Joe Baldwin was standing in front of his little shop. He was bareheaded and that meant that he was worried. For it was only in moments of mental distress that Joe laid aside the black cap that gave him the look of a dashing driver of the Twentieth Century Limited.
In the autumn dusk a chilly little wind played about the street corners and wailed softly through the thinning tree-tops. The big lamp above Joe's workbench was unlighted so the little shop was in darkness except for the fitful wavering of the ruddy wood fire in the big stove.
The streets were empty and quiet. It was an hour after supper and Green Valley was indoors sitting about its first fires and talking of the coming winter; remembering cold spells of other years; thanking its stars that the coal bin was full and wondering whether it hadn't better put on its heaviest underwear.
Joe knew just about what Green Valley was thinking and saying. From where he stood he could see what a part of Green Valley was doing. For this early in the evening Green Valley never pulled down its shades. So when the lights flared out in the Wendells' west front up-stairs window Joe saw Mrs. Wendell go to the clothes closet and bring out various newspaper parcels. Joe knew very well that those parcels contained furs.
Furs and ferns were Mildred Wendell's two passions. She had furs of all sizes and colors and weights, beginning with the little muff and tippet her favorite aunt had given her long ago when she was only five to the really beautiful and expensive set her son, Charlie, had given her for her last birthday. As for ferns, she had so many that Green Valley always went to her for its wedding and funeral decorations. And she was only too happy to lend her collection of feathery beauty.
From where he stood on his doorstep Joe could look down three streets and see Green Valley in its shirt sleeves and slippers and its gingham apron, so to speak. He could look over the white sash curtains right into Mert Hagley's kitchen for Mert lived behind his store. Joe saw Mary, Mert's wife, turning the pages of the evening paper and studying the advertisements. And he knew as well as he knew his own name that Mary was talking to Mert about a new heater, begging him to buy a nice new hard-coal heater instead of the second-hand hot blast stove he was thinking of buying from some man in Spring Road.
John Henderson had another one of his bad headaches for Joe saw him lying on the dining-room couch. His wife was applying cold-water bandages and tenderness to that bald pate of his when she knew better than any one that what he needed was a stiff dose of salts and castor oil and a little self-control on the nights she had ham and cabbage for supper.
Over in the Morrison cottage Grandma Whitby was knitting stockings for the little Morrisons at a furious rate and every once in a while sending one of the children out for more wood or a fresh pail of water or some more yarn. Joe could see the children sitting around the dining-room table with their books and games and arguing with each other every time the grandmother made a new request.
Grandma Whitby was a dictatorial old soul. She not only was eternally busy herself but she kept everybody around her forever on the jump. Mrs. Morrison was her only child and once in a moment of bitterness said that her eight children seemed like a houseful until they got to running errands for mother and that then she realized that eight wasn't anywhere near enough. And the Morrison's second boy, John William, once explained to Joe that he wore out his shoes, "running errands for Granny."
Alice Richards' baby was ailing again. Joe could see Allie walking the floor, could almost hear her comforting the restless mite in her arms.
Somebody came hurrying down the street and as they passed a street lamp Joe saw that it was Mrs. Downey, taking Tommy to the dentist. Doc Mitchell was a nice enough chap but as Joe watched Tommy's legs saw the air he thought the doctor might be a little mite gentler with the boy orator. But Doc was getting old and he was probably tired. These first autumn days before the snap and sparkle and snowy gleam of real winter sets in always told on the older folks. They sort of seemed tired and worried and sad.
So Joe stood there, looking at the purple and green and magenta-pink lights of Martin's drug store, the sleepily winking lights of the little station and the mellow golden glow of Sophie Forbes' yellow parlor lamp. Then he turned and looked straight down his own street, past the post-office, the tin shop, the dry-goods store to the spot where a faint light seeped through drawn curtains and faint rowdy noises came from behind closed doors.
It was what he guessed was behind those closed doors that had brought Joe out of his shop bareheaded and caused him to feel as Doc Mitchell maybe felt—a little old and sad and tired and even a bit helpless.
Usually on this first night of autumn Joe's shop was crowded with noisy feet and voices of all sizes that squeaked one minute in a shrill soprano and in the next sank to a ragged bass. Joe's shades were never drawn and all the world could see the boys playing Old Maid and Rummy, shooting caroms or sitting on the counter, swinging their feet, eating apples and cracking nuts for themselves and Joe who was questioning them about the day's happenings.
But to-night—involuntarily Joe turned and looked back into the soft darkness of his little shop where the firelight flickered softly, tenderly through the gloom. His heart cramped. Then he looked again to the place where heavy curtains were drawn over dirty windows. He caught again that muffled rough noise of young voices. And his mind was made up.
He stepped back into his shop, turned on all the lights, put the basket of ruddy apples on the counter, straightened the pile of old magazines and pulled out the carom board, the box of chess and checkers. He took a last housewifely look around, then put on his hat and coat and started out. There was pain and anger and a terrible determination in his usually gentle face.
But as he stepped to the door it opened, admitting Mrs. Jerry Dustin. That sweet-faced little woman looked about with anxious eyes, then turned to the little shoemaker.
"Joe—I'm looking for Peter. Wasn't he here with you? He said he was coming here to see the boys."
"He was here and he saw the boys. They all went off together."
"Joe"—fear and worry leaped to the lovely corn-flower eyes, "Joe—not—surely they didn't go—they aren't downthere?"
"That's just where they are. I was just going after them."
For still seconds this father and mother of boys looked at each other in misery. Both were thinking the same thing, both shrank from what was before them, but even as Joe squared his shoulders Mrs. Dustin straightened hers.
"I'm going with you, Joe."
So down the autumn street went these two. Joe, because he had promised Hattie when she was sick unto death that he would always watch over the boys, would love and cherish and guard them.
Mrs. Dustin was going because Peter was her baby, her strange, weird duckling, full of whimsical fancies and fantastic longings. He was a sort of dream child for whom she alone felt wholly responsible. All the others were good, understandable children. But Peter was odd and nobody but his blue-eyed mother knew how to handle him.
"Rosalie, I've never whipped those boys of mine. Some way I couldn't with Hattie gone and them having no one but me. But maybe it was a mistake."
"No, it wasn't, Joe. The Greatest Teacher that ever lived used only truth and gentleness and look at the size of His school now. No—this trouble isn't in the children exactly. It must be in us. We're stupid and don't know how to do for the children. People say that young folks must be young folks. And we let our boys and even our girls flounder through a lot of cheap foolishness before we expect them to settle down.
"But it's my opinion, Joe, that letting them flounder all alone through these raw years of their life is plain wickedness. Peter has a good home and he's loved and he knows it. Yet he's got to the place now where he wants something that I and the home can't seem to give him. I don't know just what it is. But this place, Joe, bad as it is, must have the thing that our half-grown children want and that's what brings them here even against our will. And I'm going to-night to find out what it is."
"It can't be good for them, Rosalie, when it drives them into lying and stealing. Why only to-day Josie Landis sent Eddie to me with fifty cents for the shoes I mended for her. And he gambled that fifty cents away in the slot machine and came and told me a lie!"
"Little Eddie Landis! Why—Joe, he's just a baby."
"Well—that's what the place is doing to the babies. I don't like it. It's dirty and sneaky and it's working hand in hand with the saloon. It has no business in this town."
"But, Joe, it must have something that this town wants or it wouldn't be doing business. It can't be all pure wickedness."
But Joe's anger was rising in leaps and bounds so that his very hands shook. Mrs. Dustin stopped and laid a soothing hand on the little shoemaker's arm.
"Joe, whatever you do don't get angry in there. Hold on to your temper and don't let yourself even look mad if you can help it. We mustn't humiliate the children for they'd never forgive. You better let me do all the talking at first."
Joe nodded and with that they came abreast of the curtained windows and stood still for a second to gather up their courage. Then Mrs. Dustin very quietly opened the door and stepped in with Joe.
She stood smiling at the door and at sight of her the noise stopped as if by magic. Every child there knew the lovely, blue-eyed little mother of Peter Dustin. The only one who did not know her was the proprietor standing in stupid wonder behind his counter. But she pretended not to see his astonishment as she made her laughing explanations.
"We got lonesome, Joe and I. You know these first autumn nights do chill us older folks a bit and make us sad. We want bright fires and lots of children racketing around to keep us from feeling old and frightened. And I guess the children get the blues from us for I notice that that's just the time they want to get off by themselves for a good time. We're all trying to forget that the year is dying, I expect, and we're crowding together to cheer each other up. That's what's making the streets so lonely to-night. As I came along I felt so bad that I thought I'd just drop in on Joe and get cheered up with the children. They're usually there. But Joe was standing on his doorstep as lonely as I was. He was missing the children too. We saw your light and heard the children laughing, and we just thought we'd come in and see if we couldn't feel young again. We didn't come in to spoil your fun, so just you go on with it. Joe and I'll watch and maybe join in. You were dancing, weren't you, Mollie?"
Mrs. Dustin asked this of a little russet-haired girl of fourteen who in her sudden amazement at the visitors was still standing in the middle of the floor with her arms about Peter, who had a mouth organ in his mouth. She was a graceful little thing and she had been teaching Peter how to dance. But now she stood stiff with fright and embarrassment.
"Why, don't be afraid of my mother, Mollie," Peter said gently, for he himself was in no way frightened at his mother's appearance.
So when Mrs. Dustin repeated her question, Mollie said shyly: "Yes, ma'am, we were trying to dance."
"Bless me," laughed Mrs. Dustin. "Why, I never realized that Peter was old enough to want to dance. You should have told me, Peter Boy. Why, you should have all told me, because," she smiled gloriously at them all, "because I used to be the star dancer twenty-five years ago. Wasn't I, Joe?"
"You sure were," Joe answered promptly. His face still looked a little queer and his voice was not quite steady but he was bravely following the wise little woman with the blue eyes.
"Let me show you. Play something, Peter."
Mrs. Dustin picked up Mollie and began to dance. And in exactly five turns about the room all the poetry, the joy of motion in Mollie caught fire and her little slim feet just fairly twinkled in happy abandonment.
"Why, Mollie, girl, you're a fairy on your feet," praised Mrs. Dustin and the happy face at her breast flushed with pleasure and gratitude at the words.
Peter was not the least bit surprised at his mother's antics. He knew that she was a glorious mother and full of surprises. The other youngsters however were not so sure. So Peter suggested to the proprietor that he start the graphophone. The proprietor nodded and soon they were all dancing, Mrs. Dustin taking a new partner every few minutes.
"And children," she suddenly remembered, "Joe can jig—why, he used to jig beautifully."
So Joe took his turn in amusing the children and while he did it Mrs. Dustin examined some machines lined up along the wall.
"When you drop a nickel in the slot do you get gum, peanuts or your fortune told or does a Punch and Judy pop out?" she laughingly and innocently asked Sim and Sammy Berwick who stood near.
Sim looked uneasy and Sammy said, "Aw, them things are no good, Mrs. Dustin. You don't want to monkey with them. You might—"
But Mrs. Dustin was already dropping her nickel in and when Peter came up she was shaking out an empty purse.
"Why, Peter, what's the matter with these machines? I guess I didn't work them right. I've dropped all my money in, and I haven't gotten a thing. It's the money I was saving for the framing of that picture Mr. Rollins gave me. Don't you think you can get it for me? Jemmy Hills sent me word to-day that the picture was all framed and ready."
Peter all at once looked sick. He knew how his mother had been saving to buy a pretty frame for the lovely water color Bernard Rollins had given her. She had even given up the idea of a new knot of flowers for her hat. And now she had dropped the precious coins down the hungry mouth of a slot machine. And the worst of it was she didn't seem to know what she had done.
"Mother," Peter began miserably, "you've lost the money and I don't see how you can ask—"
"Oh, well, Peter Boy,—never mind. I expect it's some new game and I didn't play it right. I'm sorry I was stupid. Let's see what else we can do. I wanted to treat you children to soda but maybe Joe has some money. Joe," she called merrily to the shoemaker, "won't you treat?"
Joe caught the odd little note in her voice. His hand rattled the loose change in his pocket and he smiled a spontaneous smile that had however more than a bit of malice in it.
"Sure, I'll treat," and he turned to the proprietor who still looked as though he was seeing things but came to life when Joe stepped up to the counter.
"What'll you have?"
"Oh," said Joe carelessly, "give me what you give the rest of the boys," and here Joe winked at the proprietor.
"And I'll have the same," laughed Mrs. Dustin, and again Joe winked at the proprietor.
But the children had grown strangely quiet, especially the boys. And slim Mollie once more grew frightened as she watched the proprietor setting out glass after glass of foaming beer.
Mrs. Dustin was busy talking to the children and didn't seem to see the foaming glasses until Joe called,
"Come on, everybody—line up."
Then the lovely mother face was raised and at the look that came into the blue eyes every child there grew sick and miserable.
"Ah, gee—whad he give her that for?" muttered Sammy Berwick.
But Mrs. Dustin, after looking once into Peter's tortured eyes, stood up and laughed.
"Well, children," she confessed, "I've never tasted beer in my life, but it's your party and I invited myself so it would be rude to refuse."
And with that she picked up her glass.
"Well," laughed Joe, "this is my first drink too. But I'm not going to be an old fogey. What's good enough for my boys is good enough for me."
Every child there held its breath for they knew that Joe spoke the truth. As for the proprietor, that puzzled man thought that the little shoemaker was trying to be funny and he laughed his first laugh that evening.
Peter Dustin stood beside his mother, his horrified eyes on the little toil-worn hand that was curled about the stem of a beer glass. He wanted to snatch that glass away, wanted to shout to her not to touch the stuff. But his throat was closed and he was conscious only of the fact that somewhere down inside of the anguish that filled him something was praying for help, something was begging God to keep the little, blue-eyed mother stainless and sweet and unharmed.
Joe's boys were not beside their father. They were at the other end of the counter staring, just staring, unconscious of everything, hearing only that strange new laugh of their father's and noticing what no one else except Mrs. Dustin saw—that Joe's hand as he raised his glass shook wretchedly.
And then, before any of them could bring their glasses to their lips, the thing the anguished soul of Peter Dustin had been praying for happened. The door opened and within its frame stood the big handsome figure of Green Valley's new minister.
One glance of his took in the scene and the smile he wore never changed nor did an eyelash so much as quiver even after the blue eyes of Peter's mother had flashed their message.
"Well—I've come to invite folks to my party and I find a party going on. I'm going to give a housewarming soon, and I came over to ask Williams here where he bought his graphophone and records. We must have one at my party so that when the musicians get tired we can have other music. And, Williams, I'm expecting you to come over that night and run the thing for me. I shall be too busy attending to other matters. And now, as long as we're all here would you mind letting me hear 'Annie Laurie' again?"
The song was put on and the children crowded round.
Joe and Mrs. Dustin were listening silently to the song that always brought back old faces and scenes and that old haunting ache for the things of long ago.
"That's my favorite tune," said the proprietor suddenly to Mrs. Dustin.
"It's one of mine too," she smiled back with soft, shining eyes.
"My wife's name was Annie," he said again and as suddenly.
"Have you lost her?" Mrs. Dustin asked gently.
"Yes. Quite a while ago. You make me think of her. She was little and had blue eyes. She died on me when the baby came. She took the baby with her."
"Oh," murmured Mrs. Dustin and she forgot the beer growing stale on the counter, forgot the slot machines against the walls, forgot everything but this man who for this minute stood out from a world of men with this unhealed sorrow in his heart.
"And for bonny Annie LaurieI'd lay me doon and dee,"
sang the famous singer softly and the proprietor turned his head away.
"It gets damn lonesome sometimes," he said huskily. And at that a toil-worn hand touched his arm in healing sympathy and a little shoemaker who had come out into the night with anger in his heart said with a huskiness that rivalled the proprietor's,
"My God, man, don't I know!"
The minister played other tunes, then he pulled out his watch and laughed and that ended the party. In a few minutes he was alone with the proprietor.
When the last footstep had lost itself in the still streets the proprietor turned to the big young man who was sitting on an ice-cream table, carelessly swinging his feet.
"I feel so damn funny," said the proprietor, "and all shook up to-night. And I don't know whether it all really happened or whether I just dreamed it—the little woman with the blue eyes and the soft-faced little guy. Say, parson, what were they after, anyway?"
"Williams," the parson made grave answer, "I rather think those two were looking for their children." And Cynthia's son told the story of Joe and Hattie and Mrs. Dustin and Peter as Green Valley had told it to him. And when it was told the two men sat still and listened to the little wind mourning somewhere outside.
"Yes—that's it. They were looking for their children. If mine hadn't a-died that's maybe what I'd be doing now. Oh, God, parson, I'm in wrong again. I've been in wrong ever since Annie died. If she was alive I'd be working in a machine shop somewheres, bringing home my twenty-two a week with more for overtime and going around with my wife and the kid and living natural, like other men. My God," he groaned, "the lights just went out when she went and I've been stumbling around in the dark, not knowing how to live or die.
"I quit work the day after I buried her. What was the use of working then? I had half a mind to blow in all I had but I couldn't. Seemed like she was still there with me, trying to cheer me up. I slunk around like a shadow for months. And then I got hungry for people. A single man don't get asked around much and he's got to hang around with the boys.
"So I took what money I had and started a pool-room. I thought maybe I'd feel better seeing people around all day. Well—it wasn't so bad. But one night a little woman with a baby in her arms came to the door and begged me to send her husband home and not let him play in my place any more. She said she had no milk for the baby and no fire, that he was spending everything he earned in my poolroom.
"So help me, God, parson, that part of it had never struck me. I ain't bright and never was. But I ain't no skunk. I give that woman some of her own money back and that week I sold out at a loss and slunk around some more. I couldn't go back to my own work. I had a grudge against it, someway. By and by the money was all gone and an old pal of mine offered to set me up in business out here, away from the city and old memories. And here I am again—the same old fool and numbskull. I'll sell out this week and git. What I'll do I don't know. I'm not a smart man. It was always Annie that did the heavy thinking and the advising and had the ideas for starting things."
The boy who was born in India, who had heard hundreds of gripping, human tales in that land of story and proverb, listened as if this was the first breath of grief his heart had ever experienced. Then he took the dead Annie's place.
"Williams, sometime next spring, Billy Evans is going to add a garage to his livery barn. He'll need a mechanic. That will be just the place for you. In the meantime I'm buying a little car and am in need of a driver. So until Billy is ready you'd better come and bach with me. The farm is big and I'm nearly as lonely at times as you are."
And he told his poolroom friend a tale of India and of two plain white stones that lay somewhere within the heart of it.
It was a wonderful charm—that picture of a little boy and his pet hen. Nanny carried it about during the day and felt almost safe and easier of heart. She wondered what had become of all her old happiness, the carefree joy that had been hers before she met the boy who came from India and who did not understand women.
Ever since that day on the hill top Nanny's life had been troubled. She was haunted with strange, vague fears. She woke up one morning with the knowledge that she had dreamed the night long of the boy from India. That afternoon she found herself unable to think of anything but him.
A panic seized her. She began to be afraid of herself. She caught herself looking out of the windows and down the dusty summer roads, at first unconsciously and then with a curious expectancy that grew to a longing so real that she could not help but understand.
It came to Nanny with a terrible shock—the knowledge that at last she loved a man. She remembered then the eyes of the men who had loved her and whom she had so carelessly sent away. She understood then the hurt they had carried away with them and hoped penitently that each had found the comfort and love he had craved.
She wondered how and where she was to look for comfort. She saw with something very much like horror that, unlike the men who had sought her, she dared make no plea, could not by word or look give any sign of what had befallen her.
If others came to know, her misery would be unbearable. The terrible thought came that perhaps Cynthia's son might come to see. At that the earth seemed to go soft beneath her feet and her world lay blurred in a mist of amazed misery.
She was wretched and gay by turns. The day came when her father and brother noticed this and spoke of it. Then it was that Nanny turned white and walked away to Grandma Wentworth's. She had half a mind to tell Grandma and perhaps through that wonder-wise soul find her way back to peace and sanity. But Grandma had teased too and so Nanny held on desperately to her secret, wondering how she was to go on enduring.
When she came to the picture of the little, grave-eyed chap Nanny stole it without a moment's hesitation. And it acted like a charm. Lying warm above her heart it dulled the longing and helped her to laugh again, gayly, saucily even.
She had brave minutes when with her eyes on the picture she told herself that it wasn't the man she loved but this grave-eyed boy in him that had never grown up or died. She had always loved children, she told herself, so there was no shame in that. But the next minute her heart would call up the image of this boy grown up, a boy still, but a boy with a man's eyes and a man's dormant strength. Being an honest soul Nanny flushed and cried for the mother she could not remember.
Still as the days went by Nanny found that the little fellow stood gallantly by her. Somehow he helped her to grow used to the pain and the burning joy of her secret. He helped her to endure the questions and the teasing that is the lot of girls as lovely as Nanny.
He helped her to laugh when she felt like crying. And best of all he steadied her when Cynthia's son was by, when her heart was beating horribly and her head was dizzy with happiness and fright.
She was a new girl to the boy from India. He was no longer afraid of her. She no longer said bright, sharp things that puzzled and hurt him. She was quiet and kind and frequently now exceedingly ill at ease.
One day while they were walking along the road he stopped suddenly and looked at her.
"Are you tired?" he asked abruptly.
"No—I'm not tired," Nanny said a little surprised at the question.
"Are you ill?" he next wanted to know.
"Ill? Why—no. Not that I know of."
He searched her eyes for the truth. Nanny, not daring to trust herself, turned away her head with an unsteady little laugh.
"Why?"
"Because," the puzzled boy explained, "you have been so quiet and so nice and kind to me."
The laughable innocence of him was all that saved Nanny that time.
She thought of going away. But she lacked the courage. The thought of going made the pain worse and there was no place in all the world to which she cared to go.
Then a brilliant idea came to her. It might after all, she told herself, be purely imaginary,—this strange torture that she thought was love. It might after all be only a foolish fancy born of her quiet isolated life in the dreamy old town. She would fill the house with people, with men and women and music.
So for a time the Ainslees were very gay. House party followed house party and there were always guests. Secure with the security of numbers Nanny invited Cynthia's son. Then she stood back and watched him draw both men and women about him. He was utterly at ease with the men but quiet and reserved with the girls. Instinctively he sorted out the comfortable, less brilliant ones and chatted with them, all unconscious of the light in the eyes of the others. Nanny watched him and as she watched there was born in her heart a new fear and torture. She realized that some day love would come to Cynthia's son and feared that she would have to stand by unseen and forgotten.
So then she began to distrust those of her feminine guests who smiled at him and chatted with him. And as soon as she decently could she sent all her company packing. When they were gone she knew beyond any possibility of doubt that she loved him and would always love him and that the vengeance that her father had predicted had overtaken her.
The very next time Cynthia's son came he found the house quiet and Nanny alone.
"Are they all gone?" he asked.
"Yes," she told him.
"When is your next crowd coming?" he wondered.
"There aren't going to be any more crowds," Nanny informed him.
"That's nice. It's pleasanter this way."
Nanny's poor heart longed to ask why but it dared not.
So then she drifted and didn't care. Though she prayed a little miserably at times for peace and a home shore. They seemed to meet by accident on the sunny summer roads and whenever they did they strolled on aimlessly but contented. Because she was now so quiet and kind he told her things that he had never told to any one else. She marvelled at the simple heart of him, its freedom from self-consciousness. She had not dreamed that there was anywhere in the world a grown-up man like that.
Had he been different she could never have lived, it seemed to her, through the fearful hour of humiliation on the Glen Road. She stooped for a spray of scarlet sumach one early autumn afternoon. They had been looking through the hedges for the first hazel nuts and he was standing beside her when, in some way, the little picture worked its way out of her soft silk blouse and fell at his feet, face up.
Fright as terrible and as cold as death laid its hand on Nanny's heart. It seemed to her that she never again could raise her eyes to his. Fortunately her body went through its mechanical duties. She bent, her hand picked up the picture, and her voice of its own accord was explaining:
"This belongs to you. I took it the day I was looking over the pictures at Grandma Wentworth's. I should, of course, have returned it long ago but I kept neglecting to do it. It's one of the dearest child pictures I have ever seen."
She raised her eyes then, eyes as careless as she could make them. Fright kept the flame of bitter shame from her cheeks and the tremor out of her voice. She held the little picture out to him, forcing her eyes to meet his.
And those eyes of his looked down at her, first with wonder and then with a pleased smile, and she knew that he didn't know, didn't understand, saw nothing strange in the incident. He took her calm explanation for the whole truth. The man had absolutely no vanity.
"Why, I don't want that," he told her wonderingly. "Are you making a collection of children's pictures?" he asked with such innocent curiosity that Nanny's self-control gave way and she laughed until she cried. He stood by, helpless and puzzled. When Nanny, having gotten to the tears, searched in vain for her handkerchief he gravely offered his.
Nanny took it and used it and then looked up at him with eyes as full of laughing despair as his were full of bewilderment.
"John Roger Churchill Knight—you will some day be the very death of me."
"Well, I guess this is about the last spell of pretty weather we're going to have," sighed Fanny Foster as she sat herself down on Grandma Wentworth's back steps and went right to work helping Grandma sort the herbs and bulbs and the seeds she had been gathering for a whole week.
"I'm hoping not," said Grandma, "though when the air is like warm gold dust, and the sun's heat just mellows you through and through, and the last bobolink calls from the hill, why, a body just knows such perfect days can't last. Still, I'm hoping it'll stay a bit longer, though I can't say I'm not ready for cold weather."
"Oh, I guess everybody is," agreed Fanny with that joyous, bubbling, luxurious note that Grandma knew so well. "I saw Mary Hagley polishing her very knuckles off on that second-hand stove Mert bought from that watery-eyed man from Spring Road who drives through here with the lame buckskin horse and pieced-out harness. Lutie Barlow's got her fall tinting and painting all done. She's painted the inside of her chicken coops a bright yellow, so's to fool her hens into thinking the sun's forever shining, and the inside of her stormshed a red, so's to make it seem warmer when she goes out there on a cold day to the coal and wood box. There ain't anybody can beat Lutie on color ideas.
"Minnie Eton's dyed her heavy lace curtains in coffee and has a new set made for the dining room, besides having a picture of the third boy enlarged for the parlor. She started crocheting the lace for a new bedspread for her company bedroom yesterday. And—oh, my lands, I forgot to tell you the rest of that second-hand stove business. You see Mary was feeling pretty bad about having to put up with another old stove and envying Cissie Harvey hers. Cissie's new parlor stove is a monster, made seemingly of nothing but pure nickel and isinglass. Mary went over to look at it and when she come home and took another look at her old thing she just sat down and cried. She cried till she was too tired to care and then went to Jessup's for some stove polish. On the way she met Judy Parks who told her that Dick had a new kind of polish that gave a beautiful shine without hardly any work. So Mary got that and it proved to be all Judy said it was and in no time at all Mary turned that old stove of hers into a shining glory. And just as she was standing back admiring her work in comes Cissie, wringing her hands. The baby had poked out every last one of those isinglass windows while Cissie was in the kitchen warming up his milk. And there you are. And there's people that say there is no God and no justice in this world.
"Josephine Rand's starting in on her rugs and begging rags from friends and enemies. She's going a little easy though since last week. She cut up what Ted says was a perfectly good pair of his pants. He had them hanging up in the basement and was hoping Josephine would wash and press them some day. He kept them down in the basement because he knew that if he left them in his closet she'd give them away to a hobo on account of her always feeling so sorry for tramps and believing everything they tell her. Ted says he always liked these particular pants on account of them making him look slim and being made of the same kind of cloth as his first long pair of pants that he got as a boy. So he was cherishing them and Josephine goes and cuts them into tatters. He's so mad, she says she don't dare leave a rag rug in his sight.
"Mat Wilson and his wife ain't on the very best conjugal terms either. It seems Mat has a felon right under his thumb nail, about the worst place you can have one, he thinks. It's kept him awake nights and made him miserable, so naturally he felt entitled to a good deal of sympathy. And he got it. Everybody has sympathized so much that Clara just got mad and said that that there felon of Mat's isn't half as bad as the one that she had at the end of her thumb two years ago. She says she got hollow-eyed and consumptive looking with hers but that Mat looks about the same as usual, maybe brighter. Anyhow, they've argued and scrapped about their felons so that Clara's aunt's gone off for a visit to Ioway, and Mat says that there sure is a recompense for everything in this world, even felons and domestic misery, and Clara wants to know if he's meaning to insinuate that her aunt is a nuisance, because if he is she ain't going to send his aunt the Christmas present that she's got half done for her. But Mat won't say, just keeps showing his thumb to everybody and talking about silver linings to every cloud. There's no use talking, some men are aggravating.
"Mandy Jutlins don't know whether to have the telephone put in or not. She says the Lord knows she has enough children to run all her errands and take all messages and that the two dollars a month comes in handy for a new pair of shoes. And if it's in she says more than likely she'll be wasting her time listening to a lot of silly gossip. Of course that was a foolish remark for Mandy to make, seeing all her friends have telephones. Two or three's took it personal and aren't speaking a word to Mandy but plenty about her. One of them is supposed to have said that it's a fact that Mandy doesn't need a telephone, that she talks enough without it, and that in her opinion the worst kind of a gossip is the kind that stays at home the whole enduring time, never taking pains to see how things really happen and always knowing everything.
"Emmy Smith doesn't know what to do with her oldest girl, Eleanor. Eleanor just won't wash the knives and forks and spoons. She'll scrape and scald and polish the pots and pans and does the china beautiful, but she will leave the knives and forks and even hides them away dirty. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Emmy can't explain it unless it's due to the shiftless streak in all the Smiths.
"Agnes Hooper's crab-apple jell is about all gone and here it's hardly cool yet. Those boys of hers just want to live on crab-apple jell and Aggie says she's got to the end of her strength and patience, that Charlie'd better pull up and move out among the Mormons where he could have a couple of more wives to help keep those boys filled up.
"Jennie Burton's sauerkraut isn't going to keep and hasn't turned out well, she thinks. Fremy Stockton says it's because she forgot to put in a little mite of sugar and altogether too much salt.
"Grace Cook's husband bought a whole pig from some farmer Bloomingdale way, thinking it was going to be good and cold by this time. And Grace has got up at four o'clock every morning for a week and stayed up till midnight, trying to get that pig out of sight. She's rendered lard and made sausage and salted and smoked meat till every crock is full. Yesterday she was making head cheese, sick to her stomach and crying because there were still the four feet to cook up, and she said she didn't know how to cook them and that each one looked to her about as big as the kitchen stove.
"So I just took off my hat and put those four pig's feet on the stove to simmer, and I helped her to get the head cheese out of the way. When there's two working and talking, why, the time goes and when we turned around there were those pig's feet as tender as could be, so when the children came in we sat down and had pig's feet with horse-radish. Grace wouldn't touch them; said she had enough pig in her system to last her ten years and she knew she'd break out in gumboils.
"I suppose you've heard how Malcolm Gross thought he'd lay in a nice supply of maple syrup for his buckwheat pancakes this winter, and how the children went to tasting and forgot to cork the big can, and the cat went climbing around for mice and bacon rind and knocked the thing down. Florence says there's maple syrup tracked all over the house and she says her rugs are ruined.
"It seems as if Grove Street was full of trouble, for while Grace was crying over her pig, Elsie Winters next door was crying over her blue henrietta dress that didn't dye right. Elsie swears it was old dye Martin sold her and wishes we'd have another drug store because a little competition would do Martin good. And next door to Elsie, Pete Sweeney's tickled to death. He says it serves Elsie right, that Green Valley women've got a mania for dyeing things and trying to make 'em last forever; that he's had two bolts of just the kind of color Elsie was trying to get but that she wouldn't look at it.
"And Pete Sweeney's not the only one that's down on the women. Andy Smiley cleaned up so much money on those new bungalows that he went to the city and came home with twenty-five dollars' worth of ostrich plumes for Nettie. He said he was bound that Nettie'd have a real hat once in her life, that he's tired of watching her making her own hats, even piecing out the shapes with bits of cardboard and trimming and retrimming. She got in the way of it the first ten years they were married, when Andy was having such poor luck and now, poor thing, I guess she can't get out of it, because the day after Andy brought the plumes Nettie went to the city and bought a thirty-nine-cent shape to put them on. And she's wearing it like that, looking worse than ever. They say Andy's swearing awful and that Mary Langely almost cried when she saw those lovely plumes and begged Nettie to come in and let her fix up her hat proper and without charge. But Nettie just smiled that happy little smile of hers and shook her head.
"Andy Smiley ain't the only one that's doing well. Johnny Peters got a raise the other day and Claudie's treated herself to two dozen beautiful linen dish towels. She says she's used flour sacks to wipe dishes ever since she was six years old and she's always been hoping she'd be rich enough some day to have real linen dish towels. So she's got 'em. But they're so nice she hardly likes to use them, and the two weeks she was sick and had to have her washing done at the laundry she was mighty careful not to send them. She washed them herself right there beside her bed, and her sick with rheumatism. They say Doc Philipps used awful language, for he caught her right at it. But when she explained he just blew his nose and never said another word. But he talked to Johnny and Johnny went out and bought four dozen dish towels such as Green Valley has never seen. Why, Sadie Dundry says even the Ainslees haven't got dish towels like that. Doc says that if he can coax some man to get Dolly Beatty good woolen stockings and keep her from wearing those transparent things this winter he'll be almost happy; says if Dolly should marry that widower he'll talk to him.
"All Elm Street's laughing at Alexander Sabin and Carrie and their pump. That pump of theirs has been out of order all summer and Carrie's been sick from nothing else but getting mad every time she'd go out for a pail of water. Alexander promised to fix it but instead of that he's repaired everybody else's all up and down Elm Street and just can't seem to get started on his own. Carrie's going on a strike to-morrow, ain't going to cook a mouthful of victuals, she says, until that pump is fixed. The neighbors, much as they like Alexander, are all on her side and have promised not to invite him in, even for a drink of water from the pumps he's fixed. And his mother's away at Barton, nursing her sick sister, so it looks as if Alexander will be starved into fixing that pump of his.
"Debby Collins is going to give the minister one of her cats, the one that has to have a cold potato for its lunch every day. She says it's the most mannerly of all her cats and that she'd never think of giving it to any one but the minister and not even to him but that now that he's going to have a proper home and a housekeeper, why, it'll be safe.
"Everybody, of course, is crazy about the housewarming the minister is going to give next week. I guess everybody is going. It'll be a fine night for thieves, Bessie Williams says, with every soul gone. That girl's mind just naturally turns to evil. She knows there ain't ever been a thing stolen in this town, less it was a kiss or two. But Bessie's the only one, so far as I could hear, who was borrowing trouble. The rest of the town is dying to get into that house that's been closed so long. And everybody's curious to know just what Hen Tomlins's been doing to the furniture. You know when the minister found out what a fine wood-carver and cabinet-maker Hen was he had him go through the house. And they say that Bernard Rollins, the portraiture man, is mixed up in the housewarming too. But nobody can figure out how. And that ain't the worst. Uncle Tony says that he heard that the minister bought out the poolroom man, because some one saw the music box being hauled over to the minister's house. You know Jake and some others were planning to run that poolroom man out of town, even whispering about tar and feathers. But the minister asked them to let him manage and try to fix things up first. So they did and he's done it, because the poolroom's closed; the stuff went out yesterday and Effie Struby's brother Alf swears he saw that poolroom man fooling with the minister's automobile out in the barn. But you know how near-sighted Alf is and his word ain't credited much, and everybody's so busy getting ready for the party that they can't stop to investigate. And ain't it funny how none of us don't somehow ask the minister things, just wait until he tells us? And ain't he got a funny way of just talking about nothing special, only being pleasant, and then letting you find out weeks after that he did tell you something that you'd been needing to know? My! I bet that boy could give a child castor oil and make him honestly think it was candy. Why, they say that as far as anybody can find out, he's never give that poolroom man even one good talking to. Jake, who's been itching to lambaste the man, says 's-far's he can see, it was the poolroom man who did all the talking. And once Jake says he just dropped in himself, just to see what line of argument the minister was using, and he says that he'd be danged if the minister did a blessed thing but play 'Annie Laurie' and 'We'd Better Bide a Wee' over and over on that music box. Jake hasn't figured it out yet.
"Why, Grandma, there's some thinks maybe Cynthia's son has brought back some Indian magic. They say India's chuckful of it—but law—it'll take more than magic to save little Jim Tumley, for he's beginning again. While the minister kept close he was all right but the housewarming and that poolroom took up time, and then Jim's sister, Mrs. Hoskins, got sick and Jim goes there to play and sing to her, and you know what George Hoskins is. He must have his drink and offer visitors some—and poor Jim—just the smell of it knocks him out. The minister says Jim must be saved. But how's it to be done, tell me that? There ain't anything smart or knowing about me, but the minister'll never save Jim Tumley less'n he kills off a few of our comfortable, respectable drinkers and closes up the hotel. And I tell you, nobody but God Almighty could make this town dry."
"Well, Fanny," smiled Grandma, "I've noticed that if there ever is a job that nobody but the Almighty can handle, He generally takes it in hand and settles it."