PS 3513 
 .1263 
 PI3 
 1912 
 Copy 1 
 
 FTER 
 
 YEARS 
 
 (7 W Other Sketches 
 
 By 
 
 David Gibson 
 
Class. 
 
 
 Book SL zh^f iu 
 
 Copyright 1^^. 
 
 
 CfiPyRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES 
 
 Br 
 DAVID GIBSON 
 
 c|o 
 
 Clebelanb 
 
 THE DAVID GIBSON COMPANY 
 MCMXII 
 

 ^^'^Y^ 
 ^•^> 
 
 t^/.V^ 
 
 Copyright, 1912 
 
 By THE DAl^ID GIBSON COMPANY 
 
 Published Stptember, 1912 
 
 gCLA3<J0591 
 
TO MY BUSINESS ASSOCIATE 
 ROBERT E. GAMMEL 
 
These sketches originally appeared^ 
 for the most part^ in the Gibson 
 magazines^ a series of personally 
 edited monthly publications devot- 
 ed to industrial and commercial 
 sociology^ where they were used 
 in providing variety to more 
 serious editorial 
 expression 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 After Many Years 3 
 
 How Grandma Cleaned the Attic 17 
 
 A Tragedy of Progress 25 
 
 Bill's Day Off 33 
 
 Just One Morning 39 
 
 The Awakening of Mulo Place 51 
 
 The Country Barber Shop 65 
 
 Memories of an Old Man 75 
 
 *'What Time She Burnt" 85 
 
 The Man and the Mouse 91 
 
 Lige Tinchard — Preacher 105 
 
 The Egotism of Memory 1 13 
 
 The Broken Spell 119 
 
 The Man From Keersburg 127 
 
 The Sporty Bachelor 141 
 
 The Flat Next Door 153 
 
 The Melodrama of Yesterday 163 
 
 The Reformation of Salutie 171 
 
 At Kimes' Corners 181 
 
 Grandma Ross' Story 189 
 
 The Country Preacher 197 
 
 Autumn 207 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 HE sat in the smoking compartment of 
 a Pullman, chewing the end of an 
 expensive perfecto — a large man of 
 perhaps five and forty. The type that gives 
 one the impression of manual work and priva- 
 tion in early years and luxury and leisure in 
 later life. 
 
 The train stopped at a small station where 
 the principal citizens stood about the plat- 
 form in copper-riveted overalls scratching 
 their shins with their boot-heels. 
 
 "I was reared in just such a place," he said. 
 "In a central Indiana town consisting of a 
 drab depot, a red elevator, a hog-chute and 
 a saw-mill, all adjoining a trunk-line railroad 
 track; a public square, a court-house in the 
 center, surrounded by stores of an agricul- 
 tural district — the hub of the community, 
 with four streets extending In as many direc- 
 tions on which the abodes of man and beast 
 became further apart till they diminished to 
 open roads with green pastures on either side. 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 "My father was the one man in the com- 
 munity who, even on week days, wore a black 
 Prince Albert coat, white waistcoat with ivory 
 ball buttons, pleated shirt, stovepipe hat, thin 
 soled shoes, carried a cane and smoked smooth 
 yellow cigars. 
 
 "Formerly a farmer — a 'weak-heart' 
 farmer — this imaginary affliction excused him 
 from manual work, justified selling his land 
 and moving into town to become a country 
 justice of the peace. 
 
 "A natural, almost phenomenal, mathe- 
 matician, he occasionally did surveying with 
 an old peep-sight or Jacob's staff transit. 
 
 "There was nothing the matter with my 
 mother's heart. Aside from household work, 
 she raised chickens, milked cows, made but- 
 ter, gave reed-organ lessons and kept a 
 boarder or two, thereby materially assisting 
 my father in maintaining himself in the gen- 
 tlemanly attire and the dignified idleness of a 
 country squire. 
 
 "Many are the times I have seen my mother 
 take her worn hands from a tub of white 
 waistcoats and pleated shirts, and with water 
 wrinkled fingers, pick a quarter from a purse 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 of her own money to send me to a store for 
 a day's supply of my father's smooth yellow 
 cigars. 
 
 "Slight in body, broken in spirit, she 'trod 
 the wine-press alone.' 
 
 "To my father's deep chagrin, I did not in- 
 herit his mathematical ability — I was deficient 
 as he proficient. Though I more than main- 
 tained an average in other studies, he 
 preached to me about industry being a sub- 
 stitute for talent and forced me to study many 
 hours each evening under his tutorage, but 
 my stupidity in even the simple examples of 
 fractions was such that my parental instructor 
 usually closed a lesson with an exhibition of 
 towering rage. 
 
 "One day in school the reading class was 
 called. In this study I excelled — I could not 
 only read with understanding, but with feel- 
 ing. The lesson that day was 'The Death of 
 Little Nell' in 'McGuffey's Fifth Reader.' A 
 certain part of this I could not read without 
 crying. I counted the number of paragraphs, 
 the turns ahead, and found that this would 
 fall to me. My cap was in my pocket. I 
 asked to be excused and ran off for home. 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 "Unexpectedly I met my father in the door- 
 yard. 'What are you doin' home at this 
 hour?' he demanded sternly; 'school ain't out 
 yet.' 
 
 " 'They — they — was readin' a sad piece in 
 the reader, I — I — was ashamed to cry before 
 the whole school and — and — ' 
 
 " 'Well,' he shouted, at the same time seiz- 
 ing a narrow flour-barrel stave, 'guess you 
 ain't ashamed to cry before me!' 
 
 "A cloud of dust arose, there were the 
 shouts of an enraged man, the screams of a 
 child and the resounding blows on a frail 
 body. 
 
 "A fourteen-year-old boy emerged from 
 that cloud of dust with love for his father 
 gone forever. 
 
 "I ran to my mother, knelt before her, and 
 wept — not with pain but with despair — the in- 
 justice, the seeming hopelessness of the condi- 
 tion into which I had been born — father's in- 
 sensibility to my finer instincts. 
 
 "My mother with her work-worn hands 
 and cold water, smoothed my bodily wounds, 
 but the spirit of revolt arose within me. 
 
 6 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 "The next day, wandering into the hotel 
 stable yard, I found an old man, standing be- 
 fore a hearse-shaped wagon, gaily painted and 
 divided into many compartments with doors 
 at the sides and end, a buggy-top over the 
 front seat and filled with street-corner mer- 
 chandise — sold by the light of a gasoline lamp 
 hung on a clothes prop nailed to the side of a 
 drygoods-box rostrum. 
 
 "As I was curious the old man showed me 
 through his stock, which consisted of cheap 
 jewelry, 'Dr. Littleton's Lightning Liniment, 
 for Man and Beast'; books — 'How to Shine 
 in Society,' 'Funny Stories by Funny Drum- 
 mers, or How to Entertain Your Customers,' 
 'Every Man His Own Lawyer,' 'Ready Let- 
 ter-Writer,' and 'Household Recipes' — how to 
 make baking powder, bluing, paint for a 
 cent a pound, whitewash that wouldn't come 
 off, and how to cure squeaky shoes. 
 
 "In one compartment was a box-like ma- 
 chine of galvanized iron — for washing and 
 drying dishes, the old man explained. The 
 dishes were placed on wire racks in a tight 
 box, hot water being forced against them by 
 means of a hand crank-operated rotary fan. 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 After cleaning and rinsing the water was 
 drawn off by means of a large faucet at the 
 bottom, and the fan used to blow the dishes 
 dry. He had invented it, he said, for domestic 
 use; had sold a few, but there wasn't much 
 demand, as he expressed it, for wife-saving 
 devices in. that country; for men found it 
 cheaper to work their wives to death, 
 
 "At this I told my trouble, the old man 
 walked to the rear of the wagon, lowered a 
 rack-life shelf supported by two straps, and 
 gave a suggestive wink. 
 
 "From that rack next day I saw the last of 
 my native town. I didn't see my father again 
 until — well — after many years. 
 
 "My benefactor was all my father should 
 have been, paying my board wherever we 
 stopped, setting me up with a stock of goods 
 and allowing me the profit on all I sold from 
 house to house, 
 
 "We traveled with comfort. The old man 
 traded horses frequently and usually got bet- 
 ter animals than he gave; we made money 
 and lived on the best the country afforded, 
 
 "After seven years of road life my bene- 
 factor fell ill, and realizing that it was his 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 last bed, executed a bill of sale in my favor 
 for all his possessions, amounting to a few 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 "After discharging my employer's last few 
 commissions I planned to visit my family, 
 but did not. By chance I learned that my 
 mother had gone to her first and last rest and 
 my father had remarried. 
 
 "Almost from the outset I had seen the 
 possibilities of the old man's dish-washing de- 
 vice, and a complete machine for a model, the 
 casting patterns, a loft, some rough benches, 
 a few tinners, and small advertisements in 
 farm and household papers were the begin- 
 nings of my industrial existence. 
 
 "One day twelve years later I sat in my 
 private office. From the outer general offices 
 came the sound of half a hundred type- 
 writers, a noise like that in a weaving room 
 of a woolen mill; through the acreage of ad- 
 joining buildings came the sound of packers' 
 hammers, the roll of hand trucks, the chug 
 of punch presses, the squeak of belts, the 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 rattle of casting tumblers, the roar of cupola 
 blasts; the odor of sulphurous gases, hot oil, 
 turpentine and nickel plating chemicals. My 
 cashier entered the room and handed me a 
 check for — well, a very large sum of money. 
 The profits of the years previous had gone 
 for development of the plant, and with the 
 amount of my first dividend before me I 
 realized that I had arrived. 
 
 "I looked out of the window and through 
 the cloud of smoke and steam that whirled 
 past, I saw visions of events in those twelve 
 years. I thought of the time that I slept 
 in the shop, cooked my meals, worked at the 
 bench by day and kept books and answered 
 inquiries by night, — wonderful how my math- 
 ematics improved when applied to my own 
 dollars and cents: then the period where the 
 demand exceeded the production, and my im- 
 patience in the lack of capital for develop- 
 ment; then patent litigation — patents are only 
 a license to sue or get sued; then competition 
 and the fight for the survival of the shrewd- 
 est. 
 
 10 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 "Then, in my mental roaming I came unto 
 the more distant past; the drab depot, the 
 red elevator, the hog-chute, the saw-mill; the 
 public square with the court-house in the cen- 
 ter and surrounded by stores, the four streets 
 in as many directions on which the abodes of 
 man and beast became further apart till they 
 were open roads with green pastures on either 
 side. 
 
 "Then the school, the old Fifth Reader, 
 'The Death of Little Nell.' 
 
 "My mother? She had gone. The old 
 man — my benefactor — likewise. My father, 
 I assumed, was still in the old town. 
 
 "Would I go back? No: 'Guess you ain't 
 ashamed to cry before me,' rang in my mem- 
 ory. 
 
 "To ease my conscience, though, I wrote, 
 urged him to visit me and enclosed a draft 
 for his transportation. 
 
 "Early one morning a western limited 
 rolled into the station. I was at the gate. He 
 came across the tracks. Tall; white hair and 
 beard; stovepipe hat, nap worn off in patches, 
 shirt-pleats torn loose in places; scissors- 
 
 11 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 trimmed cuffs; ravelled white waistcoat, ivory 
 ball buttons yellow with age; Prince Albert 
 coat faded and frayed, and thin-soled shoes 
 'invisibly' patched many times. Straight of 
 body, proud in spirit and full of years. 
 
 "I opened a campaign of kindness by or- 
 dering a good breakfast. Later we repaired 
 to where high-class ready-to-wear clothes were 
 sold, and for his immediate use I bought a 
 fine twill Prince Albert suit. Then a dozen 
 pleated shirts with cuffs attached, a half-dozen 
 white waistcoats, two boxes of collars, one of 
 string ties, a dozen cambric handkerchiefs, a 
 silk hat, and buckhorn-handled cane. 
 
 "At the jeweler's, solid gold collar and cuff 
 buttons, a pair of gold nose-glasses, and a 
 shirt-stud and a ring — both set with a dia- 
 mond of moderate size. At the bank, a roll 
 of new bills for his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 "He retired to the hotel where I reside to 
 array himself, and after he emerged from a 
 barbershop — hair cut, beard trimmed and 
 shaved, long silvery locks flowing from under 
 his silk tile — pedestrians turned to look at 
 him. 
 
 12 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 "During his stay I did all that energy and 
 money could do for his happiness. In a few 
 days, though, he became restless to return — I 
 knew that in reality he wanted to exhibit his 
 acquisitions in the home town, but he had been 
 measured at a merchant tailor's for a black 
 broadcloth suit and a light and a heavy 
 weight overcoat — the latter with a cape fast- 
 ening in front with elaborate braid frogs. I 
 urged him to wait at least till these were done. 
 
 "One morning they were delivered, and I 
 found him before a mirror on a wardrobe 
 door, in my room. He wore the broadcloth 
 suit. By turning and twisting his body and 
 craning his neck he examined the fit, smoothed 
 out imaginary wrinkles and brushed off im- 
 aginary bits of dust with the back of his hand. 
 
 "I came up to him. 'Here, father,' I 'said, 
 'this is something I had forgotten — it will 
 complete the outfit.' 
 
 "He opened a leather case and revealed a 
 gold Swiss repeater watch. He examined it, 
 pushed the spring, when its rapid little pulse 
 chimed out the time — the hour — the moment 
 that had arrived — 
 
 13 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
 
 "After many years. 
 
 "His eyes filled with tears. He reached 
 down deep into his coat-tail pocket, pulled out 
 an old red bandana handkerchief and said: 
 
 " 'My son, I'm going to cry.' 
 
 "I was about to say: 'Guess you ain't 
 ashamed to cry before me,' but — 
 
 "I didn't." 
 
 14 
 
HOW GRANDMA CLEANED THE 
 ATTIC 
 
HOW GRANDMA CLEANED THE 
 ATTIC 
 
 SHE was about one generation removed 
 from the type that wore black caps and 
 did knitting. Grandma had houses 
 and lands and crisp papers with green print- 
 ing on them, lived in a big, old, box-corniced 
 house with a daughter, some grandchildren, 
 and a son-in-law who looked after grandma's 
 business — in other words, he did nothing. 
 
 Occasionally, grandma assumed control of 
 matters domestic and spoiled her grandchil- 
 dren at will. Of course the houses and lands 
 and crisp papers with green printing on them 
 were not the only reason she had her way, but 
 they helped some. 
 
 About the carol of the first robin, grandma 
 would move uneasily in her chair and say: 
 "There's all them old things up in that attic. 
 If the house would ever ketch fire they would 
 burn us all alive, and they ain't one uv 'em 
 worth shucks. When I clean house I'm a 
 great hand to begin up and go down." 
 
 17 
 
HOW GRANDMA CLEANED THE ATTIC 
 
 Early in the morning a few days later 
 would find her, dressed in her oldest gown, 
 at the head of the attic stairs, chin in her 
 hand and looking about in a bewildered way. 
 
 Off in the corner her eye fell on an old 
 disemboweled hair-cloth sofa with a cluster 
 of peaches and grapes carved on the back. 
 
 She stood silently contemplating it. "There 
 were four chairs went with that sofa," she 
 said to herself. "Yes, there they are," and 
 dragging them out from obscurity she 
 arranged them in a semi-circle. They were 
 the first pieces of furniture of her married 
 life, and she recalled the day when, with her 
 husband, she selected them at old Ambrose 
 Bolin's furniture and undertaking store down 
 at Twinsburg. 
 
 Then she turned to a black walnut bureau 
 with a mirror on top — wavy, but as good as 
 they had in its day. She wiped away the dust 
 and looked at herself. Was it her first coun- 
 tenance she saw reflected there? She opened 
 the top drawer, took out a bundle of daguerre- 
 otypes, wrapped in a strip of flannel, 
 selected her own from the lot, held it to the 
 
 18 
 
HOW GRANDMA CLEANED THE ATTIC 
 
 light and compared it to her present day self 
 in the mirror. 
 
 She recalled the time it was taken. A 
 "likeness man" came through the country, 
 stopped at their house and "took" the family 
 for his board and keep. 
 
 Grandma found a couple of feather pillows 
 on the floor, thought a soaking rain would do 
 them good, and threw them out the back win- 
 dow into the yard below. 
 
 Then she picked up a footstool; it was 
 about to go likewise, when the ear at the side 
 by which she held it came off and it fell to 
 the floor with a loud clank and rattle. She 
 recalled how she had made it to take to 
 church — a cluster of seven fruit cans, filled 
 with rocks and the whole covered with carpet. 
 
 By the chimney was a little old trunk, like 
 a stunted figure eight, covered with long goat 
 fur, and on one end three initials formed of 
 brass tacks. She remembered how she dis- 
 liked to go anywhere with this particular 
 trunk, for it always had a way of smelling in 
 damp weather. 
 
 Grandma lifted the lid, burrowed deep 
 among the contents and pulled out a bundle 
 
 19 
 
HOW GRANDMA CLEANED THE ATTIC 
 
 in a small shawl. From It she unrolled a tin 
 rattle, a pair of child's shoes, and a dollar of 
 1818 with a string attached through a hole. 
 
 But why did Grandma have the child's 
 shoes wrapped again in cotton batting? A 
 bit of mud between the heel and Instep came 
 off In her hand. They were the shoes he wore 
 last time he went out. She fitted the bit of 
 mud back in place again and as she did so a 
 tear fell upon It. Then she looked at all the 
 little dents In the dollar of 1 8 1 8 — they were 
 the marks where he cut his teeth. She picked 
 up the tin rattle, examined It minutely, and — 
 and — yes, she blew the whistle in the handle 
 end. This once distracting noise was now 
 music In her memory. 
 
 One of her grandchildren came to the head 
 of the attic stairs to say that lunch was ready, 
 but, of course. Grandma didn't want any 
 lunch that day, and she buried her face deep 
 in the trunk so the child would not see her 
 weep. 
 
 There were bundles and bundles of old let- 
 ters in that same trunk tied with faded blue 
 ribbon — letters with wax seals, before the 
 days of envelopes or postage stamps — letters 
 
 20 
 
HOW GRANDMA CLEANED THE ATTIC 
 
 In a copper-plated hand and stilted style : 
 "My Most Esteemed Friend. I take my pen 
 in hand to state to you that I am in the best of 
 health, and hope these few lines will find you 
 enjoying the same God's blessing." Grandma 
 opened bundle after bundle and letter after 
 letter. 
 
 It began to rain — the rain fell on the roof 
 and Grandma's tears fell on the pages opened 
 into things of long ago. 
 
 About four o'clock Grandma put every- 
 thing back in the trunk, closed the lid and 
 came down stairs — her hands covered with 
 dust and grime of time and her eyes red with 
 weeping. 
 
 She held out a few square inches of figured 
 silk to her daughter and said: "Here is a 
 piece of the vest your father wore the night 
 we were married; I thought I might put it in 
 my next quilt." 
 
 And that's how Grandma cleaned the attic. 
 
 ai 
 
A TRAGEDY OF PROGRESS 
 
A TRAGEDY OF PROGRESS 
 
 GO into your native Indiana town and 
 boyhood home after many years. 
 On the corner of the two principal 
 business streets is a large and comparatively 
 new five-story brick building. 
 
 There is a department store below and 
 offices above. On this site there formerly 
 stood a large wooden building, the first floor 
 occupied by a rag, old-iron and general junk 
 dealer who went about the country in a wagon, 
 trading tin and glassware for various kinds 
 of his plunder. 
 
 The second floor contained the shop of Jake 
 Kern, the town cobbler and shoemaker, who 
 owned the property. 
 
 His bench was in such a position as to com- 
 mand a view of the street leading to the sta- 
 tion, and here the editor of the country paper 
 came to get his local items; for old Jake knew 
 everybody that passed in and out of town. 
 
 Although he followed shoemaking, he was 
 an all-around mechanical genius, and in a 
 
 25 
 
A TRAGEDY OF PROGRESS 
 
 room behind the shop he had a standing 
 bench and the tools of almost every trade. 
 
 Once he made a little one-horsepower slide- 
 valve engine and boiler. The cylinder and 
 most of the parts were of Babbitt metal, and 
 the fly-wheel, crank and eccentric were off an 
 old sewing-machine. 
 
 A veritable walking encyclopedia and for 
 many years conducted a column in the county 
 paper under the regular caption: "Things to 
 Know." 
 
 He came to the town when it was young 
 and out of his savings bought this property 
 when its value was small and price less. For 
 many a long year he pegged away at his lit- 
 tle bench, looked out of the window down 
 the street that led to the station, tinkered in 
 the room behind the shop, wrote his "Things 
 to Know" for the county paper, and settled 
 disputes for the loafers. 
 
 Somebody struck gas and the town boomed. 
 People remarked: "Rather a dingy old 
 buildin' fer the best business corner in town," 
 and then there were different rumors that 
 different persons had bought it. But the old 
 
 26 
 
A TRAGEDY OF PROGRESS 
 
 man vigorously denied them all, pegged away 
 at his little bench, looked out of the window 
 down the street that led to the station, tink- 
 ered in the room behind the shop, wrote his 
 "Things to Know" for the county paper, and 
 settled disputes for the loafers. 
 
 One day a real-estate agent called at the 
 shop; then an offer of fifteen thousand dollars, 
 but the old man adroitly changed the subject, 
 pegged away at the little bench, looked out of 
 the window down the street that led to the 
 station, tinkered in the room behind the shop, 
 wrote his "Things to Know" for the county 
 paper, and settled disputes for the loafers. 
 
 Then came another offer of twenty-five 
 thousand dollars, another of thirty thousand 
 dollars. The influence of his two sons who 
 owned a "shoe emporium" upon the Square 
 was brought to bear. 
 
 But the old man pegged on! 
 
 Then came two raises of five thousand dol- 
 lars — each — forty thousand dollars. The two 
 sons opened a perfect broadside of arguments 
 in favor of its acceptance, reinforced by other 
 members of the family. 
 
 The pegging stopped 1 
 
 37 
 
A TRAGEDY OF PROGRESS 
 
 A wagon drove up. The old man's bench 
 and tools and trinkets were loaded in and 
 carried away to the barn behind his house, 
 while the loafers looked on in silence. 
 
 The old man came down town every day, 
 looked at the old building as it was being 
 razed, stood at the guard-rail, and watched 
 the men and teams with scrapers digging the 
 cellar and the masons laying concrete and 
 stone foundation-walls. Then he came down 
 only occasionally; when he did it was by 
 another street from where the old shop had 
 stood. 
 
 His rheumatism hurt more than usual. His 
 column in the county paper stopped. He quit 
 reading books, took to his bed, and his 
 daughters read the papers to him; later he 
 only asked what was in them, and finally 
 merely for the weather indications. 
 
 Occasionally some of the old loafers from 
 the old shoe-shop would come around, sit by 
 the bed awhile in silence, and walk out with 
 their heads bowed down. 
 
 There is no more pegging at the little 
 bench. No more looking out the window 
 down the street that leads to the station. 
 
 28 
 
A TRAGEDY OF PROGRESS 
 
 There is no more tinkering in the room 
 behind the shop. There are no more "Things 
 to Know" in the county paper. There are no 
 more disputes to settle for the loafers. The 
 old man has gone. 
 
 And forty thousand dollars are in the bank. 
 
 29 
 
BILL'S DAY OFF 
 
BILL'S DAY OFF 
 
 BILL was a healthy young hulk — a loco- 
 motive fireman. By a circumlocution, 
 all the kicks of slow train service 
 resulting from America's industrial activity 
 were heaped on poor Bill's shoulders. The 
 consignee kicked to the shipper, the shipper 
 kicked to the general freight agent, the gen- 
 eral freight agent kicked to the superintendent 
 of motive power, the superintendent of motive 
 power kicked to the master mechanic, the 
 master mechanic to the roundhouse boss, the 
 roundhouse boss to the engineer, who in turn 
 threw it all on poor Bill, who shoveled coal 
 harder and harder, and growled and growled. 
 
 It had been a long time since anybody had 
 dared think of a day off, and Bill continued to 
 heave coal into "529," "the leaky old kettle," 
 as he called it, while he growled and growled. 
 
 Bill growled to the engineer about his day 
 off, and to the other firemen, wipers and 
 hostlers. One day as Bill climbed off old 
 "529," the roundhouse boss happened along. 
 
 33 
 
bill's day off 
 
 "Say, Cap," Bill yelled, *'how about my 
 day off?" 
 
 "Never you mind, you're on," returned the 
 boss. And Bill heaved coal harder and 
 harder, and growled and growled. 
 
 Nerved by his first approach, Bill kicked 
 about his day off every time he saw the 
 roundhouse boss, and then began hunting 
 him up. 
 
 The date of Bill's day off was finally fixed, 
 but as he climbed in bed the night before, a 
 messenger came with the intelligence that the 
 "extra's" wife's grandmother had died, and 
 he must take his run out that day, so Bill 
 climbed on old "529," shoveled coal, and 
 growled. 
 
 A week later the promised day came. Bill 
 rose at the usual time, donned a blue-striped 
 stiff shirt, celluloid collar, and a pair of 
 round, rattling cuffs of the same material, red 
 necktie, blue corkscrew cloth suit, with spring- 
 bottom pants, and a pair of extension-soled 
 shoes. 
 
 After breakfast he went across the street 
 to a one-chair barber shop that smelled of 
 cinnamon and clove oil. 
 
BILL S DAY OFF 
 
 "What's the matter, Bill?" asked the bar- 
 ber. 
 
 "Got my day off," replied Bill. 
 
 After a shave, he remained a while look- 
 ing at the pictures in The Police News, then — 
 his face covered with barber's powder and 
 towel lint — walked over to the roundhouse, 
 took a newspaper from his pocket, spread It 
 out on a greasy pine board bench, and sat 
 down. 
 
 "What's the matter. Bill?" said a passing 
 wiper. 
 
 "Got a day off." Bill pulled out a yellow 
 paper sack from his pocket and "stoked" upon 
 a combination smoking and chewing tobacco; 
 examined his finger nails, as large as tea- 
 spoon bowls, cleaned them with a two-pound 
 jack-knife, which he concluded needed sharp- 
 ening. After expectorating on a sandstone 
 window sill near by, he whetted his knife till 
 12 o'clock, then started for the boarding- 
 house. 
 
 "What's the matter, Bill; you're all dressed 
 up?" said the boarders in a chorus. 
 
 "Got my day off," he replied. After tuck- 
 ing a fringed red napkin down his collar, he 
 
 35 
 
BILLYS DAY OFF 
 
 Stabbed a piece of fat cold pork with a two- 
 pronged bone-handle fork. 
 
 In the afternoon Bill returned to his place 
 on the roundhouse bench and began whittling, 
 as he wondered how "529," the "old leaky 
 kettle," was getting along. At 3 o'clock he 
 consulted his watch. "I was goin' to the op'ry 
 this afternoon, but guess it's too late," he 
 remarked to a passing hostler. Bill pulled a 
 well-packed, greasy and tattered song-book 
 from his hip pocket, containing the words of 
 the latest comic and sentimental songs, and 
 began humming through his nose something 
 about "Mother, Dear," "Gentle Eyes of 
 Blue," and "I'd Leave My Happy Home for 
 You." About 6 o'clock Bill went home. 
 
 Amid the dark steam monsters of the road, 
 the clank of hammers, the roar of blasts, and 
 escape of steam; the smell of hot oil, the gas 
 and smoke of the coal from portable repair 
 forges, Bill had spent his day off. 
 
 36 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 IT was dawn. A single figure appeared in 
 a deserted down-town street whistling in 
 loud, bird-like notes as he advanced 
 through the purple mist of morning. He 
 stopped before a certain closed door among 
 the many along the way, took from his pocket 
 a key that unfolded like a jack-knife, inserted 
 it, and, as the door opened, there issued into 
 the street a great hot blast of air heavily laden 
 with the blended odors of stale beer, stale 
 cigar smoke, cocktail bitters, lemons, mint, 
 dry oil from the floor linoleum and toilet room 
 disinfectant. 
 
 The saloon porter — for that's who it was — 
 disappeared through the interior darkness. 
 There was the clanking of brass cuspidors be- 
 ing piled one above the other; the rattle of 
 buckets, broom and mop handles; a jet of 
 water resounded on a bucket bottom; the 
 porter, hatless and coatless, began the day's 
 duties by mopping the floor, and soon the 
 
 39 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 smell of steaming suds united with the many 
 other odors, all in a grand rush to the street. 
 The screen door spring creaked, and a 
 seedy little man in thin-soled shoes appeared. 
 With a quick step he pattered to the rail and 
 gave several husky bark-like coughs. The 
 porter looked up from his mopping, wiped his 
 hands on his trousers sides and went behind 
 the bar. The little man nodded. The porter 
 set out the bottle and glasses, the little man 
 poured out a "rimmer," raised it with trem- 
 bling caution, downed it with one backward 
 nod of his head which wagged from side to 
 side as the liquor touched his palate; and a 
 tremor-like shudder descended his fragile 
 frame, which ceased in a series of nasal con- 
 vulsions as he lowered the glass and blindly 
 reached for the water. After a long, deep 
 breath the little man laid down a dime, which 
 the porter did not put in the register drawer; 
 wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, 
 he pattered out the door. 
 
 The porter had just resumed his mopping 
 when the screen door creaked again; but this 
 time he merely looked up, for the newcomer 
 walked directly behind the bar, rolled his hat 
 
 40 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 up in his coat, placed them in one of the many 
 little cupboards under the back bar, opened a 
 small drawer directly above it, with a corner 
 gnawed out by the rats, untangled a comb 
 from a string that attached a key to a billet of 
 wood and arranged some very thin, black, 
 vaseline-shining, strap-like locks over the top 
 of his very small, peaked, bald head. Ex- 
 amining his fingers, which, in size and color, 
 suggested Bologna sausages, he picked a 
 lemon knife from under the bar and began 
 manicuring his nails — the smallest as large as 
 a teaspoon bowl. His own toilet complete 
 he began that of the bar, which consisted of 
 taking the glasses, one by one, from the back 
 bar, polishing each with a towel and placing 
 them temporarily on the front bar. 
 
 The screen door gave a prolonged creak, 
 and a young man in well-made clothes and 
 soiled linen stood just inside surveying the 
 interior and its operations. He elevated his 
 nose and instinctively turned his head towards 
 the fresh air as the many odors met him. He 
 braved them, though, walked over to the bar 
 with a weak-kneed tread, leaneci against the 
 railing, unfolded a morning paper, glanced 
 
 41 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 over the head lines, and attempted to fix his 
 heavy, glassy eyes on the body type. 
 
 The bartender smiled — a half-pitying smile 
 — and asked if he would have something. 
 The young man moaned softly, looked down, 
 and, with a trembling hand, scratched a bit of 
 yellow of an egg that had lodged on one of 
 his coat buttons. The bartender suggested a 
 nice "Martini." The young man gave an- 
 other soft moan, took a sack of granulated 
 tobacco from his side coat pocket, a cigarette 
 paper from another side coat pocket, 
 smoothed the wrinkles and blew on its edge, 
 tremblingly opened the sack, poured the paper 
 full of tobacco after forming it into a little 
 trough, drew the puckering strings into his 
 teeth with a very long parched tongue after 
 much unsteady wagging of that member, 
 closed the sack, tremblingly rolled the tobacco, 
 sealed it by again extending his long parched 
 tongue, placed the finished product between 
 his teeth, lit it, blew a great cloud of smoke 
 over the bar, brushed off the tobacco crumbs 
 lodged in the wrinkles of his vest and then 
 there were a few feeble pulsations of con- 
 versation: "Sin is luring," said the young 
 
 42 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 man. "By sin I mean a breach of the laws 
 of nature — nev-er gives what it promises — 
 lures you and then lets you down with a 
 bump." 
 
 "Oh, I think you'll feel better after a little 
 whiskey and absinthe," interrupted the bar- 
 tender. 
 
 The young man nodded and moaned again 
 feebly, the decoction was set before him, he 
 downed it and opened the inside page of the 
 paper, reading more head lines, waiting for 
 the stimulant to percolate his system. The 
 body type became more and more distinct, he 
 waded through several news items, and with 
 some animation called to the bartender to 
 "shoot up" another. 
 
 By this time the porter had reached the 
 front door with his mopping and numberless 
 dirty water rivulets raced over the stone side- 
 walk, running into each other and around one 
 another all in seeming emulation to first reach 
 the gutter, leaving their path strewn with 
 cotton mop ravelings, swollen cigar butts, 
 lemon rinds, corks, burnt matches and Bo- 
 logna skins from the day before free lunch. 
 The porter swept them up, wiped his hands 
 
 43 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 on his trousers sides, took a general survey 
 of the sky and streets, smiled at the Polish 
 scrub-woman next door, who looked at him, 
 grinned, remarked something in her own 
 tongue to another scrub-woman next to that, 
 which resulted in a peal of laughter from the 
 latter, and the porter, having no defense, 
 gathered his implements and went inside. 
 
 The screen door creaked again. An 
 Italian entered carrying a basket covered 
 with a wrinkled and cracked oilcloth. Leav- 
 ing the day's supply of lemons and oranges, 
 he departed. 
 
 Next came the milkman, dressed in a 
 leather coat, carrying an unlighted cigar butt 
 between his teeth and a dented can in his 
 hand. 
 
 The mint gardener, the lunch meat man, 
 the pretzel man, the bread man, the morning 
 paper boy, all followed in quick succession. 
 
 There was a lull. The porter came in with 
 a napkin covered tray containing the bar- 
 tender's breakfast from a neighboring restau- 
 rant. The young man in the well-made 
 clothes and soiled linen had just imbibed his 
 fourth whiskey and absinthe and was begin- 
 
 44 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 ning to "take notice." He observed the bar- 
 tender despatching each item of the meal 
 placed before him. The cereal and cream, 
 the bacon, the eggs fried soft, and "lookin' 
 up," the coffee, and even the burned and 
 black potatoes fried heavy in grease. The 
 young man at last folded his paper and 
 started out with the remark that he guessed 
 he would go over and at least see if he 
 couldn't "worry down" an egg. 
 
 A gaunt figure of a man entered by the 
 rear, in wet boots, and a buggy apron covered 
 the front of his legs — a carriage washer in a 
 neighboring livery stable. He carried a half- 
 gallon fruit can with a jagged top hammered 
 down to a smooth rim, which he deposited on 
 the bar and held up a nickel with one of his 
 pink, water-wrinkled hands. With his foam- 
 ing can he departed with a passing word to 
 the porter, who by that time was shaving up 
 a block of ice in a wash tub at the back door. 
 
 A very fat clerk from the china store next 
 door came in, laid down a dime, nodded to 
 the bartender who broke an egg in a tall 
 glass, picked a bit of shell out with a long- 
 handled spoon, poured it full of beer and set 
 
 45 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 it before the fat clerk, who swallowed it at 
 a gulp and a final drain, and wiping his 
 mouth on the back of his hand, he rushed out. 
 
 Some stoop-shouldered young men in faded 
 clothes, broken shoes, and home-made shirts, 
 came in one by one, selected morning papers 
 from the front of the bar and took seats at 
 the tables in the rear. The porter remarked 
 something about "boarders" to the bartender 
 and concluded it was about time to get lunch. 
 The stoop-shouldered young men looked up 
 from their papers and followed him with 
 their eyes as he went behind the screen, and 
 soon the odors of freshly cut Bologna and 
 bread, onions and the steam from stewing 
 meat filled the air. 
 
 A group of portly men sauntered in — con- 
 tractors interspersed with a politician or two. 
 The first at the bar snapped down a silver 
 dollar and ordered whiskey. Some of the 
 others consulted their watches, but all agreed 
 it was about their time and nodded repetition. 
 With that finished another round was ordered 
 — then another. The conversation grew 
 louder and louder. Others joined them. 
 Suddenly the rattle of a dice box was heard. 
 
 46 
 
JUST ONE MORNING 
 
 The morning sun shone through the front 
 windows, over the screen and glistened among 
 the newly polished glasses on the back bar. 
 
 Lunch was ready. More men came in. 
 There was an almost continual ring of the 
 cash register bell; the rapping on the bar of 
 those impatient to be served; the hum of 
 many voices; occasional hoarse laughs; the 
 clinking of glasses; the rattle of plates and 
 forks on the lunch counter; the room filled 
 with fresh blue cigar smoke — and the saloon 
 was awake. 
 
 47 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 MULO PLACE was a little street of 
 little lots on which there were 
 little houses occupied by little 
 parents with little babies. Mulo Place was 
 nestled away on the outskirts of the city, at 
 the end of a track Y where the cars turned 
 with many toned singing squeaks to go back 
 to town, amid the weeded commons, a wooded 
 pasture and off from and surrounded by 
 longer and wider streets of wider lots on 
 which there were wider houses occupied by 
 older parents with older children. 
 
 All the houses along Mulo Place were new, 
 the odors of newly turned earth, freshly laid 
 sod, drying cement of the walks, hardening 
 paint and creosote shingle stain all formed a 
 procession of smells propelled by and mixed 
 with breezes and odors from the neighboring 
 weeded commons, the wooded pasture, which 
 blew in, and around, and over all the little 
 houses along the way. 
 
 51 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 To Stand at the head of this little street 
 and look down the row of houses on either 
 side, in their newness and uniqueness, was to 
 imagine thern all soldiers of protest, standing 
 with drawn arms, against the old and con- 
 ventional in home building : There were the 
 cement covered houses with green roofs, green 
 blinds and green strips nailed to the plaster 
 covered surfaces on which green vines twined; 
 there were brown shingled houses where 
 golden glow blossomed in the window and 
 veranda boxes; there were silver gray stained 
 houses with red roofs, — some had sodded 
 terraces up to the floor line, some were ori- 
 ental brick to the second story line, and then 
 there were bricked floor and arbor roofed 
 porches, all of which, in spite of the wide 
 variety of expressions, indicated beyond ques- 
 tion of a doubt that all the occupants of all 
 the many little houses along Mulo Place were 
 not only on the best of terms in house build- 
 ing ideas, but socially as well. 
 
 That soft, damp, clear-aired darkness pe- 
 culiar to the last of morning's first quarter 
 in late Spring hung over Mulo Place and 
 cast all the houses into dark blue gray with 
 
 52 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 only the roofs and chimney tops defined 
 against the long narrow streaks of first dawn 
 in the eastern sky. 
 
 A cool breeze blew. Night birds hovered 
 about and gave their squeaking cry. The soft 
 pulsation of a locomotive on a distant rail- 
 road, increasing as it approached near dis- 
 tance; a blast of the whistle in three toned 
 chimes; the rush of cars, and then all subsid- 
 ing into quietness with the train in the far 
 distance. Then complete silence; broken in 
 a moment by a carol from a robin in the 
 wooded pasture. 
 
 A far distant cock crowed, a middle distant 
 cock answered, closely followed by one in the 
 near distance. 
 
 All was quiet again. 
 
 The dawn breeze blew. 
 
 A far distant babe's cry came from No. 24 
 Mulo Place, a light quickly appeared in the 
 window, and a night-gowned and pajamaed 
 figure passed and repassed. 
 
 A middle distant babe's cry from No. 16 
 Mulo Place answered that of No. 24, closely 
 followed by one in near distance from No. 9 ; 
 lights also quickly appeared in the windows 
 
 53 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 with the passing and repassing of more night- 
 gowned and pajamaed figures. 
 
 One by one the crying babes were silenced, 
 lights disappeared and all was quiet again. 
 
 A rumbling wagon turned the corner into 
 Mulo Place and stopped mid-way down the 
 row. A rubber-booted and overalled man got 
 out with a lantern; there was a clinking of 
 glass in the back of the wagon and the driver 
 began weaving around and back of all the 
 houses leaving bottles of milk on each back 
 porch. 
 
 The dawn streaks grew longer, wider, 
 lighter and became fringed with gold. 
 
 The milk man drove out of one end of the 
 street and the paper boy came in the other 
 on a bicycle, folding and throwing the morn- 
 ing paper, hitting every front door on either 
 side of the row as he went along. 
 
 The whole sky grew light. 
 
 The last owl car singingly squeaked on the 
 track Y as it turned back to town. 
 
 A matted-haired Persian tabby cat shrink- 
 ingly skurried across the street and disap- 
 peared into the basement window of a brown 
 shingle house, which had evidently been built 
 
 54 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 and the color scheme entuned to the cat, but 
 this particular cat, like many a pet along 
 Mulo Place, had fallen into neglect by the 
 advent of a new baby. 
 
 The cool breezes of early morning died 
 down. 
 
 The full glowing sun peered over the trees 
 of the wooded pasture and the dew on the 
 lawn grass sparkled in the full light of the 
 new born day. 
 
 A front door opened and a young man In 
 a bath robe and with uncombed hair peered 
 out, saw no one about, stepped on the porch, 
 picked up the morning paper, opened It to the 
 sporting page and hurried back into the house 
 again. 
 
 The hum of a lawn mower was heard far 
 down the way. 
 
 Back doors opened one by one, house- 
 gowned young women came out, took in the 
 full milk bottles and set out empty ones. 
 
 Soon the popping of frying eggs was heard, 
 and the odors of cooking ham and bacon 
 joined those of newly turned earth, freshly 
 laid sod, drying cement, hardening paint, cre- 
 osote shingle stain, the weeded common, the 
 
 55 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 wooded pasture, and freshly cut grass, and 
 all the multitude of mingled odors were car- 
 ried in and around and over all the little 
 houses of Mulo Place on the fresh air of 
 morning. 
 
 The singing squeak on the track Y became 
 more frequent; the distant roar of the city's 
 traffic became more distinct and heavy. 
 
 The young men came out of their front 
 doors one by one, — well groomed fellows who 
 still patronized the college counter of the 
 ready-to-wear clothing stores. Each stood for 
 a moment on the sidewalk, looking up at 
 their houses, waving adieu and throwing ca- 
 resses at their wives, who stood with babes in 
 arms at the windows; each took a farewell 
 survey at his house and yard with the air of 
 possession, and each turned reluctantly and 
 hurried off to their day of work, and their 
 little families and their little homes on Mulo 
 Place remained in mind all day as the main- 
 spring of their efforts. 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
 Now, as it will have been observed, the 
 principal industry of Mulo Place was the 
 infant industry. 
 
 56 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 The stork had alighted, or was expected to 
 light, on all the little houses along the way, 
 but two. 
 
 The social-intellectual life of Mulo Place 
 had started out with regular meetings for the 
 reading and discussion of Frank Stoddard's 
 travel lectures, but as advents were expected 
 or came, the world of travel interest grad- 
 ually congested and became bounded on the 
 North by layettes and maternity gowns, on 
 the East by the best doctor, on the South by 
 infant foods, and on the West by teething 
 and colic cures. 
 
 In fact, not to have experienced mother- 
 hood, or to expect to experience it within a 
 very short period, was to soon be drowned 
 out of the conversation on Mulo Place. 
 
 The young matron of No. 8 Mulo Place 
 came out on her porch in a sweeping cap 
 and broom in hand. 
 
 The matron of No. 7, across the way, came 
 out on the walk with a perambulator and the 
 two neighbors greeted each other with the 
 merriest of good mornings. 
 
 57 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 The matrons in No. 6 and No. 9 hearing 
 voices came out on their porches and more 
 merry greetings followed. 
 
 A plainly dressed, middle aged woman 
 turned into Mulo Place and came along the 
 row. 
 
 The quartette of young matrons followed 
 her with their eyes in silence until she dis- 
 appeared on the porch of No. 13. 
 
 "Who's that, I wonder?" said No. 6 and 
 No. 9 in duet. 
 
 "I don't know," said No. 8, "but she came 
 along here at this same time yesterday morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Yes," said No. 7, "and she wore the same 
 hat that she had on this morning." 
 
 "I wonder if it could be their trained 
 nurse," said No. 6. 
 
 "No," replied No. 9, "it surely isn't time 
 for that." 
 
 Further consideration of the woman who 
 wore the same hat two days in succession was 
 prevented by the appearance of a huge, red 
 seven-passenger automobile turning into the 
 little street, a large fat man with down- 
 
 58 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 drooping jowls in the back seat who looked 
 like the caricature of a trust magnate. 
 
 The equipage stopped in front of No. 21. 
 "Why," exclaimed No. 9, "that surely isn't 
 the doctor, and it isn't time for her to go to 
 the hospital, is it?" 
 
 Any further questions as to the fat man 
 and the purpose of the automobile in front 
 of No. 21 was interrupted by a tall, willowy 
 blonde young woman in a raincoat, highly 
 made up, who ran down the steps of No. 10, 
 clacked along the cement pavement with her 
 high-heeled shoes as she rushed past, and the 
 front porch quartette bit their lips and gave 
 forth an audible hiss as they inhaled between 
 their upper front teeth and lower lips. 
 
 Now, the tall blonde was one of the two 
 drones in the human hive of replenishing the 
 earth along Mulo Place; hers was one of the 
 two houses along the row where the stork had 
 not alighted, and where that particular bird 
 was not expected to light, and the mere nod 
 with which she was greeted by the quartette 
 indicated the spirit of bees toward a drone, 
 or the attitude of a union worker toward a 
 non-union fellow worker in the same trade. 
 
 59 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 No. 10 hurried up the steps of No. 3, — 
 the house of the other non-union worker. 
 
 No. 6 broke silence by an undertone re- 
 mark across the porch to No. 8, — something 
 about being afraid of spoiling her figure. 
 
 "It isn't going to rain, is it?" said the 
 matron of No. 9, looking into the sky, "and 
 did you notice that she had on a raincoat?" 
 
 "Yes," said No. 6, "did she have on a 
 maternity skirt under — " 
 
 The question was answered by the tall 
 blonde rushing down the steps of No. 3, the 
 raincoat on her arm, — it was just one non- 
 union worker going over to have her dress 
 hooked up by the other non-union worker. 
 
 The morning grew warm. 
 
 The ice man appeared around the corner, 
 and the front porch quartette disappeared 
 into their houses to rearrange the food in 
 their refrigerators. 
 
 The vegetable man quickly followed the ice 
 man ; his array of garden truck displayed in 
 an open wagon, — a veritable riot and conges- 
 tion of color in variety, brilliancy, and in 
 shades and tones and textures. 
 
 60 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 The fruit man came bearing the perfume of 
 the tropics in the path of his wagon to blend 
 with the new house odors and those of the 
 weeded commons and wooded pasture. 
 
 The sun shone down in the full light of 
 morning and a warm, moist, yielding vapor 
 arose from the earth. 
 
 All the doors and windows of all the little 
 houses along Mulo Place were open. 
 
 The clear high notes of a canary filled the 
 air. 
 
 A hen in a neighboring back yard sang the 
 song that told her little world that it would 
 be one egg richer very soon. Another hen 
 clucked and some baby chicks peeped. 
 
 And the sun poured down in the full born 
 day of Spring, — down onto the earth of all 
 the little lots of Mulo Place, and the moist, 
 yielding air, teeming with life and growth, 
 fanned in the windows of all the little houses, 
 seemingly saying to all the little occupants : 
 
 "Go outside and partake more of me, you 
 in the Spring of life, for what I blow into 
 your windows is but a sample; I am free, — I 
 am yours and you are mine. Come, breathe 
 of me, and let us be one!" 
 
 61 
 
THE AWAKENING OF MULO PLACE 
 
 And all the mothers to be came out onto 
 the porches and into the yards and breathed 
 of the Life of Now and dreamed of the Life 
 To Be. 
 
 And the mothers that were came also and 
 strolled in the open, along the sidewalks, 
 wheeling their babes, now pushing their little 
 conveyances from behind, now walking before 
 them, now bending over and peering down 
 into the faces of their reproductions and 
 smiling, — a smile that only woman who has 
 listened for and heard the command of nature 
 is glorified to smile. 
 
 Mulo Place was awake. 
 
 62 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
 IN the search for matter to supply the in- 
 sistent presses and the expectant reader, 
 "we" go into "our" intellectual hayloft, 
 look in odd corners, stir around unused bins 
 and finally pound on the hay in the hopes that 
 an idea will fly out. 
 
 Of course, "we" and "our" is in an edito- 
 rial sense; for wasn't it the great and good 
 Bill Nye who said that there were just two 
 people in this world entitled to refer to them- 
 selves as "we" — one was the editor and the 
 other a fellow with a tapeworm? 
 
 "Our" idea barn isn't bursting with plenty, 
 but in the mow of musty and cobwebbed mem- 
 ories, one of the more picturesque of bucolic 
 characters and institutions is recalled — the 
 barber and his shop. 
 
 He was about one generation removed from 
 members of his trade who pulled teeth and 
 kept leeches — pulled teeth with a wrench 
 somewhat resembling a huge door key. 
 
 65 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
 In the parlance of the business it was a 
 "three-chair shop" — on one side of the public 
 square. The sidewalk grade had been raised 
 several times since the erection of the old 
 building and you had to walk down several 
 steps to get into it. 
 
 The operating chairs were of black walnut, 
 with arms coming down at the sides, carved in 
 the form of snakes, meeting the seat, coiling 
 up again and the open-mouthed heads project- 
 ing beyond. The seats and backs were up- 
 holstered in rough carpet of flower-garden 
 design. The wire spiral spring ends cut 
 through in places and care had to be taken 
 in sitting down that you were not stabbed in 
 the bosom of the rear elevation. 
 
 On the wall in front of these chairs a wavy 
 mirror reflected a patron's countenance to 
 mumps-like proportions. Further down this 
 wall a box, divided into pigeonholes contain- 
 ing a dozen or more mugs with the names of 
 prominent citizens in gilt Old English letters, 
 together with pictured objects, emblematic of 
 their business or profession. For instance : 
 Peleg Hostetter, the liveryman, a horse collar 
 and a couple of whips; Zachariah Dye, the 
 
 66 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
 druggist, a mortar and pestle; Conrad Gizler, 
 the butcher, a steer's head with a meat saw, 
 cleaver and knife arranged around it; Jake 
 Kern, the shoemaker, a boot, and Steve 
 Hankins, the undertaker, a scythe and sheaf 
 of wheat. 
 
 On a partition separating the front and 
 back of the shop, a framed sign read: "If 
 you can't raise ten cents, raise whiskers." 
 There was an immense pile of hair behind this 
 partition — almost enough to make a mattress. 
 
 In the middle of the shop stood a marble- 
 top table on which were several tattered and 
 torn numbers of the Police News and Police 
 Gazette, a "Hood's Rimester," "Funny Sto- 
 ries by Funny Drummers, or How to Enter- 
 tain Your Customers," and a bottle of ink 
 and some blue ruled writing paper. 
 
 The barber, a tall thin man, had a mass 
 of kinky, oily hair in which he carried his 
 combs when at work; large romantic brown 
 eyes, skin shriveled and dark, suggesting a 
 raisin, and his mustache had a melancholy 
 droop. He wore a brown velvet coat and 
 vest trimmed at the edges and pockets with 
 
 67 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
 wide silk braid; lavender pants, red socks and 
 patent leather dancing pumps tied with wide 
 ribbons. 
 
 As "Hood's Rimester" indicated, he fre- 
 quently dallied with the muses. On a well 
 known railroad wreck near the town he once 
 "laid" a "pome" of which the following is an 
 extract : 
 
 "And in among the wreck I see 
 A man pinioned down by the knee, 
 And hear him calmly for to say: 
 'Cut, oh, cut, my leg away!' " 
 
 Then, on the long summer afternoons he 
 sat back in one of the "operating" chairs, 
 thrummed a guitar and sang love songs 
 through his nose. 
 
 Although a three-chair shop, the proprietor 
 was the only regular barber. During the rush, 
 Saturday nights, he called in a scroll sawyer 
 from the planing mill. This fellow's middle 
 finger of the left hand was bent down stiff 
 to a right angle at the second joint. The end 
 had been mashed and a long nail grew out 
 of the end, which made it a great inducement 
 to be shaved by him ; for in mussing up your 
 
 68 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
 hair previous to combing, it usually got 
 tangled in this nail and several hanks were 
 pulled out by the roots. 
 
 Like the proprietor, this scroll-sawyer bar- 
 ber was musically inclined. He played the 
 piano around at dances and "doubled" with 
 a yellow clarinet — until he got two more 
 fingers sawed off, then he retired to "slip 
 horn" in the band. 
 
 A peculiar circumstance in the loss of these 
 fingers : One day while working at his saw- 
 table he made a slip and cut off one of them. 
 Of course he laid up for a week and returned 
 one Monday morning. All his shopmates 
 were glad to see him and gathered around 
 while he explained how it happened. He 
 started the saw, picked up a piece of board 
 and placed it on the saw-table by way of illus- 
 tration — well, he cut off another finger ! 
 
 They had a peculiar system of apprentice- 
 ship in these country shops. For instance: 
 During the rush time, when all three chairs 
 were full, the lathering, washing and wiping 
 of faces was done by the cub. By the time a 
 "patient's" beard was soaped, and rubbed for 
 softening, the regular barber would be 
 
 69 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
 through scraping a previous patient and the 
 cub would wash and wipe the latter's face. 
 In this way they kept moving from chair to 
 chair. 
 
 They didn't have much water in these 
 country shops — the only supply being from 
 a copper tank on the back of the stove — warm 
 in winter and cold in summer. The barber 
 would take a rag, walk over to the tank, 
 turn on the faucet, squeeze it out on the way 
 back to the chair and drops of water would 
 race over the dusty floor like mercury or shot. 
 No one ever used water on his hair — they 
 vaselined it — roached it up in front like the 
 curl of a shaving from a jack-plane. 
 
 The barber's wife was the first woman in 
 the town to bleach her hair. She dressed in 
 "changeable suits of apparel, and the mantles, 
 and the wimples and the crisping pins," as de- 
 scribed in that monumental editorial on van- 
 ity, the third chapter of Isaiah. All in a com- 
 bination of colors that fairly screamed. 
 Neither choice of manner nor expression, she 
 used to come in the shop, sit down, place her 
 feet upon a gas-pipe railing along the front 
 window and eye-ball passersby. 
 
 70 
 
THE COUNTRY BARBER SHOP 
 
 One Saturday afternoon the shop was full, 
 the barber's wife in her favorite position, 
 when a woman, the banker's wife, came along 
 the sidewalk. She followed — eyed her as far 
 as possible and finally said, under her breath: 
 "O hell, that woman makes me tired." 
 
 Her husband, working at the first chair 
 near her, laid down his brush, comb and scis- 
 sors and began letting go prolonged shouts 
 of laughter, bending over at each shout and 
 slapping his legs. Finally he subsided, started 
 to work again and after catching his breath, 
 shook his head in defiance and said with a 
 snicker: "That's Ell, she always says jist 
 what she thinks." 
 
 71 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
 HE was old — very old. He should 
 have been at home, in dressing 
 gown and slippers, smoking a long 
 pipe, and telling stories of things of long 
 ago to a complete circle of grandchildren 
 about an arm-chair. 
 
 Instead, though, he trudged along the dis- 
 trict where the flowing tide of business meets 
 the ebbing tide of grassy lawn in the city's 
 best residence district of by-gone days. 
 
 He wore a shiny brown Prince Albert 
 coat, very thin shoes, and a rumpled plush 
 cap, under which long tufts of white hair 
 protruded. His pinched and drawn face as 
 white almost as his long unkempt beard. 
 
 He stood still for a moment and rested on 
 a heavy blackthorn cane. Suddenly he raised 
 his haunted hollow eyes and made a quick 
 survey of the houses along the way. 
 
 A big automobile went by. The old man 
 gave it a following glance, dropped his eyes, 
 
 75 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
 fell to meditating, and muttered something 
 about how fast the world went by these days. 
 
 Pulling off a home-knit mitten, he exposed 
 a hand with large protruding blue veins over 
 the back like rivulets on a map. Then he took 
 from his pocket a coarse cotton handkerchief, 
 wadded it to the size of a walnut and wiped 
 the water from his eyes. 
 
 Evening was on. With another quick 
 glance at all sides, the old man tottered up to 
 one of the gates along the way, grasped the 
 iron pickets with his face close up and peered 
 through at a large square brick house set far 
 back in the yard. 
 
 The windows were all dark; one of the 
 blinds, with broken slats, hung limp on one 
 hinge. Water dripped from the cornice, and 
 many a year had passed since it had seen a 
 painter's brush. 
 
 There was a fountain in the foreground, its 
 basin filled with earth, and green moss cov- 
 ered its stone coping; brown patches here 
 and there over the lawn marked the spot 
 where flowers had once grown ; a cast iron dog 
 near the gravel walk had a piece of its tail 
 broken off and one ear was entirely gone. 
 
 76 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
 The old man noticed an iron seat under a 
 tree in the middle of the yard, pushed the 
 gate open, when it gave a loud creak, as if it 
 sang the funeral chant of grandeurs past. 
 
 Though cold, raw and damp, he walked 
 over to this seat, and with many groans, 
 grunts, and cracking of joints he sat down. 
 
 He looked into the heavens. Great white 
 clouds drifted past like a procession of phan- 
 toms. The autumn winds blew, and the fir 
 trees in the yard swung and swayed like great 
 funeral plumes for the death of summer past. 
 
 The old man sat looking up into the tree 
 branches above him. Suddenly his cheek was 
 fanned by a warm breeze. 
 
 He looked around him. 
 
 The fountain was playing, flowers bloomed 
 in every bed, the bit of tail and the ear had 
 grown on the iron dog, the lawn was trimmed, 
 and appeared like green velvet. All was 
 summer. 
 
 The house, newly painted, had a June rose 
 in full bloom climbing around the entrance. 
 A light appeared at one of the windows — 
 then another, then still another, till they shone 
 
 77 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
 from cellar to attic, casting their rays on the 
 green lawn. 
 
 He looked again. There were figures of 
 men and women passing inside. Groups of 
 twos and threes came up the gravel walk. A 
 violin was being tuned inside the house. He 
 arose and followed the people along the walk. 
 At the entrance he remembered his old clothes, 
 but looked down only to discover that they 
 were all new — all new — a long claw-hammer 
 coat, ruffled shirt-front, stock collar and 
 elaborately figured silk low-cut vest. 
 
 He thought of his old worn shoes. But he 
 looked down again only to discover that they 
 were also new — not shoes at all, but patent- 
 leather dancing pumps, tied with wide black 
 ribbons. 
 
 A servant ushered him inside. He followed 
 the other guests up the broad stairway. An- 
 other servant showed him to the dressing- 
 room, and took his tall stovepipe hat and 
 light cape overcoat. 
 
 He looked in the dressing mirror. His hair 
 was no longer white but brown. He had no 
 beard, but was clean shaven, and there were 
 no wrinkles in his face. He was young. 
 
 78 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
 He Stood there and surveyed himself, first 
 one side then the other in the mirror. He 
 spent much time in arranging the minutest 
 corner of his stock, brushing his clothes, and 
 put in a half hour or more arranging his 
 curling locks, that fairly reeked in scented 
 bear's oil. He was the last man in the room, 
 the others having gone below. He washed the 
 bear's oil from his hands and descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 The rooms were covered with canvas, and 
 brilliantly lighted by lamps and candles, and 
 filled with guests. There were odors of burn- 
 ing oil, newly ironed linen, freshly cut old 
 garden flowers and lavender. 
 
 He stood there on the elevation of the last 
 step of the stairs. Partners were being taken 
 for the first dance. The music started, and 
 men, dressed like himself, and young women 
 gowned in old organdie, circled in and out and 
 about the rooms. 
 
 His eyes followed a certain girl, dressed in 
 blue; she was tall and willowy, had white 
 skin, red hair, combed down at the sides and 
 over her ears like the scroll on the cap of an 
 Ionic column. 
 
 79 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
 Their eyes met. She left the man with 
 whom she was waltzing — yes, left him in the 
 middle of the dance, and came tripping to 
 him. She came nearer and nearer, grasped 
 his hand, and then still nearer — so near that a 
 few stray hairs on her temples touched his 
 cheek. So near that when she looked into his 
 eyes he saw his own face reflected in her 
 pupils. 
 
 She grasped his dance program hanging to 
 a coat button by a cord and wrote her own 
 name after every dance — yes, every dance. 
 
 He stepped down to the floor from the 
 stairs on which he was standing, out the front 
 door, and the young woman on his arm. Yes, 
 it was too warm for dancing — yes, too warm, 
 and they strolled through the grounds. 
 
 At last they sat down on the iron seat. 
 They were very close to each other; they 
 looked into the trees, the moonlight sifted 
 through the foliage upon their upturned faces. 
 
 He was about to lay his head against her, 
 but thought of his bear's oiled hair. He ar- 
 ranged a white silk handkerchief on her 
 shoulder. She made no protest, but only 
 
 80 
 
MEMORIES OF AN OLD MAN 
 
 looked Into his eyes. He leaned over to rest 
 his head there — 
 
 He fell over on the bench. He awoke with 
 a start, and looked around him. The place 
 beside him on the bench was vacant. 
 
 He stood up and looked around again. It 
 was winter. 
 
 The house was dark, dingy, and water 
 dripped from the cornice; the fountain was 
 still, earth filled the basin, and green moss 
 covered the coping; long frost-killed grass 
 covered the yard, brown patches marked the 
 beds where flowers had grown, the ear and 
 tail were off the cast iron dog, and all was 
 desolation and dilapidation. The old man 
 limbered his legs, stiff from cold, walked out 
 of the tall iron gate which gave a particularly 
 loud, deathknell-like creak after him and dis- 
 appeared into the darkness of the night. 
 
 81 
 
"WHAT TIME SHE BURNT" 
 
"WHAT TIME SHE BURNT" 
 
 A Tale of Dingman's Ferry 
 
 ONCE upon a day the good people of 
 Dingman's Ferry, Pike County, In- 
 diana, had a sum of money in their 
 common treasury over that necessary for the 
 running of village government. 
 
 There was a division in the town board as 
 to the advisability of buying a town clock or 
 a new fire-bell. 
 
 They had a bell on the schoolhouse that 
 could be used in case of fire — it was cracked 
 and all that, but still it could be heard over 
 the little community. 
 
 All the members were finally won over to 
 the original town-clock faction, except one 
 old man — the richest in the village — a chronic 
 objector who acted as a watch-dog of the 
 exchequer. 
 
 His argument was that if a fire should 
 occur at school time, the bucket brigade would 
 not know whether they were being called to 
 arms or the children to school. 
 
 85 
 
WHAT TIME SHE BURNT 
 
 In spite of this he was voted down and 
 reluctantly retired to silence. 
 
 The town clock was purchased, finally ar- 
 rived, and installed in the tower of the "Hotel 
 
 de 'Vile.' " 
 
 At the first board meeting thereafter, a 
 prepared resolution was presented and 
 adopted, voting fifteen cents per week to old 
 Socrates Skillen to wind the clock, and to fill, 
 trim, light and otherwise care for one lamp 
 to be placed behind the semi-transparent dial 
 so the citizens could see the time at night. 
 
 Old Socrates Skillen, by the way, drove a 
 baggage wagon all through Grant's Vicks- 
 burg campaign, and remembered very dis- 
 tinctly of seeing Charles Dickens change cars 
 at Sandusky, Ohio, in 1842. 
 
 One night a few weeks after the dedication 
 of the common timepiece some one went 
 through the town yelling, "Fire!" 
 
 Every one piled out of bed, opened the 
 shutters and looked out. There was a faint 
 glow in the sky which grew brighter and 
 brighter every moment. 
 
 86 
 
WHAT TIME SHE BURNT 
 
 Some one caught the ear of the crier long 
 enough to ask why he did not ring the school- 
 bell. But lo ! it was the schoolhouse. 
 
 All poured out of their houses and ran 
 down to the corner of Main and Front streets. 
 Men shouted, dogs barked, and cattle, horses 
 and chickens went bellowing, neighing and 
 cackling over the fields in a stampede. 
 
 Crowds gathered and stood in little groups 
 and watched the smoke pour out from under 
 the shingles, lighted by peeping tongues of 
 flame which met neighboring tongues of 
 flame, finally joining together in one grand 
 volcanic roar to light the sky and be reflected 
 to the hills, woods and fields in the valley 
 beyond. 
 
 There was no apparatus in the hamlet; the 
 building was doomed, so the bucket brigade 
 confined themselves to the roof of Count & 
 Poudry's meat market and Butterfield & 
 Skudder's general store across the way. 
 
 A long lash of fire swept away from the 
 main mass, entwined the belfry, and in a few 
 moments there was a loud crack, the apex 
 lagged down on one side, and the bell fell in- 
 to the ruins with a farewell clank — and was 
 
 87 
 
WHAT TIME SHE BURNT 
 
 silent forever to the good people of Ding- 
 man's Ferry, Pike County, Indiana. 
 
 The roar of flame gradually ceased, the fire 
 died down, and gave place to white smoke in 
 the blackness of night. A few charred stud- 
 ding, a mass of glowing embers, the tall chim- 
 ney and the brick foundation marked the spot 
 where the village seat of learning had stood. 
 
 "The devouring element had done its work 
 of devastation, and the conflagration was com- 
 plete," as the county paper said the next week. 
 
 Many of the villagers had gone home. All 
 was quiet save a few voices of those who re- 
 mained to tell what they were doing when 
 they heard the alarm. 
 
 The members of the town board were lined 
 up under the wooden awning in front of a 
 store across the way. The chronic objector 
 came along — the richest man of the town who 
 had stood out in favor of the fire-bell. He 
 eyed all the members collectively, then indi- 
 vidually. He looked at the smoldering ruins, 
 then up at the town clock, stroked his beard, 
 cast an eye skyward, opened one corner of his 
 mouth, and said: "Well; you'll have one sat- 
 isfaction. You'll know what time she burnt." 
 
 88 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 A Christmas Story 
 
 A CITY boarding-house may be merry 
 on Christmas day — merry as com- 
 ■ pared to common days ; but by con- 
 trast with other institutions and places it is 
 dreary indeed. The depression is relative, 
 just as the purity of the snow renders con- 
 spicuous by difference the sombreness of the 
 old buildings, the dilapidated fences and neg- 
 lected yards — the general indifference of the 
 inhabitants to their surroundings; for — 
 
 When boarders enter the front door the 
 love and sentiment of home jumps out over 
 the back fence. 
 
 These dwellers are happy in their small 
 way, just as they live in their small way; for 
 they have their ten-centers in lieu of everyday 
 pipes and stogies, and half-pint hip-pocket 
 flasks of superficial cheer — both the compli- 
 ments of Steve Bruner's saloon around the 
 corner. 
 
 91 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 There are none of the footsteps and high- 
 keyed voices of romping children; no odors 
 of savory dressing, burning brandy on the 
 plum pudding, no rich aroma of freshly made 
 coffee; there are no cheery voices of men and 
 women over the exchange of presents and in 
 anticipation of the feast to come — even the 
 japanned tin signs of the cancer doctor, the 
 chiropodist and the clairvoyant hanging on 
 the rotten porch columns along the way, seem 
 to swing, sway, creak and groan in minor- 
 keyed defiance of the day's spirit that every- 
 body feels everywhere else. 
 
 In one of these ex-homes, in the city's ex- 
 aristocratic residence section, the third floor 
 ball-room had been arranged for revenue only 
 by wallpaper-covered flooring board parti- 
 tions into a series of human box stalls. 
 
 The ceilings of these were interrupted here 
 and there by roof hip lines; the floors were 
 covered with dust-laden ingrain carpet, and 
 light came from small oval windows set just 
 above the baseboards; all were furnished with 
 very narrow iron beds and the coverings ap- 
 peared to have been dyed in sooty water at 
 their last alleged washing; then there was a 
 
 93 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 Straight-backed chair, and a blistered var- 
 nished washstand with a small foot rug before 
 it — with several cakes of soap tramped into 
 the warp. 
 
 The third floor smells of this human livery 
 stable seemed on the friendliest terms with 
 all the other smells of all the other floors; 
 for they mixed in a most affectionate way. 
 The back end of a drug store smell, no doubt 
 from the weekly shots of the bugging gun; 
 the dry wood and dust smell of a garret, with 
 about two parts cheap tobacco to one of coal 
 oil and bad plumbing were seasoned to taste 
 with the oldest cooking odors to be found 
 alive and tottering about the place. 
 
 In one of these stalls sat a very young man 
 — a bunch of collars in his hand. Those 
 worn one day he placed on one knee, those 
 worn two days on the other knee, — one, ab- 
 solutely clean, he threw into a very old suit 
 case on the floor. 
 
 "I'll wear that on the job hunt tomorrow," 
 he muttered aloud, "but, O hell! what's the 
 use?" 
 
 He had slept off his breakfast — as they say 
 in hard-up circles. The cleanest of the day- 
 
 93 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 worn collars had been found and put on, and 
 with hollow eyes he sat gazing out the win- 
 dow — vacantly watching the snowflakes as 
 they fell on the deserted street. They were 
 not eyes hollowed by dissipation or disease, 
 but — 
 
 Hunger! 
 
 There came a step on the stair, then a 
 sharp hard-heeled pounding walk along the 
 hall. 
 
 The man took a pair of scissors from his 
 suit case and began trimming the frayed edges 
 of his cuffs. 
 
 Then a hard, bony knock on the thin floor- 
 ing board door. Without waiting for an 
 answer a long nose appeared inside a pair of 
 hollow cheeks, hair done up in curl papers in 
 front and coiled to the dimensions of a cloak 
 button in the back. 
 
 "Yer room rent wuz due last night," said 
 the shrew in a voice as hard and sharp as her 
 walk, knock and features. 
 
 "I am aware of it," said the man without 
 looking up from his cuff trimming, "but this 
 is Christmas and — " 
 
 94 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 *'Yes this is Christmas and all that," in- 
 terrupted the shrew, "but that ain't payin' my 
 rent on this house an' — " 
 
 "I was going to say when you interrupted 
 me," put in the man, "that I have been hunt- 
 ing a job for a week. I can't very well con- 
 tinue on Christmas, and then again all the 
 pawn-shops are closed." 
 
 The last part of the man's sentence was 
 uttered with a grasp toward the pocket con- 
 taining a leather case of drawing instruments 
 and a glance at his overcoat on the bed where 
 it had served as bed-clothes reinforcement. 
 
 The shrew's head disappeared from the 
 crack of the door and the sound of hard, sharp 
 footsteps and hard, sharp-voiced muttering 
 diminished down the stairs — the only audible 
 words being: "Only two dollars," "pay," 
 "dead beats," "how can I expect," "my rent," 
 etc. 
 
 The man brushed the cuff trimmings from 
 his lap and looked down on the deserted 
 street again — with eyes hollowed by hunger. 
 
 Without turning from the window he 
 reached into his vest pocket and rubbed a 
 nickel with a dime together for a moment; 
 
 95 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 then took the leather case of drawing instru- 
 ments from his inside pocket, opened it and 
 displayed the shining steel and german silver. 
 "These'll be the last to go," he said aloud 
 with another glance toward the overcoat on 
 the bed. "But what's the use ?" 
 
 His eye fell on a razor in the suit case. 
 He picked it up, opened it and looked hard 
 at the blade. "That would make a nasty 
 mess," he sighed. "Carbolic acid? That's 
 a low-browed trick. There's a decent way of 
 doing everything — but still all the streams are 
 frozen." 
 
 The man fell to looking down on the street 
 again, watching the slowly falling snow, each 
 flake distinct against a background of somber 
 hues and tones of neighboring buildings, 
 fences and deserted street. 
 
 The man arose, put on his overcoat, felt in 
 his pocket for the nickel and dime, rubbed 
 them together and went down stairs. 
 
 If there is one place less merry than another 
 on Christmas day — next to a boarding-house 
 — it is a cheap restaurant. One of the all- 
 night kind — the key of the front door lost 
 
 96 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 years ago, and where the proprietor never 
 comes save to count and take away the money. 
 One that looks cheap enough to suit the most 
 exacting country excursionist. 
 
 At one of these the man entered, first stop- 
 ping to feel in his vest pocket for the nickel 
 and dime and rub them together for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 The place was deserted by patrons — one 
 waiter stood in the window looking out on 
 the street at the slowly falling snow; an- 
 other stood at the kitchen door, head down 
 and idly scratching figures on the white sand 
 of the floor with his feet. 
 
 The air of the room was heavy laden with 
 steam and the rank weedy smell of over- 
 boiled coffee grounds; and no sound but the 
 song in a foreign tongue of a dishwasher in 
 the rear. 
 
 The only thing that could possibly have 
 been construed as Christmas decoration by 
 wildest stretch of imagination were some 
 coarse rusty stocks of celery that hung limp 
 over the edges of tumblers filled with milky 
 water and set in the center of each table 
 
 97 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 covered with egg, coffee and catsup-stained 
 cloths. 
 
 The man took a seat on a high stool at 
 the counter — the last in the row towards the 
 rear. 
 
 The nearest waiter stood before him, arms 
 apart, hands resting on the counter top and 
 idly flipping crumbs off on the floor with his 
 fore-fingers as he waited for the order. 
 
 The man looked about confusedly, felt in 
 his vest pocket for the nickel and dime, rubbed 
 them together for a moment and ordered 
 beans and clear coffee. 
 
 "Bullets and draw a black!" yelled the 
 waiter to some one in the kitchen. 
 
 With the order before the only person in 
 the room, the waiter resumed his idle figure- 
 scraping in the floor sand. 
 
 All was still. 
 
 The man bent over, looked down and in- 
 haled the steam from the beans and coffee, felt 
 in his vest pocket for the nickel and dime and 
 in his inside pocket for his instrument case. 
 Then he surveyed the room — the walls and 
 ceiling grimed with steam and grease, the 
 coarse rusty stocks of celery that hung limp in 
 
 98 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 the glasses of milky water; through the front 
 window at the clouded light of the deserted 
 street and finally gazed vacantly at the slow- 
 ly falling snowflakes — all with the hollow 
 eyes of hunger, 
 
 "What's the use? What's the use? What's 
 the—" 
 
 The third time repetition was interrupted 
 — the man's attention became attracted by a 
 dirty piece of bun on the floor near the side 
 wall. 
 
 There was of course nothing In the bun 
 itself, but — 
 
 It moved — slowly, steadily toward the wall. 
 
 The man leaned forward, looking Intently 
 with hollow eyes of hunger. 
 
 There was a mouse behind the bun! 
 
 He had settled himself for his first fork 
 load of beans and a sip of coffee when a cat 
 came out of the kitchen door, spied the mouse, 
 crouched and sprang. The mouse disap- 
 peared. The cat, logged with food, merely 
 smelled the hole and passed on. 
 
 The mouse came out of the hole, looked, 
 listened, ran to the bun, which began to move 
 — slowly, steadily to the wall. 
 
 99 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 The man took several fork loads of beans, 
 felt In his vest pocket for the nickel and dime, 
 rubbed them together and then reached for 
 his instrument case. 
 
 He looked again. One obstacle had been 
 overcome — the bun was up to the wall, but — 
 
 The bun was too large for the hole. 
 
 Another fork load of beans, another sip of 
 coffee. The bun began to turn and twist and 
 tumble before the hole. 
 
 The man was about to feel in his pocket 
 for the nickel and dime and in his inside coat 
 pocket for the instrument case, but he only 
 made a pass in that direction; for his interest 
 and attention were on the bun, which slowly, 
 surely became smaller and smaller. 
 
 To his food again. Several fork loads of 
 beans and sips of coffee. Then he dug hard 
 with his fork at a piece of pickled pork, cut- 
 ting it Into portions which he ate with the few 
 remaining beans, and finally finished with the 
 last swallow of coffee. 
 
 The man looked up. The little drama of 
 the mouse and bun had closed — the bun was 
 in the hole. 
 
 100 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 He picked up his check, walked up front, 
 carelessly threw it on the cash desk with the 
 dime and walked out with his overcoat on his 
 arm. 
 
 He stood in front of the place for a mo- 
 ment and took a long breath. The sun had 
 come out, the streets were filling with after- 
 noon strollers. The hungry look had dis- 
 appeared from the man's eyes, he protruded 
 his chin and ground his teeth. 
 
 "That was only a little mouse," he said to 
 himself, "but I am a man." 
 
 He slapped his pocket containing his instru- 
 ments and looked down at his overcoat on his 
 arm — the bun was nearing the hole. 
 
 "A sale will bring more than a soak," he 
 said again to himself. "Guess there's a 
 Ghetto somewhere in this town where Christ- 
 mas doesn't prevent their transacting business 
 — and I can buy another — well, when I get 
 the bun in the hole. 
 
 "Tomorrow the human cats will be logged 
 with food and let a man alone while he gets — 
 a bun in a hole." 
 
 101 
 
THE MAN AND THE MOUSE 
 
 That night the man returned to his room- 
 ing house minus his overcoat, and plus seven 
 dollars which jingled so loudly in his pocket 
 that it attracted the attention of the shrew 
 who met him on the stairs. 
 
 And the next day — well, he was a man. 
 
 102 
 
LIGE TINCHARD— PREACHER 
 
LIGE TINCHARD— PREACHER 
 
 EVERY road up through the southern 
 states of America, and across "Smith 
 & Wesson's line," seems to lead direct- 
 ly to Indianapolis so far as the colored 
 brothers are concerned. Yes, and after they 
 arrive, all streets lead to Indiana avenue, the 
 Great Black Way of Bucktown. 
 
 Bucktown is in the same relation to the 
 community as San Juan Hill in New York. 
 
 An Indiana avenue rooming-house landlady 
 said that all she had to do to get roomers was 
 to keep plenty of coal in the stoves, and they'd 
 be as thick on the floor at fifteen cents a flop 
 as flies on a week-old piece of sticky paper. 
 
 It was in one of the neighborhoods of that 
 city where the residents are just prosperous 
 enough to dislike doing their own work — 
 where they keep maid servants, but can't 
 afford men of all work — where the masters of 
 the houses are continually looking out of the 
 window for some chance stroller up from the 
 
 105 
 
LIGE TINCHARD PREACHER 
 
 Great Black Way to call in and at least take 
 the rough off. 
 
 It was early morning. The first snow of 
 the year had fallen during the night, leaving 
 everything pure and white. The smoothness 
 and whiteness was not disturbed even to the 
 extent of cat tracks around a house and up to 
 a back kitchen door. 
 
 Lige Tinchard had arrived in town only 
 the night before. From where? Well, he 
 didn't know himself. He was looking the 
 town over — the business prospects. He came 
 through an alley of the neighborhood just de- 
 scribed. 
 
 His trousers flapped about his legs as he 
 shuffled along; and his garments hung with a 
 freedom that suggested no underclothes. The 
 lack of food was indicated by wrinkles in his 
 stomach that showed clear through his vest. 
 
 Lige Tinchard was black. So black that his 
 single figure in the alley, contrasted with the 
 snow of the landscape, made him appear by 
 contrast like a fly in a pan of milk. 
 
 As he passed, one fat old colored cook 
 looked out of a back window and said that 
 
 106 
 
LIGE TINCHARD PREACHER 
 
 Lige didn't hav^e enough clothes on to make 
 an iron-holder. 
 
 A very dark-colored mammy looked out of 
 another back window and said that he was 
 black as seven nights — that she used to think 
 she was black, but he beat her a couple of 
 nights. 
 
 Just as Lige Tinchard came along, a stable 
 door opened at his side. 
 
 Lige stopped and inhaled the animal heat, 
 mixed with the odors of manure ammonia, 
 leather, hay and axle grease that rushed out 
 into the cold alley. 
 
 With the opening of that stable door 
 Lige's opportunity opened. 
 
 "Want a job curryin' and hitchin' up my 
 horse?" said a white man inside. 
 
 Lige went in and to work. He not only 
 curried "Old Ned," but rubbed him down so 
 that when he drove him around in front his 
 coat shone in the morning sunlight like a new 
 plug hat. 
 
 Lige got a quarter and breakfast in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 107 
 
LIGE TINCHARD PREACHER 
 
 Then the madam of the house wanted the 
 rugs and floors cleaned — well, that night Lige 
 slept in the stable. 
 
 It wasn't a week until Lige had the key of 
 every outside basement door in the neighbor- 
 hood where he entered night and morning to 
 attend fires. He wore good cast-off clothes 
 that he traded for work, and all the wrinkles 
 were out of his stomach. 
 
 He did barn, household and basement 
 chores for a large clientele at 25 cents per 
 hour. Lige had as many quarters as there 
 were working hours in the day — and then 
 some; for a woman fitted him out with an old 
 dress suit to wait table at an evening dinner 
 party. This added another to his source of 
 revenue — he furnished waiters for balls, 
 parties and receptions, not only himself but 
 as many others as needed. 
 
 Lige was so busy that he didn't have time 
 to go over on the Great Black Way and spend 
 his quarters. He still lived in the barn where 
 first he lit, with its original comforts in- 
 creased by the addition of a little monkey 
 stove. 
 
 All this was more than six years ago. 
 
 108 
 
LIGE TINCHARD PREACHER 
 
 One night Lige was paying off some of his 
 waiter helpers from a large roll of bills. 
 
 "Say, Lige," said one of the young negroes, 
 "what you all savin' you money fo? You 
 ain't got nobody to leave it to? You workin' 
 all the time an' don't git no chance to spend 
 what you git." 
 
 "Nevah you mind, boy," returned Lige, 
 "I_I_I'm preachin'." 
 
 "Preachin' !" exclaimed the other 
 "Preachin'! Whare's you preachin'?" 
 
 "You know them two properties I got over 
 heah on Indgiany avenue?" said Lige. "Well, 
 there's whare I's preachin'," 
 
 "Them's no church, what's you all talkin' 
 about, man?" 
 
 "You don't need no church to preach," re- 
 plied Lige, "I'm preachin' there whare I got 
 them properties, I'm preachin' whare I work 
 every day and with this roll o' money in my 
 pocket." 
 
 Lige waited for all the wonderment to per- 
 colate the other negro's understanding, but 
 the other gave it up as being past him and 
 started to walk off. 
 
 109 
 
LIGE TINCHARD PREACHER 
 
 "Come back heah, boy," yelled Lige. "I'll 
 tell you what I mean. 
 
 "I ain't got nobody to leave what I got to. 
 I ain't goin' to leave it to nobody. After I'm 
 gone it'll be there an' preachin' to all you 
 young ornery niggahs. Yas, sah, an' while 
 I'm gettin' mo' I'm preachin' to you all. I'm 
 tellin' you what one niggah can do by workin' 
 all the time an' not spendin' his money on 
 crap shootin', turpentine gin and picnics and 
 dancin' an' all the likes — workin' all the time 
 'stead o' spendin' all the time. 
 
 "When I struck this heah man's town I 
 didn't have nothin' — just as old Aunt Millie 
 said when she first seed me comin' up the alley 
 one cold mawnin' — I didn't have clothes 
 enough to make an iron-holder. 
 
 "Yes, sah, an' — an' — I — I — I'm goin' to 
 keep right on preachin' — the kind that ain't 
 sayin' a word." 
 
 And Lige Tinchard is still preaching. 
 
 110 
 
THE EGOTISM OF MEMORY 
 
THE EGOTISM OF MEMORY 
 
 EVENING is on. The town-clock 
 clanks out six. The anvil in the black- 
 smith-shop around the corner ceases 
 its ring. The merchants are locking their 
 stores and are going home. They turn and 
 look at you as they pass. The swallows chirp 
 on their homeward fly over the public square, 
 and the robins in the trees of the court house 
 yard carol out their lay of joy. 
 
 If you are an old man — say a bachelor of 
 sixty and five, you begin to wander up the by- 
 ways and obscure places of the old town — 
 once familiar, but now made strange by time. 
 
 You pass the rear of an old livery-stable. 
 An old hearse is piled back in one corner. 
 You recognize it as the first in the county. 
 You stand there and think of the sorrows this 
 old vehicle has seen — of the burdens it has 
 borne. A breeze blows through the cracks 
 in the old stable walls, and one of the glass- 
 less doors of the old hearse swings and creaks 
 
 113 
 
THE EGOTISM OF MEMORY 
 
 on its hinges, as if it sang the funeral chant 
 of its former days of usefulness. 
 
 There it stands, glass broken out, paint 
 worn off, and only one big black moth-eaten 
 plume as a memorial of its past grandeur. 
 
 There it stands, back in a corner amid a pile 
 of broken shafts, tongues, scraps of old iron 
 and rubbish — forgotten as the flowers on the 
 silent ones it has borne from earthly homes 
 forever. 
 
 You wander on up a side street, stop be- 
 fore a certain house and stand silently con- 
 templating it — your mind is on a certain blue- 
 eyed and rosy-checked girl — Helen. 
 
 It's dark now. 
 
 You look into the heavens. The moon goes 
 into shadow. Great white clouds whirl past 
 like a procession of phantoms, the wind blows 
 through the trees along the sidewalk, and 
 they swing and sway like great black funeral 
 plumes for the death of seasons past. 
 
 You think of your long lonely life, the suc- 
 cess you have attained, and compare it all to 
 that of your less material friends who are 
 happily married, and with children and grand- 
 children to honor them in the nodding-time of 
 
 114 
 
THE EGOTISM OF MEMORY 
 
 life — it all reverts to a picture of blue eyes 
 and rosy cheeks — Helen. 
 
 You dream a waking dream of youth. A 
 peaceful summer Sunday evening, the church 
 bell ringing, people sitting out on their front 
 steps and in doorways follow you with their 
 eyes as you pass. 
 
 The lamp in the little parlor burns low — 
 she is at the gate to meet you, blue eyes and 
 rosy cheeks — Helen. 
 
 You waken, and in the weak egotism of 
 memory walk up on the porch and knock at 
 the door. 
 
 A boy answers. 
 
 "Do you know a lady living about here by 
 the name of — I don't know her last name 
 now, but her first is Helen." 
 
 "Yes, that's my mother's name — want to 
 see her?" 
 
 You walk in, sit down and look around the 
 room in an effort to recognize some of the old 
 furniture. 
 
 A woman, worn with work and shriveled 
 with age, sits by the window. 
 
 115 
 
THE EGOTISM OF MEMORY 
 
 You look at her In an effort to see the 
 mother you knew — of blue eyes and rosy 
 cheeks — Helen. 
 
 The mother of the boy enters the room. 
 
 You arise, extend a hand, give your name 
 and say: "I used to come to see you a good 
 many years ago." 
 
 She doesn't know you. 
 
 Slowly your hand goes to your chin, you 
 look from the mother of the boy to the grand- 
 mother seated by the window, and sighingly 
 say: 
 
 "Yes, I guess it was the old lady." 
 
 116 
 
THE BROKEN SPELL 
 
THE BROKEN SPELL 
 
 JUDGE DAVID S. GOODING was for 
 many years the leading criminal lawyer 
 of central Indiana. Like most men of 
 his professional time, he figured in politics — 
 he used the same powers that swayed juries 
 for the benefit of the candidates of his political 
 party. Typical of a type — none of your 
 ninety-pound modern lawyer, — with an intel- 
 lect that clicked like a rat trap, boiled eyes 
 covered with a pair of glasses as big as stove 
 lids, and a voice that suggested a graveyard 
 on a wet night. He was big and brawny and 
 brainy — possibly more brawn than brain. 
 His voice — well, Eph Marsh used to say that 
 he could send more shingles off an old court 
 house roof than a hard rain. Look over the 
 grass in the Hancock County, Indiana, court- 
 house yard and find it covered with pieces of 
 rotten shingles, with the ground perfectly dry, 
 and you would know that old Dave Goodin' 
 had been makin' a speech. 
 
 119 
 
THE BROKEN SPELL 
 
 On the main street of Greenfield, Indiana, 
 and on the second floor of a dingy old brick 
 building was the office of The Honorable 
 David S. Gooding. An iron stairway in the 
 alley at the side led directly into it. Every 
 item of furnishing had served from another 
 age and would appear like curious bric-a-brac 
 in a modern law office. The cherry desk with 
 a door hinged at the bottom and lowering to 
 form a writing slant; the inkstand with a cork 
 attached by a string; the quill pens, the blot- 
 ting sand box, the sealing wax and seals; the 
 green-top table in the middle of the room 
 strewn with dog-eared law books and papers; 
 the wire card case hanging to a nail filled 
 with business cards; the energetic ticking wall- 
 clock with a long, sweeping pendulum out- 
 side; the cracked, glazed yellow maps of the 
 Eastern and Western Hemispheres on oppo- 
 site sides of the wall; the dusty hair-cloth 
 sofa, the brass-knobbed iron safe that locked 
 with a huge key — and all were frowned down 
 upon from the top of the book case by a 
 bronze plaster bust of Sir William Black- 
 stone. 
 
 120. 
 
THE BROKEN SPELL 
 
 The old judge, himself, would have served 
 as brlc-a-brac. He had lived into another age 
 and brought all the articles and manners in 
 dress of the past with him. Stovepipe hat, 
 stock collar, swallow tail coat, pleated shirt 
 front, silk vest, doe-skin pants and white gait- 
 ers. On the street he carried a huge cotton 
 umbrella which in size suggested a circus 
 tent; rattan ribs with small ivory balls at the 
 ends and the "center pole" worn off at the 
 ferrule end — he clutched it nervously as he 
 trudged along as if afraid some one would 
 snatch it away from him. 
 
 The old judge had stumped the "Grand 
 Old Hoosier State," as he called it, in every 
 campaign as far back as Zach Taylor, and 
 was proud of it. Every school house, court 
 house and public hall from Ohio to Lake 
 county, and crosswise again from Steuben to 
 Posey county had rung with his voice. 
 
 He had conducted the Independence Day 
 celebration back through several generations 
 of children by assembling them in the Hard 
 Shell Baptist Church. After prayer and in- 
 troductory remarks he would have the bell 
 rung violently and as the sound died away he 
 
 121 
 
THE BROKEN SPELL 
 
 would arise and read the Declaration of In- 
 dependence in a voice that thundered far be- 
 yond the compass of the walls. 
 
 Once the Judge returned to his native state, 
 Kentucky, as the principal speaker at a Demo- 
 cratic barbecue in a "Clearing" of the woods 
 near his native town. 
 
 Now, the judge pursued the old style of 
 stump oratory. He hooted and derided the 
 opposing party and their candidates. To him 
 every Republican was not a horse-thief, but 
 every horse-thief was a Republican. 
 
 People were assembled for miles around. 
 The judge mounted the platform that had 
 been draped in flags and bunting. A mighty 
 cheer greeted him. He advanced to a deal 
 table in front, poured a broken handled beer 
 mug full of water from an iron-stone china 
 pitcher, drank it with two gulps and sat the 
 mug down with a bang. Then he twisted one 
 leg slightly around the other, rested his 
 weight on one foot, steadied himself by plac- 
 ing two fingers at the second joints on the 
 table. In this attitude he surveyed the assem- 
 blage with a watery grey eye. 
 
 122 
 
THE BROKEN SPELL 
 
 The lemonade and peanut vendors ceased 
 their cry. There were no sounds save the 
 rattle, made by the wind, of dry leaves hang- 
 ing to a nearby beech tree, and the hum of 
 conversation on the skirts of the crowd. 
 There are always those in the frayed edges of 
 an assemblage of this kind, who cannot hear 
 the speaker, who always cheer the loudest at a 
 climax in a speech and frequently retire be- 
 hind trees to partake of the contents of hip- 
 pocket flasks. 
 
 As before mentioned, the judge surveyed 
 the assemblage with a watery grey eye, and 
 as one sometimes goes over the strings of a 
 musical instrument previous to playing to see 
 that they are all in tune, the judge went over 
 all the notes of his voice clearing his throat, 
 coughing and gasping all at the same time. 
 He then began his address somewhat as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 "Fellow Citizens and Friends of the Dem- 
 ocratic Party: — It is with a good deal of 
 pleasure that I address you in this particular 
 locality this afternoon; for it was here that I 
 was born and reared. In yonder log house 
 was where I first saw the light of day and 
 
 123 
 
THE BROKEN SPELL 
 
 where my parents passed all their early 
 struggles when this country was yet a wilder- 
 ness. And over there, on that vine-clad hill, 
 behind that clump of trees there are two 
 mounds and my poor old mother and father 
 lie there at rest, free from all earthly cares 
 forever." 
 
 And the fellows on the outskirts of the 
 crowd who could not hear, raised their hands 
 above their heads and shouted: "That's 
 right, Davy, give 'em hell." 
 
 134 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 HE sat near a group of us in the lobby 
 of the Grand Hotel at Indianapolis. 
 He was a ruralist. The rain-settled 
 dust in the crease of his hat and in the 
 wrinkles of his clothes and shoes would have 
 indicated that to the observer, but all doubts 
 were removed when he put up one leg on his 
 knee, pulled off a loose fitting gaiter shoe 
 with the life all out of the elastic at the side, 
 poured about 90 grains of wheat into a con- 
 venient cuspidor, dusted off the bottom of his 
 sock and repeated the operation on the other 
 foot. 
 
 He was the type that with the passing years 
 produces rural philosophers; for he was 
 shrewd, yet kindly, observing among his own 
 people and in sympathy with them, yet knows 
 their weaknesses. 
 
 We had exhausted all topics of conversa- 
 tion, had smoked ourselves into a state of 
 wakefulness and were receptive to entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 137 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 The rural one observed this, pulled a 
 smooth, yellow, machine-made cigar out of 
 his pocket, bit the end off with a loud bass 
 sounding pop of his teeth and abruptly began 
 his narrative: 
 
 "Every country town is noted for some- 
 thing. 
 
 "M'Cordsville is noted for liars. It got 
 the reputation years ago by all the loafers at 
 Snozier's grocery tryin' to equal a whopper 
 got off by old Gettysburg Stebbins. He told 
 that he dug out of Libby prison durin' the 
 army by makin' a tunnel two miles long with 
 nothin' but a tin cup to dig with; that he come 
 out in a farmer's barn lot, was hungry, took 
 his sword, cut a ham off a live hog, and come 
 back there two years afterward to find that 
 the ham had pretty near growed on the hog 
 again. 
 
 "My town, Keersburg, Indiana, is noted 
 for funerals. 
 
 "Ambrose Hedges, our undertaker, has got 
 finer warerooms than any here in the city, 
 Scepter Hill cemetery is better located and 
 purtier than any in the state, and with more 
 fine monuments; and there hasn't been a 
 
 138 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 funeral in the whole county in the memory 
 of the oldest inhabitant with less than eleven 
 carriages. 
 
 "Of course all this costs some money and 
 it frequently makes public charges of the 
 widders and orphants, but the public don't 
 mind, fer we got the reputation fer funerals 
 to maintain. Our school houses is in bad 
 shape all over the county and we need more 
 of 'em; the jail on the court house grounds 
 ain't nothin' better than a bear pit to put 
 human bein's in, and then again, the Reliance 
 Fire Company's shed is about to fall in, but 
 it will take all the tax money to put a new 
 iron fence around the cemetery, — they'll leave 
 the reputation for good schools and a jail and 
 fire house to some other town, but none of 
 'em'U ever get ahead of Keersburg on 
 funerals. 
 
 "Why, I do believe I learned my figures 
 when I was a kid standin' on the corner of 
 Main and Front streets countin' funeral car- 
 riages. 
 
 "Congressman Stiggens had thirty-two 
 carriages at his funeral, the highest known 
 record. He was a politician and a director 
 
 129 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 in the C, W. & M. railroad and a lot of rail- 
 road men came down from Chicago. They 
 delayed the funeral two days to allow the 
 Orchard Hotel to have cots shipped up from 
 Indianapolis. 
 
 "Old Hedges, the undertaker, buys a new 
 hearse every year, — he never lets nothin' get 
 run down, and he's got five practically new 
 hacks. He trades in the old hearse and the 
 firm that makes the new one always shows 
 it at the state fair. He's got the biggest piece 
 of plate glass on the public square in his show 
 winder, and I reckon one of the biggest in the 
 state. He always leaves the gas a burnin' low 
 at night and has the coffins in his winder turn 
 up a little on edge so you can see the linin'. 
 
 "He must make money, for he gets all the 
 good trade in that part of the state, and he 
 certainly does know how to run a funeral. 
 The only complaint anybody has about him is 
 that he goes out at a funeral while the min- 
 ister is speakin' and cusses his drivers fer 
 talkin' too loud and the bosses fer gnawin' the 
 bark off the shade trees in front of the house. 
 
 "Everybody goes to the cemetery in Keers- 
 burg on Sunday just the same as you people 
 
 130 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 here in the city goes to the parks. They sit 
 around on the grass or walk around and crit- 
 icize the monuments and flower beds that 
 different ones has got over their graves. 
 
 "Old Ves Skillen has just completed a fam- 
 bly vault that is attractin' a good deal of at- 
 tention just now. It seems that years ago he 
 used to be in the private bankin' business and 
 about the time they got to organlzin' state and 
 national banks old Ves got disgusted and quit, 
 — he said that he didn't want no inspectors 
 from the state or government comin' in and 
 stickin' their nose into the private affairs of 
 him and his customers to find out how much 
 money they had on hand, fer they might have 
 to pay taxes on it. 
 
 "Well, old Ves he sold all his bank fixtures 
 and desks and one thing and another when he 
 went out of the private bankin' business, but 
 he had an iron safe as big as a smoke house 
 that he couldn't seem to get shet of. Well, a 
 few months ago he had it hauled out to 
 Scepter Hill cemetery, stood it upon the 
 fambly lot and built a stone wall around it in 
 the form of a vault with the big doors of the 
 safe for the door of the vault. 
 
 131 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 "He got It all done in time fer last Sun- 
 day's crowd and some devilish feller said that 
 he hoped that old Ves had given the Angel 
 Gabriel the combination. 
 
 "They select the preachers at Keersburg ac- 
 cordin' to their ability to conduct funeral serv- 
 ices. They never go around hearin' a pros- 
 pect in a regular church sermon, but they wait 
 'till they know he is goin' to preach a funeral 
 sermon somewhere and they send one of the 
 committee around to hear him. 
 
 "They like these kind that talk through 
 their nose when they get very sanctimonious. 
 
 "They got a new preacher there now, and 
 the other day he preached a funeral sermon 
 on the text, 'And there shall be no death to 
 die, nor life to live.' 
 
 "He's got all the old ladies in the county 
 lookin' in their Bibles and huntin' from cover 
 to cover to find that text, and they can't do it. 
 It seems that nobody has the nerve to ask him 
 where it's from, but I guess it's one of them 
 texts that sounds better than it looks. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you that old Am- 
 brose Hedges always sets off the public fire- 
 works Fourth of July on the court house 
 
 133 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 square. The merchants take up a collection 
 for it and It's always a big event. Old Hedges 
 is always a kind of a master of ceremonies in 
 everything, and he certainly does know how 
 to set off fireworks, — he's good at all kinds 
 of sky work. 
 
 "Last year we planned a bigger time than 
 usual and they appointed me. Judge Joel Wil- 
 liams and Taylor Ragan, the grocery keeper 
 there in town, to mix the punch for the 
 Fourth of July speakers. 
 
 "I own the grain elevator down by the 
 depot and the three of us went around and 
 bought up all the fancy liquor in the gin mills 
 over town that had been settin' in fly-specked 
 bottles in their show windows and that they 
 couldn't sell. Most anything will do for 
 punch. They just gave it to us when they 
 found out what we wanted with it, but guess 
 they wouldn't have been so generous if they 
 knew what we did with it. 
 
 "Now Judge Williams is one of them re- 
 fined sort of men with a house full of books 
 and a wife that ain't afraid to speak her mind. 
 He's got more books than a Carnegie library 
 and they say he married off his daughters to 
 
 133 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 make room for the books. He's even got 'em 
 on the edge of the steps of the front stairs 
 and only allowin' enough room between to go 
 up and down. I do believe he's got every 
 book that's ever printed and a lot of them are 
 alike, for I know he's got five sets of the Rise 
 and Fall of the Roman Empire and three sets 
 of Dickens' works. 
 
 "Well, as I was goin' on to tell we took all 
 these wet groceries Into my office out of the 
 way of the crowd and where we could mix the 
 punch and nobody would bother us. Taylor 
 Ragan, he didn't show up, — he was too busy 
 cuttin' cheese and dealln' out crackers to the 
 farmers that come in to attend the exercises. 
 Along about ten o'clock In the morning It set 
 Into a drizzlln' rain, we got lonesome way 
 off there by ourselves and began to mix punch 
 and taste it and pretty soon we got to tastin' 
 it about as fast as we made It. It began to 
 rain harder and we knew there would be no 
 speakin' that afternoon and It would be a 
 shame to let all the good punch go to waste. 
 
 "About two o'clock In the afternoon old 
 Hedges stuck his head in the door to see how 
 the punch was gettin' along and we fixed up 
 
 134 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 another batch for him. We had a couple of 
 fancy bottles of some white lookin' stuff that 
 the judge said was wood alcohol. Course it 
 wasn't though, — it was just one of his jokes, 
 for really it was some kind of cordial water. 
 We poured these two bottles in the punch for 
 old Hedge's benefit and whatever it was it 
 made it strong enough to bear up eggs, — it 
 wa^ worse than hard cider that had been layin' 
 in a whiskey barrel. 
 
 "Hedges laid around there all afternoon 
 and about four o'clock he was pretty tight. 
 By that time the rain had stopped and he con- 
 cluded he'd better go up town and see about 
 unpackin' the fireworks. They had a flat- 
 form built on the public square where there 
 wasn't no trees. Old Hedges got out his 
 boxes and was unpackin' 'em and arranging 
 the sky rockets and pin wheels in a big pile. 
 He was pretty unsteady or he wouldn't have 
 done it. Somehow, anyway, he must have 
 dropped a cigar in the pile, or it might have 
 been some devilish boy throwed a match in, — 
 we never did get it quite figgered out, but 
 anyhow the whole batch went oft at once in 
 broad daylight, — about $250 worth. It 
 
 135 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 blowed up the flatform they built and the 
 rockets and pin wheels went zizzling and 
 sputterin' through the grass in the court house 
 yard and set fire to the band stand that the 
 band boys had built the year before at con- 
 siderable expense, and it burned clean to the 
 ground. It scared all the teams hitched to 
 the rack around the square, a lot of 'em run 
 oflf and what we missed in aerial display that 
 night we made up in rain, punch and excite- 
 ment that afternoon. 
 
 "I didn't get home that night till pretty 
 near eight o'clock. I got home and found my 
 wife and kids all cryin' and sick with disap- 
 pointment, — it seems I'd promised them that 
 mornin' I would come home early, hitch up 
 the rig and take them all down to see the fire- 
 works. They hadn't heard about the fire- 
 works goin' off in broad daylight and blowin' 
 up the flatform and burnin' up the band stand. 
 I got that explained all straight and gave a 
 pretty fair account of it. I'd a been all right 
 if I hadn't gone too far and got a little too 
 much confidence. I finished tellin' them all 
 about it and was sittin' there quiet in the 
 rockin' chair when all at once I broke out and 
 
 136 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 sez to my wife, — 'Mary, I believe I forgot to 
 shet the shafe !' My wife looked at me kind 
 of strange and then I knew I'd said 'shafe' 
 instead of safe. The next time I got 'safe' all 
 right, but I said 'shoot' instead of 'shut.' Try 
 as I would, whenever I said 'shut' all right I 
 would say 'shafe,' and when I said 'safe' all 
 right I got all fuddled and said 'shoot.' 
 
 "My wife come up to me close, took a big 
 long sniff, — and I guess I did smell like a mix- 
 ture of a distillery and an upper bureau 
 drawer with all that fancy liquor in me, for 
 some of it did taste like perfumery. Then 
 she started in to give me fits about comin' 
 home in that condition, a leavin' all my val- 
 uables with the safe open and all them tramps 
 around the depot. I don't remember what 
 she said or when she quit, for I went to sleep 
 right there in the chair. 
 
 "The next mornin' I went down to the 
 office early to clean up the wreck and hid 
 away all the bottles, and I no more and fin- 
 ished when my father-in-law came along all 
 excitement. He's an old retired hard shell 
 Baptist preacher, and he went on to tell that 
 he had just come by Judge Joel Williams' 
 
 137 
 
THE MAN FROM KEERSBURG 
 
 house, that he had stood outside and heard the 
 judge's wife just a givin' him Hail Columbia, 
 that he got from the talk that the judge had 
 come home drunk, the night before, tried to 
 get up stairs quietly, had got to the top and 
 fell down and knocked all the books off the 
 steps and his wife had to pull him out from 
 under a big pile of 'em. 
 
 "The old man said that he hoped I would 
 never come home in that condition, and I told 
 him that I wouldn't, — again, but I said the 
 word 'again' under my breath so he wouldn't 
 hear it." 
 
 At the close of his story, the man from 
 Keersburg got up, stretched, brushed the 
 cigar ashes from the wrinkles of his vest, bade 
 us all good night, went over to the desk, got 
 his key and disappeared in the door of the 
 elevator. 
 
 138 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 ONE of the best country town char- 
 acters is the sporty bachelor. There 
 used to be one at — well, it doesn't 
 make any difference about the town, for there 
 is one in every town of five to ten thousand 
 inhabitants. He is a type — usually a man of 
 45 to 50 years old, hair of such a shade that 
 you can't tell whether it is very blond or very 
 grey, and which he always keeps closely 
 cropped; he is clean shaven with a sort of 
 made-to-order complexion as if he used a lot 
 of woman's dope on his face. His clothes 
 are always light in color and almost college 
 boy-like in their extreme cut; a low cut vest, a 
 stiff front shirt with fine red stripes — some- 
 times the stripes are blue, but always running 
 across rather than vertical. About the only 
 antique item of his dress are his shoes of the 
 box-toe type and of alligator leather. While 
 these last named members are rather dainty in 
 cut, as is the effect of the entire man, yet they 
 are of the same material as those worn by 
 
 141 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 switch crew railroad brakemen a couple of 
 decades ago. 
 
 The sporty bachelor lives at the hotel — the 
 Pearson House; he is the last one down to 
 breakfast, the first to dinner at noon and sup- 
 per at night, and as he enters the dining-room, 
 say in the morning, smelling very loud of 
 toilet water and tooth paste, he will smile at 
 the head waitress and pass a little semi-con- 
 fidential joke to her. He always sits in one 
 place — usually about the middle of the room, 
 and very frequently his individual waitress 
 places a single flower in a water glass before 
 his plate. 
 
 Yes, and by the way, he always hangs his 
 hat on the same hook of the rack as he passes 
 into his meals. Finding anyone else's hat on 
 his hook two days in succession he would go to 
 the office and complain. 
 
 His father was the leading lawyer in the 
 community a generation ago and served a 
 couple of terms in Congress, on which 
 grounds the sporty bachelor holds himself as 
 a member of the county aristocracy, which is 
 externally expressed in rather an erect walk, 
 partly due, no doubt, to the fact that he at- 
 
 142 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 tended a military school in his early youth at 
 Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
 
 He is never in any business, and is rather 
 secretive about his financial affairs which are 
 usually in the hands of some hard-headed 
 lawyer or banker in the town who has in- 
 vested his inheritance in farm mortgages and 
 some gilt-edged bank stock, charging a com- 
 mission of five per cent for placing the prin- 
 cipal and collecting the income and attending 
 to other annoying details. This nets the 
 sporty bachelor about a hundred and fifty a 
 month, and by means of a little penury, ex- 
 ternally expressed by carrying his change in a 
 purse, he manages to live at the hotel, keep a 
 rather slim, high-bred horse and a stingy 
 seated buggy at the livery stable around the 
 corner, and in which he can be seen driving 
 out on the well-paved roads most any pleasant 
 afternoon. 
 
 Yes, and out of his income he is even able 
 to afford about two suits of clothes a year 
 which he orders from a blonde, gum chewing 
 city tailor who comes around every six 
 months for orders and a week later for a try- 
 on. As this tailor buys a drink every time a 
 
 143 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 customer gives him an order or pays a bill, 
 he always gets soused towards night and has 
 to be either put to bed in the hotel or sent 
 down to the eight-four evening train for 
 home in the one rattle-box hack that the town 
 affords. 
 
 But to return to the sporty bachelor : There 
 is such a wealth of characters rich in pictur- 
 esqueness about a country town, and all of 
 them are more or less standardized, and it is 
 almost impossible to describe one without the 
 imagination running away to co-related char- 
 acters and the pen of a writer following the 
 runaway, so the reader will pardon digres- 
 sions. 
 
 The sporty bachelor is just on the edge of 
 respectability in his community. However, he 
 wouldn't be any further away from respecta- 
 bility if he could, nor would he be any nearer 
 to it — he deliberately plans his relation to so- 
 ciety — he is what he wants to be. 
 
 The sporty side of his reputation he gains 
 by playing poker every night in a room over 
 Hodges' grocery with a well-known lawyer of 
 the county, a stock farmer, possibly the hotel- 
 keeper, sometimes a merchant of the town, not 
 
 144 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 infrequently a traveling man and always the 
 clerk in the jewelry store. This jewelry clerk, 
 by the way, makes about fifteen a week as an 
 engraver and watch repairer and fifteen more 
 a week playing poker with the gang, which In- 
 come enables him to put on a front suflUcient 
 to be engaged to the most beautiful girl in the 
 town, who has about a hundred thousand In 
 her own right. In the evenings the only time 
 this jewelry clerk is away from the poker 
 room is long enough to take his girl to a 
 dance in the hotel parlor or at one of the bet- 
 ter houses over town about twice a week. He 
 is rather secretive about his relation to the 
 poker room, usually passing in and out of it 
 through the alley, by reason of the parents of 
 the young woman to whom he is engaged. 
 This young woman herself knows all about 
 the poker room — she is just young enough 
 and giddy enough to be proud of the atten- 
 tions of a semi-rake. 
 
 The sporty bachelor is rather open about 
 all his doings, goings and comings. This is 
 his way of allowing it to become known that 
 he is a sport, yet he keeps the talk moderated 
 in order that the respectable side of his life 
 
 145 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 will not be submerged. He drinks about three 
 cocktails a day, but rather as a confection 
 than a stimulant; he smokes three ten-cent 
 cigars a day of a brand a little better value 
 than is exhibited in the cigar stand of the 
 hotel — they are kept down under the show 
 case, and if any of the guests stand in with 
 the clerk he will sell him one. 
 ■ ■ 
 
 Then the sporty bachelor has a little way 
 of advertising his gaming propensities by 
 sitting around the hotel office in the morning 
 after breakfast reading his paper, and if a 
 companion at the poker table the night before 
 chances in, he will look up, wink in a sly way 
 and talk in a mysterious air in an undertone 
 that everybody about can hear, giving the im- 
 pression to all those not directly addressed 
 that it is not intended that they should under- 
 stand — referring to a hand that he held the 
 night before, or the amount in a certain jack- 
 pot and the way the cards ran all evening. 
 
 The young, would-be sports sitting around 
 the hotel office will eagerly lick up these little 
 secretive bits and look on the source of them 
 with eyes of envy. 
 
 146 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 The sporty bachelor always has his Imita- 
 tors in a country town. There is always one 
 or two fellows who dress as near like him as 
 their means will admit, drink one of his cock- 
 tails or buy one of his brand of cigars once 
 in a while on Saturday nights, and even have 
 a poker room with a lower ante and limit 
 game than the one patronized by their model. 
 
 Every country town sport has his imitators, 
 and possibly by this means the type is perpetu- 
 ated. 
 
 Now, the sporty bachelor manages to keep 
 about even with the game — he plays poker as 
 he lives — that is, in a conservative way. He 
 may be five dollars ahead one week and the 
 same amount behind the next. If he loses this 
 amount he will lay off and attend a lecture or 
 concert at the church which is his means of 
 keeping up the respectable side of his char- 
 acter. He will even go to church on Easter 
 or when some big city preacher fills a local 
 pulpit. 
 
 Understand, he is never invited to a social 
 function at the home of any one — he isn't re- 
 spectable enough for that and he doesn't want 
 to be. The nearest approach to society he 
 
 147 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 gets, or wants to be, is somewhere with an ad- 
 mission fee. 
 
 After a lecture or concert at the church he 
 will take some of the women that he has 
 known in his youth, and who, like himself, 
 have remained single, around to the ice cream 
 parlor, but only after much urging on his 
 part, and his women guests will look around 
 them all the while they are in his company 
 as if they knew that they were not doing just 
 the right thing and as if they were afraid of 
 being seen with him. After these refresh- 
 ment occasions he will walk home with one or 
 more of his spinster friends and leave them at 
 the gate, for no one ever thinks of inviting 
 him in. 
 
 In the main this is the type and daily life of 
 the average sporty bachelor, except that he 
 may go out on one of the residence streets and 
 eat Sunday dinner with a sister, sit around all 
 afternoon playing with some nieces and 
 nephews and come back to the hotel in the 
 evening with a new photograph of one of 
 these children for the dresser in his room. 
 
 Sometimes you will find a sporty bachelor 
 who carries a little paper sack of gumdrops 
 
 148 
 
THE SPORTY BACHELOR 
 
 In his coat-tail pocket and feeds them out to 
 children along the way, but usually they do 
 not indulge in this practice until they have 
 reached a state of senility that comes with 
 about sixty years. 
 
 He is in every town on a smaller or larger 
 scale according to the size of the town. He 
 bears about the same actual economic relation 
 to things human as a comic picture that we 
 find on the wall of a semi-public place does to 
 things physical. We stop and look at it and 
 it affords us harmless amusement for the mo- 
 ment. The sporty bachelor is about as harm- 
 less, save that he gives a rather indifferent 
 example in selfishness to the young of his 
 immediate neighborhood. 
 
 149 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
 THE Puterton was one of those con- 
 solidations of dwellings — a flat build- 
 ing — and it loomed up huge, boxlike, 
 against the morning mist, noonday sun, or 
 evening dusk of the city, according to the 
 time of day you viewed it. With the Puter- 
 ton spick and span, new and smelling of wet 
 plaster, burning lacquer of the steam pipes, 
 and fresh paint and varnish, everybody moved 
 in. No sooner were they settled till the 
 women discovered, in their back porch meet- 
 ings, that everybody was about the same age 
 and position in life, and, obviously, they were 
 very congenial. All dressed in their best, 
 made afternoon parlor calls on their neigh- 
 bors, and the word was soon passed around 
 that in the whole Puterton there was not one 
 misfit — or "wrong font," as printers say. 
 
 Mrs. Fubton, a petite blonde with a hop- 
 ping walk, had an idea. She confided it to her 
 near neighbor, who, in turn, confided it to the 
 neighbor on the other side, and so on down 
 
 153 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
 the line. Somebody carried the idea to the 
 flat above; it spread tier after tier till every- 
 body in the entire Puterton had an idea, and 
 that was — to form a card club. 
 
 Mrs. Jobson lived next to the Fubtons, and 
 they were fast friends. Mrs. Jobson was a 
 stately brunette, had a distinct way of sound- 
 ing her "rs" and "ings," and it was soon 
 whispered about that she had been an actress, 
 for "actresses" will happen in the best of flats. 
 One Wednesday afternoon all the women of 
 the Puterton were assembled in the flats of 
 Mrs. Fubton and Mrs. Jobson — there were 
 too many for one flat — and the Puterton Card 
 Club was formed. It was agreed that the 
 membership should be confined to the Puter- 
 ton; each tenant should entertain the club in 
 turn Wednesday afternoons, providing re- 
 freshments and prizes, so that the burden 
 would fall equitably upon all, the prizes going 
 to the best players, which was expected. 
 There was not a card turned that afternoon, 
 but after the business closed Mrs. Jobson, the 
 suspected actress, rendered "How Salvator 
 Won," with something "lighter" of Will 
 Carleton's as an encore. 
 
 154 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
 Each meeting of the club, as the season pro- 
 gressed, became more elaborate in point of 
 refreshments and prizes — each successive en- 
 tertainer outdoing her predecessor. The 
 membership was so large that it was necessary 
 to throw two flats together, and when it be- 
 came Mrs. Fubton's and Mrs. Jobson's turn, 
 the former suggested that she entertain the 
 club in her parents' home, a large and well 
 appointed house. 
 
 Now, the father of Mrs. Fubton had houses 
 and lands and crisp papers with green printing 
 on them. He had built this home when the 
 city was much younger and on a street that 
 bade fair to become one of the best, but as 
 years rolled on the good old man found him- 
 self surrounded by small stores, factories, and 
 dwellings of honest working people. He was 
 a conservative; his children married, and as 
 it was impossible to obtain the amount of his 
 investment he remained there and made the 
 best of it. Mrs. Jobson hinted a few objec- 
 tions to the arrangement, but Mrs. Fubton 
 was insistent, and the following Wednesday 
 the regular meeting of the Puterton Card 
 Club was held there. The rooms were dec- 
 
 155 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
 orated with "smilax and ferns," the prizes 
 were exquisite, the refreshments elaborate, 
 there was a full attendance, and everybody 
 had "simply a lovely time." 
 
 The following day Mrs. Jobson felt that, 
 as she was a partner in the arrangement, she 
 should make excuses for holding the meeting 
 of the Puterton Card Club in such a low part 
 of the city. Of course, this was handed from 
 flat to flat, and a little interest added each 
 time. When it arrived at the flat of Fubton 
 the application "low" was taken as personal 
 to the family of Mrs. Fubton. 
 
 At the next meeting of the club the two 
 women didn't speak. There came a lull in 
 the card playing; Mrs. Jobson made some re- 
 mark about the kind and quality of steak 
 they used. Little Mrs. Fubton suggested 
 something about round steak being the Job- 
 son's limit. There came another lull in the 
 playing; the talk turned to chorus girls, some- 
 body said that they thought the characters of 
 chorus girls were much better than formerly, 
 and Mrs. Fubton snappingly asked Mrs. Job- 
 son if they were not so much better now than 
 when she was in the chorus? 
 
 156 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
 Mrs. Jobson rose to her full height. There 
 was no more card playing that afternoon. 
 Mrs. Jobson went to the back porch. Mrs. 
 Fubton followed her, and all the other mem- 
 bers gathered at the back bedroom and kitchen 
 windows to hear the row, Mrs. Fubton said 
 that she had always heard Mrs. Jobson was 
 a low person, and that before she was mar- 
 ried she herself had not even done house- 
 work, much less work in a chorus. Mrs. 
 Jobson retorted by saying she had heard quite 
 the same thing of Mrs. Fubton and all her 
 people, and as to working in the chorus — 
 she surveyed little Mrs. Fubton from head to 
 foot and said she couldn't get in the chorus 
 if she wanted to. In the two voiced medley 
 of high-keyed talk that followed Mrs. Job- 
 son was heard to say that her husband had 
 said that the Fubtons were low people. "Mr. 
 Jobson had said that the Fubtons were low 
 people !" That settled it so far as the women 
 were concerned, and Mrs. Fubton coolly dis- 
 missed the matter for the time and went 
 home. 
 
 Mr. Jobson was a big prosperous young 
 broker, who dressed well, and had heavy sacks 
 
 157 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
 under his eyes, and smoked fat black cigars. 
 The next day he received a call in his office 
 from Mr. Fubton, a little blond man who 
 talked through his nose. Mr. Fubton de- 
 manded an apology for what he had said 
 about his wife. Mr. Jobson had said noth- 
 ing about his wife, and was not going to make 
 an apology, and believed that men should 
 keep out and let women settle their own rows. 
 All this being in a mild tone of voice. Mr. 
 Fubton became very mad, said that his wife 
 had said that he had said that his wife's peo- 
 ple were low, and finally left the office with 
 the statement that he would place the matter 
 in the hands of an attorney. 
 
 That night there was a row in the Jobson 
 flat. Jobson took his wife to task for saying 
 he had said that the Fubtons were "low peo- 
 ple" when he had been in town but a short 
 time and didn't know them in their family 
 history. Their bedroom was lighted far in- 
 to the night; the loud bass voice of the hus- 
 band was heard by the neighbors with sobs 
 and rich contralto-voiced statements uttered 
 in a way that only a large woman can who at 
 one time had ambitions to play Camille. 
 
 158 
 
THE FLAT NEXT DOOR 
 
 At the next meeting Mrs. Fubton had a 
 sick headache and couldn't go; the resigna- 
 tion of Mrs. Jobson was received, stating that 
 she expected to move. 
 
 Mrs. Fubton was not satisfied with the 
 amount of sympathy she received, and decided 
 to move also, and rented a suite in the 
 Prunette, another new building right around 
 the corner. The Fubtons were only the sec- 
 ond tenants in the new building, and were just 
 nicely settled when one morning Mrs. Fubton 
 went out to place a card in the glass front 
 of the letter box to her flat. She glanced to 
 the next box, when suddenly everything be- 
 fore her grew dark and she staggered back 
 into her own apartment. That night when 
 Mr. Fubton returned home he found his 
 petite wife lying face downward on the bed, 
 the pillow soaked with tears. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter, dearest," he 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh," she said in convulsive sobs, "the Job- 
 sons-are-living-next-door." 
 
 159 
 
THE MELODRAMA OF YESTERDAY 
 
THE MELODRAMA OF YESTERDAY 
 
 MELODRAMA has passed away. 
 Its place has been taken by the 
 movies, and the people who for- 
 merly thronged the ten, twenty, thirty houses, 
 to witness lurid plays like "Bertha, the Sew- 
 ing Machine Girl," and "When London 
 Sleeps," are today crowding into the gaudy 
 stucco palaces given over to the latest mov- 
 ing picture reels. 
 
 But in its day, and that day was not so far 
 distant, melodrama played its great part in 
 educating a theater-going public, for part of 
 the audience that went to melodrama a few 
 years ago do not patronize picture shows ex- 
 clusively. They received there a taste for 
 better things in the theater, and you will see 
 them today thronging to some of the better 
 class houses. 
 
 Did you ever attend a ten, twenty and 
 thirty cent theater when they played melo- 
 drama; where the appeal was to dull sensibil- 
 ities; where villainy, treachery, sentiment and 
 
 163 
 
THE MELODRAMA OF YESTERDAY 
 
 humor were thrown at them in such large and 
 well-defined chunks that they couldn't pos- 
 sibly miss them? 
 
 A low-brow, heavy with fish-globelike 
 glasses of between-act beer, might nod off in 
 slumber, but only for a few minutes, for he 
 would be awakened by the neighs of the girl 
 with the bed-mattress hair as she protests to 
 her father, the muttonchop-whiskered banker, 
 against her impending marriage to Harold 
 Rutledge as being the only means of saving 
 the banking house of Jones & Co. from clos- 
 ing its doors forever. If that doesn't arouse 
 him there are the snake-like hisses of the vil- 
 lain as he drags a very puny child up the road 
 to the mountain; or the bull-bellows of the 
 black, curly-haired hero making love to the 
 bony blonde; or the blustering of the "heavy," 
 the politician, with a fifteen-drinks-a-day nose. 
 Then if these don't awaken him there is the 
 noise attending an act-end climax — the pistol 
 shots, shouts of the stage mob, the orchestra 
 playing at circus-band pressure, the fall of the 
 curtain on the stage when the cheers and 
 screams of the audience blend off into lone 
 cries from a brazen little boy yelling, "Pea- 
 
 164 
 
THE MELODRAMA OF YESTERDAY 
 
 nuts, popcorn and chewing gum here!" The 
 has-been sleeper, thoroughly aroused, looks 
 around, licks his chops, gets up and follows 
 his fellow low-brows up the aisle and to the 
 wet grocery next door for more fish-globes of 
 beer. 
 
 It's there, you can't help getting it. There 
 is a thrill in every scene — something to catch 
 'em and hold 'em in every situation from the 
 moment the curtain goes up on Nora, the 
 housemaid, dusting the furniture of Banker 
 Jones' parlor. Nora appeals to the kitchen 
 mechanics by a slam at her mistress and a 
 remark as to how hard she has to work. This 
 policy of catch 'em-hold 'em is maintained 
 clear through, down to the last scene of the 
 last act, where they all line up to receive the 
 paternal blessing. 
 
 The melodrama is mental dope. 
 
 The melodrama bears the same relation to 
 real life as the perfume bottle to real flowers. 
 
 The melodrama pictures to the lower strata 
 of intelligence a life ideal in their under- 
 standing — it causes them to forget for the 
 moment their smoky homes in the begrimed 
 factory district; that there are children to 
 
 165 
 
THE MELODRAMA OF YESTERDAY 
 
 herd, and cans to rush, neighbors to fight 
 with, coal and old iron to steal, and the 
 various little Inharmonious pursuits that keep 
 the police mill wheels of justice a-grinding. 
 
 All melodramas were written by rule and 
 note — just as a good cook makes a cake by 
 recipe. There were several different kinds of 
 melodrama, as there are different kinds of 
 cake; but each was prepared according to a 
 well-defined formula. 
 
 Here is a good general prescription war- 
 ranted to "make 'em holler," as they say in 
 the parlance of the business : One peck of 
 villainy, two pecks of love, one gallon of 
 pathos, one quart of dear old mother senti- 
 ment. Stir well, allow to stand and settle 
 until you can look at it without nausea, then 
 add a dash of old flag patriotism, a dust of 
 girl ruining, two tablespoonfuls of child ab- 
 duction, season to taste with comedy, and 
 serve with garnishments of red fire, gun- 
 powder smoke, house-by-the-hill, wildwood 
 and richman's parlor scenery. 
 
 There is one situation and one line that 
 was in every well regulated melodrama — it 
 was just as necessary as butter to cake. Here 
 
 166 
 
THE MELODRAMA OF YESTERDAY 
 
 it is: A little tvvo-foot-and-a-half girl, who 
 shows the effects of being up nights through 
 the paint, will grab a three-foot boss pistol, 
 point it at the villain and say in a very weak, 
 skim-milk voice: "Touch one hair of my 
 mother's head and I will blow your brains 
 out!" 
 
 This always "made 'em holler." 
 
 At the conclusion of this line every low- 
 brow in the house would bring his paws down 
 on his knees, bob up in his seat like a jumping- 
 jack, yell "Good!" and finally subside with a 
 hiss that sounds like the escape from a cotton 
 compress. 
 
 At the general establishment of melodrama 
 theaters, of the ten, twenty, thirty class, some 
 twenty-five years ago, it was soon discovered 
 that a new field of theatrical patronage had 
 been created; they made theatrical patronage 
 just as the cheap magazines made their own 
 readers. More money was made from this 
 class of amusement than from any other on 
 the very simple commercial principle that 
 there are more people with a dime than a dol- 
 lar — small but aggregate profits. 
 
 167 
 
THE MELODRAMA OF YESTERDAY 
 
 At their inception many persons attended a 
 theater for the first time, and some of the 
 happenings by the seriousness with which they 
 took the performances were interesting. For 
 instance, when they put on ten, twenty, thirty 
 melodrama at the Park Theater in Indianap- 
 olis, for the first few weeks they had to de- 
 liver the villain to and from the hotel in a 
 prison van to keep the yaps from mobbing 
 him. 
 
 It is pretty good commerce to appeal to 
 dull sensibilities either in theaters, newspapers, 
 books, or any of the physical necessities of 
 life; for the field and audience are large. 
 
 It even has its application to the palate; 
 for confectioners say that the candies with the 
 strongest flavoring are the ones commanding 
 the largest sale. Two men perceived this and 
 made a fortune on it in chewing gum by rea- 
 son of its heavy flavoring — one used pepper- 
 mint, and the other wintergreen and pepsin. 
 
 168 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
 HE was a big oozing hulk of a fellow 
 so steeped in cookin' whiskey that 
 he exuded an odor like a gas leak, 
 — but that was more than two years ago. 
 
 He lived, or rather stayed, at a cheap sailor 
 boarding-house down around the docks, and 
 cleaned up saloons for his drinks and food. 
 The saloon jobs didn't last long enough; for 
 he usually drank up more than he cleaned up, 
 and sometimes, when In an unusually high 
 state of sosh, he cleaned them out, — but that 
 was more than two years ago. 
 
 Salutie was his name — at least the only one 
 known in bumdom. Derived, no doubt, from 
 his deferential way of saluting officers as he 
 willingly submitted to arrest. And there 
 wasn't a better-known name in police circles; 
 for he held the workhouse sentence record, — 
 but that was more than two years ago. 
 
 In major matters Salutie respected the law; 
 for once a police court judge, pro tem., asked 
 if he had ever been arrested before. Every- 
 
 171 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
 body laughed, but Salutie spoke up hotly: 
 "Only drunk and vag. and A. and B., your 
 honor" (vagrancy, and assault and battery). 
 There was an appealing hound-pup-like ex- 
 pression in his eye and a mellow modulation 
 in his voice, and the fact became accepted 
 that it was booze within the man rather than 
 the man. 
 
 Salutie had been a tool-maker and on many 
 a pay-roll for years at four per day. Sud- 
 denly he began tanking up and laying off for 
 days at a time, — just when a set of dies were 
 in a critical stage and no one else could con- 
 veniently finish them. He was let out, and 
 got other jobs here and there, but his record 
 soon went before him and was finally passed 
 up all down the line, — but that was more than 
 two years ago. 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
 A big hulk of a fellow stood before a 
 down-town store window on Saturday night. 
 The biggest, fattest baby imaginable sat on 
 one arm, — held there by one of its legs. The 
 youngster scrambled about the big man's 
 shoulders protruding its rubicund cheeks and 
 staring with hound-pup-like eyes at the pass- 
 
 173 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
 ing throng in the last hours of week-end shop- 
 ping. The man pointed to a little sailor suit 
 with brass buttons on a form in the window 
 and talked to a wholesome-looking woman by 
 his side. 
 
 "That's 'bout a three-year-old size," said 
 the man. 
 
 "That's 'bout a six-year-old size," said the 
 woman positively. 
 
 "No," returned the man, "I don't think 
 we'll have to wait six years to buy that suit; 
 for you know when folks take a kid in a 
 clothin' store to get fitted out, and they say 
 he's five years old, why the clerk'll say that 
 he's big fer his age and '11 take an eight-year- 
 size. That puffs up the folks and they buy 
 more; good deal like a baby-kissin' candi- 
 date." 
 
 Two policemen stood on the corner. 
 
 One nudged the other and exclaimed: 
 "There's Salutie!" 
 
 Salutie had a feeling of being observed, 
 turned, handed the baby to the woman at his 
 side, walked over to the officers and greeted 
 them, — not with the old deferential bow of 
 more than two years ago, but by extending a 
 
 173 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
 hand to each; at the same time casting glances 
 backward at the woman and baby with an 
 expression of pride one sees in those who have 
 acquired something worth while since last 
 they met friends of days gone by. 
 
 Salutie introduced the woman — his wife — 
 who gave a merry little laugh by way of ac- 
 knowledgment. She held out the baby, who 
 discharged a loud parrot-like screech and 
 made a dive for an officer's star. 
 
 "Ain't that a big baby!" exclaimed one of 
 the officers. 
 
 "Looks like you, Salutie," said the other. 
 
 Then both balanced Salutie's baby in palms 
 and guessed its weight. Then they looked at 
 Salutie's wholesome wife, who gave another 
 merry little laugh. 
 
 "How'd you fool her?" asked both officers 
 in duet. 
 
 "Didn't fool her," replied Salutie. "She 
 fooled me first, — by marryin' the other feller 
 — that's what put me to the bad. I tried to 
 forget her by tankin' up on varnish-remover 
 whiskey. I did, pretty near — and everything 
 else I guess. It was like this : I was sittin' on 
 one of them benches in the park. My in'ards 
 
 174 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
 was about burnt out, — they felt like an old 
 rusty stovepipe that had been layin' in a leaky 
 shed. It was there by the fountain, where 
 the water squirts up, and I sat there watchin* 
 it; fer it seemed to sort o' cool off my pipes. 
 Well, as I said, I was sittin' there when all at 
 once she come along the walk. 
 
 "I was sober in a minute. 
 
 "She didn't look good and I knew some- 
 thin' was the matter. I went up to her — I 
 felt privileged to; fer she didn't look much 
 better than me so far as clothes was concerned. 
 
 " 'Go way,' she sez, 'I never want to speak 
 to another man.' 
 
 "Then I did know somethin' was the mat- 
 ter. I follered her and found she was wash- 
 in' dishes in an eatin'-house. That night I 
 follered her agin to where she was livin' and 
 I found out that the other feller wasn't livin' 
 with her, — it seems she had drawed one of 
 them prize-packages of husbands that thinks 
 he's got to beat up a woman about onec't a 
 week or she won't love him. She was pretty 
 husky and he had to get soshed up to do it. 
 Well, in the process, he got to likin' to get 
 
 175 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
 soshed up better than he did her, and she left 
 him. 
 
 "Next day I went out and got a job in front 
 of a punch-press, — yes, and the dies in that 
 press was ones I made myself more'n two 
 years ago. I didn't drink any more, except to 
 taper off on and before the month was out I 
 had enough to get me a fair outfit of clothes, 
 and then I went around there again where she 
 lived. It didn't go very well at first, but after 
 the fourth or fifth time I got her so she'd 
 listen to reason. 
 
 "After I got some of the tremble out of me 
 I went up in the tool-shop and got a job at my 
 trade. By the middle of winter I had saved 
 enough to hire a lawyer to do the unharnessin' 
 of the other feller, and Christmas two year 
 ago me and her hitched up at a J. P.'s. 
 
 "Last year the kid here didn't have no 
 Christmas, unless you call his own life a pres- 
 ent — the fact is he brought us a Christmas 
 present in hisself. 
 
 "I'm payin' fer property now out here. 
 We got flower-beds in the front yard and 
 chickens in the back yard — got a big two- 
 
 176 
 
THE REFORMATION OF SALUTIE 
 
 story-and-a-basement rooster fer Sunday, — 
 better come out and help lick him up. 
 
 "I havxn't been down town before at night 
 in — let me see — oh, that was more'n two years 
 ago. We just come tonight to see if there 
 wasn't some little thing we could get him, — 
 we just sit there at home at nights by the cen- 
 ter table with the bedroom door open so we 
 can hear him breathe. When he frets or 
 cries, me and her go in and sit by the bed 
 awhile till he sleeps agin — seems to me I can 
 get just as drunk there listenin' to him breathe 
 and sittin' there watchin' the little feller grow, 
 as ever I did over the rail of a bum saloon 
 usin' my coat sleeves fer a bar rag and histin' 
 'em in." 
 
 Salutie turned to go. The baby made an- 
 other lunge for one of the policeman's brass 
 buttons and let out another loud screech be- 
 cause he didn't get it. 
 
 "Well, good night, men," said Salutie. 
 
 And he bowed as he disappeared in the 
 passing throng — the old deferential bow; for 
 it was, no doubt, his final exit from the lives 
 of guardians of the law after his life of — well, 
 that was more than two years ago. 
 
 177 
 
AT KIMES' CORNERS 
 
AT KIMES' CORNERS 
 
 (A One-Act Sketch.) 
 
 Characters: Joel Jessups, a blacksmith; Nat 
 Straighter, a village do-nothing 
 Scene: — Crossroads blacksmith's in the center of a 
 scattered village, — a rough barn-like building cov- 
 ered with a generation or two of tattered circus- 
 posters and surrounded by a long line of vehicles 
 in various stages of superannuation and dilapida- 
 tion, amid piles of wagon-beds, buggy-tops, shafts, 
 tongues, scraps of old iron and rubbish. The 
 forge is cold, and although the sun is shining 
 brightly, the double-doors wide open, the ages of 
 smoke have so blackened the interior that it ap- 
 pears as a dark chasm. Joel Jessups, a wiry little 
 old man in worn jeans pants tucked into his boot- 
 tops, a tattered and burned leather apron and red 
 flannel undershirt, sits outside on the edge of the 
 shrinking-box, looking up and down the road and 
 smoking a pipe covered with a brass cap in the 
 form of a king's crown. 
 
 JOEL JESSUPS— I was here way back 
 in the days when this wasn't nothin' but 
 an anvil and forge In the woods. In 
 the good old days when I ironed wagons, 
 made axes, wedges, log-chains, plow-shares, 
 
 181 
 
AT KIMES CORNERS 
 
 dog-irons, and bear traps. When me and my 
 'prentice boy made hoss-shoes and nails at 
 night after the day's jobbin' was done, out of 
 bar-iron at nine cents a pound, and the wolves 
 and owls, attracted by the light from the 
 forge, come out and howled and hooted at us. 
 When we went into the woods and burned 
 our own charcoal, before there was a pound 
 of stone-coal, as they called it in them days, 
 west of Pittsburgh. 
 
 (Sighing and shaking his head.) It's been 
 many a day since I ironed a wagon, made a 
 hoss-shoe, nail, ax, wedge, log-chain, dog-iron 
 or bear-trap. (Hears footsteps around on 
 the side road, turns, looks diagonally across 
 the shop, through a window latticed with rusty 
 strap-iron and sees the head and shoulders of 
 Nat Straighter.) 
 
 Enter Nat Straighter. 
 
 Nat Straighter — Good mornin', Joel, 
 what's you doin'? 
 
 Joel Jessups — Oh, I ain't doin' nothin' — I 
 kind o' got the slows this mornin' — to tell 
 you the truth, I ain't got nothin' to do. All 
 the wagons is made up here at South Bend, 
 all the axes at Alexander and the hoss-shoes 
 
 182 
 
AT KIMES CORNERS 
 
 at Pittsburgh, and they ain't nothin' fer me to 
 do 'cept go and buy these here store shoes and 
 jist nail 'em on — people won't pay fer the 
 shoes I forge out even if they do wear longer. 
 I was jist sittin' here lookin' up and down the 
 road waitin' fer some old buggy to bust down 
 or some old boss' shoe to come off. 
 
 I see by the paper t'other day that these 
 here trusts is goin' to hurry the comin' of the 
 millennium, and it can't come none too soon 
 fer me, fer I don't see what this here world 
 of ourn is comin' to. How's all yer folks, 
 Nat? 
 
 Nat Straighter — Oh, they was able to eat 
 breakfast. My daughter, Birthey, has been 
 laid up with quite a bad spell, but castor oil 
 is a workin' her wonders to p'form — we're 
 great folks fer castor oil at our house. We 
 give 'er in great big doses — 'bout as reg'lar 
 as we grease the buggy. 
 
 Oh, yes, Joel, by the way, old Eli Yoder 
 is goin' to marry again. 
 
 Joel Jessups — Well, well, you don't say, 
 who's it goin' to be this time? 
 
 A'^^^ Straighter — One of old Abe Swonks' 
 gals. 
 
 183 
 
AT KIMES CORNERS 
 
 Joel Jessiips (slowly and thoughtfully) — 
 Well, I reckon the Lord must be payin' old 
 Abe Swonks fer his sins in son-in-laws! 
 
 Nat Straighter — Yes, he come past my 
 place last evenin' at early candle lightin' time 
 as I was out doin' up my barn chores and he 
 was tellin' me. He was on his way out to 
 Two-Mile Church. 
 
 Joel Jessups — Why, I didn't know his last 
 woman was dead. 
 
 Nat Straighter — Yes, he was sayin' that he 
 had as good a woman as ever lived, and that 
 he'd buried her just six weeks ago that day. 
 
 Joel Jessups — How many women has he 
 had, anyway? 
 
 Nat Straighter — He's buried four and 
 this'n '11 make five — I reckon he thinks as 
 long as the Lord keeps takin', why he'll keep 
 takin'. 
 
 Joel Jessups — I guess you must ferget 
 about the one he married once; seems she 
 come home from the store next day with a 
 washin' machine or a carpet sweeper or some 
 other kind of a work savin' thing, and old Eli 
 he seed that she was goin' to be extravagant 
 and he paid her off and got shed of her. 
 
 184 
 
AT KIMES CORNERS 
 
 Nat Straighter — I was askin' him which 
 one of his women he liked the best, and he 
 was sayin' that he believed fer jist a general 
 rough-and-tumble woman he would take the 
 one he was goin' to get now, but fer genuine 
 love and affection he would take the one layin' 
 over yonder in the Baptist buryin' ground. 
 
 You remember once, Joel, he got into a 
 fuss with the jeweler 'bout engravin' the coffin 
 plate fer one of his wives — wasn't goin' to 
 pay him fer it? Said he never finished it — 
 never put a period after the name. 
 
 Joel Jessiips — They don't generally put 
 periods on coffin plates, do they? 
 
 Nat Straighter — I reckon if they ever was 
 a place fer a period on this earth it's on a 
 coffin plate. 
 
 Joel Jessiips (laughing) — Yes, I reckon 
 that's right. 
 
 Nat Straighter (turning completely around 
 slowly and pointing back in the shop) — Oh 
 yes, Joel, I come pretty near fergettin' what I 
 come after. I'd like to borrow that ladder 
 back there in your shop — our house is on fire. 
 (curtain) 
 
 185 
 
GRANDMA ROSS' STORY 
 
GRANDMA ROSS' STORY 
 
 THE old country hotel to you as a boy 
 was the first point of contact — reflex 
 contact — with the world beyond the 
 hill of the home town. There you first saw 
 all the varying specimens of human zoology 
 — every itinerant type from the pursy 
 drummer with a pursy grip, to the showman 
 with an educated pig — usually both gave ex- 
 hibitions in the hotel dining-room. 
 
 There is the same old wet place on the 
 office ceiling — by it you can tell the exact loca- 
 tion of the washstand in the sleeping-room 
 above. The same cheap spring-balance clock, 
 surrounded by many crudely lettered glass 
 signs telling travelers to go to Livermore & 
 Bacon for fine meats, Peleg Hosstetter for 
 fine livery, Steve Hankins for fine furniture 
 and undertaking, and Tom Hawk for choice 
 wines, liquors and 15-ball pool. 
 
 And the same grease spot is on the wall 
 back of the counter, where the proprietor 
 
 189 
 
GRANDMA ROSS STORY 
 
 rested his head while he sat and dozed wait- 
 ing for the eight-seventeen night train. 
 
 There are the smells of wood smoke, stale 
 tobacco smoke, coal-oil, a musty cellar and 
 country cooking. 
 
 You recall an old grandmother back in the 
 family sitting-room before the hearth; how 
 you and the Ross children encircled her arm- 
 chair in the long winter evenings and listened 
 to stories of early days and pioneer life. 
 
 Here is one she selected for particularly 
 dark, rainy nights, and told it in a low minor- 
 keyed voice — almost bass, to the accompani- 
 ment of sighing winds around the chimney 
 top, rattling shutter-slats and hooting owls 
 and screaming peafowls outside. 
 
 "The town wuzn't more'n a settlement in 
 them days. Me an' yer grandfather come 
 through in a prairie schooner from Lancaster, 
 Pennsylvania. We wuz bound for the Illinoy, 
 but heer'd they wuz a-havin' milk-sick bad 
 out there, an' as the land-office wuz here, an' 
 people comin' to take out proof uv their land 
 an' yer grandfather bein' a blacksmith by 
 trade, he concluded to stop here and set up 
 his forge. 
 
 190 
 
GRANDMA ROSS STORY 
 
 "They wuz a saw and gris'-mill too, an' 
 folks used to come an' camp out around the 
 mill while they got their gris' ground. 
 
 "Well, the next spring yer grandfather 
 took the money he got from sellin' his land 
 back in the States an' built a part uv this 
 tavern. 
 
 "One night some years after, the wind wuz 
 a-blowin' and howlin' around the chimney jist 
 like it is tonight. It had been rainin' fer a 
 week er more an' the roads wuz jist awful. 
 Yer grandfather an' me had jist gone to bed 
 when we heer'd the sounds o' wheels an' a 
 boss a-splashin' in the road. It got nearer an' 
 nearer. Finally it stopped out in front an' 
 then we heer'd, 'Hel-lo-o-o, hel-lo-o-oo the 
 house !' 
 
 "It sounded strange and wild — like some- 
 body wuz a-hollerin' down a rain-barrel. 
 
 "They wuz talk o' the railroad a-comin' 
 through about that time, the surveyors wuz in 
 town an' so many hard customers skulkin' 
 about that I wuz most afraid to have yer 
 grandfather go out — then again, the house 
 wuz jist as full as a tick an' I didn't see where 
 we'd put anybody else. 
 
 191 
 
GRANDMA ROSS STORY 
 
 "But yer grandfather said he wouldn't let 
 nobody stay out a night like that, no differ- 
 ence ef he had to let 'em sleep in the barn. 
 
 "Yer grandfather went down. It wuz an 
 old tinker, an' so drunk that he had to help 
 'im down out of the wagon. 
 
 "After he'd put his boss and rig away in 
 the barn, I made 'im a shakedown on the 
 garret floor, yer grandfather half carried 'im 
 up, laid 'im down, jerked off his wet clothes 
 an' the tinker wuz sound asleep an' a-snorin' 
 'fore yer grandfather left him. 
 
 "The tinker didn't come down to break- 
 fast, the tinker didn't come down to dinner! 
 
 "The fact is, we all forgot about 'im till 
 'long late in the afternoon yer grandfather 
 happened to go out in the barn an' seed his 
 rig a-standin' there. Then he thought about 
 the tinker, come in the house an' started up to 
 the garret. 
 
 "He had no more'n got to the top step 'till 
 yer grandfather turned, staggered, half fell, 
 and then run down the steps hollerin' like an 
 injun. 
 
 " 'What on earth is the matter?' I sez. 
 
 192 
 
GRANDMA ROSS STORY 
 
 "He looked at me wild-eyed, a pantin' like 
 a scared hoss, an' he sez, 'Go up an' see fer 
 yerself!' 
 
 "I did, an' the sight that met my eyes will 
 be with me 'till my dyin' day. 
 
 "There wuz the tinker's skeletin lyin' there 
 on the shakedown, an' his bones wuz licked 
 as clean an' bleached as white as pearl but- 
 tons, an' — an' — what do you suppose? 
 
 "The rats had et 'im ! 
 
 "We looked all around the garret, but nary 
 rat could we find. Finally we went over in 
 the back part where we kept the barrels uv 
 extra feathers fer the beds, and they wuz jist 
 'live with 'em. 
 
 "We all went down and heated great soap- 
 kettles full o' boilin' water, an' that day we 
 scalded upwards uv a thousand rats er more. 
 
 "We kept the rig 'till the hoss died and the 
 wagon broke down — thinkin' that somebody 
 might come fer 'em some day, but they never 
 did. 
 
 "Yer grandfather claimed his chest o' tools 
 fer buryin' the tinker's bones an' his night's 
 lodgin'. 
 
 193 
 
GRANDMA ROSS STORY 
 
 "That's where yer uncle got that fine fiddle 
 — the one with the picture of the castle inlaid 
 on the back an' an old man's head carved on 
 top of the peg-box — it wuz under the seat uv 
 the wagon done up in an oilskin bag." 
 
 At this point Grandma would look at the 
 shivering children about her, their horror- 
 stricken countenances, and roll up her knitting 
 as if to retire for the night, but one of the 
 children would remind her that she had not 
 told the part about the tinker's cane, 
 
 "Oh, yes," she would say, "I 'most forgot," 
 and then continue : 
 
 "Crosswise in the tool-chest wuz a big 
 smooth hickory stick with a ferrule on the 
 end. Yer grandfather thought it was uncom- 
 mon heavy fer a hickory stick, but he jist put 
 it in the closet upstairs, only carryin' it uv 
 nights when he went out. 
 
 "He got to lookin' at it one day and dis- 
 covered that they wuz a joint in it, an' givin' 
 it a hard twist, the top came off, an' a lot of 
 sawdust flew out. 
 
 "He poured the sawdust out on the floor, 
 an' out with it come — 
 
 "Fifty Golden Half-Eagles!" 
 
 194 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 IN a country town you can always tell the 
 preacher's house. You would naturally 
 suspect that in a country town there 
 would be rich churches and poor churches, just 
 as there are poor and rich people, but not so 
 at all. 
 
 AH churches are poor in the rural districts; 
 for even those attended by rich and well-to-do 
 people seem to bite off more in the way of a 
 religious campaign than they can chew finan- 
 cially. 
 
 They always cut on the poor preacher, — at 
 least he has to stand the deficit in salary 
 arrears. 
 
 They used to give what they called pound 
 parties to the preacher's family, — that is, each 
 member would bring a pound of something in 
 the way of household supplies to the parson- 
 age for an evening party. As the result they 
 brought one pound and ate up two, and 
 usually the preacher's family had to go 
 hungry. 
 
 197 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 While we of today may not believe in the 
 doctrines as preached by these men, yet they 
 were honest in what they believed and sac- 
 rificed and suffered for their cause. Some of 
 the most pathetic memories of the writer are 
 the results of boyish observations in and 
 around the homes of country preachers. 
 
 But to the preacher's house : There is a 
 general transient air about it. The end of the 
 legs of the porch chairs are broken, nailed or 
 wired up; there is usually the earth and pieces 
 from a broken flower pot, together with the 
 remains of a withered plant scattered over the 
 porch floor, where it had been knocked off 
 the window sill by one of a very disorderly 
 lot of young children. There are always 
 dilapidated toys scattered over the front yard 
 which is usually bare of grass. These toys 
 are usually those broken and cast off by the 
 children of the congregation and given to the 
 preacher's offspring. 
 
 Usually the children's clothing is that cast 
 off by those of the flock, and very frequently 
 even then it is cut down from the older mem- 
 bers of the family to fit the younger ones. 
 
 198 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 A country preacher does much moving 
 about, — he seldom remains more than two 
 years with a charge, and inside his house is 
 the example that three moves are equal to a 
 fire, and if this be true the poor preacher had 
 better have burned his furniture. The car- 
 pets are worn and show much cutting in order 
 to fit them to the many sizes of the different 
 rooms they have covered. The patent rocker 
 is off its mooring, the nap is worn from the 
 plush upholstery and the wire springs stick out 
 through the back and seat. The glass of the 
 bookcase is gone years ago, backs and covers 
 hang loose on the books. The vases on the 
 mantel are nicked and cracked; the clock is 
 still and the hour hand gone. Everything is 
 scarred, cracked and broken and troops of 
 kids race through the rooms to add to the 
 disorder. 
 
 The preacher's wife has so much to do that 
 she does nothing well. She must bear and 
 rear children, cook, wash and iron, mend and 
 make clothing and all the while keep a smiling 
 face to the women of the flock. 
 
 That smile of a country preacher's wife 1 
 
 199 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 There is a certain tired way of standing 
 that they have. A weary bend of the knees 
 and a stoop of the shoulders and they grasp 
 their chin in one of their work gnarled hands 
 as they look at you; and through that smile 
 you see an expression of doubt, half hope per- 
 haps, that there is a bliss coming; just beyond 
 this vale of weariness and tears. 
 
 Her wardrobe consists of some paper mus- 
 lin house dresses, and gift aprons, and her 
 Sunday attire consists of one silk dress with 
 many neatly mended rents, a well worn India 
 shawl and black bonnet, — with its white nich- 
 ing in front and ribbon that ties in a very 
 precise knot under the chin. All her Sunday 
 items of dress are a generation old and no 
 doubt a part of her wedding outfit. 
 
 There are always collections being taken 
 and entertainments given to get the preacher 
 something, but no one ever seems to give the 
 poor wife anything new. 
 
 The writer very distinctly remembers of 
 once giving a small sum together with other 
 members of a Sunday school class for the pur- 
 pose of getting the preacher's teeth fixed. 
 
 200 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 In the old days back home, there was a 
 great hurrying among the women of the flock 
 about this time of year to get the preacher a 
 new overcoat. 
 
 They would go among the country mer- 
 chants of the town; one would donate the 
 cloth, another the lining, and another the but- 
 tons and findings; the tailor of the town would 
 cut it to measure and the women of the com- 
 mittee would meet in the afternoon at one of 
 their homes and sew it up. 
 
 It was never a very creditable garment; for 
 obviously the merchants gave that towards it 
 which they could not sell. 
 ■ ■ 
 
 Years ago the writer's parents used to be- 
 long to a little church over on the corner of 
 Blackford and Vermont Streets in Indianap- 
 olis. The congregation were saving so hard 
 to "burn the mortgage" that they were spar- 
 ing even to the point of light and fuel. 
 
 The mid-week or prayer meetings were be- 
 ing held each Thursday night around in the 
 homes of different members of the congrega- 
 tion who had large houses. The writer's fam- 
 ily home was a big old white house with 
 
 201 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 porches built around it until it looked like a 
 Mississippi River steamboat, and when It 
 came his family's turn chairs were carried in 
 from the neighbors. 
 
 Everybody was there. The room was close 
 and stuffy with that usual country-church smell 
 added to the stale pancake smoke of the din- 
 ing-room, and with mixed smells of freshly 
 ironed clothes, and that odor that arises from 
 gentlemen who care for their own horses. 
 
 One old man who was always in evidence 
 and whom all the children called Grandpa 
 Pope was the type of the very early pious 
 German emigrant. He had a white whisker 
 fringe around the lower part of his face which 
 seemed to grow up from under his collar 
 rather than out of his neck. He was also a 
 thrifty type who wore white shirts, black 
 clothes, morocco top boots and who smoked 
 a long stemmed pipe around home with a 
 china bowl as big as a hotel cream pitcher. 
 
 He used to lick his boys for cursing and 
 during the chastisement he himself cursed In 
 an obscure German dialect that nobody could 
 understand. 
 
 302 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 On this particular night the room was full; 
 even the space behind the old time Franklin 
 stove that burned squirrel holes was occupied 
 by the two-story-and-a-basement family tom 
 cat who was curled up into the dimensions of 
 a four dollar roast of beef. 
 
 The religious part of the meeting was over 
 and Brother Van Camp arose in the discussion 
 of church finances with some elaborate plan 
 of "burning the mortgage." Brother Van 
 Camp, by the way, was father of the present 
 well advertised pork and bean outfit. When 
 he subsided Grandpa Pope rose. Grandpa 
 was rather hard of hearing and talked very 
 loud and in a dialect that would serve as a 
 model for any German comedian. He held 
 his head high and haughty with the air of 
 confidence displayed by pious people who have 
 the assurance of being on the right side of 
 things spiritual. 
 
 He said: Brother Van Camp is always 
 talking about money, money, money and not 
 enough about — 
 
 Just the moment that Grandpa Pope had 
 finished the word "about" the cat jumped up 
 from behind the stove in the throes of a fit. 
 
 203 
 
THE COUNTRY PREACHER 
 
 He jumped over the heads and shoulders of 
 the "worshipers," climbed up a lace curtain, 
 roosted at the top of a curtain pole, its tail 
 the dimensions of a pine tree cone, and sat 
 there and hissed at the congregation. 
 
 What Grandpa Pope said in finishing his 
 statement had this effect : 
 
 Brother Van Camp is always talking about 
 money, money, money — and not enough about 
 — Jesus Christ look at that cat ! 
 
 204 
 
AUTUMN 
 
AUTUMN ■ 
 
 ABACK platform seat on a local day 
 train down through Summit, Stark, 
 L Wayne, Holmes and Knox counties, 
 Ohio, affords a view of a complete nature- 
 drama divided into gigantic acts in which all 
 the elements of landscape appear. 
 
 As the train winds around the slopes, down 
 grades and up again, through cuts and over 
 trestles, there is a constant arrangement and 
 rearrangement of sky, hills, fields, streams and 
 forests in a great creative symphony of greens 
 and greys, blues and browns, with now and 
 then dashes and daubs of yellow and red — ■ 
 made vivid here by cloud-shuttered sunlight, 
 there overlayed and toned down by the 
 gauze-like purple mist of late autumn. 
 
 The long sounding lines of the hill sway 
 and sweep against the sky, now lowering, now 
 raising, swinging with each other, then against 
 each other, across and finally into the dim 
 distance — and all plumed at the top with trees 
 in scarlet and gold. 
 
 207 
 
AUTUMN 
 
 Now Into the open country of grey-green 
 pastures, relieved only by gnarled orchard 
 trees, rail and hedge fences, shocked corn, 
 stacked straw and grazing sheep. 
 
 Through the dark woods with the resound- 
 ing rush and whistle of the train. The vine- 
 twined tree trunks that appear as supporting 
 columns to a roof of branches and twigs and 
 remaining leaves. The brush and bushes, the 
 frost-burned floor of grasses ornamented by 
 layers of fallen foliage, and set with still 
 water pools reflecting the many-colored bower 
 above in painter's palette splotches. There is 
 a sycamore tree here and there — its white 
 body and branches standing like a spectre 
 tree among its neighbors of the forest. 
 
 The train rushes through a cut in the right 
 of way. There are bare brown banks close 
 to each side to obscure the view, — like cur- 
 tains. But wait a minute ! It is only the dark 
 house before the opening of the grand final 
 act in the nature-drama. 
 
 You emerge to view a many-mile valley 
 below. There are more sweeping and swing- 
 ing lines of hills against the sky in positive 
 confusion, with brown strips of wagon roads 
 
 208 
 
AUTUMN 
 
 winding around them; fields in the foreground 
 divided by fences and silver ribbon streams. 
 The sun rushes down from a clear sky in a 
 total glory of light, and the yellow and gold 
 and red of the tree-plumed knolls, with a 
 purple gauze-like mist, are carried up where 
 they are all merged and blended in the 
 heavens. 
 
 The train slows down. 
 
 The nature-drama is over. 
 
 Now you are passing out of a great original 
 park system where the great open air drama 
 of real life has been going on, and out into 
 the streets of man where he creates in all ugli- 
 ness of selfish hate born of fear. 
 
 Where nature's hand lays off beauty quits; 
 where man's hand lays on ugliness begins. 
 
 The train stops. 
 
 There is a smoke-drab wooden station. 
 
 Standing on the platform are some Rufe 
 Yoders, Bill Skidmores, Newt Plumes, Cyrus 
 Planks and Hank McGees. Most of them 
 are scratching their shins with their boot 
 heels. 
 
 There are a number of wooden houses 
 scattered over the level ground forming the 
 
 209 
 
AUTUMN 
 
 limits of the town — they are all set very low 
 on the foundations in order to save any perma- 
 nent material such as brick or stone. Up the 
 street is a man on a ladder at the side of a 
 new frame store, nailing on sheets of red tin 
 stamped out to appear like rock-faced stone 
 work. Still further up the way is a brick 
 church with two very tall towers on each side 
 and a round window between filled with plain 
 glass stained with red, white and blue paint in 
 imitation of cathedral glass. Over the other 
 way is an iron-fenced graveyard with all the 
 mounds well formed and sodded, evergreen 
 trees planted, a Scotch granite or white marble 
 monument over every grave and geometrical 
 beds show where flowers bloomed last sum- 
 mer. 
 
 The train starts out again and you are soon 
 drawn out of man's ugliness into the hills, 
 fields and forests where all is beauty. 
 
 Now why is all this? 
 
 Why does man, surrounded as he is in this 
 chain system of natural parks, abounding in 
 both big beauties and simple sweetness, re- 
 flect only barren ugliness and inefficiency in 
 his own creations? 
 
 210 
 
SEP 25 ^9^^ 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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