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CLOVER AND BLUE GRASS
By Eliza Calvert Hall
AUNT JANE OF KENTUCKY
THE LAND OF LONG AGO
CLOVER AND BLUE GRASS
TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH
A BOOK OF HAND-WOVEN COVERLETS
[Illustration: How could a man find words to thank a mother for giving
him her daughter? FRONTISPIECE. _See page 144._]
CLOVER AND BLUE GRASS
_by_
Eliza Calvert Hall
With a frontispiece by
H. R. Ballinger
Boston
Little, Brown, & Company
1916
_Copyright, 1916_,
BY LIDA CALVERT OBENCHAIN.
_All rights reserved_
Published, September, 1916
TO
MARTHA CALVERT
AND
VAL CALVERT WINSTON
CONTENTS
PAGE
HOW PARSON PAGE WENT TO THE CIRCUS 1
MARY CRAWFORD'S CHART 33
OLD MAHOGANY 91
MILLSTONES AND STUMBLING-BLOCKS 115
"ONE TASTE OF THE OLD TIME" 157
ONE DAY IN SPRING 207
HOW PARSON PAGE WENT TO THE CIRCUS
(The last of the "Aunt Jane" stories)
This story, the nineteenth and last of the "Aunt Jane" stories,
appeared in the _Cosmopolitan_, July 1910, after the
publication of _The Land of Long Ago_. Its publication in this
present volume completes the set of stories told by "Aunt Jane
of Kentucky."
"I hear there's goin' to be a circus in town next week," said Aunt Jane,
"and if it wasn't for the looks of the thing, jest for the sake of old
times, I'd like to go to town and stand on the old drug-store corner and
watch the procession go 'round the square, like me and Abram used to do
in the days when we was young and the children growin' up around us."
She broke off with a laugh relevant to some happy thought.
"I never see a show bill," she said, "that I don't think o' the time
Parson Page went to the circus. Times has changed so, I reckon a
preacher could go to a circus nowadays and little or nothin' be said of
it. I ricollect the last time the circus come to town Uncle Billy Bascom
says to me, says he: 'Jane, they tell me the church members and their
children was so thick in that tent to-day that you could 'a' held a
meetin' of the session right there and organized a Sunday school of any
denomination whatever.' But in my day all a church member or a church
member's children could do on circus day was to stand on the street and
watch the procession; and as for a minister, why, it wasn't hardly
considered fittin' for him to even go a-fishin', much less go to a
circus. Folks used to say a good many hard things about Parson Page for
bein' so fond of fishin', but there wasn't anything that could keep him
away from the river when spring come and the fish begun to bite. And
when folks begun tellin' tales about the fishin' in Reelfoot Lake,
Parson Page never rested till he got there.
"I reckon, honey, you know all about Reelfoot Lake?" Aunt Jane looked
questioningly at me over her glasses and waited for my answer.
"Why, yes, it's a big lake where all the men go to fish," I answered
hesitatingly.
The vagueness of my answer was a sure indication of shameful ignorance,
and Aunt Jane shook her head disapprovingly.
"There's somethin' wrong with the schoolin' of children nowadays," she
said gravely, "Knowin' what I do about Reelfoot Lake, it looks to me
like the folks that make the geography books for children ought to put
that lake down on the map in big letters and then tell all about it.
Why, child, there ain't but one Reelfoot Lake in all the world, and
every child ought to be able to tell all the hows and the wheres and the
whens that concerns it. Schoolin's a mighty good thing, but every now
and then there's somethin' you can't learn out o' books, and you've got
to come to some old man like Uncle Billy Bascom or some old woman like
me that can ricollect away back yonder. Not but what it's all hearsay
with me, when it comes to Reelfoot Lake, for that was before my day; but
many's the time I've heard father and Uncle Tandy Stevens tell about it.
"Father used to say that when God created the world in six days, he
forgot to make Reelfoot Lake, and when he finally did remember it, after
goodness knows how many thousand years, he was so put out he didn't
think about it bein' Sunday, and he jest ripped up the earth and made
that lake as quick as he could. I've heard father name the day o' the
month it happened, but like as not, if I tried to tell it jest so, I'd
git it wrong. However, I ricollect it was back yonder in 1811, before
the time o' railroads, and it must 'a' been about the middle o'
December, for I ricollect hearin' father say that him and Uncle Tandy
Stevens spent that Christmas on their flatboat in the middle o' the
Mississippi River. They made the trip to New Orleens pretty near every
year, floatin' down the Mississippi and sellin' their tobacco or
hoop-poles or whatever they had to sell, and then they'd sell the
flatboat and foot it back to Kentucky.
"Maybe you think, child, I'm drawin' the long bow, tellin' about people
walkin' from New Orleens to Kentucky, but that's the way it was in the
old times before they had railroads everywhere. And it wasn't such a
slow way of travelin', either. Father used to brag how he made the
journey in jest thirteen days and a half. I reckon betwixt the dangers
by land and the dangers by water a journey like that wasn't any light
matter, but I've heard father say many a time that if the river wasn't
too high or too low, and if the weather favored him, he'd rather go down
to New Orleens in a flatboat than to go on the finest steamboat that
ever was built. You know that Bible text that says, 'Behold, I make all
things new.' Father said that text would come into his mind every time
he went on one o' these trips. They'd float down the Little Barren River
and come to the Ohio, and down that to the Mississippi, and father said
when they'd make the turn and feel the current o' the big river under
'em sweepin' 'em south, away from home and into a strange country, it
was jest like a man professin' religion and goin' forward to a new and
better life. And the slaves they'd take along to help manage the boat,
they'd begin to sing 'Swing low, sweet chariot, bound for to carry me
home,' and Uncle Tandy, he'd jest throw up his hat and holler every
time.
"Well, the time I'm tellin' you about, father and Uncle Tandy had a big
load o' tobacco and a big drove o' turkeys to take down to New Orleens.
Father said that every time he built a flatboat and loaded it up he
thought about Noah and the ark, and this time, when he started down
Barren River, it was cloudy and threatenin' rain, and the next day it
begun showerin' and then clearin' off and then showerin' again, more
like April than December. But when they struck the Ohio they found jest
the right sort o' weather for flatboat journeyin', clear and frosty at
night and sunshiny all day; and they'd been floatin' along all day and a
good part of every night, as they was in a hurry to git to New Orleens
and sell their tobacco before prices fell.
"Well, the night o' the earthquake, father said it was his time to sit
up and watch the fire and guide the boat, and he was glad of it; for he
said there wasn't anything as peaceful and happy as the nights he'd
spend on the river. With the moon and the stars over him and the big
river under him it was like bein' in the hollow of God's hand. That
night he was pretty busy up to twelve o'clock, lookin' out for snags and
dangerous places; but about one o'clock they'd got to a place where he
knew the channel was safe, and he was sittin' down leanin' against a
pile o' tobacco and half dozin', when all at once he heard a rumblin'
like thunder, and not a sign o' rain in the sky, and then a noise like
the noise o' many waters, and the big waves begun lappin' around the
boat, and the first thing father knew the boat was goin' up-stream
faster than it ever had gone down. Uncle Tandy was wide awake by this
time, and he called out to father to know what had happened, and father
says: 'God only knows what's happened! The Mississippi River's flowin'
north instead o' south.' And jest then they heard the rumblin' sound
like thunder again, and Uncle Tandy says: 'The end o' the world's come,
and we're travelin' up-stream to the New Jerusalem.' And while father
and Uncle Tandy went floatin' up-stream half scared out o' their wits,
the Goshen folks and the town folks was down on their knees prayin', and
the church bells was ringin', and everybody thought the Judgment Day had
come. Two or three people was so scared they professed religion.
"Mother said she was awake when the earthquake happened. She never slept
well when father was off on his river trips, and she was lyin' in bed
wonderin' if he was safe, when the house begun to shake, and the dishes
and pans rattled on the shelves, and there was father and Uncle Tandy
travelin' back wards twelve miles; and when the earthquake was over and
the river got to flowin' south again, they floated down past Cairo and
saw the big lake, pretty near twenty-five miles long and four miles
wide, right where there'd been nothin' but woods and dry land, and the
tops o' some o' the biggest trees was stickin' up above the water, and
folks from far and from near was comin' to see what the earthquake had
done.
"Father and Uncle Tandy never got through talkin' about the earthquake
that Sunday mornin', and Parson Page never got tired listenin', and
every time he'd come to see father, he'd manage to bring the talk around
to fishin', and that'd start father to tellin' about the time the lake
was made; and when father'd git through, Parson Page he'd draw a long
breath and say: 'Well, that's wonderful! wonderful! It was a great
privilege to be present at an act of creation, as it were, and something
to be thankful for all your days.'"
Aunt Jane's voice ceased suddenly, and a bewildered look came into her
clear old eyes, the look of one who has lost connection with the present
by lingering overtime in the past, "What was I talkin' about a while
ago, child?" she asked helplessly.
"Wasn't it circuses?" I suggested.
The cloud of perplexity rolled away from Aunt Jane's face, "Why, of
course it was," she ejaculated, with an accent of self-reproof for her
forgetfulness. "Didn't I start out to tell you about Parson Page goin'
to the circus, and here I am tellin' about the earthquake. I'm jest
like an old blind horse; can't keep in the straight road to save my
life. Some folks might say my mind was failin', but if you ever git to
be as old as I am, child, you'll know jest how it is. A young person
hasn't got much to remember, and he can start out and tell a straight
tale without any trouble. But an old woman like me--why, every name I
hear starts up some ricollection or other, and that keeps me goin' first
to one side o' the road and then to the other."
And having explained away her lapse of memory, Aunt Jane went cheerfully
on.
"I was talkin' about church members goin' to circuses, and I started out
to tell about Parson Page the time Barnum's big show come to town. I
don't reckon there ever was such a show as Barnum's, nor such show bills
as he put up that spring. They was pasted up all along every road
leadin' into town, and under the pictures of the animals they had Bible
texts. There was the Arabian horses and that Bible text from Job, 'Thou
hast clothed his neck with thunder.' And under the lion's picture they
had, 'The lion and the lamb shall lie down together.' And the man that
put up the show bills give out to everybody that this was a show that
church members could go to and take their children to, because there'd
be two kinds o' tickets, one for the animal show and one for the circus,
and folks that didn't favor the circus needn't go near it; but
everybody, he said, ought to see the animals, for they had pretty near
every beast of the field and bird of the air that the Lord had created.
"Well, us Goshen folks, we talked it over at home and in our Mite
Society. We'd always been mighty strict about worldly amusements, all of
us except Uncle Jimmy Judson. He used to say: 'As long as children ain't
breakin' any of the ten commandments or any of their bones, let 'em
alone, let 'em alone.' But the most of the children in our neighborhood
never had seen the inside of a show tent, and of course every one of 'em
was anxious to go to that show. We went to Parson Page about it, and he
studied a while and says he: 'If the Lord made those animals, it surely
cannot be sinful to go and see them; and I see no reason why every one
in Goshen church should not attend the animal show.' Well, that was
enough for us, and everybody in the church and out o' the church turned
out to that show.
"I reckon you know, child, how it is when a circus comes to town.
Country folks has their own ways o' passin' the time and makin' pleasure
for themselves, and town folks theirs, but a circus is one thing that
brings all the country folks and all the town folks together. The
country folks come to see the town and the circus, and the town folks,
they turn out to see the circus and the country folks, and I reckon they
got as much fun out of us as they did out o' the show, lookin' at our
old-fashioned dresses and bonnets and laughin' at our old-fashioned
ways.
"Well, the time I'm tellin' about, the country folks turned out as they
never had before, and there was people in town from all over the county.
Some of 'em, they said, had traveled half the night to git in town
bright and early. I ricollect the weather was more like June than May.
It hadn't rained for a long time, and when the folks begun rollin' into
town, the dust rose till you couldn't see the road before you, and there
was so many carriages and buggies and two-horse wagons hitched around
the streets it looked like there wouldn't be room for the procession to
pass. Sam Amos was standin' on the drug-store corner with me and Abram
when the music begun playin' 'way down by the depot, and all the boys
and young folks broke and run down Main Street to meet the band-wagon,
and Sam said he didn't believe they could run any faster if they was to
hear the cry, 'Behold, the Bridegroom cometh!'
"The procession reached clean from the depot to the Presbyterian church
corner, and it was worth comin' to town jest to see the horses that
pulled the chariots, some of 'em as white as milk and some coal black
and holdin' their heads so high, and steppin' like fine ladies and
lookin' so proud and so gentle, too, and so different from the horses
that we drove to our own wagons and plows that you wouldn't know they
was any kin to each other. Why, that night when I shut my eyes to go to
sleep I could see the big gold chariot and the white horses, and all
night long they went steppin' through my dreams.
"Well, after the procession'd gone by, we went over in the courthouse
yard and eat our dinner under the old locust trees, and then we went
down toward the river where the tents was spread. There's some shows,
honey, where there's more on the bills than there is under the tent.
I've heard Sam Amos say that, and there was one show that he used to
say was so blame bad it was right good. But Mr. Barnum's show was the
kind where there was more under the tent than there was on the bills,
and the sights us country folks saw that day give us somethin' to talk
about for a long time to come. But jest as the animal show was about
over, and people begun leavin', a big storm come up. I thought I heard
the thunder rollin' while me and Abram and the children was lookin' at
the fat woman, but of course we couldn't go home till we'd seen
everything, and the first thing we knew the wind was blowin' a
hurricane, and it got under the tent and lifted some o' the pegs out o'
the ground, and somebody hollered out that the tent was about to fall
down, and such a scatteration you never did see. We got out o' that tent
a good deal quicker'n we got in, and started for town as fast as we
could go, carryin' little children and draggin' 'em along by the hand;
and the rain begun pourin' down, and everybody was wet to the skin
before they could git to the drug store or the dry goods store or any
place where folks'd take us in.
"I ricollect Silas Petty said he reckoned it was a judgment on us church
members for goin' to worldly amusements, and Abram said that couldn't
be, because we'd prayed for rain the Sunday before. And--bless your
life!--while the rest of us Goshen folks was standin' around in wet
clothes and wishin' we could go home, Parson Page and Mis' Page was
sittin' high and dry in the circus tent.
"Parson Page said he never could tell how he got inside that circus
tent. He said he set out to make a bee-line for town, intendin' to stop
at the drug store till the rain was over, but the wind was blowin' and
raisin' such clouds o' dust you couldn't keep your eyes open, and he was
holdin' his hat on with one hand and tryin' to help Mis' Page with the
other, and the crowd was kind o' carryin' 'em along, and all at once, he
said, he found he was makin' straight for the door o' the big tent where
the band was playin' and the circus was about to begin."
Here Aunt Jane paused and laughed until laughter almost turned to tears.
"There's three ways o' tellin' this story, child," she said, as she
regained her breath. "Parson Page used to tell it his way, and Sam Amos
would tell it his way, and Mis' Page had her way o' tellin' it. She used
to laugh fit to kill over Parson Page sayin' he didn't know how he got
into the circus tent. Says she: 'Lemuel may not know how he got into
the circus, but I know, I had hold of his arm, and the wind was blowin'
the dust in my eyes, too, but I knew exactly which way I was goin', and
I was guidin' him.' Says she: 'I had on my best silk dress, and I'd jest
turned it and made it over, and I didn't intend to have that dress
ruined for lack of a little shelter.' She said she never once thought
about tickets, and there was such a crowd, and the wind was blowin'
things every which way and there was lightnin' and the noise o' thunder,
and while the folks in front of her was givin' up their tickets, the
folks behind was pressin' and pushin', and between the two there wasn't
anything for her to do but go into the tent, whether she wanted to or
not. And she said for her part she didn't mind it a bit, for that circus
tent was the cheerfulest, happiest place she ever was in. She said the
music made you feel like laughin' and steppin' lively, and folks was
eatin' peanuts and drinkin' lemonade, and the bareback riders was
tearin' around the ring, and jest as they got fairly inside, the rain
begun beatin' down on the tent, and she thanked her stars she wasn't
outside. She said it took Parson Page some little time to find out where
he was, and when he did find it out, he wanted to start right home in
the rain, and she told him he could go if he wanted to, but she was
goin' to stay there till the rain was over. And while they was arguin'
the matter, Sam Amos come along, and Parson Page begun explainin' how he
got in by accident and wanted to git out. Sam said nobody but a frog or
a fish or a Presbyterian minister would object to stayin' under a circus
tent in such a rain as that, and he might as well make himself
comfortable. So he found a seat for Mis' Page and the parson, and he
used to say he got more fun out o' Parson Page than he did out o' the
circus, and he couldn't hardly see what was goin' on in the ring for
watchin' the parson's face. He had his gold-headed cane between his
knees and his hands on top o' the cane and his head bowed over his hands
like he was engaged in prayer, and he set there as solemn as if he was
at a funeral, while everybody around was laughin' and hollerin' at the
clown's jokes.
"But Mis' Page she took things fair and easy. She said she knew the
Presbytery couldn't do anything with her, and she made up her mind, as
she was in there and couldn't git out, she'd see all there was to be
seen. The next meetin' o' the Mite Society she told us all about it,
and she said if the gyirls' skyirts had jest been a little longer, there
wouldn't 'a' been a thing amiss with that circus. But she said what they
lacked in length they made up in width, and the jumpin' and ridin' was
so amazin' that you forgot all about the skyirts bein' short.
"Parson Page said that circus seemed as long to him as a Sunday service
used to seem when he was a boy. His conscience hurt him so, and he kept
thinkin' what on earth he would say, if the Presbytery heard about it,
and he felt like everybody in the tent was lookin' at him, and he never
was as glad in his life as he was when Sam told him the show was over
and he got up to leave.
"Mis' Page said they was edgin' their way out through the crowd, and all
at once Parson Page stopped and threw up his hands like he always did
when somethin' struck him all at once, and says he: 'Bless my soul! I've
been to this circus and didn't pay my way in.' Says he: 'That makes a
bad matter worse, and I can't leave this tent till I've paid for myself
and my wife.' And Sam Amos he laughed fit to kill, and says he: 'It
looks to me like you'll be makin' a bad matter worse if you do pay,
for,' says he, 'as long as you don't pay for seein' the show, you can
say it was an accident, but if folks know you paid your way, you can't
make 'em believe it was accidental.'
"Parson Page looked mighty troubled, and he thought a while, and says
he: 'Maybe you're right. My payin' won't help the looks of things any,
but I know I'll have a better conscience all my life if I pay as other
people have done. I haven't looked at the show,' says he, 'but I've
heard the music, and I've had a shelter from the storm and a comfortable
seat, and in all common honesty I ought to pay.' So they started out to
find the man that sold tickets. But the ticket stand was gone, and they
stood there lookin' around, the mud nearly ankle-deep, and Mis' Page
said she was holdin' up her silk dress and wishin' to goodness they
could git started toward town.
"Sam said he knew Parson Page's conscience would hold him there on the
show-ground till he'd paid that money, so he says: 'You and Mis' Page
wait here; I'll see if I can find the man you want.' And Sam hunted all
over the grounds till he found the head man of the circus, and he
brought him around to where Parson Page and Mis' Page was waitin' for
him. Mis' Page said he was as fine lookin' and well-mannered a man as
she ever had seen; and he shook hands with her so friendly it seemed
like she'd known him all her life, and then he says to Parson Page, as
kind as you please: 'Well, my friend, what can I do for you?'
"And Parson Page he explained how he'd got into the show tent by
accident when the storm was comin' up, and how he wanted to pay; and the
showman listened mighty polite, and when the parson got through he says:
'Put up your purse, sir. You don't owe me a cent.' Says he: 'The
obligation's all on my side, and it's an honor to this circus to know
that we had a minister of the gospel in our audience, to-day.' The
parson he insisted on payin', but the showman he wouldn't hear to it.
Says he: 'If Mr. Barnum was to hear that I'd charged a preacher anything
for seein' his show, I'd lose my place before you could say "Jack
Robinson!"' And Parson Page said: 'Is that really so?' And the showman
said: 'Upon my word and honor, it is. There's no such thing as a
preacher payin' his way into one o' Mr. Barnum's circuses.'
"Well, Parson Page put his purse back in his pocket and thanked the
showman for his kindness, but he said he felt as if he wanted to make
some sort of a return, and he begun searchin' around in his pockets to
see if he didn't have a tract or somethin' o' that sort to give him, and
he come across a Shorter Catechism that he'd been questionin' the
children out of the Sunday before. And he pulled it out and says he:
'Sir, I would like to leave this little book with you as a token of
remembrance.' Sam said the showman took it and looked at it and turned
over the pages right slow, and at last he says: 'Great Jehosaphat! This
carries me back forty years, to the time when I was a little shaver,
goin' to church Sunday mornin' and listenin' to old Brother Bodley
preach from the day of creation down to the day of judgment, and sittin'
on the old horsehair sofa in the parlor all Sunday evenin' wrestlin'
with this very catechism and prayin' for the sun to go down and wishin'
I could cut all the Sundays out o' the almanac.' And he turned over the
pages o' the catechism and says he: 'Yes, here's all my old friends,
"Santification" and "Justification" and "Adoption."' Sam said he laughed
to himself, but there was a curious look in his eyes like he might cry,
too. And says he: 'Parson, I know you won't believe me, but there ain't
a question in this catechism that I can't answer.'
"And Parson Page, he looked amazed, as anybody would, and says he: 'Is
it possible?' And the showman handed him the book, and says he: 'I bet
you five dollars I can answer any question you ask me.' Well, of course,
Parson Page hadn't any notion of bettin' with the showman, but he took
the catechism and says he, jest as earnest as if he was hearin' a
Sunday-school class: 'What is sanctification?' And the showman says:
'Sanctification is an act of God's free grace wherein he pardoneth all
our sins, and accepteth us as righteous in his sight only for the
righteousness of Christ imputed to us and received by faith alone.'
"And Parson Page looked mighty pleased, and says he: 'That's a perfectly
correct answer, but that's justification, and I asked you what
sanctification is.' And the showman he thought a minute, and says he:
'You're right! You're right! I always did have trouble with
justification and sanctification, and I remember how mother'd say: "Now,
Samuel, can't you get it fixed in your mind that justification is an
act and sanctification is a work of God's free grace?" I thought I did
get it fixed one o' them Sunday evenin's when mother was workin' with
me, but I see now I didn't.'
"And then he pulled out his purse,--Mis' Page said she never saw as much
money at one time in all her life,--and he handed Parson Page a
five-dollar gold piece. Parson Page didn't make any motion toward takin'
it; jest looked first at the showman and then at Sam in a kind o'
puzzled way, and the showman says: 'Here's your money, Parson. You won
it fair and square.'
"And Parson Page says: 'Sir, I don't understand you,' and he stepped
back to keep the showman from puttin' the money in his hand--pretty
much, I reckon, the way Brother Wilson did when Squire Schuyler was
tryin' to make him take the deed to the house that was a wedding fee;
and the showman says: 'Why, didn't I bet you five dollars I could answer
any question in this catechism, and didn't I lose my bet?' And Parson
Page says: 'Sir, I hadn't the slightest intention of betting with you. I
am a minister of the gospel.' And the showman he says: 'Well, Parson,
you may not have intended bettin' any more than you intended goin' to
the circus, but you did bet, and there's no gettin' around it. I bet I
could answer any question, and you took up the bet and asked the
question; and I lost, and you won.'
"Sam Amos said he never could forgit the look on Parson Page's face when
he begun to see that he'd not only been to the circus, but that he'd
been bettin' with the circus man. And he says: 'Sir, there's a great
misunderstanding somewhere. Surely a minister of the gospel can ask a
catechism question without being accused of betting.' And the showman he
laughed, and says he: 'Well, we won't argue about that, but here's your
money,' And Parson Page says: 'Sir, I shall not take it.' And the
showman he looked mighty solemn and says he: 'Do you think it's right,
Parson, to keep a fellow man from payin' his just debts?' And Parson
Page studied a while, and says he: 'That's a hard question. I never had
to deal with just such a matter before, and I hardly know what to say.'
And the showman he says: 'I've got a conscience the same as you; my
conscience tells me to pay this money, so it must be right for me to pay
it; and if it's right for me to pay it, it can't be wrong for you to
take it.'
"Well, Parson Page studied a minute, and says he: 'Your reasoning
appears to be sound, but, still, my conscience tells me that I ought not
to take the money, and I will not take it.' And the showman says: 'Well,
if it goes against your conscience to keep it, put it in the
contribution box next Sunday,' Says he: 'I haven't been to church since
I was a boy, and there may be a good many changes since then, but I
reckon they're still passin' the contribution box around.' And the
parson he drew back and shook his bead again, and the showman says:
'Well, you can give it to foreign missions; maybe the heathen won't
object to takin' a showman's money.' And the parson says: 'Sir, I
appreciate your generosity, but on the whole I think it best not to take
the money.'
"Sam said the showman looked at Parson Page a minute, and then he
slapped him on the shoulder, and says he: 'Parson, you may not know it,
but we're pardners in this game. If it wasn't for the church, we
wouldn't need the circus, and if it wasn't for the circus, we wouldn't
need the church.' Says he: 'You belong to the church, and I belong to
the circus; but maybe, after all, there ain't so very much difference
betwixt an honest preacher and an honest showman.' And then he bowed to
Mis' Page like she'd been a queen, and took Parson Page by the hand, and
the next minute he was gone like he had a heap o' business to see to.
And Sam Amos laughed, and says he: 'Well, Parson, circus-goin' and
bettin' is enough for one day. You and me'd better go home now, before
the world, the flesh, and the devil lay hold of you again.'
"So they all started for town, Parson Page talkin' about how kind and
polite the showman was, and how his conscience was clear since he'd
offered to pay for his seat, and how glad he was that he hadn't taken
the five dollars the showman wanted him to take. Sam said he waited till
they got to the drug store, and then he told Parson Page to put his hand
in his coat pocket,--he had on a black luster coat with the pocket
outside,--and Parson Page put his hand in, and there was the five-dollar
gold piece. Sam said that while the showman was shakin' hands he slipped
the money in the pocket as quick as lightnin', and of course Sam
wouldn't tell on him, because he was glad to git another joke on Parson
Page.
"Well, it was all Mis' Page and Sam could do to keep him from goin' back
to the show grounds to try to find the showman and give him back his
money. Mis' Page told him it was gittin' on toward night, and they had
to go home, and Sam told him that the show was most likely on its way to
the depot. But Parson Page shook his head, and says he: 'I can't go home
with this money in my possession.' And Mis' Page reached out and took
the gold piece out o' his hand and slipped it into her reticule, and
says she: 'Well, now you can go home. That gold piece won't bother you
any more, for it's in my possession, and I'm goin' to put it in the
treasury of our Mite Society,' and that's what she did the very next
meetin' we had.
"Mis' Page said that Parson Page could hardly git to sleep that night,
he was so troubled and so upset, and he kept talkin' about the things
he'd done because he thought they was right, and how they'd led him into
doin' wrong, and says he: 'This morning when I set out for town, I
thought I knew exactly what was right and what was wrong, but now I'm so
turned and twisted,' says he, 'that if anybody asked me whether the ten
commandments ought to be observed, I believe I'd stop and think a long
time before I answered, and then like as not I'd say, "Sometimes they
ought, and sometimes they oughtn't."'
"Well, of course the news went all over the country that Parson Page had
gone to the circus, and everywhere Brother Page went he was kept busy
explainin' about the rain and the crowd and how he got in by accident
and couldn't git out, and by the time the Presbytery met, all the
preachers had got wind of the story, and some of 'em laughed about it,
and some of 'em said it was a serious matter. Brother Robert McCallum
did more laughin' than anybody. He used to say that next to savin' souls
he enjoyed a good joke more than anything in the world, and Sam Amos
used to say that if Brother McCallum ever wanted to change his business,
he could be the end man in a nigger minstrel show without any trouble.
"Brother McCallum and Parson Page 'd been schoolmates, so they both felt
free to joke with one another; and the minute they'd shook hands,
Brother McCallum begun laughin' about Parson Page goin' to the circus,
and says he: 'Brother Page, I wish I'd been in your place.' Says he:
'I've always thought a man loses a heap by bein' a preacher. If anybody
ought to be allowed to go to the circus,' says he, 'it looks like it
ought to be us preachers, that's proof against temptation and that's
strong to wrestle with the world, the flesh, and the devil. Instead o'
that we send the poor, weak sinners into the temptation and lead the
preachers away from it.' Says he: 'I went to that very show, but I
wasn't so lucky as you, for it was clear weather, and I didn't have a
chance to see anything but the animals.'
"And then, after sayin' all that, what did Brother McCallum do but git
up the last day of Presbytery and read a paper with a lot of 'whereases'
and 'be it resolveds', chargin' Brother Page with conduct unbecoming to
a minister and callin' on him to explain matters. And Parson Page he had
to own up to everything and explain again jest how he happened to git
caught in the circus tent, and says he: 'It was a strange place for a
minister of the gospel to be in, but my rule is to see what I can learn
from every experience that comes to me, and I believe I learned from the
circus something that, maybe, I could not learn anywhere else.' Says he:
'As I lay that night on a sleepless pillow, the Lord gave me an insight
into the great mystery of predestination. I traced up the events of the
day one after another. There was my betting with the showman, and I felt
sorry for that. But that would not have happened if I had not sought out
the showman to pay my just debt to him, and that was a right act and a
right intention, yet it led me into wrong; and I saw in a flash that our
own acts predestine us and foreordain us to this thing or to that. We
are like children, stumbling around in the dark, taking the wrong way
and doing the wrong thing, but over us all is the pity of the Father who
"knoweth our frame and remembereth that we are dust."'
"Says he: 'I went into that tent a Pharisee, and I wrapped the mantle of
my pride around me and thought how much holier I was than those poor
sinful show people. But,' says he, 'I talked with the showman, and I
found as much honesty and kindness of heart as I ever found in any
church member, and I left the show grounds with a wider charity in my
heart than I'd ever felt before, for I knew that the showman was my
brother, and I understood what the Apostle meant when he said: "Now are
they many members; yet but one body."'
"And Brother McCallum he got up, and says he: 'Well, that's more than I
ever learned from any of Brother Page's sermons,' and everybody laughed,
and that ended the matter so far as the Presbytery was concerned.
"But Sam Amos never got through teasin' Parson Page, and every time he'd
see him with a passel o' church members, he'd go up and tell some story
or other, and then he'd turn around and say: 'You ricollect, Parson,
that happened the day you and me went to the circus.'"
MARY CRAWFORD'S CHART
"With this chart, madam," said the agent, "you are absolutely
independent of dressmakers and seamstresses. After the instructions I
have just given, a woman can cut and fit any sort of garment, from a
party gown for herself to a pair of overalls for her husband, and the
chart is so scientific in its construction, its system of measurement so
accurate, that anything cut by it has a style and finish seldom seen in
home-made garments. I have handled many things in the course of my ten
years' experience as a traveling salesman, but this chart is the most
satisfactory invention of all. I've been handling it now about eight
months, and in that time I've sold--well, if I were to tell you how many
hundred, you wouldn't believe me, so what's the use?--and I have yet to
hear of anybody who is dissatisfied with the chart. The last time I
talked with the general manager of the International Dressmaking Chart
Company, I said to him, said I: 'Mr. Crampton, you could safely give a
guarantee with every one of these charts--offer to refund the money to
any one who is dissatisfied, and,' said I, 'I believe the only result of
this would be an increased sale. You'd never have to refund a dollar.
About a year ago I sold one to Mrs. Judge Graves in Shepherdsville; you
may know her. Her husband's county judge, and they are two of the finest
people you ever saw. The judge has a brother right here in town,
Campbell Graves, the grocer. Your husband knows him, I'm sure. Well, I
sold Mrs. Graves this chart a year ago, and I stopped there again on
this trip just to say 'how d'ye do' and see how the chart was holding
out. And she said to me: 'Mr. Roberts, this chart has saved me at least
fifty dollars worth of dressmaker's bills in the last year. My husband
thought, when I bought it, that five dollars was a good deal to pay for
a thing like that, but' says she, 'he says now it was the best
investment he ever made.' I had intended to make a thorough canvass of
this neighborhood, but at twelve o'clock to-day, just as I was sitting
down to my dinner, I got a telegram from the house telling me to go
immediately to Shepherdsville. But I'd already ordered the horse and
buggy, so I ate my dinner as quickly as I could, and said I: 'I'll drive
three miles out into the country and stop at the first house I come to
on the right-hand side of the road beyond the tollgate, and if I sell a
chart there, I won't feel that I ran up a livery bill for nothing. And
the first house on the right-hand side of the road beyond the tollgate
happened to be yours, and that's how I came to give you all this
trouble."
Here the agent paused with a pleasant laugh. He realized that the
psychological moment was approaching, and he began gathering up the
various parts of the chart with an air of extreme preoccupation. The
gleam of a ruby ring on his little finger caught Mary Crawford's eye,
and she noticed how white and well-formed his hands were, the hands of
one who had never done any manual labor. She stood irresolute,
fascinated by the gleam of the red jewel, and thinking of her little
hoard up-stairs in the Japanese box in the top bureau drawer. Five
dollars from thirteen dollars and sixty-five cents left eight dollars
and sixty-five cents. It would be three weeks before John's birthday
came. The hens were laying well, the young cow would be "fresh" next
week, and that would give her at least two pounds more of butter per
week. Then, the agent was such a nice-mannered, obliging young man; he
had spent an hour teaching her how to use the chart, and she hated to
have him take all that trouble for nothing.
She looked over at her husband, and her eyes said plainly: "Please help
me to decide."
But John was blind to the gentle entreaty. He had fixed ideas as to what
was a man's business and what a woman's; so he tilted his chair back
against the wall and chewed a straw while he gazed out of the open door.
His mental comment was: "If that agent fellow could work his hands just
half as fast as he works his jaw, he'd be a mighty good help on a farm."
The agent looked up with a cheery smile. He had folded the chart, and
was tying the red tape fastenings.
"I've got to get back to town in time to catch that four o'clock train
for Shepherdsville. I'm a thousand times obliged to you, Madam, for
letting me show you the working of the chart. Sometimes I have a good
deal of difficulty in getting ladies to understand the _modus operandi_
of the thing. Unless a woman remembers the arithmetic she learned when
she was a schoolgirl, she is apt to have trouble taking measurements.
But it's a pleasure to show any one who sees into it as readily as you
do. Most married women seem to give up their mathematical knowledge just
as they give up their music. But you've got yours right at your
fingers' ends. Well, good afternoon to you both, and the next time I
come this way--"
"Wait a minute," said Mary. "I'll take the chart. Just sit down and wait
till I go up-stairs and get the money."
The agent made a suave bow of acquiescence, and then stroked his
mustache to conceal an involuntary smile of triumph.
"You have a fine stand of wheat, sir," he said, turning to John and
gesturing gracefully towards the field across the road, where the sun
was shimmering on the silvery green of oats.
John made no reply. He scorned to talk about farming matters with a raw
city fellow who did not know oats from wheat, and he was laboriously
counting out a handful of silver.
"Here's your money, young man," he said dryly. "Now skip out, if you
can, before Mary gets back."
The agent gave a quick glance at the coins and thrust them into his
pocket. He seized his hat and valise, darted out of the house, and was
climbing into his buggy when Mary appeared at the door, breathless and
distressed.
"Come back!" she cried. "You've forgotten your money."
John was standing just behind Mary, smiling broadly, and making emphatic
gestures of dismissal with both hands. The agent understood the humor of
the situation and laughed heartily as he lifted his hat and drove away.
Mary started to the gate, blushing scarlet with vexation and perplexity,
but John held her back.
"I have heard of agents forgettin' to leave the goods," said he, "but I
never heard of one forgettin' to collect his money. Go and put your
money back, Mary; I paid the man."
"Then you must let me pay you," cried Mary. "I really mean it, John. You
must let me have my way. I know you're hard run just now, and I never
would have bought the chart, if I had not intended paying for it
myself."
She tried to open John's hand to put the money in it, but John took hold
of her hand and gave her a gentle shove toward the foot of the stairs.
"Go on and put up your money, Mary," he said. "If half that agent fellow
said is true, I'm in about a hundred and fifty dollars. Before long, I
reckon, you'll be makin' my coats and pants and the harness for the
horses by this here chart."
And Mary went, but her gentle protestations could be heard even after
she reached her room and had dropped the money back into the little box
that was her savings bank.
She hurried through her after-supper tasks, her mind full of the cutting
and fitting she wanted to do before bed-time. Hers was a soul that found
its highest happiness in work, and she unfolded the chart with the
delight of a child who has a new toy. The agent's tribute to her
knowledge of mathematics was no idle flattery. Her quick brain had
comprehended at once the system of the chart, and she flushed with
excitement and pleasure as she bent over her scale and found that her
measurements and calculations were resulting in patterns of unmistakable
correctness and style. It was like solving the fifth proposition of
Euclid. She laid aside her work that night with a reluctant sigh, but a
happy anticipation of the sewing yet to come. The anticipation was
fulfilled next day by the completion of a shirt waist so striking in
design and fit that even John noticed its beauty and becomingness and
acknowledged that the chart was "no humbug."
"You must wear that waist Monday when we go to town," he declared. "I
never saw anything fit you as pretty as that does," and Sally McElrath
echoed John's opinion when she and Mary met at the linen counter of
Brown and Company's dry goods store; and Mary told her of the wonderful
chart as they both examined patterns and qualities of table linen and
compared experiences as to wearing qualities of bleached and unbleached
damask.
There is a system of communication in every country neighborhood that is
hardly less marvelous than the telegraph and telephone; and before Mary
could put her chart to a second test, all Goshen knew that Mary Crawford
had a chart that would cut anything from a baby sacque to a bolero, and
that she was willing to lend it to any one who was inclined to borrow.
Sally McElrath was the first applicant for the loan of the chart.
Whatever the enterprise, if it had the feature of novelty, Sally was its
first patron and promoter. But her promptness ended here, and her
friends declared that Sally McElrath was always the first to begin a
thing, and the last to finish it.
Accompanying the chart was a set of explicit rules for its use, and Mary
read these to Sally, explaining all the difficult points just as the
agent had explained them to her.
"Now if I were you, Sally," she said warningly, "I would try some simple
thing first, a child's apron, or something like that, so that you won't
run the risk of ruining any expensive goods. Everything takes practice,
you know."
"Oh," said Sally confidently, "I'm goin' to make a tea jacket out of a
piece of China silk I got off the bargain counter the last time I was in
town."
"What's a tea jacket?" asked Sally's husband, who had been listening
intently, with a faint hope that some new shirts for himself might be
the outcome of Sally's interest in the chart.
"It's a thing like this, Dan," said Sally, producing a picture of the
elegant garment in question.
"Why do they call it a tea jacket?" demanded Dan.
"Oh, I don't know; I reckon they wear 'em when they drink tea," said
Sally.
"But we drink coffee," said Dan argumentatively.
"Well, call it a coffee jacket, then," retorted Sally. "But whatever you
call it, I'm goin' to have one, if I don't do another stitch of spring
sewin'."
Dan was gazing sadly at the picture of the tea jacket with its flowing
oriental sleeves, lace ruffles, and ribbon bows.
"I can't figger out," he said slowly, "what use you've got for a thing
like that."
"I can't either," snapped Sally, "and that's the very reason I want it.
The only things I've got any use for are gingham aprons and kitchen
towels, and they're the things I don't want; and the only things I want
are things that I haven't got a bit of use for, like this tea jacket
here, and I'm goin' to have it, too."
"All right, all right," said Dan soothingly. "If you're pleased with the
things that ain't of any use, why, have 'em, of course. Me and the
children would like right well to have a few things that are some use,
but I reckon we can get along without 'em a while longer. However, it
looks to me as if that chart calls for a good deal of calculatin', and
it's my opinion that you'd better get out your old _Ray's Arithmetic_
and study up awhile before you try to cut out that jacket."
"Maybe you're right," laughed Sally. "Arithmetic always was my stumbling
block at school. I never could learn the tables, and the first year I
was married I sold butter with just twelve ounces to the pound, till
Cousin Albert's wife told me better. She'd been takin' my butter for a
month, and one Saturday morning she said to me: 'Cousin Sally, I hate to
mention it, and I hope you won't take offence, but your butter's short
weight.' Well, of course that made me mad, but I held my temper down,
and I said: 'Cousin Ella, I think you're mistaken, I weigh my butter
myself, and I've got good true scales, and there's twelve ounces of
butter and a little over in every pound I sell.' And Cousin Ella laughed
and says: 'I know that, Cousin Sally, but there ought to be sixteen
ounces in a pound of butter. You're usin' the wrong table.' And she
picked up little Albert's arithmetic and showed me the two tables, one
for druggists and one for grocers; and there I'd been using druggist's
weight to weigh groceries. Well, we had a good laugh over it, and I put
twenty ounces of butter to the pound 'till I made up all my short
weight. I never did learn all the multiplication table, and all the
arithmetic I'm certain about now is: one baby and another baby makes two
babies, and twelve things make a dozen. I wouldn't remember that if it
wasn't for countin' the eggs and the napkins. But maybe Dan can help me
out with the chart."
"Don't depend on me," said Dan emphatically; "my arithmetic is about
like yours. I know how many pecks of corn make a bushel and how many
rods are in an acre, but that sort o' knowledge wouldn't be much help in
cuttin' out a woman's jacket." And early the next morning Sally returned
the chart, acknowledging that its mathematical complexities had baffled
both herself and Dan. "And besides," she added, "I don't believe there's
enough of my China silk to cut anything. I'll have to match it and get
some more the next time I go to town."
One after another the neighbors borrowed Mary's chart, and each came
back with the same story,--there was too much arithmetic about it, but
if they brought their goods some time this week or next, would not Mary
show them how to use it?
Of course she would. When did Mary Crawford ever refuse to help a
neighbor?