WHAT THE MEN SAID
I have elsewhere described the village post-office, both as it appeared
at the time of Mr. Homer Hollopeter's election as postmaster and as
later adorned and beautified by him.[1] It had been a labor of love with
Mr. Homer, not only to make the office itself pleasant, to transform it,
as he said, "into a fitting shrine for the genius of epistolary
intercourse," but to make the outside of the building pleasant to the
eye. Clematis and woodbine were trained up the walls and round the
windows, and the once forlorn-looking veranda was a veritable bower of
morning-glory and climbing roses.
[Footnote 1: "Mrs. Tree."]
On this veranda, the day after the reading of Mrs. Tree's will, the
village elders were gathered, as was their custom, awaiting the arrival
of the afternoon mail. They sat in a row, their chairs tilted back
against the wall, their faces set seaward. The faces were all grave, and
a certain solemnity seemed to brood over the little assembly. From time
to time one or another would take his pipe from his mouth, and the
others would look at him doubtfully, as if half-expecting a remark, but
the pipe would be replaced in silence. At length Salem Rock, a massive
gray-haired man of dignified and sober aspect, spoke.
"Well, boys," he said, "somebody's got to say something, and, as nobody
else seems inclined, I s'pose it's up to me as the oldest here. Not but
what I feel like a child to-day,--a little mite of a child. Boys, this
village has met with a great loss."
There was a general murmur of "That's so!" "It has." "That's what it's
met with!"
"I can't seem to sense it!" Salem Rock continued. "I can't seem to make
it anyways real, that Mis' Tree is gone. I can't help but think that if
I went there to that house to-day, as I was free to go any time I wanted
anything as good advice could give--or help either--or anybody else in
this village as ever needed anything--I can't help but think that if I
went there to that house to-day I should find Mis' Tree sittin' in her
chair, chirk as a chipmunk, and hear her say, 'Now, Salem Rock, what
mischief have you been up to?' I was allus a boy to her--we was all
boys."
"That's so!" the chorus murmured again. "That was what we was; boys!"
"And when I think," Salem Rock went on, "that I shall never more so go
and so find her again--sittin' in that chair--nor hear her so speak--I
tell you, boys, it breaks me all up; it doos so."
Again there was a sympathetic murmur; heads were shaken, and feet
shuffled uneasily. The men were all glad to have a voice for their
grief, but all had not the gift of speech.
"I remember"--Salem Rock was still the speaker; he was a slow,
thoughtful man, and gathered momentum as he went on--"the first time
ever I saw Mis' Tree, to remember it. I couldn't ha' been more than six
years old, and I was sittin' in the front dooryard makin' mud pies, and
she came in on some errand to mother. Mother used to spin yarn for her,
same as my woman does now--did, I'm obleeged to say. Wal, she had on her
grand bunnit and shawl, and I had never seen nothin' like her before.
Ma'rm never took me to meetin' till I was seven, and she showed
judgment. Wal, sirs, that ancient woman--she wasn't ancient then, of
course, but yet she wasn't young, and she appeared ancient to me--looked
me over, and spoke up sharp and crisp. 'Stand up, boy,' she says, 'and
take your hat off; quick!'
"I tell ye, there didn't no grass grow under me! I was up fast as my
legs could scramble.
"'That's right!' she says; 'always stand up and take off your hat when a
lady comes into the yard.'
"'Be you a lady?' says I. Lord knows what kind of notion I had; children
don't always know what they are saying.
"'I am the Queen of the Cannibal Islands!' says she.
"I never misdoubted but what she was, and I didn't know what Cannibal
Islands meant.
"'What's your name?' says I.
"'I'll tell you what my husband's name is,' says she. 'His name is
"'Chingy Fungy Wong,
Putta-potee da Kubbala Kong,
Flipperty Flapperty Busky Bong,
The King of the Cannibal Islands.'
"Then she went into the house, and I stood starin' after her with my
mouth gappin' open. She didn't stay long, and, when she came out again,
up I jumps without waitin' to be told. She looks at me ag'in, that quick
way she had, like a bird. 'Finished your pie?' says she.
"'Yes'm,' says I.
"'Is it a good pie?' says she.
"'I guess so!' says I.
"'I'll buy it,' says she. 'Here's the money!' and she gives me a bright
new ten-cent piece,--it was the first ever I had in my life,--and walked
off quick and light before ever I could say a word. Well, now, sirs, if
children ain't cur'us things! I was a slow child most ways,--ben slow
all my life long, but it come over me then quick as winkin', she had
paid for that pie, and it was hers, and she'd got to have it. I never
said a word, but just toddled after down street, holdin' that mud pie as
if it was Thanksgivin' mince. I couldn't catch up with her; she walked
almighty fast them days, and my legs were short, but I kep' her red
shawl in sight, and I see where she went in. Time I got up to the door
it was shut, but I banged on it in good shape, and D'reckshy Hawkes come
and opened it. She was allus sharp, D'reckshy was, and she couldn't
abide no boys but her two, as she called 'em, Arthur and Willy, and they
weren't neither one of 'em born then.
"'What do you want, boy?' she says, sharp enough.
"'I don't want nothin'!' says I. 'I brung the pie.'
"'What pie?' says she.
"'Her'n,' says I. 'She bought it off'n me; her that went in just now,
with the red shawl.'
"D'reckshy looked me over, and looked at the pie. I make no doubt but
she was just goin' to send me about my business, but before she could
speak I heard Mis' Tree's voice. She had seen me from the window, I
expect.
"'D'reckshy Hawkes,' she says, 'take that pie into the pantry and send
the child to me.'
"'My sakes, Mis' Tree!' said D'reckshy, 'it ain't a pie; it's a _mud_
pie!'
"'Do as I tell you!' says Mis' Tree, and D'reckshy went; but she give me
a shove toward the parlor door, and there I see Mis' Tree sittin' in her
chair. That was the first time. Well, sirs, we are all perishable
clay."
Another silence fell; the pensive pipes puffed; the keen eyes scanned
the prospect.
"Looks as if 'twas tryin' to git up some kind o' weather out there!"
said Seth Weaver.
"Doos so!" responded Ebenezer Hoppin. "It's ben tryin' two-three days,
but it don't seem to have no pertickler _suc_cess."
"Old Mis' Tree hadn't no use for weather," said Jordan Tooke. "Some
women-folks are scairt to death of a rainstorm; you'd think they were
afraid of washin' out themselves, same as they be about their clo'es;
but she wa'n't that kind; rain or snow, shine or shower, she did what
she had a mind to.
"'Weather never took no heed of me,' she used to say, 'and I ain't goin'
to take no heed of it.' No more she did!"
Seth Weaver shook his head, with a reminiscent chuckle. "Ever hear what
she said to that feller that come here one time from Salt Marsh and druv
the ten-cent team a spell?"
The others shook their heads and turned toward him with an air of
relief. Collective sorrow is embarrassing to men.
"There wa'n't much to him," said Seth, "and what there was was full half
the time. He didn't stay here long. This village didn't appreciate him
the way he liked to be appreciated. Wal, it was snowin' one day, quite a
storm it was, and Mis' Tree had sent for him,--Anthony bein' laid up or
somethin'. Ezra Doolittle--that was his name, and it suited him--had bit
off more jobs than he could swaller, and when he got round to Mis'
Tree's he was half an hour late, and she told him so pretty plain. He
had just enough liquor aboard to make him saucy. 'Wal,' he says,
'you're lucky to git me at all. I've druv from Hell to Jerusalem to git
here now.'
"Mis' Tree was all ready for him; she spoke up quick as kindlin':
'You'll git back quicker,' she says, ''cause you know the way.'
"I was just drivin' by on my milk route, and she caught sight of me.
"'Seth,' she says, 'I want to go to Mis' Jaquith's. Can you take me?'
"'I'd be pleased to,' says I, 'if you don't mind the pung, Mis' Tree.'
"She was into that pung before you could say 'sausage!'
"'Whip up!' she says; 'get ahead of that feller!' and I laid into my old
mare, and off we went kingdom-comin' down the ro'd, me in my old red
pung and my buffalo coat, and Mis' Tree in her velvet bunnit and fur
cloak, and that feller standin' in the ro'd with his mouth open, same
as you were, Salem, with your mud pie. Well, sir, that was a meal o'
victuals for me. I sent the old mare along for all she was wuth, and we
got down to Jaquiths' inside of ten minutes. Pretty good time,
considerin' what the ro'd was. Got there, and out that old lady hops
like a girl.
"'Good boy, Seth!' she says.
"She wanted to give me a dollar, 'cause she had taken me off my route,
but I says, 'I guess not, Mis' Tree!' I says. 'I've ben layin' for you
ever since you helped mother when she had the fever, and now I've got my
chance!' So she laughs and says, call for her on my way back, and I did;
but when I found a fourteen-pound turkey sittin' up against my door
Christmas mornin',--I wasn't buyin' turkeys that year myself,--I knowed
where it come from, and no words said. But what took me was the way she
spoke up to that feller. Now some women would have complained, and some
would have scol't, and they'd all have gone with the feller 'cause he
had a covered team,--but not she! 'You'll get back quicker,' she says,
'from knowin' the way!' and into my team like a flash. Gorry! that's the
kind of woman I like to see."
"You'll never see another like her!" said Salem Rock. "The likes of Mis'
Tree never has ben seen and never will be seen, not in this deestrick.
Her tongue was as quick as her heart was kind, and when you say that
you've said all there is to say. I s'pose there ain't one of us but
could tell a dozen stories like yours, Seth. I dunno as it's proper to
tell 'em just now," he paused; "and yet," he continued, "I dunno _but_
it is. She was--so to say--she was all of a piece. You can't think of
her without the sharp way she had."
"That's so," Seth assented; "that's so every time. There wa'n't nobody
thought more of Mis' Tree than what I did, but yet what keeps comin' up
to me ever since she was laid away is them quick, sharp kind o' things
she'd say. Now take what she said to Mis' Nudd, Isril Nudd's widder. You
all know what Isril was; he was mean as dirt and sour as pickles. He'd
scrimped his wife, and he'd half-starved her, and some said he'd beat
her, but I never knew how that was. Anyway, Marthy Nudd had as poor a
time of it as any woman in this village, and everybody knew it. And yet,
when he died she mourned for him as if he was Moses and Simeon and the
Angel Gabriel all in one. Well, she come to Mis' Tree beggin' for the
loan of some shawl or bunnit or toggery to wear, I dunno what; and she
was goin' on about her poor husband, and how she had tried to do her
duty by him, and hoped he knew it now he was in heaven, and all that
kind of talk. Old Mis' Tree let her say about so much and then she
stopped her. You know the way she'd hit the floor with her stick. Rap!
that stick would go, and any one's heart would sit right up in their
boosum.
"'That'll do, Marthy!' she says. 'Now listen to me. You say Isril is in
heaven?'
"'Oh, yes'm, yes, Mis' Tree,' says Marthy. 'He's numbered with the
blest, I don't make no doubt on it.'
"'And you've got the four hundred dollars life insurance that you told
me was due?'
"'Yes'm, that's all safe; my brother's put it in the bank for me.'
"'Very well, Marthy Nudd; if you've got Isril into heaven and got four
hundred dollars life insurance on him, that's the best piece of work
ever you done in your life, or ever will do. Cat's foot!' she says;
'folderol!' she says, 'don't talk to me!' and she shoved her out with
her stick and wouldn't hear another word. Gorry! I wouldn't ben Marthy
Nudd--"
"Didn't hurt Marthy none, I expect," said Ebenezer Hoppin. "She's one of
them kind, sorter betwixt putty and Injia rubber; you can double her up
easy, but first thing you know she's out smooth again. Some say she's
liable to marry Elihu Wick, over to the Corner. She'd find him some
different from Isril."
"What kind of feller is he?" asked Jordan Tooke.
"Oh, a string and shingle man. Give him pork and give him sunset, and he
won't ask nothin' more. Marthy won't get no four hundred dollars
insurance on him, but he'll go to heaven all right. There isn't a mite
o' harm in 'Lihu, and Marthy has earned her rest, I will say."
"Speakin' of insurance," said Salem, slowly, "reminds me we ain't said
anything about Mis' Tree's will. It is a sing'lar will, boys."
There was a moment's pause. Heads were shaken and feet were shuffled
uneasily.
"Mighty sing'lar," said Hiram Gray.
"Beats all I ever heard of," said Jordan Tooke.
Seth Weaver kept a loyal silence. Salem gave him a look, and, receiving
a nod in reply, went on:
"Seth and myself was talkin' it over as we came along, kinder takin' our
bearin's, and this is the way it looks to us. Mis' Tree was born in this
village, and lived in it a hundred and two years, and died in it; and
her folks, the Trees and the Darracotts, have lived and died here since
there was a village to die in. Not one of them hundred 'n' two
years--since she was of knowledgeable age,--but she was doin' good--in
her own way--from the first day of January to the last day of December.
Not one of us sittin' here on this piazzy but she's done good _to_, one
way or another. Therefore and thereon-account of--" Salem was obviously
and justifiably proud of this phrase, and repeated it with evident
enjoyment; "therefore and thereon-account of, I say, and Seth says with
me, that if Mis' Tree wanted this village should be called Cat's-foot,
or Fiddlesticks, or Folderol, or Fudge, I for one and he for another
would give our votes to have it so called."
A confusion of tongues ensued, some agreeing, some protesting, but,
while the discussion was at its height, the stage drove up and the day's
session was over.