.dt Minerva's Manoeuvres, by Charles Battell Loomis-A Project Gutenberg eBook
// max line length
.ll 72
// default indentation for .nf l blocks
.nr nfl 1
// Page numbering
.pn off // turn off visible page numbers
// .pn link // turn on page number links
// paragraph formatting, indent paragraphs by 1.0 em.
.nr psi 1.0em
.pi
.de .font85 {font-size: 85%}
// (drop cap size) register controls the size of the drop cap letter.
.nr dcs 280%
// Transcriber’s notes in a nice box.
.de .tnbox {background-color:#E3E4FA;border:1px solid silver;padding: 0.5em;margin:2em 10% 0 10%; }
// verse
.dm verse-start
.in +1
.sp 1
.fs 85%
.nf b
.dm-
.dm verse-end
.nf-
.fs 100%
.in -1
.sp 1
.dm-
// letter
.dm letter-start
.sp 1
.fs 85%
.in +4
.dm-
.dm letter-end
.in -4
.fs 100%
.sp 1
.dm-
// include a cover image in HTML only
.if h
.il fn=cover.jpg w=508px
.pb
.if-
.bn 001.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h1
MINERVA’S MANŒUVRES
.sp 4
.bn 002.png
.pn +1
.bn 003.png
.pn +1
.bn 004.png
.pn +1
.pb
.if h
.il fn=i004.jpg w=593px id=frontis
.ca
The balloon, Minerva, a shriek and a shout.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: The balloon, Minerva, a shriek and a shout.]
.sp 2
.if-
.pb
.bn 005.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.nf c
Minerva’s Manœuvres
The Cheerful Facts of a “Return to Nature”
By
CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS
Author of “Cheerful Americans,”
Etc.
Illustrated by Frederic R. Gruger
.nf-
.if h
.il fn=publogo.jpg w=100px
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.nf c
[Illustration]
.nf-
.sp 2
.if-
.sp 4
.nf c
New York
A. S. Barnes & Company
1905
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 006.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
Copyright, 1905 by
A. S. BARNES & CO.
Published August, 1905
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 007.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
To
J. B.
.nf-
.sp 4
.bn 008.png
.pn +1
.bn 009.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2
PREFACE.
.sp 2
When a play makes a tremendous hit the
author is called before the curtain and after
bowing and allowing his heart (and his head)
to swell more and more, he generously points
to the actors and actresses who are grouped
around him as much as to say, “They did
it.”
And then the audience goes wild at such
unselfishness and cries of “Speech, speech!”
rend the air and the author has arrived at
the happiest moment of his life. He feels
that all creation was evolved just for this
supreme moment and his knees shake and (in
a voice surcharged with emotion) he says
things that do not read well in print, but
which rouse the house to greater enthusiasm,
and he wishes that William Shakespeare
could have lived to see this night, and goes
home to dream happy dreams.
Sometimes he can’t contain his speech any
longer than the end of the third act, and with
.bn 010.png
.pn +1
comparatively little applause, and, it may be,
only one solitary call of “Author” (from
his devoted brother in the front row) he
rushes to the footlights and delivers himself
of his pent up eloquence. And then perhaps
the critics jump on the piece and kill it, and
the next day he wishes he hadn’t spoken.
But no dramatic author would think of
going out before the gray asbestos curtain
had been raised on the overture to say to the
cold, sternly critical audience that this was
the proudest moment of his life and that he
hoped the actors would see their duty and
do it. That would be considered assurance.
And yet we writers of—novels—do rush
on before the first chapter has been reached
and sometimes we tell how it is going to end
and sometimes we give the names of the
authorities from whom we lifted our central
idea, and sometimes we strike an attitude of
timid uncertainty and bespeak the indulgence
of the reader—but always without response
of any kind.
Not a hand, not a cry of “Author”: nothing
but the gray asbestos curtain of silence.
Of course there are cases when a book runs
.bn 011.png
.pn +1
into the “six best selling class” and people
get into the habit of buying it and the habit
is not broken for weeks and weeks; and then,
after the twentieth edition is exhausted the
author comes out with a “Preface to the
twenty-first edition,” and as he smells the
fragrance of the bouquets that the critics
have handsomely handed out and hears the
plaudits of those who have thronged to read
him he says brokenly, “I thank you. You
have raised me from a point where I was living
on my brother in the front row to a position
where I can take my pick of motor cars”
(Not automobiles, mind you), “and while I
never thought of money while I was writing
the book, now I both think and have a good
deal of it. Thank you! Thank you!”
But I, (rather than not come out at all)
am going to squeeze before the gray asbestos
and say “Thank you. Critics, readers; gentle
and otherwise, I thank you from the bottom
of my heart.
“If there is anything good in this book,
believe me it is the characters who are responsible
for it.
“And let me take this occasion to say that
.bn 012.png
.pn +1
the book would never have been written if I
had not been encouraged by one who has the
faculty of making a man do his best. She
is here to-night, but I am not permitted to
mention her.
“I have had great fun writing ‘Minerva’s
Manœuvres,’ and this is really the proudest
moment of my life. (Cheers.) My
heroine, Minerva, is a good girl and I can
give her a fine character if she should ever
seek a place—in your hearts.
“Thank you! Thank you!”
(Curtain goes up.)
.rj
C. B. L.
.sp 4
.bn 013.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2
CONTENTS.
.sp 2
.dv class=font85
.ta r:8 l:30 r:5
CHAPTER. | | PAGE.
I. | A Coerced Cook | #1:ch01#
II. | Minerva Studies Nature | #14:ch02#
III. | An East Wind | #27:ch03#
IV. | A Friendly Burglar | #40:ch04#
V. | The Constable Calls | #58:ch05#
VI. | Miss Pussy Tries Fly Paper | #73:ch06#
VII. | Minerva’s Pastoral | #81:ch07#
VIII. | The ’Cordeen Comes | #91:ch08#
IX. | A Naked Scutterer | #108:ch09#
X. | We Plan a Concert | #123:ch10#
XI. | The Horse in the Kitchen | #134:ch11#
XII. | “The Simple Life” | #140:ch12#
XIII. | An Unsuccessful Fiasco | #158:ch13#
XIV. | The-Fourth-of-July | #173:ch14#
XV. | Minerva’s Nature Study | #194:ch15#
XVI. | When the Law is On | #206:ch16#
XVII. | The Story of a Pipe | #217:ch17#
XVIII. | We Find a Piano | #225:ch18#
XIX. | Th’ Ould Scut | #240:ch19#
XX. | A Musical Tramp | #252:ch20#
XXI. | We Make Hay | #258:ch21#
XXII. | “Ding Dong Bell” | #266:ch22#
XXIII. | Eligible | #276:ch23#
XXIV. | Pat Casey Calls | #292:ch24#
XXV. | A Continuous Week End | #299:ch25#
XXVI. | We Invite More Guests | #310:ch26#
XXVII. | A Hot Night | #319:ch27#
XXVIII. | “Tramp’s Rest” | #333:ch28#
XXIX. | Minerva and the Snake | #339:ch29#
XXX. | A Horsehead Perch | #350:ch30#
XXXI. | The Hundredth Anniversary | #361:ch31#
XXXII. | We Go to the Fair | #373:ch32#
XXXIII. | Cherry Disposes | #392:ch33#
XXXIV. | Minerva Settles it | #409:ch34#
.ta-
.dv-
.bn 014.png
.pn +1
.bn 015.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 4
.h2
ILLUSTRATIONS
.sp 2
.dv class=font85
.ta l:30 r:15
| PAGE
The Balloon, Minerva, a Shriek, and a Shout | #Frontispiece:frontis#
“Steal Away” |#148:i165#
“Th’ Ould Scut” |#242:i261#
She Made a Croquet Wicket of Herself |#358:i379#
.ta-
.dv-
.sp 4
.bn 016.png
.pn +1
.bn 017.png
.pn +1
.pb
.if h
.il fn=i017.jpg w=600px
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
.in 8
[Illustration]
.sp 2
.if-
.h2 id=ch01
CHAPTER I||A COERCED COOK.
.sp 2
.dc 0.675 0.675
AT the last minute we learned that the
girl we had counted upon to do our
cooking at Clover Lodge had scarlet
fever, and as she was the only local girl that
we could hire—New England girls preferring
to work in a “shop” to domestic service—we
were at our wits’ end.
In our extremity Mrs. Vernon (my wife)
made a last appeal to Minerva. She went
into the kitchen of our New York flat and said,
“Minerva, Mamie Logan, the girl we expected
to have up at Clover Lodge, has scarlet
fever.”
Minerva was blacking the stove (as I could
see from the dining room), but she stopped
and turned around as she always did when
her mistress spoke to her, and said “Yas’m.”
“Well, do you know what that means, Minerva?”
.bn 018.png
.pn +1
“Means she’s sick, ma’am.”
“Yes, but it also means that I haven’t anybody
to cook for me up there.”
“Yas’m.”
“Well, don’t you think you could go up if
we gave you five dollars a month more than
you’re getting now?”
Minerva rubbed her already black arm
with the blacking brush in an absent-minded
sort of way as she said,
“’Deed I hate the country. It’s so dismal.”
I would have given up trying to get her to
come then, as her tone sounded final to me,
but Mrs. Vernon caught a gleam of willingness
in her expression, and she said,
“Some country places may be doleful, Minerva,
but Clover Lodge is in one of the most
beautiful places in the world, and there’s a
light kitchen and you can take ‘Miss Pussy,’
you know. I’m sure you’ll like it and the
work won’t be as hard as it is here and
there’s lots of fresh air. And I’ll lend you
books to read. If you won’t come we’ll have
to give up going, as I won’t take a stranger
up from the city.”
.bn 019.png
.pn +1
“Yas’m,” said Minerva, turning to the
stove and beginning to use the brush again.
“Well, will you go, Minerva?”
“Yas’m.”
“Oh, you dear good thing,” said my wife,
and I fully expected her to hug Minerva.
She came in to where I was finishing my
second cup of coffee and said,
“Minerva is a jewel. She’s going up. Do
you know, in some ways it’s better than if
we had Mamie Logan because Minerva is a
much better cook and she won’t have any
beaux from the village to make a noise in the
kitchen in the evening—”
“No, but you may have to import beaux
from Thompson Street to solace her loneliness,”
said I. “If I know the kind at all,
Minerva will die one day away from New
York.”
“Nonsense,” said Ethel. “She can’t help
falling in love with the view from the kitchen
windows. That lovely old purple Mount
Nebo.”
I had my doubts of a New York born and
bred colored cook falling in love with any
view that did not comprehend a row of city
.bn 020.png
.pn +1
houses somewhere in its composition, but I
said nothing. The doctor had told me that
Ethel absolutely needed a long rest in the
“real country,” hill country preferred, and
even if I had to go out and help Minerva in
the kitchen I was going up.
We had spent a delightful week at Clover
Lodge the year before with the Chauncey
Wheelocks, but this year they were going to
Europe and had proposed our renting it furnished
and had promised Mamie Logan as
cook. But a cordon bleu is not immune from
scarlet fever, as we had found to our vexation—although
I doubt if we felt it as much
as Mamie did. She, by the way, had actually
liked scenery and had told Mrs. Vernon that
the distant old mountain peak was company
for her while she was washing dishes. But
a purple peak would not take the place of the
yellow lights of a great city to Minerva and
I looked forward to varied experiences, although
I said nothing about my expectations
to Ethel.
I half expected Minerva to back out when
it came to going, but she did not. Possibly
the excitement of going on the cars had something
.bn 021.png
.pn +1
to do with her fortitude. Possibly the
diversion that “Miss Pussy” afforded made
her forget that she was leaving her beloved
city.
The cat was a startler and no mistake.
While the train was in motion she kept quiet,
but whenever we stopped at a station she let
forth ear splitting shrieks, acting exactly as
if she were being tortured. More than one
non-smoking man sought refuge in the smoker
and many were the black looks cast at Minerva.
I was glad that she sat behind us, for I did
not wish to be mixed up in the affair. As
for her she shrieked with laughter every time
that the cat shrieked with dismay, and I felt
that the cat, though unpleasant, was really
making our journey easier, as it kept Minerva
from dwelling upon her exile.
We took a branch road at Springfield and
a half hour later we were in a wagon, climbing
the steep ascent that leads to Clover
Lodge.
The cat, sniffing fresh air and longing to
be at liberty, redoubled its howls, but Minerva
no longer laughed. She looked at the
.bn 022.png
.pn +1
distant hills in an awed sort of way and
sighed.
I sat with the driver, and Mrs. Vernon
told Minerva interesting bits about the locality
through which we were passing, but a
languid “Yas’m” was the only reply she
vouchsafed. She was fast falling a prey to
nostalgia.
Upon our arrival at Clover Lodge there
was enough to do to keep every one busy.
The frantic cat was set free as soon as we
arrived and she scudded under the house and
we saw no more of her for some time. I did
not think much of it at the moment, but when
after our somewhat picnic dinner I heard Minerva
at the back of the house calling in
heart breaking tones “Miss Pussy, Miss
Pussy, woan’ you come out? Come ou—t,”
I realized that I should have chained the cat
in the kitchen. It might stay away for a day
or two in order to express its contempt for
people who could subject it to such humiliation.
I was enjoying a smoke and Ethel was
lying down. Oh, what a blessed relief this
.bn 023.png
.pn +1
was from the noise and odours and bustle of
the city!
“I can’t get out. Mist. Vernon! Mist.
Vernon! I can’t get out. Ow.”
The sounds seemed to come from under the
kitchen. I side-tracked my peaceful
thoughts, laid my cigar on the railing of the
piazza and ran around to the kitchen door
and beheld Minerva wedged fast under the
house. Clover Lodge has a very diminutive
cellar which does not extend as far as the
kitchen. There is a space of some two feet
between the kitchen floor and the ground,
used as a receptacle for various odds and
ends in the way of boxes, clothes poles and
the like, and our stout Minerva had attempted
to creep under there in order to get Miss
Pussy, whose tell-tale eyes gleamed at her
from the darkness. She had failed to take
into account the fact that her head could go
where her body could not follow and she had
become stuck.
“It’s all right, Minerva. I’ll get you out.
There’s very little room for promenading
there. I’ll have to knock a board out. I’ll
get an axe.”
.bn 024.png
.pn +1
She kept up her groaning and at last Ethel
was aroused by it, and, somewhat alarmed,
hurried into the kitchen and saw the sprawling
figure of Minerva with Clover Lodge on
her back. The spectacle appealed to her
sense of humour and she retreated to where
she could laugh.
I had a somewhat ticklish job to get Minerva
out unhurt. It was awkward splitting
the board without touching her, but I compassed
it at last, although each stroke of the
axe was followed by a groan from Minerva,
a spit from the cat and a suppressed laugh
from Ethel, who was viewing the proceedings
from a little distance.
When the board fell away and had been
removed, Minerva, like an alligator, crawled
in a little farther, so as to turn around, and
then she crawled out face foremost, leaving
Miss Pussy saying most ungenerous things
there in the dusk.
“The cat will come out in a while, Minerva,”
said I. “Are you hurt?”
Minerva was sitting on the ground, listening
intently.
“What’s dem noises?” said she; “Oh, dis
.bn 025.png
.pn +1
ain’ no place for me. Heah dem moanin’s
in de grass.”
“Dem moanin’s in de grass” were bull
frogs in a little pond not far away, but I
dare say she pictured the meadows as full of
people who had been enticed from the city
and were now expiring under the evening
sky, far from their friends.
I explained what the noise was and she returned
to the kitchen, while I resumed consumption
of my cigar and Ethel returned to
her room, but in a few minutes:
“Mis. Vernon. Mis. Vernon. Ain’t there
no more lights?”
Ethel had dropped asleep, so I went out
into the kitchen. Minerva had lighted two
lamps, and to me the kitchen looked like a
ball room, it was so light, but the dusky maid
from the Metropolis was seeing New York
in her mind’s eye, and two kerosene lamps
did not take the place of the firmament of gas
and electric lights to which she had been used
all her life.
“It is the first night and I will humour
her,” thought I, and so I brought out a lamp
from the parlour and another from the sitting
.bn 026.png
.pn +1
room. I had the light from my cigar
and needed no other.
When all four lamps had united to cast
their radiance upon the kitchen Minerva was
satisfied and thanked me in a die-a-way tone
that, being interpreted, meant “Give me back
New York with its crowds, and its noise and
its glitter and its entertaining ‘gentlemen’
and its ice cream and soda.” Poor Minerva!
Our joy and happiness came from the very
things that were the abomination of desolation
to her.
Meanwhile Ethel awoke from her nap and
came down stairs. “Mercy, how dark it is.
Why didn’t you light a lamp? Where are
you, Philip?”
“I’m out on the piazza. Come out?”
“No, dear, I want to finish that story of
Mrs. Everard Cotes’. I’m fascinated with
it.”
“Ethel, come here,” said I, in a tone full
of meaning.
She felt her way out.
“Minerva needed the gleam of many lights
in the kitchen and I’ve plucked a lamp from
.bn 027.png
.pn +1
every room. You’ll tire your eyes reading.
Come and sit with me.”
Ethel gave a little chuckle and sat down
in the chair I provided.
“Dear, it will end by our becoming her
slaves.”
“Anything to keep her,” said I. “Who
wants a light but the great light of stars. I
suppose that to-night on all this broad continent
there is no soul so wretched as poor
Minerva, deprived of her elevator man and
the girl across the hall—and all, that we may
live in comfort. Who are we, Ethel, that we
should do this thing?”
“Oh, stop your nonsense. Minerva will
be all right when the sun shines.”
The light from the kitchen window shone
away down the hill and lighted up the pool
in which the bull frogs were “moaning.”
Above their chorus we heard a wail.
“What’s that, an owl?”
“No, Ethel, that’s a howl. It’s Minerva
again.”
We could now distinguish “So dismal!”
“You go and hold her in your lap and rock
her to sleep. I can’t,” said I.
.bn 028.png
.pn +1
Ethel sighed herself. It was becoming
monotonous. She rose and went into the
kitchen, feeling her way cautiously through
the dark sitting room, yet stumbling over a
foot stool.
It looked to me as if we would be forced
to take turns sitting outside of Minerva’s
bedroom door, guarding her against the horrors
of a country night, but after a time Ethel
returned to me and told me that “Miss Pussy”
had come in for dinner and that Minerva
was perfectly happy and was going to take
her to bed with her.
Soon after that she retired, and, being tired
out with the labours and tribulations of the
day, she slept like a log all night, and we were
enabled to enjoy our repose undisturbed.
I rose early next morning and sang gaily,
and I sang with a purpose. It might disturb
Mrs. Vernon’s last nap, but it could not fail
to make Minerva realize that she was not
alone in the country, whereas if she had risen
first and had seen nothing in the world but
the great silent mountain she might have fled
incontinently to the city.
When she came down to the kitchen, carrying
.bn 029.png
.pn +1
the cat in her arms, I had already
started the fire.
“Good morning, Minerva,” said I. “I
haven’t built a kitchen fire since I was a small
boy, and I wanted to see if I could do it. Excellent
draught. Did you sleep well?”
“Yas’r.”
The laconic answer was in itself a symptom
that she felt better.
“And the cat came back?” said I.
“Yas’r.”
I left the kitchen and took a walk in the
cool morning air. All was well with the
world. Minerva had slept and had learned
that a night in the country was not fatal and
Miss Pussy had recovered her equanimity.
I sought for an appetite in the pine woods,
and I found one.
.bn 030.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02
CHAPTER II||MINERVA STUDIES NATURE.
.sp 2
.dc 0.0 0.675
I BLESSED Heaven for the lovely day
that had come to us. If it had been
rainy or even gray we should have had
a hard time to keep Minerva. But even a
hidebound cockney like herself could tolerate
the sweetness of the air and the softness of
the clouds and the brightness of the sun.
Ethel made cake so that she could be in the
kitchen. I did not exactly approve of it, because
the day was meant to be spent in the
open, and I wanted to swing hammocks out
in the pine woods and read a new novel which
had been recommended to me as excellent for
reading aloud, but I well knew the wisdom of
getting Minerva started right, and I dare say
that Ethel’s amiable conversation made her
forget that the cook on the “other side of the
hall” was nearly two hundred miles away.
.bn 031.png
.pn +1
At lunch time, Ethel looked very much
heated and worn, and I said to myself, “Better
me in the kitchen making impossible cake
and regaling Minerva with anecdotes than
Ethel neutralizing all the effects of this delicious
country air in her efforts to keep our
cook contented.” So, after lunch, I put up
the hammocks and then I insisted on Ethel’s
taking her embroidery and coming out to the
woods.
“And what will Minerva do? She is afraid
of the crickets, and I dare not leave her all
the afternoon alone until she is acclimated.”
“No, of course she can’t be left. I didn’t
intend her to be left. I will go and learn how
to make bread, or, better still, I will paint the
floor. Doesn’t the floor need painting?”
“Now, Philip, don’t be foolish. Of course
you can’t stay in the kitchen. It’s no place
for a man—”
“Nor is it any place for a woman who has
come to the country for her health. And
yet Minerva won’t stay here alone. What’s
to be done?”
Ethel thought a minute and then said:
“I have some plain sewing that I want
.bn 032.png
.pn +1
done and Minerva is very handy with her
needle. She makes all her own clothes. She
shall come to the pine woods with us and
sew a fine seam until it’s time to start dinner,
and then we can go back to the house and sit
on the piazza. It’s not as pleasant as the
woods, but we’ll be within ear call.”
This seemed preposterous, but if I disapproved
and Minerva left, Ethel would be apt
to blame me, so I consented and we all went
to the grove, like a happy family of three.
I read out loud from the new novel, but I
don’t think that Minerva cared much for it,
because when Miss Pussy, who had accompanied
us, brought a bird and laid it at her mistress’
feet, Minerva broke right into my reading
with:
“Why, Mis. Vernon, Miss Pussy has a
bird, and it ain’t a sparrer an’ it ain’t a canary.
What other kinds is there?”
Then the reading was stopped while Ethel
gave a lesson in ornithology to the child of
the city streets. I did not mind her absorbing
all the learning she could, but I resented
the interruption and I arose and walked
away, wondering how long this thing was
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
going to last. I had no doubt that in another
week we would be giving a party in Minerva’s
honour, and that we should take out a subscription
for her in the Booklovers’ seemed
foreordained. She must learn “How to
Know the Trees,” and “How to Become a
True Nature Lover in Six Lessons,” and
“How to Listen to Birds,” and particularly
“How to Forget the City.” If I could get
her that book I would be willing to pay almost
any price for it. Also, “How to Teach a
Cook to Depend on Herself for Her Joys.”
This traipsing around after us was not what
I had expected.
My way led out to the road that runs below
the pine grove, and I had barely emerged
from the wood when I was hailed with a
“Well, well, we are in luck! Where’s the
Missus?” and there were Harry Farnet and
his wife Rose, looking lost in a three-seated
wagon drawn by two horses.
“Where did you drop from?” said I, for
Harry Farnet is a New Yorker who generally
runs over to Europe in the summer.
“Why, we’re at South Edgeley for a couple
of weeks,” said he, “and the Longleys, who
.bn 034.png
.pn +1
are staying at the Hillcrest, told us you had
taken a cottage here for the summer, and so
we thought we’d chance finding you in and
take you back to dine and spend the evening,
and then ride home in the moonlight. How’s
Ethel?”
“Ethel is middling well, but she’s playing
nurse girl to our cook and it is wearing on
her just a little—and on me a great deal.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rose.
“Why, we brought up Minerva, you know—the
treasure that we’ve had for three winters,
and we find that she needs a city setting
to be a jewel of the first water. She is so
lonesome that we spend most of our time
coddling her. She’s afraid of the frogs and
moans for the delights of Gotham.”
“Poor thing! Well, she won’t have to
bother with dinner to-night, so just give her
a book—here, give her this box of candy.
It’s quite dreadful, but I’m sure she’ll like
it, and it’ll keep her mind off her troubles
for quite a while. Jump in and take us to
your house. Is Ethel there?”
“No, we’re all just up in the woods above.
I’ve been reading to her, with interruptions
.bn 035.png
.pn +1
from Minerva. Minerva and Kate Douglas
Wiggin do not appear to be twin souls.
Ethel! Ethel!” I called, and she answered,
and a minute later she came in view and was
both surprised and overjoyed to see the Farnets.
Rose and she went to school together
and they have always kept up an intimacy.
“Hello, you dear thing! You’re going riding
with us—going to take dinner with us—we’re
at South Edgeley, and in the evening
we’ll drive you back.”
“Lovely!” cried Ethel, enthusiastically,
and I was glad that the Farnets had come.
Ethel needed company just as much as Minerva.
I heard a dead limb cracking in the woods
above, and, looking up, saw Minerva, her
eyes wide open and fearful, as if she thought
we were going to leave her to perish in nature’s
solitudes. For Ethel was just stepping
into the carriage.
“That’s Minerva,” said Ethel to Rose.
“Our cook. You know her, don’t you? Perfect
jewel, but it’s the first time she has ever
been away from New York, and she is very
mournful.”
.bn 036.png
.pn +1
“So Philip was saying,” said Rose. “I
tell him to give her a box of this dreadful
chewing candy. It’s some we got at the only
store in South Edgeley, and if she starts a
piece it will keep her busy chewing for an
hour at least. You’re not afraid to leave
her, are you?”
“No, I’m not afraid,” said Ethel; “but
I’m afraid she will be. She’s a hare for timidity.
Oh, Minerva! we’re going for a ride
and you needn’t get dinner to-night. We’ll
be back before bed time.”
“Go’n’ to leave me alone in that God-forsaken
house?” said Minerva, in such evident
terror that Ethel shook her head at Rose
and said, “I can’t do it. It would be heartless.
You stay here and dine with us. We
have loads of provisions.”
“No, Mamma will expect us. We told her
we were going to get you and she’ll expect
us. Our landlady has two seats waiting for
you. You must come.”
Here was a vexing situation. It would be
downright cruel to maroon Minerva, and yet
we didn’t like to give up our anticipated
pleasure.
.bn 037.png
.pn +1
There was more noise in the woods and
“Miss Pussy” jumped out of a tree with a
chipmunk in her mouth.
“Oh, Mis. Vernon, look at Miss Pussy!
She’s got a striped rat. I never see sich a
place for wild animals. I couldn’ no more
stay alone—”
She paused for a phrase strong enough,
and Rose clapped her hands and said,
“I have it. Minerva shall be your maid
and ride on the back seat. This old ark was
the only thing we could get, but now the third
seat will be of some use.”
Miss Pussy dropped the chipmunk at Minerva’s
feet, and Minerva jumped backward
pretty nearly a yard.
“She’s killed it, Minerva. That chipmunk
will never have a chance to hurt you,” said
I in a consolatory tone. That reminded me
of “Miss Pussy.”
“We can’t take the cat along,” said I to
Ethel. “When the cat travels I prefer to be
doing something else. I can still hear her
cries on the train.”
“Well, shut her up in the house,” said
Harry. He looked at his watch. “Come,
.bn 038.png
.pn +1
it’s time we were starting. It’s up hill half
the way back.”
“You can say that of any drive around
here,” said I.
Minerva climbed in much as a mountain
would have done it, and we started for the
house to get wraps.
“The time we came up and this time are
the on’y times I was ever in an open wagon,”
said Minerva.
“Minerva is getting loquacious,” said I to
Ethel.
Minerva overheard me and said,
“No, I ain’t, sir, not when they’s any one
around. I’ll git used to it if there’s somethin’
doin’ all the time.”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you,”
said Harry to me. “Master of the Revels.
You might give her a lawn party—”
Rose shook her head warningly at her husband
and we changed the subject, but it was
plain to be seen that all Minerva needed was
the excitement of society. If we made her
our guest and I did the cooking we would
have no difficulty in keeping her contented.
There was nothing worthy of note regarding
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
Minerva during our ride to South Edgeley.
She sat on the back seat and tangled
her jaws in the candy, and I presume that
she had a good dinner at the Farnet’s boarding
house. Certainly we did and we enjoyed
that and the ride back very much, and rejoiced
that we had friends so near, although
as Harry did not own the horses and the
haying season was “on,” it was not likely
that the Farnets and we would often meet,
unless we walked toward each other and met
at some half way point—and there again Minerva
would be in the way. A three-mile
walk with Minerva tagging behind like a
younger sister was not a tempting idea.
However, the doctor had said that Ethel
must have a good long rest in the country,
and her needs were paramount. Without
Minerva to cook she could not rest, and we
must keep Minerva though the heavens
should fall.
We were talking quietly about Minerva
that evening after the Farnets had driven
home, when the light in her bedroom that
had been shining out on an elm at the side
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
of the house, suddenly disappeared, there
came a shriek, and then,
“Oh, Lordy, oh Lordy, leggo my hair.”
I thought of tramps, but Ethel, being a
woman, divined what had happened and bade
me light a lantern quickly. I rushed to the
kitchen and lighted it. The house was not
on fire, that was certain. Minerva was either
having a fit or an encounter with a burglar,
for there was a sound as of heavy foot-falls
and choking ejaculations.
I seized the kitchen poker, expecting to
sell my life at a bargain, but Ethel looked
at me commiseratingly and with the one word
“Bat,” she hurried up the back stairs.
I must say that at first I took the word to
mean that Minerva had been imbibing and I
wondered at Ethel’s using so idiomatic an
expression, but when she entered the room
and the sounds almost immediately stopped,
to be followed by sobbing, I suddenly divined
what she meant.
“No, Minerva, it isn’t poisonous.” (More
lessons in Natural History.) “Probably
the poor thing was more frightened than you
are.”
.bn 041.png
.pn +1
I did not think it at all likely. At any rate,
it had been far more reticent.
“I’ll give you a screen from the spare
room to put in your window. It was attracted
by the light. It’s a sort of mouse
with wings.”
“Striped rats and mice with wings! Lordy,
the country’s awful!”
Poor Minerva! She must have been surprised
to see that country horses were just
like those of the city. Certainly a horse has
more evil potentiality than a stupid little bat,
but when a beast has you by the hair and you
see him, as it were, through the back of your
head, he is apt to loom large and terrifying.
Quiet was soon restored and Ethel came
down with the lantern. I put away the poker
which I had been holding ever since I picked
it up.
“It’s the greatest mercy in the world that
the lamp went out. She knocked it over
when the bat hit her.”
“What next? Is the room moth miller
proof? Could she survive a June bug?”
“Well, really, it’s nothing to laugh at. If
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
you ever have a bat in your back hair you’ll
not think of laughing.”
As my back hair is fast going to join the
snows of yesteryear, I considered this a most
unkind cut, but I was above retaliating—as
I could not think of anything to say.
“Well, Minerva has now been here a whole
day and she’s hardly been out of our sight.
I admit that she is an excellent cook and a
hard worker, but as a steady visitor who,
rides with us and sews with us she is likely
to pall. Hasn’t she a mother who can come
and visit her?”
“No,” Ethel answered, “Minerva is an
only child.”
“And a child only,” said I.
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch03
CHAPTER III||AN EAST WIND.
.sp 2
.dc 0.3 0.675
THE next morning broke with an east
wind blowing and a wet rain falling,
but Ethel said that the two days in the
country had made her feel like a different
woman already, so I did not mind the rain,
although a rainy day in the country, unless
one be well fortified, either by inner grace
or outer books and the good things of life, is
apt to be a dreary affair.
Breakfast was delicious. We have never
had a cook who had so much—well, you might
call it temperament, as Minerva has. She
will toss off a roll with the lightness that
makes it a work of art, and her fried chicken
is better than the broiled chicken of most
cooks.
Ethel already better, and the breakfast
such a poem: why, I felt that I was to be envied,
and I wondered how people could be
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
content to spend their summers on alien piazzas,
eating hotel dinners and watching hotel
dwellers dress and pose and gossip.
There had been no more bats in Minerva’s
belfry, and as she had always seemed like a
sensible girl in the city, I made up my mind
that she was reconciled to the country and
that in a few days she would begin to have
very much the same feeling for it that we
have—for Ethel and I were born in the city,
and the country is an acquired taste with us.
But while I was browsing around in the
Wheelocks’ library, Ethel came to me and
said:
“The worst has happened, Philip. Minerva
says she won’t stay—that she just
can’t. She wants you to get a horse and
take her to the station right away.”
I laid down my book with a sigh. “What’s
the matter now?” said I. “More wild animals?”
“No, it’s the rain and the east wind. She
says the moaning of it through the shutters
is awful and she can’t stand it.”
“Might have known it,” said I, bitterly.
“I might have known it. You’re beginning
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
to feel better and the worst seems to be over,
and then Minerva plays her trump card and
takes the cake.”
My metaphors were sadly mixed, but I
didn’t care. I was not at that moment trying
to construct logical metaphors. I foresaw
what would happen if Minerva left and Ethel
went into the kitchen permanently. A sanitarium
for her and I an enforced bachelor
in some city room—for we had let our flat
for the summer.
I do not often interfere with the household
work, for my business keeps me at home
most of the time, and I hold that when man
and wife are both at home it is better to have
but one housekeeper and that one a woman,
but now I went out into the kitchen to try to
mend matters, and I found Minerva looking
at the steadily falling rain that was making
Mount Nebo look like a ghost of itself. Now
and again the blind rattled and always the
wind moaned through it with a wintry effect
that would have been admirably adapted to
the return of the prodigal daughter.
And with each wail of the wind Minerva
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
answered antiphonally, almost as if she were
taking lessons in keening.
“Oh, myomy, myomy!”
Back and forth she rocked, her eyes glued
to the dismal prospect (dismal to her, but
with a surpassing beauty to sympathetic
eyes), and the tears rolling down her face.
“Why, Minerva, what’s the matter? Got
a toothache?” said I, affecting to be unwitting
of the cause of her sorrow.
“’Deed, suh, it’s wuss’n a toothache. It’s
the heartache. I knowed better when I said
I’d come. Nance Jawnson told me how haw’ble
the country was, but I felt sorry for Mis.
Vernon, and so I come. Please get me away
in a wagon. That wind whines like it was a
dawg howlin’ an’ I can’t stand dawgs howlin’
’cause my sisteh died of one.”
Her words were ambiguous, but I was in
no mood to carp or criticise. She was suffering
as acutely as a little child suffers
when you throw her doll over the fence and
I felt I must cheer her up and keep her if it—if
it took all summer.
“Well, Minerva, we can soon stop the
wind’s howling by opening the blinds.” I
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
suited the action to the words and the wild
moaning of the wind ceased. It was really
almost as if the wind had been asking to have
the blinds opened.
“Now you see, Minerva, that’s stopped
and the rain will stop after awhile.”
“Yas’r, but it’s lonesome an’ I didn’t
bring my ’cordeen. I forgot it till now.”
I knew she was a great hand to be trying
patent medicines and supposed she referred
to some bottled stuff, so I said,
“Oh, well, if that’s all, I can send for your
medicine, or perhaps I can get some at Egerton.”
She looked at me in surprise as she said,
“I didn’ say nothin’ ’bout med’cine. I
said I left my ’cordeen—”
“Oh, your accordeon. Can you play
that?” said I, thankful that she had forgotten
it.
“Yes indeedy.”
Her face grew pensive as she thought of
the dreadful musical instrument which she
had mercifully forgotten. I had never heard
her use it at home, but Ethel told me afterward
that she had been in the habit of going
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
up on the roof with other cooks and the janitor,
and that her departure was always followed
by weird strains which Ethel had supposed
was the janitor discoursing music that
had the dyingest fall of anything ever heard.
But it seems that Minerva was the performer,
and among those whose ears are ravished by
the “linked sweetness long drawn out”—and
then pushed back again, she was accounted
an adept.
Perhaps I could hold her by means of the
accordeon. It was worth trying.
“Minerva,” said I, “Mrs. Vernon tells me
that you want me to drive you down to the
station and get you a ticket for New York.
Now, if you go it will be a discreditable performance
and an act unworthy of one who
has always been well treated.”
I paused. The words were some of them
a little beyond her, but they had made the
more impression for that very fact.
“Mrs. Vernon is not strong enough to do
the work and she came up here to gain
strength. You are a very good cook, but if
you left us now we would not care to have
you when we returned to the city, and you
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
will not find mistresses like Mrs. Vernon
everywhere. There are those who forget
that a servant is a human being, and you
might happen to get such a mistress as that.
I repeat that your going would be distinctly
discreditable, utterly reprehensible and in
the nature of a bad act. Now, if you must
go, I am not the one to keep you, but if you
go you go for good, which is not likely to be
good for you.”
“Yas’r,” said Minerva, blinking at me.
“Now, if I send for your accordeon, will
you give me your word of honour to stay
your month out?”
I had used such a severe tone, mingled
with what sorrow I could weave into it, and
spotted with incomprehensible words, that
Minerva was much impressed, and she said
in a tone that was already more hopeful, “I
give you my word, Mist. Vernon. My ’cordeen
is like human folks to me.”
“Very well, I will write for it by the next
mail. Where shall I tell Mr. Corson to look
for it?”
“Mr. Corson ain’t got it. I lent it to the
jan’ter the night befo’ I lef’ an’ he fo’got to
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
give it back an’ I fo’got about it till the wind
began to moan at me an’ then I got mo’ homesick
’an ever an’ thought of it.”
Think of being willing to swap the music
of the wind for the cacophony of an accordeon!
And yet, when some composer of the
future introduces one in his Afro-American
symphony and Felix Weingartner gives the
symphony in Carnegie Hall, there may come
a rage for accordeons and we shall no longer
associate them with tenement houses and
itinerant toughs, white and black.
I hastened to write the letter to the janitor,
whose name was George W. Calhoun Lee,
and Ethel, being housebound anyway, went
into the kitchen to preserve some blueberries.
I do not like preserved blueberries; neither
does she, but there was nothing else she could
think of to do in the kitchen, and Minerva
needed “human folks” pending the arrival of
the ’cordeen.
The Dalton boy came for the mail at noon
and he had with him a string of trout. They
were fresh from the brook and were still
wriggling. I saw him pass into the house,
and I followed him into the kitchen; for a
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
string of trout is a joy to the eye—and I had
a suspicion that Minerva would not know
what to do with them.
She stared at them with the interest of a
child, giggling every time one twitched its
tail.
“Wha’ makes ’em move that way?” asked
she of no one in particular.
“Why, they’re not dead yet,” I answered.
“An’ come all the way from New York?”
“Why, Minerva, these were caught in the
brook down there in the valley. Weren’t
they, Bert?”
“Yes, sir. Ketched all five inside an
hour.”
Minerva’s eyes opened wider. “What’s a
nower?” asked she.
Bert looked puzzled and so did Ethel, but
I was able to explain and somehow the explanation
struck Minerva as being very funny.
She went off into a fit of laughter just
like those she had had on the train when the
cat howled.
“Inside a nower. That’s one awn me.
Inside an hour.”
Ordinarily one does not go into the kitchen
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
and provide amusement for the cook, but the
events of the past few hours had so altered
the complexion of things that I felt distinctly
elated at having, in however humble a way,
ministered to the joy of one as leaden hearted
as Minerva and her laughter was so unctious,
once it had got fairly started that first
the Dalton boy, then Ethel, and at last I
joined in and the east wind must have been
astonished at his lack of power over our
temperaments.
After the laughter had subsided and Bert
had gone on his way with the precious letter
to G. W. C. Lee, I was about to leave the
kitchen, forgetful of my errand, when Minerva,
in a tone of delightful camaraderie,
said,
“Mist. Vernon, I can’t skin them fishes
alive. They always come skinned from the
fish store.”
“Well, I’ll kill them and scale them and
clean them, and you can watch me, and the
next time you’ll know how.”
Ethel had finished her berry canning and
she now left the kitchen, winking at me as
she did so as much as to say it was now my
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
turn at the wheel. It was years since I had
dressed a fish, but I snapped each one on the
head as I had been taught to do by country
boys in my own boyhood, and then I prepared
them for the pan, scraping off much of their
beauty in the process.
“Do they have North River shad out in
that brook?” asked Minerva as I worked.
I thought at first it was a little pleasantry,
but, looking at her, I saw she was perfectly
serious—in fact, very serious, and I explained
to her that cod and blue fish and sturgeon
and sword fish never penetrated to these
mountain brooks, preferring the sea; and so,
with cheerful chat on both our parts, we
bridged over the end of the morning and a
half a day was gone with Minerva in a better
frame of mind than she had been the day before
with the sun shining. So valuable a
thing is diplomacy.
While I was washing my hands, preparatory
to lunch, Ethel being engaged in fixing
her hair, I heard Minerva break out into
song, and a moment later someone began to
whistle in the kitchen.
Our window commanded a view of the side
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
path, and no one had entered the kitchen
since I had left it, but nevertheless two people
were giving a somewhat unpleasant duet
in the kitchen. The whistle did not accord
with the voice, which had considerable of the
natural coloured flavour—if flavour can have
colour.
“Who can it be?” said I. “Minerva
doesn’t know a soul up here, and no one up
here would be apt to know ‘In the Good Old
Summer Time.’”
“It’s positively uncanny,” said Ethel, taking
the last hair pin out of her mouth and
putting it into her hair. “I’m going to see.
I want Minerva to make chocolate for lunch,
and I forgot to tell her.”
Ethel went down and I hastily dried my
hands and followed. If this fellow musician
could be caged I would keep him for Minerva’s
delectation. He should hang in the
kitchen—so to speak. Minerva was evidently
enjoying the duet—even more than we
were.
I hurried and came within sight of the
kitchen just as Ethel entered it. Ethel
turned and came quickly toward me, her
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
hand over her mouth to pen up her mirth.
We both rushed up stairs and sat down
and had our second laugh of the morning in
spite of the east wind. There was only one
person in the kitchen, Minerva by name, and
she was providing an obligato for her singing
with her own lips. Minerva was performing
the hitherto impossible feat of singing and
whistling at the same time.
“When the ’cordeen comes,” said Ethel,
“Minerva will be a trio.”
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
CHAPTER IV||A FRIENDLY BURGLAR.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
WE retired that night feeling that our
hold on Minerva was stronger than
it had been hitherto, and we slept
the sleep of the unworried.
But we were awakened at a little past midnight
by a noise as of a somewhat heavy cat
coming up stairs. Miss Pussy is heavy, but
her tread is absolutely noiseless, so it could
not be she, and we could hear Minerva snoring
in her room, so it was not she.
“It’s a burglar,” whispered Ethel, wide
awake in an instant.
I did not like the thought, which waked me
wide also. I like burglars in books, but in
real life there are too many possibilities
wrapped up in them to make them agreeable
companions of the night.
I hope I am not a coward, but I am not war-like.
If a burglar has resolved on entering
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
my house I say let him get away with the
goods and then I’ll lose no time in putting
in burglar alarms so as to be prepared thereafter,
but to get up and attack a burglar with
a chair or to attempt to expostulate with him
lies outside of my province, and I hoped that
these sounds would prove to be caused by
shrinking wood or cracking plaster.
Creak, creak, creak. There was not a
shadow of a doubt that some one was coming
up the stairs. Ethel pulled the pillow over
her face and I could feel her trembling. I
sat up in bed and tried to feel brave. Tried
it two or three times in obedience to the old
saying anent succeeding but to be honest I
did not feel brave.
The steps came nearer and Ethel, whose
hearing is wonderfully acute, suddenly threw
off the pillow, and sat up in bed also, saying:
“Philip, we must not let Minerva hear him
or she will leave in the morning.”
“Sh!” said I, “be still. There he is.”
We both put on the semblance of slumber.
The moon was shining into the room and
we now saw a burly looking fellow with a bag
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
over his shoulder walk past our door and
peer into the spare room.
The Wheelock furnishings are plain and
our own belongings would pack in small space
and bring little in open market and it struck
both Ethel and myself in spite of our fears
that it was very funny for a burglar to be
looking for plunder in our cottage.
I fancy that he himself saw he had picked
out a poor house, for he left the spare room,
contented himself with a casual glance into
our sparsely furnished bedroom and then
went creaking down the stairs again. Burglars
in books make no noise, but I am sure
I could have gone down stairs more quietly
than he did and I was in an agony of fear—no
longer of him but that Minerva might
wake up and become panic stricken.
The burglar went as far as the kitchen and
then he actually stumbled over a chair and
this brought about the dreaded result.
Minerva waked up and the next instant we
heard a husky,
“Is that you, Mis. Vernon?”
Next we heard steps in her hall and the
query repeated in a louder tone,
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
“Is that you, Mis. Vernon?”
Then came a shriek. She had evidently
encountered the burglar.
“Oh, Philip, what shall we do?” said Ethel.
“Don’t you think it will be safe to go and
tell the burglar to go away? Minerva will
surely go into hysterics and leave in the
morning.”
“She’s gone there now. Hear her!”
The noise occasioned by the advent of the
bat was as nothing compared to the din that
Minerva let out upon the midnight air.
And now we heard a man’s voice, the voice
of the burglar.
“Be quiet. I’m not going to hurt you. I
made a mistake in the house.”
Made a mistake in the house and the next
one half a mile away!
“Philip, if he were a dangerous burglar he
would have shot her by this. Go and speak
to him and tell him to go away.”
It was a risky proceeding, but after all we
had gone through I was determined to keep
Minerva with us at any risk, so pulling a
dressing gown over my pajamas and leaping
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
into my slippers, I went down stairs choking
down my rising heart.
I met the burglar coming down the back
stairs with his hands in his ears to shut out
the shrieks that arose from Minerva.
When he saw me he sat down on the stairs
and said, “I thought so. I thought she’d
waken the house.”
Now this was a queer way for a burglar to
act and it gave me heart. By all the rules
of burglary the man should either have given
me one in the jaw or a bit of lead in the lung
or else he should have rushed past me and
escaped, but he sat down on the top step and
reminded me of Francis Wilson by the
quaintness of his intonation and the expression
that came over his face.
“Come here. I won’t hurt you,” said I,
much as I might talk to a huge mastiff whose
intentions were problematical. “Are you a
family man?”
“Yes,” said he, astonished by the question
into answering it.
“Well, then, you will understand my position
when I tell you that the girl whom
you have started into hysterics up there is
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
our cook, our only cook, and if we lose her
we’ll be absolutely cookless. You’re a burglar,
are you not? Be frank.”
“Well, if you appeal to me that way, I
am,” said he.
“Well, she’s frightened stiff. Even if you
go away now and nothing further happens
she will follow in the morning because she
will expect burglars every night. Now I’m
going to try to convince her that you stopped
in here to ask the way to the village or to
borrow a book—anything but that you’re a
burglar, and I want you to help me out.”
“The idea is farcical,” said he smiling
quite as if we were having a friendly chat
after a dinner in his honour.
“No doubt it is farcical,” said I, “but if
I can overcome Minerva’s fears by any means
I’m going to do it. She’ll go into a fit pretty
soon if the cause is not removed.”
“She’s most there now,” said the burglar.
And he told the truth. Minerva had not
ceased to use each breath in the manufacture
of wild yawps that outdid her performances
the evening of the bat.
“I’ll go and tell her to dress and come
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
down and I’ll explain it all to her. We have
to handle her with gloves on account of cooks
being so scarce. You understand?”
“I understand. I have a little home in
Pittsfield and half the time my wife does the
cooking although ‘business’ is unusually
good.”
“What is your busin—?”
I noticed his bag and stopped. How absent
minded of me to ask.
“I don’t believe it is always as bad as it is
to-night,” said I with a laugh. “My income
doesn’t admit of anything for burglars. I
only make enough for myself and my wife.”
“I believe you,” said he. “I saw that
when I got up stairs and if I had not kicked
over that cursed chair I would have been a
mile away by now.”
I started to call up stairs to Minerva when
the burglar’s eyes moved to a point behind
me and turning, I saw Ethel, fully dressed
and very calm. Her fear of losing Minerva
had overcome her fear of the burglar and she
had come down to see what she could do.
“Ethel, this is the burglar who woke us
up, but he has taken nothing, and he’s going
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
to fib a little so that Minerva may be brought
out of her hysterical state. Please go up
stairs and tell her to dress and come down;
that there’s no danger, but I want to see her
about something.”
With excitement and amusement struggling
for the mastery on her features Ethel went
up stairs and in a few moments the shrieks
subsided.
“What induced you to come to such a place
as this, so far off the line of travel?”
“Exactly that,” said the burglar, “because
it was off the line of travel and because I
have made some of my richest hauls in houses
like this.”
“Aren’t you ashamed to be a burglar?”
said I, thinking that I might do some missionary
work.
“Now see here,” said he, rising from the
chair in which he had seated himself after
Ethel had gone up stairs, “I did not come
here to be catechised or criticised. I came
here to do business and I found it was impossible,
so let us forget that I am a burglar
and that you are a poor man and bend all
our energies to retaining the services of your
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
cook. As a fellow American I feel for you
and I’d hate to see ‘the Madame’ forced to
do her own cooking through any fault of
mine. By the way, how’s the larder?”
“The who?”
“The larder. What have you to eat?”
“Oh, I misunderstood you. I guess I can
find something to eat. Are you fond of blueberries—not
whortleberries, you understand,
but blueberries.”
“All the same, ain’t they?”
“Not by a long shot. You’re evidently a
city man. A blueberry is to a whortleberry
what a wild cherry is to an oxheart. We
have plenty of blueberries and some milk and
I dare say Minerva can boil you some eggs
if you care for them.”
“No, I don’t want to bother you or her.
Cooks object to getting extra meals.”
I had not thought of that and I deemed it
considerate in the burglar.
I led the way to the pantry, where I found
a pitcher of rich milk and a pan of berries
and when Mrs. Vernon and Minerva came
down stairs, the burglar and I sat at the
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
dinner table, eating berries like the best of
friends.
“Frightened, Minerva?” asked I with a reassuring smile.
“Yas’r,” was the monosyllabic and therefore
reassuring reply.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Minerva,”
said the burglar with an assumption of
breeziness that sat very well on him.
Minerva smiled foolishly. She was
abashed.
“I missed my way, Tom,” said he, turning
to me, “and it’s a wonder I got here at all.”
“Will you please explain why you call me
Tom,” said I, giving him a cue, “when my
name is Philip Vernon.”
“Simply because I’ve been spending a
week with Tom,” said he, “and he is very
well indeed.”
“Hasn’t he had any return of those
spells?” asked I with mock concern.
“No, Phil, Tom seems to be on the high
road to recovery, now. His wife has a Dane
for a cook and she makes the best omelets
I ever ate. Can you make good omelets?”
said he, turning to Minerva, whose eyes were
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
riveted on this easy mannered friend who
had reached our house so late.
“Yas’r.”
“Pardon my suggesting it, Mrs. Vernon,”
said he, turning to my wife, “but would it be
asking too much—”
“Why, I’m sure Minerva would be delighted
to cook you an omelet. She knows
what it is to be hungry. Don’t you
Minerva?”
“Yas’m,” said she, going into the kitchen
and setting a match to the fire which was laid
in preparation for the morning.
“She looks like a good-natured girl—one
who would stick to you through thick and
thin,” said the burglar in a tone that would
easily reach Minerva’s ears.
“Minerva’s a very good girl,” said Ethel,
sitting down in the chair I had drawn up
to the table.
We talked on various topics, much as if we
had known each other for years, but this
was due more to the burglar’s absolute ease
of manner than to any self command on our
parts. When Minerva came in with a smoking
hot omelet he said,
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
“Handsomest omelet I ever saw. If it
tastes like that I’ll eat every bit myself.
You’re a born cook, Minerva.”
Minerva grinned and went into the pantry
whence she emerged with bread and butter.
As for the burglar he kept up a running
fire of talk about supposed friends of ours.
“Rather sad, that accident to Tom’s
nephew, wasn’t it?” said he.
“I hadn’t heard of it,” said Ethel, while I
admitted a like ignorance.
“Is that so? Tom is no letter writer.
Why little Sanderson fell down an elevator
shaft and ripped all the buttons off his
shoes.”
He said this so seriously that it was all
Ethel could do to keep a straight face.
“And Mary has finally decided to accept
Jim Larkins. Seventeen times she had rejected
him. Do you think they’ll be happy?”
“I hope they will,” said I, and then to
make conversation I said,
“What’s become of Ed. Cortelyou?”
“I’m sorry to say,” said the burglar, with
a long face, “that Ed.’s gone to the bad.
It doesn’t pay to trust a young man with
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
unlimited money. If I ever succeed in
amassing a fortune—not that I feel especially
encouraged just now—but if I ever do,
I will tie it up so that Charley can not play
ducks and drakes with it.”
“By the way, do you expect Charley to
follow your profession?” said Ethel wickedly
and unexpectedly.
The burglar helped himself to the rest
of the omelet with a roguish grin and said,
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Kate is
all for having him study for the ministry,
but I’ve seen enough misery endured by
young ministers whose hearts were not in
their work and who were perhaps tortured
by this modern spirit of doubt, and I tell
her that the profession that was good enough
for his father is good enough for him.”
There seemed to be something fascinating
in the clear-cut tones of the burglar’s voice
for Minerva stood in the kitchen listening
intently to every word.
“I hope you will enjoin on him the necessity
of being honest,” said Ethel with evident
enjoyment.
“Example is better than precept, Mrs.
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
Vernon,” said he, looking her straight in the
eyes. “I’m not much of a preacher myself.
I sometimes say to him, ‘Do as you see me
do, my boy, but try to do it better.’ I do hope
to enable him to make an easy entry into
the homes of really good people. I tell him
that it’s not always the richest who are the
most valuable. He may be able to pick up
something from a man who is comparatively
poor, but who has good taste, and I tell him
always to keep his eyes and ears open when
he is in the houses of others, because there
is no telling how profitable a good use of eyes
and ears may be. The boy has quite a taste
for rare china. He’s managed to get hold of
some handsome pieces.”
“Do you allow him much spending
money?” asked I with a deprecating smile.
“No, I don’t give him any stated sum, but
he has his own ways of adding to his income.
I believe in making a boy self reliant. He
wasn’t over six when I gave him a little
boost up the ladder as a starter, and told
him to remember to rise superior to circumstances,
and he made quite a comfortable
nest egg. Went into the hen business. Selected
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
his own hens and sold them at a profit.
A boy that learns to be self reliant is years
ahead of a boy who is pampered. Minerva,
that was the best omelet I ever ate. I wish
I could stay here and eat one of your breakfasts,
but, Philip, if I expect to get to the
McLeod’s to-night, I’ll have to be going right
along. You see I expected to get here in time
to dine with you, and leave about eleven, but
I lost my way, and I know the Major will be
expecting me and he won’t go to bed until
I come. I’m awfully sorry to go.”
As he rose from the table I noticed the
bag containing his plunder. Unless Minerva
was an absolute innocent she would suspect
that all was not right when he picked it up,
but luckily at that moment she went out to
the pantry to put away the milk, or something,
and during her absence he picked it
up with great nonchalance and walked out
of the room, bowing to Ethel, who made a
little gesture of repugnance when the real
nature of his work was brought home to her
in so concrete a manner.
I followed him out to the front door, where
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
he deposited the bag on the step and said
very suggestively,
“I believe I’ll give Minerva a tip if you
have no objection. She deserves it.”
“Why, I have no objection,” said I, “but
it isn’t necessary.”
“Pardon me if I differ,” said he, good
naturedly, holding out his hand.
And then I understood that I was being
held up.
“How much do you want to give her,”
said I, wishing now that he was far away.
But his demand was very reasonable—comparatively
speaking,—for he said,
“I think that five dollars and a quarter
would be a fair amount for me to give. She
may not get every cent, but I’ve talked a
good deal to-night and the laborer is worthy
of his hire. You’re a decent sort of fellow,
or I might increase the amount.”
“You’ll have to come up stairs for it,”
said I, “I never carry much in my pajamas.”
He followed me up stairs, his eyes roving
all over the place.
“There must be a lot of high thinking done
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
in this establishment,” said he, as he looked
at the sparsely decorated walls.
“It was a high old thought to get you to
pose as my friend. If Minerva stays with
us I’ll think of you, and I wish that you
might be induced to—”
“Don’t, that’s cant. You may think you
mean it, but you don’t. If you read in to-morrow’s
paper that I had been arrested,
you wouldn’t drop one tear. You live your
life, and I’ll live mine. If you ever have a
chance to do a man a good turn, go ahead
and do it, but I won’t lie awake nights wondering
whether you’ve done it or not.”
“No, I suppose you’re not given to lying
awake nights, but you may lie awake days
and ponder on a good many things.”
“Don’t you believe it, my Christian
friend,” said the burglar as we walked back
to the kitchen, “I sleep the sleep of the just,
and the reason I’m just, is because I never
rob a man that I know to be poor.”
We had now come down stairs again, and
he went out into the kitchen, and I heard him
say to Minerva,
“Minerva, here’s some silver to add to
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
your collection. And don’t ever make the
mistake of leaving the Vernons. They are
the salt of the earth. They may not be rich,
but I am sure they’re kind, and if you know
when you’re well off you’ll stay with them.
I’ve known Mr. Vernon ever since he was
a boy, and if I was looking for a position like
yours I’d try to get one with him. And Mrs.
Vernon is just as good. You stay by them
and they’ll stay by you.”
“’Deed I will,” said Minerva with the unction
of one who has felt a revival of religious
feeling at a camp meeting. The burglar had
actually aroused in her a sense of loyalty.
I was sorry to see him go. I’ve known
many an honest man who wasn’t half as interesting,
and I’ve known many an interesting
man who was not much more honest,
although I never had any words with a
confessed burglar before. I actually found
myself saying “Good luck to you,” as he
shouldered his bag and went off down the
tree-bordered road in the silver moonlight.
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch05
CHAPTER V||THE CONSTABLE CALLS.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
NEXT morning we slept late, but when
Mrs. Vernon and I finally awoke we
heard no sounds in the kitchen.
“I have a headache,” said Ethel. “That
midnight supper didn’t agree with me.”
“Why you didn’t eat anything.”
“No, but I can’t sit up late and feel good
for anything in the morning. I suppose Minerva
feels the same as I do.”
“Yes, but as she is paid to forget her feelings,
I suppose she’ll get up and get breakfast.”
“Do you mind calling her?” asked Ethel,
and again donning my dressing gown I went
to the foot of the stairs and called,
“Minerva! Minerva, it’s half past eight
o’clock.”
No answer.
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
I went up stairs and stood outside her
door.
“Minerva, it’s time to get up. I know
you must be sleepy, but it’s half past eight.”
“Mist. Vernon,” came a languid response,
“I don’ feel like I could cook this
morning, I’m so tired.”
What was this? Was it insubordination?
Perhaps it was, but I did not mean to recognise
it as such. Who had prepared the midnight
supper without a word? Minerva.
Was I one to forget benefits conferred? No.
Did I want to keep Minerva at all hazards?
Yes. Was it wise to let Ethel know of the
state of affairs? No.
Therefore I came softly down the stairs
and going out into the kitchen, I built a fire
and then went to work as dexterously as I
could to cook things for breakfast. I poured
a cup of cold water on three cups of oatmeal
flakes and set them to boil, and while I waited
for the water to attend to business I got a
book and read. Really, this cooking is no
such hardship as I had supposed, thought I.
I was not as quick as Minerva, for I was an
hour getting the oatmeal to a point where it
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
looked palatable, and I made some mistake
of proportions in making the coffee, but I
sliced the bread very well, indeed, and I
set the table without nicking a plate, and at
last I put a half dozen eggs into the water in
the double boiler and went up stairs to announce
breakfast. Ethel had fallen asleep.
I woke her and told her that I believed breakfast
was ready. Then I went down to my
book again.
Ethel can hurry upon occasion, and she
was no time in coming down. But quick as
she was, I was quicker, for I had the eggs on
the table before she appeared, and when she
came into the room we sat down together
with never a suspicion on her part that Minerva
had not prepared the breakfast. I
felt the way I used to feel when I was a boy
and used to do something a little beyond my
supposed powers. My bosom swelled with
pride as I reflected that every bit of the
breakfast had been prepared by me.
Ethel uncovered the oatmeal dish and then
she said, rather irrelevantly, I thought,
“What’s the matter with Minerva?”
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
“Nothing, dear,” said I, reaching out my
hand for my portion.
Her only answer was to ring the bell.
“—Er—I believe Minerva is upstairs,”
said I.
“What has she been doing to the oatmeal?”
said Ethel, poking at it with her
spoon, but not attempting to taste the stiff-looking
mass.
“Fact is, Ethel,” said I, “Minerva is a
little upset by last night’s disturbance, and
I cooked the breakfast.”
“You mean you didn’t cook it,” said
Ethel, with just a touch of sarcasm.
“Well, what I didn’t do, I didn’t do for
you. I thought you’d had enough of the
kitchen, and if you disguise this with sugar
and cream it will be all right.”
But this was an exaggeration. We could
not pretend to eat the gluey mass, so I said,
“Well, anyhow, there are nice fresh eggs.
It doesn’t take a great deal of skill to boil
them.”
“Did you use the three-minute glass,” said
Ethel, as she helped me to two eggs and then
took two herself.
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
I told her that I didn’t know what she
meant; that I used no glass at all, but had
boiled them in the under part of the oatmeal
boiler, as I had noticed Minerva do.
“Yes, but how long?” asked Ethel, as she
took up her knife and chipped the shell of
one.
“About an hour and a half,” said she, answering
her own question. “You meant well,
Philip, but you didn’t know. These are as
hard as a rock and not yet cold. I hope the
coffee is better.”
Ethel is not usually so fault finding, but
I laid it to her broken sleep, and said,
“The bread is cut pretty well. And the
butter is just as good as if Minerva had put
it on the table herself.”
“Yes, the bread and butter are quite a
success, Phil, but this coffee—”
“Mild?” said I, taking my cue from the
color of it as she poured.
“I should say so. It looks like a substitute
for coffee.”
“Then I guess I don’t care for any,” said
I. “But anyhow, you didn’t have to do any
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
of the preparing, and we’ll leave it for Minerva
to wash the dishes.”
I helped myself to milk and managed to
eat an egg, but they are not very good when
hot and hard, unless they are sliced and reposing
on a bed of spinach.
I began to feel a little hot myself that
Minerva should have led me to this successful
exposure of incompetence, and leaving
the table I went up stairs and called out
somewhat angrily,
“Minerva, we’re all through breakfast and
you’ll have to come right down and prepare
lunch, as nothing has been fit to eat.”
A snore was the only response that she
gave, and I was glad she had not heard me.
One cannot afford to be peremptory if one
has but one string to one’s bow. I came
down stairs again.
Ethel was in the kitchen frying some eggs
and preparing some more coffee.
“Is she coming down?” asked she.
“Er—no—she’s tired. But Ethel, I can’t
have you getting breakfast. I’ve already
got one, and although it wasn’t a success,
we’d better make it do. You look tired out
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
after the excitement of last night. Let’s eat
some berries and drink a glass of milk and
wait for lunch. Wasn’t that burglar funny
last night?”
“Philip, are you going to let Minerva stay
in bed all day?” said Ethel.
I sat down on the kitchen table and said,
“Ethel, would you like to be waked up in
the middle of the night and forced to prepare
an extra meal? Minerva is a human
being and she is tired. You’re a human being
and you’re tired. Let us let Minerva
spend this one day in bed taking the rest
cure, and after we’ve eaten this second
breakfast, which smells pretty good, we’ll
spend the day out doors.”
“But Minerva is insubordinate.”
“Very well, let us call it that. Suppose
we suppress her insubordination and she
works for us all day and takes the evening
train for New York, will the thought that we
have suppressed insubordination in a cook
get us a new servant? Insubordination in
the city, where there are whole intelligence
offices filled with girls looking for new places,
is a thing that I can’t and won’t stand; but
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
insubordination, with Mamie Logan sick with
scarlet fever and no other girl in the world
that I know of, is a thing to be coddled, as
you might say. Call it weariness caused by
over-service and it immediately becomes a
thing that we can pardon. Do you want to
pack up and go back to New York?”
Ethel assured me that she did not.
“Well, then, don’t let us talk any more
about insubordination. We’ll eat what you
set before us, asking no questions, and then
we’ll go out for a long walk.”
We went out for a long walk, and both of
us succeeded by sheer will power in forgetting
that Minerva existed. We made believe
that we could live on the delicious air that
blew so gently at us, and for two or three
hours we wandered or sat still, or Ethel
sketched and we were thoroughly happy.
It was about noon when we returned to
the house. We heard loud voices and stopped
to listen.
“I tell you he was a frien’ of Mist. Vernon’s,”
we heard Minerva say.
“Well, then, Mr. Vernon has a thief for
a friend.”
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
We exchanged meaning glances. Our
friend of the night before had evidently been
traced as far as our house. There was nothing
to do but to go forward and accept the
inevitable.
I went into the kitchen, followed by Ethel.
A large, determined looking man was sitting
on a chair in the middle of the floor; by his
side stood a strapping mulatto, and Minerva,
stopped midway in her dishwashing and with
something of sleepiness still in her eyes, was
standing by the stove.
“How are you?” This from me.
“Good morning. My name is Collins, and
I’m a constable. The Fayerweather’s house
was robbed last night and the thief got away
with the goods.”
I assumed a look of great unconcern, but
I felt that Minerva was devouring me with
her eyes.
“That’s bad,” said I.
“Yes, it’s bad, but it might be worse. I
find that he came as far as here, and your
girl says that you entertained him with a
midnight supper. Where is he now;
hiding?”
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
His tone was insolent, and my tone was
correspondingly dignified.
“Why, I haven’t the slightest idea where
the thief that robbed the Fayerweather’s is
now,” said I, wishing with all my heart that
the constable was on his vacation at some
pleasant summer resort, far, far away.
“Minerva,” said I, trying to take the bull
by the horns, “what makes you say that I
entertained a thief last night?”
“I didn’ say so, Mist. Vernon. This
ge’man said that a man, now—robbed that
house, an’ ast me if we had a mid—a midnight
vis’ter; an’ I said no one but your
frien’ that I cooked the om’let for; an’ he ast
me how he looked, an’ I told him it couldn’
be him, because you an’ him was great
frien’s, an’ I knowed you wasn’ no frien’s
with a burglar.”
“Hm,” said I, wondering why in thunderation
I had been placed in such an unpleasant
position as this, solely through my well-meant
efforts to keep Minerva contented.
“Did you entertain a friend here after
midnight, last night?” asked the constable,
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
who seemed a painfully direct sort of individual.
“There was a man came here late last
night, and we had a little chat together, and
a—a little supper, you might call it.”
I paused and looked at Ethel. She was
the color of a carnation.
“Go on,” said the constable.
At this I remembered my dignity, and
again stood upon it.
“Why should I go on? Who are you to
cross-question me in this way?”
“I am the constable, as I said before, and
I consider it very suspicious that you should
be visited by a man who had a bag that
jingled, at midnight.”
“Why shouldn’t it jingle at midnight?”
said I with a desperate attempt to impart a
tone of lightness to the conversation. “If
I choose to give a meal to a wayfarer with
a jingling bag, I suppose it is my own concern.”
“Mist. Vernon, he warn’t no tramp. He
was a good dresser,” said Minerva, looking
at me reproachfully.
“Was—this—man—a—friend—of—yours—or—not?”
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
asked the constable
doggedly.
“He was a friend of mine last night,” said
I, thinking of the debt of gratitude I felt I
owned him when he went away.
“Did you suspect him of being a thief?”
said the constable, in such a casual way that
without thinking I said “Yes.”
Minerva’s arms had been folded on her
breast. They dropped to her side. Ethel
slipped behind the constable and went into
the parlour—to cool her red cheeks, I suppose.
It was certainly a very unpleasant position
for both of us, and I felt that my white lies
were coming home to roost way ahead of
roosting time.
“Did he give you a part of the spoils as a
reward for having fed him?”
“No, sir.” This indignantly.
“He didn’t give you this?” said he, pulling
out of his pocket a silver vase.
“No.”
At this Minerva actually began to sob.
“Oh, Mist. Vernon, how could you say that?
I found that vase in the kitchen this morning,
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
and this man says it was stolen from them
people. Oh, why did I come up here?”
“Philip, you might as well tell the whole
story,” said Ethel, coming back from the
parlour. “We’ll probably lose Minerva now,
anyway.”
“So there is a story,” said the constable,
crossing his legs in a most irritating way.
In fact he couldn’t have done anything that
would not have been irritating.
I saw that the best thing to do was to tell
the truth, ridiculous as it might sound with
Minerva there. Indeed, the very fact of my
telling it might soften the girl and show her
how much we were willing to descend in our
efforts to keep her valuable services. But I
made a wrong start. I said:
“I knew that the man was a burglar—”
Minerva immediately burst out sobbing
and left the kitchen and went to her room,
and my mental eye could see her remorselessly
packing her trunk.
“Go on,” said the constable, and then, “Go
outside,” said he to the mulatto.
“Well, now that they’ve gone,” said I in a
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
relieved tone, “I can tell you the whole thing,
farcical as it is. Have you a servant?”
“My wife has a hired girl. What’s that
got to do with it?”
“Do you have trouble in keeping her?”
“We have trouble in keeping them. It’s
one after another. They all get the itch for
the mills or the stores.”
“Good! Then you’ll understand me,” said
I, and I told him the whole story, going on to
say:
“When we were roused by this burglar,
and I realized that Minerva would throw up
her position if she was unduly startled, I
resolved to throw myself on the burglar’s
mercy, and ask him to pose as my friend,
so as to deceive Minerva. It worked all
right, or would have worked all right if you
hadn’t come here to upset her worse than
ever. She’s probably packing her trunk,
now—”
“By Godfrey, I’m sorry,” said the constable,
who seemed a very decent sort of fellow,
now that I knew him better.
“You may well be sorry,” said I, with considerably
more spirit than I had yet shown.
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
“Of course, I understand that you are doing
your duty, but it’s always best to come to
headquarters in an affair of this kind. You
got only a garbled version from Minerva.
I have given you the facts. The burglar
evidently left that cup by mistake, and the
Fayerweathers are welcome to it. I’m sure
I never want to see it again. It would be
a perpetual reminder of our loss of Minerva.”
The constable rose. “It’s a durned
shame,” said he, “but of course I didn’t
know anything about you. So then you
don’t know where the burglar went after he
left here?”
I hesitated. It did not seem honourable to
tell even the little I knew about the man who
had been my guest.
“He went out the front door,” said I,
“but where he is now I haven’t the shadow of
a suspicion.”
The constable opened the kitchen door.
“Come along, Jim,” said he.
Then he took his leave.
Overhead Minerva was preparing for the
same thing.
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch06
CHAPTER VI||MISS PUSSY TRIES FLY PAPER.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
IN the back hallway, up stairs, there was
a long wooden chest, half full of old
magazines. Behind it mice had established
a home. I did not know this at the
time, but was to learn it a few minutes after
the constable left.
We stood in the kitchen, Ethel and I, listening
to the heavy foot-falls of Minerva.
She was evidently packing her trunk. Suddenly
there came a mewing at the kitchen
door, and I opened it for the entrance of
Miss Pussy, who made a bee line for up
stairs, one of her hunting grounds.
“We might hide Miss Pussy,” said I, “and
then Minerva wouldn’t go.”
Minerva’s voice has a penetrating quality,
and in a minute we could hear her making a
confidant of Miss Pussy.
“Miss Pussy, you an’ me is go’n’ back to
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
the lovely city. Country’s ba-ad ’nough, but
livin’ with the frien’s of burglars is wuss.
What you want, Miss Pussy?”
The voice came out into the hall; Minerva
had evidently followed the cat out.
“Yeah, you’ll get a mouse behin’ there.
You wait—”
We heard a grunt such as some people
make when they lift something heavy, and
then a characteristic chuckle, and then a half
agonized,
“Ooh, come out, come out, Miss Pussy.
You’ll git squished. I can’t hold it. Come
out.”
“What is happening now?” said I to
Ethel.
“Oh, some of her tomfoolery. I’m out of
patience with her.”
“Mist. Vernon! Mist. Vernon! quick!
qui-i-ck! I can’t hol’ much longer! Pussy’ll
be squished!”
I rushed up those familiar stairs, followed
by Ethel, and there stood Minerva, her eyes
nearly popping out of her head as she tried
with bare success to hold up the heavy chest
full of magazines.
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
Of the cat nothing was to be seen except
a twitching tail that told me she was underneath
the chest watching a mouse in calm
obliviousness of the fact that her mistress
was using all her strength in an effort to
save her from becoming only a map of a cat.
“Hold on a minute,” I cried, rushing to
her assistance, but just as I reached her the
chest slipped from her fingers.
But a cat with all its nine lives fresh
within its young frame, is not easily
“squished,” even by so heavy a thing as a
chest full of magazines, and Miss Pussy’s
body darted out just in time. Not so the
tip of her tail which, whisking behind her
as she turned to rush out, was caught between
chest and floor, and acted like a push
button on a call bell, for she emitted a continuous
yawp that lasted until I had lifted
the chest again.
Cats generally see where they are going,
but Miss Pussy had been looking behind her
at the spectacle of her imprisoned tail, and
when I released her she sprang high in the
air and landed compactly and dexterously
on a sheet of sticky fly paper.
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
Never can I forget the look she gave us
over her shoulder as her feet struck the gluey
mass. To give herself a leverage by which
to pull her dainty fore-paws out of the entanglement,
she sat down—temporarily, as
she thought—permanently, as the fly paper
decided.
We were sorry for the cat, but being Americans
we gave ourselves over to mirth at
the picture she presented. The pencil of a
Frost is needed to adequately represent her
agonized twisting on the sticky sheet. At
last, by a Herculean effort, she extricated her
fore paws and walking glue-ily to the head
of the stairs she dragged herself along on
the fly paper as if she were part sled, part
cat. Coming to the head of the stairs she
attempted to walk down in the manner of
trick cats, but not being used to the exercise
she turned a series of summersaults instead,
and landed at the foot so completely enmeshed
in sticky fly paper that it would have
been a small fly, indeed, who could have
found a place for his own little feet upon its
yellow surface.
I have often derided the witless persons
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
who found amusement in what I call pantomime
catastrophes, but this simple conjunction
of cat and fly paper was as funny as
anything I ever looked at.
“It’ll spoil her nice fur,” said Minerva,
running down stairs after the cat and overtaking
her at the kitchen door, which I had
fortunately closed. A sympathetic hand
picked up the papered cat and attempted to
divorce her from her adhesive mantle, but
when I came down it looked to me as if there
were far more fur on the “tanglefoot” than
Pussy had herself, and the ungrateful animal
had scratched her benefactress as well as she
could with glue covered talons. Then spitting
and swearing, Miss Pussy dashed
through the kitchen window, not waiting for
it to be opened, and went to her first retreat,
where she remained for the rest of the day,
ridding herself, after the manner of cats, of
as much as she could of the flies’ last resting
place.
It suddenly occurred to me that the time
was ripe for more diplomacy, that even now,
at the eleventh hour, I might save Minerva
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
to the house of Vernon, and things would
continue to go on as smoothly—as before.
“Minerva, you saved Miss Pussy’s life by
holding on as you did,” said I. (I said
nothing about her asininity in lifting the
chest for Miss Pussy to creep under it.)
“Might as well be dead as all gawmed up
with that fly paper stuff.”
“Well, she has a cat’s tongue, and she
knows how to use it. She’ll be as sleek as
sealskin by to-night. Minerva!”
“Yas’r.”
“Minerva, if I raised your wages, do you
think you’d stay with us? Of course, you
know I never saw that man until last night.”
“Then how’d he know so much about them
children and all them people?”
“That was just his funny way. He was
making believe—just—just to make talk.
But you haven’t answered my question.
‘Would you stay if I raised your wages?’”
“How much?”
There was no use in my being mealy
mouthed now, and so I flung economy to the
four winds of heaven and said:
“Thirty dollars a month.”
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
Minerva gasped. The bait was in her throat.
“Thirty dollars a month right through the summer,” said I.
“I’ll stay, Mist. Vernon, jes to help you
out, but I do hate the country and the night
time. If it was all day long all the time, I
could stan’ it. If I could git to bed about
eight o’clock, I wouldn’t mind it so much,
but you have dinner so late, I don’t get the
dishes washed in time.”
I pondered, and just then Ethel came into
the kitchen.
“Ethel, Minerva is going to stay with us
for the summer, but she is afraid of the
dark, and thinks that if we could have dinner
earlier she would like it better.”
Ethel sniffed. She sniffed disdainfully.
“When would you like to have it, Minerva?”
said I, hoping that the sniffing
would cease. Sniffs are not a part of diplomacy,
by any means.
“If you had it at five o’clock, I’d get to
bed at eight.”
“Five o’clock is ridiculous,” burst out
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
Ethel. I looked at her warningly, but she
did not pay any attention to my signal.
“No, Minerva,” said she. “Six o’clock is
plenty early enough.”
“Well,” said Minerva, actually putting her
hands on her hips, a new attitude for her,
“I’m on’y staying now to oblige, and I’ll
have to go back, I reckon.”
Now this was a little too much, but for
the sake of keeping her and the health of
my wife at any cost, I said:
“Well, Minerva, I suppose that in spite of
Mrs. Vernon’s objection to the hour we’ll
have dinner at five, but I tell you plainly
that it is because I do not want Mrs. Vernon
to be left without a servant.”
“You’re a very ungrateful girl, Minerva,”
said Ethel with a strange lack of tact. “Mr.
Vernon has put up with a great deal from
you, and you act as if you were ill treated.”
“I’m kep’ a prisoner in the country, an’
that’s ill treatment all right,” said Minerva,
sullenly, and I motioned to Ethel and we left
the kitchen together.
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch07
CHAPTER VII||MINERVA’S PASTORAL.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
NEXT morning was a pleasant one, and
as soon as breakfast was over I went
out into the kitchen and told Minerva
that if her friend did not delay, her musical
instrument ought to arrive by Friday. I
found her in her usual state of good temper.
“That little place where you were sewing,
out there in the woods, will be a very good
spot in which to play it,” said I suggestively.
“Oh, I kin play it anywheys,” said she
with a kindling glance, that bespoke the artist
of temperament, absolute master of his instrument.
So Paderewski might speak of his
ability to play a piano in a drawing-room
car.
That morning I had a notion to go fishing,
and I asked Ethel to join me, but she said
she was tired, and laughed as she said it.
Of course Minerva was the real reason.
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
“I wish that houses were automatic,” said
I, “so that they could run themselves. Just
think how nice it would be to have a house
fitted to run by steam all day long, by simply
dropping a five dollar gold piece in the slot
in the morning.”
“How expensive,” said the economical
Ethel.
“I don’t think so,” said I, “there’s many
a housekeeper who would be willing to give
up many things if five dollars a day would
bring relief from household sorrows. ‘No
servants needed. A child can run it. Can be
fitted to any house. Gas or electric or steam
motive power. Not half the danger from explosions
that went with the old system when
servants were liable to go off at any moment.
Come to our warerooms and see a large house
running by itself.’ There’s a fortune in the
idea.”
“Well, you have the idea,” said Ethel.
“Go sell it.”
“No, I’m going fishing.”
The great advantage that fishing has over
some sports is that one does not need ability
or paraphernalia of any sort beyond those of
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
the most primitive type. Your hammer-thrower
needs brawn, your chess player
brains, your golf player a caddy—and a vocabulary,
but anyone can go fishing. Of
course there is a great difference between
going fishing and catching fish, and I am one
of that large army that goes fishing and returns
from fishing as innocent of fish as at
the moment of departure.
But to the man with eyes, there are many
things besides fish that he can catch, and,
although no hint of a nibble came to my patient
fingers, I reveled in the day and would
have stayed longer if I had not felt anxious
about Ethel and Minerva. What could they
do to amuse each other, with me away?
I made my pleasant way back up the hills,
so reminiscent of Scotch scenery, and knew
very well the sarcasms that would greet me
when I acknowledged that I had possessed no
magnetism over the fish. Ethel always has
a store of amiable causticisms for me when
I come back from a fishless expedition.
When I returned I found the house empty
and the gluey Miss Pussy shut up and miaowing
in the kitchen. I was startled at first.
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
I had come up by way of the pine grove, and
there was no one there. I called my loudest
and no one answered. Had Minerva obliged
Ethel to get a horse and wagon and take her
to the station in my absence? It looked like
it. The fire was nearly out, the dishes all
washed, the floor freshly mopped. That was
it. Minerva had swept and garnished the
house and had then left it, and in a short time
Ethel would come back disconsolate, and then—why,
then we would pack up and go back
ourselves.
The only thing that did not fit in with my
conjecture was the presence of Miss Pussy.
It did not seem as if Minerva would go away
and leave her precious cat.
I heard a rattle of wheels. Bert Dalton
was going to the village. I would go down
with him and ride back with Ethel. She had
probably hired the Stevens’ horse. I hurried
out and hailed Bert, and he stopped.
“Going to the village?”
“Yes, sir, want anything got?”
I explained the situation, and joined him,
and we were soon out of sight of the house.
I looked at my watch. If we hurried I could
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
yet get to the station before the train for
New York came in. I told Bert so, and he
quickened the horse’s pace.
About half a mile on our way I heard some
one calling for help. Bert heard the call,
too, and just as I was going to say “stop,”
he stopped of his own accord. We both
jumped out. The noise came from a field on
our right, mostly given over to blueberry
bushes, but with a little timber on its farther
edge.
“Help! Murder!” It was a high-keyed
woman’s voice.
“Tramps,” said Bert, as we hurried on.
“Hysterics,” said I, for I was sure I heard
laughter alternating with the screams. And
the laughter had a strangely familiar sound.
On we ran, the screams continuing, and at
last the sounds were located, that is, the
screams were. They came from a low growing
chestnut. Perched in its branches sat Minerva,
her face the image of horror, and below
on a fallen trunk sat Ethel, laughing, with
the tears rolling down her cheeks. By her
side were two tin pails, nearly full of blueberries.
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
“Minerva, stop that screaming. I tell you
she won’t hurt you,” said Ethel, and then
went off into another fit of laughter, and
Minerva yelled blue murder again.
Neither had seen us.
“Come up here, Mis. Vernon. He’ll kill
you, shu’s you’ bawn.”
“She’s gone away. You’ve frightened
her. Come down.”
“Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! Lawdy! Why’d I
come? He’ll shu’ly kill us.”
When we saw that the danger was imaginary,
I signalled to Bert, and we both
stepped out of sight of Minerva and Mrs.
Vernon, in order to see the comedy. Ethel’s
perfect calmness and her amusement, but
slightly tinged with sympathy, formed such
a striking contrast to Minerva’s abject fear.
Who was this he-she that was threatening
Minerva’s existence?
There was a rustling in the bushes, Minerva’s
screams redoubled, and in spite of
her 180 pounds she climbed still higher into
the tree.
And then the cause of all the commotion
showed “himself.” A mild-looking Jersey
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
cow, all unconscious of the agony she was
causing, came into view and advanced toward
Ethel, sniffing.
“Don’t you overturn our berries,” said
my wife, walking toward the creature. The
cow was evidently a pet, for as Ethel put
out her hand to shoo her away she sniffed
expectantly and put out her tongue in hope
of receiving some little delicacy.
This so terrified Minerva that she took another
step upward, put her faith in a recreant
limb, and, just as Bert and I discovered
ourselves to Ethel, our “cook lady” fell
out of the tree and landed smack on the cow,
who kindly broke her fall and then broke
into a run, kicking her heels and waving her
tail, after the manner of her species.
Minerva was not hurt, thanks to the cow,
but she was much agitated, and it was some
time before we could make her listen to the
words of wisdom that all three poured forth
with generous ease.
“It was such a lovely day, we thought we’d
go berrying,” said Ethel. “You got my note,
I suppose.”
“No, I did not. I made up my mind that
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
you were taking Minerva to the train, and
as Bert passed by just then, I came down
with him in order to go back with you.”
“Then how came you here?” asked Ethel.
“How came we here? How came we here?
Why those screams went beyond Mount
Nebo. You’ll see people pouring over the
edge of it in a few minutes. Such shrieks I
never heard outside of a mad house. I
thought it was Indians.”
Minerva’s agitation had now taken the
form of sobbing, and as she mopped her
face with her apron it began to dawn upon
her that she had not been in danger until she
took to the tree. She helped herself to a
handful of berries, and they seemed to do
her good, for she listened to Ethel’s account
of what had happened and punctuated it with
what at first were chuckles, and when the humour
of the thing had soaked in far enough
were her irresistible guffaws, so provocative
of laughter in others.
“We were picking berries and enjoying
ourselves very much when I heard a rustling
and looked up, and there was a cow. I said
rather hastily, ‘Oh, look,’ and Minerva
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
looked and screamed out, ‘It’s a bear,’ and
before I could tell her what it was she had
gone up that tree as if she had lived in the
country all her life. She begged of me to
come up with her, but I got over my fear
of cows some time ago.” This with a conscious
blush, for Ethel knew that in times
past she, too, had fled from a cow.
I turned to Minerva. “Do you mean to tell
me that you never saw a cow before? There
are cows in the city.”
“I never saw one.”
“Haven’t you seen pictures of them on
groceries?”
“I spec I have, but comin’ thataway at
me it looked like a bear.”
“Very like a bear,” said I. “Well, it’s
lucky you weren’t hurt. You can thank the
cow that you didn’t break your back. I hope
you didn’t break hers.”
She went off into yells of laughter at this
mild bit of humour, and cheerfulness now being
restored, I thanked Bert for giving me
a lift and told him I didn’t care to go any
farther.
He left us and we went on picking berries,
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
and before the pail was full Minerva had a
chance to pat the fearsome beast that had
so nearly frightened her to death. Now that
she knew it was merely a cow, the source of
the milk and cream of which she was so fond,
she had no fear at all, being in that respect
different from Ethel, who in the beginning
had feared cows because they were cows,
just as certain other women fear mice because
they are mice, and as Lord Roberts
fears a cat because it is a cat and not “the
enemy.”
The whistle at the Wharton Paper Mill
told us it was twelve o’clock, and like hungry
mill hands we started for home. Minerva
walked ahead with both pails, and Ethel and
I followed.
Half way up Minerva burst into song.
“How volatile!” said I.
“The worst is over. We’ll have no more
trouble with her,” said Ethel.
So lightly do we attempt to read the future.
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch08
CHAPTER VIII||THE ’CORDEEN COMES.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.67
THAT afternoon Bert brought an express
package to Minerva.
.ni
To her it was a package of sunlight.
.pi
In fact it was the accordeon.
As soon as Minerva opened the bundle she
stopped cooking dinner and began to play
on her beloved instrument. Such sounds I
had hoped never to hear again, and I went
out into the kitchen and told her that I was
sorry, but that I could not stand it in the
house.
She looked up from the instrument, and
there was a world of appeal in her eyes. I
had never seen so much expression in them.
Music certainly had power over her.
“Oh, Mist. Vernon, it’ll be dark after the
dishes is washed, an’ I don’ dah go in the
woods,” said she. “I’ll play sof’.”
“Yes, but you’ll delay dinner.”
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
She actually came over and laid her brown
hand on my sleeve.
“Mist. Vernon,” said she, in honey tones,
“I’m on’y gettin’ dinner at five to please
myse’f. If I git it at six Mis. Vernon will
like it better. She said so. I won’t play
long.”
But I was determined not to listen to such
music as that in the house. So I went out
doors.
Ethel was sitting at the window of her
bedroom. When she saw me she put her
hands to her ears and made a grimace.
I made signs to her to come down.
“Let us be diplomatic,” said I, when she
had come down stairs. “Let us go for a
long walk.”
The hideous “upside down music” assailed
us until we were fully a half a mile away.
“Ethel,” said I, “we haven’t gone about
this matter of keeping Minerva in the right
way.”
“Meaning what?” said Ethel.
“Meaning that we are trying to make her
like a thing she does not understand. The
country is an unknown land to her. We
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
must try to make her acquainted with it, and
perhaps she will love it so much that we will
have hard work getting her to go back with
us.”
“Well, goodness, that is hardly worth
striving for,” said Ethel. “There are only
three months up here, but there are nine
months in the city, and we want her there.”
“Well, we won’t educate her up to that
point, then, but we must do something to
make her more contented. She is just as
much a human being as you and I, and I dare
say that her summer is just as much to her
as ours is to us. We are depriving her of
recreation pier amusements, of ice cream, of
band concerts, and what are we giving her in
return? We ought to go out and get some
one of her own colour to come and call on
her.”
“Don’t be absurd, Philip. Minerva is not
a farce.”
“No, she is only getting to be a tragedy.
But I’m not absurd. Next to Minerva’s love
for the city is her love for people. If we
can’t make her love the country, we may be
able to make her love the people of the country,
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
and I am going to ask Bert if there is
not some respectable man or woman who
could be hired to come here and call on Minerva
every day.”
Ethel looked at me expecting to see a twinkle
or so in one or another of my eyes, but
I was not thinking of twinkling. I never was
so much in earnest. Minerva was plainly
sorry that she had been impertinent and I
was going to be eminently just.
We dismissed Minerva from our thoughts,
or at least I, man-like dismissed her from
mine. I don’t suppose that Ethel was able
to do so, but we did not talk of her again,
preferring to drink in the beauties of nature
and call each other’s attention to each
draught. Rare is that nature lover who can
silently absorb the loveliness of a landscape.
Nor would I laugh at those who call on
their companions for corroboration of their
views as to views. It is simply another way
of sharing delights, and that man who gobbles
up a landscape and never comments
upon it is not likely to have kept silence from
Japanese motives. They say that the Japanese
take the appreciation of beauty so
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
much as a matter of course that they never
refer to the rapturous tints in an orchard of
peach blossoms or the tender greens of a
spring landscape, feeling that it would be an
insult to invite attention where attention was
already bestowed; but with us of the West,
when a man refrains from speaking about
this lordly oak or that graceful dip of hill,
or those clouds dying on the horizon in every
conceivable colour, the chances are that he is
thinking of his business affairs, and the
clouds die and the hills dip and the tree
spreads not for him.
Many of these graceful thoughts I expressed
in fitting words to Ethel, so it will
be seen that our walk was not without interest,
and as she in turn said many quotable
things, which I now forget, the walk was prolonged
until to our astonishment we found
that it was seven.
“Hungry as a bear?” asked I.
“Indeed I am. Probably Minerva has
been holding dinner in the oven this half
hour, and it will not be fit to eat.”
We hastened our steps, and in a few minutes
our home burst upon us—also more
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
strains from the accordeon—together with
plunks from a banjo.
We heard the plunks before we saw who
was supplying them, but in a moment the
musician was seen to be seated upon the
front verandah.
He was a tall, good-looking mulatto, and
I at once recognized him as being the man
who had driven the constable over that morning.
Ethel stopped short, and became angry at
the same instant. I stopped short and became
amused at the same instant, thus showing
how the same acts will affect different
natures; also showing how a person can do
two things at once and do them both well.
For there is no question but that our stops
were as short as they could have been, and
our anger and amusement were well conceived
and well carried out.
Ethel was too angry to speak. I was too
amused to keep silent.
“It’s scandalous,” said Ethel, as soon as
she could find words.
“It’s just right,” said I. “And it has
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
given me a good idea. After dinner I will
tell you about it.”
The banjoist had seen us first, and had told
Minerva, and both had jumped to their feet,
the man to bow and Minerva to run into the
kitchen, where she was followed by her
friend.
By the time we had come up to the front
path to the veranda the coloured man had
come out from the kitchen and in most melodious
tones said,
“Minerva wanted to know if you would
like dinner served on the piazza, the evening
being so pleasant.”
Delmonico never had a head waiter with
the aplomb, the native dignity, the utter unconsciousness
of self that this superbly built
man displayed.
I felt that we had suddenly fallen heir to
a fortune, and a group of retainers, and trying
to play my part to the best of my ability
I said,
“By all means—er—”
“James.”
“By all means, James. Is it ready?”
“I will ascertain in a moment sir,” said
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
this yellow prince, and retired to the kitchen,
whence he emerged in a moment.
“A slight retention in the oven in regard
to the roast, sir, but the soup will be ready
immejutly.”
Ethel had gone up stairs at once. I nodded
my head gravely and said,
“Very well, James,” and then I went up to
make my toilet.
“The tide has turned, Ethel,” said I when
I reached the room. “A kind Providence has
sent the grandson of some Senegambian king
to wait on us and to amuse Minerva between
meals. Put a ribbon in your hair, and I
will put a buttercup in my button hole, or I
will dress, if you say so, and we will put on
the style that befits us.”
“Who is that man?” said Ethel.
“In fairy stories wise people never question.
They accept. This is the constable’s
driver, and he was probably attracted here
by the dread strains of the accordeon. Let
us make the most of him. I am quite sure
he is going to serve dinner, and I feel it in
my bones that he will do it well.”
And he did do it well and the dinner was
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
worth serving. It had been delayed by the
concert, there was no doubt of that, and it
was nearly eight when we sat down to it,
but the silent, graceful fellow, moved noiselessly
in and out from kitchen to verandah,
the whippoorwills sang to us, the roses filled
the air with fragrance, and a silver crescent
in the west rode to its couch full sleepily.
This may sound poetic. If it does it is
because we felt satisfied with everything once
more, and satisfaction is poetry.
After the dinner was over Ethel went out
into the kitchen about something and found
Minerva smiling and bustling around to get
the dishes washed in a hurry.
“Mis. Vernon,” said she, “that man wants
to know if Mist. Vernon has any work for
him to do.”
“That man” was out on the veranda
clearing away the dessert dishes.
“I’ll see,” said Ethel. “How did he happen
to come here?”
“Why, Mis. Vernon, that man is related
with my folks. His aunt’s brother married
my aunt’s niece. I don’ know what that
makes him to me, but he remembers me when
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
I was a little gal in New York, and he reckernized
me as soon as he saw me. He says—”
The approach of James prevented her from
saying anything further, but as soon as he
had gone out for the coffee cups, she continued:
“He says that he’s on’y be’n workin’ with
that policeman while he was manufacturin’
hay, an’ he’d like to do odd jobs.”
“I’m afraid they’ll have to be real odd
ones,” said I when Ethel told me what had
transpired. “But if it is going to make
Minerva contented we will have him come
and paint the porch green to-morrow, and
red the day after.”
I sat and smoked peacefully for a few minutes.
James had taken the last saucer out
to the kitchen, and Ethel sat by my side, looking
out into the waning light of day.
Suddenly there came the strains of “Roll
Jordan, Roll,” in the form of a soprano and
bass duet.
Minerva’s playing on the accordeon had
not prepared me for the sweetness of her
voice, which is perhaps not strange, and of
course I knew nothing of James’s capabilities
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
as a vocalist until I heard his rich, mellow
baritone blend with her warm soprano.
The effect was delightful. Not since I
heard the original Fiske Jubilee singers,
twenty-five years ago, when a boy of six or
seven, have I heard any negro music that
satisfied me as this did.
“Ethel,” said I, “we are It. Is there a
local charitable organization or a Village Improvement
Society, or a Mother’s Meeting
that needs help?”
“What are you after now,” said Ethel.
“Minerva’s pleasure first and foremost,
but also the amelioration of the bitter lot of
parties at present unknown, by means of a
concert to be given at the house of Mrs.
Vernon, by James and Minerva.”
“Philip!” said Ethel.
“As near as I can make out,” said I, “I
am devoting this summer to the building up
of your health by a life in the country, free
from cares. To do that we must have a
girl, and there is but one girl that we know
we can have, and that is the girl we do have.
Can’t you imagine how Minerva will take fire
at the thought of singing in a concert?”
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
“I suppose she would like it,” said Ethel,
“but how do you know that we can get people
to come?”
“We needn’t worry about that part of it
at first. First of all we must begin our rehearsals,
and they will take time. Do you
appreciate that fact? And very first of all,
I’ll go out and interview James.”
“Philip,” said Ethel, rising and looking
at me with a vexed expression, “I wish you
had more dignity. I’ll go out and tell James
that you wish to speak to him.”
“Not at all,” said I. “What! You go out
and tell him? Wait. Sit where you are, and
all will be well.”
I was beginning to feel in holiday mood,
for I was sure that I had struck on an arrangement
that would tide us over at least
a fortnight.
I went out to the kitchen.
“Minerva,” said I, “Mrs. Vernon would
like to speak to you.”
I then went back to Ethel and said, “I
have asked Minerva to come. When she
comes, tell her to send James. We will do
this thing in style while we are about it.”
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
Minerva came in, her face all smiles.
“Minerva, ask your friend James to come
out,” said Ethel. “Mr. Vernon wishes to
speak to him.”
“That’s it! That’s style!” said I, as soon
as Minerva had gone. “Now is our dignity
preserved, and James feels that he has fallen
among people who know what’s what. Do
you want to be present at this interview?”
Ethel decided that she did not, and went
into the parlour as James came out of the
kitchen.
“Did you want to speak to me, sir?” said
James respectfully.
“Yes, James. What is your last name?”
“Mars. James Montgomery Mars.”
“Minerva tells me, James, that you are
looking for work.”
“Yes, sir; for congenial work.”
“Would singing be congenial work?”
“Singing’s a pleasure, sir. It ain’t
work.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said I, “that what
this section needed was a concert for the
benefit of something. Now, Mrs. Vernon
likes to make other people happy, and while
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
we were listening to you and Minerva sing,
it struck us both that a concert of old plantation
melodies like those you could sing,
would be well received, say at the Congregational
Church at Egerton. I would pay you
a coachman’s wages for staying here and
practising, but all the money taken in would
go to—”
“The Hurlbert Hospital. That’s what
they always do with the money up here, sir.”
“Oh, I see, like the Liverpool Sailors’
Home.”
He did not understand my allusion, but I
did not explain. Allusions that are explained
lose half their charm.
“What do you think of the idea?”
“I think it’s all right, sir. But between
singing what would I do?”
“Do you love nature?”
“I don’t know’s I know what you intend to
mean, sir.”
“Does it make you happy to be out
doors?”
“Oh, sure. I’m an out-door boy, all
right.”
“Well, Mrs. Vernon, in her desire to benefit
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
humanity—You understand me, James?”
“Oh, I get the words all right. I don’t
rightly see your drift.”
“What I want to say is, that Mrs. Vernon
wishes to make Minerva love out doors as
well as you do, and she is going to teach her
some of the things that a country-bred man
like you knows by heart. How to tell an oak
from a maple at twilight.”
“Oh, that kind has been here before. The
Wheelocks, that had this house last year,
went out in the woods with these here glasses
and they brought things up close with them.
They never cared for nature unless they had
their glasses.”
“James, I’m afraid it is apt to degenerate
into something like that, but—James,
if I tell you something, will you respect my
confidence?”
“Will you please say that in different
words?”
I thought a moment while I chose simpler
words.
“Will you say nothing to Minerva, if I tell
you something?”
“Oh, sure.”
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
“Well, this concert and these nature lessons
are solely for the purpose of keeping
Minerva’s mind off herself and the city. She
wants to go back to New York, and we want
her to stay here all summer, and—”
I explained it all to him, and the fellow
seemed to enter right into the spirit of the
thing, and assured me that he would do all
he could to help.
“Where do you live?”
“Down in the valley a bit. When shall I
show up in the morning?”
“The earlier, the better. I want you and
Minerva to begin to practise for the concert
right away. Do you sing by note.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, have you any book of negro melodies.”
“No, sir. Wouldn’t do me much good, sir,
as I can’t read music.”
“Oh, I thought you said you sang by note.”
“Yes, sir. Note by note, right along. I
have a good ear, but I can’t read music.”
“Very well, James. Come in the morning
prepared to sing note by note, by ear, anything
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
you can remember. Do you know
‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot?’”
“Indeed I do. Oh, I know all the jubilee
songs, and all the rag-time songs, and I
guess we can fill up a couple of hours singin’
in the old Congregational Church.”
He chuckled.
“What is it, James?”
“Why, I was thinkin’ that here the white
folks sing down there every Sunday in the
church, and if I care to go an’ hear them it
don’t cost me a cent, but if Minerva and me
sing there in that same church, the white
folk’ll have to pay money to hear us. ‘Tain’t
gen’elly that way.”
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch09
CHAPTER IX||A NAKED SCUTTERER.
.sp 2
.dc 0.3 0.675
THE next morning was one of those days
that sometimes come in the summer,
when the most desirable thing to do is
to sleep. The air was soft and damp, and
sleep inviting, and when something awoke
me at six o’clock, I drowsily looked at my
watch and dreamily realized that I was not
compelled to catch any train, but could sink
into delightful unconsciousness once more.
Just what had waked me I did not know,
but before I went off again I heard the voice
of James out doors, and then I heard the
voice of Minerva, evidently at her open window,
saying:
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
And then I dropped off, to be awakened
again in what seemed like a moment by these
beautiful words:
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
.pm verse-start
“Oh, de debbil he t’ought he had me fas’.
Le’ my people go.
But I t’ought I’d break his chains at las’,
Le’ my people go.
Go down Moses, way down in Egypt la-an’,
Tell ol’ Phar’o’ fo’ to le’ my people go.”
.pm verse-end
It was melodious, it was harmonious, but
it was also six o’clock in the morning.
“Oh, won’t they stop,” said Ethel, sleepily.
“Not by my command,” said I. “They
are practising for the concert.”
“Oh, I’m so sleepy! What time is it?”
.pm verse-start
“Oh, ’twas a dark an’ stormy night,
Le’ my people go;
When Moses an’ the Israelite,
Le’ my people go.”
.pm verse-end
“Make them go,” said Ethel, her eyes wide
open, but her mouth passing from the words
to a yawn.
“And it’s such a beautiful morning to
sleep,” said I.
But as verse after verse rolled out sonorously,
sleep fled from the room in dismay,
and we followed, and for the first time since
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
we had come to the country, found ourselves
as one might say, up before breakfast. The
morning air was delightful, but we knew
the danger that lurks in morning air on
empty stomachs—or we thought we knew it.
If there is no danger in such exposures I
make my humble apology to those who hold
the contrary opinion. Personally I do not
know what is right to do—that is, hygienically
right to do, at any given moment.
May I be forgiven for digressing at this
point, in order that I may touch on a topic
that has been near my heart for a long time,
but has never had a chance for utterance
before. I was brought up to believe that
water with meals was a very bad thing, so
I went without water at meals, and thrived
like a green bay tree.
One day a doctor told me that water with
meals was the one thing needed to bring out
the tonic properties of food.
I immediately began to drink water with
my meals in perfect trust and confidence, and—I
continued to thrive like a green bay
tree.
When I was a boy, I was told that tomatoes
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
were exceedingly bad; that they had no nutritive
qualities, and that it was but a few
short years since they had been called “love
apples” and had rightly been considered
poisonous.
With unquestioning faith I refrained from
eating the juicy vegetables and remained
free from all the diseases that follow in their
train. I had not tasted a tomato, and I did
not know what I was losing.
One day when feeling a little off my feed,
a young doctor friend said, “What you need
is the acid of a tomato.”
With an unfaltering trust I approached a
tomato and ate it and realized the many,
many years that were irrevocably gone;
years in which I might have eaten the succulent
fruit—for a tomato is a fruit; there’s
no question of it.
After that day I made a point of eating
tomatoes whenever I could and I remained
free from the diseases that had been said to
follow in their train.
I blindly follow the dictum of the last doctor
who speaks and it is to that fact that I
attribute my good health.
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
I read somewhere not long since that the
best way to keep free from colds was to sit
in draughts as much as possible and I believe
there is a good deal of sound sense back
of that dictum, but Ethel will not let me try
the virtue of the thing.
No doctor has told me that it is right to
take long walks on an early morning empty
stomach and so I have not done it, but I have
an English friend who used to walk twenty
miles or so to breakfast. The English are
always walking twenty miles to somewhere,
and look at them. A fine race!
The Americans are not much given to walking,
but look at them—a fine race!
Everything is certainly for the best—always,
everywhere.
We walked around to the kitchen and found
Minerva on her knees before the fire watching
insufficient kindling feebly burn while
James sat on the kitchen table swinging one
long leg and teaching her a rag-time melody.
He rose to his feet as we came in and gave
us a hearty good morning and then burst
into a good-natured laugh that showed all
his beautiful white teeth.
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
“Made an early start, sir.”
“Yes, James. It isn’t absolutely necessary
for rehearsals to begin quite so early,”
said I. “It woke us up.”
“There, now, Minerva, what did I tell
you? I was sure they’d hear it.”
“No question about your filling the
church.”
“’Deed I’m awful sorry,” said Minerva,
“Wakin’ you so early, an’ the fire not kindled.”
“Well, never mind. We’ll drink some
milk and then we’ll go for a little walk, but
I think that to-morrow perhaps the rehearsals
needn’t begin until after breakfast.
There’ll be a long morning before you and
you can rehearse in the morning and take
the nature study in the afternoon.”
“Yas’r,” said Minerva, a shade of reluctance
in her tone which I attributed to the
mention of nature study. Minerva evidently
wanted life to be one grand sweet song.
All that morning snatches of melody
floated over the landscape in the which landscape
we were idly lolling under the trees
reading, and I think that household duties
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
were neglected, but that James was not
averse to work was shown by the fact that
he carried great armfuls of kindling wood
into the kitchen.
When Ethel went out there just before
lunch she found the west window banked up
to the second sash with kindling wood.
Ethel likes to have the whole house in ship
shape order, and this unsightly pile of wood
in the kitchen went against the grain. There
was enough there to last a week and meantime
the kitchen was robbed of that much
daylight.
James sat on the door-sill idly whittling
a piece of kindling and Minerva, temporarily
songless, was getting lunch ready.
“Oh, James,” said Ethel after a rapid
survey of the situation, “I wish if you
haven’t anything else to do that you would
pile that kindling wood out in the woodshed.”
She told me he burst into his hearty laugh,
and, rising with alacrity, he said:
“Certainly, Mrs. Vernon,” and for the
next half hour he was busily employed in
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
undoing what he had done in the half hour
before.
“Oh, it will be easy to find employment
for him along those lines,” said I when she
told me. “We’ll just make him do things and
undo them and that laugh of his will keep
Minerva sweet natured and he’ll earn his
wages over and over again.”
“Well, it seems sort of wicked to make
a human being do unnecessary things just
for the sake of making him undo them
again,” said my mistress of economics.
“In cases like that the end justifies the
means.”
After lunch that day Ethel interrogated
Minerva as to her feelings.
“Oh, Mis. Vernon, James is like human
folks to me. He’s in a way different from
you an’ Mist. Vernon.”
“Do you mean you think he’s better?”
said Ethel, more to draw Minerva out than
for any other reason.
“No, but he’s more folksy. You an’ Mist.
Vernon, after all’s said an’ done, is white.
It ain’t dat he’s kinder dan you, but he’s
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
more my kind. My, he’d be lovely in de
city.”
Minerva sighed.
“Minerva, don’t think about the city,
you wouldn’t have such a chance to sing together
in the city as you have here. I
couldn’t get up such a concert as this is going
to be in the city, but up here you have just
that much more freedom.”
“Minerva,” continued Ethel, “You needn’t
scrub the kitchen floor this afternoon. I
want you and James to join a little school
that I am going to get up.”
“Never did like school,” said Minerva.
“Well,” said Ethel, feeling that she had
approached the subject in the wrong way,
“I don’t mean a school where you have to
sit in a stuffy room and do sums on a board
and learn to read and write. I mean that we
are going out into the woods to learn something
about the denizens of the woods and
fields.”
“Yas’m,” said Minerva.
Minerva was an emotional being. There
was never any doubt of that. I think it was
the next day that Ethel and I were returning
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
from a walk and we saw James leave the
kitchen and go around to the front of the
house as if he were looking for some one.
When he saw us he said:
“Have you seen Minerva?”
We told him we had not, but just then we
all saw her coming out of the woodshed with
a handful of kindlings, her cat, still somewhat
sticky, perched on her shoulder.
She entered the kitchen and I was just
about to ask James a question about the
Hurlbert Home when the now familiar shrieking
voice of Minerva came to us through the
open kitchen window.
“Ow, ow, take it away. Ow, I’m bitten.”
Ethel, alarmed, started for the house. I,
nonplussed, stood still. James burst out
laughing.
A moment later Minerva came running out
of the front door, her apron over her head.
“What is it, Minerva?” said Ethel, taking
hold of her and uncovering her face.
“Ow, Mis. Vernon, dere’s der stranges’
animal in the kitchen. Tain’t a dog an’ it has
a mouth like hinges, an’ I’m afraid it’ll eat
Miss Pussy up.”
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
“What a child you are, Minerva,” said
Ethel. “There’s no animal there. I’m sure
of it.”
“Let’s see what it is,” said I, and turned
to speak to James, but he had disappeared.
I could hear his hearty voice shattering
the air with laughter, but I could not see him.
“Come, we’ll go in and see this beast,”
said I. “Perhaps it’s a rat.”
“’Deed it ain’t a rat. I ain’t agoin’ in.
It’s scutterin’ all over de place, an’ it’s stark
naked.”
Scuttering all over the place and stark
naked. A light burst on me.
Ethel and I went in hand in hand, because
her hand sought mine. I can not say that
I was afraid.
When we reached the sitting room we could
hear the scuttering together with other
noises that were not pleasant, and I realized
that to metropolitan Minerva the animal must
be very terrifying if, indeed, he proved to be
what I thought he was.
Minerva had evidently slammed the kitchen
door after her, for it was shut.
I opened it and the stark naked scutterer
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
turned out to be a little pig not much bigger
than Miss Pussy and as pink and nude as
Venus rising from the sea.
The little chap was frantic and he rushed
through the dining room into the sitting
room and thence to the front porch.
Minerva had been standing there wringing
her hands, with her back to the house. It
therefore happened that she did not see the
innocent little porker coming. His only idea
was to get out of doors and away, but he
blundered in doing so, for he ran plump into
Minerva, who sat down on him as promptly
and then in her agitation she rolled off the
front steps to the front path, and the squealing
piggy, freeing himself from her skirts,
ran off down the road.
“Ow, he’s bit me. He’s bit me,” said
Minerva, sitting up in the path and rubbing
her knee.
I am not entirely at home in natural history,
but I do not think it is the habit of little
pigs to bite, and I told Minerva so, but she
insisted that she was bitten, and nothing
would calm her until Mrs. Ethel took her into
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
the kitchen and satisfied her that she had not
been bitten at all.
Minerva’s plight had its funny side, and
James evidently thought so, for he now came
into view and said,
“She’s the most fidgety girl I ever saw.
I brought her a present of a little pig and
left it in the kitchen for her, and the pig has
never been away from its mother before, and
it was most as much frightened as Minerva
was.”
“What she needs is lessons in natural history,
James. The other day she mistook a
cow for a bear, and the only animals she
seems to know are horses and dogs and cats.”
“I guess I’ll go get that pig,” said James.
We could hear the little animal squealing. It
was running madly around in the lower lot.
“I’ll help you, James.”
Afterwards I was sorry I had said I would
help James. I had never chased a pig before,
and I did not know they could cover
ground so quickly or so unexpectedly. Twice
I was bowled over in my efforts to grab the
slippery beast, and by the time that he was
caught I was winded and perspiring.
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
“I’ll take it into the kitchen and show it
to Minerva and tell her how it happened,”
said James.
“Yes, do,” said I. “The only way to get
her broken to pigs is to show her that they
do not intend any harm.”
We went into the kitchen and found her
laughing hysterically, while Ethel was picking
up pieces of crockery that decorated the
floor. It seems that the lunch dishes were
piled up preparatory to washing them and
piggy had run against the leg of the table
and dislodged them with destructive effect.
James entered the kitchen, holding the pig
clasped to his ample chest.
“There, Minerva, you see the animal is
perfectly harmless.”
“My, my, I never did see such a mouth,”
said she.
Ethel does not like to touch strange animals,
but she wished to show Minerva how
perfectly innocuous this little piggy was, and
so she stroked its pink little snout and the
next instant the little fellow had her finger
in its mouth and sucked it as if it were a stick
of candy.
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
This at first frightened Minerva and it did
not please my fastidious wife, but for the
sake of the object lesson she said:
“Now, you see, Minerva, this pig is even
more harmless than a cat, for a cat has claws
and this pig has only—”
Alas, for Ethel. The pig showed what it
could do by inserting its pearly teeth in her
finger.
She snatched her hand away in a moment,
but Minerva’s confidence in pigs had been so
lessened that we told James that he would
better take his gift elsewhere.
For my part I was not sorry to see the
shiny little creature go. Pigs have never
appealed to me as household pets. My ancestors
came from England.
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch10
CHAPTER X||WE PLAN A CONCERT.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
IT was the day after we had given up that
particular spot in the woods as a trysting
place and we were all driving to the
village in Bert’s wagon.
We were going for two reasons; Ethel intended
buying Minerva a new dress (for out
doors), and I was going to find out something
about the concert which I proposed giving.
Ethel and I took turns in driving, while
James and Minerva sat on the back seat.
Great billows of clouds lapped the shores
of blue above us and cast huge shadows on
the hillside; shadows that moving changed
the entire aspect of the places over which
they passed.
Bobolinks launched themselves and their
songs at the same time and gave to the day
a quality that no other songster is ever able
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
to impart. It was a morning to inspire happiness.
“What a heavenly country this is,” said
Ethel; “I’d like to live here until the leaves
color.”
“I dare say it would be nice here in the
winter time, too.”
“Oof!” shuddered Ethel. “Pretty but
dreadful. How can anyone keep warm in the
country in the wintertime?”
Her remark had been heard by Minerva,
and she said to James:
“Do folks leave here in winter?”
“No, indeed,” said James. “Winter’s the
best time of the year up here. I jus’ like
the cold. Coastin’ from here to the village,
a mile and a half. Everybody does it. And
skating! Umm. You ought to stay up here
in winter.”
“Oh, lawdy, if it’s so sad in the summer
I’d die in the winter. Don’t the wind howl
like a dog?”
“Like a thousand dogs, but I like it. You
come up here an’ visit my old mother in the
winter, an’ I’ll teach you to skate and you’ll
never want to go back.”
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
“Imagine Minerva here in winter,” whispered
Ethel to me. “Poor thing. She
would die of the horrors. But, do you think
she is more contented?”
“I certainly do. She is going to have new
clothes—Is that a sheep?”
It turned out to be a rock. “There are
no sheep around here,” said Ethel. “Bert
said so.”
“I wonder if Minerva would be frightened
at sheep?”
“She might be. The most peaceful animals
aren’t always the most peaceful looking.
I think a cow is much more diabolical
than a lion as far as looks go. A lion is kind
of benign and I dare say that a lion that has
just eaten a man looks sleepy and contented
and good-natured as he licks his chops.”
“I think the most dreadful looking beast
in the whole menagerie is the goat, although,
come to think of it, he is more likely to be
found in the back yard than in the menagerie,
and I dare say that Minerva knows him like
a book. Yes, he has the devil beaten to a
pulp, as Harry Banks would say, and yet he
never has the bad manners to spit like the—what
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
was that beautiful beast that spit in the
face of that pompous little man down at
Dreamland?”
“Oh, you mean the llama. Wasn’t that
funny? And he did look so innocent. And
now that spitting is a misdemeanor and the
practice is going out, I suppose the llama
will steadily increase in value—”
“Do you mind if we sing. Mr. Vernon?”
said James, respectfully.
I thought a minute. If James had been
driving and Minerva was by his side on the
front seat it would have been perfectly natural
for Ethel and me to break out into song
on such a perfect day in such a lonely place.
As the conditions were reversed; as I was
driving and James and Minerva were on the
back seat, it seemed to me perfectly proper
that they should be the ones to break out into
roundelays, and I told them to break out—couching
the permission in other language.
They began, after a whispered consultation,
and the song which they sang was as
follows:
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
.pm verse-start
“Ma-ah ol’ missus said to me
(Gwan to git a-home bime by)
“Whe-en she died she’d set me free
(Gwan to git a-home bime by)
Oh dat watermiyun
(Lamb er goodness you must die)
I’se gwan fer to jine de cont’aban’ chillun
(Gwan ter git a-home bime by).
“Whe-en she died she died so po’
(Gwan ter git a-home bime by).
She lef’ me wuss’n I was befo’
(Gwan ter git a-home bime by).”
.pm verse-end
They had started the chorus of the second
verse, throwing themselves into it with all
the abandon of bobolinks—black bobolinks—when
we came to a turn in the road and
heard a clatter of hoofs and a smart turn-out
belonging to summer people from Egerton
drove by.
I recognized in the ladies who were leaning
languidly back on the cushioned seats
two New Yorkers whom we met at a tea last
winter and who seemed to take an interest in
Ethel, so much so that I told her at the time
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
that if she had had any social ambitions I
was sure that here were stepping stones.
But I am quite sure that the stepping
stones marveled greatly at the spectacle and
the sounds we presented. Driving a chorus
out. We looked back after we had passed
and found that they were rude enough to be
looking at us.
“Do you care, Ethel?”
“Well, I wish they had been some one else.
It must have looked silly.”
“Not at all. It looks perfectly business-like.
Or it will look so later. When Mrs.
Guernsea and her daughter see the announcements
of the concert they will realize that
we were doing a little preliminary advertising
to whet the appetites of the populace.
They will come to the concert. Mark my
words.”
As we were now within sight of the houses
of the village, I told James that I guessed
we’d better postpone further melody until
our return, as we might be taken for a circus,
rather than a concert, and the rest of the way
was made in silence.
While Ethel was buying clothes for Minerva,
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
I, by the advice of James, sought out
Deacon Fotherby of the Second Congregational
Church.
He presided over the destinies of a shoestore,
and when I went in he was trying to
force a number eight shoe on a number nine
foot of a Cinderella of uncertain age, whose
face was red—from his exertions.
I waited patiently about until the good
deacon got a larger shoe, called it a number
seven (may the recording angel pardon him)
and slipped it on the foot of Cinderella, who
departed simpering.
He came up to me in a business-like way.
“Is this Deacon Fotherby?”
“My name is Fotherby, but I sell shoes
week days.”
“Well, Mr. Fotherby, I don’t want to buy
any shoes to-day, but I do want to know
whether you are interested in the Hurlbert
Home.”
The deacon’s manner underwent a remarkable
change. Up to that time he had been
the attentive salesman. Now his face softened,
he motioned me to a seat and sat down
beside me.
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
“Interested? I’m wrapped up in it.
What do you want? To help it or be helped
by it?”
“Both in a way,” said I, as I thought of
what the concert was going to accomplish
for me.
“I am in a position to give a concert of
negro melodies for the benefit of your home.
I control—in a measure—two colored persons
who have fine voices, and it occurred
to me that the villagers and perhaps the summer
people would attend a concert given in
your church.”
“Yes, they would,” said he, rubbing his
hands. “And we could provide some attractions
out of our own ranks. There’s a male
quartette in the Sunday School—”
“White?” said I.
“Why, certainly,” said he.
“Well, I’m a person entirely devoid of race
prejudice, but you must remember that this
is New England, Massachusetts in fact, and
if we wish to make a success of this concert
we must not mix the two races. I see no
reason personally why your white quartette
should not sing on the same stage with our
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
colored singers, if they sing as well, but I
am quite sure that the public would not patronize
the concert if we advertised it as a
mixed affair.”
The good deacon rose from his seat and
said, “Why, my dear sir, I consider that a
colored man has just as white a soul as a
white man.”
I also rose and told him that I could not
swear as to the color of any soul; that souls
might be a delicate pink for all I personally
knew to the contrary. I also told him that
I would not object to attending a concert of
beautiful voices that came out of white and
black throats (I was not flippant enough to
say that all throats were red) but that I knew
my fellow Yankees too well to think that they
would care to come to a concert where whites
and blacks sang on the same stage.
“It might go in the South,” said I, “where
their ideas about such things are different
from ours, but up here if you want our colored
concert to be a success you must let all
the singing be done by colored folks and all
the hearing be done by white.”
At this point the talk drifted to the negro
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
question and what a problem it was getting
to be and I found that we thought alike on
most points, and I finally made him understand
that I was acting from diplomatic motives
entirely, and because I understood the
temper of the New Englanders so well.
“Remember that it was in a town in Connecticut,”
said I, “that a colored man was
ejected from a white man’s restaurant, and it
is in New England that little colored children
have a hard time at school, because they are
black, and for no other reason. Being in
New England, the country of liberty, you
must give me the liberty of arranging my
concert so that it shall be a success, and
therefore (I smiled) there must be no mixture
of races on the stage.”
We decided that the early part of September
would be a good time to give it, as the
haying would by that time have been done
and we could count on a larger audience.
On the way home James told me that he
had a brother and a little sister, who could
be brought into the concert, and that with
them he could furnish some very nice quartettes.
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
Ethel looked at me meaningly, and said,
“Minerva might go there and practise.
Do they live at your mother’s?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I realized that it would be better for them
to practise at his house than at ours, because,
while the practice of music makes perfect, it
sometimes also makes maniacs.
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch11
CHAPTER XI||THE HORSE IN THE KITCHEN.
.sp 2
.dc 0.35 0.675
“NOW, I’ll tell Mis. Vernon, if you do
dem tricks. Stop.”
“Why, he’s perfectly harmless,
Minerva. Look, I’m holding him.”
“Don’ you let him get at me. Mah goodness,
he has a head like a horse. Ooh,
Lawdy, where’s he gone?”
It was raining and Ethel and I were in the
sitting room when we heard these loud words
and then Minerva burst into the room.
She had her skirts held at a height that
would have been all right for ballet dancing,
but Minerva is not a ballet dancer and Ethel
bade her remember herself.
Now it seemed to me that that was exactly
what she was doing. Fright is memory of
self as nearly as I can make out, and Minerva
was evidently frightened at a new animal that
“looked like a horse.”
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
I had a mental picture of a pony that James
had smuggled into the kitchen and then I remembered
that New York was not a stranger
to ponies and that perhaps in her childhood
Minerva might have ridden a pony in Central
Park or at Coney Island. No, it must
be some other beast.
“What is the matter. Don’t you see that
Mr. Vernon is reading to me?”
“But it jumped at me!”
“What jumped at you?” said I sternly.
If there is anything that I dislike it is to be
interrupted when I am reading. If interruptions
ever came in the midst of prosy
descriptions I would not mind it at all. I
could even stand it in the midst of a digression
(like the present one), but interrupters
have the uncanny knack of timing their
breaks so that just as the author has led up
to a brilliant mot and the moment is psychologically
perfect, they say their little say
and when the reading is resumed the humour
or the wit of the sentence has evaporated.
James now appeared in the doorway.
“What jumped at Minerva, James?”
“It was on’y a grasshopper, sir. Never
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
saw anyone afraid of a grasshopper before.”
“Why, Minerva!” said Ethel. “You said
it looked like a horse.”
James, with a chuckle, stooped and picked
something from the floor. It bent its legs
for a spring as he put his hand down and
again Minerva screamed. It leaped with a
thud against his palm and he held it between
thumb and forefinger and said,
“She’s right. It does look like a horse.”
I had never noticed the resemblance before,
but there was no gainsaying it, once our
attention had been called to it. I imagine
that if the head were increased to horse size
and the body and legs were in proportion, it
would be a more formidable looking beast
than the hyena. And if a hyena were reduced
to grasshopper size he would be as
“cute” as a caterpillar.
“Minerva,” said Ethel, “sit down. You
may go, James. I wish you would not scare
Minerva.”
“Never thought she’d scare so easy, Mrs.
Vernon,” said he respectfully. He was always
respectful. He went out into the woodshed
to split some kindlings. He had already
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
split enough to last us all of a winter, but it
was healthful exercise and I kept him at it
when he was not singing or mowing the lawn.
“Minerva, I don’t suppose that there is a
more harmless insect in the world than a
grasshopper,” said Ethel.
“What are they for?” said Minerva.
“Why—er,” said Ethel, while I held my
book up before my face discreetly.
“Why, they are to hop in the grass.”
“Oh,” said Minerva.
“Yes, they can hop many times the length
of their own bodies.”
“Oh,” said Minerva.
Ethel made a mental calculation.
“I should say, Minerva,” said she, “that
a grasshopper can hop about one hundred
and twenty times his own length. How tall
are you?”
“I’m five feet three,” was her unexpected
answer.
“Well, call it five feet,” said Ethel, with
a very serious face. “If you had the power
of a grasshopper you could hop six hundred
feet. That is to say, you could hop a long
city block.”
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
The idea of Minerva hopping from Seventh
Avenue to Eighth (for instance) was too
much for me and I began to cough so hard
that I had to go up stairs for a trochee.
When I came down Ethel was saying,
“You’ve heard the noises in the grass,
haven’t you?”
“’Deed I have,” said Minerva, dismally.
“Did you know that the grasshoppers make
a great deal of that noise?”
“No’m,” said Minerva, her mouth wide
open.
“They do. And how do you suppose they
do it?”
“They blow, I suppose.”
“No, they don’t blow. Do they, Philip?”
“No, very few grasshoppers can blow.
They can blow away, but they make that
noise by—er—why, they make that noise—”
The words of a college song came into my
head, “I can play the fiddle with my left
hind leg.”
“They make fiddles of themselves and
play, Minerva.”
Minerva looked at me seriously.
“That’s it, Minerva,” said Ethel eagerly.
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
“They scrape their wings in some way and
that makes the sound. You don’t know how
many things there are to learn about the
country and, Minerva, it isn’t half as dangerous
as the city. To-morrow if it is pleasant,
we’ll go out and try to catch a grasshopper
playing his little fiddle. You may
go, now, Minerva.”
Minerva went out and closed the kitchen
door and the next minute the house shook.
I thought of the powder mills at Mildon.
Again the house shook.
“It is Minerva hopping,” said Ethel.
“Pretty close to six hundred feet, from
the sound,” said I.
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch12
CHAPTER XII||“THE SIMPLE LIFE.”
.sp 2
.dc 0.1 0.675
I HAD strung up a hammock between two
trees in front of the house and days
when Ethel did not feel like walking
she used to lie in it while I sat by her side and
read to her. She would have been glad to
read to me some times, but if there is anything
I dislike it is to be read to. I can never
follow what is being said unless I have a book
in front of me, and besides as I cannot knit
and do not know how to draw it would be
time wasted for me to sit still and listen to
reading.
We are so built, the most of us, that we
consider we are wasting time unless our
hands are moving. If a woman sits with her
hands in her lap thinking great thoughts she
is manifestly idle. But if she sits embroidering
tasteless doilies and thinking of nothing,
she has found something for her hands
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
to do and Satan is foiled again. How often
he is foiled these days.
As I say, I do dislike to be read to, so while
Ethel sits and crochets or knits or does fancy
sewing, I sit by her side and read, and it is a
very pleasant way of passing the time. Her
embroidery is worth while, and I think there
is to be found no such practice in language
as reading aloud.
I recommend it to all lispers and persons
with uncertain pronunciations.
While we were reading who should drive
up but the Guernseas, the people who had
heard our open air concert.
I saw they were about to stop, so I laid
down my book and went out to greet them.
“Won’t you come into the house?” said
I, and Ethel rising, seconded the invitation.
“Thank you, no it is such a lovely day
we’ll sit here. John, you may come back in
twenty minutes.”
John was their very elegant driver, and
after hitching the horses to the stone post, he
touched his hat and walked away.
Ethel and I stood by the carriage and
passed the commonplaces of the day for a
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
minute or two and then the absurdity of the
situation dawned on me. Here were our two
distinguished friends doing us the honour of
calling on us, and they were sitting in the
most comfortable seats in a very ornate carriage,
while my good wife and I stood at their
feet as it were and received their call. I prefer
sitting at people’s feet, after the manner
of the Jews of old, so I went into the house
and brought out two dingy hair-cloth chairs,
much to Ethel’s mortification, and we sat
down on them.
So sitting we were not more than abreast
of the floor of the carriage, and we addressed
all our remarks to those above who evidently
had no sense of humour, for they never
smiled at the situation once.
“We want to know,” said Mrs. Guernsea,
languidly, “whether you are living this simple
life that Charles Wagner preaches.”
“I haven’t read his book, but our life is
simple. I think we are both very simple.”
I looked at Ethel and she and I looked up
to the perches above us, and I know that she
was thinking that we were very simple to
allow a thing of this kind to happen, instead
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
of insisting that our grand visitors come at
least to the verandah and meet us upon an
equal footing.
“Caroline, they are leading the simple
life. Fancy! Was that why you went driving
with those colored people yesterday?”
Ethel started to tell the facts in the case,
but I rudely interrupted and said,
“Mrs. Guernsea, in the simple life all men
are equal, but in real life there are many inequalities.
The woman you saw on the back
seat was Minerva, our estimable cook, while
the man was James, our man-of-all-play.”
I pronounced his title quickly and she did
not notice the variation.
“This is the land of the free and theoretically
all men are free and equal. As a
matter of fact, all men are not so, but up here
while we lead the simple life we try to make
those with whom we come in contact believe
that they are so. You met us yesterday, and
yesterday I was driving Minerva and James
out. Had you met us to-day, James would
have been driving Mrs. Vernon and me out.”
Both Mrs. Guernsea and her lackadaisical
daughter accepted what I had to say in the
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
spirit in which I wished them to accept it;
as a truth of the simple life, and it was so
different from their own lives that for the
nonce it interested them to hear about it.
Therefore, despite Ethel’s reproving brow-liftings,
I went on.
“In our life here in this cottage Minerva
does all the cooking, because she is the best
cook of the four, just as I do all the reading
aloud, because I am the best reader; and Mrs.
Vernon does all the embroidery, because she
is the best embroiderer; and James—well,
we have not yet found what James can do
best, but there is one thing—his spirits are
never depressed and he heartens us all.”
“How curious. And do you believe that
such a state of things would be possible in a
more complex life, in New York, for instance?”
“Mrs. Guernsea, have you ever tried having
Mr. Guernsea take your men and your
maids out driving in the Park?”
“Why, no!”
“Try it, when you go back,” said I. “They
will be pleased beyond any doubt.”
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
“But your servants were singing. Did not
that annoy you?”
“My dear Mrs. Guernsea, it is one of the
first principles of the simple life not to be
annoyed. Didn’t you think their voices
sweet?”
“Yes, but it seemed so—so unconventional.”
“The simple lifers,” said I, “abhor conventions
that already exist. They aim to create
new conventions and live up to them.
We felt the need of song. Neither Mrs. Vernon
nor myself can sing very acceptably.
Both Minerva and James are blessed with delightful
voices, so they sang for us without
a word of demurring.”
“Would they sing now, do you suppose?
It was really very lovely.”
“I have no doubt. I’ll go and ask them.
But—”
I hesitated. The precious old humbug, so
devoid of humour, was condescending toward
the simple life during a single ennuied afternoon.
I wondered if I could make her become
a disciple of it for a few short moments;
hence my hesitation. I resolved to risk it,
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
and with an elevation of my eyebrows directed
at Ethel which meant “Keep out,”
I said:
“In the simple life anything like condescension
jars. If Minerva and James consent
to sing I must ask that they be allowed
to sit in the carriage and that you make one
of us on the ground. I will get chairs.”
“Oh, no, we will stand.”
And the daughter said languidly, “We
sometimes drive over to the country fairs,
and it is awfully jolly to stand alongside the
carriage and watch the races. We have done
it on the other side, too.”
“Oh, I know they always do it there,” said
I, with enthusiasm. “Many’s the picture
I’ve seen of it.”
I went in and found Minerva ironing, while
James was blacking the stove.
“Will you please tidy yourselves up a bit
and come out and sing for two of our
friends?” said I. “They are influential city
people, and they may not be able to attend
the concert. You’re to sit in their carriage
and sing.”
They were, of course, delighted, being two
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
children, and I left them tidying up, and hurried
back.
Ethel had gone into the house for something,
but she soon came out with a bowl of
blue berries and two napkins.
“Will you help yourselves?” said she.
Mrs. Guernsea looked at her daughter, and
her daughter looked at Mrs. Guernsea. They
were too well bred to suggest that anything
was missing, but they were evidently thinking
of saucers and spoons. I came to the rescue,
knowing that Ethel had entered into my madness.
“More simple life, but you don’t have to
do it. Still, berries never taste so luscious
as when eaten from the hand.”
I held the bowl solemnly before them, they
removed their gloves, ate dainty mouthfuls
of berries, and their delight in the flavour
was very real.
“Oh, I wish that it were possible to do this
at home.”
I bowed. “It needs only for Mrs. Guernsea
to do it to make it possible everywhere.”
While they were eating Minerva and
James came out, and if Minerva was not
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
the best looking woman there, James was the
best looking man—by all odds. I was proud
of their appearance.
I was a little afraid that the Guernseas
would show a certain amount of hauteur, but
they were evidently trying to enter into the
simple life, and would obey all its rules for
the nonce. It was a break in their sadly
monotonous lives.
“Minerva and James, these are Mrs.
Guernsea and her daughter, Miss Guernsea,
and they wish you to sing some of your
songs.”
Both Mrs. Guernsea and the daughter
smiled very seriously, and I helped them to
alight from the carriage.
They took their stand on the green sward,
and as I would not have felt comfortable to
remain seated with them standing, I left my
seat, and so Ethel was the only one who had
a seat at the concert.
After a little self conscious giggling on
Minerva’s part, a giggling that James reprimanded
with native dignity, the pair began
“Steal Away.”
.if h
.il fn=i165.jpg w=600px id=i165
.ca
“Steal away.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: “Steal away.”]
.sp 2
.if-
The richly caparisoned horses, to employ
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
a term that has been faithful to writers these
many years, the beautiful Victoria, handsomely
japanned, the earnest songsters leaning
back on the cushions and singing the
plaintive song, while the fashionable Guernseas
stood and drank it all in, formed a picture
as unusual as it was pleasing—to me.
Midway in the second verse, even as the
Guernseas had surprised us the day before,
so to-day the pastor of the Second Congregational
Church surprised us to-day by driving
past in his buggy, accompanied by his wife.
I think he had meant to stop, but when he
saw what was going on, he simply opened his
mouth; his good wife opened her mouth, and
I think the horse opened its mouth, and they
drove by.
They had seen the simple life being lived
by six persons.
James and Minerva were ready for an encore,
but it did not occur to either Mrs.
Guernsea or her daughter to applaud. They
contented themselves by saying it was very
charming.
But I felt that the labourers were worthy of
their hire, and still thinking of the simple life
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
and equality, I said to Mrs. Guernsea, in the
most matter of course way:
“I wonder if you wouldn’t let James take
Minerva out for a short drive in return for
their singing? James is an expert driver.”
Mrs. Guernsea was not at all hard, and
besides, I believe that she was in a way hypnotised;
so with scarce a moment’s hesitation
she said:
“Why, certainly. You won’t be gone long,
I suppose?”
“Oh, no ma’am. We’ll just drive around
the square.”
The “square” was a stretch of country
road some two miles in length.
James unhitched the horses and mounted
the driver’s seat, but Minerva sprawled luxuriously
in the seat in which she had sung.
James tightened the reins and the horses
started off at what is called a spanking pace
by those who know.
What happened thereafter was told me in
part by James, and I will give the substance
of it.
It seems that he had not gone very far
when he met John, the driver.
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
Naturally enough, when John saw his mistress’s
horses coming toward him at a pace
considerably above that indulged in by himself
(when he was driving for her), he was
at first dumbfounded and then angered. To
him what had occurred was as plain as the
nose on his face. Mrs. Guernsea had been
asked into the house by us, and this impudent
scamp had seized the opportunity to take his
girl out for a ride.
“Here, stop. Get out of that!” he yelled.
James replied by some piece of impertinence
that served to increase the coachman’s
anger, and picking up a stone he let drive
at James, but hit the flank of the nigh horse
instead. He, feeling the unwonted sting,
plunged forward, communicated his fear to
his mate, and the two horses began to run
away.
We at the house heard Minerva’s familiar
screams, but I set it down to a new animal
that had come to her ken, as I knew that
James was a capable driver.
As for Mrs. Guernsea, she was telling us
something about the evening that the English
primate took dinner at her house on Madison
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
Avenue, and she did not notice Minerva’s
cries.
James had been familiar with horses from
his boyhood, and he would have brought the
pair under his control before long, but John
was a man of action, and when he saw the
horses start on a mad run, and also saw a boy
(Bert, in fact,) riding horseback, he yelled to
him: “Lend me that horse, boy. My team is
being stolen.”
Bert, having just passed the run-a-way,
jumped quickly from his mount and John
took his place and turning the horse, dashed
after James.
The run-a-ways, hearing the clatter of
hoofs behind them, ran the harder and Minerva’s
screams steadily increased in pitch
and volume.
At the first turn James guided the horses
to the left and calculated that before the two
miles were made they would be winded, for
their gait was tremendous.
As John made the turn, crying “Stop
thief” at the top of his lungs, he passed the
minister who had just passed us and who was
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
going back to our house—for as it turned out,
he wished to see me.
He heard the hue and cry, and bidding his
wife get out of the carriage and wait for him,
he whipped up and started in pursuit.
And Bert, deprived of his horse, but unwilling
to be deprived of so much excitement
cut across lots, that he might see the race on
its last quarter. This much I afterward
learned from him.
Through it all James never lost command
of the horses, nor Minerva of her voice. Her
view halloo echoed over woodland and vale,
and came to me from different points of the
compass, and I began to feel that something
serious was the matter, and now and again
I had visions of bills for the repair of a
carriage.
When they reached the last quarter I could
distinctly hear the “Stop thiefs!” of two
voices, and so did Ethel, but both Mrs. Guernsea
and her daughter were of those people
who can attend to but one thing at a time,
and they were busily engaged in talking, the
mother to me and the daughter to Ethel.
The way in front of our house is level and
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
commands a view of the country for a considerable
distance, and when James started
on his last quarter, and had attained a steep
hill, from where I sat (for I had insisted on
bringing out chairs for us all) I could see
Mrs. Guernsea’s delicately made carriage
swinging from side to side of the road, James
sitting erect, his wrists tight against his chest
and Minerva letting out warwhoops on the
back seat.
Nearer and nearer they came, and at last
Mrs. Guernsea heard the commotion and, putting
up her lorgnon gazed in the direction
from which the sound came.
“Why he is going too fast!” said she. “He
will lather the horses.”
I felt quite sure that the lathering had already
been well done, but I did not say so.
“I’m afraid they are running away,” said
I.
“No,” said Miss Guernsea, rising to her
feet and using her own eyes, “He is running
away with them. He is being chased. Hear
that? ‘Stop thief!’”
Across the swampy land in front of our
house I saw the running figure of a boy. He
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
climbed the stone wall that edges the road,
and panting violently rushed up to us.
It was Bert. “Try to head him off,” said
he. “He’s trying to steal that turn-out.”
I did not believe it, even then. When I put
my confidence in a man I don’t like to have
it disturbed, and I won’t disturb it myself
as long as there is a shadow of a chance to
preserve it. The horses were running away,
but it was not James’ fault. I was sure of
that.
A minute later the form of a man on horseback
was seen cresting the hill, and after a
longer interval the minister’s buggy topped
the same crest.
The last turn in the road is a few rods
north of our house, and James guided the
horses skilfully round that turn and stopped
them in front of our house. This was partly
because Minerva, having fainted, was no
longer screaming, and partly because John’s
horse had stumbled and thrown him. And
the minister came in second, his horse panting.
“James,” said I indignantly, “what do you
mean by driving those horses at such a gait?”
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
James, when the horses had stopped, had
sprung from the seat and was now at their
heads talking in a low voice to them and patting
them in order to calm them.
Minerva came to herself, said “Oh Lawdy!
Are we back again, already?” and climbed
ungracefully out of the carriage.
The horses were white with lather, their
tongues lolling out of their mouths; and the
wagon was sadly scratched. It was a mortifying
moment for a liver of the simple life.
“James, what happened?” said I, sternly.
And then John came limping up, with a
flesh wound on his forehead and shaking his
fist at James, and with his cockaded hat in
his hand said to Mrs. Guernsea, “I met him
trying to run away with the horses ma’am,
and I tried to stop him. The cheek of him,
ma’am!”
James gave a contemptuous grunt, and
leaving the horses, who had calmed down
wonderfully under his ministrations, he
pointed to a cut on the flank of the nigh horse.
“That’s what started the trouble,
madam,” said he, “and it was your driver
that threw the stone.”
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
I will say for Mrs. Guernsea, that she behaved
like a thoroughbred. She was evidently
a woman who reasoned things out, and
she knew something of the principles of the
simple life, for she said:
“Everybody meant well, I’ve no doubt, and
the thing is all over now.”
John was blanketing the sweating horses.
“Don’t let it worry you an instant, Mr.
Vernon,” said she. “It was all an accident.”
I tried to get them to come indoors and
take some refreshment, for the last few moments
had been more strenuous than simple,
but they decided that it was better for the
horses to exercise them a little more and so
they drove slowly home, and Bert went after
his horse which had not hurt itself, and the
minister went on to pick up his wife whom he
had left at the first turn.
“And it was really all your fault,” said
Ethel, smilingly, after James and Minerva
had departed to the kitchen.
“Well, it gave Minerva something to think
about and made life worth living for the
Guernseas.”
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch13
CHAPTER XIII||AN UNSUCCESSFUL FIASCO.
.sp 2
.dc 0.2 0.675
I AM not quite sure whether I have spoken
of it but by profession, trade, occupation, I
am a writer. I write short stories under an
assumed name and therefore the telling of the
events of the summer is in a manner easy for
me.
But I not only write stories; I also at times
read stories, and I have been known to recite—not
in an impassioned way but merely foolishly.
The previous winter had been a hard
one in more ways than one for both Ethel and
myself, but toward the close of it the winning
of a prize in a story competition had given me
enough money to enable me to knock off work
for all summer, and it had seemed wise to
take advantage of such a chance to rest and
lie fallow.
I did not mention my occupation at the
start because I was afraid that readers would
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
say, “Oh, dear, this is a story by a literary
man, and nothing will happen in it.” You see
now-a-days when men in all walks of life
write of what they have done, and make books
of their writings, the people who read books
have gotten to the point when they look with
suspicion on a story that is written by a mere
professional writer. They say, “Oh, he has
done nothing but write. Let us read the book
of the man who has first done and has then
written.”
But you who have read thus far may feel
in a way friendly to Minerva, and the rest,
and so I take you into my confidence and
make the pun to you that won for me a rebuke
from Ethel. Letters spell livelihood for me.
The Congregational Minister, Egbert
Hughson, and his wife returned to us in a few
minutes and after the moving accident had
been discussed for a certain length of time, he
came to the matter that had brought him up.
He was a smooth shaven alert, Western
man of about thirty, I should say, and I
marked him out as a type of the modern muscular
Christian, and this guess proved to
have been correct. He was an Iowan who
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
had come East to study, had graduated from
Williams and after a year in a small Iowa
church had been called to Egerton through
the good offices of a former class-mate.
I hope I may not be accused of egotism if I
set down plainly what Mr. Hughson said.
The denouement is not what an egotist would
roll under his tongue. During the narration
of the episode let me treat Philip Vernon
quite as if he did not press the keys with
which I am writing this.
“Mr. Vernon, I did not know until Deacon
Fotherby told me, that we had so distinguished
a man amongst us. I have read your
sketches in the Antarctic Monthly with a
great deal of pleasure, and although you use
a pen name, still I happened to know that you
were the author. I also understand that you
sometimes recite.”
I bowed assent. I could have told him the
rest. He was going to say: “Now the Y. P.
S. C. E. are about to give a little literary
entertainment for the benefit of the library
and it would add interest to the proceedings
if you would do us the great honor of reciting
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
one or more pieces for us, or perhaps read
something of your own.”
I guessed right. He said it, allowing for
certain unimportant verbal variations. I
think it was the Y. M. S. C., instead of the
Y. P. S. C. E., and instead of saying “it
would add interest to the proceedings,” he
said it would “give the affair a literary flavour”—words
of the same import.
I told him that Mrs. Vernon had come up
to rest, but that did not head him off. I
really didn’t suppose it would. I was merely
making his task a little difficult, so that he
would appreciate me the more. We writers
all do things like that. If I had fallen into
his arms and had said, “Recite; why I’ll do
the whole programme,” while he would have
thanked me, he would have felt that he had
gotten me so easily that I could not be worth
much.
“Well, surely,” said he, “it won’t tire Mrs.
Vernon for you to come and talk to us. You’ll
be doing a favour to your fellows.”
Ah, now it was time for me to come down
gracefully off my perch, and I consented to
sing my little song. Altruism is the lesson
.bn 180.png
.pn +1
of the hour, and I think I have learned it. I
have been taught it often enough by various
committees. Committees believe firmly in altruism.
“Altruism,” say they, “is the getting
of a man to do something worth something
for nothing.” Some define altruism as
“Depriving the labourer of his hire for the
good of others.”
I would not care to be misunderstood in
this matter. I really think that if a man
has talents he ought to use them to the benefit
of his fellows, but I have known so many
poor strugglers in New York who, when they
were struggling most frantically, have been
asked by complaisant committees to give
their services for the entertainment of the
Grand-Daughters of Evolution or some other
body perfectly capable of paying for their
services that I am rather glad of this opportunity
of freeing my mind.
Altruism begins at home. If you believe
in it, practise it yourself, but until you have
learned to think about the needs of the other
fellow, don’t ask him to think of your luxuries.
The upshot of the whole matter was that
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
I told Mr. Hughson that I would be glad to
come and recite the following Wednesday (a
week later), and a week later we hired Bert’s
wagon, and with James holding the reins,
Minerva by his side (of course we could not
leave her at home alone) and Ethel and I on
the back seat, we drove down to the Sunday
School of the church.
I wish that the good pastor had introduced
me. He was a man who had moved among
his fellows and who knew life and had a
sense of values, while the man who did introduce
me, and who shall be nameless, was insincere,
shallow, a flatterer and fond of the
sound of his own voice.
I can say these things thus plainly, because
he is now spending a year or so in State
prison for breaking the sixth commandment.
(No need to look it up; it is “Thou Shalt Not
Steal.”)
To tell the truth, I did not want to be
introduced. I had not recited for months,
and I was feeling frightfully nervous. So
much so that my knees wabbled, my palms
were moist and my throat parched.
I would gladly have given the Y. M. S. C.
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
ten dollars to release me, only I didn’t have
my check-book with me.
This full-whiskered man, who was the Sunday
School superintendent, took his long
length up onto the platform and bowing and
grimacing said, in a hard, flat voice,
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think that we of
Egerton have always been fortunate in securing
the summer services of various people
who are eminent in the walks of life to
which it has pleased God to call them. You
may remember that last summer we had the
eminent English scientist, Professor Drysden,
who did some very clever card tricks
for us; the year before we had Rev. Amaziah
Barton, who sang a very amusing coon song
for us, and I think it was the year before that
that the famous Arctic explorer, whose name
escapes me, entertained us with ventriloquial
tricks. All these men showed in thus—er—doing
things that were in a measure outside
of the ordinary line of their duties, how manifold
are the workings of the human brain.
“To-night we have with us a man whose
name is known wherever the English language
is spoken; a man whose erudite works
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
are upon every shelf, a man who has reflected
lustre upon the language spoken by Chaucer
and Spenser—”
(I have never written anything under the
name of Philip Vernon, so that my hearers
were so far entirely in the dark as to my
identity.)
“Mr. Vernon is a frequent contributor to
the Antarctic Magazine, and those of us who
feel that the month has not been well spent
until we have absorbed its contents know
Mr. Vernon’s work as we know our Bibles.
“We have been told by a celebrated philosopher
that a little nonsense now and then
is relished by the wisest men, and there is
a great deal of truth in the remark. I am
not above smiling at a joke myself; no one
can afford to be so engrossed with the affairs
of the world as never to permit a jocose remark
to pass his lips.
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull
boy, and so Mr. Vernon is going to unbend
to-night, and will make you shriek with laughter
by his card tricks.”
Here he was interrupted by the Rev. Mr.
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
Hughson, who said in a loud whisper, “No,
he is going to recite.”
I was boiling. If I had been Mark Twain
himself, such an introduction would have
made whatever followed in the nature of an
anti-climax. As I was to the audience simply
an unknown “Mr. Vernon,” it was little
less than cruelty to animals.
“Oh, surely. I am sure we are all prepared
to laugh heartily at the witticisms and
comical actions of Mr. Philip Vernon, the
great author whom I now take pleasure in
introducing to you.”
Ethel was well in the back of the room.
She hates to hear me recite, as she is always
afraid that I will go to pieces, a fear that
I have often told her was groundless, as
whatever else may happen, I always keep control
of myself, but this evening the malapropos
idiocies of the asinine gentleman on the
platform upset me so that I hardly knew what
I was doing when I stumbled up alongside of
him.
I had chosen a poem that is not humourous
in itself, but by means of perverting its written
meanings and by the use of uncouth gestures
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
the thing has served to create amusement
among my friends and (when I am feeling
in the mood for it) even among my enemies.
But to-night I was not feeling humourous;
only angry.
I bowed to the audience, bowed to the minister,
bowed to the idiot who had misintroduced
me, and then I began the thing, and to
Ethel’s intense relief (for I happened to look
at her) the audience burst out into laughter
before I had finished the first verse. The
second verse caused them to laugh still more,
and instead of keeping my wits entirely on
the matter in hand I allowed myself to think
of both what my audience was doing and
what the man had been saying, and the consequence
was what it is apt to be if a man
loses grip of his work. I lost my lines. I
had recited the thing dozens of times, but
now not a word would come to me. I
smoothed my moustache and coughed in character,
and took a step or two around the platform,
as if I were leading up to some business
and then I bowed suddenly and walked into
the cloak room, where I was followed by
Ethel, and for the next two minutes I had
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
all I could do to restrain her sobs. She was
hysterical.
As for me, I was angry clear through, and
when the pastor came in I started to tell him,
but he raised his hand and I saw that he
understood better than I could say. He
grasped my hand and I knew that he was a
man of feeling.
“It’s all right,” said he. “The audience
is laughing and applauding, and they think
you meant to do it. Go back and give them
something else.”
It was as if a flash of lightning had shown
me a way of escape from a perilous lodgment.
“Do you mean it?” said I.
He opened the door a little and I could
hear them clapping their hands.
“Ethel, I’ll go in and tell them that story
I wrote for Mazie.”
Back to the platform I went, with my mind
full of a nonsense story I had written for my
niece.
I was received by enthusiastic applause,
and heartened by their kindly feeling I told
them the following story, which I called:
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.nf c
“The Mother of Little Maude and Little Maude.”
.nf-
.sp 2
Once upon a time there was a little girl
named Maude, and she went out a-driving in
a four-wheeled carriage drawn by two four-legged
horses and driven by one two-legged
driver. And the dear little girl named Maude
sat on the front seat by the two-legged driver
and Maude’s dear Mama sat on the back seat
by herself, which is not the same as beside
herself.
And all of a sudden the horses, which had
only been running before, began to run away.
And the dear little girl named Maude wished
to let her mamma know that they were running
away, but she did not wish to alarm
her too suddenly, for sometimes shocks are
serious.
And the dear little girl named Maude saw
a reporterman walking along the sidewalk
looking for news for his paper. So she called
to the reporterman and said, “I wish to speak
to you on business.”
And the reporterman was agile, and he
jumped on the step of the carriage, and the
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
little girl said to him, “Please get it into your
paper that the horses are running away, and
I wish my dear mamma to know it. I am
none other than little Maude.”
And the reporterman did not know that
the lady on the back seat was the mamma of
little Maude, so he raised his cap and jumped
from the carriage and nearly fell down in so
doing, for the horses were now running
madly on eight legs, and the driver was getting
nervous and the reporterman went to the
newspaper office and wrote: “The horses of
the little girl who is none other than little
Maude, are running away and it is a pretty
serious business, for her mamma does not
know it, and there is no telling when the
horses will stop.”
And they slapped this news into type, and
then it was printed in the newspaper, and a
newsboy took the papers and ran into the
street, crying “Extry! Extry! Full account
of the running away of the horses of the little
girl, who is none other than little Maude.”
And Maude’s mamma heard the little boy,
and she beckoned to him to bring her a paper.
And the newsboy was also agile, and he
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
leaped upon the step and sold a paper to the
lady for a cent and then he jumped off again,
for he had other papers to sell.
And the mamma of little Maude began to
read the news. And when she came to the
part that said the horses of little Maude were
running away, she looked straight ahead and
saw that it was indeed true.
And with great presence of mind she
climbed over the back seat and dropped to
the ground unhurt. And when little Maude
saw that her dear mamma had escaped, she
also climbed over the back seat and dropped
to the ground unhurt. And when the driver
saw that Maude’s mamma and little Maude
had escaped, he also climbed over the back
seat and dropped to the ground unhurt.
And the two horses, who were very intelligent
and who had wondered what would be
the outcome of their runaway, got into the
carriage and they also climbed over the back
seat and dropped to the ground unhurt.
.tb
The ride home was pleasanter than I had
expected it to be. When I had stepped off
the platform after my fiasco, I understood
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
how a suicide felt. When I stepped off the
second time I felt better.
“I almos’ bus’ laughin’,” said Minerva, as
she climbed into the carriage.
“Thank you, Minerva,” said I, fully appreciating
both the compliment and her peril.
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch14
CHAPTER XIV||THE-FOURTH-OF-JULY.
.sp 2
.dc 0.4 0.675
A WEEK of lovely weather made us forget
time. We spent our days in the open air,
and Minerva spent her days practising for
the concert. It was wonderful with what expedition
she cooked our meals and cleaned
up afterward. The meals were, if anything,
more delicious than formerly. She was happy,
and she could not help communicating
some of her happiness to her cooking. It
was not so much the thing she cooked, as the
happy way she cooked it.
James was a sort of Luther Burbank in
his power over plants. One afternoon I said
to Ethel in his hearing that I thought it was
a pity that the Wheelocks had not planted
a vine in front of the house, as it would have
added greatly to its picturesqueness.
He was oiling his lawn mower at the time,
and I noticed that he stood up and looked
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
at the house front and nodded his head and
smiled, but I would not have thought of it
again had it not been for the fact that two
days after, on returning from a drive with
Ethel, we both burst out into ejaculations of
surprise and delight.
The front of the house, up to the second-story
window, was adorned by a most beautiful
crimson rambler.
I felt like rubbing my eyes. We must have
lost our way. It could not be our house.
But just then Minerva and James came
around the corner of the house, hand in hand.
As soon as they saw us they let go of hands,
and she went back to the kitchen with a guffaw
that merely indicated light heartedness.
James looked up at the vine and said,
“Looks pretty nice, don’t it?”
We overwhelmed him with compliments,
and found out that he had bought a large
potted plant in full bloom and had sunk pot
and all in the earth. I had never heard of
such a thing being done before, and I looked
to see the roses all wither, but they did nothing
of the kind. Our place looked a hundred
per cent. better than it had done before, and
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
when, a day or so later, I received a bill from
a florist at Egerton, I paid it without a murmur.
There is nothing like initiative, and it
is worth paying for.
As I say, the days went by unheeded. We
were too far from any church to attend one,
but we tried to be as good on Sunday as we
were on week days.
And this, by the way, is a most excellent
rule for anyone to follow.
One morning I heard what sounded like pistol
shots in the distance, many times repeated,
and while we were at breakfast one or
two teams passed us headed for Egerton.
“I wonder if haying is over as soon as
this?” said Ethel. “I thought that horses
were all at work in the fields.”
“Not this morning, evidently,” said I as
another team, a two-horse one this time, went
by, loaded with children.
“Oh, it’s a picnic,” said I, and then we
heard a loud explosion in the opposite quarter
from that of the last pistol shot.
I looked at Ethel, and we burst out laughing
together.
“Fourth-of-July!”
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
“Of course! What geese we are. Oh, let’s
go down town and see what they are doing!”
“Why, we can hear it up here. That’s all
they are doing,” said I.
“No, I’ve always read about Fourth-of-July
in the country. Don’t you remember
Tom Bailey, in the ‘Story of a Bad Boy’?
Let’s go down and join in the fun.”
“Probably Bert’s gone with his family.
We’d have to walk.”
“Hello! here’s someone driving up to the
post. Why, it’s James with a two-seated
wagon!”
Just then Minerva came into the room,
dressed up in her Sunday best and with an
assortment of colored ribbons that made her
look like a fair.
“Will there be anything to do to-day,
ma’am? I’ve made lunch.”
“Where do you want to go, Minerva?”
said Ethel.
“Why, James is just crazy to take me down
to town to see the parade.”
“Who else is going?”
“No one on’y him an’ me. He brought
his father’s wagon.”
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
“I guess there’ll be no objection, Minerva,”
said Ethel. “When will you be back?”
“Oh, time for dinner.”
“Yes, you may go Minerva,” said Ethel,
and Minerva clapped her hands. “Country
ain’t so bad when you know it,” said she.
She went out into the kitchen, and I said,
“I have a kind of notion that James is
going to invite us to go down with them.
Now that would be extremely simple and
would probably strike Mrs. Guernsea as being
very original, but I think it will be better
if I hire his rig and get him to drive us down
and we’ll stay there all day and take dinner
at the hotel, and come back by moonlight.”
Ethel took a turn at hand clapping.
“You’re a great deal better than when we
came up, aren’t you?” said I.
“Oh, I’m all well now, and perfectly happy.”
I went out and said to James,
“James, can I hire your father’s team for
to-day? and then I’d like you to drive us to
town and bring us back to-night. We’ll dine
at the hotel and you and Minerva can dine
where you like.”
.bn 196.png
.pn +1
Whatever James’ idea may have been, he
was not above earning an honest dollar, and I
offered him two for the use of his team, and
a half hour later we started for town.
His father had raised the horses himself
(well-matched and handsome sorrels), and
under James’ guidance they made nothing
of the three-mile drive.
It was exhilarating to go through the air
at such a pace, and we were both glad we had
come, although we were both ashamed that
we had forgotten what day it was.
Arrived in town, James put the horses up
at a stable, and we broke up into groups of
two.
I had never seen Minerva in such spirits,
and it seemed to me that she clung to James’
arm in a way that signified something approaching
an understanding between them.
What if he married her? How could we find
work for him in New York?
She almost danced along, and his own
stride was to a certain extent cake-walkey.
We saw them enter an ice cream saloon immediately,
and we knew they would be happy
all day long.
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
There was joy in the air and we were
happy. There is no question about it; as
a people we are beginning to take our holidays
less sadly. Everywhere laughing groups
were forming on the sidewalks of Main street
to wait for the parade, which was to be made
up not only of G. A. R. men, but also of representatives
from nearly every fire company in
the county. Engines and hooks and ladders
had been coming in on the railroad all the
morning, and, as I said to Ethel, I trembled
when I thought of what might happen in
their absence. She characteristically advised
me not to tremble too much.
Blue coated, peak hatted men jostled slouch
hatted veterans of the Civil War and younger
men in khaki hurried to headquarters to make
part of the parade.
Small boys were firing off lock-jaw pistols
and smaller boys were exploding firecrackers
and already that morning there had been
a delightful fire in a fireworks store. Thanks
to the visiting firemen it had been put out before
the store was entirely consumed. Every
one had been intensely gratified at the excitement
excepting the owner who had reckoned
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
on having his fireworks set off in other places
than his own store. There was no chance for
his rockets to show to advantage. However,
he was fully insured and he showed his
American spirit by hiring an empty store and
doing a good business for the rest of the day
in selling wet fireworks at a discount. Small
boys found that fifty per cent of the crackers
in a package would go off in spite of their
exposure to water and as two cents a package
was his prevailing price they were willing to
buy to the extent of their Fourth-of-July fortunes.
To our city eyes the parade was not very
imposing but then again viewed as a spectacle
of American manhood it was not without its
interest and the company of smoothshaven,
tanned cheeked veterans of the Philippine
War marching sturdily along provoked tremendous
cheers from many who in the nature
of things must have been “antis.”
All men are or ought to be expansionists on
the Fourth-of-July. It is a day for fine feeling
and for feeling fine. Ethel responded to
its spirit nobly and she had not looked so well
in years.
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
Once we heard loud laughter from the
crowd and I instinctively said “Minerva,”
and sure enough they were laughing at our
maid. She or James had bought an American
flag and she had wrapped it around her
shoulders and was rising and falling on the
balls of her feet in response to some internal
rhythm. All at once she broke out into the
singing of Dixie in which she was joined first
by James and then by the entire crowd.
Those who could not sing cheered and if there
were any Southerners present it must have
warmed the cockles of their hearts.
There is no doubt that the most popular
song in the United States to-day (outside of
“America” which is popular by tradition)
is Dixie which was composed and written by a
Northerner, fused into life by Southerners
and now serves to show that we are Americans
all.
After the parade those of us who could
made our way to the Town Hall where the
Declaration of Independence was to be read
and where speeches were to be made quite in
the old fashioned way.
Ethel had never heard the Declaration of
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
Independence read. Fancy! Neither had I.
It seemed rather long but we liked the sentiments
in it and it was read by a man who
knew his business; the rector of the Episcopal
Church.
Those who had a special pull were admitted
to the platform. I worked no wires. In
fact Ethel wanted to sit where she could leave
the house easily if she felt faint so we were in
the rear.
James evidently had a pull for he and Minerva
sat on the platform. I was glad to see
it because surely the Fourth-of-July is—well
it is not necessary to say more.
Most of the speeches were very long and
the place was very hot but there was one
speech that was full of flowery eloquence that
I had supposed had faded from the earth.
I am indebted to the courtesy of the editor
of the Egerton Ensign for its text and I give
it herewith so that future ages may see that,
as late as the year 1903, Demosthenian eloquence
had not passed away.
The speaker was a member of the State
Legislature and he still clung to Burnside
whiskers—or to be more accurate they still
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
clung to him. He had a high forehead that
continued unabashed over to his collar.
He rose amid considerable handclapping
and advancing to the front of the platform he
bowed solemnly to the multitude and then in
a voice that was rich and sonorous and musical
he said:
“One hundred and twenty-seven years ago
to-day a nation was born upon earth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, need I tell you
what the name of that Nation was? Need I
say to any boy or to any girl or to any man
or to any woman in this vast assemblage what
the name of that nation was?
“No, ev-er-y boy and ev-er-y girl and ev-er-y
man and ev-er-y woman knows that I refer
to these free and independent United
States of America. (Cheers).
“Born amid the thunder of warring guns
(sic) and nursed upon bullets she grew to
lusty childhood, advanced to sweet womanhood
and in her turn, upon that other day to
be held in remembrance—upon Dewey day—she
became the mother of a child—a child that
it is our duty to cherish and to educate and to
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
uplift and to protect until she is as American
as her mother.
“Need I say that I refer to the Philippines?”
(Cheers mingled with a few hisses).
He had now warmed to his work and
his studied eloquence gave way to something
more sincere.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we warred with
England in the days of old and I remember
the time when it was thought to be unpatriotic
for an American to like an Englishman
but I say let us be magnanimous. Let us not
any longer taunt England with her defeat.
Those soldiers that she sent to harry and to
bully and to cripple us are dead long ago.
They did what they had sworn to do
when they took oath under that despicable
despot George the Third. When they fought
us they were doing their duty as they saw it
and their dust has mingled with the free soil
of this great country these many years.
“Let us be magnanimous. Why even in
those dark days we were not without friends
on the other side. The name of William Pitt
should ever be spoken with respect by true
Americans.
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
“Let us be magnanimous. Are we likely
to go to war with England? (thunders of Nos
from all parts of the house).
“No, gentlemen, we are not likely to go to
war with that country. Right or wrong she
was our mother and we are the greatest credit
to her that ever a daughter was to a mother.
From the sea-kissed shores of the coast of
Maine to the ocean lapped coast of California;
from the storm swept areas of the great
lakes to the humid waters of the Gulf of
Mexico we are the greatest daughter that a
mother ever had.
“Was Greece great? We shall be greater.
“Was Rome powerful? We shall be more
powerful.
“Were the Middle Ages renowned for
their arts? We shall be more renowned.
“Was England strong upon sea or land?
We shall be more strong.
“Has England stood for internal fair
play? We shall stand for external fair play.
“This country that was mocked and
taunted within the memory of men yet living
shall become one, who with power to mock
does not mock. She shall spread abroad her
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
hand and wars shall cease. The oppressed in
all climes shall look to her for protection and
she will protect.
“I hear voices borne on the summer wind
of this day and they bring good tidings to me.
They tell me that the right to work for a fair
wage shall belong to each man and each
woman who chooses to exercise it. They tell
me—these voices—that the right to stop
others from working shall be taken from
those who think they hold it (Hear, hear) and
that the right of the rich to eternally grab is
no right.
“These voices tell me that the arts have
found in these United States a soil in which
they may flourish undisturbed. The blood
of the Italians who have come to this country,
mixed with the blood of the Poles and cooled
by the blood of those of the North lands, tempered
still more by the sturdy common sense
of the Britons, made buoyant by the wit of
the French and made strong and powerful by
the blood of the three century old Americans
will result in a type of man that shall cause
our houses to become beautiful; that shall
save our forests from destruction, that shall
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
decorate and color and cause to blossom and
run to ripe fruitage all that makes life cultivated,
pure, serene and lovable.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let us thank God
that we are Americans; that we have been
allowed to live to see this day. There are
strifes and rumours of strifes in our land but
everything tends to betterment, and I firmly
believe that at the last we shall be found to
be the chosen people of the Lord of All
Things by whom all things were made.”
(Cheers, and thunders of applause, in which
I am free to say that Ethel and myself joined
heartily.)
In fact, although the speech was over
flowery, it had in it a good deal that any fair-minded
man could say amen to and delivered
under the influence of the deep baritone of a
natural orator it was stimulating.
And then some one, with no sense of the
fitness of things, rose and called on all to sing
“Nearer, My God, to Thee.”
The millennium is not as close as all that.
We still have the question of the rights of
labour and the wrongs of capital with us, and
a better hymn might have been selected.
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
“Onward, Christian Soldiers,” would have
been more in the spirit of the time.
We made our way out, and as I was leaving
the hall I looked back and saw the orator
of the day shaking hands with James. It
gave me a choky feeling, so that perhaps I
was still under the influence of his speech.
I will acknowledge that I set down the
speech in this place in order to make fun of
it, but after all it was sincere, and sincerity
makes a poor butt for the shafts of ridicule.
During the afternoon we took a drive in
James’s wagon, and saw something of the
beauty of the surrounding country, going
quite a distance on the road to Springfield.
We returned to Egerton by the upper road,
and I had all I could do to keep the horses
under control, as that end of the town was
given up to the small boy, and pistols, crackers
and bombs were being exploded on every
hand.
One of those hideous things that knock the
romance out of any spot in which they are
placed, a merry-go-round, was revolving to
the sound of wheezy organ music, and the
horses were of one mind with us as to its being
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
a blot on civilization, and they proceeded
to show their distaste for it to such an extent
that I stopped them short and let Ethel get
out. Then I forced them to stand still and
watch the moving picture. They obeyed me
for a few seconds and then they tore down the
street. I controlled them very soon, however,
and when I had stopped them I hitched
them to a post on a quiet square and went
back to get Ethel.
I found her by a tree, looking with amusement
at the carrousel. My eyes followed
hers, and the picture presented to them was
eminently characteristic.
James was riding on the merry-go-round.
He was astride of a small wooden pony that
gave his legs a chance to look unduly long,
while perched alongside of him sat Minerva
astride of a giraffe. She was clinging to the
neck of the beast, and for the time being she
was in New York (for Coney Island is to all
intents and purposes New York and your
merry-go-round is the strawberry mark that
identifies Coney Island).
Round and round she whirled, her eyes
shining ecstatically, and from time to time
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
she reached out her right hand and met
James’s left.
“We will have to keep a butler next winter,”
said Ethel.
Suddenly Minerva saw us and she waved
her hand to us and yelled something that we
could not distinguish, but I knew it was an
invitation to mount some strange animal and
be happy.
We shook our heads. Happiness would not
come to us in those questionable shapes.
When I want to be sea-sick give me the ocean
and a European port as the reward, not
merely sickness for sickness’ sake. And
Ethel is of the same mind only more so. She
goes so far as to say, give her some American
port and leave the sea and its sickness out altogether.
The music dwindled, the merry-go-round
became less merry, and at last ceased to go
round, and then Minerva, settling her ample
skirts so as to cover the flanks of the giraffe,
said,
“Oh, Mis. Vernon, I ain’t had so much fun
this summer. Better come up. It’s jus’ as
easy.”
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
“I’m glad you like it, Minerva,” said Ethel,
“but it would make me dizzy. Have you had
lunch?”
“Deed we have. Want some peanuts?”
The offer was made with such generosity
of spirit that Ethel accepted. It was the
Fourth-of-July, and we all ate peanuts together.
I don’t think that James liked it.
He felt that Minerva had not been well
brought up. I am sure that he would not have
asked us to eat peanuts, but I don’t see that
any harm was done. There was no cloth
spread and I have never yet come across a
rule that says a lady of color on a giraffe
should not offer peanuts to her mistress on
the sidewalk of a New England town.
Anyway the peanuts were good and we enjoyed
them.
We told James and Minerva to have a good
time and to be ready to start for home at half
past nine. There was to be a display of fireworks
at eight, and I knew they would want
to see that. It was somewhere in the neighbourhood
of five o’clock when we left them
and drove back to the stable.
The fireworks display was beautiful, although
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
not lavish. I listened for Minerva’s
rapturous Ah’s, but did not hear them, and
as the circle in which we sat was not more
than an eighth of a mile in diameter, I judged
that for some unaccountable reason she was
not there.
After the exhibition, which ended with a
flight of a hundred rockets, one of which stove
in a plate-glass window and so provided extra
amusement for the crowd, we made our way
to the stable, expecting to find James there,
but he was not.
We found our wagon under a shed and we
climbed in and waited, as Ethel was tired of
being on her feet.
We waited until ten o’clock and James and
Minerva did not come, so I asked a hostler
to harness up, and telling him to keep James
and Minerva if they came, we went forth to
look for them.
I had a theory as to where they were, and
I drove to Doncaster street, whereon the
merry-go-round stands.
My instinct as to the whereabouts of the
couple proved correct. There, under the
flare of gasoline torches, whirled the merry-go-round,
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
and now James was astride of an
ostrich and Minerva, like Una, was riding a
lion by his side and their hands were clasped
in a firm, firm clasp.
I caught the eye of James and signalled,
and when the music came to an end and the
machine stopped, he and his lady love dismounted.
When we were all in the carriage Ethel
said to Minerva,
“How did you enjoy the fireworks?”
She threw herself back in the seat with a
gasp.
“Lawdy, forgot all ’bout the fireworks.”
“You don’t mean to say, Minerva, that you
have been riding ever since we saw you this
afternoon.”
“’Deed we have. Rode every beas’ an’
bird there was.”
“And what did you have for supper?”
“Peanuts,” said James, rather shamefacedly.
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
.pb
.h2 id=ch15
CHAPTER XV||MORE NATURE STUDY.
.sp 2
.dc 0.275 0.675
“IT’S love that makes the world go round,”
said I next morning at breakfast.
“What makes the merry-go-round?” said
Ethel.
“The answer to that will be found in the
May number,” said I. “You ought not to
ask conundrums, whose answers have to be
thought up. But isn’t it so? Hasn’t Minerva
been an angel ever since James came
and if she isn’t in love with him what is she?”
“If that’s another conundrum, I give it up,
too. Do you suppose that James loves her?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Minerva is not
bad looking and she has a happy disposition
in the main,” said I, as Ethel passed me my
coffee.
“My, yes, she’s a different creature from
what she was when she first saw these hills.
This morning she actually told me that the
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
sunsets up here had more colors in them than
they had in New York, and that they were
bigger. She’s beginning to take notice. I
must give her a nature lesson. Something
has always happened to prevent it.”
“I don’t think the need for it exists now
that she has James. He’s all the study she
needs.”
“Yes, but if we should come up here next
summer, and James should not prove constant,
it would be something if she loved the
country for its own sake.”
Just then Minerva came in with a dish of
brains; a present from Bert’s father, who
sent the pleasant message that they always
threw the stuff away, but he knew that city
folks had queer tastes.
“Minerva, what were you going to do this
morning?” asked Ethel.
“Nothin’, ma’am,” said she innocently.
“You mean nothing in particular,” said
Ethel, knowing that no impertinence was intended.
“Suppose you take some of those
new kitchen towels to hem and we’ll go out
into the fields and I’ll tell you something
about the flowers.”
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
“I got some sewin’ of my own to do if
you’ll let me,” said Minerva.
“Why certainly. You know, Minerva, as
long as you get your work done each day, I
don’t care what you do for yourself.”
“No’m, I know you don’t. I don’t either
ma’am.”
I looked up hastily, but Minerva was guiltless
of any attempt at repartee. She was
simply acquiescing with her mistress.
Having nothing better to do than loaf, I
went with Ethel to a place called the wintergreen
lot, about a half mile distant, and Minerva
followed after with a lot of white stuff
that reminded me strongly of the day I was
married. I am not up in feminine fabrics,
and the thing might have been mosquito netting.
The day was hot and sultry. Hanging over
Egerton in the southwest were great black,
wicked looking clouds that portended thunder
storms. We had so far escaped without one,
although we had several times heard distant
thunder and had seen a storm following the
course of the river in the west.
“Shall we take umbrellas?” said Ethel.
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
“What’s the use?” said I. “If it rains
we’ll probably get wet anyway, and in such
hot weather as this a wetting won’t hurt.”
So we went unhampered by umbrellas, and
after a walk through a tree-embowered road,
whose beauty we were told had been marked
for destruction by the brass mill, but of which
destruction the happy trees were all ignorant,
we reached the wintergreen lot, and Ethel,
spreading a shawl, seated herself on the
mossy ground, while I perched on a rock until
it got too hard, when I changed to another
rock.
“Minerva, do you see that little red berry
in the grass?” said Ethel.
“Yas’m.”
“Well, pick it and I’ll tell you something
about it.”
I sniffed. Ethel’s love of outdoor life is
very real, but she is not a botanist. “She
knows what she likes” in nature, but she
can’t tell why.
She heard the sniff and her lips came together
to form a noiseless word that she bestows
upon me when she thinks I need it.
Then she smiled at me and took from a little
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
bag she had brought with her Mrs. Dana’s
book, “How to Know the Wild Flowers,”
which she had evidently found among the
Wheelock’s possessions.
“That, Minerva, is the wintergreen berry.
Taste it and tell me what it reminds you of.”
Minerva’s wide mouth enveloped the dainty
berry and she crushed it with her tongue.
Then she beamed.
“Chewin’ gum,” said she. “Wish I had
some.”
“Well, I wasn’t thinking of that, but they
do flavor chewing gum with it, I believe. But
could you get anything in the city as pretty
as that?”
“Yas’m.”
“What, Minerva?”
“Cramberries.”
“Yes, but they don’t grow in the city.
Now here’s something that I never noticed
before. It says in this book that ‘he who
seeks the cool shade of the evergreens on a
hot July day is likely to discover the nodding
wax-like flowers of this little plant.’
Now let’s see if we can find any. It doesn’t
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
seem likely that the fruit and the blossom
would be blooming at the same time.”
“They are, though,” said I. “Found that
out when I was a boy. I can never taste
wintergreen berries without being reminded
of a girl that—”
“Wait, Philip, we’ll be back. I want to
see if I can get a flower.”
Ethel always cuts me off when I make any
references to my lost youth. She calls them
my calf love days and takes no interest in
them, while I contend that some of the happiest
moments in a man’s life are when he
roams the fields in retrospect with a girl who
is always ten times prettier than anyone he
ever met. I once met one of those old-time
beauties and the shock was terrific. I tried
to restore her features as I gazed at her, but
my imagination balked at the task. She was
a good woman, the mother of seven good children,
but the vision of the lovely, dancing-eyed,
pink-cheeked, rosebud-mouthed, shell-like-eared,
dimple-chinned naiad of my early
youth was gone.
From the way in which she looked at me, I
felt that she had suffered a like shock. The
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
tall, lithe-limbed, high-browed, innocent-faced,
clear-eyed, light-hearted boy of sixteen
no longer stood before her. Thanks be to the
conventions of society, neither one of us
wished that our tongues could utter the
thoughts that arose in us, and we both had
the audacity to speak of the jolly days of long
ago, and I left her, thinking that I still considered
her the little beauty of 1886, while she
left me still imagining that I thought she
thought me the handsome youth of the same
year.
Ethel gave a little cry of delight.
“I’ve found one, Philip. It’s just like the
picture in the book.”
“Why, of course,” said I. “You don’t
suppose that they make up those pictures and
expect the plants to conform to them?”
Not noticing my flippancy, she came over
with two of the little flowers and held them
up for me to see.
“They look like something very pretty, Minerva.
What do they remind you of?”
“A pair of pants,” said Minerva, with a
loud laugh.
“Dutchmen’s breeches, do you mean?” said
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
Ethel. “Oh, I see what you mean. Yes,
they are like little knickerbockers, but they
remind me of Japanese lanterns. Now, Minerva,
the woods and the fields are full of
plants like these and they all have names and
each has a beauty of its own—”
“What’s Dutchmen’s breeches?” interrupted
Minerva. She had been to the “Continuous”
many times and I think that Dutchmen’s
breeches brought to her mind a pair
of knockabout comedians.
“Do you think there are any in this field,
Philip?” said Ethel.
“You have got me, Ethel. I forget each
summer the names of the flowers I learned
the summer before. Seems to me Dutchmen’s
breeches is an early spring flower.”
“No, I think it comes in the late fall to tell
the truth. We’ll look it up.”
She turned to the index, which referred her
to the 37th page. Minerva looked over her
shoulder in the way she should not have done
and no sooner did she see the flower picture
than she said,
“Oh, Lawdy, that makes me homesick.
I’ve seen that in the park.”
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
“Oh, surely not,” said Ethel. “Let’s see
what it says.”
“Mmmmmm,” she mumbled over the early
part of the description and then she came to,
‘The flower when seen explains its two English
titles. It is accessible to every New
Yorker, for in early April it whitens many of
the shaded ledges in the upper part of the
Central Park.’ Why, you were right, Minerva.
I dare say you know more about such
things than I do.”
“Why, Mis. Vernon, I haven’ any grudge
aginst country if o’ny city is a few blocks off.
My, if I could run down now an’ see my folks
I’d bring ’em up here to-morrer. I used to
go to the park often my day out, but the city’s
all around it an’ up here the country’s so big
it—oh, Lawdy, what was that?”
It was a flash of lightning, followed by a
clap of thunder that told us a storm was close
at hand.
“Ooh, let’s get under the trees,” said Minerva,
her face showing abject terror.
“That would be the last thing to do,”
said I.
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
“Well, let’s do it first, then,” said she, all
unconscious of the witticism.
The black clouds had been coming swiftly
and now in the southwest we heard the noise
of rain. We could see it falling on Egerton
and could mark its approach up the hills to
where we were standing.
The flashes of lightning grew more blinding
and the thunder claps followed more and
more quickly. We were in for a wetting, that
was sure.
Minerva threw herself on her face in the
soft moss and began to pray, “Oh, Lawd,”
said she; “Don’t send any messengers to take
me, out here in the country. Let me go back
to the city befo’—Oh, Lawdy.” This break
in the prayer was caused by a flash and a peal
that were almost simultaneous, and down in
a forest of walnuts below us there was a
sound of riven wood.
“Dear, I wish we were home,” said Ethel,
drawing a long breath and coming close to
me.
“Well, we are probably safer here than at
home. It’ll be over soon.”
And now the rain came down in sheets.
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
We were wet to the skin in two minutes. Minerva
in a heap on the ground moaned and
prayed and ejaculated and Ethel clung to me
and shuddered at each awful peal and each
blinding flash. My clothes hung in bags
about me and leaked at a dozen points.
The display was magnificent, but I did not
see the beauty in it that I saw when I was a
boy. Then I was not frightened. Now each
summer the storms seem to be worse and
more awe-inspiring, and to tell the truth, so
many of our friends have suffered loss from
thunder storms that I would be perfectly
willing to forego them in future.
The storm departed suddenly, even as it
had come, and when the rumbling grew
fainter Minerva rose to her feet.
A call came to us from the road. We
looked up and saw James, also soaked to the
skin, sitting in Bert’s buggy.
At the sound of his voice Minerva gave a
glad cry and started to run to him.
He made a trumpet of his hands and said,
“Mrs. Vernon, you and Mr. Vernon drive and
Minerva and me’ll walk.”
I considered a minute and then thinking
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
that Ethel ran a greater risk of catching cold
if she rode than if she walked, I shook my
head and told Minerva to run along.
We took one or two steps in the sloppy
moss and our shoes spurted water.
“Let’s go barefoot,” said I. “It will be
much more comfortable.”
We took off our shoes and stockings, and
for the first time in many years we walked
the country barefoot. Perhaps it was
Ethel’s first experience of the joy. To judge
from her face it was. But we picked out soft
places and by the time we reached the house
we were already somewhat dried, nor did we
get any ill effects.
“Ethel,” said I, “what was that white
thing Minerva brought to sew on?”
“A wedding veil,” said Ethel.
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch16
CHAPTER XVI||WHEN THE LAW IS ON.
.sp 2
.dc 0.4 0.675
ETHEL was out in the little orchard south
of the house with Minerva, looking for
“queen’s lace.” She had two purposes in
mind. To teach Minerva something more of
nature and to make a conventionalized design
of the ground plan of the flower for use in her
everlasting embroidery.
“Mis. Vernon.”
“What is it, Minerva?”
“Don’t the apples we have in the city come
from the country?”
“Why, yes,” said Ethel.
She told me of the conversation later, I
being at the time fishing for trout (in all innocence)
with James (who knew the law).
“Well, then, how come that apples here is
so little and city apples is so big?”
“Why,” said Ethel, “these haven’t grown
yet.”
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
“Do they grow on the tree?” said Minerva.
“Why, certainly. You surely didn’t suppose
that they grew after they were picked.”
“But the stems is so little that I wouldn’t
think they’d hold apples like I see in the
grocery stores.”
“Why, but the stems grow, too.”
“Oh,” said Minerva.
Minerva’s ignorance of common things was
a never-ending marvel.
“Who do you pay for these apples, Mis.
Vernon,” she went on.
“Why, nobody. They go with the house.”
And then Minerva gave utterance to a wise
remark.
“Ain’t it queer, Mis. Vernon, that in the
country, where you don’t have to pay for apples,
every man has apple trees of his own,
and in the city, where you do have to pay,
nobody has any?”
“Just what do you mean?” said Ethel,
wishing (as she told me) to draw out Minerva’s
thought.
“Why, I mean poor people in the city has
to pay for apples, an’ in the country people
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
don’t have to pay for ’em, but it don’t do no
good, because they have their own trees.”
“Well, but if they didn’t have their own
trees, they would have to pay for them,” said
Ethel, puzzled.
“Yas’m, but people in the city, if they had
trees,—I mean poor people, then they
wouldn’t have to pay for apples and they
could use their money for somethin’ else, and
people in the country has more money than
poor people in the city, and they don’t have
to spend it on apples, because they have ’em
on their own trees.”
“Oh, I see,” said Ethel. “You mean that
it doesn’t seem fair that poor people in the
city, who would appreciate apples on their
own trees, if they had them, have to pay for
apples, while in the country people who could
afford to pay for apples don’t have to, but
can go out and pick them.”
“Yas’m,” said Minerva. “I guess that’s
what I meant.”
“Yes,” said Ethel. “That must have been
just what you meant. There are a great
many things that we can’t understand about
those things, but you know that farmers sell
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
their apples to the people in the city, and
that’s one of the ways they make their
money.”
Minerva thought a minute. “Apples on
the stands in the city sells for five cents, and
I’ve seen rows of trees up here full of apples.”
“They call them orchards,” said Ethel.
“Why don’t they call them apples?” asked
Minerva.
“No, no, the rows of trees are called orchards,
and if the farmers could sell the apples
for five cents apiece they would make a
great deal of money, but they sell them to
other men, who sell them to others, and they
sell them to the men who keep the apple
stands. The farmers don’t get a cent apiece
for them.”
Minerva’s mind must have been in good
working order that day, for she now said,
“If the poor people in the city knew they
could get them for nothing they would all
come to the country. An’, Mis. Vernon,”
said she, with a characteristic chuckle, “If
the farmers knew they sold for five cents in
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
the city they’d take ’em down theirselves and
sell ’em.”
Even Minerva felt that the middle man was
an excrescence.
They were still hunting for the queen’s
lace when I returned with what was for me
a fine string of trout. James had taken his
string home.
“Oh, what beauties. Did James catch
them for you?” said Ethel. “We’ll have
them for lunch.” Minerva took the forked
stick that held the half dozen, not one less
than eight inches in length, and as soon as
she had left, Ethel told me of her thoughtful
conversation. She also told me that she despaired
of getting any queen’s lace.
“I must send to the seedsman for some
seeds and sprinkle it in the grass so that we
may have some next year.”
“Do so,” said I with the tone that fits
superior knowledge. “Do so, and help fill
the cell of a model Massachusetts prison.
Don’t you know that that’s wild carrot and
it’s counted as big a nuisance as the Canada
thistle. Don’t you know we’d be fined?”
“Well, certainly farmers don’t know a
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
beautiful thing when they see it,” said Ethel
jumping to an illogical conclusion. “Are
you sure that it is a nuisance? It grew all
over the grass in Barnham.”
“Yes, and they were shiftless people in
that place. Here, give me your nature book.”
I took it and soon found the page. “Here it
is: ‘This is, perhaps, the “peskiest” of all
the weeds with which he has to contend.’
The farmer may think it’s beautiful, but it
isn’t beauty so much as a living that he is
after. We have to obey the laws in a civilized
state like Massachusetts. It’s a punishable
offence to let it grow.”
“Well, I don’t see how it could harm just
on this place. Nobody farms it very near
us.”
“No, but the wind has a way of carrying
seeds, Ethel,” said I, sarcastically. “It was
the way of the wind with a seed that first
suggested rural delivery, I have no doubt.
Who is that talking to Minerva?”
It was a man who, driving by, had stopped
and hailed her, and had now left his horse
in the middle of the road and had gone over
to her.
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
We could not hear what he said, but we saw
her suddenly put her two hands behind her
back as if to conceal her string of fish.
I hurried over to the man, followed by
Ethel.
“Are those trout,” said the man, carelessly.
“No, they’re fishes,” said Minerva, in a
tone of contempt for his ignorance.
“Yes, they’re trout?” said I. “Why do
you want to know?”
There was something in his manner that
I did not like.
“Who caught those trout,” said he.
I felt like saying, “I, said the fly with my
hook and eye,” but I really did say “I caught
them. Have you any objections?”
“Decidedly,” said he, his manner becoming
stern and official. “I am the game
warden, and this is the middle of July. The
law went on on July 1st. I can arrest you.”
There seemed to be something cockily
pompous about this man, who was not above
five feet high, but whose erectness of bearing
and awesome manner made him seem (to himself)
at least six feet two in his stocking feet.
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
So when he said “I can arrest you,” I said,
“And will you?” and felt quite Shakespearean
as I said it. It recalled the scene between
Arthur and Hubert de Burgh.
“Well,” said he, seeing that I stirred not,
“Perhaps it can be settled out of court. As
game warden I can sell you the right to have
caught those fish.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said I, “Bribery and
corruption. And in Massachusetts. Well, I
don’t believe I care to buy the right. I went
out fishing this morning not knowing of the
law. Ignorance of the law is no excuse, I
know that, but the point is, that if I have got
to pay out money I prefer to pay it in a fine
than to pay it to you for a right you can’t
give me. The law makes no distinction, if
I know anything about laws” (and I know
precious little) “and if I mustn’t catch trout
out of season, I mustn’t catch ’em, that’s all.
Lead me to prison.”
I said this in mock heroics and he in his
turn said,
“Well, of course, I didn’t mean to take a
bribe. You misunderstood me. As game
warden I own the fish. I represent the state
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
and the state owns the fish, therefore I own
them. Now you have caught some of my fish.
I can’t sell you the right to catch them, very
true, but I can sell you the fish now that they
are caught.”
Minerva’s hands had fallen to her sides and
he now took the string from her, while she
was off her guard, and said:
“There are six of them. This season of
the year they are worth fifty cents apiece for
the males and a dollar for the females.”
I laughed in his face.
“My dear man, if you think I am going to
pay anywhere from three to six dollars for
a fish lunch you are mistaken. I’d rather
throw away the fish and pay my fine like a
man.”
“You can’t throw them away,” said he, defiantly;
“I have the fish and possession is
nine points of the law. Did you have an
aider and abettor?”
“I refuse to answer,” said I.
He turned quickly on Minerva. “Did your
master go out with anyone?”
“I didn’t see him go out,” said Minerva,
sullenly. It was plain to be seen that her
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
sympathies were not with the myrmidon of
the law.
“I am not afraid of this law,” said I. “I
fished innocently and I am willing to pay the
fine. I will also consider it my duty to tell
the judge that you attempted to compromise
with me on a money basis.”
His manner changed in a twinkling. “See
here,” said he. “You’re a stranger up here
and you’re from the city. It’s easy to see
that. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”
He walked slowly over to his wagon, holding
the string of fish in front of him, while
he gazed at them thoughtfully. He climbed
into the wagon and seemed to be hunting for
something under the seat. He soon found
it. It was the whip. He applied it to the
horse and the animal responded in a spurt
of speed that took him out of sight before
we realized what had happened.
Our fish lunch was gone.
“I’m glad it ended that way,” said Ethel.
I looked at her and saw that she was rather
pale. “It would have been dreadful if he
had arrested you.”
“I think I’d like to be the game warden,”
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
said I, “if people generally are innocent of
the law. But he was afraid of my bribery
talk.”
It may have been five minutes later that
Bert drove over to the house on his way to
town. He had with him another dish of
brains.
“Bert,” said I, “When does the law on
trout go on?”
“First of July,” said he.
“What’s the name of the game warden?”
“Why, father. Been fishin’?” said he,
with a laugh.
“Yes, but that wasn’t your father that you
must have just passed.”
“No,” said he. “That’s Cy Holden.”
He laughed reminiscently. “Cy’s a great
boy.”
“How is he great?”
“Oh, he’s always playing practical jokes,”
said he.
“Much obliged for the brains,” said I.
“We’ll have them for lunch.”
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch17
CHAPTER XVII||THE STORY OF A PIPE.
.sp 2
.dc 0.15 0.675
I SUPPOSE that there are prettier places in
the world than western Massachusetts, although
I should consider it a profitless task
to try to find them, but whether it arose from
the beauty of the scenery or the witchery of
the mountain air, certain it is that we have
never stayed at a country place that exercised
such a charm over us as did the rolling
hills and valleys around Clover Lodge.
Ethel was not less under its influence than
I, and we have seen how Minerva, coming
there with an evident and pronounced disgust
for it, was now coming to look on it as
home.
All the events connected with that summer
resolved themselves in the retrospect into
something agreeable. The visits in turn of
the burglar, the sheriff, and the “game
warden” furnished us food for pleasant
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
talk, and our early and frantic attempts to
keep Minerva satisfied did not seem as tragic
when looked at from the latter end of July
as they did in the happening.
It was a few days after our loss of the delicious
trout lunch that we received an unexpected
call from a neighbour.
It was an unusually hot night for Clover
Lodge. Ordinarily a blanket was not too
much, no matter how warm the day, and there
were nights in July when two blankets were
necessary, but this night was breathless, and
so hot that a sheet would have felt like hot
metal.
We had retired to rest, but found that rest
was impossible. It was a night in which to
deplore good circulation and wish for cold
feet.
It may have been twelve o’clock; it may
have been much later—we had no striking
clock in the house—when we heard uncertain
steps on the graveled walk. They came
nearer and nearer, and at last a foot slid
along the floor of the porch, followed by a
reluctant mate, a heavy hand fell against the
door and an over-mellow voice called out,
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
“You ’wake, papa?”
I was only too wide awake, but I had no
children, so I did not think it necessary to
answer his question.
A muttering arose and then a louder query
as to whether “papa” was awake.
“Who can it be?” said Ethel.
“Some one who believes in local option.
I wish he’d go away.”
“Papa. Papa. It’s on’y me. I wan’ a
borrer mash.”
“What does he want?” said Ethel.
“He wants a match.”
“Oh, tell him to go away. He’ll set the
house afire.”
“How can he set the house afire if he hasn’t
a match? It rests with me whether he sets
anything afire.”
I called out in as stentorian a tone as my
lungs would allow me to muster, “Go away.
Go home.”
My voice was encouragement to the tired
wayfarer.
“Oh, papa. Was ’frai’ you was ’sleep.
Papa, ’blizh me wi’ a mash. Mine wen’ out,
wan’a ligh’ a pipe.”
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
I got out of bed. The moon had about
ended its lighting services for the night, but
I could see the form of a man sitting on the
porch seat, his head swaying from side to side
and as I looked he again lifted up his voice
and said,
“Papa, don’ you hear me? Be neighbourly,
papa.”
“I don’t find any matches,” said, I with a
fine Puritanical regard for the letter of the
truth. I found none because I did not look
for them.
My denial of his request worked on the
sensibilities of my unknown neighbour to such
an extent that he was moved to tears. Amid
his maudlin sobs he said,
“Pa’a, if you came to my house in dea’
night an’ as’ me for mash I’d leshu have one.
I’m kin’ hearted, pa’a. On’y one mash I as’
an’ pa’a refuses. My pipe’ gone out an’
pa’a has box’s mashes an’ he can’ fin’ one.”
It did seem a little like a disobliging spirit
and I moved to the bureau to get one, but
Ethel said,
“Don’t give him one. He’ll set himself on
.bn 239.png
.pn +1
fire or else set fire to the grass. Tell him
to go away.”
Ethel has a horror of drunken gentlemen
or even drunken men, who are not gentlemen,
and I could do no more than respect her
wishes.
I leaned out of the window and said in very
much the tone one would assume in talking to
a wilful little dog,
“Now go home. Go right home. You
may catch cold if you stay here. I can’t let
you have a match.”
“Papa, if I caught cold ni’ like this I’d
know wha’ do with it. Mos’ hot ’nough to
ligh’ my pipe. Goo’ bye, papa. Mos’ unneighbourly,
papa.” He rose from his seat
and swayed down the walk until he came to
the gate.
“Papa, I shut your gate for you. No har’
feelin’s, papa. Mos’ unneighbourly, but I
shu’ your gate.”
And muttering and stumbling, he went
along to his home.
Ethel, with an absence of logic that must
have been due to the heat, lay awake for an
hour in fear that the matchless man would
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
set fire to the house in revenge, but we did
not hear from him again.
Next morning I found a pipe in the grass
not far from the gate. I said nothing about
it to Ethel, but when opportunity offered I
showed it to James and asked him if he knew
whose it was.
“Looks like Sam Adams’s,” said he.
“Yes, there’s S. A. scratched on the bowl.”
I knew Sam Adams (fictitious name) to be
a hard working farmer of some thirty years
of age, a young married man with an adoring
wife and pretty baby and with a lack of tact
that I have never ceased to wonder at I resolved
to restore the pipe to him. I learned
from Bert that once in a while he would go
down to Grange Meeting and would stop on
the way back for beverages that he did not
need.
The opportunity soon offered itself. I
was out walking by myself one Sunday afternoon
and I came on him inspecting some
buckwheat that was coming along finely.
I leaned on the fence that separated us and
passed the time of day with him.
He was cordial, as he always was.
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
“Nice hay weather,” said I, a phrase that
I had picked up very easily and worked a
good deal.
“Yes, if it wasn’t the Sabbath,” said he,
“or if my grass land was a leetle further
away.”
“Mr. Adams,” said I, “I picked something
up the other day that I think belongs to you.”
His manner, which had been warm, became
frigid as he said, “I guess not. I haven’t
missed anything.”
“Isn’t this yours?” said I, producing the
pipe.
He looked me coldly in the eye and said, “I
never saw that before.”
I, on my part, saw something that I had
not seen before. I put the pipe into my
pocket, feeling that I had put my foot in it.
Anxious to make amends, I pulled out a
cigar and said, “Have one.”
Relaxing, he accepted it and biting off the
end he put it in his mouth.
“Got a match,” said I without thinking.
“Thank you, yes,” said he turning away
his head.
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
I lighted a cigar and we puffed silently for
a minute or two.
“Weather’s been hot enough lately, to
drive a man to drink,” said I. “Better take
your pipe and think no more about it.”
“Thank you,” said he, as he put it into
his pocket. And we became good friends
from that hour.
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch18
CHAPTER XVIII||WE FIND A PIANO.
.sp 2
.dc 0.6 0.675
AS matters were now running so swimmingly
with us, Ethel invited an old school
friend of hers to come and pay us a visit.
Miss Paxton, “Cherry,” as most of her
friends call her, is an unusually talented
woman. She can draw very well indeed, and
she can play the piano in an almost professional
way. Tall and slender, with a facial
animation that is almost beauty, she is a general
favorite by virtue of her buoyant spirits
and readiness for whatever is going on.
When Minerva heard that she was coming
up she clapped her hands and said,
“My-oh-my! I’m glad to hear she’s comin’.
Now we will have music.”
She meant piano music, for Miss Paxton
did not sing. But we had no piano.
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
I had not thought it worth while to get one,
because Ethel, while very fond of music and
with a cultivated taste for it, is not able to
play. Her father thought that so many people
now-a-days play the piano badly, that it
was just as well not to play it at all, and he
would never hear of her taking lessons.
As Miss Paxton was only going to be up
a week, it did not seem to be worth while sending
to Springfield for a piano. I did not
know at the time that there was a wareroom
in Egerton.
We talked it over, Ethel and I, and we
came to the conclusion that we would help
Cherry to enjoy herself without music—unless
she should show an unexpected predilection
for the accordeon, in which case we
had no doubt that Minerva would lend her her
instrument.
Cherry was coming on a Saturday, and
we were to drive to Egerton to meet her.
Friday afternoon we went to call on Mrs.
Hartlett, an old lady, who was in her hundredth
year, and in almost complete possession
of her faculties.
I feel that I owe it to Mrs. Hartlett to
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
give some account of our visit to her, although
the real object of this chapter is to
tell what was happening during our absence
from home.
Mrs. Hartlett was a widow, her husband
having died eighty-one years before.
“Just think of it, Philip,” said Ethel, as
we began to descend the little hill at the foot
of which Mrs. Hartlett lived with a granddaughter,
a woman verging on sixty years,
and almost as old looking as her grandmother.
“Just think of it; for the best part of her
life Mrs. Hartlett has had a young husband.”
“What do you mean?” said I, not at once
seeing her drift.
“Why, the memory of her husband is that
of a young man. They said he was only
twenty-two when he died, and for over eighty
years she has had that picture in her memory.”
“It’s probably kept her young,” said I.
We found her sitting outside of her door
under a grape arbour, knitting. Her face was
thin and her cheek bones high and the skin
was drawn tightly, but its colour had a reminiscence
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
of the rosy shade that had (so tradition
said) made her a beauty “in the days
when Madison was president.”
She was erect, and despite a slight trembling
of her frame, she looked strong.
“We thought we’d come and see you and
bring you some sweet peas,” said Ethel.
“It is very good of you,” said she, in a
voice which though cracked had a pleasant
ring of sincerity in it. “You are the Vernons,
are you not?”
I was surprised that so old a soul should
be enough interested in things to know who
transient summer people were, but I suppose
it was that very interest in things that had
kept her faculties unimpaired.
As I looked at her I felt proud of New England.
Perfectly self-possessed, abundantly
able to hold her own in conversation, respected
by all and self-respecting, she was a
type of that native cultivation that made the
hill towns a source of strength to the nation,
before the coming of steam cars that drew
the young men and maidens from the hills
and sent them forth to carry New England
traditions to the West.
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
“Yes, so you’ve heard of us.”
“Oh, yes, the young people come in and
keep me informed of all passing matters,”
said she, talking slowly and evidently choosing
her words with care.
“Pray be seated,” said she quaintly, and
we took seats under the pleasant grape arbour.
Suddenly a canary, whose cage hung in the
centre of the arbour, burst into a roulade that
had something of the bubbling ecstacy of a
bobolink’s note.
Mrs. Hartlett looked up at him and smiled.
“He is a source of comfort to me,” said
she. “He sings as long as the sun shines.
Last winter he was mute for upwards of a
week, and I feared that I was going to lose
him, but it was only that he was moulting.
When his new coat had come he began singing
again and in spite of the fact that he has no
mate he is happy.”
Two mateless creatures and both of them
happy. It’s all in the temperament.
“How do you like it up on these hills?”
said Mrs. Hartlett.
“Very much,” said Ethel. “It is so quiet
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
and there are so few houses that it’s a pleasant
contrast to our noisy, busy New York
life.”
“Child, I remember when this was a busy
community, too,” said the old lady. “When
I was a young lady of eighteen, we had a
singing school here and Dr. Lowell Mason
used to come from Boston every two weeks
to teach us, and there were two hundred
young people of both sexes who gathered in
the seminary to learn of him.”
“You had a seminary here?” said I, astonished,
for the district school of the present
day is the only school in the neighbourhood,
and it does not accommodate more than
twenty-five.
“Indeed we did; a seminary and a college
for chirurgeons. Dr. Hadley was the best
chirurgeon of his time and young men from
all over New England used to come here to
learn of him. Times have changed, but if the
houses have fallen away and the people gone
the country has grown more beautiful.”
“How do you pass the time?”
“With my magazines and my young
friends. I have taken Littell’s Living Age
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
and the Atlantic ever since they started, and
they keep me abreast of the times, and the
young people are very good. Two years ago
they clubbed together and gave me a cabinet
organ. I cannot play it myself; my fingers
are too stiff, but the young folks come in
and play me the old tunes I knew when I
was a girl—‘Drink to Me Only With Thine
Eyes,’ and many others that are never heard
now, I suspect. Mr. and Mrs. Hayden are
especially kind in coming to sing to me but all
the young people are very thoughtful.”
It was not until later that I realized that
the “young people” she had specified were
considerably over fifty. But she was right.
Youth is a relative term.
“Do you walk about much?”
“When my rheumatism permits of walking.
My knees are somewhat rheumatic but it is
no more than I might reasonably expect at my
great age. I shall be one hundred years old
on the 16th of September next if the Lord
spares me.”
There was a gleam of pride in her eyes as
she said this. She was striving for a goal.
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
We rose to go soon after, fearing that we
might tire her if we stayed too long.
“Oh, don’t go yet,” said she, half rising
and putting out her mitted hand. “You have
barely come. I want that you should see my
cat. I am quite proud of my cat. She was
given to me by a play actor who spent last
summer here. I was brought up to consider
play acting an abomination to the Lord but
we live and learn and this gentleman was an
honest, God-fearing man although he has been
a play actor ever since his youth. I cannot
recall his name. Names have a way of going
from one. It is one of the defects of age with
which we must be patient.
“Pussy, pussy,” said she, calling in falsetto.
Whether in answer to the call or merely
because Her Independence decided that it was
time for her to come out and stroll about I
cannot say but at that minute a most magnificent
Angora jumped heavily from a chair in
the sitting room (as I saw from my seat under
the arbour) and walked out to us. She
walked over to Ethel and sniffed her dress
and passed her by. Then she came to me and
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
sniffed my trouser leg and arching her back
she rubbed against me and began to purr in
tremendous fashion, quite like a young lion.
The old lady laughed cheerily.
“She always shows a penchant for gentlemen,”
said she. “You never will guess her
name. The play actor named her.”
“Lady Macbeth?” said I, quite at a venture.
“Why, my sakes,” said Mrs. Hartlett.
“You are right. You must be a Yankee.
You know we are said to be able to guess almost
anything.”
“Well, if I’m not a Yankee born I’m one in
spirit. My ancestors came from Connecticut.”
“The ‘land of steady habits.’ Stop, Macbeth.
Don’t let her sharpen her claws in that
fashion. I call her Macbeth half the time
although she has a much better character
than Macbeth had.”
“So you read Shakespeare?” said I.
“I never did until in recent years. The
pastor we had a few years back, in ’65, I
think it was, told me that there was much in
him that would repay me and I have found it
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
so. I sometimes think that we of the last century
were narrow. It came about from our
isolation. The easier modes of getting about
have made us better acquainted with our
world neighbours.”
I signalled to Ethel and we again rose.
“Do you feel that you must go?” said Mrs.
Hartlett. “I thank you for coming and I am
sorry that I cannot offer you something in
the way of refreshment but my granddaughter
has gone to town and I find that it does
not do for me to try to handle cups and saucers
and glasses for my old wrists are tired of
service and they play me strange tricks.”
We shook hands with the old lady and as
we came away she said:
“When you can find nothing better worth
doing come and see me.”
“Well, she is the real thing,” said I as we
got out of hearing.
“Ninety-nine years young and growing
younger every year. Think of her hobnobbing
with a play actor. I wonder who he
was.”
“Why, but aren’t actors all right?” asked
Ethel.
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
“Yes, they are if they are, but you don’t
know what it meant for her, brought up as
she had been, to acknowledge that an actor
might be a good man. It showed great independence
of mind.”
“What poise she had,” said Ethel.
“She could stand before kings.”
“And the kings might well feel honoured.”
We walked slowly back as Ethel was trying
to see how many kinds of wild flowers she
could pick. Mrs. Dana’s book had had an
effect upon her she had not anticipated and
I was afraid that she was going to become a
botanist and talk about pistils and stamens,
and things.
I believe she had picked twenty-five different
“weeds,” as the farmers thereabouts
called them, when she stopped and stood erect
and listened.
“Where’s that piano?”
“Is it a piano,” said I, not willing to believe
the evidence of my ears. We were
about ten rods from our house and there is
not another house nearer than a quarter of a
mile and no piano within a half mile.
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
“It certainly is a piano and in our house,”
said she.
What we had heard were preliminary
chords and now to a bang-bang accompaniment
we heard the pleasing lyric, “Hannah,
Won’t You Open That Door,” and recognized
the voice as that of James.
“First a crimson rambler and now a
piano,” said I. “I suppose he planted a few
keys and the piano sprang up quickly.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“It means,” said I, “that, however it may
have happened, we have a piano in the house
and Cherry can play when she comes.”
We now noticed wheel tracks, some of them
on our lawn and we knew that James had not
worked a miracle but that the piano had
come to the house by very human agencies.
A broken plant showed where a horse’s hoof
had toyed with it.
Our appearance on the path was the signal
for the music to stop and Minerva came to the
door perfectly radiant.
“It’s come, ma’am. The pianner has
come,” said she, her eyes dancing with delight.
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
“Well, who sent it?” said I.
James had come out.
“Where did the piano come from, James?”
“I do’no’, sir,” said he. “I found it here
when I come up to the house.”
“Why, it come in a wagon,” said Minerva.
She looked me in the eye and then she gave
one of her chuckles.
“Say, Mist. Vernon, didn’ you order it?”
“No,” said I.
She clapped her hands rapturously.
“Then you can thank me for it, Mist. Vernon
and we’ll have music when Miss Cherry
comes. I half knowed he didn’t mean it for
here but I wanted it.”
“What do you mean, Minerva? Tell us
what happened.”
“Why, it was this way. I was moppin’ de
kitchen an’ I see a man pass the winder, an’
I thought maybe it was tramps, an’ I clinched
the mop an’ got ready to run, an’ a man
comes to the back-kitchen door an’ asks where
he’s to put the pianner.
“‘What pianner?’ says I. ‘Why, the on’y
pianner we’ve brought,’ says he, ‘for Mr.
Werner.’”
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
“‘Vernon,’ says I. ‘Well, Vernon,’ says
he, ‘Where’ll I put it,’ says he, and I says,
‘Right in the parlour,’ and I walked thoo to
show him, and he went out to the other man
an’ they unstrapped it an’ like to ha’ broke
the porch floor gettin’ it in, an’ they set it up
an’ unlocked it an’ then they gev me the
recippy to sign an’ it was written on it, ‘Mr.
H. Werner,’ but I thought as long as the
pianner was up an’ you’d like it I wouldn’t
tell ’em they’d made a mistake, an’ I signed
the recippy an’ they drove off.”
I looked at Ethel.
“It’s fate,” said she.
“Do you know where it came from?” said
I to Minerva.
“No, sir. From that away.”
“Oh, there’s only one place,” spoke up
James: “It came from Hill’s in Egerton.
He rents ’em.”
It was a time when quick thought would be
a good thing. “James,” said I, “you go
right down to Hill’s and tell him that he sent
a piano to me by mistake but that I want to
keep it, and that he’d better send another to
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
the Werner’s before they make a kick about
it.”
“Won’t we have fun when Cherry comes?”
said Ethel after the others had gone and we
stood looking at the case that had the potentiality
of so much pleasure in it.
“Minerva is a treasure,” said I.
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch19
CHAPTER XIX||TH’ OULD SCUT.
.sp 2
.dc 0.15 0.675
I HAVE made mention of the fact that during
the haying season horses were difficult to
get. We generally relied on Bert, but he
was not always able to supply us with a means
of conveyance to town. I had counted on
him to bring Miss Paxton up, but I had neglected
to say anything to him about it and our
telepathic communication was out of kilter,
for he never felt my desire, and so it fell out
that when at four o’clock of Saturday afternoon
I realized this and Ethel and I went
down to his father’s to get him to harness
up, we learned that he and his father were
over in the “east lot” getting in some valuable
hay—the weather threatening thunder
storms—and that we could not possibly have
either of the horses.
Here was a pretty how-de-do.
It was ten minutes after four and the train
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
came to Egerton, three miles away, at 4:58.
We might walk down and hire a livery team
but even at that it would require speed.
In my dilemma Bert’s mother suggested
that we try Pat Casey.
“He lives in the little red house beyond the
ruins of the old church,” said she, “and you
may be able to hire his horse.”
Across the fields to the little red house we
hurried. A short, lithe, nimble-footed man
was tossing hay in front of his house. We
climbed the last fence and stood before him.
He looked up and greeted us pleasantly, his
eyes twinkling with what looked like suppressed
mischief.
“Is this Mr. Casey?”
“I’m Pat Casey. Divil a hair I care about
the Misther,” said he, leaning on his rake
and bobbing his head at us.
“Well,” said I, hurriedly, “We want to go
down to Egerton to meet a friend who is coming
on the 4:58. Can you let us hire your
team?”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“Is it hire? Divil a hire. If ye dare trust
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
your legs in me caart you’re welkim to use me
ould scut of a harse—bad scran to her.”
The “bad scran” was delivered with a
laugh that robbed it of all animosity and setting
his rake against a tree he led the way to
a tumble down barn that sheltered a more
tumble down dirt cart, and a yet more tumble
down horse. It certainly was an “ould
scut,” whatever that is. It was blind in one
eye; its back seemed trying to show Hogarth’s
line of beauty in the form of a deep curve,
and its four legs stood not under its body but
at obtuse angles to it, as if it had been staggering
with a heavy weight long enough and
was now about to break in two in the middle.
And yet when Pat slapped the animal on
the flank and spoke a word or two to it the
horse whinnied and pricked up its ears and
looked intelligently out of its only seeing eye,
and I judged that it would not be cruelty to
animals to take it.
But when I saw the harness, which was
eked out by strings and ropes, when I saw
that the cart was literally a dirt cart and that
we would have to sit in hay, I decided that we
would use the horse only to get us down there
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i261.jpg w=600px id=i261
.ca
“Th’ ould Scut.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: “Th’ ould Scut.”]
.sp 2
.if-
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
and that I would then hire a livery team to
bring Cherry up and would pay Pat to go
back in it and get his horse.
“You’re sure the horse will be able to pull
us down?” said I to Pat.
“Hell, yes,” said he, genially, looking at
Ethel as he spoke. “Sure ’tis gentle as a
kitten. Ther’ wife there’d make a pet of
um if she had him. Not afred of the trolley
caars. Egorry when he was a colt there was
not wan finer annywhere. He’d be a hell of a
fine harse now, sorr, on’y fer a shlight weakness
in his back. He’s the bye’ll carry you
down on time. Don’t be afraid of the whip,
on’y let him see it before you use it an’ thin
he’ll know what to expect.”
All the time he was talking he was harnessing
the “scut,” as he chose to designate it,
and I, to save time, ran the cart out.
“Don’t you want to go back, Ethel?”
“No, it’ll be loads of fun to go down this
way,” laughed Ethel, and immediately Pat
gave her an encouraging nod of the head and
said, “Me leddy, take life as it comes. It’s
a dam site betther’n flndin’ fault.”
I would have resented these strong words
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
addressed to Mrs. Vernon if he had been
somebody else, but his oaths were as harmless
and void of offense as the ejaculations of a
sunny tempered child. I am not sure that
he would have understood the nature of an
oath.
He helped Ethel in with Irish politeness,
handed me the dreadful looking reins, and
taking off his hat he said:
“Don’t spare um. He’s strarng as a—as
a harse, th’ould scut.”
Then he slapped the horse again on the
flank and with a “To hell wid ye,” addressed
to the animal, he went back to his haying and
we started on our journey to town.
The horse could go but I soon learned that
he did not regard the whip as anything at all.
I showed it to him before using and he pricked
his ears each time I showed it, but that was
merely as much as to say, “I understand what
you mean, but I’m doing my best as it is.”
The cart was not easy, but Ethel was out
for a lark and she considered our passage in
this vehicle in the nature of a lark. For my
part I was ashamed of the rig.
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
“Remember that you are to dress for dinner,”
said she.
“Does this look like dressing for dinner?”
said I with a look at the impossible beast in
front of me.
“Well, but Cherry won’t see him, and I
am sure that she is always used to seeing
men dressed for dinner.”
“If I know Cherry Paxton at all she will
be glad to be free from all conventions for a
short time. I will take her into our room and
I will show her my suit all laid out on the bed
and I’ll ask her to try to realize how I’d look
if I wore it, and I will be comfortable in an
outing shirt and sack coat as usual.”
Further conversation along these lines was
stopped at that moment because the beast
stepped on its foot, or did something equally
absurd, that caused it to limp along on three
legs for a few yards and then stop.
I got out and looked at its hoof—somewhat
gingerly, for I am not used to horses. It did
not seem to be suffering pain but it looked at
me out of its well eye and seemed to say,
“This is where I stop.”
I climbed into the cart and I tightened the
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
reins and clucked and applied the whip, but
to no purpose. The horse looked around at
me in a languid way, but he refused to budge.
“Nice,” said I, looking at my watch.
“Quarter to five, and we’ve got at least two
miles to go yet. I wonder how Pat starts
him.”
“He used languages,” said Ethel suggestively.
“Thanks. So he did.”
Once more I pulled on the reins, clucked
and plupped and whipped (not viciously, but
ticklingly) and once more the horse did not
move.
“To hell wid ye,” said I suddenly, and it
worked like a charm. The old beast took up
his ungraceful trot, and we jolted along to the
station.
I had meant to hitch the horse on the outskirts
of Egerton and walk up to the station
in style, but as we neared the Congregational
Church I saw that it lacked but two minutes
of train time, and so setting aside pride, in
my anxiety to meet our guest, I whipped him
up the incline that leads to the station, and
just as we drove up to the platform the train
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
pulled in, and out of the drawing-room car
came Cherry, pretty and pink and smiling.
She waved to us and then, when she saw our
equipage, she shook her own hands in a manner
indicative of delight, and not waiting
for me to come and help her, she ran down the
steps of the car and hastened over to us.
“How lovely,” said she, kissing Ethel, but
refraining from kissing me. “Are we to go
up in it?”
“Hell, yes,” said I, thinking of Pat.
Ethel frowned at me and explained to
Cherry the bad influence under which we had
been.
“No, we’re going to get a team to take us
up. We only took this because we would
have missed the train if we had walked.”
“Don’t do any such thing,” said Cherry.
“It will be perfectly delicious to ride up in
a cart, and in that lovely new-mown hay.
Mmh, how sweet it smells.”
“No evening clothes for me,” thought I,
and I was right. Cherry had come up to
have a good time and to forget that such a
place as New York and its exactions ever
existed, and when she had settled herself in
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
the hay with her traps all about her and
her trunk for her to lean her back against,
we started out for the return trip, while Ethel
told her of our good luck with the piano.
I will confess that the inhabitants of Egerton
eyed us curiously, for Ethel did not
look like a carter, and Cherry was very modish,
and I was not in the costume of a teamster.
And we had to stop at the grocery
store to get lemons and things.
Altogether these were not pleasant moments,
and I was glad when we turned our
backs on Egerton and began the ascent of the
hills.
“Th’ ould scut” was a good walker and
he went up the hills as if he smelt his dinner
ahead of him.
“Think of it,” said Ethel. “The harness
hasn’t broken yet!”
“How perfectly delicious to think of it,”
said Cherry. “It really looks as if each moment
would be its next. How was he ever
ingenious enough to tie it all together in that
fascinating way? He must be a character.
I do wish the horse would stop. So you could
start him again.”
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
“No, you mustn’t wish that, for my profanity
is really wicked, while Pat’s is as natural
to him as leaves are to trees. It’s part
of his growth. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.
We’ll go down and hear him swear after
dinner.”
We had come to a level place about a quarter
of a mile in extent. The view of the town
from which we had left was well worth looking
at, and I was just on the point of stopping
the horse that we might see the little city
perched on the side of a hill and surrounded
by green farms and wide expanses of woodland,
when “th’ ould scut” stopped of its
own accord, began to tremble violently and
then broke into a gallop. So quickly did he
start that we were all pitched out. By great
good fortune not one of us was seriously
hurt, although Ethel scraped her wrist, and
Cherry bumped her head. I escaped unscathed,
and telling the others to follow I
started after the horse.
I soon gave up the chase, however, and sitting
down on a bank I waited for the others.
“What shall we do? Go back and get a
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
team, or walk. It’s a mile or more,” said I,
when they came up.
“Oh, it’s perfectly lovely to walk,” said
Cherry, and as Ethel said she felt able, walk
we did.
We had gone perhaps two-thirds of the
way, looking at every turn for a wrecked cart
and a broken legged horse, when we heard the
rattle of wheels and saw the horse coming
back after us, guided by Pat, himself.
“Oh, ’tis the devil’s own pity, sure it is,”
said he when he saw us. “Sure, he had the
blind staggers. Why didn’t ye bleed him?”
said he.
“How could I bleed him when he ran
away?”
“Oh, well, that’s arl he needed,” said Pat.
“He come runnin’ in the door yaard, an’ me
woman says, ‘they’re kilt,’ says she. And I
whips out me knife an’ cuts his mout’, an’
he’s arl right. Ye’d oughter have bled him.
Ah, it’s a hell of a bad job that it happened
ye. Were ye hurrted?”
We assured him that it was all right, and
would have continued on foot, but he said
the horse had needed bleeding and that she
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
was as fresh as a colt now, and he helped the
ladies in, gave me the reins, slapped the animal’s
flanks as before, with the same command
as to his destination, and we drove
home in triumph, leaving him to walk.
.bn 272.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch20
CHAPTER XX||A MUSICAL TRAMP.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
WE wanted Cherry to play, but we did
not feel that we ought to ask her to
do it; she would be tired, after her
journey, and piano playing to her was no novelty.
But when, after dinner, while passing
through the sitting room, on our way to the
veranda she ran a harmony enticing hand
over the keys as she walked by the piano, I
could not help saying,
“Don’t you feel like following that up with
the other hand?”
She laughed, and sitting down at the piano
she said, “Why, certainly. What shall it
be?”
“Oh, we leave that to you,” said Ethel.
“Play what you like and you’ll play what we
like.”
“Is Grieg getting old fashioned?” I asked.
“I never inquired,” said Cherry. “I don’t
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
believe in fashions in arts. I liked Grieg,
and Schumann, and Beethoven, and Mendelssohn,
and Wagner, and Johann Strauss when
I was a child, and so I’ll always like them.
And Grieg is always fresh. What shall I
play—‘Anitra’s Dance’?”
“Yes, do,” said Ethel. “I never hear that
without thinking of Seidl and Brighton Beach
and the throngs of doting Brooklyn women
who didn’t go to hear the music, but to see
Seidl. But it was beautiful music—when
the roar of the surf didn’t drown it.”
Cherry found the piano stool at just the
right height, and without any airs or graces
beyond those which were part of her endowment,
she started in to play. The windows
were open and the music and the moonlight,
and the hum of the insects, and the landscape
became indissolubly blended, and I blessed
Minerva once more for the truly “Puss-in-boots”
service she had rendered to the “Marquis
of Carabas.”
The dance ended, Cherry turned around on
the piano stool and said,
“Minerva chose a very nice piano.”
There was a sound of steps on the porch
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
and the shadow of a man fell across the
square hallway. There was also a subdued
rap on the door post.
I stepped to the door and found a tramp
standing there. He was the typical tramp
of the comic papers; unshaven, dusty, blear-eyed,
unkempt, stoop shouldered, ragged, un-prepossessing.
“What do you wish?” said I, irritated at
the interruption.
He hesitated a moment.
“I’d like a glass of milk,” said he, huskily.
“Well, go around to the back door and the
girl will give you one. Don’t you want some
meat?”
“Thanks; I don’t care if I do,” said he,
wiping his mouth as if my invitation had
been a bibulous one.
He went around, and I returned to the sitting
room, where Cherry had started another
piece.
“Do you have many tramps?” asked she
when she had finished.
“Not many. They are too lazy to climb
the hills. I think he is only the third one
.bn 275.png
.pn +1
this summer. He was awful looking. Did
you see him?”
“No,” said Ethel and Cherry together.
“What a life! Probably not a wish in the
world but for food and drink.”
My moralizing was cut short by the return
of the tramp. In his right hand he held a
sandwich and with his left he was wiping milk
from his moustache.
As he passed the window he beckoned to
me, who was sitting by it.
I supposed that he wanted money, and went
out.
“Say, boss,” said he, “I’m pretty far gone,
but you didn’t set the dog on me, and I want
you to ask that young lady in there a favour.”
“What is it?”
“Ask her to play the ‘Dance of the Dwarfs’
in the same suite—‘Peer Gint.’”
“Sit down,” said I, and felt as if I needed
a seat myself.
The oafish tramp sat down on the porch
seat, and I went in and told Cherry what the
tramp would like to hear.
Surprise showed in her face, but quite as
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
a matter of course she went to the piano and
began the lumbering, humourous dance.
In the middle of it I could hear the tramp
laughing gutturally, and when she had finished
it he clapped his hands and said,
“Beg pardon, but I’m much obliged. That’s
one of the funniest pieces of music that was
ever composed. Say, boss, will you step out
a minute.”
I stepped out. He had risen and was evidently
going.
“Boss, I used to be one of the second
violins in Seidl’s orchestra, but—well,—that’s
how. I was go’n’ by here, for I had
had som’n’ to eat at the last house, but when
I heard ‘Anitra’s Dance,’ gee! it brought
back the good old days when I was doing the
only thing I ever cared for, fiddling; and I
thought I’d ask for some more, and then I
didn’t dare until I’d been around to the kitchen
and braced up. Thank the young lady
for me.”
He shuffled out to the road.
“You wronged him, Philip,” said Ethel
when I returned. “Think of his knowing
‘Peer Gint.’”
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
Cherry wiped her eyes and broke into a
chorus from “Iolanthe.”
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch21
CHAPTER XXI.||WE MAKE HAY.
.sp 2
.dc 0.4 0.675
SUNDAY it rained until late in the afternoon,
but at that time a westerly wind
sprang up which rapidly dried things,
and enabled us to go out for a sunset walk.
“This is a place in which to do nothing
but be happy,” said Cherry to Ethel as we
stood on top of our favorite rock and looked
up the valley for miles and miles, watching
belated and feathery clouds fly across it, trying
to catch up with the rain clouds that had
all day long swept by.
“That’s what I felt when I first came up,”
said Ethel, “but I’m beginning to feel so
strong now that Philip has sent for a lawn
tennis set, and James is going to mark a
court, and you and I can play against Philip.”
“Yes, and while we’re waiting for it to
come,” said I, “we’ll have to pitch in and
.bn 279.png
.pn +1
give our next-door neighbour a spell of work
at hay-making.”
“What’s a spell of work?” asked Cherry.
“Why, it’s falling to, and helping your
neighbour this week, and next week he falls
to, and helps you.”
“Oh, how delicious. And do you know
how to make hay?”
“Anyone can learn how in a single morning.
First you cut it, then you toss it, and
then you gather it. It’s as easy as lying.”
“I’m afraid I’ll never learn it,” said
Cherry demurely.
“I was reading somewhere,” said I, “that
in Germany, where they learn to be economical
from the beginning, the navy is supported—or
else it’s the army is supported
entirely on the hay that Americans would
leave in the corners and the by-ways. I’ve
no doubt that the Emperor William commands
his people in a heaven-sent message
to get out their nail scissors and cut the little
blades in the remote corners that nothing be
lost, and as ‘mony a mickle maks a muckle,’
he pays for his army out of the hay crop that
would become withered grass with us. Now
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
to-morrow, when we go over to help the
Windhams, you must remember to account
each blade of grass as equal in value to any
other blade.”
“What will Mr. Windham say to women
working?”
“Well, the idea! Ethel. Did any Yankee
farmer ever object to women working? And
isn’t it better to work out-of-doors than to
work indoors? I’d rather you lifted forkfuls
of hay than have you lift heavy mattresses
and furniture and things, and it’s better to
rake hay than to sweep floors.”
“When Philip gets on a topic like that,
the best thing to do is to just let him talk
it out,” said Ethel. “Don’t say a word, and
he’ll burn up for lack of fuel.”
“Which is a logical remark,” said I.
“But it will be too perfectly delightful to
go out like Boaz and glean.”
“You may possibly mean Ruth,” said I.
“I do. I always mix them up. Boaz seems
like a woman’s name. Do you think it will
rain to-morrow?”
“To-morrow,” said I, with a glance at the
west where the sun, a red ball, was disappearing
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
in a cloudless sky, “will be a good
hay day.”
And to-morrow was. We rose and breakfasted
early and found when we looked at
the thermometer that it was already 78, but
there was a west wind blowing to temper the
heat.
“They’re already at work, aren’t they?”
said Cherry as we started out, the women
clad in walking skirts and shirt-waists and
broad-brimmed hats, and I bare headed and
outing shirted.
“My dear child, they have been at work
for the last four hours.”
I had told Windham what to expect, and
when he saw us coming he said, “That’s
right. The more the merrier. You’ll find
rakes there by the fence.”
I told him that I would mow a little, as I
had done it when a boy.
“Good work,” said he, and let me take his
own scythe while he drove a loaded wagon
home.
I started in at a field that they had not
intended to attack until after lunch, but
Windham said it would make no difference.
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
Ethel and Cherry raked as if they were
sweeping, and I am not sure that their money
value could have been represented by any
undue use of figures. I vaulted the fence and
began my fell work, taking care to keep close
to the edge and demolishing every last blade
of grass. I also found that my method of
attack spared a little mouthful of grass at
each stroke, and when I had gone down the
length of the field and had stuck the point
of the scythe in the earth twice, and had cut
the end off of a stone, and had lunged into
the fence, I determined to rest a minute and
try to recall the proper way in which to hold
the scythe.
The way back was easier, as I was now
one remove from the fence. I poised the
scythe in such a manner that I reaped what
I had before spared, but found, upon looking
back over the path by which I had come,
that I had spared a few inches in each swathe.
I seemed to be unable to make a long, clean
sweep. And my back felt like breaking and
I was sweating in a manner unbecoming a
gentleman.
That, however, did not worry me at all,
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
as I reflected that on my father’s side I was
the first gentleman that had appeared in America
for nine generations—all the rest had
been of the bone and sinew of the nation.
When people talk about pride of ancestry
in my hearing, and their pride of ancestry is
based on the fact that they have had fine
blood in their veins for generations, I inflate
my chest and tell them about my maternal
ancestors, the Durbans. Not a man did a
stroke of work for eight generations, and they
lived in cities and looked down on country
folk in a manner that was as aristocratic
as could be. When my mother married my
father, who had been born and bred a country
boy, all the Durbans held up their hands
in holy horror and said that my mother would
never draw a happy breath again.
Yet she went on drawing one happy breath
after another, until she died, and my father
knew his first unhappiness when she departed.
But when I meet people who laugh at lineage
and genealogy, I do not speak of the
Durbans at all. I say, “Yes, pride of lineage
is foolish. The Vernons have been plain
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
country folk ever since they came over in
1639, and not one of them was ever celebrated
for anything—not even for his wickedness.
They’ve just been Yankee countrymen, and
so, of course, pride of ancestry is a foolish
thing.”
Whenever you hear a man laughing at
pride of ancestry, you may be sure that his
ancestors were no better than my fathers
were. But if he is always talking about his
ancestry, depend upon it, he has something
back of him as good as the Durbans, and his
forbears looked down on farmers.
We worked until the whistles at Egerton
blew for noon, and I had by that time devastated
quite a patch of grass.
Windham had been busy in other places
all the morning, and when he came to look at
what I had done he made no reference to the
thrift of the Germans. He looked at the regular
patches of spared blades that were holding
their heads high amidst the blades that
had fallen so bravely, and said,
“How would you like to drive the rake this
afternoon?”
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
I blushed and said that I believed that
would be a change of work.
I did not laugh at the somewhat amateur
raking of Ethel and Cherry. Hay-making is
an art, and beginners learn better by encouragement
than by ridicule.
We had brought our lunch, and we picnicked
under the spreading branches of an
oak, and found that we were feeling “pretty
good.” And we had six red arms to our
credit—four of them pretty.
.bn 286.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch22
CHAPTER XXII||“DING DONG BELL.”
.sp 2
.dc 0.3 0.675
THE week passed so quickly, with our
hay-making and our getting over our
hay-making and our pleasant walks—we
did not attempt to drive out again behind
“th’ ould scut”,—and the attractive meals
that Minerva cooked and the pleasant music
that Cherry found within the piano, that
when Friday came, and Cherry asked me if
I had found a team to carry her down, Ethel
said,
“It’s all nonsense, your thinking of going
back. Philip, she says that she hasn’t made
any plans at all, beyond thinking of going to
Bar Harbor in September to visit her aunt.”
“Well, then, Cherry, it will be downright
unkind in you to ask me to hunt up a team
yet awhile. Just stay on until the haying
season is over, and we can go down behind a
real horse.”
“Well, of course I’m having a perfectly
.bn 287.png
.pn +1
delicious time,” said Cherry, putting her
arms around Ethel’s shoulders affectionately,
“and I’d much rather stay than go, but it
seems like—”
“It doesn’t seem like anything at all,” said
Ethel, “except that we want you to stay.
And, besides, we want you to meet Ellery
Sibthorp.”
“Ellery Sibthorp,” said Cherry with a
laugh. “Is that his real name?”
“That’s his real name, the one he writes
under, and Philip asked me to ask him up.
He’s all alone in the world and is struggling
to make a name for himself.”
“Mercy, I should think he had one ready
made. Ellery Sibthorp. It’s as valuable as
Rudyard Kipling.”
“Wait till you see him,” said I. “He’s
poor as a church mouse and as clean as a
whistle, and as good as gold.”
“Oh, I’m simply dying to see him. When
does he come? And how will you get him
up?”
“Egerton livery, this time. And he’s coming
Monday. So you see, if you were to go
to-morrow, you wouldn’t see him.”
.bn 288.png
.pn +1
“Tell me something about him. Of course
I’ll stay. How old is he? Is he married?”
“Oh, no. I guess he’s about twenty-eight,
and he’s one of the great unrecognized.
Good, but different, so he’s got to wait.”
“Hasn’t he had anything accepted?”
“Oh, a few things, but not enough to make
him hopeless of success.”
“Oh, is he that type?”
“A little. If he finally takes the world by
storm, he won’t be among those who are surprised.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“I? Oh, I think he’s young and can afford
to wait, but I guess he’s one of the real ones.
It won’t do him any harm to wait.”
“That always sounds so merciless,” said
Ethel. She and Cherry were sitting on a settee
under a maple. She turned to her friend.
“Half the time he lives on next to nothing,
and yet Philip says that it will do him no
harm to wait. He may starve before the
world finds him out.”
“Even if he does, he’ll be the happier in
the world to come,” said I. “But don’t look
for a sad-eyed, posing, long-haired, hollow-cheeked
.bn 289.png
.pn +1
poet. Sibthorp sticks to prose, and
he has a sense of humour that keeps him
sane and satisfied and hopeful. I really
think that if he were to be tremendously successful
now that life would lose something of
its savour. He feels in a vague way that he
belongs to the line of those who have had to
toil and wait before recognition came, and
the thought is not distasteful.”
“Will he read to us, or will he be like you,
and never read anything of his own?”
“Oh, he’ll read, if you press him—”
Just then we heard moans that we had supposed
were never to be heard again, and
Minerva came running out of the house.
“Oh, Mist. Vernon, Miss Pussy has fell
down the well.”
“Not really?” said Ethel, jumping up from
the settee. “Oh, Philip, you must get her
out at once. We never can drink the water
again.”
“Are you sure she’s there, Minerva?”
“’Deed I am. I had the top off to fix that
chain that got unhooked agin, an’ she must
have jumped up awn the edge and then fell
in. She’ll be drowned, sure.”
.bn 290.png
.pn +1
“Where’s James?” said I, hurrying
through the house.
“He’s gone home.”
“Well, you go get him. I’ll fish for the
cat, but he’d be more likely to get her if he
went down. Hurry!”
Our drinking water was pumped out of the
well, that was under the kitchen, by means of
an endless chain furnished with rubber buckets,
and while the well was some thirty feet
deep, it would not be much of a job for a man
used to it to go down and rescue the cat, supposing
that its nine lives held out until he
came. I did not think of going down, because
I cannot swim, and a single false step
would have meant drowning for me, and the
husband who throws away his life for a cat
has a false sense of values.
Minerva rushed out to within bawling distance
of James, and I lighted a candle and
lowered it by means of a clothes line for about
ten feet.
“I see her! She’s swimming!” I exclaimed,
and then the candle went out and I drew it
up.
I then tied an eight-quart pail on the line
.bn 291.png
.pn +1
and lowered that, and when I felt it hitting
water I called to the cat reassuringly, hoping
that it would have sense enough to get inside
of the pail. I pulled and felt the weight of
the cat.
“I’ve got her,” said I to Ethel and Cherry,
who stood, interested spectators, at the kitchen
door.
“Oh, how fortunate,” said Ethel.
“Yes, Minerva needn’t have called James.
My, the cat must be water logged. She’s
heavy.”
I pulled hand over hand, and at last the
pail was near enough for me to reach down
and taking it’s bail, pull it over the edge.
It was full to overflowing—with water.
“Where’s the cat?” said Ethel in astonishment.
“Cat’s gone back.”
I lowered the bucket again, although I felt
that it was time thrown away. While I was
trying to attract Miss Pussy’s attention
Cherry, looking out into the moonlight, said,
“Here comes James.”
And a minute later he came in. He had
not quite reached home when he heard Minerva’s
.bn 292.png
.pn +1
agonized calls, and came in obedience
to them.
“Think you can get her, James?” said I.
“I guess so. Light the lantern, Minerva,”
said he, and Minerva sprang to the cellar
stairs and brought out a lantern which she
lighted promptly.
“Think she’s drowned, James?”
“No, sir, cats hate water, but they can
swim all right.”
He stepped into the woodshed and came
back in a minute with a coil of new clothes
line. This he doubled and then tied it around
his waist, asking me to hold on to the end
of it.
The lantern he fastened to the other rope’s
end.
“Keep yourself braced,” said he. “I wont
fall, for I’ve often been down there to clean it,
but if I do, you can pull me up.”
“Try not to go, James,” said I, looking at
his two hundred pounds, and at the slender
rope.
We wrenched off the case of the pump, and
stepping down he was lost to sight almost immediately.
.bn 293.png
.pn +1
I lowered the lantern and he made his way
to the water.
“Do you suppose the cat slipped?” I asked
Minerva.
“I reckon she was thirsty.”
“Well, she won’t be thirsty when she comes
out. What do you find, James?”
“A scrubbing brush.”
“Ooh,” said Ethel, and “Ugh,” said Cherry,
but Minerva said,
“Lawdy, I wondered what I had done with
that.”
“Where’s the cat, James?”
“I’m afraid she’s sunk. She ain’t here.
That’s certain.”
“That’s too bad. Coming up?”
“Yes, sir. No use looking any more. She’s
gone down.”
I began to pull in the rope, and James began
to ascend. Suddenly there was a splash
and simultaneously I was pulled forward, and
almost went into the well myself.
Minerva shrieked and so did Ethel and
Cherry, but James’s voice rose assuringly.
“All right. Missed my footing. My, but
this water’s cold.”
.bn 294.png
.pn +1
We could hear him spluttering.
“Here, lend a hand, all of you, at this
rope,” said I, and we all began to pull.
Of course it meant that next day James
would have to pump the well dry and get the
poor little body of the poor little cat. What
a lot of excitement and suspense and labour
over one smallish cat. Indeed, what a risk of
life, for James might easily have hit his head
when he fell.
We hung back on the rope like sailors, and
James climbed higher and higher, and at last
his black hand came up and grasped the edge
of the curb, and a moment later, dripping and
shivering, he stood upon the floor.
And then we heard the voice of a cat. I
rushed to the well and looked in, but the
sounds did not come from there. They came
from out of doors.
“That sounds like her,” said James.
“It’s her ghost,” said Minerva. “She’s
comin’ to ha’nt me.”
Illogically enough we all pictured the cat
standing outside of the door dripping water.
I opened the door and in walked Miss
.bn 295.png
.pn +1
Pussy, as dry as a bone, and began to rub
against Minerva’s skirts.
“Why, she’s dry,” said Ethel.
Minerva burst out laughing. “My, I clean
forgot. I shut her out doors before I began
moppin’.”
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch23
CHAPTER XXIII||ELIGIBLE.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
WE were sitting at dinner Monday night,
all of us wondering why Ellery Sibthorp
had not come. We had heard
the whistle of the train on which he was to
have come, and we had allowed more than
time for the livery team to come up, but it
was now seven, and we had given him up.
“I’m afraid he missed the train in New
York. I wish I’d walked down to the station.”
“Will you please tell me,” said Ethel,
“how your going down to Egerton would
have prevented his missing the train in New
York?”
“Well, I was thinking that perhaps he
missed the hackman at Egerton.”
“It’s too perfectly awful of him,” said
Cherry, “seeing that I stayed over just to
meet him.”
.bn 297.png
.pn +1
“The disappointment will be his when he
sees you,” said I, and at this both of them
asked me what was the matter with my wits.
“Have you had an infusion of Irish
blood?” asked Ethel.
“I’m thinking of how inhospitable I was
not to go down to the train.”
There was a knock at the kitchen door, and
Minerva, who had been removing the soup
plates, went out to open it.
A light-keyed, pleasant voice said to her,
“Can you tell me where the Vernons
live?”
“Right here, sir. Come in won’t yer?”
In through the kitchen came a light step,
following Minerva’s heavy one, and as she
opened the door into the dining room she
said to us informally,
“I guess this is the man you was lookin’ for.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you had company,”
said Sibthorp, setting down his grip and removing,
or trying to remove his hat. His
hand hit it and it fell to the floor, and when
he stooped to pick it up he felt flustered, and
.bn 298.png
.pn +1
put it on again, his face turning the colour of
a peony.
Ethel rose from her seat and said,
“Mr. Sibthorp, you surely haven’t walked
up? May I present you to Miss Paxton?”
“Certainly,” said the poor fellow. “That
is, I did, and I’m happy to meet everybody.”
He had taken off his hat again, and I now
found his hand and gave it a hearty shake.
“This is your house for the time being,
Ellery, old man,” said I, “and Miss Paxton
is one of the family, also. We call her Cherry,
but it isn’t obligatory. Now hang your
hat up in the hall, and I’ll show you where
you can find a pitcher and basin, and nobody’s
the least bit stiff in this house, so you
can feel as happy as if you were by yourself.”
I led him out of the room, and by the time
he had explained how he had not seen any
hack, and had come up by a short-cut that a
farmer told him about, he was feeling more
in command of himself. It is really a tax on
a man’s self possession to be shown through
the kitchen and brought face to face with a
strange and exceedingly pretty young woman,
.bn 299.png
.pn +1
and I would not care to have anyone think
that Sibthorp was one of those hopelessly
diffident fellows, whose every contact with
their fellow beings is agony.
When he came back to the table he went
over and shook hands with Ethel, and sat
down in his seat quite himself.
He was a good-looking fellow, reminding
one a little of the pictures of Robert Schumann.
His eyes were deep-set and his lips
full, and if he had been born twenty years
earlier his hair would have been long. The
spirit of the times is against excessive hair.
The cow boy had it and stuck to it and—the
cow boy is going. Whether artists and
literary men pondered on the fate of the cow
boy, and in order to save themselves, cut their
hair, or not, I am not prepared to say, but
it is a fact that if all the hair that is not
in these United States were to be placed end
to end it would encircle the earth time and
time again—which beautiful thought I dedicate
to the statisticians.
“What bracing air you have up here,” said
Sibthorp. “Why, I came up the hills like a
streak, and I was getting so that a short walk
.bn 300.png
.pn +1
in the city tired me. Isn’t it a great place?”
“You’re inoculated soon,” said Cherry.
“There’s something in the spirit of this place
that makes people stay on and on. I was
only invited for a week, and now they can’t
get me to go. It’ll be the same with you.”
“Ellery,” said I, “the motto of this place
is going to be ‘All hope (of getting away)
abandon ye who enter here.’ You see, Ethel
and I were getting mortally tired of our
honeymoon, which had lasted four years, and
so we began to invite people up here to relieve
our ennui.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, to say
that?” said Cherry; but Ethel only laughed.
“It’s a fact. At first Minerva (she’s the
lady that ushered you in) contributed daily to
our amusement and excitement, but now she’s
getting to be semi-occasional, and so we’re
thinking of our friends who don’t hate the
country, and you may be in quite a congested
community before you have a chance to go.
You play tennis, don’t you?”
“I used to when I was a boy.”
“Oh, don’t say that. We’re all boys and
girls up here. We expect to set up a court
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
to-morrow and there’ll be four of us to play.”
“Have you written much lately?” asked
Ethel.
It was curious to see the extra animation
that came into Sibthorp’s face at her question.
Tennis had left him cold, but the mention
of the works of Sibthorp roused him.
It is the fashion to laugh at this tendency
in writers, but I have a dim suspicion that the
engineer is roused to greater interest at mention
of some engineering problem he has
solved, than he is at the ordinary topics of
the day, and so it is with all.
“Had something accepted last week,” said
he. “It had been everywhere, and if it had
come back again, I would have burned it up,
but the Atlantic took it, and the only reason
I didn’t send there at first was because I
thought it wasn’t good enough.”
“How proud we must be.”
“Well, it’s funny, but as soon as the Atlantic
took it, I went and got my carbon copy
and read it, and I thought it was pretty good,
and when it had come back time before, I had
read it, and thought it was rotten.”
“And when it’s printed, there’ll be as
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
many opinions of it as it has readers. But
you’re progressing if the Atlantic takes you
up. Doesn’t it make you feel sorry to see
the goal?”
“No, sir. Now I won’t be happy until I’ve
written a serial for the Atlantic, or some one
of the big magazines.”
“Is that the way it works?” laughed Cherry.
“The more one gets, the more one
wants?”
“That’s the way ambition is built up,”
said I, “acceptance by acceptance.”
“What a place to work in this must be,”
said Sibthorp, as he allowed Ethel to replenish
his plate.
Cherry laughed. “Yes, you ought to see
the way Mr. Vernon works. A poem in the
morning, a short story in the afternoon, and
an essay in the evening.”
Sibthorp turned his glowing eyes on me.
“Good boy. Are you really working?”
“Miss Paxton sees fit to jest,” said I.
“I’m afraid I haven’t done as much as I
might.”
“You couldn’t do less, Philip, seeing you
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
haven’t done a thing since you came up,”
said Ethel.
“All the better for winter. But don’t let
my example influence you, Sibthorp. I’ll turn
you loose with pens and paper, or my typewriter,
and you can enrich the literature of
this country every minute, if you want to.
Only, if you take my advice, you’ll give literachure
the go by, and stay out doors for
a week or so.”
“I’ll work out doors, but I must work,”
said he, his eyes shining.
Ethel laughed. “A night up here will cure
that. You’ll be content to loll by to-morrow.”
“Why, I wrote on the way up,” said he.
“Really!” said Cherry. “What did you
do with it? Hand it to the conductor by mistake,
for your ticket?” she added saucily.
“No, but do you know, whenever I ride any
distance, I feel that I must write something
because money spent on tickets seems money
thrown away.”
“Dear me, is it a poet speaking or a thrifty
Yankee.”
Cherry spoke to him as if she had known
.bn 304.png
.pn +1
him all her life. I did not know but he would
take offence, but he was looking at her when
she spoke, and that made all the difference in
the world. Ethel said one day that Cherry’s
eyes apologised for whatever daring might
be in her words.
“I’m very thrifty. I have need to be,”
said Sibthorp earnestly, and as I knew that
his income for the preceding year had been
something in the neighbourhood of four hundred
dollars, I flashed a warning signal to
Cherry, and asked him to do the thing that
would make him the happiest.
“After dinner suppose you read us the
stuff you’ve been writing.”
“How disrespectful,” said Cherry.
“Stuff!”
“Why, if it wouldn’t bore you?” said he,
smiling at Cherry.
“Lovely! Perfectly delicious!” said Cherry,
and Ethel said,
“It’ll make me think I’m living in a literary
atmosphere once more. Since Philip
won that prize, he’s simply vegetated. I
don’t like it a bit. What’s your story
about?”
.bn 305.png
.pn +1
“It’s a sort of fable. I call it the ‘Two
Altruists.’”
We had coffee served out under the maple,
and while we were drinking it Sibthorp, after
apologising for not being a better reader, began
it.
“Once upon a time—”
“Wait a minute,” said I, “Here comes Minerva.
She doesn’t want to listen, but it’ll
go better if we wait until she has gone.”
She had come for the cups and saucers, and
she took Ellery’s coffee before he had had
a chance to touch it, but no one noticed, he
least of all, intent as he was upon disburdening
his mind of his fable.
I make no bones of producing it, because
we all liked it so well that it seems as if a
larger audience might be pleased at its whimsical
tone.
“‘Once upon a time,’” he began again,
“‘there was a man whose chief happiness
came from seeing others happy. He was indeed
an absolute altruist.
“‘Now it so fell about that this altruist
was a professional writer, and wove tales for
the magazines, and one day, being in a happy
.bn 306.png
.pn +1
mood, caused by his having given his last
crust and his last shirt to a professional beggar,
he wove a story for a competition and
was so fortunate as to receive the capital
prize of $1,000.00.’”
(“I was thinking of you, Philip, when I
wrote that,” said he.)
“‘For a time his joy was unbounded, but
after a while the thought came to him of those
in this world to whom the money would mean
so much more than it did to him, and he essayed
to put the thousand dollar bill into his
side pocket and walked along the highway,
pondering upon the best disposition to make
of it.
“‘And in his abstraction he missed his
side pocket altogether and the thousand dollar
bill fluttered through the air and fell to earth,
where it lay in plain sight, if the man had but
looked behind him.
“‘Now after the altruist had gone the
space of a mile he put his hand into his pocket
that he might pull out the bill, and feeling
its tangibility, plan its disposition with more
concreteness.
“‘And the bill was gone!
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
“‘Then the altruist fell to skipping and
jumping in great joy. “For,” said he to
himself, “no matter who finds that bill it must
perforce make him happy; therefore I have
added a happiness to some fellow mortal, a
happiness that is scarce ever vouchsafed to
one on this world of ours where money is not
to be had for the mere picking up.” And he
ran along the highway full of the joy of
others’ lives and stirred to seraphic emotions
by his altruistic temperament.
“‘Now in that same town there lived another
altruist, whom Howells or Tolstoi would
have loved with exceeding ardour. His form
of altruism was not so much sharing his joys
with others as taking from them their sorrows.
As the former added to the joys of life,
so he subtracted from the sorrows of existence
or converted them into his personal joys,
and he always went about looking for those
with long faces that he might foreshorten
them.
“‘And it happened that he, walking along
the highway, came upon the thousand dollar
bill.
“‘Now, it was a time of roominess in his
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
pocket, which had scarce felt the weight of
a minor coin for many days. And a thousand
dollars would have brought luxuries to
his house for a twelve month, he being unwedded.
“‘But when he picked up the bill and saw
its denomination he fell into loud lamentation
and raised his voice to its highest pitch, saying,
“‘“Woe is me, for in this town some poor
fellow is mourning this night at the loss of
what may have been his all.”
“‘And this second altruist had a voice of
penetrating quality, for in his younger days
he had been an auctioneer, and his words
went through the stillness of the night and
came to the ears of the other altruist, walking
his happy way to his home.
“‘And at once the first altruist turned
about and hastened to where the voice came
out of the night, saying,
“‘“Weep no more, brother, for I am coming
to comfort thee. It matters not what has
happened to thee, I have words at my
tongue’s end that cannot fail to give thee
good cheer.”
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
“‘And after a time he came upon the second
altruist swaying and moaning and waving
the bill in the air, and he said to him,
“‘“Brother, what calamity has descended
upon thee? Hast lost thine all?”
“‘And the second altruist said,
“å∑‘“No, but one of my brothers in this
world has lost this great piece of money, and
I cannot sleep this night for grief aß∑t the
thought of his sorrow.”
“‘And the first altruist stared at him in
wonder, and said,
“‘“What condition of affairs is this and
what is the constitution of man? For I had
attained to perfect joy at the thought that
you (or another) had found my money, while
you have been rendered miserable at the
thought that I (or another) had lost it. In
what way can we be happy together?”
“‘And even as they held converse a robber
came along, and snatching the thousand dollar
bill made off with it.
“‘“Ah,” cried both together, raising their
voices in joy, “now we can be happy again,
for beyond peradventure this robber who
took the money needed it, else he would not
.bn 310.png
.pn +1
have taken it, and while we do not condone
his dishonesty, we rejoice at his prosperity.”’”
He finished and looked around for an approbation
that was freely given him.
“How did you ever think of such an idea?”
said Cherry, and I could see that he had impressed
her.
He looked at her and began to explain very
seriously how the idea had come to him, and
she listened just as seriously.
“It’s another edition of you,” said Ethel
to me with a smile, and I recalled certain
conversations that we had had in years gone
by, when she was deeply interested in the
“how” of “literary endeavour.”
She flashed a signal to me that I could not
mistake. I looked at the handsome pair
seated under the maple, he full of the animation
of self interest, she animated by a sympathy
that might well become something
greater, and instantly I began to look ahead
and foretell what propinquity would do quite
as if they were characters in a story of mine,
and I intended that they should fall in love
with each other.
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
He had four hundred a year or less, and
ambition, but she had beauty and—enough
to support two comfortably while ambition
was becoming fruition.
A new interest had been added to life at
Clover Lodge.
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch24
CHAPTER XXIV||PAT CASEY CALLS.
.sp 2
.dc 0.3 0.675
THE next day we were all awakened by
one of Minerva’s morning songs, but
it was such a morning—the air was so
bracing and fragrant, the sun so mellow, and
yet not too hot, that not one of us felt that
the song was out of place, and all four met
on the porch a good half hour before breakfast.
“Well, Ellery, this is a great day to work.
How would an epic do and we’ll delay luncheon
a half hour, so that you can finish it.”
Ellery looked over the waving, billowing
meadows. Then he looked at Cherry, rosy
and vibrant with animation.
“I believe it’s going to do me more good
if I lay off for a few days and get charged
with some of this air.”
We all shrieked gaily at him.
“We could have told you so last night,”
said Ethel.
.bn 313.png
.pn +1
“I did tell him so,” said I. “Here’s
where you store up mental energy, but you
might as well try to write at sea as to try
to write up here. Let’s go put up the tennis
net.”
“Oh, all right,” said Ellery. “I was going
to ask Miss Paxton if she wouldn’t show
me around the place a little. Have we time
before breakfast?”
“Yes,” said Ethel, “but don’t go too far.
Minerva’s going to have griddle cakes and
real maple syrup and they need to be eaten
hot.”
When the two had sauntered off I said to
Ethel,
“You’re a romantic soul with your griddle
cakes. Don’t you see those two? In the
language of the day, Ellery is stung.”
“Imagine him married.”
“It would be the finest thing for him that
ever happened. He might amount to something
with a wife to look after him.”
“It doesn’t always work,” said Ethel,
saucily.
“Better four hundred a year where love
is—” I began.
.bn 314.png
.pn +1
“Than a stalled ox and hatred therewith,”
concluded Ethel.
“Something like that. Four hundred a
year with love is a large order. She’d better
wait until Ellery is famous. But perhaps
we’d better not hurry them along. She’s interested
in him because he has talent and is
unrecognized, and he’s interested in her because
he has talent and she recognized it, but
I don’t believe but that you could buy him off
with a mess of pottage—”
“Or some griddle cakes. There’s the bell
now. You call them.”
I called “Breakfast’s ready,” although the
two were out of sight, and my call was answered
by an “Arl right. I’m just in time.”
“Who was that?” said Ethel in some dismay.
“Sounded something like ‘th’ ould scut,’”
said I, for by that name our friend Casey had
come to be known.
It proved to be he, bare-footed and hatless,
coming to us across the fields.
“Good marnin’, ’tis a hell of a fine day.”
“Yes, it is,” said I, “although your language
is somewhat strong.”
.bn 315.png
.pn +1
“No harrum intindid,” said he, looking at
Ethel with a pleasant smile. “Ye can’t make
an insult out of a hell or two a day like this.
I t’harght that perhaps your woman would
like some blue berries for breakfast th’ day,
an’ I brarght them up. They’re picked this
marnin’, an’ the dew is yit on them.” He
held out an eight-quart pail filled to the top
with tempting berries.
“How much are they, Pat,” said I, putting
my hand into my pocket.
“Who’s insultin’ now?” said he, with a
growling laugh. “I’ll sell no prisints this
yair. ’Twas a hell of a bad ride ye had th’
other night, an’ I tould me ould woman I’d
git square wid ye one way or another, an’
this is the way. They’re dam fine.”
“They certainly are,” said Ethel, unconsciously
seconding his oath.
She went into the house to get a bowl to
put them into and just then Ellery and
Cherry came up.
“The top of the marnin’ to ye,” said Pat,
bowing to Cherry, as he had bowed to Ethel.
“It’s easy to tell why it’s a fine day.”
.bn 316.png
.pn +1
Cherry was unconscious enough to ask him
why.
“Sure, wid you out how could’t help ut.”
“Now will you be good, Cherry?” said I.
“You’ve kissed the blarney stone,” said
she, with a lovely blush.
“Sure I have, but I knew beauty before
that.”
His tone was not offensive nor did Cherry
take offence. It was truth buttered with flattery
and that’s as good as cake.
Ethel now came out with the bowl, and the
big “bloomy” berries, damp with dew, were
poured into it.
“It’s glad I am you’re up here,” said Pat,
as he walked down the path. “Neighbours is
neighbours, an’ phwin you’re passin’ an’
need restin’ it’s fine buttermilk me ould woman’ll
give ye, an’ glad of the chance. Good
marnin’ to yez.”
“Good morning, Mr. Casey, and thank you
very much for the berries. They’re the best
I’ve seen,” said Ethel.
“They’re dam fine, that’s a fact,” said he.
“But none too good for the likes of youse.”
We all went in to the griddle cakes, but before
.bn 317.png
.pn +1
Minerva began to fry them we had heaping
plates of blue berries and even as the
burglar had been impressed by them so were
Cherry and Ellery.
“I thought,” said Ellery, “that your New
Englander was always on the make.”
“Well, in the first place, Pat is not, strictly
speaking, a New Englander,” said Ethel,
“and in the second place, they’re not always
on the make by any means, as we’ve often
found out since we came here. Neighbourliness
is never sold and there’s lots of neighbourliness
here.”
“The very fact that neighbourliness is not
sold makes it the more necessary for country
people to get a good price for the things
they do sell,” said I, sententiously.
“It’s a great place,” said Ellery, with enthusiasm.
“I believe I will try tennis this
morning,” he added, somewhat irrelevantly,
although in justice to him it should be said
that his eyes had rested on Cherry’s exuberant
beauty before he said it.
“I’m a good deal of a duffer at it. I imagine
you play a strong game, Miss Paxton.
.bn 318.png
.pn +1
Will you be my partner in a four-handed
game?”
“Dee-lighted,” said Cherry, showing her
pretty teeth.
“The writing of the epic is indefinitely
postponed,” said Ethel. “You are all alike,
you men.”
“Wait till next winter, Mrs. Vernon,” said
Ellery. “I’m going to make myself a storehouse
of energy and I dare say Vernon’s doing
the same thing.”
“Well, you’ll need some of it this morning,”
said I. “At tennis Mrs. Vernon and I
are the strongest up here.” He looked doubtful.
“It’s a fact—we are introducing the
game.”
“Mr. Sibthorp and I expect to make a
pretty strong team,” said Cherry.
Ethel’s eyes sought mine. And found
them.
.bn 319.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch25
CHAPTER XXV||A CONTINUOUS WEEK END.
.sp 2
.dc 0.4 0.675
ETHEL was reading a letter, Ellery and
Cherry having brought the mail up
from the post-office. Ellery had now
been at Clover Lodge a fortnight and during
that time we had fished (for bull heads this
time), had gone on long tramps, had read to
each other, and had played many a game of
tennis, and while we could not say that Ellery
was in a fair way to propose to Cherry, he
was hard hit.
The glamour of the place had appealed to
him and neither he nor Cherry had any intention
of going back until we went in September.
Minerva had shown signs of homesickness,
and one day we had let her and James go to
Springfield to spend the day, and after her
return she had said,
“City ain’t what it was,” which we had
.bn 320.png
.pn +1
taken to be a most encouraging sign. Nearly
three months out of New York and still
happy. Who would have predicted it?
Ethel dropped the letter in her lap and
said, “What are we going to do, Philip?
This letter is from Madge Warden, and she
and Tom are going to a place in Vermont to
try it on the recommendation of a friend, and
Madge asks if it would be convenient to stop
off on the way up instead of on the way back.
She says that if we could find a shack for
them here, Tom wouldn’t care to go to Vermont.”
“Well, of course, have ’em come.”
“Yes, but she wants to come this Friday
for over Sunday, and we’ve invited the Benedicts
for over Sunday.”
I thought a minute.
“It would be great to have them all here,
because they are so congenial, but unless you
and I gave up our room and slept in hammocks—”
“Why couldn’t you and Ellery sleep in
hammocks and then I could let Madge share
my room with me and give the Benedicts the
spare room?”
.bn 321.png
.pn +1
“And what would become of Tom?”
“Oh, that’s so,” said Ethel. “I’m afraid
we can’t do it.”
“They’s a sofa in the woodshed,” said
Minerva, who had been dusting the sitting
room and always interested in household
problems, had stopped at the open window
outside of which we were sitting.
“So there is. Good for you, Minerva,”
said I, in spite of a warning look from Ethel,
who says that at times I am too colloquial
with Minerva.
Ethel and I went around to the woodshed
to look at it. It was across two rafters, but
with help from James, who was busy in the
vicinity, I got it down.
“So I’m to write and tell them all to come?
Isn’t this going to be a good deal of a drain
on your pocketbook, Philip?”
“We can’t do worse than go home broke
and then I’ll begin again.”
“‘Easy come, easy go,’” quoted Ethel,
with a half sigh.
“Don’t you want ’em to come? Will it be
too hard on you?”
“No, no, we’ll make them understand it’s
.bn 322.png
.pn +1
a picnic, but you will have to hustle in the
fall.”
“Well, hustling never killed anybody, and
we’ll have a summer to remember. It’s a
lucky thing that James is so handy. He can
help in the kitchen.”
And so the sofa was brought into the house
and dusted, and the Wardens were implored
to come up and told to take the same train
that the Benedicts were coming on, and the
haying season being practically over, we were
able to engage Bert’s double team and his
three-seated wagon, and Friday afternoon
we all went down to meet them.
No, not all. We left Minerva behind. She
and James had to prepare a dinner for eight.
There was no accident on the way down,
and we arrived at the station several minutes
before the arrival of the train.
At last we heard the whistle below the
bridge and then it steamed in and we took up
our station around the parlour car and prepared
to greet our guests.
But the only one to get off was a well-setup
young fellow in irreproachable apparel,
and he did not belong to us.
.bn 323.png
.pn +1
“Why, of course, they never would have
taken a parlour car. The Benedicts might,
but the Wardens wouldn’t,” said Ethel, and
we looked down the platform to see whether
they had alighted. But they had not. Our
guests had not come.
“Isn’t it too provoking,” said Cherry,
sympathetically to Ethel.
“It really is,” said Ethel. “That dinner
will be stone cold if we wait for the next
train.”
“When is the next train?” asked Ellery.
“In two hours,” I replied. “They won’t
come to-night, though. Something happened
to Tom at the last minute and he asked the
rest to wait and they waited. We’ll get a
telegram saying so. Everybody obeys his
will always.”
The irreproachable stranger had been walking
around as if he was looking for somebody.
He now approached me with uplifted
hat.
“Would you be so good as to tell me
whether Mr. Vernon lives near here?”
“I am Mr. Vernon.”
He coloured, stammered and said,
.bn 324.png
.pn +1
“I am Talcott Hepburn, and I am afraid
that I’ve been led into an unpardonably rude
act.”
“Are you the son of Talcott Hepburn, the
art collector?” said I.
“Yes,—oh, you know him then,” said he,
relieved. “My friend Tom Warden took the
liberty of bringing me along with him—only”—here
he paused. “He has missed the
train.”
I understood in a minute. Tom Warden is
an artist, and he is the soul of hospitality.
He knows Ethel and me as well as he knows
his father and mother, and it never had
occurred to his simple but executive soul that
there was anything unusual in his asking a
friend to come along without letting us know.
Of course, if we could accommodate eight
we could accommodate nine. But now it
looked as if we would have but five.
I presented Mr. Hepburn to the rest of the
“family.” He was about twenty-four or
five, good looking, smooth shaven, of course,
with a sober expression that might have hidden
a humorous temperament, but did not.
It evidently did not strike him that there was
.bn 325.png
.pn +1
anything whimsical in his having arrived
ahead of the man who had invited him to
be the guest of a stranger. He did see, however,
that the act itself was one that might
be misconstrued, and he began to explain the
case to Ethel, who said at once,
“Why, Mr. Hepburn, Tom’s friends are
our friends, and the more the merrier. I’m
only sorry they missed the train.”
“He was busy with a picture that some one
had bought and which he wasn’t satisfied
with, and I dare say he missed it on that account.
He was coming with a Mr. and Mrs.
Benedict, and I was to meet him on the train.
I was a little late myself, and just had time
to step aboard, and they missed it.”
While he was talking I was looking at the
telegraph office intending to step over there—it
lay just across the track—to enquire
whether there was a telegram for me. A
messenger boy came out, mounted a wheel,
and started across the track, bound for the
road that leads up to Clover Lodge.
I ran and intercepted him.
“Have you a telegram for Philip Vernon?”
said I.
.bn 326.png
.pn +1
“Yes, sir,” said he, dismounting and pulling
the telegram out of his side pocket. “I
was just go’n’ up to your place.”
“Saved me a dollar, didn’t it?” said I.
“Yes, sir, and lost me ten cents.”
“Here’s the ten cents,” said I, as I signed
for the telegram.
“It’s collect, sir,” said he; “forty-five
cents.” I paid him and I opened the envelope.
“All missed confounded train. Be good
to Hepburn if he caught it. Will come on
next train. Wait for us. Tom.”
A most characteristic telegram in every
way. It’s superfluity of expression, its
thought of Hepburn and its command to wait,
were all as like Tom Warden as they could
be.
“There’s nothing to do but wait,” said I
when I had shown the telegram to the others.
“The dinner will be spoiled,” said Ethel
ruefully.
“Let me walk up and tell Minerva to
wait,” said Cherry, and Ellery enthusiastically
seconded her motion.
“Why, it seems too bad,” began Ethel.
.bn 327.png
.pn +1
“Not at all. We’re just going to take a
walk,” said Cherry, and they started, well
pleased at the turn of affairs.
I knew young Hepburn to be a millionaire
in his own right and I knew that Ethel would
worry at having him see the make shifts to
which we resorted, but I was rather amused
at the prospect myself. We had already
shown the simple life to two New Yorkers
and now we would show it to some more.
We asked him if he would not like to ride
around Egerton and see a typical Massachusetts
town and he said he would.
“Do you know,” said he to Ethel, “I held
back about coming up in such a very unconventional
way, but you know how compelling
Tom is, and he said he would explain it all
before I was even presented, and so I came.
And then to have him miss the train. It was
awkward.”
“Simply one on Tom, Mr. Hepburn,” said
I. “Our house is one of those affairs that
can be stretched to accommodate any number
of people if they themselves are accommodating.”
“Well, you know,” said Mr. Hepburn, “I
.bn 328.png
.pn +1
might find a room at the hotel.” Perhaps he
had thought he was not accommodating.
I knew that Ethel was wishing that he
would find a room at a hotel, but there was no
hotel. She was beginning to think how much
less a sofa would be than the bed he was accustomed
to sleep in when he was at home.
But when you are picnicking the only thing to
do is to have a good time and forget that
there is such a proverb as “Other times, other
manners.”
Our ride was pleasant and it did not seem
anything like two hours when we heard the
whistle of the train at South Egerton, and
drove rapidly to the station.
Hepburn offered to stay in the carriage and
mind the horses, and I accepted his offer, although
I knew that Ethel thought it making
a very free use of a millionaire. Not that
Ethel is snobbish, but she has never used
millionaires much.
The train came in and this time I took up
my place by the ordinary cars, and soon saw
the quartette moving along the aisle.
Tom looked out of the window and saw
Hepburn sitting erect in the front seat of the
.bn 329.png
.pn +1
picnic wagon holding the unmistakably farm
horses, and he exploded into laughter that
we outside plainly heard.
“Hello,” said he as soon as he emerged.
“Broken him in already. Well, here we are.
Better late than never. You know the Benedicts?”
“What a question,” said Ethel, kissing in
turn Madge and Mrs. Benedict.
“But we didn’t know Mr. Hepburn,” said
she saucily.
“Oh, well, he’s harmless and I’ll bet he
came out of it all right. Hello, Crœsus.
Stole a march on us, eh?”
“Crœsus” raised his derby, but good
driver that he was, kept his eyes on the
horses.
.bn 330.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch26
CHAPTER XXVI||WE INVITE MORE GUESTS.
.sp 2
.dc 0.375 0.675
“WELL, Philip, my boy,” said Tom,
slapping me on the knee when we
were all in our seats, and I had
relieved “Crœsus” of the reins, “I suppose
it was an unpardonable piece of assurance
for me to invite a man you had never seen
without letting you know he was coming.
And then to let him come up first! That was
certainly rubbing it in, but the poor boy
doesn’t have a chance to get out much. Sort
of a fresh air charity on your part.”
He roared with laughter at this sally of
his, and Hepburn smiled faintly.
“This poor boy has always had to do the
society act, Philip, and he’s fitted for better
things. Hope you haven’t any hops up at
your house. Have you any hops?”
“Not a hop,” said I.
“Nor a cotillion?”
.bn 331.png
.pn +1
“Nor a cotillon. In fact, I’m afraid it may
be rather dull for one who is accustomed to
do something all the time.”
“I’m sure I’ll have a delightful time,” said
Hepburn from the second seat. “I’m rather
tired. It’ll be a jolly good thing for me.”
“By George, isn’t this a paintable country?”
broke in Tom. “If a man could only
get the fragrance of this air into his pictures
it would be no trouble to get rid of them.”
“Inoculated already,” laughed Ethel.
“Oh, I always get inoculated as soon as
I come to this kind of country. I was born
on prairie country and I never saw a hill until
I was eighteen, and then I wondered how I
had lived without ’em.” He turned ’way
round. “Pity you don’t paint, Benedict.”
Benedict, on the back seat, said, “Oh, I
don’t have to do anything to enjoy this. Just
to be alive is enough in air like this. Isn’t
it, Alice?”
And Alice agreed with him and the horses
bore us higher and higher, slower and slower,
and at last we arrived and Ellery and Cherry
greeted us.
James came out to relieve the guests of
.bn 332.png
.pn +1
their suit cases and I invited all hands to go
to their rooms and remove the evidences of
their smoky ride.
When Ethel and Madge had come down
from our room I said to Ethel,
“No dressing, I suppose?”
“No, I suppose not,” said she, and there
was a little note of regret in her voice.
I went up and washed and put on a cutaway
and in a few minutes I came down and
walked back and forth on the veranda.
In about a quarter of an hour the three men
who were using Ellery’s chamber as a dressing
room came down the front stairs. I
caught a glimpse of them and lo, two were
in Tuxedos, and Hepburn was in full evening
clothes.
Quick as a wink, and before they saw me,
I whisked around to the back of the house,
and finding Ethel in the kitchen, where she
was superintending some salad arrangement,
I said,
“They’re all dressed. Me to my evening
clothes.”
“Good,” said she.
I saw Ellery within calling distance. He
.bn 333.png
.pn +1
was in a sack coat. I hailed him and he came
up.
“Don’t want to make ’em feel foolish.
They’re all dressed. Run up and put on your
Tuxedo or whatever you have. Come into
my room to dress and we can help each
other.”
He got his clothes and we hastened to my
room, where we made as quick changes as
we could.
“Funny about Ethel,” said I. “She likes
simplicity, but she also likes evening clothes.
Says a man looks better. I won’t wear a
Tuxedo and look like a bob-tailed cat, so I’ve
got to go the whole thing. When she sees
five immaculate shirt fronts she’ll be just
about happy.”
“Well, it does look nice,” said Ellery.
“Oh, I don’t mind once I’m in them.”
At last we were ready all but our ties, and
none too soon, for we heard Ethel come into
the front hall and say, “Dinner’s ready.
Where are the men?”
And then Madge said, “Oh, they had to
run up stairs at the last minute to get something.
Here they come.”
.bn 334.png
.pn +1
Ethel called up to me, “Hurry down, dear.
We’ll go in informally.”
“That’s right. We’ll be right down,”
said I.
We heard the tramp of the other three, and
I would have run down on account of the
stranger within my gates, but Ellery asked
me to tie his cravat, and I made a botchy tie
of it, and finally Ethel called up from the
dining room. “We’re all waiting, dear.”
Then we both went down in our evening
clothes, and entered the dining room.
Around it stood the ladies and the three men,
and when we saw them and they saw us a
happy shout arose. The men were not in
evening dress.
They had seen me when they first came
down, and, as Tom explained afterward, Hepburn,
seeing that I was not in evening clothes,
had suggested that they all change back,
which Tom was very glad to do, “as he hated
the durned things.”
So there they stood in sacks and cutaway
and we were the only ones in evening dress.
“Well, I won’t change back again,” said
.bn 335.png
.pn +1
I, “but after this let’s give our city clothes a
rest and just be comfortable.”
“But I contend,” said Benedict, “that
evening clothes are just as comfortable.”
“Yes,” said Tom, “but it’s harder to get
into ’em, and if we go out walking after dinner
it’s ridiculous to be dressed so stiffly in
a wild flower country.”
It was a jolly dinner and no one did more
to make it jolly than Tom. His humour is elemental,
but it is genuine, and his appreciation
of it is also genuine and his tremendous
reverberating laugh is infectious.
Many times during the progress of the meal
I found Hepburn’s placid eyes resting on
Cherry.
“Two of them,” thought I, and after dinner
Ethel and I compared notes and we
agreed that Cherry could have her choice.
Perhaps we jumped to conclusions, but to
see Cherry was to love her, and Ethel told
me that she was glad that Cherry was only
a little girl when I first met her or “you
might have been Mr. Paxton.”
“Phil, do you know who it would do good
to have up here?” said Tom, after a burst
.bn 336.png
.pn +1
of enthusiasm concerning the country.
“Jack Manton. Jack Manton and Billy Edson.
They’re both stone broke and they’re
getting their country by taking walks out of
New York, and this scenery would just about
kill ’em both dead. Why don’t you ask ’em
up?”
A roar followed this question.
“Let ’em sleep in the chimney,” I suggested,
at which innocent remark Minerva,
who was waiting on table, gave a suppressed
giggle that set Cherry off and she was followed
first by Ellery and then—of all the people
in the world, by Mr. Hepburn. Probably
Minerva’s act itself was so unheard of that it
struck him as being humourous. A maid
laughing at table.
But it was a lucky thing that Minerva was
in the room. That is lucky for Jack and
Billy.
“Kin I say sump’n?” said she to Ethel,
and Ethel, rather astonished, said, “What is
it?”
“They’s a lot of boards out in the woodshed,
an’ James could build a place for those
gen’lemen.”
.bn 337.png
.pn +1
“The very thing,” said Tom. “That’s it.
That’s IT. Just ask ’em up and save their
lives.”
“But you said it would kill ’em dead to
come up,” said Cherry.
“Oh, they wouldn’t stay dead five minutes
in this air,” said he. “Come on. If I hadn’t
been an artist I would have been a carpenter.
Send for ’em. I’ll help build the shack.”
I looked at Minerva. Her face was beaming.
She loved company.
“What do you think, Ethel?”
“Why, the more the merrier,” said she.
“Are they congenial?”
“Congenial’s no name for it,” said Tom.
“Both of ’em starving. Neither has sold a
picture in six months, and the night before I
came away they dropped in at my studio, and
when I told ’em where I was coming they
were as happy as if they were coming themselves,
and were going to share in it. Two
nice, promising boys, and perhaps this would
be their salvation.”
“Have them come by all means,” said
Ethel.
.bn 338.png
.pn +1
And Minerva went out to tell James the
good news.
.bn 339.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch27
CHAPTER XXVII||A HOT NIGHT.
.sp 2
.dc 0.3 0.675
IT was a hot, clear moonlit night.
Our newly arrived guests, after an
evening given up to piano music and
song, had retired to their various cubby
holes.
But peace did not lie upon the house, for
it was the hottest night of the season and
mosquitoes—hitherto an undreaded foe, attracted
by the unwonted light and the music,
had descended upon us and as, of course,
screens were not dreamed of in a place where
the mosquito rivals the tramp in scarceness,
they had entered the house and were singing
their infernal songs in the ears of people
fresh from a mosquitoless city.
I was mortified. It seemed a breach of
hospitality to invite people up to a place
where every prospect pleases and man is not
so vile, and then to let loose a horde of mosquitoes
upon them.
.bn 340.png
.pn +1
It was between three and four in the morning,
and soon the first signs of dawn would
be upon us.
I was trying to be comfortable in a hammock
slung under the boughs of the maple,
and Ellery was trying to be comfortable in
another hammock slung under other boughs,
but neither of us was making a success of it,
although he was fitfully sleeping. There
is something unmistakably enticing in the
thought of depending, cool and free from a
leafy arbour while the summer moon watches
over one’s slumbers, and the lulling breezes
croon one to unconsciousness, but loyal as I
am to Clover Lodge and its vicinity, I am
more loyal to truth, and that night was a
night to be remembered for years even as the
blizzard is remembered—but for opposite
reasons.
The air was still, but the mosquitoes were
not and neither were my guests. I could
hear them stirring and slapping and I feared
that some of them were cursing, and I longed
for dawn with all my heart. Dawn and the
hot day that would follow in its wake, for at
.bn 341.png
.pn +1
least we could escape to some lofty point,
where the mosquitoes would not follow us.
I knew that Tom and Benedict were used
to all sorts of experiences, and I knew their
wives too well to think for a moment that
they would hold me responsible for the night
and the winged pests, but Hepburn—
Hepburn had been raised in the lap of luxury,
and when I thought of his tall form accommodating
itself to the ornate but contracted
sofa, I felt so uncomfortable that I
thought of going in and asking him to swap
couches with me—and change discomfort.
I fell into a doze, from which I was awakened
by hearing a step on the gravelled path.
I was wide awake in an instant.
Between me and the moon was outlined the
tall form of Hepburn, fully clothed and smoking
a cigar.
“Is that you, Mr. Hepburn?” said I.
“Yes,” said he, softly, so as to awaken no
one else. “Did I wake you? Pardon me.”
“Oh, that’s all right. But why are you up
and dressed?”
“Why,” said he, very glibly, “the night is
so beautiful and bright that it seems a sin to
.bn 342.png
.pn +1
sleep, don’t you know. I thought I’d stroll
about a bit.”
My conscience smote me.
“It was that sofa, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t say a word. Sofa’s awfully jolly,
but I think I drank too much coffee.”
“What’s the matter?” said Ellery, waking
up.
“What do you say to a swim?” said I.
“When?” said Ellery, sleepily.
“Why, now. How does it strike you, Mr.
Hepburn?”
“Great.”
Ellery, still half asleep, rubbed his eyes
and then saw Hepburn for the first time.
“Why, is it as early as that?” said he.
“Earlier,” said Hepburn, which was not
so bad.
I had sat up in the hammock, and setting
my feet in my slippers, I rose to my pajamaed
height and said,
“This is the hottest ever. I’ll get the
other fellows and we’ll go over to Marsh’s
Pond and have a swim at sunrise.”
I tiptoed up to the hot box that contained
.bn 343.png
.pn +1
Tom and Benedict and whispered to them,
“Are you awake?”
Tom answered, “Oh, no, we’re sound
asleep and dreaming of icebergs.”
Then I could hear him shaking the bed with
suppressed laughter.
“Well, come along for a swim. Get into
your old clothes and don’t make a noise.”
In a few minutes we were all ready. We
passed under Minerva’s window, and although
we stepped lightly we waked her and
we heard her heavy feet coming down on the
floor of her room.
I knew that a yawp was due, so I said in a
voice loud enough to reach her, “Don’t be
frightened, Minerva. It isn’t burglars. It’s
Mr. Vernon going for a walk.”
“Lawdy, I thought it was more burglars,”
said she, and heaved a sigh of relief.
Other voices were now heard and from the
window of the spare room was thrust the
head of Madge, who demanded what was the
trouble.
“Lack of sleep,” said Tom. “We’re going
for a swim. Down to the old swimmin’
hole, my dear.”
.bn 344.png
.pn +1
“What won’t men do?” said Madge, and
retired to envy us our privileges.
“Might as well tell Ethel what we’re doing.
She may be worried,” said I, and we
walked under her window.
“Give ’em a song,” said Benedict, who was
a fine baritone, and he began it, “‘Sleep no
more, ladies, sleep no more.’”
He sang it as a solo as none of us knew
the setting he used, but as an injunction it
was needless. The ladies were not calculating
on sleeping any more.
“Where are you going?” asked Ethel from
somewhere out of sight.
“Oh, only down to the old swimmin’ hole,”
said Tom.
“Why, there’s no swimming hole anywhere’s
near,” said she.
“Marsh’s Pond, my dear,” said I. “This
is a record-breaker for heat and we’re going
to break the record for swimming at an unseasonable
hour. We’ll be back for breakfast.
Good night.”
“How far is it?” asked Tom.
“Oh, only a couple of miles or so,” said I.
“We’ll take it easy there and back.”
.bn 345.png
.pn +1
“Please may I be excused,” said Benedict.
“I’m not in training for such a walk on an
empty stomach.”
“That’s easily remedied. We’ll fill up on
cold lamb.”
And we did fill up, and then we started, and
in spite of the heat, we enjoyed the walk. It
was after three and it would need the pencil
of a poet and artist combined to tell of the
wonders and the beauties of that walk with
the delicate indications of the coming dawn
filling the east with rosy promise.
Marsh’s Pond is about two miles long and
a half a mile wide, and it has at one point a
sandy beach. Around it are cottages and
bathing houses, most of them bearing the
idyllic names that lake dwellers love to bestow
upon their houses. We passed “The
Inglenook” and “The Ingleside” and “Inglewild,”
and “Tramp’s Rest,” and many another
bearing equally felicitous titles, and at
last we came to the sandy beach just as the
sun cast its first golden beams on the foliage
of the woods across the lake.
“Hepburn, you’re a brick for waking up
so early,” said Tom. “If only I had thought
.bn 346.png
.pn +1
to bring along my little flask. It’s just the
thing before a morning swim.”
“If you don’t mind Scotch,” said Hepburn,
producing a cunning little silver flask.
Ellery was on the water wagon, but the rest
of us drank to the rising sun and then plunged
in and were cool.
“It was worth the walk,” said Benedict, as
he dove and emerged twenty feet beyond.
“Why don’t people do this every day?”
With the sun had come a gentle breeze that
was several degrees cooler than the surrounding
atmosphere had been, and we spent a
pleasant half hour admiring the coming of
day from our watery vantage.
After we had come out we went into the
bathing house, which went by the name of
Tramp’s Rest. It was a roomy affair, and
had been left open all winter, or we would
have been unable to enter it.
“We’ll put up a shack like that,” said
Tom, “and Jack and Billy can bunk in it.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t lumber enough,”
said I.
When we were ready to go home Hepburn
and Ellery said they were going back by what
.bn 347.png
.pn +1
is called the upper road, which is a half mile
farther, but we chose the lower road, and
were home a good half hour ahead of them.
It was after six and we were ravenous. A
west wind was blowing and it had blown the
crazy horde of mosquitoes away, and it was
much cooler, and I am thankful to say that
not again that summer did we have such a
visitation. Mosquitoes might always be
found in the long grass, but it was easy to
avoid them.
Minerva prepared an early breakfast, and
just as we sat down to it Ellery and Hepburn
arrived.
“How do you like it as far as you’ve got,
Talcott?” asked Tom, as we all sat down.
“Well, do you know I read this ‘Simple
Life,’ that the President recommended, and
I didn’t see such an awful lot in it, but if this
is it, it’s all right. I don’t think I ever had
such an appetite for breakfast before.”
“After being awake all night you ought
to have,” said I, in an apologetic tone. “You
see the Wheelocks had two young children
and they did not entertain and as we took the
.bn 348.png
.pn +1
house furnished we were not prepared as we
should have been.”
“But it’s nice to have the house full all the
time,” said Ethel, who evidently thought my
remark ungracious.
“No question of its having been filled last
night,” said Tom, rubbing his cheek, “Filled
with mosquitoes. I thought they never came
up here.”
“You might say they never do. Last night
was an exception,” said I.
“Dear, dear, how like Jersey that sounds.
Jersey nights are made up of exceptions,”
said Tom.
Minerva appeared at the door, not with
her hand raised, but in an attitude that said
“Please, may I speak,” and Ethel, with a
hasty look at Hepburn, said, “What is it,
Minerva?”
“Now James wanted to know where’s he’s
to build that lean-to.”
“The what?” said Ethel.
“That’s all right,” said Tom, grasping the
situation. “You tell James to wait until
after breakfast and I’ll come out and show
him.”
.bn 349.png
.pn +1
Minerva shut the door and Tom said, “She
believes in free speech.”
“I must speak to her,” said Ethel.
But there was a general chorus of objections,
Hepburn expressing his opinion by
saying, “It strikes me as awfully quaint, you
know.”
After breakfast Tom took me aside and
said,
“Now, see here, Phil, this deluge wasn’t
expected by you, but I don’t see any indication
of the waters subsiding. We all want
to stay. Now hospitality is hospitality, but
we’re not paupers and we’re not rich enough
to feel that we can live on you all summer
without a murmur. You understand? Now,
I’ve forced Billy and Jack on you, and I’ve
been talking with Hepburn and Benedict, and
we’re going to form a pool to cover expenses.
Don’t want you to make a cent out of us, but
we don’t want you to be out of pocket, and
so if you’ll let us pay our share of the bills
when they come in we’ll stay. Otherwise we
all go back to-morrow. Yes, sir, we all go
back to-morrow. I’m in earnest.”
Tom was a curious mixture of simplicity
.bn 350.png
.pn +1
and worldly wisdom, and I could not help
laughing at him.
“Well, go home,” said I, “and leave us
to ourselves.”
He put his arm around my shoulder.
“Now, you don’t mean that at all, old man.
You were both glad to see us and you want
us to stay. Hepburn’s having the time of his
life.”
“With his midnight walks?”
“That’s all right. It was part of the fun.
Now, I’m going to see about getting some cot
beds because Hepburn is too long for that
sofa. Where can I get a wagon?”
I told him about Bert, and he went on to see
James about the lean-to.
Later I met Hepburn. He came up as if
he wanted to speak about something that was
weighing on his mind, and I expected to have
him tell me that he had just received a telegram
calling him home at once, but I was
mistaken.
“It’s no end jolly up here,” said he, “but
I can see that we’re a good deal of a household
for Mrs. Vernon. She doesn’t look
strong. Now, isn’t there some place near by
.bn 351.png
.pn +1
where we could arrange to stay, don’t you
know, and come over here for tennis and all
that sort of thing? I’d like to come up
again.”
“Why, you’re not going?”
“Why, I really ought to, you know. So
unexpected my coming and all that sort of
thing.”
Ethel had heard us talking and she came
out of the house.
“We don’t want you to think of going, Mr.
Hepburn, if you can be comfortable. I’ll be
able to borrow a bed to-night and if Mr.
Warden builds that temporary shed, in such
weather as this you’ll be comfortable sort of
camping out.”
“Oh, I’m all right. The mosquitoes were
a bit annoying, but everything else is all
right. I’m feeling very fit this morning, I
assure you.”
“Then don’t think of going,” said I.
And then Cherry came out with the tennis
net and Hepburn relieved her of it immediately
and went with her to put it up, and Ellery
and Mrs. Benedict came out a minute
.bn 352.png
.pn +1
later and announced that they were going for
a little walk.
Ethel, with a suggestive glance at me, that
seemed to imply that all was not right between
Cherry and Ellery, went into the house
to invite “Jack” and “Billy,” while I went
down to James’s house to see about engaging
James’s little sister to help Minerva. If we
were going to be a hotel we would need more
help.
As I passed the woodshed I saw Tom in
his shirt sleeves sawing planks, while Benedict
and James were acting as willing helpers.
The only one who was doing nothing was
Madge, so I hunted her up and invited her
to go with me to the house of James.
And thus continued the day begun so early
in the morning.
.bn 353.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch28
CHAPTER XXVIII||“TRAMP’S REST.”
.sp 2
.dc 0.35 0.675
TOM had discontinued work on the lean-to
for some untold reason, and just
after lunch he and Hepburn had gone
over to Bert’s to get the horse and go for the
cots.
The rest of us broke up into convenient
groups and tennised or walked, but by the
middle of the afternoon a drowsiness came
over us, superinduced by our sleepless night,
and with the exception of Ethel and Mrs.
Benedict, who were helping prepare dinner,
we all slept, some in hammocks, one on the
ornate sofa and the rest in the three bedrooms.
And then, just before dinner, Tom and
Hepburn not having come, we all went out
to look for them.
It ought not to have taken them long to
.bn 354.png
.pn +1
buy two cot beds and bring them up, and they
had been gone four hours at least.
We walked upwards of a mile toward town,
and at last came to a rock, from the top of
which we could command a view of the rest
of the road to Egerton, but there was no sign
of Bert’s wagon.
“Well,” said Ethel, “we’d better be starting
back, for dinner ought to be ready soon.”
And so we sauntered back, expecting every
minute to be overtaken by the cot bringers.
We arrived at the house and all entered by
the south door, attracted thereto by the recumbent
figures of our truants. Each one
was reclining gracefully upon a cot reading,
and smoking excellent cigars.
“Here, here,” said Tom, when he saw us.
“This will never do. Dinner’s ready this
ten minutes, and Hepburn and I are starving.”
As soon as Hepburn had seen us he had
risen from his couch, but Tom continued to
lie there blocking the doorway.
“What about that lean-to,” said I.
Tom rose and folded up his cot as an Arab
is supposed to fold his tent. Then he set
.bn 355.png
.pn +1
it up against the side of the house and said
oracularly:
“The lean-to is indefinitely postponed.
We know more than we did this morning.”
“Well, but where have you been? We
walked half way to town and didn’t see you,”
said Ethel.
“Exploring the country. Haven’t we, Talcott.”
“It’s a beautiful country,” said Talcott,
laughing.
All through dinner those two seemed to
have a secret, and as near as we could make
out, Minerva was in it, because every time
she came into the room and looked at Tom
she smothered chuckles.
After dinner Tom said, “Mrs. Vernon,
what do you say to our taking our coffee in
the summer house?”
“In the summer house,” said Ethel, “why,
there isn’t any summer house.”
“Well, whatever you call it, then. Minerva,
you bring it to us there.”
Minerva broke out into childlike laughter.
“All right, sir, I will.”
.bn 356.png
.pn +1
Then she looked at her mistress and said,
“Kin I do it, ma’am.”
Ethel shook her head at Tom and said,
“You’re a bad boy. All this is subversive
of discipline.” But she told Minerva to do
as Mr. Warden wished, and, Tom leading the
way, we all went out of the house feeling that
we were on the verge of a surprise.
Out the front door and north of the house
we went and then around to the lesser orchard
at the back of it and there, between two
apple trees, stood a “summer house,” over
the dilapidated door of which was a sign reading
“Tramp’s Rest.”
We who had bathed that morning recognized
in it the bath house in which we had
dressed.
“How did you get that here?” said several
of us at once.
“If you don’t mind having it on your
land,” said Hepburn, “I’d like to make you a
present of it. I took a fancy to it this morning
and this afternoon Tom and I drove over
there on our way from town and brought it
back.”
.bn 357.png
.pn +1
“Yes, but who said you could take it?” said
Benedict.
“Oh, I bought it this morning. Mr. Sibthorp
and I found out the owner and he was
willing to sell it for a song.”
“But how did you get it here on that
wagon?”
“Oh, we didn’t. We had this—er—Bert’s
horses—but an Irishman of the name of
Casey loaned us his hay wagon and he felt
insulted when I offered to pay him for the
use of it. He really became violently abusive,
don’t you know, and used highly colored
language, but we could see that he meant
well. Really I thought him something of a
character. Didn’t you think him a character,
Mr. Sibthorp?”
“He certainly was,” said Sibthorp. “He
had no opinion at all of Bert’s horses. Said
he had an—ould—ould—”
“Ould scut,” I suggested.
“That’s it. Said he had an ould scut of a
horse that would walk right away from Bert’s
pair, and that any time we wanted to take the
young ladies out for a ride to come and take
him right out of the stall, whether he was
.bn 358.png
.pn +1
there or not. His language was ornamented
with picturesque oaths that wouldn’t sound
well here, but they were awfully funny.”
“I guess he said nothing that he wouldn’t
say before anyone,” said Ethel.
Sibthorp gave her a whimsical look. “Excuse
me,” said he, “but I guess that when
you’ve heard him talk he has repressed his
vocabulary.”
“Why,” said Ethel, “you know he came
with berries the morning after you came.”
“Oh,” said Ellery, “he had sworn off that
morning. You ought to have heard him to-day.”
“Perfectly willing to let it go at imagining,”
said Ethel.
And then Minerva came out with the lilting
walk that was hers when she was happy. She
bore a tray and set it down on a rustic table
that I remembered to have seen in the furniture
store at Egerton the week before.
“Here’s to the ‘Tramp’s Rest,’” said Tom
when we had all been provided with coffee.
“I boney a cot in this house to-night.
You fellows can sleep in rooms if you want.
For me the stars through the cracks.”
.bn 359.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch29
CHAPTER XXIX||MINERVA AND THE SNAKE.
.sp 2
.dc 0.3 0.675
THE latter part of the week Ethel received
a letter from Billy, saying that
he and Jack would be delighted to
come up.
Billy’s letter was characteristic. It ran:
.pm letter-start
“My Dear Mrs. Vernon:
“You are a kind, good lady. Jack agrees
with me in this. You have saved our lives.
It has been a long time since we sold any
pictures, and we have forgotten the address
of our bank, so we were not thinking of going
to any summer resort this summer, but your
invitation could not be refused without insulting
you.
“It is not entirely as if we were strangers,
however, because we know Tom (oh, don’t
we know him) and we know your husband.
Tom has brought him to the Olla Podrida
Club more than once and has made him smoke
the club cigars which we thought unkind. So
we have a certain sympathy with your husband
.bn 360.png
.pn +1
and are prepared to like him better the
more we know him.
“Will you please ask Tom to tell us what
train to take, and also to do any other things
that are necessary. He will understand.
“Please give my regards to Miss Paxton.
You mentioned her as part of your ‘party,’
and she must be a large part, unless she has
changed. I used to know her before I came
to New York, when she was a little girl (three
years ago).
“Jack wants me to tell you that whatever I
think of you he thinks also, and that you do
not know how much you have done for ART
IN AMERICA by making it possible for us
to set down on canvas the beauties of your
state. (I’m not sure whether that should be
a capital S or not.)
.ti +6
“Yours cordially,
.ti +8
“William Edson.”
.pm letter-end
When we showed the letter to Tom and
asked him what Mr. Edson meant by saying,
“ask Tom to do any other things that are
necessary,” he burst into a roar of laughter.
“That means in plain English that the dear
boys are stone broke, and that they will need
money before they can buy their tickets. I
will telegraph them ten dollars.”
.bn 361.png
.pn +1
“Do you mean to say,” said Benedict,
“that those young men are going to borrow
the money to come up here?”
“Yes, why not?” said Tom with just a suspicion
of heat in his tone.
“Why, nothing,” said Benedict, “only I’d
stay in the city all summer before I’d borrow
money to go away. I’d be too independent.”
“Independent, poppycock,” said Tom.
“We’re told to let independence be our boast,
but we’re also told that it’s wrong to boast.
So it’s wrong to boast of independence. No
man can be independent in this world. He
relies on one man to bring him into the world
and on another to bury him, and all the time
he’s here he’s relying on one person or another.
The only thing is for him to accept
help and be willing to help. That’s all,”
Tom laughed. “Sermon’s over. Collection
will now be taken up to bring those two babes
to the place where they can make bread for
next winter. No, sir. You, Phil, can not
contribute. This hard-as-nails Benedict, who
thinks he’s made his own way, and who has
been helped all along by our free institutions,
will chip in, and so will old Crœsus when he
.bn 362.png
.pn +1
comes back from his horseback ride with
Cherry.” He paused. “Sibthorp ought to
learn to ride.”
Benedict’s hand went down into his pocket
and brought out a bill.
“Now, see here,” said Tom. “I don’t want
you to have the idea that you’re doing a
charitable act, for you’re not. Those boys
are going to give us a couple of sketches before
they go back, and we’ll sell them for
more than ten dollars and refund pro rata.
Will that satisfy your sordid business soul?”
Benedict drew off and gave Tom a friendly
punch. They were always insulting each
other, having been friends for years, and
both of them members of the Olla Podrida
Club, which, by the way, is an association of
artists and men interested in art. Benedict
buys a picture once in a while and, according
to Tom, when he relies on the advice of an
artist friend, he gets a good one. When he
relies on his own judgment he gets something
that provides no end of amusement to all the
artists except the one who painted the picture.
.bn 363.png
.pn +1
“I want none of your impudence, Tom,”
said he, and then Minerva interrupted.
It seems as if Minerva were always interrupting
and generally with a shriek.
“Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! there’s a big worm
in the kitchen!” cried she as she came running
out of the sitting room to where we were
standing.
“Worms can’t hurt you, Minerva,” said
Tom. “Go get a bird and see him catch the
worm.”
“Oh, my! but this worm would eat any bird
I ever saw. It’s that long.”
She showed how long it was, and Tom said,
“Why, it must be a snake.”
We men ran into the kitchen, and there,
sure enough, was a little green snake about
a foot long and frightened in every inch.
Tom picked up the mop, and carefully aiming
at the little creature, he brought it down
about three feet away from it. For the snake
had eluded him.
Minerva’s curiosity was greater than her
fear, and she came to the door of the kitchen
to watch us.
Benedict picked up a broom and made a
.bn 364.png
.pn +1
swipe at the snake that upset a pitcher of
milk, but missed the snake which coiled its
pretty green length in the middle of the floor
raised its pretty head and darted out a
needle-like and beautifully red tongue at us
in a way that reminded me of the Morse alphabet.
I cannot explain why I was thus reminded,
and probably such a reminder was far from
the snake’s intention.
I could not help feeling sorry for the little
fellow. They say that snakes love milk.
Here was a place flowing with milk, but he
could not stop to drink it because three huge
beings threatened his very life.
“Can he jump?” said Minerva, preparing
to jump herself.
“No, Minerva, he is perfectly harmless,”
said I, resolved to save his life. “Say, you
fellows, stop whacking at him and capture
him alive. I want to show Minerva that these
snakes haven’t a vicious thought in their
heads.”
I took the mop from Tom, and watching
my chance, I brought it down on the snake
.bn 365.png
.pn +1
in such a way as to pin it, wriggling. Then
I picked it up by the neck.
“Oh, Lawdy!” cried Minerva, and stepping
backward trod on the tail of Miss Pussy
who happened to be coming into the kitchen.
Miss Pussy emitted a yell that Minerva
firmly believed to come from the mouth of
the snake, and clapping both her hands to
her ears she rushed through the dining room
and met Ethel coming in.
Ethel and she met on their foreheads, and
Minerva was not hurt at all. Ethel, however,
was hard hit, and, infected with Minerva’s
panic, she turned and ran through the sitting
room into the arms of Madge, who had come
to see what was happening.
Madge was almost bowled over, but managed
to withstand the shock, and brought the
chain of concussions to an end.
I am perhaps a crank on the subject of
snakes, but I do object to the senseless panic
that seizes on some people when they see one.
Now, if it were a mouse, it would be different.
A mouse has cluttering little feet and a method
of approach that reminds one of happenings
in a previous state of existence, and I
.bn 366.png
.pn +1
confess that a mouse in a room will spoil
my peace of mind, but a snake is generally
good to look upon, and it is graceful beyond
measure, and it is nearly always harmless
and perfectly willing to leave you most of
the world for your inheritance.
So I kept hold of the snake, and after Ethel
had assured me that she was not seriously
hurt by the impact of Minerva’s splendidly
built skull, I told her that I wanted to give
Minerva a little lesson in natural history.
There is one thing about Minerva. She
is a reasonable being. Her fear of cows vanished
after we had assured her that cows
were for the most part friendly, and as there
were no rattle-snakes in the vicinity, I knew
I was safe in calming her fears in regard to
the snake. So I asked her and the rest to
come out of doors and I would show her
what a perfectly innocuous thing our little
green friend was.
“Nearly everything we meet out doors,
Minerva,” said I, “is disposed to leave us
alone if we will leave it alone. This little
green snake, that looks as if it were fresh
from Ireland, is only anxious now to get
.bn 367.png
.pn +1
away from me and rejoin its little ones. If
you kept the kitchen full of snakes there
would never be any flies there, because snakes
love flies. Come and stroke him. I give you
my word he will neither sting nor bite.”
Minerva came up with confidence, and amid
shrieks from all the women she patted the
little green head, and the little red tongue
came out and spelled a message of love to her.
“See there, Minerva! He wants to show
you that he is perfectly friendly.”
“My, aint he clean!”
“Of course he’s clean. Snakes are all the
while washing themselves with their
tongues.” I caught Ethel’s eye, and felt that
my natural history was shaky, but I wanted
to make an interesting story for Minerva,
and who cares for facts in natural history,
so long as you have something that will be
read?
“I dare say that at one time snakes and
cats belonged to the same family. When
you see a cat crouched down and creeping
along after a bird, it looks like a snake. Its
head is flattened and its ears are laid back
.bn 368.png
.pn +1
and its tail looks just like a snake in itself.
Probably snakes once had fur—”
“And they rubbed it all off creepin’
’round.”
“Exactly. Now, take this little snake and
be kind to him and overcome your antipathy
to him—”
As I said this I loosened my hold on him,
preparatory to handing him to Minerva.
But instead of going to Minerva, he turned
and made his way swiftly up my arm and
around my neck.
Ugh. I never felt anything so creepy in
my life. I flung him from me (with a wild
cry, Ethel says, although I think she is mistaken).
At any rate I tossed the snake far
from me, and he made his sinuous, chilly,
gliding, repulsive way to his waiting family.
And probably wrote a book on the bad habits
of human beings from his short and superficial
observation of them.
There is a certain rooted antipathy to
snakes that lies deep at the base of our being.
I cannot explain it, but I know it’s there. I
am no snake charmer.
Minerva might have said something, but
.bn 369.png
.pn +1
she knew her place, and refrained. She
merely went out to the kitchen and guffawed
all by herself, while I, ignoring the remarks
of my friends, went upstairs to wash the feeling
of cold snake from my neck.
.bn 370.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch30
CHAPTER XXX||A HORSEHEAD PERCH.
.sp 2
.dc 0.2 0.675
I ENJOY the luxury of being absent-minded
sometimes. I claim that to be
absent-minded once in a while proves
that one has a mind to be absent.
I was absent-minded the day that Jack and
Billy were expected and I went over to the
lake to fish for bass with Sibthorp, with
never a thought of them.
The rest of my guests went their various
ways and left the house to Ethel and Minerva,
and about an hour before train time
Ethel realized that I had done nothing about
getting the expected arrivals.
“Can you drive a horse, Minerva?” said
she.
“I kin sit in the wagon and hold the reins.”
“Well, I guess that’s all that’s necessary,
but I can’t even do that. You’ll have to
take me down to get the men who are expected.”
.bn 371.png
.pn +1
“Yas’m.”
“We must go at once and get Mr. Casey’s
horse.”
I must explain that Ethel knew that
“th’ ould scut” had had the blind staggers
the day before and that Pat had explained
that he could not have two attacks the same
week, as the blood letting simply rejuvenated
him.
So the two set off for Pat’s and found him
unhitching his horse.
“Oh, have you just been to town?” said
Ethel (as she told me afterwards).
“Sure I have. Can I git y’annything
there!”
“Why, I wanted to meet two friends who
are coming up. If I’d known you were going
down—”
“I’d have waited arl night fer them. Annything
to oblige a leddy. Take him though,
you. He’s gentle as a kitten. Gentler, because
I’ve not spared ’im. He’ll not have
the blind staggers. I bled him like a pig yestiddy,
an’ he’s fresh as the morning.”
As he talked he harnessed him up again
.bn 372.png
.pn +1
and invited the two to get in and he’d turn
him around and start them right.
“What’ll I do if anything happens, Mr.
Casey?”
“Sit on his head and holler fer help.”
“Oh, of course,” said Ethel. “I read that
in a book.”
Minerva went off in an ecstacy of laughter.
“What are you laughing at, Minerva?”
asked Ethel.
“I was wonderin’ how you’d get up to his
head.”
“Why, Mr. Casey means if he falls down.
Don’t you, Mr. Casey?”
“’Deed an’ I do. But he won’t fall down.
He’s strarng as a horse an’ gentle as a—as
a litter of kittens. He knows it’s a leddy behind
him, an’ he’ll have plisant thoughts of
you arl the way down. But don’t use the
whip. After bleedin’ he’s a bit skitterful.”
We had had the horse several times at a
pinch and Ethel knew that he always cautioned
against use of the whip, although
th’ould scut’s hide was as tough as that famous
.bn 373.png
.pn +1
one “found in the pit where the tanner
died.”
“You take the reins, Minerva,” said Ethel.
Minerva took them and pulled them up so
tight that she almost yanked the horse into
the wagon.
“Oh, he’ll never stumble. A loose rein
an’ a kind worrd an’ th’ whip in the socket
an’ll he go like the breezes of Ballinasloe.
Good bye an’ God bless you.”
And so they started and the horse went
along in a leisurely manner as was his wont.
Once he strayed off to the roadside to crop
the verdant mead and as Minerva pulled on
the wrong rein she nearly upset the wagon.
But she was quick to learn, and before they
had gone a mile Ethel said she drove as if
she had been doing it all day.
They found that the horse had the pleasing
habit of picking up apples that lay in the
road—for their way ran by several apple trees,
and there were windfalls in plenty. As
he was not checked, every time this happened
Ethel felt as if they were going to be pitched
out head foremost, but they made their first
mile in safety and then the horse, reaching
.bn 374.png
.pn +1
a level stretch “got a gait on him” and
trotted along in good shape for nearly half a
mile.
When they came to the place called “long
hill” Ethel got out so that the horse would
have less difficulty in making the descent.
Minerva, innocent as a child as to the
proper thing to do, did not tighten the check
rein nor did she take in the slack in the reins,
but resting her hands idly in her lap chirruped
to the horse as she had heard James
do, and he began the “perilous descent.”
Half way down he saw a bit of hay in the
road, and being of a mind to eat it, he lowered
his head at the very moment that he stepped
on a loose stone, and the next minute Minerva
was over the dashboard, and the horse
and she lay in the road together.
She was the first one to pick herself up.
In fact she was the only one to do it, as Ethel
was several rods away and almost too
frightened to stir.
“Quick, Mis. Vernon, come and sit on his
head.”
Ethel told me that she did not like the
idea at all, but it was a case that called for
.bn 375.png
.pn +1
but one decision. The horse had been loaned
to her and if she could save its life by sitting
on its head she meant to do it, although
she did hope that Minerva would relieve her
from time to time.
“I thought we’d divide it up into watches,”
she told me, “and I did hope that some wood
team would come along soon.”
The horse struggled to rise, but as the hill
was steep he found it hard to do and in a
minute my wife had seated herself as elegantly
as she could on his head, and probably
smoothed her skirts over her shoe tops after
the manner of womankind.
Minerva, her spirits ebullient as soon as
she saw that no damage had been done, went
off into a roar of laughter at the quaint spectacle
of Ethel using a horse as a sort of
couch.
“I wonder if it hurts him?” said Ethel.
“’Deed no. You ain’t heavy enough.”
“Well, if I get tired I’ll want you to come.”
“Lawdy, I’d smash him. He won’t need
me.”
“Is anyone coming?”
“No’m.”
.bn 376.png
.pn +1
“Well, isn’t this too vexing? There are
those two men coming.”
“Where?” said Minerva, looking up and
down the road.
“No, I mean on the train. Of course they
can hire a team, but it is awfully vexing to
have this happen.”
“Yas’m. Shall I get you an apple?”
Without waiting for an answer Minerva
climbed a rail fence—not without difficulty—and
picked up several red astrachans that
lay just beyond it. Then she essayed to return,
but this time she got caught when half
way over and could not extricate herself.
“Mis. Vernon, I’m stuck. Somep’n caught
my dress. Come an’ help me.”
“Oh! Dear! I can’t help you. I can’t
leave this horse for a minute. There’s no
telling what might happen. Isn’t this awful?”
“’Deed it is. Never did think much of that
ould scut. What is an ould scut, Mis. Vernon?”
“Oh, it’s just a pet name. Irish people
are very affectionate.”
“Never get my affections,” said Minerva,
.bn 377.png
.pn +1
race prejudice cropping out even in her predicament.
All the while she was trying to free herself,
and at last she tore herself loose, sacrificing
a part of her skirt, and rolled over
the fence, the apples scattering in front of
her as if in a panic.
But once over she gathered them up and
handed one to Ethel, who leaned back along
the forehead of her animal sofa and gave
herself up to the delights of eating.
“Would the ould scut like one too?” asked
Minerva.
“Oh, surely,” said Ethel, and so Minerva
picked out a large apple and held it to the
velvet nose of the poor old horse. He smelt
it eagerly and opening his jaws took it in.
Minerva sat down in the grass of the roadside
and fell to, herself, and for a minute,
Ethel said, the three jaws crunched apple
pulp noisily.
“Mis. Vernon?”
“What is it, Minerva?”
“How come a horse can eat when he’s
standin’ up. Lyin’ the way he is now it’s
easy because the apple kin go along level, but
.bn 378.png
.pn +1
when he’s standin’ up how can it go way up
in his head.”
“Why, he swallows it.”
“Yes, but how can he swallow up? We
swallow down. If I was to stand awn my
head I couldn’t swallow.”
She was silent a minute and then she said,
“Go’n’ to try.”
And try she did.
There in the lonely road, with Ethel reclining
so luxuriously on a horse-hair sofa,
Minerva played circus and made a croquet
wicket of herself and then tried to eat an
apple.
Ethel was so interested in the experiment
that she was surprised when she heard a
masculine voice say, “Well, I swan!”
She turned, and there below her in the road
stood the figure of the Perkins’ hired man.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come,” said Ethel
from her perch. “What’s the proper thing
to do to this horse?”
“Well, I’d git off his head first off.”
Ethel left her seat, the hired man took hold
of the bridle, the horse made one or two tries
and then rose to his feet and Ethel said he
.bn 379.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i379.jpg w=600px id=i379
.ca
She made a croquet wicket of herself.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: She made a croquet wicket of herself.]
.sp 2
.if-
.bn 380.png
.pn +1
.bn 381.png
.pn +1
shook himself so violently that she thought
the harness would break.
But it stayed together in all its knotted
parts and Minerva, somewhat shamefaced at
having been caught trying to swallow like a
horse, climbed up into the wagon and my
wife drove on down town, where she arrived
just as Jack and Billy were about concluding
a dicker with a hackman.
When they saw th’ ould scut they concluded
the dicker—Ethel having introduced herself,
and then they insisted that she ride up with
them, while Minerva followed after with the
grips.
Sibthorp and I and no fish arrived home
simultaneously with my guests.
The meeting of Billy and Cherry was most
affecting. They acted like school children
over each other. It struck me at the time
how much more a woman will palaver over
a man if she does not care for him in any
other than a Platonic way than she will when
her affections are engaged.
It is also queer how some men express
themselves more fully in their letters than
they do in their actions.
.bn 382.png
.pn +1
Billy was much quieter than Tom, and Jack
was almost reserved.
But the same air that has a lazing effect
on writers braces up artists to do good work.
Tom had painted two landscapes since his arrival
and Billy and Jack went out after supper
and each took a shy at the same sunset.
It was curious to see how different were
the colors each used.
And the sun had used another palette altogether.
And yet all three sunsets were
beautiful and I dare say that one was as true
as the other, all of them being illusions.
.bn 383.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch31
CHAPTER XXXI||THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
IT may not possess any interest to the
reader, but I feel that we have been together
so long (if he has not skipped)
that he will be interested to know that early
in September an editor in New York wrote
me, saying that he would take a long story
of mine at such a figure that—well, our
summer outing was more than paid for and
on receipt of the check I stopped keeping a
hotel and insisted on my “guests” becoming
guests—a distinction with a wide difference.
Golden rod was yellowing the lanes and
fields and roads, and here and there purple
asters were foretelling the approach of winter.
The nights were getting chilly and providing
an excellent excuse for pine knot wood
fires, around which we all gathered and told
stories or listened to Cherry’s piano music
.bn 384.png
.pn +1
or to heated but amicable art discussions on
the part of the three brushmen.
Two goal points beckoned us to the future;
one of them the centennial anniversary of
good old Mrs. Hartlett, the other the cattle
show at Oakham.
The former would fall on September 16th;
the latter on October 3rd, and the day after
the cattle show our happy household would
break up. We expected to go down with the
rest and open up our flat and we regretted
the necessity of doing so, as the time approached.
We had grown to love the country in all its
moods and I felt sure that in winter also we
would find it full of the stimulus of life, but
even with James for a companion, we knew
that Minerva would not outstay the first
snow storm, and since his situation with the
liveryman now only awaited my announcement
and his acceptance of it, we were going
to count the winter in New York as simply
so many days of anticipation of the next summer’s
joys with perhaps the same crowd of
congenial people, and it might be two of them
keeping house in a new bungalow.
.bn 385.png
.pn +1
After all, Hepburn was better fitted than
Sibthorp to make a husband for Cherry.
She was a girl with luxurious tastes and the
very fact that she could live our simple life
and be happy argued that she would make an
ideal helpmate for the man who had been
born with a diamond encrusted spoon in his
mouth.
Mrs. Warden thought that Billy also was
smitten, but if so Cherry did not know it.
The centenary of Mrs. Hartlett fell on a
perfect day. The morning broke, cool and
cloudless and a brisk west wind policed the
air all day and kept it free from disorderly
elements.
At three o’clock we all went over to her
house on foot. Sibthorp and the artists had
ransacked a greenhouse at Egerton and were
loaded down with roses: Hepburn had been
fortunate enough to buy a century plant in
bloom and the rest of us bore other offerings.
On the little lawn in front of her house sat
Mrs. Hartlett on a stiff-backed chair that had
belonged to her grandfather. She was alert
and smiling and actually rosy. Her hundred
.bn 386.png
.pn +1
year old eyes sparkled with animation
and she was just as proud of having achieved
a century as any wheelman ever was.
There were at the lowest estimate two hundred
people gathered on the lawn about
the old lady, and I’ll venture to say that not
five of them were there out of idle curiosity.
There were Minerva and James and the
president of the Egerton National Bank, and
the pastors of three churches of different
protestant denominations and a comparatively
newly arrived Hungarian family, to
whom Mrs. Hartlett had been “neighbourly,”
and Father Hogan and the Guernseas and
the man whose pipe I had returned. (He
had brought Mrs. Hartlett a peach pit basket,
which he had whittled himself and which
gave her great joy, as she said it was exactly
like one that her brother had given her in
1812).
But to go back to the guests. Such a
heterogeneous collection of people one does
not often see, and yet they all had one common
object; to render homage to a woman
who, for a century, had breathed a spirit of
kindliness and tolerance that was American
.bn 387.png
.pn +1
in the best sense. Yankee farmer, Hungarian
immigrant, Pat Casey—who was there,
alert and smiling—all were the better for
Mrs. Hartlett’s having lived so long a life,
and each one felt it in his own way.
And almost every one present had brought
a gift. In some instances they were trifling
affairs—like the peach pit basket—but the
kindly spirit of giving was there, and I doubt
not that Mrs. Hartlett valued the little carving
for the sake of the associations it brought
up full as well as she did the handsome antique
chair that the Guernseas gave her.
One of the last arrivals was a man who
had walked many miles to visit her on her
birthday. He drew after him a toy express
wagon.
He was patriarchal in appearance, with
a long white beard and eyes more shrewd
than kindly, and yet it was a kindly spirit
that had drawn him ten miles out of his accustomed
itinerary that he might pay his respects
to the woman who had never bought
a single one of his wares, but who had always
given him a pleasant salutation and had more
than once invited him to come in and partake
.bn 388.png
.pn +1
of berries and milk, or, if it was wintertime,
to have a cup of coffee and fortify himself
against the elements.
It was Isidor Pohalski, an old man about
thirty years Mrs. Hartlett’s junior, a peddler
by occupation, who in summer drew his
wares around the country on a little express
wagon and in winter drew them on a boy’s
sled. (So they told me.)
He had brought a present too, a bertha of
Belgian lace, and when I saw him and Father
Hogan and Rev. Mr. Hughson and the bank
president and the artists so near together it
gave me a kind of lion and lamb feeling that
smacked of the millennium.
“Do you mean it for me?” asked Mrs.
Hartlett, recognising the beautiful lace.
Isidor nodded, saying nothing. His English
was for but one at a time. In a crowd
he was reduced to signs.
“Much thanks. Much thanks,” said Mrs.
Hartlett, quaintly, being one of those who
talk to a foreigner with special idioms. She
held out her hand and shook his and said,
“You stay for lemonade? Yes?”
The Hebrew nodded and smiled and stayed.
.bn 389.png
.pn +1
There was one surprise connected with
the very informal exercises of the afternoon
and that was the gift by Mrs. Hughson on
behalf of the people generally of a rouleau
made up of one hundred gold dollars.
“May your pathway to heaven be paved
wid ’em,” said the irrepressible Pat, stepping
up and shaking hands with her.
“Thank you, sir,” said she, and Pat walked
off with his head in the air and brimming
over with good feeling—and suppressed
oaths.
“Won’t you sing your song, Mrs. Hartlett?”
asked Cherry.
“I’m afraid I’m not in very good voice
to-day,” said the old lady with an exaggerated
simper and then she hastened to say,
“That’s what people used to say when I was
a girl. There was much more singing then
than there is now, but it was always considered
right to apologise for one’s voice.”
She cleared her throat and then she turned
to the doctor, who sat near her, and said, “I
wanted to dance, to-day, but Dr. Ludlow says
that at my age the less I dance the better for
my health—and I dare say he is right.”
.bn 390.png
.pn +1
She looked at the doctor, her eyes twinkling,
and then she sang a strange old song
that I had never heard before. It was sung
to a quaint air that might have been by Purcell
and that told of what befell the daughters
of a king who lived up in the “North
countree:”
.pm verse-start
“‘The king lived up in the North Countree
“‘Bow down downaday
“‘The king lived up in the North Countree
“‘The bough that bends to me
“‘The king lived up in the North Countree
“‘And he had daughters, one, two, three—
“‘I’ll prove true to my love,
“‘If my love proves true to me.’”
.pm verse-end
It was a melodramatic song and told of the
death by drowning of the youngest of the
three daughters, and the phraseology was so
queer that it might easily have become comic;
but the old lady sang it with such simplicity;
her voice, in spite of its quavers, was so true
and still bore such evidence of the silvery
quality that it had once contained, that my
three artist friends afterwards acknowledged
.bn 391.png
.pn +1
that the song gave them a choky feeling in
the throat.
Sibthorp told them that one did not need
to be an artist to have choky feelings.
At the song’s conclusion Pat Casey turned
to the Rev. Mr. Hughson, by whose side he
was standing, and said,
“She’s a dam good woman—glory be to God.”
Cherry had made some sort of lace arrangement
for the hair, three cornered and
arabesque, and when Mrs. Hartlett had finished
singing she crowned her with it.
It wasn’t particularly becoming, but when
I said so Ethel said I was horrid.
Just after the singing I saw Minerva
whisper something to James, and the two
went off. At the time I supposed that she
had gotten tired of standing around among
white folks, with nothing to do, and in a
measure I had guessed right, but I was not
prepared for what followed.
The windows of Mrs. Hartlett’s parlour
were open; it had been her intention to hold
her reception in the house until she saw that
.bn 392.png
.pn +1
it would be impossible with such an out-pouring
of neighbours and friends.
Suddenly from out the open windows came
the sound of melodious voices—negro voices
singing one of the most plaintive of the
darkey melodies: “Steal Away to Jesus.”
Our proposed concert at Egerton had fallen
through, owing to various reasons. We
had made it all right with Deacon Fotherby
by sending him the goodly amount of a collection
taken up one evening among the
Clover Lodgers.
But when I heard the music and recognized
that there were four voices concerned
in it I realized that the concert had merely
been changed in point of time and place and
that we were now listening to it, and that it
was one of Minerva’s sudden inspirations.
She had come to Mrs. Hartlett’s with no gift
and the generous-hearted girl had proposed
that she and James and the others give the
only thing in their power to give.
The effect was strangely beautiful. The
voices were softened just a little; they were
in perfect accord and the four sang with the
.bn 393.png
.pn +1
sincerity of feeling that negroes always throw
into their songs, whether grave or gay.
“It’s Minerva’s present to you, dear,”
said Cherry, leaning over and patting Mrs.
Hartlett’s hand.
“Niggers can sing, annyway,” was Pat’s
Irish comment.
I think everyone present felt that he or
she had some part in the concert. It was
what they all would have done if they had
been able, and as we listened to song after
song, some “spirituals,” some full of laughter,
and saw the rapt expression on the face
of Mrs. Hartlett, we felt that the “century”
was being crowned felicitously through the
happy idea of an ignorant girl, whose heart
was in the right place.
The thing that made Minerva a joy forever
was that her heart was in the right
place.
Perhaps that is why James had found it
so easily.
.tb
When we went home at sunset from the
old lady’s house Cherry walked by her old-time
playmate, Billy, and it struck me that
.bn 394.png
.pn +1
he might be thinking of becoming a rival to
Sibthorp and Hepburn.
“It’s cruel in Cherry to let that young man
walk with her,” said I to Ethel.
“Oh, I don’t believe that he has ever
thought of Cherry except as an old friend,”
said she.
“Well, if Cherry lets him walk with her
much he will begin to think Cherry is catching.”
“But she’s already caught,” said Ethel.
And we could hear Hepburn at that very
moment singing a little thing that Cherry
was very fond of playing.
.bn 395.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch32
CHAPTER XXXII||WE GO TO THE FAIR.
.sp 2
.dc 0.4 0.675
“HOW are we going over to the fair at
Oakham?” asked Cherry, the
evening before that event.
“I’ve provided for it,” said I.
“Not th’ ould scut?” said Ethel.
“Hardly. Let’s see, there are ten of us.”
“Twelve,” said Ethel, “or thirteen.”
“No, ten.”
“Twelve. Minerva and James are going
and we’re to have lunch over there.”
“Five buggies, two in each,” said Sibthorp
as unconsciously as he could.
“Fine,” said Hepburn and Billy in the
same breath, and Cherry blushed rose red.
“Couldn’t get buggies, but I think you’ll
all be pleased at the conveyance,” said I.
“It’ll be quite a ride. Three hours there
and three hours back.”
.bn 396.png
.pn +1
“Goodness,” said Cherry; “I thought it
was only about seven miles away.”
“It might be 200 miles away if we took a
special,” said Sibthorp suggestively.
“And only a few rods if we took snails,”
said Tom and laughed uproariously.
“It’s something between snails and specials,”
said I, but further than that I was
sphynxlike.
Next morning was a crisp, smoke scented
October morning, the air full of the snap of
early fall, the landscape hinting at coming
crimsons and yellows, the sky a clear blue,
guiltless of clouds.
We rose early and while we were at breakfast
we heard the lowing of cattle.
“Whose cow’s loose this morning?” asked
Tom.
“That’s the voice of our steeds, if I’m not
mistaken. Get your wraps and traps and
come.”
Scowls of surprise were bent on me by all.
“Behold the chariot of Apollo and the
horses thereof,” said I, and led the way to the
front door, whither I was followed by all.
In front of the house stood a comfortable-looking
.bn 397.png
.pn +1
hay wagon carpeted with straw and
hitched to it were twelve oxen.
They were of all sorts and sizes, from a
pair of huge white blanketed ones to two little
black Holstein leaders; they were mottled,
brown, mahogany and fawn color and the
black Holsteins had gold leafed horns in
honor of the occasion. At the side of this
“string” stood Sam Goodman and his son.
“Are we going in that?”
“That we are going in,” said I proudly.
“If we have luck we’ll get there inside of
three hours. How far is it, Mr. Goodman?”
“Between six an’ seven miles. What
d’yer think of the string? Prize winners?”
“They ought to be.”
“What does he do with so many cows?”
said Cherry.
“Where—where did you come from, baby
dear?” said Tom. “Those are called oxen
in this part of the country. Not all yours
are they?” turning to Sam.
“No, sir. Mine are the white blankets.
But all Egerton cattle and we’ve taken fust
prize for four years hand runnin’! Whoapp,
.bn 398.png
.pn +1
Jerry! Whenever you’re ready I’m ready,
Mr. Vernon.”
Which was local for “Please hurry up,”
so I told our party to get aboard as soon as
possible and we would start for the cattle
show.
There is no better way of enjoying scenery
than to go out riding behind a team of cattle.
One has all the slowness obtainable by
walking and yet one is riding, and can give
his full attention to the beauties of either
side of the road. To those who are not in
too great a hurry I commend this form of
locomotion!
At last we were ready, and after we were
all seated James helped the giggling Minerva
to a seat in the back. She and James were
the only ones who had real seats. The rest
of us sat in the straw.
“G’long!” shouted Mr. Goodman, and the
oxen started.
“Isn’t this fun?” said Cherry, wriggling
her shoulders with delight.
“Fine, and after three hours of it walking
will be even more fun,” said Tom.
“Oh, I’ve forgotten the lunch,” said Ethel.
.bn 399.png
.pn +1
“Now, look here,” said Tom, “we mustn’t
stop this procession. Give me the key, Philip,
and I’ll go back after the lunch and—”
“Whoa,” shouted Mr. Goodman.
“Don’t stop,” cried Tom. “I’ve only got
to go back to the house. I’ll catch up. Keep
’em going.”
“Whoohaw, gee a little,” shouted Goodman,
snapping his long whip and the oxen
kept up their sleepy pace, while Tom ran
back to the house to get the lunch.
“Isn’t this lovely?” said Cherry.
“Whenever we get tired of riding we can
walk on ahead and wait for the team to catch
up. Why haven’t we ever done this before?”
“Because it would be something of a task
to get six pair of cattle on any day except
fair day,” I explained. “And, by the way,
this costs us nothing. Goodman is honoured
at having us come. Said so—in other words.
Was insulted when I spoke of payment.”
“I’m learning something new about the
country people all the time,” said Cherry.
“Goodman sells cheeses. He doesn’t rent
cattle. If we had wanted a cheese it would
.bn 400.png
.pn +1
have cost us market prices, but a ride after
the Egerton string honours him and Egerton.
That’s the Yankee of it.”
“Isn’t it glorious? Where is Mr. Warden?
He’ll surely get left.”
Just then an automobile going to the fair
came up behind us and passed us tooting the
loudest horn I ever heard.
The cattle were not broken to automobiles
and the leaders started to run, their example
was followed all along the line, and in a minute
(and to the secret gratification of Goodman,
who had not liked Tom’s cavalier way
of going back as if we were stationary) the
six pair of cattle were running away.
The wagon bumped and pitched and we
were pitched and bumped amid shrieks from
Minerva and laughter from the rest.
“Whoo! Whoo, I say! Gee—haw!
Whoo! WHOA! WHOA-UP!”
We had reached the brow of a little hill, at
the base of which a pretty brook meanders
across the road, and the frightened animals
plunged down the hill regardless of their
reputation for slowness.
As we left the brow of the hill we saw at
.bn 401.png
.pn +1
the house Tom waving the lunch basket and
calling to us to stop. He thought it was a
trick, but we knew it wasn’t.
We beckoned him to come and then we
gripped the sides of the wagon and wondered
just how it would end.
At the side of the bridge the road led into
a by path to the water and the wise Goodman,
fearing that we would not keep the
bridge at the rate we were going gee-ed them
into the by path.
Whether the water had a cooling effect on
them or what was the reason, I cannot say,
but just as the wagon was in mid stream the
forward oxen stopped, their example was
passed down the line as it is on a freight
train, and the series of jolts was finally communicated
to the wagon and James and Minerva
turned back summersaults into the
water.
We all choked with laughter when they
emerged, dripping.
“Don’t like cow ridin’,” said Minerva,
shaking mud and water from her hat.
They were not hurt and by the advice of
Ethel, Minerva went back to the house to get
.bn 402.png
.pn +1
dry clothing. James waited to show her a
short cut across the fields, so that we need
not wait, and Tom came up with the lunch
basket just as the cavalcade started again.
“Sorry I didn’t bring a wheel along,” said
Tom. “If we find we’ve forgotten anything
else it’ll be hard catching up. There’s quite
some go in those beasts.”
“Them pesky devil wagons,” said Goodman.
“I wish there was a law agin’ them.”
It is not my intention to tell of all the
things that happened on the way. The oxen
got accustomed to automobiles long before
we reached Oakham and our progress became
slower and slower as we had to take to
the side of the road to let pass us the constantly
thickening stream of vehicles of all
kinds from every part of the county bound
for the fair. Arrived at the grounds, wherever
pretty Cherry went the boys were sure
to go, while we elders went off by ourselves.
Ethel and I had hardly had a minute together
since our guests had begun coming,
but Ethel seemed to have thrived on the extra
work and the added excitement. Of course
it was the unlimited fresh air that had made
.bn 403.png
.pn +1
it possible. We looked back on a very happy
summer and were glad that everything had
happened as it had.
“I wonder if Cherry has made up her
mind yet,” said Ethel, while we were watching
the efforts of a man to hit a darkey’s
head with a base ball.
“She’ll have to make it up quickly unless
she wants Hepburn and Sibthorp to possess
their souls in patience during the fall.”
“And whichever of the two she takes there
will be two disappointed men.”
“What, Billy?”
“Yes, I think, after all, he is hard hit.”
“And she treats him with amusing indifference.
There they all go to have their tin-types
takes. What children they are!”
It may have been a half hour later that
Ethel and I were watching the energetic
seller of whips.
Starting with one whip, which he offered
for a dollar, and getting no takers at that
price (for most of them had seen his operations
before) he would offer two and then
three and then four and at last half a dozen
whips for the same dollar.
.bn 404.png
.pn +1
“An’ I’ll throw in this raw-hide just to
make the game excitin’. Here, by George,
I’m ashamed of myself to be such a poor
business man as to give away fifteen dollars’
worth of whips for the price of one decent
one, but I’m bound to make a sale if I give
you my whole stock for a dollar. He-ere
we have a bobby dasher of a whip to tickle
the flies to death in the pantry. I’ll chuck
that in just for devilment and I hope you
won’t tell none of your folks what a fool I
be. That’s eight whips for one ordinary
every day dollar. Why it’s a crime to take
advantage of me in this way and git so much
for so little.
“Thank you, sir, for relievin’ me of an
embarrassin’ situation.”
This to a long-bearded man who handed up
a dollar and got the eight whips, one of which
would have cost a dollar in any harness store.
But that is not the same as saying that it
would have been worth a dollar.
“Now, here we are again. Here’s a whip
for one dollar.”
Naturally the zest of the transaction had
departed with the long-bearded farmer and
.bn 405.png
.pn +1
most of the crowd went away. But new
ones came up and minute by minute the whip
man added whip after whip and soon the
crowd was as dense as before and he strenuously
showed the swishing qualities of each
whip, fanning the air with vigor and filling
that part of the fair grounds with his syren
voice and his picturesque language.
“Oh, you’re here, are you,” said a voice
at my side, and turning I saw Sibthorp.
“Hello, where’s Cherry?” said I.
“I wanted to speak to you. Let’s get
away from that clatter.”
I believe that Ethel must have divined
what he wanted to say, for she said,
“Take me over to the wagon. I want to
see about getting lunch ready.”
We took her over to the wagon and on our
way there corralled James and Minerva.
Ethel had brought an oil stove for the making
of coffee and the three began operations
at once, while Sibthorp and I walked off to
that part of the fair where the cattle tests
were to be made later in the day.
I could see that whatever it was that Sibthorp
wanted to say he was not going to find
.bn 406.png
.pn +1
it easy to say it, for he made five or six
false and utterly inconsequent starts and
seemed ill at ease.
“Say, Ellery, you didn’t get me off here
to tell me that you never saw such long horns
on an ox. What do you care about oxen?”
“No, that’s so—er—say, Phil, the fact is,
I believe that I am—that I think a good
deal—”
“That you are in love with Cherry?”
“Why, how did you know it?” said Ellery,
with a sigh of relief.
“Oh, when you’ve been through the mill
yourself you’re always able to tell the symptoms.
Now what can I do for you? Do you
want me to propose?”
“No, no-o, but I want to know whether
you think I’d stand any sort of show.”
“Why, my dear boy,” said I. “Aren’t
you as good as anybody else on earth? Have
you totally misconceived Emerson’s message?
Go in and win. Cherry’s a good girl—as
good as anybody in the world. You’re
a good chap—good as anybody on earth.
Tell her your life story, and then come to me
for my congratulations.”
.bn 407.png
.pn +1
“Well, but do you think I stand any
show?”
“You’re the best judge of that, old man.
She’s been very kind to you. I’d feel encouraged
if I were you. But do it to-day,
and do it soon. There are several Richmonds
in the field.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Jack and the rest.”
“Jack, nothing. The only man you have
need to fear is that genial millionaire, Hepburn.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of him. Cherry
doesn’t believe in marrying for money.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, we talked it over academically, you
know.”
“Well, sometimes a woman forgets to be
academic when it comes to the test. I think
you’d better engage her in talk, old man, and
do it to-day. Remember we all go down to-morrow.”
“Thanks, awfully, old man. You’ve
heartened me up considerably.”
We had walked as we talked over to the
wheel of fortune, and just as we arrived
.bn 408.png
.pn +1
there a young man was so remarkably lucky
as to win a hundred dollars. He was a very
lucky young man, because earlier in the day
I had passed by there with Ethel and had
stopped a minute and he had then won fifty
dollars. I like to see such happiness as was
his. I have never seen it anywhere else, but
on the stage. He put the money in his pocket
and started away from the wheel and the gentleman
who was running the wheel asked him
in honey tones if he wouldn’t stay and try
his luck again.
“No, sir,” said the upright young man.
“I never did anything of this kind before to-day,
and I’m going to stop now.”
“I wish I had your strength of character,”
said the owner of the wheel, who seemed to
be a very straightforward sort of person,
even if he was limited in his phraseology. I
recalled that he had said exactly the same
words to the same young man when he had
won the fifty dollars in the morning, and had
signified his intention of stopping for good.
“Hello, there’s Cherry, now,” said Sibthorp,
and looking up I saw her going by in
company with Tom and his wife. Sibthorp
.bn 409.png
.pn +1
joined the trio and he and Cherry fell behind
and a minute later I saw them stop at the
gate of the merry-go-round. For, of course,
a modern country fair would not be the real
thing if it did not have one of the gaudily
grotesque nerve rackers.
Wishing the boy luck, I wandered off alone
and soon fell in with Hepburn.
“Hello, Mr. Vernon,” said he. “Have
you seen anything of Miss Paxton?”
“Yes, she and Sibthorp went off together
not a minute ago.”
“Oh, that’s all right then. I was afraid
she had gone off with Billy.”
The young men had one evening drunk
“Bruderschaft” and all called each other
by their first names.
“Why are you afraid of Billy?” said I.
Hepburn colored, an unusual thing for him
to do, as he generally had easy command of
himself. He looked me straight in the eye
and then he said,
“I’m hard hit, governor.”
“Does you credit,” said I.
“Yeah,” said he, pulling at his under lip.
“But you know it’s deuced hard for a fellow
.bn 410.png
.pn +1
like me to say anything. All that cursed
money of mine, you know. I’ve never been
taken for what I am myself until I came up
here, and when it comes to telling Miss Paxton
how things stand with me, don’t you
know—why, I wouldn’t blame her if she refused
me, even if she loved me, because a
girl like that doesn’t like to be thought—doesn’t
like to be thought to be influenced
by the money a fellow has.”
“Well, she wouldn’t be.”
“No, that isn’t the point. She wouldn’t
be, but she might be afraid that the world
would think she was.”
We were walking back and forth along the
“Midway,” and we had now come to the
wheel of fortune and subconsciously I felt
impelled to stop and look in at the operations
which had just started up with the placing of
a dollar by a raw-boned fellow fresh from
the plough.
“You mean to say,” said I, “that if you
were in the position of Sibthorp, for instance,
that you would feel you had a good chance
of winning her?”
“I don’t think Sibthorp has any chance
.bn 411.png
.pn +1
with her. I mean that if I was ordinarily
well off I would go in and ask her, and I
think she’d have me. I’d tell you what I
wouldn’t say to any one else up here, for I
think you understand those things. I’m not
conceited but—well, a fellow knows.”
“Lost it, young man,” said the man at the
wheel, “but next time you may have better
luck. You want to try?”
“Why, I believe I will.”
Interested as I was in Hepburn’s revelations
of soul, I looked up and saw the young
man who had been so lucky twice before.
He had plainly forgotten that he had ever
seen the wheel—so treacherous are some
memories—and pulling out of his pocket a
dollar bill and a cent—all he had, evidently—he
placed the dollar on “25,” which with
great ingenuousness he said was his age,
and the wheel spun round.
“I’m afraid you’re going to lose it, young
man,” said the gamester. “It’s a hundred
dollars if it stops at your figure. She comes
nearer, she passes, she comes round again—she
goes slower—she pas—no, she touches
it. I congratulate you, young man. I lose,
.bn 412.png
.pn +1
but you gain and I like to see a man win
when he’s young and out for fun.”
“By George,” said the young man, ecstatically
happy. “I never played one of the
blamed things before. A hundred dollars?”
“Yes, a hundred dollars. Suppose you
try it again.”
A dense crowd was now around the wheel
and all eyes were fixed on the poor young
man, who had so suddenly won a pocket of
money—and that for the third time that day—although
I was the only one who remembered
that fact.
His hand sought his pocket—and then he
remembered that a dollar and a cent had
been all he had had—there—and he shook
his head and said,
“No, sir. I’ve struck ile and I’m go’n’ to
quit.”
“By George, I like your strength of character.
Who else will take the young man’s
chance? Only a dollar a try.”
The dollars rained down. The wheel went
round and a score of anxious eyes blazed at
the board. But every man lost his dollar
and the young man who had been so strangely
.bn 413.png
.pn +1
lucky and so curiously forgetful of his former
luck, walked away, followed by Hepburn,
who had been in a brown study, and me.
“There’s only one man seems to win in
those games of chance,” said I.
“Some men are born lucky,” said Hepburn,
and straightened unconsciously as he
said it.
.bn 414.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch33
CHAPTER XXXIII||CHERRY DISPOSES.
.sp 2
.dc 0.25 0.675
WE had had a merry lunch, we had
watched the tests of the draught cattle,
we had all drunk pink lemonade
and survived, and now, by unanimous vote,
we had decided to stay and have our dinner
in the “Mammoth Restaurant,” and go home
by the light of the golden hunter’s moon.
The wheel of fortune had been dismantled
and the man who ran it and the man who had
been so lucky had gone off together. They
seemed to have struck up a friendship, and I
am told that it not unfrequently happens
that lucky men and professional gamblers
make the rounds of the various county fairs
and the luck of both continues until the end
of the season.
Sibthorp was not the life of the party at
lunch, but Hepburn was in high spirits.
I judged that Sibthorp had been tried and
.bn 415.png
.pn +1
found wanting and that Hepburn had been
accounted worthy. Jack and Billy were
their usual irresponsible selves and Tom
bubbled over with a merriment that was at
times elephantine but always genuine.
After lunch Sibthorp came to me and we
strolled away naturally and easily. I put on
my best father confessor air and waited for
him to unbosom himself.
“It’s all over,” said he.
“What? You’ve asked her?”
“Yes.”
He looked so dejected that I grasped his
hand.
“Maybe a cattle show was a poor place,”
said I.
“I chose a poorer,” said he, “I asked her
in the merry-go-round.”
“Wha-at?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to be romantic. It
has often struck me that many a girl says yes
because it is moonlight, or the lane is shady,
or the breeze is balmy. You see I look at it
from the point of view of a writer—and I
thought I’d strip it of all glamour after I’d
made up my mind—thanks to you—that I
.bn 416.png
.pn +1
had a chance, and so when she said she’d like
to ride around on the elephant I was fool
enough to sit alongside of her on a blame
little donkey and there wasn’t anybody within
ear shot as the next thing behind was a
wagon and they’re not popular. And just
before the thing started I—well I asked her,
and she burst out laughing and then she got
mad and then the old thing started and we
had to ride till it stopped, and then she asked
me to take her away because she felt dizzy
and I took her away and we ran plump into
Hepburn and he asked her to go and see a
man selling whips, and I went down the road
a mile and wished I’d never been born. I
think she felt insulted.”
I looked the other way.
“Why don’t you try again?”
“Thank you. I know when I’ve had
enough.”
He left me and I went behind a large oak
and sat on the grass and laughed until I cried.
The idea of a sensible man sitting on a wooden
donkey and asking a pretty girl on a
wooden elephant if she would care to ride the
merry-go-round of life with him.
.bn 417.png
.pn +1
“I’m afraid that Ellery is artificial,” said
Ethel when I told her.
“But Hepburn is the real thing,” said I.
It was in the middle of the afternoon that
Ethel and I were sitting together in a little
pine grove. I had been telling her the events
of the morning and now we were resting on
the grass and watching the farmer folk.
Oakham fair day is the great day for exchanging
“visits.” Two elderly men met.
“Well, how are you doin’ it!”
“Oh, the way I always do. You’re lookin’
abaout the same. Leetle more gray but I
guess you’re able to do the chores?”
“Oh, yes, ain’t had to call in Maria to do
that yet. You seem to be stavin off death.”
“Fooled him so fur. Git me in the end
though. That your daughter?”
“No, that’s my grandchild.”
“Well, well. Looks like your daughter
Libby.”
“Libby’s daughter.”
“By Godfrey, time has a way of gittin’
along. Beats these automobiles.”
“Doos so. Well, glad I seen yer. Oakham
Fair’s gre’t day to see folks. Most interestin’
.bn 418.png
.pn +1
exhibit. I say folks is the most interestin’
exhibit.”
“Ye-es, yes. Be’n comin’ here thirty-five
years. Ever sence the fust fair.”
“Me too. Bet ye a cooky you won’t do it
no thirty-five years more. Not ’nless the
good Lord fergits to git ye.”
“Ha, ha, ha. Well, good bye, Silas.
’Member me to the folks.”
“I will so. Like’s not you’ll find ’em
’raound here sum’er’s. Be good.”
“Same to you y’old rascal.”
The two men shook hands and passed on
and then we heard the end of a conversation
on the other side of the tree—a conversation
that was being carried on while two walked
together.
“No, Mr. Edson, a woman always feels
honoured and I hope we may always be
friends.”
Ethel looked at me and her lips parted. It
was Cherry’s voice. We waited to hear
Hepburn speak but he did not do so.
The steps died away and Ethel rose to her
feet and looked down the pathway.
Cherry was walking toward the edge of the
.bn 419.png
.pn +1
pine woods and by her side walked a young
man in whom the animation of youth seemed
to be temporarily arrested.
He had not spoken a word in our hearing
but we knew from the shape of his back that
it was Jack.
“Three proposals in one day,” said Ethel
in awed tones.
“Well, she’s worth it,” said I, and was a
little astonished that Ethel did not second
my assertion.
“Isn’t that Pat Casey walking with a
priest?” asked Ethel suddenly.
“Yes, that’s Father Hogan and Rev. Mr.
Hughson told me he was one of the greatest
influences for good in Egerton.”
“I wonder if he will stop Pat from using
profanity.”
“Maybe he won’t try to.”
Just then Pat left the priest, touching his
cap as he did so, and a moment later he saw
us and hurried over with the light little step
peculiar to him, lifting his shocking bad hat
as he came.
“Hello, Pat,” said I. “So you are considered
.bn 420.png
.pn +1
a good enough man to walk with Father Hogan?”
His eyes twinkled.
“Sure it’s honoured I am by walkin’ wid
him. He’s a hell of a fine man. I was just
tellin’ him so. Didn’t he walk a mile out of
his way yisterday to tell me he seen me ould
cow I lost, roamin’ toward Maltby. First he
told them to pen it up, an’ thin he come an’
told me. He’s dam sure of Heaven, that
man is! No airs on him at all an’ him a
friend of Archbishop Ireland.”
“Well, Pat, how’s the ould scut. Did you
enter her for the race?”
“Sure I did not. She got at the oats last
night an’ was feelin’ so fine this marnin’ that
I knew’t’d be a sure t’hing if I entered her.”
He winked his eye at Ethel and then he
said:
“An’ how’s the cherry blossom?”
“Pat, you’re a poet. She’s still on the
branch.”
“Egorry, it’s the lucky man that picks her.
A fine gerrul. None better in Ireland an’
that’s sayin’ arl there is to be said. I suppose
.bn 421.png
.pn +1
ye’ll be go’n’ down one of those fine
days now.”
“Yes, we expect to go to-morrow.”
“Is it so soon an’ the glory of the year so
nair. Sure it’s sorry I’ll be to see the lights
arl gone when I’m passin’ by in the avenin’.”
He took off his hat and extended a very
dirty hand to Ethel.
She took it bravely and he said,
“If y’ave need of th’ould scut come an’
take her an’ welkim. An’ come up next yair.
Give me regards to the young leddy. I’d a
darter just like her wance.”
We smiled involuntarily as we contrasted
Cherry and Pat.
“I’d a darter just like her, but she got consumpted
an’ she’s wid the saints. She was a
hell of a good gerrul.”
His eyes moistened and I understood for
the first time what had made him the good-hearted
man he was.
With a wave of his hand he walked lightly
away.
“And yet some people don’t like the
Irish,” said Ethel.
We all attended the races but they did not
.bn 422.png
.pn +1
merit a description. They were almost as
tame as a hippodrome race at a circus, and
I verily believe that th’ould scut would have
stood some show of winning had Pat entered
him.
Cherry sat next to Ethel on the grandstand
and to me she looked distraught. She
had little to say and I, with my usual habit
of adding two to two, made up my mind that
she had accepted Hepburn and was now sorry
that she had done so. I could not account for
her lack of animation in any other way.
I suggested my thoughts to Ethel but she
said they were nonsensical; that Cherry was
very sorry to have to leave the place; that
she had become attached to Clover Lodge
and that she hated the thought of going up to
her aunt at Bar Harbor.
She recovered her spirits in the “Mammoth
Restaurant.” The long tables were
so unlike anything to which she had been
accustomed that the very novelty pleased
her, and as we were all together at one
end we were able to do and say pretty much
what we wanted and we were a gay crowd.
We had met pretty nearly everybody we
.bn 423.png
.pn +1
had ever seen in the Egertons, and we had
bid good bye to old Mrs. Hartlett just before
the races began.
She having a mind to try a new sensation
and one that would have been impossible in
her childhood, had come over with her physician
in his electric run-about and it was
something of a shock to see the dainty little
old lady accustomed to move slowly and with
dignity perched up in one of the fastest
things on wheels, but it was just such open-mindedness
that had enabled her to remain
young for one hundred years and we bade
her good bye quite sure that she at least
would be in Egerton another summer whoever
else might drop by the way.
Minerva was in her element all day long.
A crowd was a crowd after all even if it was
composed of country people, and she kept
herself and James in the thick of it.
Once we saw her treating six strange little
darkey boys and girls to pink lemonade and
once I saw her by a happy fluke throw a left-handed
ball at the colored man who was
soliciting tries at his hard head and she hit
.bn 424.png
.pn +1
him fair and square and then hit the crowd
by her hearty, carefree laughter.
There was one little incident connected
with Minerva’s day at the fair that might
have been serious if Minerva’s star had not
been in the ascendant when she herself was.
A balloon ascension had been advertised
for the afternoon and Ethel had wanted to
go over and see it, but I told her that the filling
of balloons by gas was always a slow
process and that we’d see it when it went up.
Now, James was more gallant, and when
Minerva asked him to take her to see the balloon
go up he took her to the very spot.
It so happened that when the balloon was
filled and they were ready to cast off the guy
ropes and go up to the extent of the long rope
Minerva took it into her sportive head to
catch hold of the rope and the next minute
the balloon went up with the stout Minerva
dangling beneath.
Three things went up—no, four. The balloon,
Minerva, a shriek, and a shout—the latter
from the crowd.
Ethel and I had been in the main tent looking
.bn 425.png
.pn +1
at the horticultural display, but at the
familiar shriek we ran out.
They had stopped the ascent of the balloon
but they flew Minerva full a hundred feet
above the crowd, one foot around the rope,
the other frantically kicking.
It was not an adventure that could have
happened to anyone but Minerva or if it had
happened to any other person he would have
fallen to earth and cast a gloom over the fair.
But somehow the crowd seemed to realize
that it was a time for mirth and that the girl
would come down all right and they howled
advice at her. Some told her to climb into
the car, a physical impossibility for her, while
others asked her to do tricks, supposing that
she was an acrobat in disguise. In fact I
think it was the general opinion that she was
an acrobat.
Poor Minerva an acrobat. Far from it.
“Oh, James, come an’ git me. I’ll die up
here. Oh, Lawdy, why’d I come up?”
Minerva was unconsciously quoting her
own utterance of a few weeks before. Why
had she come up, indeed. Was it to end her
days in the clouds?
.bn 426.png
.pn +1
Much can happen in a little space of time
and although there was a good deal of give
and take on the part of Minerva and the
crowd I don’t suppose she was up in the air
many seconds. We can afford to laugh at it
now but at the time, aside from its ludicrous
aspect there was a terrifying side to it. Minerva
was not built to fly to mother earth
from such a height and survive.
But although she was frightened half to
death she did not lose her grip, and her foot
around the rope lessened the strain on her
hands and James and several others sprang
to the rope and began to haul her down as
soon as they could.
When she felt her feet touch earth she fell
on her face in a dead faint and then the
crowd learned for the first time that she was
not an attraction of the fair.
A dash of lemonade—the nearest approach
to water handy—brought her to her senses,
but her feelings were hurt and she would not
listen to James’s apologies (although what he
found to apologise for I don’t know, seeing
he had not been to blame; but he was very
gallant)—she would not listen to his apologies
.bn 427.png
.pn +1
but flounced off to a place far from the
madding crowd just as Miss Pussy had retired
after the humiliation of her upward
trip and for the space of full five minutes
Minerva refused to be comforted.
But peanuts have a mollifying effect on
some dispositions and James bought a bulging
bag and presented them to the amateur
ascenseur and all went merry as a marriage
bell from that time on.
.tb
It was moonlight when the slow-moving
oxen, decorated with their prize-ribbons (for
they had won first prize) took up the homeward
march.
We had a free road in a very short time
for everything else passed us, and we sang
songs and yodled and tried to forget that to-morrow
would end all the happy days.
Coming to a steep hill we all got out, although
Mr. Goodman said there was no need.
But sitting Turk fashion is easier for Turks
than for Americans, and we felt the need of
limbering up.
The ascent was flanked on either side by
luxuriant maples that made a tunnel through
.bn 428.png
.pn +1
which flecks of moonlight dappled the road.
When we had gone half way up the moon
seemed perched on the apex of the hill, golden
and radiant, and while Ethel and I looked
two figures walked into the shining circle—two
figures that were very loverlike.
It was impossible to miss the significance.
Cherry and Hepburn.
Their heads were facing each other and
they were two black silhouettes representing
happiness.
I looked at poor Sibthorp who was walking
just ahead of us. He, too, had seen the silhouette
as it was outlined for one brief moment
against the golden background, and I
knew that his thoughts were not happy. I
knew that Jack and Billy were somewhere
behind us and a minute later Tom and his
wife took the place of the lovers, but there
was room for an ox team between them.
And yet Tom and his wife are happy. But
after twenty years silhouettes against the
moon are not loverlike, however loverlike
may be the hearts that are beating ten feet
apart.
That night, after all had retired, Ethel
.bn 429.png
.pn +1
stood before the glass taking out her hair-pins
and she addressed my figure in the
mirror.
“What do you suppose?” said she in a low voice.
“I suppose I’m tired,” said I yawning.
“Cherry is engaged.”
“Tell me something new,” said I. “Where
are they going to live.”
“In his studio—”
“What,” I almost shouted. “Is it Jack
after all.”
“No, goosie,” said she fondly. “It is
Billy.”
“And the moon?—”
“That was Billy and not Hepburn. I was
fooled too.”
“But Billy hasn’t a cent.”
“No, but she has faith in his future, and
she says she has never loved any one else
since she first knew him, years ago.”
“Ethel Vernon,” said I. “As a character
reader I am not a success. I would have
sworn that it lay between Hepburn and Sibthorp.”
“You must remember that Cherry is not a
.bn 430.png
.pn +1
character in one of your stories but a real
girl,” said Ethel.
“Well, I wish her joy of her long wait.”
“It won’t be as long a wait as it would be
if she had rejected him,” was Ethel’s Hibernian
response.
.bn 431.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch34
CHAPTER XXXIV||MINERVA SETTLES IT.
.sp 2
.dc 0.4 0.675
AT almost the last moment we all postponed
our going down for a day as
there were so many last things to do
in the way of leaving the place winter-proof.
And it was well for us that we waited, for
the very last mail altered the complexion of
things considerably. It contained a letter
from the Wheelocks telling us that instead of
coming home they had decided to stay in
Rome for another year.
“I thought I’d write to say,” it ran, “that
if you want to rent the house again next summer
we’ll be glad to have you do so. Let
me know if any repairs are needed.”
I sought out our guests and told them the
good news.
“We can have the place next summer and
we invite you all to come up again and be
with us, or build bungalows, if you want.”
.bn 432.png
.pn +1
Cherry blushed furiously. “We might form
an artist colony.”
“Suits me down to the ground,” said
Billy.
Hepburn said nothing. Neither did Sibthorp,
but Tom and his wife said that they
had been thinking seriously of building a little
cottage, and now that we were sure to
come back he would surely do it.
“I must go and tell Minerva,” said Ethel.
“Do you know she is positively blue this
morning at the thought of going back.
She’ll be glad to know we are coming up
next year.”
She went to the kitchen and through the
door which she left open we heard what followed.
“Minerva, I have some good news to tell
you.”
“Yas’m.”
“The Wheelocks are not coming back for
a year and we’ll take the house again next
summer, so you can come up with us and
see more of your friends up here.”
Minerva laughed a joyous laugh, and
James, who had been nailing fast the kitchen
.bn 433.png
.pn +1
windows, added volume to her laugh in a
cachinnation that was brimming over with
optimism.
“Mrs. Vernon,” said he, dropping his hammer
on the floor. “Minervy wanted me to
tell you something that she thought might
disappoint you.” He laughed again, this
time in a conscious way. “Fact is,” said he,
“Minervy an’ me has come to an understandin’,
an’, an’—an’—we’re go’n’ to git married.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” said Ethel,
quickly, “and I don’t mind saying that I’ve
been hoping for it. Mr. Vernon is quite sure
he can get something for you to do in the
city.”
“Nothin’ in the city would just suit me,
ma’am,” said he, “I wasn’ cut out for the
city. I once passed a couple of days in
New York and it was all I wanted. Too
noisy.”
“Oh, you’d git used to that,” said Minerva.
“My-oh-my, that’s what I like about the
city. Ef ’twas noisier here I’d like it a heap
better.”
“Can’t you postpone your marriage till
.bn 434.png
.pn +1
next summer, James? We can’t get along
without Minerva, and we’re coming back here
next summer and you could get married then
and we’d employ you and probably run a
kitchen garden for you to attend to. You
see there’ll be a number coming up next summer.”
“I dare say I could do that all right next
summer but I got a job at the Boardman’s
tendin’ to their green house for the winter,
an’ Minerva an’ me’s go’n’ to git married
just as soon as you leave. She ain’t go’n’
down at all.”
Ethel saw it was no use to plead; that
Minerva and James were so selfish that they
had rather marry and stay up than postpone
their marriage the best part of a year in
order to enable her to keep a good cook. She
left the kitchen and came to me with the news
which I had already heard, as I told her.
The rest of the party condoled with her.
“Isn’t it disheartening,” said she, sinking
into a big arm chair disconsolately.
A brilliant thought struck me as I looked
at my wife.
“I have a solution of the whole business.”
.bn 435.png
.pn +1
I stepped to the door. “James, stop that
hammering a minute.”
James, who had resumed his task of nailing
fast the sashes, stopped.
I returned again to Ethel.
“I think that I can work on that novel that
Scribman wants just as well here as in the
city. What do you say to our staying up
here all winter so as to keep Minerva?”
“Oh, you treasure of an idea-haver,” said
Ethel, rushing at me and kissing me right before
everybody.
“But would James let her work?” said
Cherry.
“That remains to be seen,” said I.
“Let’s see it now.”
We all trooped out into the kitchen, Mr.
and Mrs. Tom, the Benedicts, Jack and Billy,
Sibthorp and Hepburn and Cherry by herself.
She had avoided Billy all the morning
but as he had told me the news I knew it was
all right with them.
As we entered the kitchen James was walking
toward the north window and Minerva
was walking toward the south. Both of them
were looking very unconcerned. If I had
.bn 436.png
.pn +1
been making a picture of it I should have
called it “After the Salute.”
“James,” said I, “I congratulate you on
the news that Mrs. Vernon has just brought
me, although we’ll hate to give Minerva up.
In fact we want to know whether if we decided
to stay here all winter you could not
attend to the Boardman green house and let
Minerva do our cooking? You could live
here, you know.”
James’ handsome face became occupied
with a smile of great dimensions.
“I reckon I could do that, all right, sir.
What do you say, Minervy?”
Minerva simpered. “I’d like nothin’ better
than to work for you all winter up here.
I was thinkin’ it would be awful lonesome after
you left.” James looked as if he thought
this only half a compliment but Ethel felt it
was a very sincere one.
“Oh, you dear good thing,” said my wife,
and I was reminded of the day that Minerva
promised to go up to the hated country.
“James,” said I, “there’ll be no need to
postpone your wedding day.”
Minerva giggled.
.bn 437.png
.pn +1
James looked me in the eye. Then he
picked up the hammer and going over to the
window he drew out the nails he had just
driven in. They would not be needed now
that we were going to stay.
“Mr. Vernon,” said he, “’member that
day we went to Springfiel’?”
Minerva giggled harder, sunk her head in
her shoulders, and put her hand before her
face.
“Yes, I remember,” said I, wondering
what was coming.
“Well, we got married that day.”
“Is that so, Minerva?” said Ethel.
“Yas’m,” said Minerva.
.sp 4
.if h
.il fn=i437.jpg w=600px
.if-
.if t
.nf c
[Illustration]
.nf-
.if-
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 2
\_ // this gets the sp 4 recognized.
.dv class=tnbox // TN box start
.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a\
predominant form was found in this book.
.it On page 7 of the printed book, spaced characters were used to emphasize the word\
“peaceful.” In the electronic versions, italics were used instead.
.if t
.it Text that was in italics is enclosed in underscores (_italics_).
.if-
.ul-
.ul-
.dv- // TN box end
|