THE WONDERFUL DAY
Though I live to be a hundred and fifty years old, which heaven forbid,
I shall never forget the events which followed upon the historic
publication of the Poems of Hempfield. I wonder if you have ever
awakened in the morning with a curious deep sense of having some
peculiar reason for being happy? You lie half awake for a moment
wondering what it can all be about, and then it comes suddenly and
vividly alive for you. It was so with me on that morning, and I thought
of the adventures of the printing-office, and of Anthy and Nort and
Fergus and the old Captain.
"Surely," I said to myself, "no one ever had such friends as I have!"
I thought what an amusing world this was, anyway, how full of
captivating people. And I whistled all the way down the stairs, clean
forgetting that this was contrary to one of Harriet's most stringent
rules; and when I went out it seemed to me that the countryside never
looked more beautiful at dawn than it did on that morning.
At Barton's Crossing on my way to town I could see the silvery spire of
the Congregational Church, and at the hill beyond the bridge all
Hempfield lay before me, half hidden in trees, with friendly puffs of
breakfast smoke rising from many chimneys; and when I reached the gate
of the printing-office the sun was just looking around the corner, and
there in the doorway, as fresh and confident as you please, stood that
rascal of a Norton Carr, whistling a little tune and looking out with a
cocky eye upon the world of Hempfield.
"Hello, David!" he called out when he saw me.
"Hello, Nort!" I responded; "it's a wonderful morning."
He took a quick step forward and clapped me on the shoulder as I came
up.
"Exactly what I've been thinking," he said eagerly, "and it's going to
be a wonderful day."
If ever youth and joy-of-life spoke in a human voice, they spoke that
morning in Nort's. I cannot convey the sudden sense it gave me of the
roseate illusion of adventure. It _was_ going to be a wonderful day!
I think Nort confidently expected to see a long line of people gathering
in front of the office that morning clamouring to buy extra copies of
the _Star_.
He had been so positive that the appearance of the poetry would stir
Hempfield to its depths that he had urged the publication of a large
extra edition. But the Captain assured him that the only thing that ever
really produced an extra sale of the _Star_ was a "big obituary." In its
palmy days, when the Captain let himself go, and the deceased was really
worthy of the Captain's facile and flowery pen, the _Star_ had sold as
many as two hundred extra papers. It was as much a part of any properly
conducted funeral in Hempfield to buy copies of the Captain's
obituaries--the same issue also containing the advertised thanks of the
family to the friends who had been with them in their sore
bereavement--as it was for the choir to sing "Lead, Kindly Light."
Fergus, especially, jeered at the proposal of an extra edition. It was
not the money loss that disturbed Fergus, for that would be next to
nothing at all, it was the thought of being stampeded by Nort's
enthusiasm, and afterward hearing the sarcastic comments of Ed Smith.
While this heated controversy was going on, Anthy quietly ordered the
paper--and we printed the extra copies.
All that morning I saw Nort glancing from time to time out of the
window. No line appeared. Nine o'clock--and no line--not even one
visitor! Nort fidgeted around the press, emptied the wastebasket, looked
at his watch. Ten o'clock----
Steps on the porch--soft, hesitating steps. Out of the corner of my eye
I could see Nort stiffen up and his face begin to glow. A little
barefooted boy edged his way in at the door. We all looked around at
him. I confess that Nort was not the only one who was expectant. When
you have fired a big gun you want to know that the shot hit somewhere!
The boy was evidently embarrassed by the battery of eyes levelled at
him.
"Sister wants two papers," said he finally. "She says, the papers with
the po'try."
I shall never forget the sight of Nort, head in air, marching over to
the pile of extras, grandly handing two of them to our customer, and
then walking triumphantly across the room and delivering the dime to
Anthy.
"Who was that now?" asked Nort, when the little chap went out.
"That," said Anthy, "was Sophia Rhineheart's brother."
Nort clapped his hand dramatically to his head.
"The false Sophia!" he exclaimed; "I expected that Sophia would want at
least fifty copies of the journal which has made her famous."
The next incident was even more disquieting. An old man named Johnson
came to put a twenty-cent advertisement in the paper "Ten Cords of Wood
for Sale"--and it appeared, after an adroit question by Nort, that,
although he had received that week's paper, he did not even know that we
had published the Poems of Hempfield.
Nort's spirits began to drop, as his face plainly showed. Like many
young men who start out to set the world afire, he was finding the
kindling wood rather damp. Just before noon, however, answering a
telephone call, we saw his eyes brighten perceptibly.
"Thank you," he was saying. "Ten, did you say? All right, you shall have
them. Glad you called early before they are all gone."
He put down the receiver, smiling broadly.
"There," he said, "it's started!"
"Humph," grunted Fergus, and Anthy, leaning back on her stool, laughed
merrily.
But Nort refused to be further depressed. If things did not happen of
themselves in Hempfield, why he was there to make them happen. When he
went out at noon he began asking everybody he met, at the hotel, at the
post office, at the livery stable, whether they had seen the _Star_ that
week. Nort had then been in Hempfield about four months, and the town
had begun to enjoy him--rather nervously, because it was never quite
certain what he would do next. In Hempfield almost everybody was
working for the approval of everybody else, which no one ever attains;
while Nort never seemed to care whether anybody approved him or not.
"Seen the _Star_ this week?" he asked Joe Crane, the liveryman,
apparently controlling his excitement with difficulty.
"No," says Joe. "Why?"
"It's the biggest issue we ever had. We are printing the poems of all
the poets of Hempfield."
Joe paused to consider a moment, while Nort looked at him earnestly.
"Didn't know they was any poets in Hempfield," observed Joe finally.
"Why," says Nort, "Hempfield has more poets than any town of its size in
America."
Now, Joe took the _Star_ as a matter of course, and advertised in it,
too:
JOSEPH CRANE
LIVERY, FEED AND SALE STABLE
but, rarely expecting to find anything in the paper but the local news,
which he knew already, he had unfortunately used the Poems of Hempfield
for cleaning harness.
After Nort's exciting visit he crossed over and borrowed a somewhat
sticky copy which Nathan Collins, the baker, was saving to wrap bread
in, and glancing over the Poems of Hempfield, discovered that Addison
Bird of Hawleyville had written one of them, a poem entitled "Just Plant
One Tree, Boys," which he had once read at the Grange.
Joe bought hay of Ad, and the idea that Ad was a poet struck Joe as
being an irresistible piece of humour. He told everybody who came in
during the day, and even called Ad on the telephone to joke him about
it. Ad had not heard of it yet, and immediately hitched up and drove
into town, not knowing whether to be pleased or angry. He met Nort at
the gate of the printing-office, and was received by that young editor
with a warm handshake and congratulations upon appearing in what was
undoubtedly the most interesting issue of a newspaper ever published in
Westmoreland County. The upshot of it was that Ad paid up his long
delinquent subscription, and went away with quite a bundle of extra
copies.
It is a strange thing in this world how few people recognize a thing as
wonderful or beautiful until some poet or prophet comes along to tell
them that it is wonderful or beautiful.
"Behold that sunset!" cries the poet, quite beside himself with
excitement, and the world, which has been accustomed to having sunsets
every evening for supper, and thinks nothing of them, suddenly looks up
and discovers unknown splendours.
"Behold the _Star_," cried Nort, rushing wildly about Hempfield. "See
what we've got in the _Star_"--and it spread through the town that
something unusual, wonderful, was happening in the hitherto humdrum
office in the little old building back from the street.
People did not know quite what to make of the publication of the poetry,
it was so unprecedented, and the result was that we soon found the whole
town discussing the _Star_. The interest cropped up in the most
unexpected places, and developed a number of very amusing incidents. We
had lifted a little new corner of the veil of life in Hempfield, and we
had Nort to tell us how wonderful and amusing it was. Not everybody
liked it--for life, everywhere and always, arouses opposition as well as
approval--and one man even came in to cancel his subscription because
he thought he found unfavourable references to himself in one of the
poems; but, on the whole, people were interested and amused.
With all his enthusiasm, Nort got no more satisfaction out of the events
of the week than the old Captain. On Saturday afternoons, when the
farmers came to town, the Captain loved to stroll up the street in a
leisurely way, pass a word here and there with his neighbours, and
generally enjoy himself. I always loved to see him on such
occasions--his fine old face, his long rusty coat, the cane which was at
once the sceptre of his dominion and the support of his age.
Upon this particular afternoon he had the consciousness of having
written a truly scorching editorial on William J. Bryan, as trenchant a
thing--the Captain loved "trenchant"--as ever he wrote in his life, and
when people began to speak to him about that week's issue of the _Star_,
it pleased him greatly. It _was_ a great issue!
Mr. Tole, the druggist, for example, who was secretly much gratified
with the publication of his favourite poem, which he shrewdly considered
excellent free advertising, remarked:
"Had a great paper this week, Cap'n."
The old Captain responded with dignity:
"The _Star_, Mr. Tole, is looking up."
How sweet was all this to the old Captain. For so long the current had
been setting against him, there had been so little of the feeling of
success and power, which he loved. We could distinguish the triumphant
notes in the Captain's voice when he returned to the office. He sat down
in the editorial chair with a special air of confidence.
"Anthy," he said, clearing his throat.
"Yes, Uncle Newt."
"Anthy, I have hopes of Hempfield. Even in these days, when the people
seem to be going off after false gods, the truth will prevail."
He paused.
"We are beginning to hear from our editorial on William J. Bryan."
I recall yet Anthy's laugh--the amusement of it, and yet the deep
sympathy.
The Captain's eye fell upon Nort. He looked him over affectionately.
"Nort, my boy," he said, "we're printing a newspaper."
"We are, Cap'n," responded Nort heartily, but with a glint in his eyes.
I saw the swift, grateful look that Anthy gave him.
But the old Captain's mood suddenly changed. It is in the time of
triumph that we sometimes find our sorrows most poignant. He began to
shake his big shaggy head.
"Ah, Nort," said he, "one thing only takes the heart out of me."
"What's that, Cap'n?" asked Nort, though we all knew well enough.
"If only the Colonel had not left us, I could put my very soul into the
work. I could write wonderful editorials, Nort."
If there was one subject besides flying machines and Democrats--and
possibly woman suffrage--upon which the old Captain was irreconcilable,
it was Colonel Roosevelt. He had never followed or loved any leader
since Lincoln as he had followed and loved Roosevelt, and when the
Colonel "went astray," as he expressed it, it affected him like some
great personal sorrow. It went so deep with him that he had never yet
been able to write an editorial upon the subject. "Why," he had said to
Anthy, "I loved him like a brother!"
"Never mind, Cap'n," said Nort. "Some of these days you'll tell us what
you think about the Colonel."
The Captain shook his head sadly.
"No, Nort," said he, "it goes too deep, it goes too deep."
With that he turned to his desk with a heavy sigh and began opening the
week's exchanges, and we knew that he would soon fall upon Brother
Kendrick of the Sterling _Democrat_ and smite him hip and thigh. If the
Colonel were no longer with him, still his head was bloody but
unbowed--and he would fight on to the end. But the seed dropped by
Nort--"You'll tell us what you think about the Colonel some of these
days"--did not fall on wholly barren soil. It produced, indeed, a growth
of such luxuriance--but of all that, in its proper place.
Well, we disposed of every extra copy of the paper we had printed, and
actually had to run off some reprints and slips containing the Poems of
Hempfield, of which we also sold quite a number.
How we all need just a little success! To the editors of a country
newspaper, who publish week after week for months without so much as a
ripple of response, all this was most exciting and interesting--yes,
intoxicating.
Considered as a business venture, of course, or measured in exact
financial returns, it may seem small enough. Indeed, Ed Smith said----
But can we ever measure the best things in life by their financial
returns? Considered as a human experience, a fresh and charming
adventure in life, it glows yet in my memory with a glory all its own.
The effect upon Nort was curious enough. At one moment the amusing
aspects of the adventure seemed uppermost with him, and I felt that he
was laughing at all of us, using us all, using the town of Hempfield,
for his lordship's amusement; and at the next moment he seemed seriously
entangled in the meshes of his own enthusiasm. It was a time of
transition and development for Nort.
Part of his reckless spirits at this time I am sure was due to the
passage of arms with Anthy, which I have already described. He had been
curiously piqued by her attitude, and by the thought that she was
actually his employer and could discharge him. It did not correspond
with his preconceived views of life nor with his conception of the place
that women should occupy in the cosmos. Not that Nort had ever been
profoundly interested in women, not he! He had played with them, indeed,
for he had belonged to that class, sometimes called the favoured, in
which men rarely work with women, or study with them, or think with
them. While he did not try to explain his emotions to himself, he had
been disconcerted by Anthy's perfectly direct ways, by being treated
simply as a human being, a coworker, not as though he were all man and
she all woman, and nothing else mattered.
It was in this mood of exuberant amusement, combined with challenge to
Anthy, that he wrote his absurd report (which was never printed) of the
effect of the publication of the poems upon Hempfield, and read it aloud
one evening with great dramatic effect--keeping one eye on Anthy where
she sat, half in shadow, at her desk.
"Poets," wrote Nort, "were seen congratulating or commiserating one
another upon the public streets, whole families were electrified by
discovering that they had a poet in their midst without knowing it,
wives were revealed to husbands and husbands to wives, and even the
little children of Hempfield began to lisp in measures."
There was much more in the same strain, indicating that Nort was still
laughing at us, instead of with us. But Anthy sat there in the shadow,
very still, and said nothing. When in repose Anthy's face seemed often
to take on a cast of sadness, especially about the eyes, of that sadness
and sweetness which so often go with strength and nobility of spirit.
She was very beautiful that night, I thought.
I did not know as well then as I came to know afterward, what a struggle
she was facing to save the _Star_, what she had sacrificed to keep green
the memory of her father and to cherish the old Captain. And she had a
love for Hempfield and Hempfield folk that Nort could not have guessed.
Life might be a huge joke to Nort, who had never, up to this time, in
all his life, had to fight or suffer for anything--but Anthy, Anthy was
already meeting the great adventure.
But there was another and a deeper Nort, which few people at that time
had ever seen. This was the Nort who had fled impulsively from New York,
and this was the Nort who now strode out along the country roads toward
Hawleyville, his head hot with great thoughts. This was the Nort who was
tasting the sweets of editorship, who had more than half begun to
believe what he had told Anthy, on the spur of the moment, when he
walked home with her. Why not a wonderful new country journalism? Why
not a paper right in Hempfield which, by virtue of its profound thought,
its matchless wit, its charming humour, its saving sympathy, its superb
handling of great topics, its--its---- Why not? And why not Norton Carr,
editor?
"Matchless" was the adjective that Nort had in his mind at the moment,
and he imagined a typical comment in the New York _Times_:
"We quote this week from the Hempfield _Star_, that matchless exponent
of rural thought in America, edited by Mr. Norton Carr----" etc., etc.
This would naturally be copied in the _Literary Digest_ and made the
subject of an editorial in _Life_.
This was the Nort who walked the country roads, neither seeing the stars
above nor feeling the clods beneath, but living in a fairer land than
this is, the perfect spring weather of the soul of youth. It was thus
that Nort lived his deeper life, as the hero of his own hot imaginings.
And this, too, was the Nort who returned to Hempfield--without any
conscious intention on his part, for how can one think of two things at
once--by the road which led past Anthy's home. He did not stop, he
scarcely looked around, and yet he had an intense and vivid undersense
of a dim light in one of the upper windows of the dark house.
[Illustration]