AND SO THEY LIVED----
And so it turned out quite as if it were in the old ballad, that "all in
the merry month of May," and also "all in the merry green wood," there
were great doings about the bold little promontory where once stood the
cabin on the old wood-lot where the Simms family had dwelt. The brook ran
about the promontory, and laid at its feet on three sides a carpet of
blue-grass, amid clumps of trees and wild bushes. Not far afield on either
hand came the black corn-land, but up and down the bluffy sides of the
brook for some distance on both sides of the King-dragged highway, ran the
old wood-lot, now regaining much of the unkempt appearance which
characterized it when Jim Irwin had drawn upon himself the gentle rebuke
of Old Man Simms for not giving a whoop from the big road before coming
into the yard.
But Old Man Simms was gone, with all the Simmses, now thoroughly
established on the Blanchard farm, and quite happy in their new success.
The cabin was gone, and in its place stood a pretty little bungalow, about
which blossomed the lilacs and peonies and roses and other old-fashioned
flowers, planted there long ago by some pioneer woman, nourished back to
thriftiness by old Mrs. Simms, and carefully preserved during the
struggles with the builders of the bungalow by Mrs. Irwin. For this was
Mrs. Irwin's new home. It was, in point of fact, the teacher's house or
schoolmanse for the new consolidated Woodruff District, and the old Simms
wood-lot was the glebe-land of the schoolmanse.
Jim turned over and over in his mind these new applications of old,
historic, significant words, dear to every reader of
history--"glebe-land," "schoolmanse"--and it seemed to him that they
signified the return of many old things lost in Merrie England, lost in
New England, lost all over the English-speaking world, when the old
publicly-paid clergyman ceased to be so far the servant of all the people
that they refused to be taxed for his support. Was not the new kind of
rural teacher to be a publicly-paid leader of thought, of culture, of
progress, and was he not to have his manse, his glebe-land, and his
"living"? And all because, like the old clergymen, he was doing a work in
which everybody was interested and for which they were willing to be
taxed. Perhaps it was not so high a status as the old; but who was to say
that? Certainly not Jim Irwin, the possessor of the new kind of "living,"
with its "glebe-land" and its "schoolmanse." He would have rated the new
quite as high as the old.
From the brow of the promontory, a light concrete bridge took the pretty
little gorge in the leap of a single arch, and landed the eye at the
bottom of the front yard of the schoolhouse. Thus the new institution of
life was in full view of the schoolmanse veranda, and yet shut off from it
by the dry moat of the brook and its tiny meadow of blue-grass.
Across the road was the creamery, with its businesslike unloading
platform, and its addition in process of construction for the reception of
the machinery for the cooperative laundry. Not far from the creamery, and
also across the road, stood the blacksmith and wheelwright shop. Still
farther down the stream were the barn, poultry house, pens, hutches and
yards of the little farm--small, economically made, and unpretentious, as
were all the buildings save the schoolhouse itself, which was builded for
the future.
And even the schoolhouse, when one thinks of the uses to which it was to
be put--kitchen, nursery, kindergarten, banquet-hall, theater,
moving-picture hall, classrooms, manual training rooms, laboratory and
counting-room and what-not, was wonderfully small--Colonel Woodruff said
far too small--though it was necessarily so large as to be rather
astonishing to the unexpectant passer-by.
The unexpectant passer-by this May day, however, would have been
especially struck by the number of motor-cars, buggies and surreys parked
in the yard back of the creamery, along the roadside, and by the driveway
running to the schoolhouse. People in numbers had arrived by five o'clock
in the afternoon, and were still coming. They strolled about the place,
examining the buildings and grounds, and talking with the blacksmith and
the butter-maker, gradually drawing into the schoolhouse like a swarm of
bees into a hive selected by the queen. None of them, however, went across
the concrete bridge to the schoolmanse, save Mrs. Simms, who crossed,
consulted with Mrs. Irwin about the shrubbery and flowers, and went back
to Buddie and Jinnie, who were good children but natchally couldn't be
trusted with so many other young ones withouten some watchin'.
"They're coming! They're coming!"
This was the cry borne to the people in and about the schoolhouse by that
Hans Hansen who would be called Hans Nilsen. Hans had been to the top of
the little hill and had a look toward town. Like a crew manning the
rigging, or a crowd having its picture taken, the assemblage crystallized
into forms determined by the chances of getting a glimpse of the bungalow
across the ravine--on posts, fences, trees and hillocks. Still nobody went
across the bridge, and when McGeehee Simms and Johnny Bonner strayed to
the bridge-head, Mrs. Simms called them back by a minatory, "Buddy, what
did I _tell_ you? You come hyah!"
A motor-car came over the hillock, ran down the road to the driveway to
the schoolmanse and drew up at the door. Out of it stepped Mrs. Woodruff
and the colonel, their daughter, the county superintendent of schools, and
Mr. Jim Irwin. Jennie was dressed in a very well-tailored traveling
costume, and Jim in a moderately well-tailored business suit. Mrs. Irwin
kissed her son and Jennie, and led the way into the house. Jennie and Jim
followed--and when they went in, the crowd over across the ravine burst
forth into a tremendous cheer, followed by a three-times-three and a
tiger. The unexpectant passer-by would have been rather surprised at this,
but we who are acquainted with the parties must all begin to have our
suspicions. The fact that when they reached the threshold Jim picked
Jennie up in his arms and carried her in, will enable any good detective
to put one and one together and make a pair--which comes pretty near
telling the whole story.
By this time it was nearly seven, and Calista Simms came across the
charmed bridge as a despatch-bearer, saying that if Mr. Jim and Miss
Jennie didn't mind, dinner would be suhved right soon. It was cooked about
right, and the folks was gettin' right hungry--an' such a crowd! There
were fifteen in the babies' room, and for a while they thought the
youngest Hamm young one had swallowed a marble. She would tell 'em they
would be right over; good-by.
There was another cheer as the three elderly and the two young people
emerged from the schoolmanse and took their way over the bridge to the
school side of the velvet-bottomed moat; but it did not terminate in
three-times-three and a tiger. It was, in fact shut off like the vibration
of a bell dipped in water by the sudden rush of the shouters into the big
assembly-room, now filled with tables for the banquet--and here the
domestic economy classes, with their mothers, sisters, female cousins and
aunts, met them, as waiters, hat-snatchers, hostesses, floor-managers and
cooks, scoring the greatest triumph of history in the Woodruff District.
For everything went off like clockwork, especially the victuals--and such
victuals!
There was quantity in meats, breads, vegetables--and there was also savor.
There was plenty, and there was style. Ask Mrs. Haakon Peterson, who
yearned for culture, and had been afraid her children wouldn't get it if
Yim Irwin taught them nothing but farming. She will tell you that the
dinner--which so many thought of all the time as supper--was yust as well
served as it if had been in the Chamberlain Hotel in Des Moines, where she
had stayed when she went with Haakon to the state convention.
Why shouldn't it have been even better served? It was planned, cooked,
served and eaten by people of intelligence and brains, in their own house,
as a community affair, and in a community where, if any one should ask
you, you are authorized to state that there's as much wealth to the acre
as in any strictly farming spot between the two oceans, and where you are
perfectly safe--financially--in dropping from a balloon in the dark of the
moon, and paying a hundred and fifty dollars an acre for any farm you
happen to land on. Why shouldn't things have been well done, when every
one worked, not for money, but for the love of the doing, and the love of
learning to do in the best way?
Some of these things came out in the speeches following the repast--and
some other things, too. It was probably not quite fair for B. B. Hamm to
incorporate in his wishes for the welfare and prosperity and so forth of
Jim and Jennie that stale one about the troubles of life, but he wanted to
see Jennie blush--which as a matter of fact he did; but she failed to grow
quite so fiery red as did Jim. But B. B. was a good fellow, and a Trojan
in his work for the cause, and the schoolmaster and superintendent of
schools forgave him. A remark may be a little broad, and still clean, and
B. B. made a clean speech mainly devoted to the increased value of that
farm he at one memorable time was going to sell before Jim's fool notions
could be carried out.
Colonel Woodruff made most of the above points which I have niched from
him. He had begun as a reformer late in life, he said, but he would leave
it to them if he hadn't worked at the trade steadily after enlistment. He
had become a follower of Jim Irwin, because Jim's reform was like dragging
the road in front of your own farm--it was reform right at home, and not
at the county seat, or Des Moines, or Washington. He had followed Jim
Irwin as he had followed Lincoln, and Grant, and Blaine, and
McKinley--because Jim Irwin stood for more upward growth for the average
American citizen than the colonel could see any prospect of getting from
any other choice. And he was proud to live in a country like this, saved
and promoted by the great men he had followed, and in a neighborhood
served and promoted, if not quite saved, by Jim Irwin. And he was not so
sure about its not being saved. Every man and nation had to be saved anew
every so often, and the colonel believed that Jim Irwin's new kind of
rural school is just as necessary to the salvation of this country as
Lincoln's new kind of recognition of human rights was half a century ago.
"I am about to close my speech," said the colonel, "and the small service
I have been able to give to this nation. I went through the war,
neighbors--and am proud of it; but I've done more good in the peaceful
service of the last three years than I did in four of fighting and
campaigning. That's the way I feel about what we've done in Consolidated
District Number One." (Vociferous and long-continued applause.)
"Oh, Colonel!" The voice of Angie Talcott rose from away back near the
kitchen. "Can Jennie keep on bein' county superintendent, now she's
married?"
A great guffaw of laughter reduced poor Angie to tears; and Jennie had to
go over and comfort her. It was all right for her to ask that, and they
ought not to laugh at Angie, so there! Now, you're all right, and let's
talk about the new schoolhouse, and so forth. Jennie brought the smiles
back to Angle's face, just in time to hear Jim tell the people amid louder
cheers that he had been asked to go into the rural-school extension work
in two states, and had been offered a fine salary in either place, but
that he wasn't even considering these offers. And about that time, the
children began to get sleepy and cross and naughty, and the women set in
motion the agencies which moved the crowd homeward.
* * * * *
Before a bright wood fire--which they really didn't need, but how else was
Jim's mother to show off the little fireplace?--sat Jim and Jennie. They
had been together for a week now--this being their home-coming--and had
only begun to get really happy.
"Isn't it fine to have the fireplace?" said Jennie.
"Yes, but we can't really afford to burn a fire in it--in Iowa," said Jim.
"Fuel's too everlastingly scarce. If we use it much, the fagots and
deadwood on our 'glebe-land' won't last long."
"If you should take that Oklahoma position," said Jennie, "we could afford
to have open wood fires all the time."
"It's warmer in Oklahoma," said Jim, "and wood's more plentiful.
Yes"--contemplatively--"we could, dear."
"It would be nice, wouldn't it?" said Jennie.
"All right," said Jim briskly, "get me my writing materials, and we'll
accept. It's still open."
Jennie sat looking into the fire oblivious of the suggestion. She was
smiling. Jim moved uneasily, and rose.
"Well," he said, "I believe I can better guess where mother would put
those writing materials than you could, after all. I'll hunt them up."
As he passed, Jennie took him by the hand and pulled him down on the arm
of her chair.
"Jim," she said, "don't be mean to me! You know you wouldn't do such a
wicked, wicked thing at this time as to leave the people here."
"All right," said Jim, "whatever you say is the law."
When Jennie spoke again things had taken place which caused her voice to
emanate from Jim's shirt-front.
"Did you hear," said she, "what Angie Talcott asked?"
"M'h'm," said Jim.
"Well," said Jennie, "now that I'm married can I go on being county
superintendent?"
There was a long silence.
"Would you like to?" asked Jim.
"Kind of," said Jennie; "if I knew enough about things to do anything
worth while; but I'm afraid that by rising to my full height I shall
always just fail to be able to see over anything."
"You've done more for the schools of the county," said Jim, "in the last
year than any other county superintendent has ever done."
"And we shall need the money so like--so like the dickens," said Jennie.
"Oh, not so badly," laughed Jim, "except for the first year. I'll have
this little farm paying as much as some quarter-sections when we get
squared about. Why, we can make a living on this school farm, Jennie,--or
I'm not fit to be the head of the school."
There was another silence, during which Jennie took down her hair, and
wound it around Jim's neck.
"It will settle itself soon one of these days anyhow," said he at last.
"There's enough to do for both of us right here."
"But they won't pay me," she protested.
"They don't pay the ministers' wives," said Jim, "and yet, the ministers
with the right sort of wives are always the best paid. I guess you'll be
in the bill, Jennie."
Jim walked to the open window and looked out over the still landscape. The
untidy grounds appealed to him--there would be lessons in their
improvement for both the children and the older people. It was all good.
Down in the little meadow grew the dreaming trees, their round crowns
rising as from a sea not quite to the level of the bungalow, their thrifty
leaves glistening in the moonlight. Across the pretty bridge lay the
silent little campus with its twentieth-century temple facing its chief
priest. It was all good, without and within. He went across the hall to
bid his mother good night. She clung to him convulsively, and they had
their own five minutes which arranged matters for these two silent natures
on the new basis forever. Jennie was in white before the mantel when he
returned, smiling at the inscription thereon.
"Why didn't you put it in Latin?" she inquired. "It would have had so much
more distinction."
"I wanted it to have meaning instead," said Jim. "And besides, nobody who
was at hand was quite sure how to turn the Latin phrase. Are you?"
Jennie leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and studied it.
"I believe I could," said she, "without any pony. But after all, I like it
better as it is. I like everything, Jim--everything!"
"LET US CEASE THINKING SO MUCH OF AGRICULTURAL EDUCATION, AND DEVOTE
OURSELVES TO EDUCATIONAL AGRICULTURE. SO WILL THE NATION BE MADE STRONG."
THE END