must be a very good performance in that line to stand out like a bump or
a peg in memory. Through all my days I can never forget that supper in
the fire-lighted room where Ike played feet and Annie played hands and
brains. Ike started a roaring fire in the kitchen stove. Then he brought
in a basket of potatoes and Annie selected the best ones for baking.
He came with a fragrant brown ham, and cut slices, under her eye, she
measuring with her thin finger to make sure they were not too thick. She
cut the bread herself, selected the eggs for frying, mixed the gravy
and seemed to know by the sputter in the pan when the ham was done. Ike
pushed her chair over to the table so she could spread the cloth and
arrange the service. Then at a word he pushed her chair to the window
where half a dozen plants were blooming. She cut two little nosegays and
put them beside the plates of her guests. Ike brought in the ham and
eggs, the great, mealy baked potatoes, the brown biscuits and the apple
pie. In her city home a servant would have approached the lady and gently
announced:
“Dinner is served!”
Ike Sawyer, when Annie nodded approval, simply invited:
“_Sit by and eat!_”
It was all so simple and human that it seemed a perfectly natural thing
to do when the discontented and peevish young woman picked up the little
nosegay at her husband’s plate and pinned it on his coat. She even patted
his shoulder just as Ike had done with Annie. We were all ready to begin,
when Ike, standing by Annie’s chair, took off his great spectacles and
held up his hand.
“I don’t know who you be or whether you’re church folks or not, but me
an’ Annie always makes every day a season for Thanksgivin’.”
Then in the deep silence with only the popping of the fire and the dim
noises of the night, as accompaniment, the old man bowed his head and
made his prayer. He prayed that the “stranger within our gates” might
find peace and strength and go on his way thankful for all the blessings
of life. Under those great bushy eyebrows the eyes of the strong, rich
man glowed with a strange light. The young wife glanced at him, and the
sneer faded away from her face. Then Ike became the landlord once more
and he bustled about, tempting us to eat a little more of this or another
piece of that, and at every word of praise falling back upon his stock
explanation:
“It’s her—Annie plays hands and I play feet. Everybody knows hands have
more skill than feet.”
After supper the big man and his wife stood at the window looking out
into the wet, dismal night. After a little hesitation he put his arm
gently around her. She did not throw it away as she did when he tried
to comfort her in the swamp, but rather pulled it closer. After Ike had
cleared up his dishes and caught and dressed the gray rooster we all sat
before the fire and talked. With a few shrewd questions the lumberman
drew out Ike’s story. Years before he and Annie had owned a good farm in
New York. There they heard of the wonderful new town that was to be built
in Northern Michigan. A city was to arise there, the railroad was coming,
and fortune was to float on golden wings over the favored place. It is
strange how people like Ike and Annie cannot see how much they need home
and old friends and old scenes to make life satisfying. They are not made
of the stuff used in building pioneers, but they cannot realize it and
they listen to plausible dreams and go chasing after the impossible. So
Ike and Annie sold the farm and came to start the great city. It never
started. The railroad headed 20 miles west. Out among the scrub oaks you
could find some of the rotting stakes marked “Broadway,” “Clay St.,” or
“Lake Avenue.” The swamp and forest refused to be civilized. Ike built
his hotel in anticipation of the human wave which would wash prosperity
his way. It never came, and only a rough, rambling house remained as the
weatherbeaten gravestone of Sawdust City. Of all the pioneers there were
only Ike and Annie—last of them all—celebrating their happy Thanksgiving!
“Why don’t you sell out and move to some town?” said the practical
lumberman.
“Well, sir—it would be too far from home! Me and Annie know this
place—every corner of it. Every crick of a timber at night brings a
memory. We are just part of the place. And the little girl is buried off
there by the brook. We couldn’t go away from that, could we?”
“But isn’t it so _awful_ lonesome?”
It was the young woman who asked, and it was Annie who softly answered
her.
“No, for we have great company. I have Ike and he has me. All these long
years have tried us out. We know each other, and we are satisfied. Each
Thanksgiving finds us happier than before, because we know that our last
years are to be our best years.”
The rich man looked over to Ike and Annie with something of hopeless envy
printed on his face. His wife nodded her head gently and then sat gazing
into the fire until Ike gave us clearly to understand that 10 o’clock was
the hour for retiring at the “Farmers’ Rest.”
We stayed for our Thanksgiving dinner, and the gray rooster, stuffed
with chestnuts and bread-crumbs, might well have stood up in the platter
to crow at the praises heaped upon him. The forenoon was gloomy and
dull, but just as we came to the table the sun broke through the clouds.
A long splinter of sunshine broke through the window—falling upon
Annie’s snow-white hair. Ike hurried to move her chair out of the sun,
but the rich man asked Ike to leave her there, for I think something
in that sunny picture took him back to childhood—where most men go on
Thanksgiving Day.
And shortly after dinner the farmer came up the road with the carriage.
The axle had been mended and the horses rested. We all shook hands with
Ike and Annie. I was to go my way and the other guests were to pass out
of our little world.
Annie held the young girl’s hand for a moment.
“My dear, I hope you will soon be back in the city among your friends,
where you will not be so lonely. It must be hard for you here.”
The girl hesitated a moment and then put her hand on her husband’s
shoulder.
“John, would it mean very much to you if we went right back to the camp
so you could finish your business?”
“Yes, it would—but I am afraid——”
“Then we will _not_ go home yet, but we will go back until you are
through. I have had a beautiful Thanksgiving. I would rather stay in the
woods.”
And so they turned in their tracks and went back through the swamp. The
night before she said she should always hate the place where the accident
had made Ike Sawyer’s hotel a necessity. Now as she passed it she smiled
and gave her husband a pinch—a trick she must have learned from Annie.
And so they went on through the sunny afternoon of the “thankfullest day
of their lives.” They were thinking of the working force at the “Farmers’
Rest”—the feet and the hands!
And the thought in their minds framed itself over and over into words:
“_Out of their poverty, out of their trouble and loneliness, this man and
woman have found each other, and thus have found the most beautiful and
precious thing in life—love!_”
OLD-TIME POLITICS
“What is the matter with this political campaign?”
An old man who can remember public events far back of the Civil War and
beyond asked that question the other day. He said this campaign reminded
him more of a Sunday school convention. Nobody was fighting, and very
few such epithets as “liar” or “thief” or “rascal” were being used. In
these days no one seems to care who is to be elected. We are all too
busy trying to pay our bills. The old man bewailed the loss of power and
interest in this generation. He thought this quiet indifference meant
that as a nation we have lost our political vigor. Having been through
some of those old-time battles, I cannot fully agree with him. It is
true that few people seem interested, yet they will vote this year, and
I think the quiet and thoughtful study most of them are making will
prove as effective as the big noise and excitement we used to have. We
are merely doing things differently now. Whether the great excitement
of those old political days made us better citizens is a question which
has long puzzled me. I know that in those nervous and high-strung days
we did many foolish things as a part of “politics.” On the other hand, I
wish sometimes that our people could get as thoroughly worked up over the
tribute we are paying to the profiteers as we did in those old days over
the tariff and the slavery issue.
I can well remember taking part in the campaign between Garfield and
Hancock. The Democrats felt that they had been robbed of the Presidency
in ’76, but as they failed to renominate Tilden the Republicans called
them quitters. I had dropped out of college for awhile to work as hired
man for a farmer in a Western State, and we certainly had a great time.
This farmer was an old soldier; he was a good talker and thought well of
his own exploits. When you found that combination 40 years ago you struck
a red-hot partisan. The man’s wife was a Democrat, because her father had
been. She was one of those small, black-eyed women who acquire the habit
of dominating things in the schoolroom and then concentrate the habit
when they take a school of one pupil in the home. Her brother lived on
the next farm. He had turned Republican because he wanted to be elected
county clerk. It was fully worth the price of admission to sit by the
fire some stormy night and hear this woman put those two Republicans on
the broiler of her tongue. They were big men, fully capable of holding
their own in any ordinary argument, but this small woman cowed them as
she formerly did her A B C pupils. It was enough to make any young man
very thoughtful about marrying a successful teacher to see this small
woman point a finger at her big husband and say:
“Now John Crandall, don’t you dare to say it isn’t the truth!”
And John didn’t dare, though from his political religion it might be a
base fabrication. One day, after a particularly hard thrust, John and I
were digging potatoes, and he unburdened his mind a little:
“I’ll tell you one thing: any man who marries a good school-marm takes
his life in his hands—his political life, anyway!” and he pushed his
fork into the ground as though he was spearing a Democrat! “And yet,” he
added, as he threw out a fine hill of potatoes, “sometimes I kinder think
it’s worth the risk.”
My great regret is that this lady did not live to celebrate the
Nineteenth Amendment! With the ballot in her hand she would have stirred
excitement even into this dull campaign!
We worked all day, and went around arguing most of the night during that
hot campaign. The names we had for the Democrats would not bear repeating
here. The other side went around with pieces of chalk, making the figures
“321” on every fence and building or on stones. That represented the sum
of money which General Garfield was said to have stolen. The Republicans
marched around in processions carrying a pair of overalls tied to a
pole, representing one of the Democratic candidates. Oh, it was a
“campaign of education” without doubt! And then Maine voted! John and his
brother-in-law had been playing Maine as their trump card.
“Wait till you hear from the old Pine Tree State. As Maine goes, so goes
the Union!”
John felt so sure of it that even his wife was a little fearful. The day
after the Maine election John and I were seeding wheat on a hill back
from the road. There were no telephones in those days, and news traveled
slowly—we were eight miles from town. In the late afternoon we heard
a noise from the distant road. There was Peleg Leonard driving his old
white horse up the road at full speed and roaring out an old campaign
song:
“Wait for the wagon! Wait for the wagon!
Democratic wagon, and we’ll all take a ride!”
The demand for prohibition in those days was confined to a few “wild-eyed
fanatics,” and Peleg was not one of them, especially on those rare
occasions when the Democrats got a chance to yell. We saw him stop in
front of the house and wave his arms as he told the news to Sarah.
“Looks sorter bad. Can it be that Maine has gone back on us?” said John
as he saw the celebrator go on his way.
We usually had a cold supper on such days, but now we saw the smoke
pouring from the kitchen chimney, and the horn blew half an hour earlier
than usual. John and I put up the horses, washed our faces at the pump
and walked into the kitchen as only two dejected Republicans can travel.
You see, it wasn’t so bad for the Democrats. They were used to being
defeated, and had made no great claims. I was young then, and youth is
intensely partisan. Since that day I have voted on four different party
tickets, and glory in the fact that I am not “hide-bound.”
Sarah had on her best black silk and the white apron with lace edges.
She had cooked some hot biscuit and dished up some of her famous plum
preserve and actually skimmed a pan of milk to serve thick cream.
“_Maine is gone Democratic!_” she cried. “_Hurrah for Hancock!_ Bread and
water’s good enough for Republicans in this hour of triumph, but I know
the fat of the land will taste like gall to both of you. Sit right down
and feast, because the country’s safe!”
Physically that supper was perfect. There never were finer hot biscuits
or better plum preserve or finer cold chicken! Spiritually it was the
saddest and most depressing meal on record. We made a full meal. I can go
back into the years and see that big farmer gnawing half a chicken under
command of his wife. You remember “King Robert of Sicily” in Longfellow’s
poem:
“The world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch.”
And so with poor John. That fine chicken tasted exactly like crow as
Sarah sat by and “rubbed it in.” Oh, politics, where are the charms we
formerly saw in thy face?
John and I surely dawdled over our chores that night. We had no great
desire to go in and hear the news. Finally Sarah came to the door and
called us.
“Say,” said John to me as we started for the house, “you go to college.
Have you ever studied logic or what they call psychology?”
“While I am no expert at either subject, I know what they mean.”
“Well, now, suppose your wife got after you like that, how would you use
those studies to keep her quiet? What’s the use of an education if it
don’t help you keep peace in the family?”
So I unwisely told John that he ought to tell his wife that a woman by
law obtained her citizenship from her husband. That citizenship was the
essence of politics; therefore the wife should by law belong to her
husband’s party. I am older now in years, and I know better than to give
any man arguments in a debate with his wife. The Maine election, however,
had made us desperate. So John marched in with a very confident step and
elaborated my arguments. He was quite impressive when he assured her that
the law declared that a woman acquired her political principles from her
husband. It did not work, however.
“Don’t you tell me! I didn’t marry any principles at all when I married
you. How is a man going to give any principles to his wife when he never
had any to give? My father was a Democrat, and I take my politics from
him. He was the best man that ever lived, and you know it. I inherit my
politics, I do—I didn’t marry them!”
The truth is that Sarah’s father was an old war Democrat who came near
being tarred and feathered by his neighbors, but one of the saving graces
of modern civilization is the fact that a woman’s father is always an
immortal—never needing any defense—his virtues being self-evident, while
her husband is a de-mortal who can hardly hope to become a good citizen
except through long years of patient service! His only hope lies in the
future when he has a daughter of his own.
And Henry Wilkins, Sarah’s brother, was running for county clerk. We held
a caucus at the blacksmith shop, where John and I and two farmers were
elected delegates to the county convention. We all went to the county
seat one Saturday afternoon to nominate a ticket. The last we heard from
Sarah was:
“Now, Henry, if you get nominated on that renegade ticket, I know one man
that won’t vote for you and that’s John Crandall. I won’t let him vote if
he has to stay in bed all day!”
Contrary to what some of the “antis” say woman has always exercised
political power.
When we got to town we found the “drug-store ring” in control. This was a
little group of politicians led by Jacob Spaulding. It was the “Tammany
Hall” of Oak County. This ring had decided to nominate an undertaker from
the west side of the county for clerk. Most of the farmers were all ready
to quit when Jake Spaulding said the word, for he usually handed out the
little political jobs. I was young and inexperienced in politics and
ready for a fight. It hurt me to see that great crowd of farmers ready
to give up the fight when a big, fat brute like Jake Spaulding and a few
of his creatures shook their heads. So I called our delegates together
and proposed that we go right in where Jake was and “talk turkey” to him.
Strange, but John Crandall was the only outspoken supporter I had. John
was bossed at home until he was like a lamb, but get him out among men
and the pent-up feelings in the lamb expanded that innocent animal into
a lion. So we had our way, and about 25 of us marched down the street
to the courthouse, where in the sheriff’s room the county committee was
making up the ticket.
You would have thought the destinies of the nation were at stake as we
filed into that room. Half of our delegates were ready to quit when Jake
Spaulding glared at us over his spectacles.
“What do you want?”
Dr. Walker was our spokesman, and Jake Spaulding had a mortgage on his
house. You could see that mortgage peeking out from behind every sentence
of the doctor’s speech. In effect he asked those politicians if they
wouldn’t please nominate Henry Wilkins for county clerk. It didn’t take
Jake long to put us where we belonged.
“No; the delegates to this convention are going to nominate Hiram Green.
Nothing doing here. Just fall in and work for the grand old Republican
party! And now, boys, good day; we’re busy.”
Several of our delegates started for the door. They were well-disciplined
soldiers. I was not, and I did what most of them thought a very foolish
thing. Before I well knew it I was up in front making a speech to Jake
Spaulding. At that time no one had ever heard of the 35-cent dollar.
The word “profiteer” was not in the language; but I think I did make it
clear that these farmers were there to nominate Henry Wilkins or “bust”
the convention. As I look back upon it now I think it was the most bold
and palpable “bluff” ever attempted at a country convention. And John
Crandall stood beside me and pounded his big hands together until the
rest of the delegates forgot their fear and joined in. When I finished
there was nothing to do for us but to file out of the courthouse.
Then they turned on me in sorrow and anger. Everyone would now be a
marked man. They never could get any office from Jake Spaulding. Even
Henry, the candidate, felt I had injured his chances, for if he kept
quiet perhaps he might make a deal to get to be deputy clerk. But John
Crandall stood by me.
“Good,” he said; “I’m a fighter. Get right up in convention and give ’em
another. I’m going to vote for Henry till the last man is out.”
But these faint hearts did not know what was going on inside the
sheriff’s room. When our delegation marched out the county committee sat
and looked at each other.
“Boys,” said Jake Spaulding, “it looks like they mean business. We can’t
let that spread. I guess we’ll have to take Henry on!”
There was a big crowd in the courthouse, and the convention went off like
a well-oiled machine. They nominated sheriff and probate judge and then
the chairman asked:
“Any nominations for county clerk?”
I had my throat all cleared and stood up with: “Mr. Chairman,”—but no one
paid much attention to me. The chairman turned to the platform and said:
“I recognize Judge Spaulding,” and there was the big, fat boss on his
feet.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “today our glorious country lives or dies! The
grand old Republican party is on trial. Every patriot is needed in this
great crisis. Ho! Israel, every man to his tent! I therefore take great
pleasure in nominating that splendid farmer, that incomparable patriot,
that popular citizen, Henry Wilkins of Adams township. I ask you in the
name of our glorious citizenship to put him through with bells on!”
I stood there all through the speech too dazed to sit, until John
Crandall pulled me down. Then I realized that for once a bluff had
worked. And after the convention I met Jake Spaulding in front of the
courthouse. “Young feller,” he said, “if you decide to settle down in
this county, let me know. I’ll have a little job for you.”
We all rode home in the candidate’s wagon. Sarah was waiting for us at
the gate.
“Well, how did you come out?”
“Nominated by acclamation,” said Henry. “John and the young feller here
did it. They made Jake Spaulding come up!”
“John?”
If some actress could put into a single word the scorn and surprise which
Sarah packed into her husband’s name her fortune would be made. And John
and I stood there like a couple of truant schoolboys waiting for the
verdict.
“That’s what I said. John was fine. Only for him I’d have been defeated.”
And Henry drove on.
“Now you two lazy Republicans, get out and milk those cows.”
We went, but when we got back the kitchen stove was roaring, and Sarah
was just taking out a pan of biscuits. There were ham and eggs on the
stove.
“Now you sit right down and eat. If I’ve got to be sister to a county
clerk I want to know all about it. Now, John, you tell me just how it
happened.”
Ah, but those were the happy days of politics. Do you wonder that we
old-timers consider the present campaign about like dishwater—in more
ways than one?
End of Project Gutenberg's Hope Farm Notes, by Herbert Winslow Collingwood