It was during the first eighteen months of our life at Waydean that I
wrote "The Meditations of Uncle Benny" for the _Observer_. I do not
allude to these sketches as anything out of the ordinary, for there are
times, as Marion says, when it is well for one to neither affirm nor
deny the truth. Why it is wrong for me to voice a just and critical
appreciation of my literary work, and proper for my wife to openly
admire her newly scrubbed floor or her arrangement of flowers in a vase,
I cannot see. Nor can I get her to explain; she prefers to say that if I
cannot see for myself it would be useless for her to try to make me
understand,--a baffling inconsequent remark. Nevertheless I am willing
to believe that some things are too subtle for my comprehension, and
that her instinct is invariably to be depended upon; also, that the
less I express my admiration for what I have written, the more open and
unrestrained her appreciation will become. Consequently, although when
the first of the Uncle Benny sketches appeared in print I laughed and
applauded as heartily as if the author were unknown to me, I learned to
regard the later ones with almost gloomy indifference, or even to
subject them to adverse criticism, this course being the one most likely
to lead my wife to praise the artistic excellence of my work.
Personally, I make no claim to artistic excellence,--it would be neither
becoming nor tactful for me to do so,--but I may mention that the
circulation of the _Weekly Observer_ doubled, and then trebled; also
that as a result of the popularity of Uncle Benny it soon became
necessary to copyright each instalment in advance of publication to
prevent unauthorized copying by exchanges. I have noticed that to some
authors is given the art of writing so that their work appeals to their
fellow-creatures at a certain stage of development; others, again, have
that broad human sympathy that puts them in touch with young and old,
cultured and uncultured, wise and foolish. I had no wish to add to the
sum of human wisdom and culture, but it was a delight to me that Uncle
Benny made people merrier. Paul, at the age of seven, William Wedder,
three score years older, were equally infatuated. On Saturday mornings
Paul would insist upon having Uncle Benny read aloud to him during
breakfast, then he would carry off the paper to peruse it himself at
leisure, while William could ill conceal his impatience at having to
await his turn. Most authors read their own works aloud, in public, to
their friends, or in the family circle; I do not. It is only fair to
state that I might not have reached this exalted plane but for my wife.
It was she who made me understand the injustice, the blind selfishness,
the distressing egotism that permits an author, revelling in the
enjoyment of his own imaginings, to inflict them upon a helpless
listener whose capacity for appreciation is so infinitesimal in
comparison. It was she who showed me that Rossetti's sketch of Tennyson
reading Maud was not merely a crude picture of the great poet by his
friend, but a revelation of the long pent-up sufferings of one who was
doomed to sit in an attitude of attention, under the watchful eye of The
Author Who Reads His Own Works, ready to respond at a glance with a nod,
a smile or a tear.
Therefore it was Marion who read Uncle Benny to Paul and Aunt Sophy and
the author; it was I who, one morning during the reading, heard an
unusual sound from the kitchen. Fearing that William, who was taking his
breakfast there, had at last miscalculated his swallowing capacity and
needed help, I quietly withdrew from the table and opened the door into
the kitchen. To my amazement it collided with William's head, and he
straightened himself up when he had recovered his equilibrium and looked
at me with flushed cheeks and a foolish smile, making no attempt at
explanation. Did I ask for one? Certainly not. I begged his pardon and
hastened to get the liniment as if it was a most reprehensible act of
mine to open the door without warning. I felt angry and humiliated that
he had placed me in such an awkward position, but I could not be brutal
enough to show my resentment by accusing him of eavesdropping,
especially when it appeared to be the case. When he had recovered his
speech and remarked incidentally that he was in the act of picking up
his hard-boiled egg which had rolled in front of the door, I expressed
the keenest regret for my carelessness and assured him I would be more
cautious in future.
Yet the revelation of his depravity was a distinct shock to us until I
found that it was the reading of Uncle Benny that had attracted the dear
old man, and that he could not resist the impulse to get within earshot.
"I may as well own up," he confessed, at last, "that the way the missis
reads them stories is as refreshin' to my mind as raspberry pies is to
my stomach. She do read most beautiful, and when I hear Master Paul
chippin' in with them odd sayin's and you and that old lady laughin' so
cheery I jest can't help listenin'."
William's spontaneous appreciation was delightful, and I found his
admiration for my fictitious Uncle Benny most amusing, considering how
unconscious he was that I was the author, and that he cordially detested
the original of the character, Peter Waydean. But I ceased to enjoy his
enthusiasm when it threatened to become a mania, for he unbosomed
himself one day of a plan he had made to go to the city to make the
personal acquaintance of Uncle Benny at the _Observer_ office. I tried
to dislodge this idea, showing him the absurdity of looking for a person
who probably didn't exist, but I was mistaken in thinking my arguments
effective, for in a few days I found a letter at my office addressed to
Uncle Benny in William's crooked handwriting. I read it with rising
indignation.
"Dear Uncle Benny," he wrote. "I am unknown to you and you to me but
your writings has made me feel as if we was old chums. I wanted to go to
the city to have a chat with you but the boss he kicked. He says I might
be took up for a lunatic if I went to the Observer asking for you. He
says there aint no such person and if there was he would be some young
whip snap that would call the devil and the hoist man to run me out for
thinking he was a old man like me. He says it aint none of my business
how old you be and what you look like. He says your blame curiosity
William might land you in the police cells. Now as far as I can make out
you must be well up in years and you write darn good stories. Now I got
one or two good stories about the boss that is too good to keep. He aint
a regular farmer and he don't know much about working land. He says the
way to make the farm pay is to keep from paying out money on it and when
I tell him we need a implement he asks how much will it cost and when I
tell him he puts that much in the bank and says we can do without. There
aint a implement on the place but three. That shows what kind of a man
he is but I ain't going to let him scare me off if you drop me a line to
say you want to hear them stories.
"WILLIAM WEDDER."
It was well that I was not within reach of William when I read his
epistle, for my wrath would have descended upon him, but having time to
think it over before I reached home I concluded to preserve my incognito
by ignoring the matter; besides, I was exceptionally busy that week as
Aunt Sophy's wedding was near at hand, and I could not afford to risk
the loss of his services at such a time.
As I neared the house that afternoon I heard loud voices in the yard,
and when I got within sight I saw my hired man and Peter Waydean walking
around each other in the attitude of quarrelsome dogs about to spring.
"I tell you," snarled Peter, "them darn hens has been living on my field
peas, and I believe you drove them over there in the first place."
"And I tell you," snapped William, "your cattle has broke down the fence
and got into my corn twice this week, and your blame hogs----"
At this point I intervened. Peter claimed that his crop of peas had been
so destroyed by fowls that it couldn't be harvested; he hadn't actually
seen my hens at work, he admitted, but they must have done the damage.
In rebuttal, William contended that our fowls were honest well-conducted
stay-at-homes; they weren't driven away to forage on other people's
garden stuff like some cattle and hogs.
"What's a few corn-stalks?" shouted Peter.
"What's a few peas?" retorted William.
Again I interposed, but I had to send William away to milk before my
landlord could be placated enough to lower his voice to a reasonable
pitch, then my anger suddenly flamed to a white heat. I had intended to
soothe his ruffled feelings by paying for the damage, but instead, I
found myself resenting the imputation that my hens, brought up from the
shell to habits of virtue and propriety, could be guilty of such
dishonesty. Still, my tone was calm and my manner patronizing as I
challenged him to prove his charge; then before he had recovered from
his astonishment I advised him to overcome the besetting sin of avarice
that prompted him to swindle me in every possible way.
I saw that he knew his own weakness, he was so stung by my words; but
there was more of malicious triumph than of blind anger in the ring of
his voice. "Proof!" he ejaculated contemptuously. "The kind of proof
you'll get is to have them hens come home without their feathers on if I
catch them in my fields. I've a bit of news for you," he went on, with a
grin of satisfaction. "I've had two good offers to sell the place and I
was going to give you the chance of topping them, but now that you've
broke out into insulting language I wouldn't sell to you if you offered
me ten thousand dollars."
It was with difficulty that I repressed my amusement; he was so
obviously unsuspicious that I was a bidder, and when I assured him that
the news didn't cause me any concern he grew still more angry.
"I'll go to the city to-morrow," he threatened me, "and I'll sell to
whichever of them two men wants to live on the place, and you'll have to
move when your lease is up."
Again I smiled; nothing he could do would suit me better than to have
him hurry up in closing the bargain, but I tried to look as if my smile
were forced to hide my disappointment. Peter glanced at me suspiciously
as he turned away.
It is quite an ordinary occurrence to have one's chickens come home to
roost, but not without their feathers, as two of mine did the next day.
I could not look at them without a shudder, yet I could not keep from
looking at them, and until Marion clothed them in two tiny shirts that
Paul had worn in his infancy I could not smile at the fascinating
absurdity of their appearance and the consternation of their friends and
relatives. It was only too clear why Peter had not carried out his
threat of going to the city that day to close the sale of the place; he
had been lying in wait for my unfortunate chickens in his pea-field. My
blood boiled at the thought of how the malevolent rascal must be
chuckling over the way he had proved his case, but my anger was trifling
in comparison with William's.
"I tell you, Mr. Carton," he affirmed, "I'll pay him back. I'll make
him the laughin' stock of the county. Let me catch one of his critters
on this side of the fence, and he won't be able to tell whether it's a
bird of the air or a beast of the field when it goes home."