, by her actions, to think that the others +were just wasting their time competing with her, but when they got +the word "Go!" (Old Nate Wells was the judge; he sold out the +livery-stable business to Charley, you recollect) her horse backed +in wrong, and she got the harness all twisty-ways, and everything +went bewitched. And wasn't she provoked, though? Served her right, +I say. A little woman beside her was the first to jump into her +buggy, and drive off with a strong inhalation of breath, and that +nipping together of the lips that says: "A-a-ah! I tell ye!" The +little girl that we picked out was hopping around like a scared +cockroach, and her pa seemed to be saying: "Now, keep cool! +Keep cool! Don't get flustered," but when another woman drove +off, I know she almost cried, she felt so bad. But she was third, +and when she and her pa drove around the ring, the people clapped +her lots more than the other two. I guess they must have picked +her for a favorite the same as you and I did. Bless her heart! +I hope she got a good man when she grew up. + +Around back of the Old Settlers' Cabin, where they have the relics, +the spinning-wheel, the flax-hackle, and the bunch of dusty tow +that nobody knows how to spin in these degenerate days; the old +flint-lock rifle, and the powder-horn; the tinder-box, and the blue +plate, "more'n a hundred years old;" the dog-irons, tongs, poker, +and turkey-wing of an ancient fireplace - around back of the Old +Settlers' Cabin all the early part of the day a bunch of dirty +canvas has been dangling from a rope stretched between two trees. +It was fenced off from the curious, but after dinner a stranger in +fringy trousers and a black singlet went around picking out big, +strong, adventurous young fellows to stand about the wooden ring +fastened to the bottom of the bunch of canvas, which went over the +smoke-pipe of a sort of underground furnace in which a roaring fire +had been built. As the hot air filled the great bag, it was the +task of these helpers to shake out the wrinkles and to hold it down. +Older and wiser ones forbade their young ones to go near it. +Supposing it should explode; what then? But we have always wanted +to fly away up into the air, and what did we come to the Fair for, +if not for excitement? The balloon swells out amazingly fast, and +when the guy-ropes are loosened and drop to the ground, the +elephantine bag clumsily lunges this way and that, causing shrill +squeals from those who fear to be whelmed in it. The man in the +singlet tosses kerosene into the furnace from a tin cup, and you +can see the tall flames leap upward from the flue into the balloon. +It grows tight as a drum. + +"Watch your horses!" he calls out. There is a pause . . . . "Let +go all!" The mighty shape shoots up twenty feet or so, and the man +in the singlet darts to the corner to cut a lone detaining rope. As +he runs he sheds his fringy trousers. + +"Good-by, everybody!" he cries out, and the sinister possibilities +in that phrase are overlooked in the wonder at seeing him lurch +upward through the air, all glorious in black tights and yellow +breech-clout. Up and up he soars above the tree-tops, and the +wind gently wafts him along, a pendant to a dusky globe hanging +in the sky. He is just a speck now swaying to and fro. The globe +plunges upward; the pendant drops like a shot. There is a rustling +sound. It is the intake of the breath of horror from ten thousand +pairs of lungs. Look! Look! The edges of the parachute ruffle, +and then it blossoms out like an opening flower. It bounces on the +air a little, and rocking gently sinks like thistle-down behind the +woods. + +It is all over. The Fair is over. Let's go home. Isn't it wonderful +though, what men can do? You'll see; they'll be flying like birds, +one of these days. That's what we little boys think, but we +overhear old Nate Wells say to Tom Slaymaker, as we pass them: "Well, +I d' know. I d' know 's these here b'loon ascensions is worth the +money they cost the 'Sociation. I seen so many of 'em, they don't +interest me nummore. 'Less, o' course, sumpun should happen to the +feller." + + + + +CHRISTMAS BACK HOME + + +It was the time of year when the store windows are mighty +interesting. Plotner's bakery, that away, 'way back in the +summer-time, was an ice-cream saloon, showed a plaster man in +the window, with long, white whiskers, in top boots and a brown +coat and peaked hat, all trimmed with fur, and carrying a little +pinetree with arsenical foliage. Over his head dangled a thicket +of canes hanging by their crooks from a twine string stretched +across. They were made of candy striped spirally in red and white. +There were candy men and women in the window, and chocolate mice +with red eyes, and a big cake, all over frosting, with a candy +preacher on it marrying a candy man and lady. The little children +stood outside, with their joggerfies, and arithmetics, and +spellers, and slates bound in red flannel under their arms, and +swallowed hard as they looked. Whenever anybody went in for a +penny's worth of yeast and opened the door, that had a bell +fastened to it so that Mrs. Plotner could hear in the back room, +and come to wait on the customer, the smell of wintergreen and +peppermint and lemonsticks and hot taffy gushed out so strong that +they couldn't swallow fast enough, but stood there choking and +dribbling at the mouth. + +Brown's shoe store exhibited green velvet slippers with deers' +heads on them, and Galbraith's windows were hung with fancy +dressgoods, and handkerchiefs with dogs' heads in the corners; +but, next to Plotner's, Case's drug-and-book store was the nicest. +When you first went in, it smelled of cough candy and orris root, +but pretty soon you could notice the smell of drums and new sleds, +and about the last smell, (sort of down at the bottom of things) +was the smell of new books, the fish-glue on the binding, and the +muslin covers, and the printer's ink, and that is a smell that if +it ever gets a good hold of you, never lets go. There were the +"Rollo" books, and the "Little Prudy" books, and "Minnie and Her +Pets," and the "Elm Island" series, and the "Arabian Nights," with +colored pictures, and There were skates all curled up at the toes, +and balls of red and black leather in alternate quarters, and China +mugs, with "Love the Giver," and "For a Good Boy" in gilt letters +on them. Kind of Dutch letters they were. And there were dolls +with black, shiny hair, and red cheeks, and blue eyes, with +perfectly arched eyebrows. They had on black shoes and white +stockings, with pink garters, and they almost always toed in a +little. They looked so cold in the window with nothing but a +"shimmy" on,, and fairly ached to be dressed, and nursed, and sung +to. The little girls outside the window felt an emptiness in the +hollow of their left arms as they gazed. There was one big doll in +the middle all dressed up. It had real hair that you could comb, +and it was wax. Pure wax! Yes, sir. And it could open and shut +its eyes, and if you squeezed its stomach it would cry, of course, +not like a real baby, but more like one of those ducks that stand +on a sort of bellows thing. Though they all "chose" that doll and +hoped for miracles, none of them really expected to find it in her +stocking sixteen days later. (They kept count of the days.) Maybe +Bell Brown might get it; her pa bought her lots of things. She had +parlor skates and a parrot, only her ma wouldn't let her skate in +the parlor, it tore up the carpet so, and the parrot bit her finger +like anything. + +The little boys kicked their copper-toed boots to keep warm and +quarreled about which one chose the train of cars first, and then +began to quarrel over an army of soldiers. + +"I choose them!" + +"A-aw! You choosed the ingine and the cars." + +"Dung care. I choose everything in this whole window." + +"A-aw! That ain't fair!" + +In the midst of the wrangle somebody finds out that Johnny Pym has +a piece of red glass, and then they begin fighting for turns looking +through it at the snow and the court-house. But not for long. They +fall to bragging about what they are going to get for Christmas. +Eddie Cameron was pretty sure he 'd get a spy-glass. He asked his +pa, and his pa said "Mebby. He'd see about it." Then, just in time, +they looked up and saw old man Nicholson coming along with his shawl +pinned around him. They ran to the other side of the street because +he stops little boys, and pats them on the head, and asks them if +they have found the Savior. It makes some boys cry when he asks them +that. + +The Rowan twins - Alfaretta and Luanna May - are working a pair of +slippers for their pa, one apiece, because it is such slow work. +Along about suppertime they make Elmer Lonnie stay outside and watch +for his coming, and he has to say : "Hello, pa!" very loud, and romp +with him outside the gate so as to give the twins time to gather up +the colored zephyrs and things, and hide them in the lower bureau +drawer in the spare bedroom. At such a time their mother finds an +errand that takes her into the parlor so that she can see that they +do not, by any chance, look into the middle drawer in the farther +left-hand corner, under the pillow-slips. + +One night, just at supper-time, Elmer Lonnie said: "Hello, pa!" +and then they heard pa whispering and Elmer Lonnie came in looking +very solemn - or trying to - and said: "Ma, Miss Waldo wants to know +if you won't please step over there a minute." + +"Did she say what for? Because I'm right in the midst of getting +supper. I look for your pa any minute now, and I don't want to +keep him waiting." + +"No 'm, she didn't say what for. She jist said: 'Ast yer ma won't +she please an' step over here a minute.' I wouldn't put anythin' on. +'T ain't cold. You needn't stay long, only till . . . I guess she's +in some of a hurry." + +"Well, if Harriet Waldo thinks 'at I haven't anythin' better to do 'n +trot around after her at her beck an' . . . . All right, I'll come." + +The twins got their slippers hid, and Mrs. Rowan threw her shawl over +her head, and went next door to take Mrs. Waldo completely by +surprise. The good woman immediately invented an intricate problem +in crochet work demanding instant solution. Mr. Rowan had brought +home a crayon enlargement of a daguerreotype of Ma, taken before she +was married, when they wore their hair combed down over their ears, +and wide lace collars fastened with a big cameo pin, and puffed +sleeves with the armholes nearly at the elbows. They wore lace mitts +then, too. The twins thought it looked so funny, but Pa said: "It was +all the style in them days. Laws! I mind the first time I took her +home from singin' school. . . . Tell you where less hide it. In +between the straw tick, and the feather tick." And Luanna May said: +"What if company should come?" Elmer Lonnie ran over to Mrs. Waldo's +to tell Ma that Pa had come home, and wanted his supper right quick, +because he had to get back to the store, there was so much trade in +the evenings now. + +"I declare, Emmeline Rowan, you're gettin' to be a reg'lar gadabout," +said Mr. Rowan, very savagely. "Gad, gad, gad, from mornin' till +night. Ain't they time in daylight fer you an' Hat Waldo to talk +about your neighbors 'at you can't stay home long enough to git me +my supper?" + +He winked at the twins so funny that Alfaretta, who always was +kind of flighty, made a little noise with her soft palate and tried +to pass it off for a cough. Luanna May poked her in the ribs with +her elbow, and Mrs. Rowan spoke up quite loud: "Why, Pa, how you go +on! I wasn't but a minute, an' you hardly ever come before halfpast. +And furthermore, mister, I want to know how I'm to keep this house +a-lookin' like anything an' you a-trackin' in snow like that. Just +look at you. I sh'd think you'd know enough to stomp your feet +before you come in. Luanna May, you come grind the coffee. Alfie, +run git your Pa his old slippers." That set both of them to +giggling, and Mrs. Rowan went out into the kitchen and began to +pound the beefsteak. + +"D' you think she sispicioned anythin'?" asked Mr. Rowan out of one +side of his mouth, and Elmer Lonnie said, "No, sir," and wondered +if his Pa "sispicioned anythin"' when Ma said, "Run git the old +slippers." + +Mr. Waldo always walked up with Mr. Rowan, and just about that time +his little Mary Ellen was climbing up into his lap and saying: "I +bet you can't guess what I'm a-goin' to buy you for a Christmas gift +with my pennies what I got saved up." + +"I'll just bet I can." + +"No, you can't. It's awful pretty - I mean, they're awful pretty. +Somepin you want, too." How could he guess with her fingering his +tarnished cuff buttons and looking down at them every minute or two? + +"Well, now, let me see. Is it a gold watch?" + +"Nope." + +"Aw, now! I jist set my heart on a gold watch and chain." + +"Well, but it'd cost more money 'n I got. Three or fifteen dollars, +mebby." + +"Well, let me see. Is it a shotgun?" + +"No, sir. Oh, you just can't guess it." + +"Is it a - a - Is it a horse and buggy?" + +"Aw, now, you're foolin'. No, it ain't a horse and buggy." + +"I know what it is. It's a dolly with real hair that you can comb, +and all dressed up in a blue dress. One that can shut its eyes +when it goes bye-bye." + +Little Mary Ellen looks at him very seriously a minute, and sighs, +and says: "No, it ain't that. But if it was, wouldn't you let me +play with it when you was to the store?" And he catches her up +in his arms and says: "You betchy! Now, I ain't goin' to guess any +more! I want to be surprised. You jump down an' run an' ask Ma +if supper ain't most ready. Tell her I'm as hungry as a hound pup." + +He hears her deliver the message, and also the word her mother sends +back: "Tell him to hold his horses. It 'll be ready in a minute." + +"It will, eh? Well, I can't wait a minute, an' I'm goin' to take a +hog-bite right out of YOU!" and he snarls and bites her right in +the middle of her stomach, and if there is anything more +ticklesome than that, it hasn't been heard of yet. + +After supper, little Eddie Allgire teases his brother D. to tell him +about Santa Claus. D. is cracking walnuts on a flat-iron held +between his knees. + +"Is they any Santy Claus, D.?" + +"W'y, cert, they is. Who says not?" + +"Bunty Rogers says they ain't no sech a person." + +"You tell Bunt Rogers that he's a-gittin' too big fer his britches, +an' first thing he knows, he'll whirl round an' see his naked nose. +Tell him I said so." + +"Well, is they any Santy Claus?" + +"W'y cert. Ain't I a-tellin' you? Laws! ain't you never seen him +yet?" + +"I seen that kind of a idol they got down in Plotner's winder." + +"Well, he looks jist like that, on'y he's alive." + +"Did you ever see him, D.?" + +"O-oh, well! Think I'm goin' to tell everything I know? Well, I +guess not." + +"Well, but did you now?" + +"M-well, that 'd be tellin'." + +"Aw, now, D., tell me." + +"Look out what you're doin'. Now see that. You pretty near made +me mash my thumb." + +"Aw, now, D., tell me. I think you might. I don't believe you +ever did." + +"Oh, you don't, hey? Well, if you had 'a saw what I saw. M-m! +Little round eyes an' red nose an' white whiskers, an' heard the +sleigh bells, an' oh, my! them reindeers! Cutest little things! +Stompin' their little feet" Here he stopped, and went on cracking +nuts. + +"Tell some more. Woncha, please? Ma, make D. tell me the rest +of it." + +Huck-uh! Dassant. 'T wouldn't be right. Like's not he won't put +anythin' in my stockin' now fer what I did tell." + +"How'll he know?" + +"How'll he know? Easy enough. He goes around all the houses +evenings now to see how the young ones act, an' if he finds they're +sassy, an' don't mind their Ma when she tells them to leave the +cat alone, an' if they whine: 'I don' want to go out an' cut the +kindlin'. Why cain't D. do it ?' then he puts potatoes an' lumps o' +coal in their stockin's. Oh, he'll be here, course o' the evenin'." + +"D' you s'pose he's round here now?" Eddie got a little closer to +his brother. + +"I wouldn't wonder. Yes, sir. There he goes now. Sure's you're +alive." + +"Where?" + +"Right over yan. Aw, you don't look. See? There he is. Aw! +you're too slow. Didn't you see him? Now the next time I tell you + - Look, look! There! He run right acrost the floor an' into the +closet. Plain 's day. didn't you see him? You saw him, mother?" + +Mrs. Allgire nodded her head. She was busy counting the stitches +in a nubia she was knitting for old Aunt Pashy, Roebuck. + +"W'y, you couldn't help but see him. didn't you take notice to his +white whiskers ?" + +"Ye-es," said the child, slowly, with the wide-open stare of +hypnosis. + +"Didn't you see the evergreen tree he carried?" + +"M-hm," said Eddie, the image taking shape in his mind's eye. + +"And his brown coat all trimmed with fur, an' his funny peaked hat? +An' his red nose? W'y, course you did." The boy nodded his head. +He was sure now. Yes. Faith was lost in sight. He believed. + +"I expect he's in the closet now. Go look." + +"No. You." He clung to D. + +"I can't. I got this flat-iron in my lap, an' wouldn't spill the +nut-shells all over the floor. You don't want me to, do you, Ma?" + +Mrs. Allgire shook her head. + +"Well, now," said D. "Anybody tell you they ain't sich a person +as Santy Claus, you kin jist stand 'em down 'at you know better, +'cause you seen him, didn't you?" + +Eddie nodded his head. Anyhow, what D. told him was "the Lord +said unto Moses," and now that he had the evidence of his own eyes + - Well, the next day he defied Bunt Rogers and all his works. To +tell the plain truth, Bunt wasn't too well grounded in his newly +cut infidelity. + + +In the public schools the children were no longer singing: + + "None knew thee but to love thee, thou dear one of my heart; + Oh, thy mem'ry is ever fresh and green. + The sweet buds may wither and fond hearts be broken, + Still I love thee, my darling, Daisy Deane." + +They turned over now to page 53, and there was a picture of Santa +Claus just as in Plotner's window, except that he had a pack on +his back and one leg in the chimney. This is what they sang: + + "Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go? + Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn't go ? + Up on the house-top, click, click, click + Down through the chimney with good St. Nick." + +Miss Munsell, who taught the D primary, traded rooms with Miss +Crutcher, who taught the "a-b Abs." Miss Munsell was a big fat +lady, and she smiled so that the dimples came in both cheeks and +her double Chin was doubter than ever, when she told the children +what a dear, nice teacher Miss Crutcher was, and how fond she was +of them, and wouldn't they like to make a Christmas present to +their dear, kind teacher? They all said "Yes, mam." Well, now, +the way to do would be for each child to bring money (if Miss +Munsell had smiled at a bird in the tree as she did then, it would +have had to come right down and perch in her hand), just as much +money as ever they could, and all must bring something, because it +would make Miss Crutcher feel so bad to think that there was one +little boy or one little girl that didn't love her enough to give her +a Christmas present. And if everybody brought a dime or maybe a +quarter, they could get her such a nice present. If their papas +wouldn't let them have that much money, why surely they would +let them have a penny, wouldn't they, children? And the children +said: "Yes, mam." + +"And now all that love their dear, kind teacher, raise their hands. +Why, there's a little girl over that hasn't her hand up! That's +right, dear, put it up, bless your little heart! Now, we mustn't +say a word to Miss Crutcher, must we? No. And that will be our +secret, won't it? And all be sure to have your money ready by +to-morrow. Now, I wonder if you can be just as still as little +mice. I'm going to give this little girl a pin to drop and see if +I can hear it out in the hall." + +Then she tiptoed down the hall clear to her own room and Mary Ellen +Waldo let the pin drop, and Miss Mussell didn't come back to say +whether she heard the pin drop or not. The children sat in +breathless silence. Selma Morgenroth knocked her slate off and +bit her lip with mortification while the others looked at her as +much as to say: "Oh, my! ain't you 'shamed ?" Then Miss Crutchet +came back and smiled at the children, and they smiled back at her +because they knew something she didn't know and couldn't guess at +all. It was a secret. + +The next morning Miss Crutchet traded rooms again, and the little +children gave Miss Mussell their money, and she counted it, and it +came to $2.84. The next day she came again because there were three +that hadn't their money, so there was $2.88 at last. Miss Mussell +had three little girls go with her after school to pick out the +present. They chose a silver-plated pickle caster, which is exactly +what girls of seven will choose, and, do you know, it came exactly +to $2.88? + +Then, on the last day of school, Miss Mussell came in, and, with +the three little girls standing on the platform and following every +move with their eyes as a dog watches his master, she gave the +caster to Miss Crutchet and Miss Crutchet cried, she was so +surprised. They were tears of joy, she said. After that, she went +into Miss Munsell's room, and three little girls in there gave Miss +Mussell a copy of Tennyson's poems that cost exactly $2.53, which +was what Miss Crutchet had collected, and Miss Mussell cried because +she was so surprised. How they could guess that she wanted a copy +of Tennyson's poems, she couldn't think, but she would always keep +the book and prize it because her dear pupils had given it to her. +And just as Selma Morgenroth called out to the monitor, Charley +Freer, who sat in Miss Crutchers chair, while she was absent: +"Teacher! Make Miky Ryan he should ka-vit a-pullin' at my hair yet!" +and the school was laughing because she called Charley Freer +"teacher," in came Miss Crutchet as cross as anything, and boxed +Miky Ryan's ears and shook Selma Morgenroth for making so much noise. +They didn't give anything, though they promised they would. + +It was not alone in the day schools that there were extra +preparations. The Sunday-schools were getting ready, too, and +when Janey Pettit came home and told her Pa how big her class was, +he started to say something, but her Ma shook her head at him and +he looked very serious and seemed to be trying hard not to smile. +He was very much interested, though, when she told him that Iky +Morgenroth, whose father kept the One-Price Clothing House down on +Main Street, had joined, and how he didn't know enough to take his +hat off when he came into church. Patsy Gubbins and Miky Ryan and +six boys from the Baptist Sunday-School had joined, too, and they +all went into Miss Sarepta Downey's class, so that she had two whole +pews full to teach, and they acted just awful. The infant class +was crowded, and there was one little boy that grabbed for the +collection when it was passed in front of him, and got a whole +handful and wouldn't give it up, and they had to twist the money +out of his fist, and he screamed and "hollered" like he was being +killed. And coming home, Sophy Perkins, who goes to the Baptist +Church, told her that there wasn't going to be any Christmas tree +at their Sabbath-school. She said that there wasn't hardly anybody +out. The teachers just sat round and finally went into the pastor's +Bible class. Mr. Pettit said he was surprised to hear it. It +couldn't have been the weather that kept them away, could it? +Janey said she didn't know. Then he asked her what they were going +to sing for Christmas, and she began on "We three kings of Orient +are," and broke off to ask him what "Orient" meant, and he told her +that Orient was out on the Sunbury pike, about three miles this side +of Olive Green, and her Ma said: "Lester Pettit, I wish't you'd +ever grow up and learn how to behave yourself. Why, honey, it means +the East. The three wise men came from the East, don't you mind?" + +At the Centre Street M. E. Church, where Janey Pettit went to +Sunday-school, there were big doings. Little Lycurgus Emerson, +whose mother sent him down to Littell's in a hurry for two pounds +of brown sugar, and who had already been an hour and a half getting +past Plotner's and Case's, heard Brother Littell and Abel Horn +talking over what they had decided at the "fishery meetin'." (By +the time Curg got so that he shaved, he knew that "officiary" was +the right way to say it, just as "certificate" is the right way to +say "stiffcut.") There was going to be a Christmas tree clear up +to the ceiling, all stuck full of candles and strung with pop-corn, +and a chimney for Santa Claus to climb down and give out the +presents and call out the names on them. Every child in the +Sunday-school was to get a bag of candy and an orange, and there +were going to be "exercises." Curg thought it would be kind of +funny to go through gymnastics, but, just then, he saw Uncle Billy +Nicholson come in, and he hid. He didn't want to be patted on the +head and - asked things. + +Uncle Billy had his mouth all puckered up, and his eyebrows looked +more like tooth-brushes than ever. He put down the list of groceries +that Aunt Libby had written out for him, because he couldn't remember +things very well, and commenced to lay down the law. + +"Such carryin's on in the house o' God!" he snorted. "Why the very +idy! Talk about them Pharisees an' Sadducees a-makin' the temple a +den o' thieves! W'y, you're a-turnin' it into a theayter with your +play-actin' tomfoolery! They'll be no blessin' on it, now you mark." + +"Aunt Libby say whether she wanted stoned raisins?" asked Brother +Littell, who was copying off the list on the order book. + +"I disremember, but you better send up the reg'lar raisins. Gittin' +too many newfangled contraptions these days. They're a-callin' it +a theayter right now, the Babtists is. What you astin' fer your +eatin' apples? Whew! My souls alive! I don't wonder you grocery +storekeepers git rich in a hurry. No, I guess you needn't send 'ny +up. Taste too strong o' money. Don't have no good apples now +no more anyways. All so dried up and pethy. An' what is it but a +theayter, I'd like to know? Weth your lectures about the Ar'tic +regions an' your mum-socials, an' all like that, chargin' money fer +to git in the meetin' house. I tell you what it is, Brother Littell, +the women folks 'd take the money they fritter away on ribbons and +artificial flowers an' gold an'costly apparel, which I have saw +them turned away from the love-feast fer wearin', an' 'ud give it +in fer quarterage an' he'p support the preachin' of the Word, they +wouldn't need to be no shows in the meetin' house an' they 'd be +more expeerimental religion." + +Abel Horn (Abel led the singing in meeting, and had a loud bass +voice; he always began before everybody and ended after everybody) +was standing behind Uncle Billy, and Lycurgus could see him with +his head juked forward and his eyebrows up and his mouth wide open +in silent laughter, very disconcerting to Brother Littell, who +didn't want to anger Uncle Billy, and maybe lose his trade by +grinning in his face. + +"An' now you got to go an' put up a Christmas tree right in the +altar," stormed Uncle Billy, "an' dike it all out with pop-corn an' +candles. You're gittin' as bad 's the Catholics, every bit. Worse, +I say, becuz they never had the Gospel light, an' is jist led round +by the priest an' have to pay to git their sins forgive. But you, +you're a-walkin' right smack dab into it, weth your eyes open, +teachin' fer Gospel the inventions o' men." + +"W'y what, Uncle Billy?" + +"W'y, this here Santy Claus a-climbin' down a chimley an' a-cuttin' +up didoes fer to make them little ones think they is a reel Santy +Claus 'cuz they seen him to the meetin' house. Poot soon when they +git a little older 'n' they find out how you been afoolin' 'em about +Santy Claus, they'll wonder if what you been a-tellin' 'em about the +Good Man ain't off o' the same bolt o' goods, an' another one o' +them cunningly devised fables. Think they'll come any blessin' on +tellin' a lie? An' a-actin' it out? No, sir. No, sir. Ain't ary +good thing to a lie, no way you kin fix it. How kin they be? Who's +the father of lies? W'y the Old Scratch! That's who. An' here you +go a - " + +The old man was so wroth that he couldn't finish and turned and +stamped out, slamming the door after him. + +Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before +he mildly observed "Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like." + +"Righteous mad, I s'pose," said Abel Horn. + +"You waited on yit, bub?" asked Brother Littell. "I betchy he's +a-thinkin' right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an' +go to the Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb +at the fur end o' town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there." + +"Pity him an' a few more of 'em up in the Amen corner wouldn't +go," said Abel Horn. "Mind the time we sung, 'There is a Stream?' +You know they's a solo in it fer the soprano. Well, 't is kind o' +operatic an' skallyhootin' up an' down the scale. I give the solo +to Tilly Wilkerson an' if that old skeezicks didn't beller right +out in the middle of it: 'It's a disgrace tud Divine service!' He +did. You could 'a' heard him clear to the court-house. My! I +thought I'd go up. Tilly, she was kind o' scared an' trimbly, but +she stuck to it like a major. Said afterwards she'd 'a' finished +that solo if it was the last act she ever done." + +"Who's a-goin' to be Santy Claus?" asked Brother Littell, with +cheerful irrevelance. + +"The committee thought that had better be kept a secret," replied +Abel, with as much dignity as his four feet nine would admit of. + +"Ort to be somebody kind o' heavy-set, ort n't it?" hinted the +grocer, giving a recognizable description of himself. + +"Well, I don' know 'bout that," contested Abel. "Git somebody +kind o' spry an' he could pad out weth a pilfer. A pussy man 'd +find it rather onhandy comin' down that chimbly an' hoppin' hether +an' yan takin' things off o' the tree. Need somebody with a good +strong voice, too, to call off the names . . . . Woosh's you'd git +them things up to the house soon 's you kin, Otho. Ma's in a hurry +fer 'em." + +"Betchy two cents," said Brother Littell to his clerk, Clarence +Bowersox, "'at Abel Horn 'll be Santy Claus." + +"Git out!" doubted Clarence. + +"'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himself +in an' be the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more call +to be Santy Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-up +runt, bald 's a apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inch +tell I was sixteen 'n' then I shot up like a weed.' . . . Bub, you +tell yer Ma if she wants a turkey fer Christmas she better be +gittin' her order in right quick." + +Only six more days till Christmas now - only five - only four - +only three - only two - Christmas Eve. One day more of holding +in such swelling secrets, and some of the young folks would have +popped right wide open. Families gather about the Franklin stove, +Pa and Ma gaping and rubbing their eyes - saying, "Oh, hum!" and +making out that they are just plumb perishing for the lack of sleep. +But the children cannot take the hint. They don't want to go to +bed. The imminence of a great event nerves them in their hopeless +fight against the hosts of Nod. They sit and stare with bulging +eyes at the red coals and dancing flames, spurting out here and +there like tiny sabers. + +The mystic hour draws near. Sometime in the night will come the +jingle of silver bells, and the patter of tiny hoofs. Old Santa +will halloo: "Whoa!" and come sliding down the chimney. The +drowsing heads, fuddled with weariness, wrestle clumsily with +the problem, "How is he to get through the stove without burning +himself?" Reason falters and Faith triumphs. It would be done +somehow, and then the reindeer would fly to the next house, and +the next, and so on, and so on. The mystic hour draws near. Like +a tidal wave it rolls around the world, foaming at its crest in a +golden spray of gifts and love. The mystic hour. + +"Oh, just a little longer, just a little longer." + +"No, no. You cain't hardly prop your eyes open now. Come now. +Get to bed. Now, Elmer Lonnie; now, Mary Ellen; now, Janey; now, +Eddie; now, Lycurgus. Don't be naughty at the last minute and say, +'I don't want to,' or else Santa Claus won't come a-near. No, sir." + +After the last drink of water and the last "Now I lay me," a long +pause . . . . Then from the spare bedroom the loud rustling of +stiff paper, the snap of broken, string, and whispers of, "Won't +her eyes stick out when she sees that!" and, "He's been just +fretting for a sled; I'm so glad it was so 't we could get it for +him," and, "I s'pose we ort n't to spent so much, but seems like +with such nice young ones 's we've got 't ain't no more 'n right +we should do for 'em all we can afford, 'n' mebby a little more. +Janey 's ' 'stiffcut' said she was 100 in everything, deportment +an' all." + +At one house something white slips down the staircase to where a +good view can be had through the half-open parlor door. It pauses +when a step cracks loudly in the stillness. The parlor door +is slammed to. + +"D' you think he saw?" + +"I don't know. I'm afraid so. Little tyke!" + +Something white creeps back and crawls into bed. A heart thumps +violently under the covers, and two big, round eyes stare up at +the dark ceiling. Somebody has eaten of the fruit of the Tree of +Knowledge, and the gates of Eden have shut behind him forever. + +He does not sense that now; he is glad in the exulting consciousness +that he is "a little kid" no longer. Pretty soon he'll be a man, +and then. . . . and then. . . . Oh, what grand things are to happen +then! + +The mutual gifts are brought out with many a shamefaced: "It looks +awful little, but 't was the best I could do for the money. You +see I spent more on the children than I lotted to," and many a +cheerful fib of: "Why, that's exactly what I've been wishing for." +Some poor fools, that have never learned and never will learn that +the truest word ever spoken is: "It is more blessed to give than to +receive," make their husbands a present of a parlor lamp or a pair +of lace curtains, and their wives a present of a sack of flour, or +enough muslin to make half a dozen shirts. And there are deeper +depths. There are such words as: "What possessed you to buy me that +old thing? Well, I won't have it! Now!" The stove-door is slammed +open and the gift crammed in upon the coals, and two people sit +there with lips puffed out, chests heaving and hearts burning with +hate. + +It is the truth, but cover it up. Cover it up. Turn away the head. +On this Holy Night of Illusion let us forget the truth for once. +There are three hundred and sixty-four other nights in which to +consider the eternal verities. On this one, let us be as little +children. "Let us now go even to Bethlehem and see this thing +which is come to pass." + +The mystic hour draws nigh. The lights go out, one by one. The +watchman at the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking +count the strokes that tremble in the frosty air. Eleven o'clock. +Father and mother sit silent by the fire. The tree in the corner +of the room flashes its tinselry in the dying light. A cinder +tinkles on the hearth. Their thoughts are one. "He would be nine +years old, if he had lived," murmurs the mother. Their hands grope +for each other, meet and clasp. Something aches in their throats. +The red coals swell and blur into a formless mass. + +The mystic hour is come. The town sleeps. The moon rides high in +the clear heavens. The wind sighs in the fir trees. Faint and +far-off across the centuries sounds the chant of angels. + +The hour is come. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Back Home, by Eugene Wood + diff --git a/old/bckhm10.zip b/old/bckhm10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..99cae64 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/bckhm10.zip |