TIDINGS
The following week brought a letter from Uncle Frederick and very
important the McGregors felt when they took it, adorned with its
English stamp, from the mail box in the hall. Mulberry Court did not
receive so many letters that the arrival of one was a routine affair.
No, indeed! When a real letter came to any of its residents the fact
was remarked upon by the recipient with a casualness calculated to veil
the pride he or she experienced.
Mrs. O'Dowd, for example, in passing through the hall would call
carelessly to one of her neighbors:
"I've just had a letter from my sister Jane in Fall River. Plague the
girl! What can she be writing to me about?"
Nevertheless, in spite of this ungracious observation Mrs. O'Dowd was
much pleased to be seen with the letter and overhear her friends
whispering among themselves:
"Julie O'Dowd had a letter from Jane to-day. It was in a blue envelope
and looked like quite a thick one. What do you suppose the girl had to
say? Most likely Julie will tell us by and by."
And sure enough! The prediction was a true prophecy, for before the day
was out Julie had made an errand to every flat in the house and before
leaving had read to each family extracts from the letter, interspersing
the paragraphs with a running line of comment concerning Jane and her
history since babyhood. By evening the letter had become blurred and
dingy with much handling and Julie could recite it from beginning to
end.
Yet for all the interest evoked by Julie's letters and the other rare
epistles that found their way into Mulberry Court these missives came
after all only from American cities which lay within a radius of a
hundred miles of Baileyville. They had not traveled far, any more than
had the persons to whom they were addressed. They were not letters
written on thin foreign paper and bearing unfamiliar postmarks and the
fascinating stamps of other nations. Only the McGregors could boast
such splendor as that.
Realizing this, Mrs. McGregor would have been short of human if she had
not been a wee bit self-conscious and forced to suppress from her voice
the satisfaction that echoed in it when she observed in off-hand
fashion:
"Oh, by the way, I had a letter to-day from my brother who is in
China."
China! It was a name to conjure with. What a medley of visions it
brought to the imagination!
And if you could not go to China, as none of Mulberry Court ever
expected to do, think of having a relative who did! And if you were not
blessed with such an illustrious connection why the next best thing was
to know some one who was. Even to know some one who had a brother in
China and who sent home letters from that magic realm imparted a
certain glory.
There was no denying the McGregors' foreign correspondence lent
prestige to Mulberry Court. Perhaps a Manila postmark was cut out and
bestowed on Mrs. Murphy, who tucked it away in a cracked cup and
displayed it on occasions to a visitor; or maybe the letter heading
from a Genoa hotel was given to Mrs. O'Dowd and furnished her with
conversation for a week. In outbursts of great generosity stamps or
postcards were donated to especially favored individuals.
Hence when on this particular morning the postman pressed Mrs.
McGregor's bell and she hastened down four flights to open her mail-box
a head protruded from almost every door as she made her way back
upstairs and there was ample opportunity for her to observe to
interested spectators, "I seem to have a letter from England. Judging
from the postmark, my brother must be in Liverpool."
In this case the admiration with which the name was repeated might not
have found so ringing an echo in Mrs. McGregor's voice. She had been to
Liverpool. For all that, however, she maintained a dignified front and
bore the letter upstairs, sinking with delight into the first chair
that blocked her path when she arrived and calling to her children:
"I've a letter from your Uncle Frederick, Timmie. Think of that! It
comes all the way from Liverpool with King George neat as a pin smiling
out of the corner of it. Yes, you may take the envelope, Carl, but
don't let the baby be fingering and tearing it. Show Martin the King's
picture. He's old enough now to learn how he looks. Mercy on us! What a
ream your Uncle Frederick has written. One would think it was a book! I
never knew him to write such a long letter in all my life. I hope he
isn't sick. Don't hang over my shoulder, Mary; it makes me nervous. And
don't let Nell come climbing up into my lap while I'm reading. Go to
Mary, like a good girl, darling; mother's reading a letter that came
all the way from England."
Thus did Mrs. McGregor preface the perusal of the document she held in
her hand. But when she had spread out the voluminous sheets and was
preparing to read them she was again interrupted:
"Now, Timmie, don't you and Carl start quarreling the first thing about
the stamp. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Who had the last one?
Carl? Then this one goes to you and there must be no more bickering
about it. If there is I shall keep it myself. One would think you boys
were a pair of Kilkenny cats the way you squabble with each other! Now
are you going to be quiet and listen to what Uncle Frederick has to say
or are you not? Then don't let me hear another yip out of either of
you."
Instantly the room was so still you could have heard a pin drop and to
an accompaniment of crisply crackling paper Mrs. McGregor began:
LIVERPOOL, January 29, 1924.
DEAR SISTER NELLIE--,
Well, here I am in England with the Atlantic rolling between me and
Baileyville. We had a splendid voyage with the sea as smooth as the
top of your sewing-machine. (Ain't that like your Uncle Frederick
to joke about the ocean! He's crossed it that number of times it's
no more to him than the pond in the park. Well, I'm glad he had a
smooth trip, anyway.)
At Liverpool, where we docked, we ran into our first trouble, for
there was a longshoremen's strike on and not a soul could he found
to unload our cargo or lend a hand in loading us up again. For
three days we were tied plumb to the wharf with nothing to do but
twirl our thumbs. So having business at Manchester I decided to go
up there and stay with a Scotchman who was my first mate years ago.
(Now wasn't that nice!) Old Barney turned the town inside out he
was so glad to see me (I'll wager he was!) and among other things
took me through some big cotton mills where a nephew of his was
working. For the benefit of the children I'm going to write a bit
about them. I could not but wish on top of what we all talked about
that they might have been with me to see how wonderful the spinning
machinery is. Were it actually alive it could not work with more
brains. (Your Uncle Frederick always will have his joke!)
Indeed, the man who took us about told me that the self-acting mule
of to-day, founded on the invention of Crompton, is a product of
hundreds of minds and I can well believe it. It isn't the principle
that is new, for apparently no one has ever improved on Crompton's
idea; but since that time this machinist and that has added his bit
to make the device more perfect. (Now ain't you glad you read about
Crompton, Carl? This letter would have been Greek to you if you
hadn't.) We saw mules as long as a hundred and twenty feet, and
from nine to ten feet wide carrying some twelve or thirteen hundred
spindles, and turning out about two yards of thread in a quarter of
a minute. How is that? And all this clicking, humming, whirling
machinery was operated by a man and a couple of boys. Carl, Tim and
I could have run the thing had we known how.
(Your Uncle Frederick don't forget you boys, you see!)
They told me it was Richard Roberts, a Manchester man, who in 1830
improved the self-acting mule and brought it to its present state
of practical working order. I take off my hat to him and to those
on whose ideas he built up this marvelous invention. The thing does
everything but talk, and maybe it's as well off without doing that.
Lots of folks would be.
(I must read Julie O'Dowd that; it will make her laugh. It sounds
so like your uncle you'd think him in the room this minute.)
It draws out the carded cotton, puts in the necessary twist, and
spins the thread, easy as rolling off a log, levers, wheels,
springs, and a friction clutch all doing their part. I couldn't
help thinking if each of us humans played his role as well, and did
the thing given him to do as faithfully, how much better a world we
should have. We don't begin to pull together for a result the way
those wheels and pulleys did. Instead, each of us goes his own way
never cooperating with his neighbor and in consequence we have a
helter-skelter universe. (How true that is!)
Nevertheless in spite of us--not because of us--the world advances.
I sometimes wonder how it does it. Crompton, for instance, would
scarcely have recognized his old mule that gave subsequent
inventors their inspiration. Nor would Arkwright know his water
frame could he see what has happened to it. (Mark you, Carl, how he
speaks of Arkwright. All that would slide off you hadn't you read
that book!)
Of course there is a lot of rivalry between English and American
spinning machinery and I found that some of the mills here have
both.
The reeling of the yarn after it is spun is done chiefly by women.
I do not mean they make it up into skeins by hand; they operate the
machinery that winds it; also that which makes it up into packages
for the market. This process is also interesting to see. Strings
are put in to separate the laps of the yarn; cardboards hold it in
place; it is pressed flat; the bundle is tied; and the paper
wrapper bearing the name of the manufacturer as well as any printed
advertising he wishes to circulate, is whisked about it.
I was a little surprised to find they made no spool cotton on any
of these machines. Up to date no machine has been invented that
will directly spin thread strong enough for sewing. All that has to
be a separate process and therefore the yarn is taken to other
machines where it is drawn finer and where several of the fine
threads can be twisted into one. The spinners know just how many
fine threads to put together to get certain sizes of cotton. To
make number twelve, for example, they put together four strands of
what is called 48's that have been doubled, or perhaps 50's, since
the twist contracts the yarn.
After this has been twisted the proper number of times the thread
is passed over flannel-covered boards to be cleaned. Next it
travels through a small, round hole something like the eye of a
needle so that any knots or rough places can be detected. If the
threads are found to be strong and without flaws two to half a
dozen of them are put together in a loose skein and they are
twisted in a doubling machine. Afterward the thread is polished,
cleaned, and run off on spools or bobbins. That is the road
Mother's spools of cotton have to travel before they get to her.
How seldom we think of this or are grateful for it!
There are in addition other ways of preparing cottons for
embroidery, crocheting, or knitting, not to mention methods used to
finish cotton yarn so that it will look like woolen, linen, or silk
fiber. Because cotton is a cheaper material than any of these it is
often mixed with them to produce cheaper goods. You would be amazed
to see how ingenious manufacturers have become in turning out such
imitations. Cotton, for example, is mercerized by passing it very
rapidly through a gassing machine not unlike the flame of a Bunsen
burner. Here all the fuzz protruding from it is burned away, and
when polished and finished it looks so much like silk you would
have trouble in telling whether it was or not. This sort of yarn is
used to make imitation silk stockings and many other articles.
Now I have told you quite a story, haven't I? And no doubt I have
wasted good ink and paper doing it, for I presume Hal Harling could
have told you the same thing quite as well if not a deal better.
You read him this document and ask him to fill in the gaps. But at
least even if Hal can improve on my tale I have demonstrated one
thing and that is that I have remembered you whenever I have seen
anything I thought you would be interested in.
I send much love to each of the family. Tell Mary, Carl, and Tim to
take good care of Mother and the babies. Be sure to greet for me
the Harlings, O'Dowds, Murphys, and all the neighbors at Mulberry
Court. We leave Liverpool for the Mediterranean next week and I
will write you from Gibraltar or Naples. In the meantime do not
forget the good ship _Charlotte_ or your affectionate
FREDERICK.
"As if we could forget him!" whispered Mrs. McGregor, folding up the
many sheets and replacing them in their envelope. "It isn't all
children have the kind uncle you have. Carl, maybe you'd like to be
stepping over to the Harlings with this letter. Grandfather Harling
would delight to read it, I know. The days are long ones for him and
I'm sure he must miss your Uncle Frederick dropping in to bring him the
news."
Only too ready to comply with her request Carl rose.
"You can leave the letter until they all have seen it; then Hal or
Louise can bring it back. I want Mrs. O'Dowd to have it next. She's
mentioned by name in it and it will please her to read the words
herself."
Thus did Mulberry Court share its blessings!