Reviews are not infrequently colored by a temporary elevation of the
critic’s mind (or a temporary depression of the critic’s liver),
advertisements are not invariably free from bias; so, perhaps, a few
words of friendly warning will not be considered impertinent.
Whosoever is squeamishly sensitive as to the formal technique of
literary construction will save himself positive irritation by
avoiding this book. It is a told, rather than a written story; and
this is a compromise which defies Art and frankly turns to the more
elastic methods of Nature.
It is supposed to be told by an outdoor man in those delightful
moments of relaxation when the restraint of self-consciousness is
dropped, and the spirit flows forth with a freedom difficult to find,
outside the egoism of childhood. This general suggestion is easily
tossed out; but the reader must supply the details—the night camps
with the pipes sending up incense about the tiny fires, the winter
evenings when the still cold lurks at the threshold or the blizzard
howls around the log corners; or those still more elusive moments when
the riding man shifts his weight to a single thigh, and tells the
inner story which has been rising from his open heart to his closed
lips for many a long mile.
Nor will these details suffice to complete the atmosphere in which,
bit by bit, the story is told. The greatest charm in the told story
comes direct from the teller; and, toil as we will over printed pages,
they obstinately refuse to reproduce the twinkle of bright, deep-set
eyes, the whimsical twist which gives character to a commonplace word,
the subtile modulations of a mellow voice, the discriminating accent
which makes a sentence fire when spoken, and only ashes when written;
or, hardest of all, those eloquent pauses and illuminating gestures
which convey a climax neither tongue nor pen dare attempt.
Happy Hawkins is complex, but the basic foundation of his character is
simplicity. His audience is usually a mixed one, men of the range and
an Easterner or two, fortunate enough to find the way into his
confidence. Occasionally he amuses himself by talking to the one group
over the heads of the other; but even then, his own simplicity is but
thinly veiled. The phases of life which he holds lightly are exploited
with riotous recklessness; but whoever would visit his private shrines
must tread with reverent step.
His exaggerations are not to deceive, but to magnify—an adjunct to
expression invariably found among primitive people. A brass monkey is
really not sensitive to variations of temperature; and yet, even among
the civilized, a peculiarly vivid impression is conveyed by stating
that a particular cold snap has had a disintegrating effect upon the
integrity of a brass monkey. There is a philosophy of exaggeration
which is no kin to falsehood.
Happy has an eager, hungry, active mind, a mind worthy of careful
cultivation; but forced by circumstances to gather its nourishment
along lines similar to those adopted by the meek and lowly sponge. A
sponge is earnest, patient, and industrious; but, fixed to a submerged
stone as it is, it is hampered by limitations which no amount of
personal ambition is quite able to overcome. As Happy himself was fond
of saying: “The thing ’at sets most strangers again each other, is the
fact that each insists on judgin’ everything from his own standpoint.
A cow-puncher gets the idee that because an Eastener can’t sit
comfortable on a bronco when it’s sunfishin’ or twistin’ ends, he jes
nachely ain’t fit to clutter up the surface o’ the earth; while the
Eastener is inclined to estimate the puncher an’ his pony as bein’ on
the same intellectual level. If they’d just open up an’ examine each
other impartial, they’d mighty soon see ’at the difference in ’em came
from what they did, instead o’ the choice o’ their lines o’ business
dependin’ on their natural make-up. I once had a no-account pinto
which refused to squat back on the rope, and I rejoiced exceeding when
I got seventy-five bucks for him; but the feller I took advantage of
clipped his mane, docked his tail, introduced him into swell-society,
and got three hundred for him as a polo pony; which all goes to
show—” (The finish of this is an expansive wave of the hand, a tilt
of the head to the right, and an indescribably droll expression.)
The above is a fair sample of the leisurely way in which Happy Hawkins
tells a story. This is not the proper way to tell a story. A story
should travel an air-line and not stop at the smaller stations, while
Happy prefers to take his bed along on a spare horse and camp out
wherever the mood strikes him. The reader who delights in a story
which speeds along like a limited, will probably be disappointed in
this book; while, on the other hand, the reader who enjoys the
intimate association which is lighted with the evening camp fire, runs
a risk of finding some relaxation in taking another little trip with
Happy Hawkins.