The Narrow Way
"Mrs. Flint," said the Reverend Elijah one morning when the family of three were at breakfast, "during the past week I have heard frequently of the contemplated theatrical performance by the members, and for the benefit, of the woman's club."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Flint, timidly, "everybody seems to be looking forward to it with pleasure."
"That was not the point I was about to make," said the parson, curtly. "You, of course, know that I disapprove of such pastimes."
"Why, yes, certainly, but it all was planned without my approval," explained his wife.
"Naturally, if you considered the dignity demanded of you as the wife of a clergyman." The heavy, rounded shoulders of this conventional clergyman were raised slightly, and his dull eyes peered over his spectacles at the troubled face of Mrs. Flint.
"But, Elijah—" she faltered.
"I have given the matter careful thought," interrupted the parson, "and have arrived at the conclusion that this performance is uncalled for,unbecoming, undignified, and unnecessary." Mr. Flint never left the church—he was in the pulpit always, and for ever preaching.
"Elijah!" gasped his wife.
The parson's alliterative denouncement amused his son in the same degree that it caused his wife's dismay, and it was with difficulty that Will controlled his mirth.
"And furthermore," Mr. Flint continued, "it is my desire that you sever your connection with the organization immediately."
"But, Elijah, I am deeply interested in the work, and we—we need the money—I mean the club does," faltered Mrs. Flint.
"The evil one," said the parson, impressively, "employs many means and uses countless disguises for that unholy purpose."
"But surely you do not think that the principles of our club are wrong?"
"Not wholly; but the method pursued to further your purposes is far from my interpretation of right."
"But the other ladies, many of them belong to our church, and they—"
"Over them, in such matters, I have but feeble control," sighed the good man. "Were it possibleI would put a stop to the performance at any cost."
"What's the harm, father?" asked Will, who saw that his mother was certain to lose the argument, and pitied her.
"William," said the parson, turning on his son, "your knowledge of such matters is infinitesimal. The stage is not real, it is but a show of puppets, and by persons of uncertain character."
"But," persisted Will, "what have the morals of actors got to do with the stage and plays?"
"What have the morals of a preacher got to do with his sermons? In the church, and out of it, is not every action watched, every word listened to and repeated? Is he not supposed to be an example?"
"Yes, father, but after all he is only a man."
"An exemplary one."
"Usually," said Will in a way that neither his father nor mother understood. For several minutes they ate in silence.
"I thought," began Mrs. Flint with renewed courage, "that Shakespeare's works were above reproach."
"So they are; there's no finer reading, no clearer understanding of human nature than inthe plays of Shakespeare; but the performance of them is simply the making believe by actors that they are what they are not," patiently explained the parson. Will choked over his coffee in an effort to keep from laughing.
"Of course," sighed Mrs. Flint, resignedly, "if you insist I will leave the club."
"Let your action be guided by your own judgment, and consideration for the principles which I believe to be true. Perhaps the example of a worthy sister of our church who has already taken the step may make it easier for you to decide," said the parson in milder tones.
"Why, whom do you mean?" asked Mrs. Flint in surprise.
"Mrs. Deacon Walton."
"Has she resigned?"
"She has, or will at the next meeting, so her husband informed me last evening."
"Then of course I must do likewise," said Mrs. Flint, a little piqued to learn that Mrs. Walton had been the first to comply with the demands of their church.
"I knew that you could be relied upon to do your duty," replied the parson, triumphantly.
"But, father," said Will, quickly, with a traceof indignation in his voice, "is it her duty to deny herself something that she believes to be right? Is it right for her to do a thing just because you wish it?"
"I consider it so. Sometimes we do not see, or understand, our duty as clearly as others. In that case, when we are guided by some one who is in a position to know, it is certainly right to do a thing, which, at the time, is against our own will." The parson was irritated by his son's interference, and spoke sharply.
"You may be right, but I can't seem to understand," said Will, respectfully. "But then my ideas, and ideals, are usually in opposition to yours; you are always positive that you are right, and I am equally certain that I am right; we are father and son, why do we always differ?"
"You are young, I am old; the world changes," replied the parson, shortly.
"But other men of your age have changed with the world."
"My son, while I do not live wholly in the past, I must cling to the customs and beliefs of my youth."
"But the stage, father," persisted Will, with an earnestness that was strange for him, "inregard to that the ideas of most men have changed, and no one has been harmed; in fact, have we not been benefited?"
"No," replied the parson, "no one ever has, or ever will, receive good from it." He had little respect for the opinion of his son, rebelled at what he considered his disrespectful argument, and was determined not to budge from the stand which he had taken.
"This performance that the club is to give," continued Will, "can do no harm, you must grant that, and the ladies who are to take part are of unquestioned character."
"True, in regard to the ladies, more's the pity; but the play, my son, professional or amateur, is wrong. As for the club itself, and all organizations of women outside of the church, I am not sure but that they are an unfortunate experiment—sowers of discord and discontent." The parson was unmistakably angry.
"Do you really believe that women should not be permitted to organize, to enjoy the companionship of others, outside of the home, after the manner of men? Do you believe that their ideals should be fixed, and no opportunity given to heighten and beautify them?" Will asked thesequestions with deliberation and without raising his voice, yet there were unmistakable signs of a controlled force that would have been impossible in a man who did not love a woman. The parson glared at his son for a moment before replying. "I repeat, it is an experiment—an experiment," he growled as he left the table and went to his study. Narrow was the way of this man, his creed was his religion; he loved his books more than he loved men; in name only was he a minister of God.
"I'm sorry, mother," said Will when the study door was closed. "Are you going to resign?"
"Yes," she replied, and there were tears in her eyes.
"There's no need of it," said Will, quickly.
"I've got to," continued Mrs. Flint.
"No, you haven't," replied Will, savagely.
"Will!" exclaimed his mother. "It is your father's wish."
"Well," replied Will, in a calmer tone, "if I ever marry, I hope that I shall have sense enough to let my wife decide such questions for herself."
"You, married?" said Mrs. Flint, "why, Will, I—"
"I said, 'if,' mother," he laughed. "I must go to work first, and then if I find some one—"
"Will, are you sure that you have not found some one already?" she asked, and her voice trembled.
Will turned and looked out of the window. He dared not meet her eyes. Had his mother guessed his secret?
Girl Talk
"Whatare you going to wear?" asked Fanny Tweedie, one afternoon while she and Barbara Wallace were rehearsing the scene from the "Lady of Lyons" which they, with Mrs. Blake, were to play at the club theatricals.
"What are the others, who are to play the part of men, going to wear?" questioned Barbara in reply.
"Oh, dresses fixed up in some outlandish way, but I had hoped that you—" said the amateur Pauline, impatiently.
"Would wear something out of the ordinary," Barbara interrupted, smilingly.
"Yes," replied Fanny, "Claude Melnotte should wear something—something unexpected."
Barbara laughed, but Fanny stood looking at her doubtfully.
"What in the world are you laughing at, Barbara Wallace?" she demanded.
"How would you define, or describe, an 'unexpected' costume?" asked Barbara.
"Oh," replied Fanny, "is that what amused you? I meant something stunning, somethingthat would make the people talk for weeks, something—"
"Dear me, don't go on like that, Fanny, it's too horrible, too impossible. I have an idea for a costume, but—"
"Well, tell me what your idea is."
"But I'm not sure yet. When—"
"Please, Barbara—"
"But, Fanny, I don't know myself. When I do—"
"I promise not to breathe a word," persisted Fanny, coaxingly.
"You shall be the first to know when I have decided," said Barbara. She liked Fanny despite her shallow nature, and Fanny was "awfully fond" of Barbara, and talked less about her to others than she did about anybody else.
"There's no use talking," said Fanny when she saw that Barbara could not be teased into describing the costume she was to wear, "some of the ladies are simply fearful in their parts, and I'm afraid that they will be laughed at when they appear in public."
"No doubt," replied Barbara, "if, by 'in public,' you mean before the residents of Manville."
"Yes, of course that's what I mean," Fanny continued. "Everybodywill be there. The club and what it is doing has caused more talk than anything that has happened since the Declaration of Independence. And since Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Walton have resigned, and everybody knows thatMr.Flint is dreadfully set against the club and its theatricals, the Morning Glories have had a boom."
"Some one certainly has advertised us," said Barbara, much amused. Will had told her of the domestic scene at the parsonage.
"I suppose," continued Fanny, "that you knew all about Mrs. Flint's resigning before any of the rest of us." Barbara's face betrayed her. "Aren't you mean," Fanny went on, "not to tell."
"You little goose," replied Barbara, "what would you think of me if I ran and told everything that I knew about the minister's family—supposing that I ever did know anything about their affairs." Fanny did not think it mean for some folks to run and tell, but she would have been surprised if Barbara had done so.
"You might tellme," she pouted.
Barbara put her arm about Fanny, girl-fashion, and kissed her.
"Fanny, dear," she said, "there's something that I will tell you, something that I haven't told to a soul in the whole world." Fanny was all smiles and attention in an instant, and warmly squeezed Barbara's hand.
"I knew you would," she exclaimed.
"Mr. Flint—" Barbara began, but Fanny interrupted her.
"The minister?"
"No, the other Mr. Flint."
"Oh."
"Mr. Flint—"
"Why don't you call him Will, or Billy?"
Barbara did not choose to answer that question. AMr.persistently used, is often a good sign—for the young man.
"Mr. Flint," Barbara began again, "is going away."
"To work?"
"Yes."
"Oh, isn't that lovely!"
"Yes," replied Barbara, without enthusiasm.
"I mean, isn't it splendid to think that he is going to do something—be somebody."
"Was he not somebody before?" asked Barbara, quickly.
"Yes, of course, but—you know how people have talked about him."
"And half that they have said is not true," said Barbara, resentfully.
"You and I know it, but the others don't. Most folks like to hear and believe horrible things about somebody else." (Fanny was wiser than she knew.) "When is he going?"
"To-morrow."
"And aren't you going to see him again before he goes?"
"Yes," Barbara replied as a pink flush spread over her cheeks, "to-night."
Jingle Bells
Atfour o'clock the next morning Mrs. Tweedie was awakened by the ringing of the door-bell. She sat up in bed and listened until it rang again.
"Ezra," she whispered, as she shook her sleeping husband.
"What's the matter?" asked Ezra, sleepily.
"Some one is ringing the door-bell."
"Who is it?" he yawned.
"How should I know? Get up and see."
Ezra crawled out of bed, lighted a lamp, put on his dressing-gown, and started down-stairs. When he had gone Mrs. Tweedie got up, put on her glasses, lighted a match, peered at the clock, and then muttered, "Disgraceful!"
Ezra asked, "Who is it?" before opening the door, and when he recognized the voice that replied nearly dropped the lamp so great was his astonishment.
"Miss Wallace!" he gasped, as he opened the door.
"I am sorry that I had to disturb you, Mr. Tweedie," was all that Barbara said as she hurried past him. Ezra closed and locked the door, wentup-stairs, looked at the clock and then at his wife.
"Where has she been?" he asked, as he blew out the light, and got into bed.
"What does it matter where she has been?" replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Is it not enough that she has beenoutuntil four o'clock in the morning?" Ezra certainly thought it strange, but did not venture to offer any excuses. "And to think," continued Mrs. Tweedie, "after all that we have done for her (and Barbara had paid for), that she should bring disgrace to our home in this manner!"
"But, my dear," replied Mr. Tweedie, soothingly, "perhaps there is some good reason."
"Impossible!" snapped his wife. Ezra gave it up and went to sleep, but Mrs. Tweedie spent the remainder of the night thinking dreadful things, and the most exasperating thought was that she did not know—she could only imagine.
The explanation or true story of the events of that night (escapade it was called afterward by many) was simple, though none the less important to those most concerned. Barbara had been invited by Will Flint to go on a sleigh-ride. She was ready at the appointed time, and, hearing him drive up and stop, had gone out before hecame to the door without telling Mrs. Tweedie where she was going. Mrs. Tweedie considered this omission a suspicious circumstance. She sat up until eleven o'clock, and then, being determined to know at what time Barbara returned, locked the door so that it could not be opened with a latch-key, and went to bed.
Will and Barbara chatted cheerfully as they drove away from the village into the real country where they were alone with the black forest, the fields of glistening snow, and the great white moon. Will was happy, and Barbara—at first she had regretted her promise to go, but after an hour had gone by a feeling of contentment and security stole over her, and she too was happy.
They had turned toward home and were going down a hill at a rapid gait when one of the runners of the sleigh slipped into an icy rut, and the borrowed, dilapidated affair collapsed. Nothing was injured except the sleigh, but they were ten miles from home, and not a house in sight. After Will had crawled out of the wreck, and helped Barbara to disentangle herself, he unhitched the horse and drew the remains of the sleigh to the side of the road. There was nothing for them to do except walk, so they started off with the horseled behind. The nearest house was three miles, but Barbara and Will did not know when they passed it, or the next, and would not have stopped if they had. Their thoughts were of each other and the future, as they walked, hand in hand, along the white road that gleamed in the moonlight, and stretched away into— Only Barbara and Will, and the tired old horse plodding along behind, knew just what was said during that walk, but when they arrived at Mrs. Tweedie's gate Barbara had a man's love in her keeping, and Will had the promise of an answer when he had won it.
At breakfast that morning Barbara told that part of the story necessary to explain the hour at which she had returned. Fanny thought it must have been a great lark, and Mr. Tweedie and Tommy agreed with her, but Mrs. Tweedie looked sour and incredulous.
Later in the day Mrs. Tweedie learned that Will Flint had left town early that morning. Here was a mystery, she thought, and she did not rest until the whole story, or all that she could gather and imagine of it, was tucked away in her head with all the rest of her false ideas and ideals. In collecting the details she had found it necessaryto barter news for news, and when she had finished her calls, all Manville knew that Barbara Wallace and Will Flint had been on a sleigh-ride the night before, and had not returned until four o'clock that morning.
Poor Barbara, she anticipated disagreeable talk, but thoughts of those hours of the night before, and the earnest love of a strong man, soon drove away her fears. He had gone, but for her sake, and when he returned she knew what her answer would be.
More Talk
"Arewe all here?" asked Mrs. Tweedie, one afternoon as she glanced about Miss Sawyer's parlour to see how many members of the play committee were present.
"All except Miss Wallace," Miss Sawyer replied, when she had counted noses.
"And she will not be here," said Mrs. Tweedie, quickly. "The schools have been opened."
"Ain't it a relief to have the children in school again, Mis' Jones?" asked Mrs. Stout.
"Indeed it is," replied Mrs. Jones.
"Why, Mrs. Stout, Mrs. Jones!" exclaimed Miss Sawyer. "Do you send your children to school merely to relieve yourselves of responsibility? I have thought always that children were sent to school to be educated."
"So they are," replied Mrs. Stout, "but if they can be educated, and at the same time be kept away from home long enough ev'ry day to give their mothers a chance to do the housework, why, I say that school is a twin blessin'."
"That is just what I think," said Mrs. Jones, in an amen sort of way. "And I'm sure that thechildren in Miss Wallace's school have an excellent woman to instruct and care for them."
"As a teacher, yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "but—" she stopped abruptly, and looked wise.
"Mother," said Fanny, reprovingly.
"Fanny, I am capable of managing such affairs without the interference of girls," replied Mrs. Tweedie, sharply.
"Pardon me, but is it not time to begin our meeting?" Miss Sawyer asked, timidly.
"Yes, it is!" replied Mrs. Stout. "The play committee's off the track again."
"Well, let us get on to the track and go ahead," said Mrs. Tweedie, sneeringly.
"What's this meetin' for, anyway?" asked Mrs. Stout.
The ladies looked inquiringly at Miss Sawyer, who had called them together.
"There are many details," she began, "to be worked out in regard to our entertainment: programmes, tickets, music, advertising—"
She was interrupted by Mrs. Stout who was suddenly overcome by a spasm of laughter.
"Advertisin'!" she choked, "people for ten miles—" another burst of laughter prevented her from continuing for a moment. "People forten miles 'round are talkin' about nothin' else. Don't spend a cent for advertisin'."
"Quite true," added Mrs. Tweedie, "our club and entertainment are in the mouths of everybody."
"And I'm 'fraid they've got a hard pill to swaller," said Mrs. Stout, wiping her eyes.
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Tweedie quickly demanded.
"Oh, nothin' against anybody in pertic'ler, only it has struck me that some of us old women in the show are goin' to be dreadful funny when we ain't s'posed to be."
"The people know that we do not pretend to be more than amateurs," pleaded Miss Sawyer.
"I know that," replied Mrs. Stout, "but there are good and bad amatoors."
"It is too bad of you to say such things, Mrs. Stout," said Mrs. Blake. "I am sure that we shall do quite as well as we are expected to do."
"Of course," smiled Mrs. Stout, "but we're bound to make mistakes, and we don't want to be any bigger fools than we can help."
"Fools indeed!" snapped Mrs. Tweedie, "I am sure that the ladies who are to take part in our entertainment are of exceptional intelligence and ability—with one or two exceptions."
"And I'm prob'ly the biggest exception," said Mrs. Stout.
"I mentioned no names," replied Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily.
"You don't have to," retorted Mrs. Stout.
Mrs. Tweedie's face was flushed with anger. The others looked frightened, they feared that the open rupture between Mrs. Stout and Mrs. Tweedie, which had been brewing since the first meeting of the club, was about to take place. But Mrs. Tweedie's anger was too intense for words, and after glaring at the cause of her wrath for a moment, she sank back in her chair with the last word trembling on her lips—unspoken.
To dictate, to be absolute, was Mrs. Tweedie's joy—her life; but her power was waning, though she did not realize it. A mild spirit of rebellion had crept into the minds of some of the members which promised to bear fruit before the expiration of her term of office. Mrs. Stout, the only outspoken rebel, caused Mrs. Tweedie more annoyance than any other member because she would speak truths that were certain to hit somebody, and Mrs. Tweedie always presented the most tempting mark.
"What have you learned concerning the orchestra,Mrs. Jones?" asked Miss Sawyer when the temporary cessation of talk had cleared away the clouds.
"Orchestra!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, without giving Mrs. Jones a chance to reply. "An orchestra will cost too much. Can't we get somebody to play the piano for nothing? We're tryin' to make money—anybody can spend it."
Mrs. Tweedie had set her heart upon having an orchestra, and immediately trained her guns on Mrs. Stout's economical proposition and opened fire.
"Money is not the only thing," she said, epigrammatically. "We must not forget what we owe to art. To my mind orchestral music is an absolutely essential adjunct to a Thespian production."
"Perhaps that's so," replied Mrs. Stout, doubtfully. "I ain't quite pos'tive."
Mrs. Tweedie smiled. With her big words she had scored a bull's-eye.
"As for the money," Mrs. Stout continued, "maybe it ain't the 'only thing,' but it comes precious near it."
"But, Mrs. Stout," said Fanny Tweedie,"we've justgotto make a 'hit' with our first entertainment."
"Fanny, we are not talking about baseball," remonstrated Mrs. Tweedie, who had absorbed unconsciously some knowledge of the national game from her son Thomas, and for the moment forgot the application to the stage of the word in question.
"The word 'hit' means success on the stage," replied Fanny. "Does it not, Miss Sawyer?"
"I have seen the word so used in the newspapers," answered Miss Sawyer.
"The newspapers," said Mrs. Tweedie, sharply, "are not written in the best English."
"Perhaps they ain't," interposed Mrs. Stout, "but they're written the way most of us talk and so that we can understand 'em."
"The word has little to do with the business before us," snapped Mrs. Tweedie, dismissing the subject. "You mentioned programmes and tickets, Miss Sawyer, what about them?"
"The expense will be only a trifle; I suppose Mr. Hunter will do the printing," replied Miss Sawyer.
"Of course," said Mrs. Tweedie, in a positive way that the ladies did not like, because Mr.Hunter was Mrs. Tweedie's cousin, a descendant of the famous ancestor. "And now," she continued, "is there anything else that has not been attended to?"
"Has the hall been hired?" asked Mrs. Jones.
"Really!" exclaimed Miss Sawyer, "I had wholly forgotten it!"
"You'd better get after it quick, or some of the men folks will get ahead of us with some kind of a political meetin'," said Mrs. Stout. "Then we'll have to 'stoop to conquer' all right."
"You will attend to the matter to-day, Miss Sawyer?" Mrs. Tweedie asked, and upon receiving an affirmative nod continued, "And now, if there is—"
"Oh," interrupted Mrs. Jones, "what shall we do about Mr. Flint? He is so firmly opposed to our entertainment that—"
"He's our advertisin' agent," remarked Mrs. Stout, irreverently.
"Whatcanwe do?" said Miss Sawyer.
"What canhedo?" asked Fanny.
"It grieves me," Mrs. Tweedie began, "to think that we are engaged upon an enterprise to which our worthy pastor is so much opposed, but I do not see my way clear to yield to his opposition.Surely the club cannot give up the entertainment."
"All we can do," said Mrs. Stout, "is to go ahead with the show and pay no attention to what he says."
"Mrs. Stout, our entertainment is not to be a 'show' in any sense," replied Mrs. Tweedie, indignantly.
"As I said once before to-day, it may be for some of us," retorted Mrs. Stout.
"Well, I attend Mr. Flint's church," said Mrs. Jones, "and have the greatest respect for him, but I must say that I cannot fully agree with him in his ideas about the stage."
"Nor I," said Miss Sawyer.
"He's too stiff-backed for me," was Mrs. Stout's contribution.
"Me too," chirped Fanny, and her mother and Mrs. Blake silently agreed with the others. For once they were of one mind. Mr. Flint could rave until he was hoarse.
"For the land sakes!" suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she sat up very straight with her eyes fixed upon something on the other side of the room. Then, as though controlled by some mysterious, irresistible force, she got up andwalked toward the mantel, and when near enough to be sure that her eyes were not deceiving her, stopped. "If it ain't a picture of Sam Billin's!"
Miss Sawyer blushed, and wondered how she could have been so careless. Poor Lizzie, with her Sam was a sort of "forlorn hope," and everybody knew it, but Mrs. Stout did not spare her.
"It's usually pretty serious when he gets 'round to givin' his picture," she said. "I wouldn't have believed it, Miss Sawyer, because Sam ain't exactly your kind. To be sure he's got some good points, but he ain't literary a mite."
"Mrs. Stout," said Mrs. Tweedie, angrily, "we came here this morning to transact business connected with our entertainment, andnotto meddle with the affairs of others."
"Well," replied Mrs. Stout, good-naturedly, "we seem to have done both pretty well."
"Imustbe going," said Mrs. Jones, as she jumped up and bustled about getting her things and began putting them on. The others followed her example and thus again was the rupture that seemed inevitable between Mrs. Tweedie and Mrs. Stout postponed.
When they had gone Miss Sawyer took the photograph of Sam Billings from the mantel,looked at it for a long time, and then, with a sigh which could not be suppressed, she hid the picture in a drawer beneath a package of photographs of forgotten friends.
Two Letters
Will—friend:—Since my last letter much has happened in Manville of interest to us both—more than I have time to tell now. The schools opened last Monday, and the children really seemed glad to get back—especially the dirty ones. I have discovered that work gives more happiness than idleness and the gossip of the village.
Many versions of the story of our accident have been circulated the length and breadth of the land. Since then Mrs. Tweedie has kept me at arm's length, but Fanny has become a real friend, one whom I need and appreciate.
Every spare moment we spend rehearsing the scene that we are to give at the club entertainment.
The Morning Glories are blooming all the time, and the entertainment is expected to be the event of the season.
I called on the Duncans yesterday. Rufe has reformed, temporarily, at least, and Mrs. Duncan, poor creature, is happier than she has been for many years.
They had found out who put the flowers on little Bessie's grave, and were very grateful.
Good Mrs. Stout continues to keep people and things stirred up. I imagine that her motto must be "The Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth." I never would have believed that the truth spoken at all times, regardless of anybody and everything, could be so amusingly disturbing.
What you have written about your work is very interesting—please tell me more. Whenever I rehearse the part that I am to play there are many—many lines that send my thoughts to you. The closing words are best: "All angels guard and keep you."
Barbara.
January seventeenth.
Jan. 20, 18—.
My dear Barbara:—Until I went away and began to receive your letters I never knew what a real letter was like. When I was at college, father wrote me a weekly sermon, and mother sent pages of don'ts. They are doing the same now, but you send me what I need—cheerfulness and encouragement.
My work continues to be interesting, though hard, but hard work is what I need, too. Until now, I never knew how satisfying it could be. I never knew what it was to feel like a man until I began the struggle urged on by love for a good woman.
From your letters I have received the impression that my native town is being stirred up in a manner that must be a revelation to the inhabitants who have been asleep for so many years. If the Morning Glories never do anything else they will have accomplished a great deal. I know that you will be splendid in your part, and hope to be able to come down to see you, but cannot be sure until the last moment.
I have resumed my evening studies and take much pleasure in them.
Since I have been here I have attended church regularly—something that I have not done since I was physically big enough to refuse—and please don't laugh when I confess that I enjoy the service very much.
The sermons are different from any that I have ever heard before. The clergyman seems to be talking tome, about clean thoughts and right living. And when the service is over I feel stronger and better, and that the world is a beautiful place.It is beautiful, Barbara, because you are in it. Each day I long so much to see you. What is there that I would not give for one moment in your presence? As it is, your letters are my life.
Will.
Advertising
"Howd'y'," said Sam Billings, one morning as he sauntered into Stout's Grocery, where the proprietor was busily engaged sorting a barrel of apples.
"Mornin'," replied Peter.
"Nice kind of weather."
"Yes."
"How's things?"
"Nothin' to complain about."
"You're lucky."
"You mean I 'tend to business."
"What's that got to do with luck?"
"Most everything."
"What you gettin' for apples now?" Sam asked as he picked up one of the largest and took a huge bite.
"Nothin'—for some," replied Peter, without looking up.
"Give 'em away?" munched Sam, innocently.
"Don't have to."
"You mean some folks pay, and some folks don't?"
"Somethin' like that."
"And them that do pay have to make up for them that don't," Sam chuckled, wisely.
"That's about it," replied Peter, wearily, as he rolled the empty barrel toward the rear of the store.
"Say, Peter," said Sam, following, "I want to borrer some big sheets of wrappin' paper and your markin' ink and brush, if you don't mind."
"Goin' to write a letter?" grinned Peter.
"Now, Peter, quit your teasin'. I'll tell you all about it when it's finished."
"All right, help yourself," said Peter, as he went behind the counter, and turned an attentive ear, and a smiling what-will-you-have-this-morning look on a customer who had just come in.
Sam took twenty-five or thirty of the largest sheets of wrapping-paper he could find, and went into the back room where the oil, molasses, vinegar, empty boxes, etc., were kept. After rummaging about for a few minutes he found the marking ink and brush. Then he spread one of the sheets of paper on a bench, dipped the brush in the ink, and eyed the paper with a how-shall-I-begin look. Five minutes later Peter came out todraw some oil and found him in the same attitude.
"Got somethin' on your mind, Sam?" he asked.
"Eh! Oh, yes," Sam replied, "I say, Peter, have you got any old show-bills?"
"There's one in the window 'bout the firemen's 'play-out' over to Union Corners."
"That won't do."
"Well, then there's some old circus bills pasted on the inside of the barn door," said Peter, as he squatted in front of the kerosene barrel and began filling a can.
"I dunno, guess I'll take a look at 'em anyway," replied Sam, doubtfully, as he started out of the back door toward the barn.
Peter watched through the doorway, and wondered what Sam was up to until he was called back to business by the kerosene which was running over the top of the can.
Sam returned to the back room after an absence of ten minutes, took up his brush and eagerly went to work. After half an hour's labour he had painted something that resembled a homemade no-trespassing-beware-of-the-dog sign upside down, which read:
"BIG SHOWCOME ONE COME ALL AND SEETHE MORNING GLORYCLUB inShakespeare.
Veterans Hall ManvilleWed. Evg. Feb. 17, 18—, at eight o'clock SHARP doors open atseventickets 25 cents RESERVED seats andchildren15 cents EXTRA, nochildrenand dogs in ARMS not admitted."
Sam held up the sheet and read it again and again with pride. His only regret was that he had no red or green paint to heighten the effect and make the poster a work of real art.
"Peter," he called, when he was sure that his work could not be improved, and when Peter appeared in the doorway, asked: "What do you think of that?"
"Well," said Peter, slowly, after he had read the poster, "it shows up some."
"I should say it did," replied Sam, proudly. "And it's jest what the show needs. Ev'ry house and barn for ten miles 'round oughter be papered with 'em inside and out."
"Your idea?" queried Peter.
"Ev'ry word."
"What you goin' to do with it?"
"Make a dozen more and stick 'em up 'round."
"Does the club women folks know?" asked Peter.
"Well,—er—I—I've talked it over with one of the officers," replied Sam, hesitating suspiciously. "And she kinder thought that some advertisin' ought to be done, though they didn't want to spend any money doin' it. So I thought I'd help 'em out and s'prise 'em at the same time."
"They'll be surprised all right," said Peter, grinning.
"Think so?"
"Sure."
"Guess they'll think my advertisin' scheme's all right."
"Hope so, for your sake," replied Peter, as he returned to his work.
Sam worked industriously during the remainder of the forenoon, and by noontime had finished twelve more posters just like the first.
"Mind if I put one of these up on the outside of the store?" he asked, as he emerged from theback room with one of the posters carefully held up in front of himself.
"Go ahead," said Peter, who was busy and had been bothered enough for one morning. Ten minutes later the poster was exposed on the front of the store where the public—when it happened that way—could see it. Sam was patiently waiting for the first passer-by when Alick Purbeck drove up. Alick read the poster through, and then gave a long whistle.
"Well, what you got to say?" asked Sam, who had watched from the doorway for the effect of the poster on Alick.
"Reads like a circus; some of your doin's, I'll bet," Alick replied.
"Yes, 'tis; you don't know a good thing when you see it."
"Perhaps not," retorted Alick, "but I know some folks in town that will appreciate it. If you knew how much paint you'd got on your face, you'd go and stick your head into a bucket of turpentine."
Sam sneered at Alick's remark, but, though he did have some misgivings as to how his work would be received, was determined to carry out his original plan. Without deigning to look orspeak to Alick or Peter, he went into the store, filled his mouth with tacks, put a hammer in his pocket, took another poster, and went across the street to Mr. Flint's church, where he tacked the poster on to the bulletin board over the notice of an oyster party.
The opposition of Mr. Flint to the stage in general, and the club entertainment in particular, did not occur to Sam. His only thought was that the church was a good and conspicuous place for a poster.
Alick Purbeck watched from the doorway when Sam started across the road, and when he saw what his object was called Peter.
"See what that blamed fool's doin'," he said.
"He'll get set on so hard some day that he'll know it," was Peter's comment.
When the poster was secure in its place, Sam walked slowly backward until he reached the middle of the road, where he stopped with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked to one side, and viewed his work with a critical eye. He had been there but a moment when Doctor Jones drove up, and when he saw Sam's peculiar attitude stopped.
"Hello, Sam, what do you see that is so absorbing?"he asked, after waiting a moment for Sam to move or speak. In reply Sam waved his hand proudly toward the poster on the church.
The doctor looked and read.
"Some of your work?" he asked.
Sam nodded.
"So you are the club's advertising agent?"
"Nope," replied Sam, modestly. "I jest wanted to help 'em out a little."
"Very kind, I'm sure," said the doctor, as he drove away wondering who had made the mistake.
When Sam returned to the store he found Alick Purbeck standing in the doorway grinning.
"Do you expect to live long, Sam?" asked Alick.
Sam pushed by without replying, went to the back room, rolled up the remaining posters, walked out of the store without looking to the right or left, and marched off up the road.
By nightfall twelve more of Sam's posters were displayed in as many conspicuous places, and before the last one had been tacked up the whole town—except the members of the Morning Glory Club—was laughing.
Mrs. Tweedie was furious when Tommy asked if he could go to the "Big Show," and poor Ezra,he would have thought it funny had not his wife scolded the whole evening just as though he was to blame.
That night, after they were abed, Mrs. Stout told Peter, among other things, that he didn't have the sense of a half-grown puppy to let that fool of a Sam Billings do such a thing. When she had finished it was time for Peter to get up—and he thought so, too.
The Reverend Elijah Flint was in a terrible rage (state of righteous indignation). He went to the church as soon as he heard of the outrage, tore the offending poster into fragments, and vehemently declared that the perpetrator of the crime should be punished to the full extent of the law.
And Miss Sawyer, poor Lizzie, she knew that it was her fault, and bemoaned her indiscretion in mentioning advertising to Sam Billings. She wept all night, and vowed that she would never speak to him again as long as she lived.