A PLEASANT HOUR
One of the spots I have always liked best in Quahaug (it is hard for me
even now not to say "Elmerton," though I highly approve the change) is
Salem Rock's back yard. The front yard is the special province of Mrs.
Rock, a person whose mind runs to double petunias, and coleus; but the
back premises are Salem's own, and quaint and homely as himself. A neat
path of oyster shells pounded fine runs straight from the back porch to
the little pier where the white dory lies sunning herself, and the
sailboat dips and rises on the ripple. On either side of the path is a
square space of green, with a few ancient apple-trees here and there, a
white lilac-bush, and a little round summer-house so overgrown with
honeysuckle and clematis, and so clustered round by bees that it looks
like a quaint flowering beehive itself. There are real beehives, too,
six of them, set along the wall; and in a narrow border that runs all
round the yard are the flowers that bees like best, sweet rocket and
foxglove, mignonette and sweet alyssum, and a dozen others. All these
pleasant things may be found in other back yards, but there are some
things that belong to this alone. In the exact centre of one green space
is a ship's spar, set upright, with a tiny flag fluttering from its top;
in the other stand two life-size figures, facing each other; the figures
of a man and a woman. The man is in the dress of the thirties, high
stock and collar, shirt-frill and frock-coat; the lady in flowing
classical draperies; the man is painted in lively colors, his coat and
wig (it is certainly a wig!) a bright snuff-brown, his eyes and
waistcoat sky-blue, his cheeks and stock a vivid crimson; but the lady
is all white, cheeks, lips, robes and all; she might be marble, if she
were less palpably wood. The most singular thing about this singular
pair is that they seem to be coming up out of the earth; to have got out
as far as their knees, and then to have given it up and stopped. It is
evident that they are not coming any farther, for the grass grows close
about them, and a wild convolvulus has crept up into the lady's lap and
round her arm, making the prettiest of bracelets; while, actually, a
yellow warbler has built his nest in the gentleman's shirt-frill, and
sings there all summer long.
There the two stand, facing each other, with cheerful looks; and there
they have stood for fifty years.
On a certain pleasant morning, about the time of which I am writing,
Salem Rock and Seth Weaver were having what they called their annual
spree. Seth had brought his brushes and a variety of paint-pots; Salem,
according to custom, had provided tobacco, and a great stone pitcher
containing ginger, molasses, and water, with plenty of ice tinkling in
it. This pitcher was set down between the two images, within reach of
either man: Seth was at work on the white lady, while Salem, with
infinite and loving care, went over the gentleman's attire, picking out
the waistcoat pattern, and doing wonderful things to the buttons with a
tiny brush dipped in gold leaf.
"Old Sir's goin' to look tasty this time, now I tell ye!" he said,
drawing back, with his head on one side, to study the effect. "I've
give him a yeller sprig to his vest, see? I expect Old Marm'll say 'yes'
this time, for as long as she's held out."
"Yes!" grumbled Seth, pipe in mouth. "You never let me have a chanst at
him, nor yet you won't let me brisk the Old Lady up to match. Give her a
pink dress now, and hair her up some, and she'd be a fine-lookin' woman
as there is in this village. I'll do it, too, some night; you'll see."
"No, you don't!" said Salem, slowly, as he drew a scarlet line down the
seams of "Old Sir's" coat. "White Old Marm begun, and white she'll stay.
Wal, you was beginnin' to tell me about this ruction up to Home's. What
is it Pindar's after? I ain't seen him yet."
"He's after a strait-weskit, and he'll get it, don't you have no fears!"
replied Seth. "He calls it a Pro-cessional Festival Jubilee. He's hired
the band from the Corners, and he's got the women-folks churned up till
they don't know whether they're butter or cheese. They're routin' out
all their old clo'es from up attic, and tryin' of 'em on, and
cacklin'--there! I thought I'd heerd hens before; but this mornin' I was
in to Penny's store, and there was a passel of 'em in there talkin' it
over, and I tell you there ain't a hen-yard in this State to ekal it. I
come away without my bird seed. Gorry! there's times when it feels good
to be a single man."
"That may be so, Seth," replied Mr. Rock, soberly; "but there's other
times--meal-times, and rheumatiz, and such--when it ain't so handy. How
does Homer feel about all this ran-tan?"
"Poor old Home!" said Seth, shaking his head. "He's pooty well broke up.
He was jest beginnin' to take notice, and get used to things the new
way, and sense it that it warn't goin' to kill him to have money in the
bank; and now comes Pindar, flappin' and squeakin' like a
ravin'-distracted June-bug, and stands him on his head, and he don't
know where he is again; Home don't, I mean. He never could stand up
against Pindar, you know. You remember at school we used to call 'em
Loony and Moony; Homer was Moony. We used to call after 'em--
"'Loony and Moony,
Both got spoony,
Dance for Mame when she plays 'em a toony.'
There! I ain't thought o' that for thirty years, I don't believe. There
never was a single mite o' harm in Homer that I could see."
"I left school before they come," said Salem. "I was on my fust voyage
with Cap'n time they got there. But I ric'llect old Mis' Hollopeter,
and the way she used to ride round in that old carryall of her'n. I can
see her now, settin' straight as a broomstick, holdin' up that little
mite of a green parasol. Covered carryall, too; I remember I used to
wonder what on airth she wanted with that parasol."
"Mebbe 'twas charity for the neighbors," said Seth. "She didn't handsome
much, old Mis' Hollopeter didn't. I rec'llect the carryall, too. When
the boys got big enough, one of them would drive her, and she'd set
there and pour poetry into him like corn into a hopper. Home asked me to
go one day, and I was so scairt I like t' ha' died. Not but what the old
lady meant well, for she did; but what I mean is, them boys never had no
chanst to _be_ boys--not like other boys do. Who's this comin'?"
There was a flutter of pink beside the great mallow-bush at the corner
of the house; a slender girl appeared, and paused bashfully, with a
doubtful smile.
"'Tis Annie Lizzie!" said Salem Rock. "Nice little gal! Come in, Annie
Liz, come in! there's no one here only Seth and me. What can we do for
ye? Want me to touch up them cheeks with a mite of this red paint?
'Pears to me they ain't quite so rosy as common."
Both men looked approvingly at the girl as she came slowly toward them
across the grass. Annie Lizzie never seemed in haste; she was in fact
rather slow, but it was a soft, graceful slowness, and her motions were
so pretty that one could not wish to hurry them. Everything about the
girl was soft, gentle, leisurely; she had little to say, but that little
was so pleasantly said, and her soft voice lingered so sweetly over the
vowels, that one was sorry when she had done speaking.
She smiled very sweetly on the two middle-aged men. "Good mornin', Mr.
Rock," she said. "'Mornin', Mr. Weaver! Ma sent me on an errand to you,
Mr. Weaver; I went to the shop fust, and then I thought likely you might
be here, so I come along down."
"Yes!" said Seth. "You knew it was about time for all the foolishness
there is in Salem Rock to bust out in paint. Look at the figuree he's
makin' out of Old Sir there!"
"Yay-us!" said Annie Lizzie, admiringly. "Don't he look nice? I think
he's real handsome, Mr. Rock."
Salem Rock nodded, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. "Seth's jealous,"
he said. "Don't you take no notice of him, Annie Lizzie!"
"She'll hev to take notice of me," said Seth, "or she won't get what
she come for. What does your Ma want, little gal?"
"She wanted to know if you was comin' to paint the stairs to-morrow.
This festival comin' on and all, she says she's ashamed to have 'em look
as they doos."
"The festival ain't goin' up her back stairs, is it?" asked Seth. "I
wish it was, and out the back winder and across lots to Tom Fool's
Pastur, where it come from."
"Why, Mr. Weaver, how you talk!" said Annie Lizzie, in soft reproach. "I
think it'll be elegant. I'm jest as excited about it!"
"Think likely!" grunted Seth. "What kind o' figuree is Pindar goin' to
make out of you, young un? Psyche? Wal, it takes all kinds! You tell
your Ma them stairs'll have to wait a spell. There's too many folks
wantin' the outside o' their cups and platters done up, tell her, for me
to 'tend to the insides yet awhile. I'll get round to it bumby, tell
her; if ever I get done with this job!" he added, tilting back on his
heels, and surveying the white lady. "I s'pose you've got to have three
co'ts on her, Sale?"
"That's what!" said Salem. "I'd never skimp Old Marm in her co'ts, not
if I had to go in my shirt-sleeves to do it."
"Mr. Rock," said Annie Lizzie, "you promised me you'd tell me some day
about those images, and you never. What do they represent, may I ask?
They ain't man and wife, be they?"
"I guess not!" said Seth, with a chuckle. "I never heard 'em jaw each
other, many times as I've been over 'em. Tell her about 'em, Sale. Annie
Lizzie, you set down, and he'll tell the stories now, or, if he won't, I
will."
"Sho!" said Salem Rock. "What's the use of rakin' up old stories? These
two figgers have set here so long they don't need no stories; they jest
belong here, same as the trees doos."
"But I _love_ stories, Mr. Rock!" said Annie Lizzie, in her soft,
pleading voice. "Do tell me, Mr. Rock, now please!"
She sat down on the grass, and gathered her pink skirts round her: she
might have been a great, soft rose dropped on the green.
"Bile in, Salem!" said Seth Weaver. "You ain't forgot, have ye?"
[Illustration: "'BILE IN, SALEM!' SAID SETH WEAVER, 'YOU AIN'T FORGOT,
HAVE YE?'"]