We Move to Town
One day, soon after the death of my sister Harriet, my father came home
from a meeting of the Grange with a message which shook our home with
the force of an earth-quake. The officers of the order had asked him to
become the official grain-buyer for the county, and he had agreed to do
it. "I am to take charge of the new elevator which is just being
completed in Osage," he said.
The effect of this announcement was far-reaching. First of all it put an
end not merely to our further pioneering but, (as the plan developed)
promised to translate us from the farm to a new and shining world, a
town world where circuses, baseball games and county fairs were events
of almost daily occurrence. It awed while it delighted us for we felt
vaguely our father's perturbation.
For the first time since leaving Boston, some thirty years before, Dick
Garland began to dream of making a living at something less backbreaking
than tilling the soil. It was to him a most abrupt and startling
departure from the fixed plan of his life, and I dimly understood even
then that he came to this decision only after long and troubled
reflection. Mother as usual sat in silence. If she showed exultation, I
do not recall the fashion of it.
Father assumed his new duties in June and during all that summer and
autumn, drove away immediately after breakfast each morning, to the
elevator some six miles away, leaving me in full charge of the farm and
its tools. All his orders to the hired men were executed through me. On
me fell the supervision of their action, always with an eye to his
general oversight. I never forgot that fact. He possessed the eye of an
eagle. His uncanny powers of observation kept me terrified. He could
detect at a glance the slightest blunder or wrong doing in my day's
activities. Every afternoon, about sunset he came whirling into the
yard, his team flecked with foam, his big gray eyes flashing from side
to side, and if any tool was out of place or broken, he discovered it at
once, and his reproof was never a cause of laughter to me or my brother.
As harvest came on he took command in the field, for most of the harvest
help that year were rough, hardy wanderers from the south, nomads who
had followed the line of ripening wheat from Missouri northward, and
were not the most profitable companions for boys of fifteen. They
reached our neighborhood in July, arriving like a flight of alien
unclean birds, and vanished into the north in September as mysteriously
as they had appeared. A few of them had been soldiers, others were the
errant sons of the poor farmers and rough mechanics of older States,
migrating for the adventure of it. One of them gave his name as "Harry
Lee," others were known by such names as "Big Ed" or "Shorty." Some
carried valises, others had nothing but small bundles containing a clean
shirt and a few socks.
They all had the most appalling yet darkly romantic conception of women.
A "girl" was the most desired thing in the world, a prize to be worked
for, sought for and enjoyed without remorse. She had no soul. The maid
who yielded to temptation deserved no pity, no consideration, no aid.
Her sufferings were amusing, her diseases a joke, her future of no
account. From these men Burton and I acquired a desolating fund of
information concerning South Clark Street in Chicago, and the river
front in St. Louis. Their talk did not allure, it mostly shocked and
horrified us. We had not known that such cruelty, such baseness was in
the world and it stood away in such violent opposition to the teaching
of our fathers and uncles that it did not corrupt us. That man, the
stronger animal, owed chivalry and care to woman, had been deeply
grounded in our concept of life, and we shrank from these vile stories
as from something disloyal to our mothers and sisters.
To those who think of the farm as a sweetly ideal place in which to
bring up a boy, all this may be disturbing--but the truth is, low-minded
men are low-minded everywhere, and farm hands are often creatures with
enormous appetites and small remorse, men on whom the beauty of nature
has very little effect.
To most of our harvest hands that year Saturday night meant a visit to
town and a drunken spree, and they did not hesitate to say so in the
presence of Burton and myself. Some of them did not hesitate to say
anything in our presence. After a hard week's work we all felt that a
trip to town was only a fair reward.
Saturday night in town! How it all comes back to me! I am a timid
visitor in the little frontier village. It is sunset. A whiskey-crazed
farmhand is walking bare footed up and down the middle of the road
defying the world.--From a corner of the street I watch with tense
interest another lithe, pock-marked bully menacing with cat-like action,
a cowering young farmer in a long linen coat. The crowd jeers at him for
his cowardice--a burst of shouting is heard. A trampling follows and
forth from the door of a saloon bulges a throng of drunken, steaming,
reeling, cursing ruffians followed by brave Jim McCarty, the city
marshal, with an offender under each hand.--The scene changes to the
middle of the street. I am one of a throng surrounding a smooth-handed
faker who is selling prize boxes of soap and giving away dollars.--"Now,
gentlemen," he says, "if you will hand me a dollar I will give you a
sample package of soap to examine, afterwards if you don't want the
soap, return it to me, and I'll return your dollar." He repeats this
several times, returning the dollars faithfully, then slightly varies
his invitation by saying, "so that I can return your dollars."
No one appears to observe this significant change, and as he has
hitherto returned the dollars precisely according to promise, he now
proceeds to his harvest. Having all his boxes out he abruptly closes the
lid of his box and calmly remarks, "I said, 'so that I _can_ return your
dollars,' I didn't say I would.--Gentlemen, I have the dollars and _you_
have the experience." He drops into his seat and takes up the reins to
drive away. A tall man who has been standing silently beside the wheel
of the carriage, snatches the whip from its socket, and lashes the
swindler across the face. Red streaks appear on his cheek.--The crowd
surges forward. Up from behind leaps a furious little Scotchman who
snatches off his right boot and beats the stranger over the head with
such fury that he falls from his carriage to the ground.--I rejoice in
his punishment, and admire the tall man who led the assault.--The
marshal comes, the man is led away, and the crowd smilingly scatters.--
We are on the way home. Only two of my crew are with me. The others are
roaring from one drinking place to another, having a "good time." The
air is soothingly clean and sweet after the tumult and the reek of the
town. Appalled, yet fascinated, I listen to the oft repeated tales of
just how Jim McCarty sprang into the saloon and cleaned out the brawling
mob. I feel very young, very defenceless, and very sleepy as I
listen.--
On Sunday, Burton usually came to visit me or I went over to his house
and together we rode or walked to service at the Grove school-house. He
was now the owner of a razor, and I was secretly planning to buy one.
The question of dress had begun to trouble us both acutely. Our best
suits were not only made from woolen cloth, they were of blizzard
weight, and as on week days (in summer) our entire outfit consisted of a
straw hat, a hickory shirt and a pair of brown denim overalls you may
imagine what tortures we endured when fully encased in our "Sunday
best," with starched shirts and paper collars.
No one, so far as I knew, at that time possessed an extra, light-weight
suit for hot-weather wear, although a long, yellow, linen robe called a
"duster" was in fashion among the smart dressers. John Gammons, who was
somewhat of a dandy in matters of toilet, was among the first of my
circle to purchase one of these very ultra garments, and Burton soon
followed his lead, and then my own discontent began. I, too, desired a
duster.
Unfortunately my father did not see me as I saw myself. To him I was
still a boy and subject to his will in matters of dress as in other
affairs, and the notion that I needed a linen coat was absurd. "If you
are too warm, take your coat off," he said, and I not only went without
the duster, but suffered the shame of appearing in a flat-crown black
hat while Burton and all the other fellows were wearing light brown
ones, of a conical shape.
I was furious. After a period of bitter brooding I rebelled, and took
the matter up with the Commander-in-Chief. I argued, "As I am not only
doing a man's work on a boy's pay but actually superintending the stock
and tools, I am entitled to certain individual rights in the choice of
a hat."
The soldier listened in silence but his glance was stern. When I had
ended he said, "You'll wear the hat I provide."
For the first time in my life I defied him. "I will not," I said. "And
you can't make me."
He seized me by the arm and for a moment we faced each other in silent
clash of wills. I was desperate now. "Don't you strike me," I warned.
"You can't do that any more."
His face changed. His eyes softened. He perceived in my attitude
something new, something unconquerable. He dropped my arm and turned
away. After a silent struggle with himself he took two dollars from his
pocket and extended them to me. "Get your own hat," he said, and walked
away.
This victory forms the most important event of my fifteenth year. Indeed
the chief's recession gave me a greater shock than any punishment could
have done. Having forced him to admit the claims of my growing
personality as well as the value of my services, I retired in a panic.
The fact that he, the inexorable old soldier, had surrendered to my
furious demands awed me, making me very careful not to go too fast or
too far in my assumption of the privileges of manhood.
Another of the milestones on my road to manhood was my first employment
of the town barber. Up to this time my hair had been trimmed by mother
or mangled by one of the hired men,--whereas both John and Burton
enjoyed regular hair-cuts and came to Sunday school with the backs of
their necks neatly shaved. I wanted to look like that, and so at last,
shortly after my victory concerning the hat, I plucked up courage to ask
my father for a quarter and got it! With my money tightly clutched in
my hand I timidly entered the Tonsorial Parlor of Ed Mills and took my
seat in his marvellous chair--thus touching another high point on the
road to self-respecting manhood. My pleasure, however, was mixed with
ignoble childish terror, for not only did the barber seem determined to
force upon me a shampoo (which was ten cents extra), but I was in
unremitting fear lest I should lose my quarter, the only one I
possessed, and find myself accused as a swindler.
Nevertheless I came safely away, a neater, older and graver person,
walking with a manlier stride, and when I confronted my classmates at
the Grove school-house on Sunday, I gave evidence of an accession of
self-confidence. The fact that my back hair was now in fashionable order
was of greatest comfort to me. If only my trousers had not continued
their distressing habit of climbing up my boot-tops I would have been
almost at ease but every time I rose from my seat it became necessary to
make each instep smooth the leg of the other pantaloon, and even then
they kept their shameful wrinkles, and a knowledge of my exposed ankles
humbled me.
Burton, although better dressed than I, was quite as confused and
wordless in the presence of girls, but John Gammons was not only
confident, he was irritatingly facile. Furthermore, as son of the
director of the Sunday school he had almost too much distinction. I
bitterly resented his linen collars, his neat suit and his smiling
assurance, for while we professed to despise everything connected with
church, we were keenly aware of the bright eyes of Bettie and noted that
they rested often on John's curly head. He could sing, too, and
sometimes, with sublime audacity, held the hymn book with her.
The sweetness of those girlish faces held us captive through many a long
sermon, but there were times when not even their beauty availed. Three
or four of us occasionally slipped away into the glorious forest to pick
berries or nuts, or to loaf in the odorous shade of the elms along the
creek. The cool aisles of the oaks seemed more sweetly sanctifying
(after a week of sun-smit soil on the open plain) than the crowded
little church with its droning preacher, and there was something
mystical in the melody of the little brook and in the flecking of light
and shade across the silent woodland path.
To drink of the little ice-cold spring beneath the maple tree in
Frazer's pasture was almost as delight-giving as the plate of ice-cream
which we sometimes permitted ourselves to buy in the village on
Saturday, and often we wandered on and on, till the sinking sun warned
us of duties at home and sent us hurrying to the open.
It was always hard to go back to the farm after one of these days of
leisure--back to greasy overalls and milk-bespattered boots, back to the
society of fly-bedevilled cows and steaming, salty horses, back to the
curry-comb and swill bucket,--but it was particularly hard during this
our last summer on the prairie. But we did it with a feeling that we
were nearing the end of it. "Next year we'll be living in town!" I said
to the boys exultantly. "No more cow-milking for me!"
I never rebelled at hard, clean work, like haying or harvest, but the
slavery of being nurse to calves and scrub-boy to horses cankered my
spirits more and more, and the thought of living in town filled me with
an incredulous anticipatory delight. A life of leisure, of intellectual
activity seemed about to open up to me, and I met my chums in a
restrained exaltation which must have been trying to their souls. "I'm
sorry to leave you," I jeered, "but so it goes. Some are chosen, others
are left. Some rise to glory, others remain plodders--" such was my airy
attitude. I wonder that they did not roll me in the dust.
Though my own joy and that of my brother was keen and outspoken, I have
no recollection that my mother uttered a single word of pleasure. She
must have been as deeply excited, and as pleased as we, for it meant
more to her than to us, it meant escape from the drudgery of the farm,
from the pain of early rising, and yet I cannot be sure of her feeling.
So far as she knew this move was final. Her life as a farmer's wife was
about to end after twenty years of early rising and never ending labor,
and I think she must have palpitated with joy of her approaching freedom
from it all.
As we were not to move till the following March, and as winter came on
we went to school as usual in the bleak little shack at the corner of
our farm and took part in all the neighborhood festivals. I have
beautiful memories of trotting away across the plain to spelling schools
and "Lyceums" through the sparkling winter nights with Franklin by my
side, while the low-hung sky blazed with stars, and great white owls
went flapping silently away before us.--I am riding in a long sleigh to
the north beneath a wondrous moon to witness a performance of _Lord
Dundreary_ at the Barker school-house.--I am a neglected onlooker at a
Christmas tree at Burr Oak. I am spelled down at the Shehan school--and
through all these scenes runs a belief that I am leaving the district
never to return to it, a conviction which lends to every experience a
peculiar poignancy of appeal.
Though but a shaggy colt in those days, I acknowledged a keen longing to
join in the parties and dances of the grown-up boys and girls. I was not
content to be merely the unnoticed cub in the corner. A place in the
family bob-sled no longer satisfied me, and when at the "sociable" I
stood in the corner with tousled hair and clumsy ill-fitting garments I
was in my desire, a confident, graceful squire of dames.
The dancing was a revelation to me of the beauty and grace latent in the
awkward girls and hulking men of the farms. It amazed and delighted me
to see how gloriously Madeleine White swayed and tip-toed through the
figures of the "Cotillion," and the sweet aloofness of Agnes Farwell's
face filled me with worship. I envied Edwin Blackler his supple grace,
his fine sense of rhythm, and especially the calm audacity of his manner
with his partners. Bill, Joe, all the great lunking farm hands seemed
somehow uplifted, carried out of their everyday selves, ennobled by some
deep-seated emotion, and I was eager for a chance to show that I, too,
could balance and bow and pay court to women, but--alas, I never did, I
kept to my corner even though Stelle Gilbert came to drag me out.
Occasionally a half-dozen of these audacious young people would turn a
church social or donation party into a dance, much to the scandal of the
deacons. I recall one such performance which ended most dramatically. It
was a "shower" for the minister whose salary was too small to be even an
honorarium, and the place of meeting was at the Durrells', two
well-to-do farmers, brothers who lived on opposite sides of the road
just south of the Grove school-house.
Mother put up a basket of food, father cast a quarter of beef into the
back-part of the sleigh, and we were off early of a cold winter night in
order to be on hand for the supper. My brother and I were mere
passengers on the straw behind, along with the slab of beef, but we gave
no outward sign of discontent. It was a clear, keen, marvellous
twilight, with the stars coming out over the woodlands to the east. On
every road the sound of bells and the voices of happy young people came
to our ears. Occasionally some fellow with a fast horse and a gay cutter
came slashing up behind us and called out "Clear the track!" Father gave
the road, and the youth and his best girl went whirling by with a gay
word of thanks. Watch-dogs guarding the Davis farm-house, barked in
savage warning as we passed and mother said, "Everybody's gone. I hope
we won't be late."
We were, indeed, a little behind the others for when we stumbled into
the Ellis Durrell house we found a crowd of merry folks clustered about
the kitchen stove. Mrs. Ellis flattered me by saying, "The young people
are expecting you over at Joe's." Here she laughed, "I'm afraid they are
going to dance."
As soon as I was sufficiently thawed out I went across the road to the
other house which gave forth the sound of singing and the rhythmic tread
of dancing feet. It was filled to overflowing with the youth of the
neighborhood, and Agnes Farwell, Joe's niece, the queenliest of them
all, was leading the dance, her dark face aglow, her deep brown eyes
alight.
The dance was "The Weevilly Wheat" and Ed Blackler was her partner.
Against the wall stood Marsh Belford, a tall, crude, fierce young savage
with eyes fixed on Agnes. He was one of her suitors and mad with
jealousy of Blackler to whom she was said to be engaged. He was a
singular youth, at once bashful and baleful. He could not dance, and for
that reason keenly resented Ed's supple grace and easy manners with the
girls.
Crossing to where Burton stood, I heard Belford say as he replied to
some remark by his companions, "I'll roll him one o' these days." He
laughed in a constrained way, and that his mood was dangerous was
evident. In deep excitement Burton and I awaited the outcome.
The dancing was of the harmless "donation" sort. As musical instruments
were forbidden, the rhythm was furnished by a song in which we all
joined with clapping hands.
Come hither, my love, and trip together
In the morning early,
Give to you the parting hand
Although I love you dearly.
I won't have none of your weevilly wheat
I won't have none of your barley,
I'll have some flour
In half an hour
To bake a cake for Charley.--
Oh, Charley, he is a fine young man,
Charley he is a dandy,
Charley he is a fine young man
For he buys the girls some candy.
The figures were like those in the old time "Money Musk" and as Agnes
bowed and swung and gave hands down the line I thought her the loveliest
creature in the world, and so did Marsh, only that which gladdened me,
maddened him. I acknowledged Edwin's superior claim,--Marsh did not.
Burton, who understood the situation, drew me aside and said, "Marsh has
been drinking. There's going to be war."
As soon as the song ceased and the dancers paused, Marsh, white with
resolution, went up to Agnes, and said something to her. She smiled, but
shook her head and turned away. Marsh came back to where his brother Joe
was standing and his face was tense with fury. "I'll make her wish she
hadn't," he muttered.
Edwin, as floor manager, now called out a new "set" and as the dancers
began to "form on," Joe Belford hunched his brother. "Go after him now,"
he said. With deadly slowness of action, Marsh sauntered up to Blackler
and said something in a low voice.
"You're a liar!" retorted Edwin sharply.
Belford struck out with a swing of his open hand, and a moment later
they were rolling on the floor in a deadly grapple. The girls screamed
and fled, but the boys formed a joyous ring around the contestants and
cheered them on to keener strife while Joe Belford, tearing off his
coat, stood above his brother, warning others to keep out of it. "This
is to be a fair fight," he said. "The best man wins!"
He was a redoubtable warrior and the ring widened. No one thought of
interfering, in fact we were all delighted by this sudden outbreak of
the heroic spirit.
Ed threw off his antagonist and rose, bleeding but undaunted. "You
devil," he said, "I'll smash your face."
Marsh again struck him a staggering blow, and they were facing each
other in watchful fury as Agnes forced her way through the crowd and,
laying her hand on Belford's arm, calmly said, "Marsh Belford, what are
you doing?"
Her dignity, her beauty, her air of command, awed the bully and silenced
every voice in the room. She was our hostess and as such assumed the
right to enforce decorum. Fixing her glance upon Joe whom she recognized
as the chief disturber, she said, "You'd better go home. This is no
place for either you or Marsh."
Sobered, shamed, the Belfords fell back and slipped out while Agnes
turned to Edwin and wiped the blood from his face with self-contained
tenderness.
* * * * *
This date may be taken as fairly ending my boyhood, for I was rapidly
taking on the manners of men. True, I did not smoke or chew tobacco and
I was not greatly given to profanity, but I was able to shoulder a two
bushel sack of wheat and could hold my own with most of the harvesters.
Although short and heavy, I was deft with my hands, as one or two of
the neighborhood bullies had reason to know and in many ways I was
counted a man.
I read during this year nearly one hundred dime novels, little
paper-bound volumes filled with stories of Indians and wild horsemen and
dukes and duchesses and men in iron masks, and sewing girls who turned
out to be daughters of nobility, and marvellous detectives who bore
charmed lives and always trapped the villains at the end of the story--
Of all these tales, those of the border naturally had most allurement.
There was the _Quaker Sleuth_, for instance, and _Mad Matt the Trailer_,
and _Buckskin Joe_ who rode disdainfully alone (like Lochinvar),
rescuing maidens from treacherous Apaches, cutting long rows of death
notches on the stock of his carbine. One of these narratives contained a
phantom troop of skeleton horsemen, a grisly squadron, which came like
an icy wind out of the darkness, striking terror to the hearts of the
renegades and savages, only to vanish with clatter of bones, and click
of hoofs.
In addition to these delight-giving volumes, I traded stock with other
boys of the neighborhood. From Jack Sheet I derived a bundle of
_Saturday Nights_ in exchange for my _New York Weeklys_ and from one of
our harvest hands, a near-sighted old German, I borrowed some
twenty-five or thirty numbers of _The Sea Side Library_. These also cost
a dime when new, but you could return them and get a nickel in credit
for another,--provided your own was in good condition.
It is a question whether the reading of all this exciting fiction had an
ill effect on my mind or not. Apparently it had very little effect of
any sort other than to make the borderland a great deal more exciting
than the farm, and yet so far as I can discover, I had no keen desire to
go West and fight Indians and I showed no disposition to rob or murder
in the manner of my heroes. I devoured _Jack Harkaway_ and _The Quaker
Sleuth_ precisely as I played ball--to pass the time and because I
enjoyed the game.
Deacon Garland was highly indignant with my father for permitting such
reading, and argued against it furiously, but no one paid much attention
to his protests--especially after we caught the old gentleman sitting
with a very lurid example of "The Damnable Lies" open in his hand. "I
was only looking into it to see how bad it was," he explained.
Father was so tickled at the old man's downfall that he said, "Stick to
it till you find how it turns out."
Grandsire, we all perceived, was human after all. I think we liked him
rather better after this sign of weakness.
It would not be fair to say that we read nothing else but these
easy-going tales. As a matter of fact, I read everything within reach,
even the copy of _Paradise Lost_ which my mother presented to me on my
fifteenth birthday. Milton I admit was hard work, but I got considerable
joy out of his cursing passages. The battle scenes also interested me
and I went about spouting the extraordinary harangues of Satan with such
vigor that my team one day took fright of me, and ran away with the
plow, leaving an erratic furrow to be explained. However, my father was
glad to see me taking on the voice of the orator.
The five years of life on this farm had brought swift changes into my
world. Nearly all the open land had been fenced and plowed, and all the
cattle and horses had been brought into pasture, and around most of the
buildings, groves of maples were beginning to make the homesteads a
little less barren and ugly. And yet with all these growing signs of
prosperity I realized that something sweet and splendid was dying out of
the prairie. The whistling pigeons, the wailing plover, the migrating
ducks and geese, the soaring cranes, the shadowy wolves, the wary foxes,
all the untamed things were passing, vanishing with the blue-joint
grass, the dainty wild rose and the tiger-lily's flaming torch.
Settlement was complete.