MR. BENJAMIN JARVIS ENTERTAINS
Bear Canyon did not forget Mary. A score of heart-broken children was
proof against such oblivion. Moreover, hope began to dawn in the hearts
beneath pink gingham and outing flannel when the teacher from Sheridan,
discouraged perhaps by a total lack of cordiality in her students,
resigned after two lugubrious days of service. Then Mr. Samuel Wilson,
accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Jarvis and the third trustee rode in a body to
the Hunter ranch, and offered Mary a substantial "raise" if she would only
stay on until December, and finish the fall term so triumphantly begun.
The memories of the little girl in the pink apron, together with the pleas
of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis on behalf of Allan, and the assurance of Mr. Samuel
Wilson that his children had cried "five nights runnin'" was almost too
much for Mary. In one mad wave of sympathy she determined to give up
college and to wire her mother that the Path of Duty for her led
unmistakably to the Bear Canyon school. But the more mature judgment of
Mr. Hunter and Aunt Nan prevailed, and an hour later three very reluctant
trustees rode away, leaving behind them a sad, but much relieved,
school-teacher, who lay long awake that night and pondered over the
desperate state of affairs in Bear Canyon.
But her worry, like most that encumbers the world, was needless, for the
County Superintendent over at Elk Creek lent a helping hand, and sent Miss
Martha Bumps to Bear Canyon. Now Miss Bumps was not Mary, but she was
assuredly Miss Martha Bumps, and the three trustees, disappointed as they
were not to have Mary, held their heads a trifle higher as they drove to
town. For the aforesaid Miss Bumps was a character of renown throughout
the county, and it was only because of the whooping-cough in the
consolidated rural schools of Willow Creek that she was prompted to
forsake her larger field and hurry to the aid of Bear Canyon.
For twenty-five years Miss Martha Bumps had dedicated her energies to the
teaching of Wyoming country schools. Some who knew her well affirmed that
she had made money thereby; and this statement will doubtless be given
credence by all who are not themselves school-teachers. After
relinquishing the dreams in which most women of thirty indulge, and
deciding once and for all that she would give the best of her life to
teaching, she had spent much thought and ingenuity in scheming how such a
vocation could be a distinctly pleasurable one. Ten years of boarding in
homesteaders' cabins, of sleeping with the youngest child, and eating salt
pork three times a day, of drinking condensed milk on ranches devoted
solely to cattle, and of riding miles to her place of business in all
kinds of weather--these experiences had been fruitful in the extreme. Now
she boarded nowhere. Instead, she lived in her own two-room house, which,
clapboarded, shingled, windowed and doored after the manner of all houses,
was mounted upon four stout cart-wheels, and driven by an obliging trustee
of one district to the next chosen field whenever Miss Bumps decided that
the time had come to make a change. Arriving at her destination, the
house was drawn to the best site near the school, the horses were
unhitched, and the trustee, riding and leading, started homeward, leaving
Miss Bumps to begin her double labors in her new situation.
Now, although this rather unusual mode of living on wheels had attracted
much attention and comment, it must be conceded (and will by all country
school-teachers) that it was decidedly superior to boarding. In her small
but spotless kitchen, Miss Bumps cooked the food which no homesteader's
cabin afforded, and at night slept luxuriously in her own comfortable bed
which nearly filled her other room. All day she gave herself untiringly to
her profession. In the evenings she sat by her small air-tight stove,
read, and tatted!
To this last-named accomplishment Miss Bumps had dedicated fifteen years
of practice until expert proficiency had made eyes unnecessary. She tatted
while she read, tatted while she taught, tatted while she watched the
potatoes boiling for dinner. Some even asserted that they had seen her tat
on horseback with all the diligence attributed to Bertha the beautiful
queen of old Helvetia, who spun from a distaff fastened to the saddle of
her betasseled palfrey.
But even such a curiosity as Miss Bumps may have been in the early days of
her portable residence and ever-present tatting grows ordinary when
besieged by Time, and Wyoming no longer regarded her as a phenomenon. She
was just plain Martha Bumps, to whom many a rural community owed much.
Nevertheless, it must be admitted that her singular customs of living were
considered most eccentric by strangers who often laughed long and
uproariously at the portable house. Three amused Vigilantes found in her
the best theme material imaginable, and on the day when Mr. Crusoe
reported having passed her house and her on the road from Elk Creek, they
hastened with their hostess to the mail-box, ostensibly to await the
postman, but really to see Miss Martha Bumps pass by.
They did not have long to wait. The Willow Creek trustee had used his best
team of horses in the transportation, and Miss Bumps' entry into Bear
Canyon was a triumphal one. At a brisk trot and in a cloud of dust, the
equipage came down the easy grade toward the mail-box and the four
interested Vigilantes, who, throwing aside all ostentation, sprang to
their feet and stared. They saw a little, blue-ginghamed woman under a
huge peanut-straw hat, who sat in her own front doorway beside a
substantial trustee and tatted while her interested eyes scanned her
chosen country. Spying the four wayside spectators and doubtless mistaking
them for members of her future flock, she smiled from behind a pair of
gold-bowed spectacles, and waved a welcoming tatting-shuttle.
"She thinks I'm one of the children," said the former Bear Canyon
school-mistress. "She doesn't recognize me as a professional friend. But
I'm going to call upon her to-morrow if it's the last thing I do while I'm
in Wyoming. Maybe, since I know the Bear Canyon school, I'll even dare
give her some suggestions. I'm so anxious she should understand Allan."
But Mary's call was never made, for an hour later Mr. Benjamin Jarvis rode
in to announce with an air of mystery a barn-warming in his new building
for that very evening.
"It's short notice," he explained to those who had met his invitation with
instantaneous and delighted acceptance, "it's short notice, but, when you
come to think of it, there ain't much time left. You ladies go back East
in less than a week, and the threshers may come any day, so I says to
Allan this mornin' that seein' the floor was laid we hadn't better wait to
get the windows in nor any finishin' touches. It will be a farewell party
from Bear Canyon to you, Miss Mary, and a welcomin' one to the new
teacher. I just rode past the school-house to see how she felt about
to-night before invitin' the others. She's all set up an' settled in the
pine grove next the school, ain't tired a mite, and says there's nothing
like a neighborhood party to get a person acquainted."
Mary repeated her appreciation as the second trustee, having announced the
time of assembling and probable other guests, turned his horse's head
homeward. Nor were the others slow to voice their own. Virginia was
radiant. A real Wyoming barn-warming, she told Mr. Jarvis, seemed the
final joy in their collection of summer treasures, and she could not be
grateful enough for his hospitality toward her guests.
Everybody for miles around would be there, she announced that evening as
they hurried from supper to dress. All the people in the Canyon and the
Valley, and even the forest rangers from Sagebrush Point and Cinnamon
Creek. It would not be much like a Gordon dance or one at St. Helen's, but
she knew they would enjoy it. Yes, she said in response to Priscilla's
questions, it might really be quite like the one in _The Virginian_ where
they had swapped the babies.
Vivian, who had been burrowing in her closet for a stray blue satin
slipper to match the gown spread upon her bed, was surprised a few moments
later to see Virginia's dismayed face.
"Oh, Vivian, dear," she cried, "I thought you'd understand about dressing.
You really can't wear that, you know. Why, nobody will be dressed up like
that! It's for everybody, you see--Dick and Mr. Crusoe and William and the
men at Keiths'. They'll all come in flannel shirts and chaps, and they'd
all feel so queer and awkward if we dressed as we would at school. A clean
middy is what you want. I'm going to wear that. You see, it's so different
out here, Vivian."
It certainly was different out there, Vivian said to herself a little
petulantly as she hung up the blue dress, and selected a fresh middy and
some lighter shoes. Would she be expected to dance with the Bear Canyon
forest ranger and his brethren from Cinnamon Creek and Sagebrush
Point--with Dick and William and Mr. Crusoe? They were picturesque, and
she would enjoy describing them as characteristic of the West when she
returned home, but as for dancing with them, that--she was careful not to
admit to the others--was quite another matter.
By seven they were off, Mr. Crusoe being the proud driver of the large
rig, and the other men following on horseback. The Keith family with
Carver and Jack joined them at the main road, and all together they
journeyed up Bear Canyon which was populated beyond its wont with
pedestrians and equestrians, all bound for the barn-warming of Mr.
Benjamin Jarvis.
Virginia's prophecy was fulfilled. _Everybody was there!_ Not a family in
the Valley or Canyon had missed this opportunity. Babies, securely bundled
against the night air, slumbered on fresh hay in the unused bins, and
allowed their tired parents a few moments to greet their neighbors. Love
for their old teacher, and interest in their new, divided the hearts of
every child but two in the Bear Canyon school, those of the little girl in
the pink apron and Allan Jarvis being immovably anchored. The rangers from
Bear Canyon and Sagebrush, together with a bran-new man from Cinnamon
Creek, were among the guests, and two cow boys from the great Biering
ranch westward had, at the invitation of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, driven their
bunch of cattle into his corral, made camp on the nearby hillside, and
stayed for the celebration.
The two guests of honor were escorted to seats on the center platform,
expressly built for Mr. Samuel Wilson's phonograph, which by elevation, it
was believed, would furnish sufficient volume for dancing. In the few
intervals between the quickly succeeding introductions, Bear Canyon's two
school-mistresses began their acquaintanceship, and Mary found herself
strangely fascinated by plain Miss Martha Bumps. A critical analysis
failed to warrant the fascination. Certainly Miss Bumps' appearance was
not engrossing. To her, clothes were an economical and a social necessity.
She wore her traveling gown of faded blue gingham, which of itself was
inconspicuous, had it not been for two pockets of newer material on either
side of the front. These proofs of unheeded Scriptural warning, being far
different in size, gave the entire garment a sinister, cross-eyed effect,
which did not fail to catch the eye of the most casual observer. After a
surreptitious examination of the aforesaid pockets, Mary discovered that
one was occupied by Miss Bumps' ample handkerchief, and the other by her
tatting.
Nor was there anything extraordinary in the features of her successor.
Ordinary gray hair was parted most punctiliously upon a most ordinary
forehead. Her eyes were the usual blue, and her nose a trifle better
shaped than the average. In vain Mary searched for the hiding-place of the
fascination which years afterward she was to understand--that fascination
which is born of noblest enthusiasm and a passion for service, and which
can transform all the Valleys of Baca in the wide world.
Priscilla stood with Virginia and Donald, and with eyes full of eagerness
watched the gathering of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' guests. She longed for Miss
King and Miss Wallace and Dorothy and the Blackmore Twins--yes, she even
longed for her mother, in spite of her apprehension lest her Bostonian
mother might not strictly appreciate this Wyoming barn-warming and the
cosmopolitan society attendant thereupon. She wanted them all to feel as
six weeks ago she had felt that indescribable _first_ thrill at the sight
of chaps and lariats and fully-equipped cowboys. She wanted them all to
realize that here in Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' new barn was a true democracy of
comradeship--a comradeship freed from the obnoxious fetters of ball-room
etiquette.
It was the interest sparkling in her brown eyes which made the Cinnamon
Creek forest ranger outdistance Carver Standish III in his haste to ask
her for the grand march. Carver, in white trousers and an air a little too
pronounced to be termed self-possession, was leisurely crossing the floor
toward her when his chap-clad rival of Cinnamon Creek slid past him
unceremoniously and reached Priscilla first. Even then Carver could not
believe she would choose a forest ranger in place of him; and his anger
was by no means cooled when he heard her say as though in answer to an
apology:
"Oh, but you see I can dance with Carver any day, and I've never danced
with a forest ranger in my life. I was just hoping you'd ask me when you
came!"
Baffled, Carver sought Vivian in the corner whence he had come. Weak as
Vivian was at times, he said to himself, in the matter of associates she
showed better judgment than some other girls he might name. Vivian did not
turn him down. Secretly she was devoutly thankful he had rescued her from
a persistent Biering cow boy to whom she had not been introduced, and
with whom, had an introduction been procured, she did not care to dance.
Before Carver had come, she had watched Mary talking with that freakish
Miss Bumps, Priscilla chatting with a dozen different ranchmen, cow boys,
and Bear Canyon children, and Virginia attending to the needs of a fretful
baby while its mother went cookie-hunting to the family rig.
In her heart of hearts Vivian envied them all. Inwardly she longed to be
one with whom all others felt at ease; but outwardly it was far easier to
echo Carver's vindictive mood, and agree with him, as they went to take
their places in the ever-lengthening line, that never in her life had she
seen such people.
Mr. Samuel Wilson with Miss Bumps as a partner and Mr. Benjamin Jarvis
with Mary led the march, which three times made the circle of the new barn
before breaking into an hilarious two-step. Mr. Samuel Wilson's phonograph
groaned and wheezed bravely from its platform; three great bon-fires
outside made the great barn glow with light; the babies in the
straw-filled bins slumbered on while their fathers and mothers grew young
again.
Carver, scorning a two-step, was teaching Vivian a new dance introduced at
Gordon the winter before. Pretty as it was, it was strangely inappropriate
in Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' barn, and served to separate Carver and Vivian
still farther from their fellow guests. The Cinnamon Creek forest ranger
watched them until the straight line between his eyebrows grew deeper and
deeper. Then he left Miss Martha Bumps with the excuse of bringing her a
glass of cider, and started across the floor. It was too bad, he was
thinking to himself, for a likeable chap like that young Standish to get
in bad. A good-natured word might give him a hint, and no one be the
wiser.
Carver and Vivian did not notice his approach. They were resting from
their dance, and talking together in tones low yet perfectly audible to
one who might be passing by.
"Did you ever see such queer people in your life?" the tall ranger heard
Vivian say, and Carver's rejoinder made the straight line between his
brows even deeper than before. Apparently there was double need for his
friendly hint.
"Some five hundred, _believe me_!" said the third Carver Standish.
The scorn in his voice was born of petulance rather than of snobbishness,
but no such kindly discrimination would be made by any sharp-eared guest
of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, and the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger lost no
time.
"If I were you," he said frankly but pleasantly to the amazed Carver
Standish, "I'd be a bit more careful about what I said. You see, here in
Wyoming it's not considered good form to talk about your host and his
guests. If they heard you, it mightn't be comfortable. And, besides, it
seems to me it would be better to dance with other folks. That's why I
came to ask you if you'd dance the next dance with me, Miss Winters."
Carver and Vivian were too discomfited to be gracious. Like many persons
more mature than they, they sought to cover embarrassment and to gain
control of the situation by bad manners.
"I hardly think," said Carver Standish III stiffly, "that I need any
coaching on behavior from you!"
And before the ranger had time to reply, had he contemplated such action,
Vivian was ready with her self-defense.
"I rather guess New Englanders have about as good manners as Wyoming
people," she said scathingly, "at least judging from those I've seen!"
The reply of the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger was brief and to the point.
"I always thought so myself until to-night," he said.
Then he bowed politely, procured a glass of cider for the waiting Miss
Bumps, who was tatting during the interval, and quietly took his leave.
But his words, angrily received though they had been, bore fruit, for
Carver Standish III danced not only with Miss Martha Bumps but also with
Mrs. Samuel Wilson who was twice his size; and Vivian, heartily ashamed of
herself and seeking redemption in her own eyes, accepted the Biering cow
boy without a show of an introduction, and danced with him three times
during the evening, not to mention her hearty acceptance of Dick and Alec
and Joe.
It was late when Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' barn-warming broke up, and later
when the guests rode and drove away down the canyon. In Mr. Crusoe's rig,
save from one occupant, conversation and laughter never ceased until they
turned down the avenue of cottonwoods. The Cinnamon Creek forest ranger
came in for his share of the observations from all but Vivian--his general
superiority over the other rangers, his good English, the interesting line
between his eyes, and his air of having seen the world. Miss Bumps was
admired and complimented. The stature of the biggest Biering cow boy
brought forth exclamations. The capacity of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis as a host
received loud praise. In short, no one was omitted, even to the youngest
Wilson baby, who had looked so adorable as he lay asleep in the bin.
It had been a memorable evening, Aunt Nan said, as they gathered around
the big fire which Hannah had kept for them, for a last half hour before
bed-time. She thought they all needed just such an occasion, so that they
might carry back home with them a knowledge of real Wyoming hospitality
which knew no strangers. Of course, they had seen it all summer long, she
added, smiling at Virginia, but the courtesy of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis had
made them one with all Elk Creek Valley and Bear Canyon.
"I've been thinking all the evening of the little poem we learned last
Christmas, Virginia," she said. "You know, the one about the fire. I guess
the big bon-fires at Mr. Jarvis' made me think of it, and now this one at
home brings it back again. You remember it, don't you?"
Virginia did remember. She repeated it softly while they watched the
flames and listened. Vivian, in her corner, was glad no one could see the
red which crept into her cheeks.
"'I watched a log in the fire-place burning,
Wrapped in flame like a winding sheet,
Giving again with splendid largess
The sun's long gift of treasured heat--
"'Giving again in the fire's low music
The sound of wind on an autumn night,
And the gold of many a summer sunrise
Garnered and given out in light.
"'I watched a log in the fire-place burning--
Oh, if I, too, could only be
Sure to give back the love and laughter
That Life so freely gave to me!'"
"That's what the people out here do," said Aunt Nan after a little when
Virginia had finished. "They're not afraid to give back the 'love and
laughter' which Life has given them. I think we reserved New Englanders
can learn a lesson from Mr. Jarvis and the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger
and all the other people we met and be more willing to give back what
we've had given to us."
For a long hour after she had gone to bed Vivian remembered the lesson she
might have learned from the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger and would not;
the love and laughter she might have given the guests of Mr. Benjamin
Jarvis and did not. Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she lay looking
through the tent opening at the mountains--great, silent souls beneath the
stars. They gave back--just _everything_, she thought.
"Can't you sleep, Vivian?" Virginia whispered from her bed across the
tent. "What's the matter?"
Vivian told half the truth.
"It's that poem," she said petulantly. "Of course it's lovely, but I can't
get it out of my mind, and I hate to have things run through my head like
that!"