THE BOOMING OF ACRE HILL
AND OTHER REMINISCENCES OF URBAN AND SUBURBAN LIFE
[Illustration: "I'll Never, Never, Never, So Long As I Live"]
The Booming of Acre Hill
By
John Kendrick Bangs
Illustrations
By C. Dana Gibson
Published 1902 in New York and London
TO
WILLIAM LIVERMORE KINGMAN
WITH AFFECTIONATE REGARDS
These stories by Mr. Bangs have appeared
from time to time in _The Ladies Home Journal, The Woman's Home
Companion_, and the various publications of Messrs. HARPER & BROTHERS.
CONTENTS
THE BOOMING OF ACRE HILL
THE STRANGE MISADVENTURES OF AN ORGAN
THE PLOT THAT FAILED
THE BASE INGRATITUDE OF BARKIS, M.D.
THE UTILITARIAN MR. CARRAWAY
THE BOOK SALES OF MR. PETERS
THE VALOR OF BRINLEY
WILKINS
THE MAYOR'S LAMPS
THE BALANCE OF POWER
JARLEY'S EXPERIMENT
JARLEY'S THANKSGIVING
HARRY AND MAUDE AND I--ALSO JAMES
AN AFFINITIVE ROMANCE:
I. MR. AUGUSTUS RICHARDS'S IDEAL
II. MISS HENDERSON'S STANDARD
III. A GLANCE AT MISS FLORA HENDERSON HERSELF
IV. A BRIEF GLIMPSE OF MR. AUGUSTUS RICHARDS
V. CONCLUSION
MRS. UPTON'S DEVICE:
I. THE RESOLVE
II. A SUCCESSFUL CASE
III. A SET-BACK
IV. THE DEVICE
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I'LL NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, SO LONG AS I LIVE"
DURING THE INTERMEZZO
THE BOOMING OF ACRE HILL
Acre Hill ten years ago was as void of houses as the primeval forest.
Indeed, in many ways it suggested the primeval forest. Then the Acre
Hill Land Improvement Company sprang up in a night, and before the
bewildered owners of its lovely solitudes and restful glades, who had
been paying taxes on their property for many years, quite grasped the
situation they found that they had sold out, and that their old-time
paradise was as surely lost to them as was Eden to Adam and Eve.
To-day Acre Hill is gridironed with macadamized streets that are lined
with houses of an architecture of various degrees of badness. Where
birds once sang, and squirrels gambolled, and stray foxes lurked, the
morning hours are made musical by the voices of milkmen, and the
squirrels have given place to children and nurse-maids. Where sturdy
oaks stood like sentinels guarding the forest folk from intrusion from
the outside world now stand tall wooden poles with glaring white
electric lights streaming from their tops. And the soughing of the winds
in the trees has given place to the clang of the bounding trolley. All
this is the work of the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company.
Yet if, as I have said, the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company sprang up
in a night, it passed many sleepless nights before it received the
rewards which come to him who destroys Nature. And when I speak of a
corporation passing sleepless nights I do so advisedly, for at the
beginning of its career the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company consisted
of one man--a mild-mannered man who had previously labored in similar
enterprises, and whose name was called blessed in a thousand
uncomfortable houses in uncomfortable suburbs elsewhere, that, like Acre
Hill, had once been garden spots, but had been "improved." Even a
professional improver of land finds sleep difficult to woo at the
beginning of such an enterprise. In the first instance, when one buys
land, giving a mortgage in full payment therefor, with the land as
security, one appears to have assumed a moderately heavy burden. Then,
when to this one adds the enormous expense of cutting streets through
the most beautiful of the sylvan glades, the building of sewers, and the
erection of sample houses, to say nothing of the strain upon the
intellect in the selection of names for the streets and lanes and
circles that spring into being, one cannot but wonder how the master
mind behind it all manages to survive.
But the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company did survive, and Dumfries
Corners watched its progress with much interest. Regrets were expressed
when some historic knoll was levelled in order to provide a nice flat
space for a public square. Youngsters who had bagged many a partridge on
Acre Hill felt like weeping when one stretch of bush after another was
cut ruthlessly away in order that a pretentious-looking structure, the
new home of the Acre Hill Country Club, might be erected. Lovers sighed
when certain noble old oaks fraught with sentimental associations fell
before the un-sentimental axes of the Improvement Company; and
numberless young Waltons muttered imprecations upon the corporation that
filled in with stone and ashes the dear old pond that once gave forth
fish in great abundance, and through earthen pipes diverted the running
brook, that hitherto had kept it full, into a brand-new sewer.
These lovers of nature could not understand the great need of our
constantly growing population for uncomfortable houses in inconvenient
suburbs, and in their failure to comprehend they became cavilers. But
others--those who admire the genius which enables a man to make
unproductive land productive, who hail as benefactor one who supplants a
profitless oak of a thousand years' standing with a thriving
butcher-shop--these people understood what was being done for Dumfries
Corners, but wondered how the venture was to be made profitable. There
were already more vacant houses in Dumfries Corners than could be
rented, more butcher-shops than could be supported, more clubs than
could be run without a deficit. But the Acre Hill Land Improvement
Company went on, and within three years paradise had become earth, and
the mild-mannered and exceedingly amiable gentleman who had replaced the
homes of the birds with some fifteen or twenty houses for small
families could look about him and see greater results than ever greeted
the eyes of Romulus in the days of the great Rome Land Improvement
Company.
Most wonderful of all, he was still solvent! But a city is not a city,
nor, in its own degree, a suburb a suburb, without inhabitants; and
while to a mind like that back of the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company
it is seemingly a moderately easy task to lay out a suburb in so far as
its exterior appointments are concerned, the rub comes in the getting of
citizens. A Standard Oil magnate can build a city if he is willing to
spend the money, but all the powers of heaven and earth combined cannot
manufacture offhand a citizenship. In an emergency of this nature most
land improvement companies would have issued pretty little pamphlets,
gotten up in exquisite taste, full of beautiful pictures and bubbling
over with enthusiastic text, all based upon possibilities rather than
upon realities. But the Acre Hill Land Improvement Company was sincere
and honest. It believed in advertising what it had; it believed in
dilating somewhat on the possibilities, but it was too honest to claim
for itself virtues it did not possess.
So it tried different methods. The Acre Hill Country Club was the first
of these, and a good idea it was. It was successful from the start,
socially. Great numbers attended the entertainments and dances, although
these were rather poorly conducted. Still, the Country Club was a grand
success. It gave much and received nothing. Dumfries Corners, reluctant
to approve of anything, approved of it.
But no lots were sold! The Acre Hill Land Improvement Company was
willing to make itself popular--very willing. Didn't mind giving
Dumfries Corners people free entertainment, but--lots didn't sell. What
is the use of paying the expenses of a club if lots don't sell? This was
a new problem for the company to consider. There were sixteen houses
ready for occupancy, and consuming interest at a terrible rate, but no
one came to look at them. Acre Hill was a charming spot, no doubt, but
for some unknown reason or other it failed to take hold of the popular
fancy, despite the attractions of the club.
Suddenly the head of the institution had an idea. In the great
metropolis there was an impecunious and popular member of Uppertendom
whose name had been appearing in the society journals with great
frequency for years. He formerly had been prosperous, but now he was
down financially; yet society still received and liked him, for he had
many good points and was fundamentally what the world calls a good
fellow.
"Why not send for Jocular Jimson Jones?" suggested the head and leading
spirit of the Improvement Company. "We can offer him one of our
cottages, and pay his debts if he has any, if he will live here and give
us the benefit of his social prestige."
The suggestion was received with enthusiasm. Mr. Jones was summoned,
came and inspected the cottage, and declined. He really couldn't, you
know. Of course he was down, but not quite down to the level of a
cottage of that particular kind. He still had plenty of friends whom he
could visit and who would be charmed to entertain him in the style to
which he was accustomed. Why, therefore, should he do this thing, and
bring himself down to the level of the ordinary commuter? No, indeed.
Not he! The Directors saw the point, and next offered him--and this time
he accepted--the free use of the residence of one of the officers of the
company, a really handsome, pretentious structure, with a commanding
view, stable, green-houses, graceful lawns, and all other appurtenances
of a well-appointed country seat. In addition to the furnishing of the
house in proper taste, they put coal in the cellar and fly-screens in
the windows. They filled the residence with servants, and indorsed the
young person at the grocer's and butcher's. They bought him a surrey and
a depot wagon. They bought him horses and they stocked him well with
fine cigars. They paid his tailor's bills, and sundry other pressing
monetary affairs were funded. In fact, the Acre Hill Land Improvement
Company set Jocular Jimson Jones up and then gave him _carte blanche_ to
entertain; and inasmuch as Jocular had a genius for entertaining, it
is hardly necessary to say that he availed himself of his opportunity.
During that first summer at Acre Hill Mr. Jones had the best time of his
life. His days were what the vulgar term "all velvet." His new residence
was so superb that it restored his credit in the metropolis, and city
"swells," to whom he was under social obligation, went home, after
having been paid in kind, wondering if Jocular Jimson Jones had
unearthed somewhere a recently deceased rich uncle. He gave suppers of
most lavish sort. He had vaudeville shows at the club-house, with talent
made up of the most exclusive young men and women of the city. The
Amateur Thespians of the Borough of Manhattan gave a whole series of
performances at the club during the autumn, and by slow degrees the
society papers began to take notice. Acre Hill began to be known as "a
favorite resort of the 400." Nay, even the sacred 150 had penetrated to
its very core, wonderingly, however, for none knew how Jocular Jimson
Jones could do it. Still, they never declined an invitation. As a
natural result the market for Acre Hill lots grew active. The sixteen
cottages were sold, and the purchasers found themselves right in the
swim. It was the easiest thing in the world to get into society if you
only knew how. Jocular Jimson Jones was a fine, approachable, neighborly
person, and at the Country Club dances was quite as attentive to the
hitherto unknown Mrs. Scraggs as he was to Mrs. John Jacob Wintergreen,
the acknowledged leader of the 400. Mrs. Wintergreen, too, was not
unapproachable. She talked pleasantly during a musicale at the
club-house with Mr. Scraggs, and said she hoped some day to have the
pleasure of meeting Mrs. Scraggs; and when Scraggs, in response, said he
would go and get her she most amiably begged him not to leave her alone.
Months went by, and where sixteen empty houses had been, there were now
sixty all occupied, and lots were going like hot cakes. Tuxedo was in
the shade. Lenox was dying. Newport was dead. Society flocked to Acre
Hill and hobnobbed with Acre Hillians. Acre Hillians became somewhat
proud of themselves, and rather took to looking down upon Dumfries
Corners people. Dumfries Corners people were nice, and all that, but
not particularly interesting in the sense that "our set," with Jocular
Jimson Jones at the head of it, was interesting.
Then came the County Ball. This Jocular engineered himself, and the
names of the lady patrons were selected from the oldest and the newest
on the list. Mrs. Wintergreen's name led, of course, but Mrs. Scraggs'
name was there too, sandwiched in between those of Mrs. Van
Cortlandtuyvel and Mrs. Gardenior, of Gardenior's Island, representing
two families which would carry social weight either in Boston or the
"other side of Market Street." There were four exalted names from the
city, one from Dumfries Corners, and seven from Acre Hill.
Then more lots sold, and still more, and then, alas, came the end!
Jocular Jimson Jones was too successful.
After two years of glory the social light of Acre Hill went out. The
Acre Hill Land Improvement Company retired from the business. All its
lots were sold, and, of course, there was no further need for the
services of Jocular Jimson Jones. His efforts were crowned with success.
His mission was accomplished, but he moved away--I think regretfully,
for, after all, he had found the Acre Hill people a most likable
lot--but it was inevitable that, there being no more fish to catch, the
anglers needed no bait, and Jocular Jimson had to go. Where he has gone
to there is no one who knows. He has disappeared wholly, even in the
metropolis, and, most unfortunately for Acre Hill, with Jocular Jimson
Jones have departed also all its social glories. None of the elect come
to its dances any more. The amateur thespians of the exclusive set no
longer play on the stage of its club-house, and it was only last week
that Mrs. John Jacob Wintergreen passed Mr. Scraggs on the street with a
cold glare of unrecognition.
Possibly when Acre Hill reads this it will understand, possibly not.
Dumfries Corners people understood it right along, but then they always
were a most suspicious lot, and fond of an amusing spectacle that cost
them nothing.
THE STRANGE MISADVENTURES OF AN ORGAN
Carson was a philosopher, and on the whole it was a great blessing that
he was so. No man needed to be possessor of a philosophical temperament
more than he, for, in addition to being a resident of Dumfries Corners,
Carson had other troubles which, to an excitable nature, would have made
life a prolonged period of misery. He was the sort of a man to whom
irritating misfortunes of the mosquito order have a way of coming. To
some of us it seemed as if a spiteful Nature took pleasure in pelting
Carson with petty annoyances, none of them large enough to excite
compassion, many of them of a sort to provoke a quiet smile. Of all the
dogs in the neighborhood it was always his dog that got run into the
pound, although it was equally true that Carson's dog was one of the few
that were properly licensed. If he bought a new horse something would
happen to it before a week had elapsed; and how his coachman once ripped
off the top of his depot wagon by driving it under a loose telephone
wire is still one of the stories of the vicinity in which he lives.
Anything out of the way in the shape of trouble seemed to choose the
Carson household for experimental purposes. He was the medium by which
new varieties of irritations were introduced to an ungrateful world, but
such was his nature that, given the companionship of Herbert Spencer and
a cigar, he could be absolutely counted on not to murmur.
This disposition to accept the trials and tribulations which came upon
him without a passionate outburst was not by any means due to
amiability. Carson was of too strong a character to be continually
amiable. He merely exercised his philosophy in meeting trouble. He
boiled within, but presented a calm, unruffled front to the world,
simply because to do otherwise would involve an expenditure of nervous
force which he did not consider to be worth while.
I can never forget the sense of admiring regard which I experienced
when in Genoa, while he and I were about to enter our banker's together,
he slipped upon a bit of banana peeling, bruising his knee and
destroying his trouser leg. I should have indulged in profane allusions
to the person who had thoughtlessly thrown the peeling upon the ground
if by some mischance the accident had happened to me. Carson, however,
did nothing of the sort, but treated me to a forcible abstract
consideration of the unthinking habits of the masses.
The unknown individual who was responsible for the accident did not
enter into the question; no one was consigned to everlasting torture in
the deepest depths of purgatory; a calm, dispassionate presentation of
an abstraction was all that greeted my ears. The practice of
thoughtlessness was condemned as a thing entirely apart from the
practitioner, and as a tendency needing correction. Inwardly, I know he
swore; outwardly, he was as serene as though nothing untoward had
happened to him. It was then that I came to admire Carson. Before that
he had my affectionate regard in fullest measure, but now admiration
for his deeper qualities set in, and it has in no sense diminished as
time has passed. Once, and once only, have I known him to depart from
his philosophical demeanor, and that one departure was, I think,
justified by the situation, since it was the culminating point of a
series of aggravations, to fail to yield to which would have required a
more than human strength.
The incident to which I refer was in connection with a fine organ, which
at large expense Carson had had built in his house, for, like all
philosophers, Carson has a great fondness for music, and is himself a
musician of no mean capacity. I have known him to sit down under a
parlor-lamp and read over the score of the "Meistersinger" just as
easily as you or I would peruse one of the lighter novels of the day.
This was one of his refuges. When his spirit was subjected to an extreme
tension he relieved his soul by flying to the composers; to use his own
very bad joke, when he was in need of composure he sought out the
"composures." As time progressed, however, and the petty annoyances grew
more numerous, the merely intellectual pleasure of the writings of
Wagner and Handel and Mozart possibly failed to suffice, and an organ
was contracted for.
"I enjoy reading the music," said he as we sat and talked over his plan,
"but sometimes--very often, in fact--I feel as if something ought to
shriek, and I'm going to have an organ of my own to do it for me."
So, as I have said, the organ was contracted for, was built, and an
additional series of trials began. Upon a very important occasion the
organ declined to shriek, although every effort to persuade it to
perform the functions for which it was designed was made. Forty or fifty
very charming people were gathered together to be introduced to the
virtues of the new instrument--for Carson was not the kind of man to
keep to himself the good things which came into his life; he shared all
his blessings, while keeping his woes to himself; a well-known virtuoso
was retained to set forth the possibilities of the acquisition, and all
was going as "merry as a marriage bell" when suddenly there came a
wheeze, and the fingers of the well-known virtuoso were powerless to
elicit the harmonious shrieks which all had come to hear.
It was a sad moment, but Carson was equal to the occasion.
"Something's out of gear," he said, with a laugh due rather to his
philosophical nature than to mirth. "I'm afraid we'll have to finish on
the piano."
* * * * *
And so we did, and a delightful evening we had of it, although many of
us went home wondering what on earth was the matter with the organ.
A few days later I met Carson on the train and the mystery was solved.
"The trouble was with the water-pipes," he explained. "They were put in
wrong, and the location of the house is such that every time Colonel
Hawkins, on the other side of the street, takes a bath, all the water
that flows down the hill is diverted into his tub."
I tried not to laugh.
"You'll have to enter into an agreement with the Colonel," I said. "Make
him promise not to bathe between certain hours."
"That's a good idea," said Carson, smiling, "but after all I guess I'd
better change the pipes. Heaven forbid that in days like these I should
seek to let any personal gratification stand between another man and the
rare virtue of cleanliness."
Several weeks went by, and men were busily employed in seeing that the
water supply needed for a proper running of the organ came direct from
the mains, instead of coming from a pipe of limited capacity used in
common by a half dozen or more residents of a neighboring side street.
Somewhere about the end of the fourth week Carson invited me to dinner.
The organ was all right again, he said. The water supply was sufficient,
and if I cared to I might dine with him, and afterward spend an evening
sitting upon the organ bench while Carson himself manipulated the keys.
I naturally accepted the invitation, since, in addition to his other
delightful qualities, Carson is a past grand-master in the art of giving
dinners. He is a man with a taste, and a dinner good enough for him is a
thing to arouse the envy of the gods. Furthermore, as I have already
said, he is a musician of no mean order, and I know of no greater
pleasure than that of sitting by his side while he "potters through a
score," as he puts it. But there was a disappointment in store for us. I
called at the appointed hour and found the household more or less in
consternation. The cook had left, and a dinner of "cold things"
confronted us.
"She couldn't stand the organ," explained Carson. "She said it got on to
her nerves--'rumblin' like.'"
I gazed upon him in silent sympathy as we dined on cold roast beef,
stuffed olives, and ice cream.
"This is serious," my host observed as we sat over our coffee and cigars
after the repast. "That woman was the only decent cook we've managed to
secure in seven years, and, by Jingo, the minute she gets on to my taste
the organ gets on to her nerves and she departs!"
"One must eat," I observed.
"That's just it," said Carson. "If it comes to a question of cook or
organ the organ will have to go. She was right about it, though. The
organ does rumble like the dickens. Some of the bass notes make the
house buzz like an ocean-steamer blowing off steam." It was a
picturesque description, for I had noticed at times that when the organ
was being made to shriek fortissimo every bit of panelling in the house
seemed to rattle, and if a huge boiler of some sort suffering from
internal disturbance had been growling down in the cellar, the result
would have been quite similar.
"It may work out all right in time," Carson said. "The thing is new yet,
and you can't expect it to be mellow all at once. What I'm afraid of,
apart from the inability of our cook to stand the racket, is that this
quivering will structurally weaken the house. What do you think?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Some of the wainscot panels rattle a bit,
but I imagine the house will stand it unless you go in too much for
Wagner. 'Tannhäuser' or 'Siegfried' might shake a few beams loose, but
lighter music, I think, can be indulged in with impunity."
Time did not serve, as Carson had hoped, to mellow things. Indeed, the
succeeding weeks brought more trouble, and most of it came through the
organ. Some of the rattling panels, in spite of every effort to make
them fast, rattled the more. One night when the servants were alone in
the house, of its own volition the organ sent forth, to break the still
hours, a blood-curdling basso-profundo groan that suggested ghosts to
their superstitious minds. The housemaid came to regard the instrument
as something uncanny, and, even as the cook had done before her, shook
the dust of the house of Carson from her feet.
Then a rat crawled into one of the pipes--Carson was unable to ascertain
which--and died there, with results that baffle description. I doubt if
Wagner himself could have expressed the situation in his most inspired
moments. Still Carson was philosophical.
"I'll play a requiem to the rodent," he said, "that will make him turn
over in his grave, wherever that interesting spot may be."
This he did, and the effect was superb, and no doubt the deceased did
turn over in his grave, for the improvisation called into play every
pipe on the whole instrument. However, I could see that this constant
pelting at the hands of an unkind fate through the medium of his most
cherished possession was having its effect upon Carson's hitherto
impregnable philosophy. When he spoke of the organ it was with a tone of
suppressed irritation which boded ill, and finally I was not surprised
to hear that he had offered to give the organ away.
"After all," he said, "I made a mistake--flying so high. A man doesn't
want a church-organ in his house any more than he wants an elephant for
a lap-dog. I've offered it to the Unitarian Church."
I felt a little hurt about this, for my own church was badly in need of
an instrument of that nature, but I said nothing, and considering the
amount of trouble the organ had given I got over my regret when I
realized that the Unitarian Church, and not mine, was shortly to have
it. In this, however, I was mistaken, for, after due deliberation, the
Unitarians decided that the organ was so very large that they'd have to
build a new church to go with it, and so declined it with thanks.
Carson bit his lip and then offered it to us. "Don't seem to be able to
give it away," he said. "But I'll try again. You tell your vestry that
if they want it they can have it. I'll take it out and put it in the
barn up in the hay-loft. They can take it or leave it. It will cost them
cartage and the expense of putting it up."
I thanked him, and joyously referred the matter to the vestry. At first
the members of that body were as pleased as I was, but after a few
minutes of jubilation the Chairman of the Finance Committee asked; "How
much will it cost to get this thing into shape?"
Nobody knew, and finally the acceptance of the gift was referred to a
committee consisting of the Chairman of the Finance Committee, the
Chairman of the Music Committee, and myself, with full power to act.
Inquiry showed that the cost of every item in connection with the
acceptance of the gift would amount to about a thousand dollars, and we
called upon Carson to complete the arrangement. He received us
cordially. We thanked him for his generosity, and were about to accept
the gift finally, when the Chairman of the Finance Committee said:
"It is very good of you, Mr. Carson, to give us this organ. Heaven knows
we need it, but it will cost us about a thousand dollars to put it
in."
"So I judged," said Carson. "But when it is in you'll have a
thirty-five-hundred-dollar organ."
"Splendid!" ejaculated the Chairman of the Music Committee.
"The great difficulty that now confronts us," said the financier, "is as
to how we shall raise that money. The church is very poor."
"I presume it is a good deal of a problem in these times," acquiesced
Carson. "Ah--"
"It's a most baffling one," continued the financier. "I suppose, Mr.
Carson," he added, "that if we do put it in and pass around a
subscription paper, we can count on you for--say two hundred and fifty
dollars?"
I stood aghast, for I saw the thread of Carson's philosophy snap.
"What?" he said, with an effort to control himself.
"I say I suppose we can count on you for a subscription of two hundred
and fifty dollars," repeated the financier.
There was a pause that seemed an eternity in passing. Carson's face
worked convulsively, and the seeming complacency of the Chairman of the
Finance Committee gave place to nervous apprehension as he watched the
color surge through the cheeks and temples of our host.
He thought Carson was about to have a stroke of apoplexy.
I tried to think of something to say that might relieve the strain, but
it wouldn't come, and on the whole I rather enjoyed the spectacle of the
strong philosopher struggling with inclination, and I think the
philosopher might have conquered had not the Chairman of the Music
Committee broken in jocularly with:
"Unless he chooses to make it five hundred dollars, eh?" And he grinned
maddeningly as he added: "If you'll give five hundred dollars we'll put
a brass plate on it and call it 'The Carson Memorial,' eh? Ha--ha--ha."
Carson rose from his seat, walked into the hall and put on his hat.
"Mr.--ah--Blank," said he to the financier, "would you and Mr. Hicks
mind walking down to the church with me?"
"Say, he's going to put it in for us!" whispered Hicks, the Chairman of
the Music Committee, rubbing his hands gleefully.
"Don't you want me, Carson?" I asked, rising.
"No--you stay here!" he replied, shortly.
And then the three went out, while I lit a cigar and pottered about
Carson's library. In half an hour he returned alone. His face was red
and his hand trembled slightly, but otherwise he had regained his
composure.
"Well?" said I.
"Well, I'm going to put it up," said he.
"Now--see here, Carson," I remonstrated. It seemed so like a rank
imposition on his generosity. To give the organ was enough, without
putting him to the expense of erecting it.
"Don't interrupt," said he. "I'm not going to put it up in the
organ-loft, as you suppose, but in a place where it is likely to be
quite as much appreciated."
"And that?" I asked.
"In the hay-loft," he replied.
"I don't blame you," said I, after a pause.
"Neither do I," said he.
"But why did you go down to the church?" I asked.
"Well," he explained, chuckling in spite of himself. "It was this way.
My grandfather, I have been told, used to be able to express himself
profanely without using a profane word, but I can't, and there were one
or two things I wanted to say to those men that wouldn't go well with
the decorations of my house, and which couldn't very well be said to a
guest in my house."
"But, man alive, you didn't go to the church to do your swearing?"
"No," he answered. "I did it on the way down; and," he added,
enthusiastically, "I did it exceeding well."
"But why the church?" I persisted.
"I thought after what I had to say to them," said he, "that they might
need a little religious consolation."
And with that the subject was dropped.
The organ, as Carson threatened, was transferred to the hay-loft and not
to the church, and as for the two Chairmen, they have several times
expressed themselves to the effect that Carson is a very irritable, not
to say profane, person.
But I am still inclined to think him a philosopher. Under the
provocation any man of a less philosophical temperament might have
forgotten the laws of hospitality and cursed his offending guests in his
own house.
THE PLOT THAT FAILED
Among the most promising residents of Dumfries Corners some ten years
ago was a certain Mr. Richard Partington Smithers, whose brilliant début
and equally sudden extinguishment in the field of literary endeavor have
given rise from time to time to no little discussion. He was young, very
young, indeed, at the time of his great literary success, and his
friends and neighbors prophesied great things for him. Yet nothing has
since come from his pen, and many have wondered why.
Thanks to Mr. Smithers himself I am enabled to make public the story of
his sudden withdrawal from the ranks of the immortals when on the very
threshold of the temple of fame.
Ten years have changed his point of view materially, and an experience
that once seemed tragedy to him is now in his eyes sufficiently tinged
with comedy, and his own position among us is so secure that he is
willing that the story of his failure should go forth.
After trying many professions Smithers had become a man of schemes. He
devised plans that should enrich other people. Unfortunately, he sold
these to other people on a royalty basis, and so failed to grow rich
himself. If he had only sold his plans outright and collected on the
spot he might sometime have made something; but this he did not do, and
as a consequence he rarely made anything that was at all considerable,
and finally, to keep the wolf out of his dining-room, he was forced to
take up poetry, that being in his estimation the last as well as the
easiest resource of a well-ordered citizen.
"I always threatened to take up poetry when all else had failed me," he
said to himself; "therefore I will now proceed to take up poetry.
Writing is purely manual labor, anyhow. Given a pad, a pencil, and
perseverance--three very important p's--and I can produce a fourth, a
poem, in short order. Sorry I didn't get to the end of my other ropes
before, now that I think of it."
And so he sat down and took up poetry.
He put it down again, however, very quickly.
"Dear me!" he ejaculated. "Now, who'd have thought that? Here I have the
pencil and the pad and the perseverance, but I'm hanged if the poem is
quite as easy as I had supposed. These little conceits aren't so easy to
write, after all, even when they contain no ideas. Of course, it isn't
hard to say:
"'Sweet month of May, time of the violet wild,
The dandelion golden, and the mild
Ethereal sweetness of the blossoming trees,
The soft suggested calor of the breeze,
The ruby-breasted robin on the lawn,
The thrushes piping sweetly at the dawn,
The gently splashing waters by the weir,
The rose- and lilac-laden atmosphere'--
"because, after all, it's nothing but a catalogue of the specialties of
May; but how the dickens to wind the thing up is what puzzles me. It's
too beautiful and truly poetic to be spoiled by a completing couplet
like:
"'And in the distant dam the croaking frog
Completes, O May, thy wondrous catalogue.'
"Nobody would take a thing like that--and pay for it; but what else can
be said? What do the violets wild, the dandelion, the ruby-breasted robin,
and the lilac-laden atmosphere and other features all do, I'd like to
know? What one of many verbs--oh, tut! Poetry very evidently is not in
my line, after all. I'll turn the vials of my vocabulary upon
essay-writing."
Which Partington, as his friends called him, proceeded at once to do. He
applied himself closely to his desk for one whole morning, and wrote a
very long paper on "The Tendency of the Middle Ages Towards
Artificialism." Hardly one of the fifteen thousand words employed by him
in the construction of this paper held fewer than five syllables, and
one or two of them got up as high as ten, a fact which led Partington to
think that the editor of the _South American Quarterly Review_ ought at
least to have the refusal of it. Apparently the editor of the _South
American Quarterly Review_ was only too eager to have the refusal of it,
because he refused it, or so Partington observed in confidence to an
acquaintance, in less time than it could possibly have taken him to
read it. After that the essay became emulous of men like Stanley and Joe
Cook. It became a great traveller, but never failed to get back in
safety to its fond parent, Richard Partington Smithers, as our hero now
called himself. Finally, Partington did manage to realize something on
his essay--that is to say, indirectly--for after "The Tendency of the
Middle Ages Towards Artificialism" had gone the rounds of all the
reviews, monthlies, dailies, and weeklies in the country, its author
pigeon-holed it, and, stringing together the printed slips it had
brought back to him upon the various occasions of its return, he sent
these under the head of "How Editors Reject" to an evening journal in
Boston, whose readers could know nothing of the subject, for reasons
that are familiar to those who are acquainted with American letters. For
this he not only received the editor's thanks, but a six months'
subscription to the journal in question--the latter of which was useful,
since every night, excluding Sundays, its columns contained much
valuable information on such subjects as "How to Live on Fifty Dollars
a Year," "How to Knit an Afghan with One Needle," and "How Not to Become
a Novelist."
Discouraged by the fate of his essay, Partington endeavored to get a
position on a railway somewhere as a conductor or brakeman; but failing
in this, he returned once more to his writing-table and wrote a novel.
This was the hardest work he had ever attempted. It took him quite a
week to think his story out and put it together; but when he had it done
he was glad he had stuck conscientiously to it, for the results really
seemed good to him. The book was charmingly written, he thought; so
charming, in fact, that he did not think it necessary to have a
type-written copy made of it before sending it out to the publishers.
Possibly this was a mistake. For a time Partington really believed it
was a mistake, because the publisher who saw it first returned it
without comment, prejudiced against it, no doubt, by the fact that it
came to him in the author's autograph. The second publisher was not so
rude. He said he would print it if Partington would advance one
thousand dollars to protect him against loss. The third publisher
evidently thought better of the book, for he only demanded protection to
the amount of seven hundred and fifty dollars, which, of course,
Partington could not pay; and in consequence _False but Fair_ never saw
the light of day as a published book.
"Is it rejected because of its length, its breadth, or what?" he had
asked the last publisher who had turned his back on the book.
"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Smithers," the publisher had answered,
"all that our readers had to say about it--and the three who read it
agreed unanimously--was that the book is immature. You do not write like
an adult."
"Thanks," said Partington, as he bowed himself out. "If that's the
truth, I'll try writing for juveniles. I'll sit right down to-night and
knock off a short story about 'Tommy and the Huckleberry-tree.' I don't
know whether huckleberries grow on trees or on huckles, but that will
make the tale all the more interesting. If they don't grow on trees
people will regard the story as romance. If they do grow on trees it
will be realism."
True to his promise, that night Partington did write a story, and
it was, as he had said it should be, about "Tommy and the
Huckleberry-tree"; and so amusing did it appear to the editor of that
eminent juvenile periodical, _Nursery Days_, because of what he supposed
was the author's studied ignorance on the subject of huckleberries, that
it was accepted instanter, and the name of Richard Partington Smithers
shortly appeared in all the glory of type.
Partington walked on air for at least a week after his effusion appeared
in print. He had visions night and day in which he seemed to see himself
the centre of the literary circle, and as he promenaded the avenue in
the afternoons he felt almost inclined to stop people who passed him by
to tell them who he was, and thus enable them to feast their eyes on one
whose name would shortly become a household word. All reasonable young
authors feel this way after their first draught at the soul-satisfying
spring of publicity. It is only that preposterous young person who was
born tired who fails to experience the sensations that were Partington's
that week; and at the end of the week, again like the reasonable young
author, he began to realize that immortality could not be gained by one
story treating of a fictitious Tommy and an imaginary huckleberry-tree,
and so he sat himself down at his desk once more, resolved this time to
clinch himself, as it were, in the public mind, with a tale of "Jimmie
and the Strawberry-mine." This story did not come as easily as the
other. In fact, Partington found it impossible to write more than a
third of the second tale that night. He couldn't bring his mind down to
it exactly, probably because his mind had been soaring so high since the
publication of his first effusion. For diversion as much as for anything
else during a lull in his flow of language he penned a short letter to
the editor of _Nursery Days_, and announced his intention to send the
story of "Jimmie and the Strawberry-mine" to him shortly--which was
unfortunate. If he had finished the story first and then sent it, it
might have been good enough to convince the editor against his judgment
that he ought to have it. A concrete story can often accomplish more
than an abstract idea. In this event it could not have accomplished
less, anyhow, for the editor promptly replied that he did not care for a
second story of that nature. There was no particular evidence in hand,
he said, that the children liked stories of that kind particularly,
adding that the first was only an experiment that it was not necessary
to repeat, and so on; polite, but unmistakably valedictory.
"No evidence in hand that they are liked, eh? Well, how on earth, I
wonder," Partington said, angrily, to himself, "do they ever find
evidence that things are liked? Do they go about asking subscribers, or
what?"
And then he picked up the issue of _Nursery Days_ that had started him
along on his way to immortality, to console himself, at all events, with
the sight of his published story. In turning over the leaves of the
periodical his eye fell upon a page across the top of which ran a highly
ornate cut which indicated that there was printed the "Post-office
Department of _Nursery Days_," on perusing which Partington found a
number of communications and editorial responses like these:
I.
"DEAR POSTMASTER,--I have been taking _Nursery
Days_ since Christmas, so I thought I would
write you a letter. My birthday came a week
ago Thursday. I received a watch and chain,
a glove-buttoner, a penknife, and a set of ivory
jackstraws. We have a cat at home whose
name is Rumpelstiltzken. He is very sleepy,
and sleeps all day. He always picks out the
most comfortable chair, and then feels very
much injured if we turn him out. I like Bolivar
Wiggins's story in your last paper very
much. Are you going to have any more stories
by Bolivar Wiggins?
"Your little friend,
"HELEN CHECKERBY, aged seven.
"[We hope soon to have a new story from Mr. Wiggins, Helen. We wish we
could see your cat. He seems a very sensible cat.--EDITOR _Nursery
Days_.]"
II.
"CANADA.
I am a little girl nearly ten years old, and
as I like your paper very much I thought you
would like a letter from me. Here is a cow's
head I drew. It is not very good, but I wanted
to see if I would get a prize or not. I have two
little sisters; their names are Jennie and Fanny.
I hope I will see my letter in print. The stories
I like best are Bolivar Wiggins's story about
'Solemn Sophy' and his other one about
'Bertie's Balloon.' Have you any more stories
by him? I must close now, so good-bye.
"LILLIAN JAMES.
"[Several, Lillian. Your cow is beautiful, and perhaps some day it will
appear in this column. Watch carefully, and maybe you will see
it.--EDITOR _Nursery Days_.]"
"Ah!" said Partington, softly, as he read these effusions. "That is why
Bolivar Wiggins is permitted to cover so much space, eh? The children
like his stories well enough to write letters about him--or perhaps
Bolivar himself--ah!"
The second "ah" uttered by Partington indicated that a thought had
flashed across his mind--a thought not particularly complimentary to
Bolivar Wiggins.
"Perhaps," he said, slowly, "Bolivar writes these letters to the editor
himself--and if Bolivar, why not I?"
It was a tempting--alas, too tempting--opportunity to supply the editor
of _Nursery Days_ with the needed evidence that stories of the "Tommy
and the Huckleberry-tree" order were the most popular literary novelty
of the day, and to it, in a moment of weakness, Partington succumbed. I
regret to have to record the fact that he passed the balance of the
night writing letters from fictitious "Sallies, aged six," "Warry and
Georgie, twins, aged twelve," and others dwelling in widely separated
sections of the country, to the number of at least two dozen, all of
which, being an expert penman, Partington wrote in a diversity of
juvenile hands that was worthy of a better cause. Here are two samples
of the letters he wrote that night:
I.
"NORWICH, CONNECTICUT.
"I have taken the _Nursery Days_ for one year,
and think it is a very nice paper. For pets I
have two cats, named Lady Tompkins and
Jimpsey. I have tried to solve the 'Caramel
Puzzle,' but think one answer is wrong. I go
to school, and there are forty-four scholars in
my room. My little kitty Jimpsey sleeps all day
long, and at night she is playful. She wakes
me up in the morning, and then waits till I get
up. Who is Mr. Smithers who wrote that beautiful
story about 'Tommy and the Huckleberry-tree'?
Everybody of all ages, from baby to my
grandmother, likes it and hopes you will print
more by that author.
"SARAH WINKLETOP."
II.
"YONKERS, N. Y.
"Our Uncle Willie in New York sends us _Nursery
Days_ every week. We like it immensely, and every
one tries to get the first reading of it. "Tommy
and the Huckleberry-tree" is a splendid story.
Papa bought six copies of _Nursery Days_ with that
in it to send to my little cousins in England.
"JIMMIE CONWAY RHODES."
Others were more laudatory of Partington's story, some less so, but each
demanded more of his work.
These written, Partington made arrangements to have them posted from the
various towns wherein they were ostensibly written, and then, when they
had been posted, he chuckled slightly and sat down to await
developments.
It took a trifle over one week for developments to develop, and then
they developed rapidly. Just eight days after his conception of this
magnificent scheme the postman whistled at Partington's door and left
this note:
"OFFICE OF NURSERY DAYS,
"NEW YORK, _March_ 16, 1889.
"_Richard Partington Smithers, Esq_.:
"DEAR SIR,--Can you call upon me some afternoon this week? Yours truly,
"THOMAS JACKSON TORPYHUE,
"Editor _Nursery Days_."
"The bait is good, and I'll land the fish at once," said Partington, his
face wreathing with smiles. "I'll call upon Mr. Thomas Jackson Torpyhue."
And call he did. Two hours later he entered the sanctum of the editor of
_Nursery Days_.
"Good-afternoon," he said, as he sat down at the editor's side.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Smithers," said Mr. Torpyhue. "I'm very glad to see
you."
"I thought you'd be," began Partington, forgetting himself for a moment
in his triumph. "If that wasn't evidence enough that I--ah--oh--er--ah!
Ahem! Why, certainly," he continued, suddenly recalling the fact that as
yet he could properly have no knowledge of the evidence in question.
The editor threw his head back and laughed, and Partington forced
himself to join him, nervously withal.
"You have heard of the evidence have you?" asked Mr. Torpyhue.
Partington gasped faintly, and said he thought not.
"Well, it's very strange, Mr. Smithers," said Mr. Torpyhue, "but do you
know that you have developed into one of our most popular authors?"
"Indeed?" queried Partington, pulling himself together and trying to
appear gratified.
"Yes, sir. Here is a bundle of twenty-four letters all received within
three days. One of the letters calls you the best writer of short
stories of the day. Another, from Canada, written by a parent, says that
you have written one of the most delightful bits of juvenile humor that
he has seen in forty years."
"How extremely flattering!" said Partington, faintly.
"Yes, extremely," assented the editor, dryly. "And now, Mr. Smithers,
I'm going to do for you what this paper has never done even to its most
popular author in the past."
"Now, my dear Mr. Torpyhue," began Partington, gaining courage, "I beg
you not to feel called upon to discriminate against your old favorites
in my favor. Your present rates of payment are entirely satisfac--"
"You misunderstand me, Mr. Smithers," interrupted Mr. Torpyhue.
"What I'm going to do to you that I never before have done even to our
most popular author is to return to you at once every one of those
highly entertaining manuscripts you have favored us with--we receive so
many real letters from real children that, of course, we cannot afford
to buy from you purely fictitious ones. These of yours are excellently
well done, but you see my point. One does not pay for things that can be
had gratis. Perhaps later you will try us with something else," he
added, with a grin.