People who have but a superficial knowledge of the life and times
here set down may possibly claim that the grocery store, and not the
blacksmith’s shop, used to be the real country club--the place where the
politics of the country were discussed; where the doings of great men
were commended or condemned, and the government criticised. It is true
that the grocery store was the club of the village, when a place like
the Corners grew to be a village; but the blacksmith’s shop was usually
the first building erected on the spot where a village was ultimately
to stand. It was the nucleus. As a place grew, and enervating luxury set
in, the grocery store slowly supplanted the blacksmith’s shop, because
people found a nail keg, or a box of crackers, more comfortable to sit
on than the limited seats at their disposal in a smithy; moreover, in
winter the store, with its red-hot box stove, was a place of warmth and
joy, but the reveling in such an atmosphere of comfort meant that the
members of the club had to live close at hand, for no man would brave
the storms of a Canadian winter night, and journey a mile or two through
the snow, to enjoy even the pleasures of the store. So the grocery was
essentially a village club, and not a rural club.
Of course, as civilization advanced, the blacksmith found it impossible
to compete with the grocer. He could not offer the same inducements. The
grocery approached more nearly than the smithy the grateful epicurism of
the Athenaeum, the Reform, or the Carlton. It catered to the appetite of
man, besides supplying him with the intellectual stimulus of debate.
A box of soda crackers was generally open, and, although such biscuits
were always dry, they were good to munch, if consumed slowly. The barrel
of hazel nuts never had a lid on. The raisins, in their square box, with
blue-tinted paper, setting forth the word “Malaga” under the colored
picture of joyous Spanish grape pickers, stood on the shelves behind
the counter, at an angle suited to display the contents to all comers,
requiring an exceptionally long reach, and more than an ordinary amount
of cheek, before they were got at; but the barrel of Muscavado brown
sugar was where everyone could dip his hand in; while the man on the
keg of tenpenny nails might extend his arm over into the display window,
where the highly colored candies exhibited themselves, although
the person who meddled often with them was frowned upon, for it was
etiquette in the club not to purloin things which were expensive.
The grocer himself drew the line at the candies, and a second helping
usually brought forth the mild reproof:
“Shall I charge that, Sam; or would you rather pay for it now?”
All these delicacies were taken in a somewhat surreptitious way, and the
takers generally wore an absent-minded look, as if the purloining was
not quite intentional on their part. But they were all good customers
of the grocer, and the abstractions were doubtless looked on by him as
being in the way of trade; just as the giving of a present with a pound
of tea, or a watch with a suit of clothes, became in later days. Be
that as it may, he never said anything unless his generosity was taken
advantage of, which was rarely the case.
Very often on winter nights there was a hilarious feast, that helped to
lighten the shelves and burden the till. This ordinarily took the form
of a splurge in cove oysters. Cove oysters came from Baltimore, of
course, in round tins; they were introduced into Canada long before the
square tin boxes that now come in winter from the same bivalvular city.
Cove oysters were partly cooked before being tinned, so that they would,
as the advertisements say, keep in any climate. They did not require ice
around them, as do the square tins which now contain the raw oysters.
Someone present would say:
“What’s the matter with having a feed of cove oysters?”
He then collected a subscription of ten cents or so from each member,
and the whole was expended in several cans of oysters and a few pounds
of crackers. The cooking was done in a tin basin on the top of the hot
stove. The contents of the cans were emptied into this handy dish, milk
was added, and broken crackers, to give thickness and consistency to the
result. There were always plenty of plates, for the store supplied the
crockery of the neighborhood. There were also plenty of spoons, for
everything was to be had at the grocery. What more could the most
exacting man need? On a particularly reckless night the feast ended with
several tins of peaches, which needed no cooking, but only a sprinkling
of sugar. The grocer was always an expert at cooking cove oysters and at
opening tins of peaches.
There was a general feeling among the members that, by indulging in
these banquets, they were going the pace rather; and some of the older
heads feebly protested against the indulgence of the times, but it was
noticed that they never refrained from doing their share when it came to
spoon work.
“A man has but one life to live,” the younger and more reckless would
say, as if that excused the extravagance; for a member rarely got away
without being fifteen cents out of pocket, especially when they had
peaches as well as oysters.
The grocery at the Corners had been but recently established and as yet
the blacksmith’s shop had not looked upon it as a rival. Macdonald was
monarch of all he surveyed, and his shop was the favorite gathering
place for miles around. The smithy was also the patriotic center of the
district, as a blacksmith’s shop must be as long as anvils can take the
place of cannon for saluting purposes. On the 24th of May, the queen’s
birthday, celebrated locally as the only day in the year, except
Sundays, when Macdonald’s face was clean and when he did no work, the
firing of the anvils aroused the echoes of the locality. On that great
day the grocer supplied the powder, which was worth three York shillings
a pound--a York shilling being sixpence halfpenny. It took two men to
carry an anvil, with a good deal of grunting; but Macdonald, if the
crowd were big enough, made nothing of picking it up, hoisting it on his
shoulder, and flinging it down on the green in front of his shop. In the
iron mass there is a square hole, and when the anvil was placed upside
down, the hole was uppermost. It was filled with powder, and a wooden
plug, with a notch cut in it, was pounded in with a sledge hammer.
Powder was sprinkled from the notch over the surface of the anvil, and
then the crowd stood back and held its breath. It was a most exciting
moment. Macdonald would come running out of the shop bareheaded, holding
a long iron bar, the wavering, red-hot end of which descended on the
anvil, while the blacksmith shouted in a terrifying voice: “Look out,
there!” The loose powder hissed and spat for a moment, then bang went
the cannon, and a great cloud of smoke rolled upward, while the rousing
cheers came echoing back from the surrounding forests. The helper, with
the powder-horn, would spring to the anvil and pour the black explosive
into the hole, while another stood ready with plug and hammer. The
delicious scent of burned gunpowder filled the air, and was inhaled by
all the youngsters with satisfaction, for now they realized what real
war was. Thus the salutes were fired, and thus the royal birthday was
fittingly celebrated.
Where two anvils were to be had, the cannonade was much brisker, as
then a plug was not needed. The hole in the lower anvil was filled with
powder, and the other anvil was placed over it. This was much quicker
than pounding in a plug, and had quite as striking and detonating an
effect. The upper anvil gave a heave, like Mark Twain’s shot-laden frog,
and fell over on its side. The smoke rolled up as usual, and the report
was equally gratifying.
Yates learned all these things as he sat in the blacksmith’s shop, for
they were still in the month of May, and the smoke of the echoing anvils
had hardly yet cleared away. All present were eager to tell him of the
glory of the day. One or two were good enough to express regret that he
had not been there to see. After the disaster which had overturned Yates
things had gone on very smoothly, and he had become one of the crowd, as
it were. The fact that he was originally a Canadian told in his favor,
although he had been contaminated by long residence in the States.
Macdonald worked hard at the turning of horseshoes from long rods of
iron. Usually an extended line of unfinished shoes bestrode a blackened
scantling, like bodiless horsemen, the scantling crossing the shop
overhead, just under the roof. These were the work of Macdonald’s
comparatively leisure days, and they were ready to be fitted to the
hoofs of any horse that came to be shod, but on this occasion there
had been such a run on his stock that it was exhausted, a depletion
the smith seemed to regard as a reproach on himself, for he told Yates
several times that he often had as many as three dozen shoes up aloft
for a rainy day.
When the sledge hammer work was to be done, one of those present stepped
forward and swung the heavy sledge, keeping stroke for stroke with
Macdonald’s one-handed hammer, all of which required a nice ear for
time. This assistance was supposed to be rendered by Sandy; but, as he
remarked, he was no hog, and anyone who wished to show his skill was at
liberty to do so. Sandy seemed to spend most of his time at the bellows,
and when he was not echoing the sentiments of the boss, as he called
him, he was commending the expertness of the _pro tem._ amateur, the
wielder of the sledge. It was fun to the amateur, and it was an old
thing with Sandy, so he never protested against this interference with
his duty, believing in giving everyone a chance, especially when it came
to swinging a heavy hammer. The whole scene brought back to Yates the
days of his youth, especially when Macdonald, putting the finishing
strokes to his shoe, let his hammer periodically tinkle with musical
clangor on the anvil, ringing forth a tintinnabulation that chimed
melodiously on the ear--a sort of anvil-chorus accompaniment to his
mechanical skill. He was a real sleight-of-hand man, and the anvil was
his orchestra.
Yates soon began to enjoy his visit to the rural club. As the members
thawed out he found them all first-rate fellows, and, what was more,
they were appreciative listeners. His stories were all evidently new to
them, and nothing puts a man into a genial frame of mind so quickly as
an attentive, sympathetic audience. Few men could tell a story better
than Yates, but he needed the responsive touch of interested hearers. He
hated to have to explain the points of his anecdotes, as, indeed, what
story-teller does not? A cold and critical man like the professor
froze the spring of narration at its source. Besides, Renmark had an
objectionable habit of tracing the recital to its origin; it annoyed
Yates to tell a modern yarn, and then discover that Aristophanes, or
some other prehistoric poacher on the good things men were to say, had
forestalled him by a thousand years or so. When a man is quick to see
the point of your stories, and laughs heartily at them, you are apt to
form a high opinion of his good sense, and to value his companionship.
When the horses were shod, and young Bartlett, who was delighted at
the impression Yates had made, was preparing to go, the whole company
protested against the New Yorker’s departure. This was real flattery.
“What’s your hurry, Bartlett?” asked the whittler. “You can’t do
anything this afternoon, if you do go home. It’s a poor time this to
mend a bad day’s work. If you stay, he’ll stay; won’t you, Mr. Yates?
Macdonald is going to set tires, and he needs us all to look on and see
that he does it right; don’t you, Mac?”
“Yes; I get a lot of help from you while there’s a stick to whittle,”
replied the smith.
“Then there’s the protracted meeting to-night at the schoolhouse,” put
in another, anxious that all the attractions of the place should be
brought forward.
“That’s so,” said the whittler; “I had forgotten about that. It’s the
first night, so we must all be there to encourage old Benderson. You’ll
be on hand to-night, won’t you, Macdonald?”
The blacksmith made no answer, but turned to Sandy and asked him
savagely what in ---- and ---nation he was standing gawking there for.
Why didn’t he go outside and get things ready for the tire setting? What
in thunder was he paying him for, anyhow? Wasn’t there enough loafers
round, without him joining the ranks?
Sandy took this rating with equanimity, and, when the smith’s back was
turned, he shrugged his shoulders, took a fresh bite of tobacco from the
plug which he drew from his hip pocket, winking at the others as he did
so. He leisurely followed Macdonald out of the shop, saying in a whisper
as he passed the whittler:
“I wouldn’t rile the old man, if I were you.”
The club then adjourned to the outside, all except those who sat on the
bench. Yates asked:
“What’s the matter with Macdonald? Doesn’t he like protracted meetings?
And, by the way, what are protracted meetings?”
“They’re revival meetings--religious meetings, you know, for converting
sinners.”
“Really?” said Yates. “But why protracted? Are they kept on for a week
or two?”
“Yes; I suppose that’s why, although, to tell the truth, I never knew
the reason for the name. Protracted meetings always stood for just the
same thing ever since I was a boy, and we took it as meaning that one
thing, without thinking why.”
“And doesn’t Macdonald like them?”
“Well, you see, it’s like this: He never wants to go to a protracted
meeting, yet he can’t keep away. He’s like a drunkard and the corner
tavern. He can’t pass it, and he knows if he goes in he will fall.
Macdonald’s always the first one to go up to the penitent bench. They
rake him in every time. He has religion real bad for a couple of
weeks, and then he backslides. He doesn’t seem able to stand either the
converting or the backsliding. I suppose some time they will gather him
in finally, and he will stick and become a class leader, but he hasn’t
stuck up to date.”
“Then he doesn’t like to hear the subject spoken of?”
“You bet he don’t. It isn’t safe to twit him about it either. To tell
the truth, I was pleased when I heard him swear at Sandy; then I knew it
was all right, and Sandy can stand it. Macdonald is a bad man to tackle
when he’s mad. There’s nobody in this district can handle him. I’d
sooner get a blow from a sledge hammer than meet Mac’s fist when his
dander is up. But so long as he swears it’s all right. Say, you’ll stay
down for the meeting, won’t you?”
“I think I will. I’ll see what young Bartlett intends to do. It isn’t
very far to walk, in any case.”
“There will be lots of nice girls going your way to-night after the
meeting. I don’t know but I’ll jog along in that direction myself when
it’s over. That’s the principal use I have for the meetings, anyhow.”
The whittler and Yates got down from the bench, and joined the crowd
outside. Young Bartlett sat on one of the horses, loath to leave while
the tire setting was going on.
“Are you coming, Yates?” he shouted, as his comrade appeared.
“I think I’ll stay for the meeting,” said Yates, approaching him and
patting the horse. He had no desire for mounting and riding away in the
presence of that critical assemblage.
“All right,” said young Bartlett. “I guess I’ll be down at the meeting,
too; then I can show you the way home.”
“Thanks,” said Yates; “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”
Young Bartlett galloped away, and was soon lost to sight in a cloud of
dust. The others had also departed with their shod horses; but there
were several new arrivals, and the company was augmented rather than
diminished. They sat around on the fence, or on the logs dumped down by
the wayside.
Few smoked, but many chewed tobacco. It was a convenient way of using
the weed, and required no matches, besides being safer for men who had
to frequent inflammable barns.
A circular fire burned in front of the shop, oak bark being the main
fuel used. Iron wagon tires lay hidden in this burning circle. Macdonald
and Sandy bustled about making preparations, their faces, more hideous
in the bright sunlight than in the comparative obscurity of the shop,
giving them the appearance of two evil spirits about to attend some
incantation scene of which the circular fire was the visible indication.
Crosstrees, of four pieces of squared timber, lay near the fire, with a
tireless wheel placed flat upon them, the hub in the square hole at the
center. Shiftless farmers always resisted having tires set until they
would no longer stay on the wheel. The inevitable day was postponed,
time and again, by a soaking of the wheels overnight in some convenient
puddle of water; but as the warmer and dryer weather approached this
device, supplemented by wooden wedges, no longer sufficed, and the tires
had to be set for summer work. Frequently the tire rolled off on the
sandy highway, and the farmer was reluctantly compelled to borrow a rail
from the nearest fence, and place it so as to support the axle; he then
put the denuded wheel and its tire on the wagon, and drove slowly to the
nearest blacksmith’s shop, his vehicle “trailing like a wounded duck,”
the rail leaving a snake’s track behind it on the dusty road.
The blacksmith had previously cut and welded the tire, reducing its
circumference, and when it was hot enough, he and Sandy, each with a
pair of tongs, lifted it from the red-hot circle of fire. It was pressed
and hammered down on the blazing rim of the wheel, and instantly Sandy
and Macdonald, with two pails of water that stood handy, poured the
cold liquid around the red-hot zone, enveloping themselves in clouds
of steam, the quick contraction clamping the iron on the wood until the
joints cracked together. There could be no loitering; quick work was
necessary, or a spoiled wheel was the result. Macdonald, alternately
spluttering through fire and steam, was in his element. Even Sandy had
to be on the keen jump, without a moment to call his plug of tobacco his
own. Macdonald fussed and fussed, but got through an immense amount of
work in an incredibly short space of time, cursing Sandy pretty much all
the while; yet that useful man never replied in kind, contenting himself
with a wink at the crowd when he got the chance, and saying under his
breath:
“The old man’s in great fettle to-day.”
Thus everybody enjoyed himself: Macdonald, because he was the center
figure in a saturnalia of work; Sandy, because no matter how hard a man
has to work he can chew tobacco all the time; the crowd, because the
spectacle of fire, water, and steam was fine, and they didn’t have to do
anything but sit around and look on. The sun got lower and lower as, one
by one, the spectators departed to do their chores, and prepare for the
evening meeting. Yates at the invitation of the whittler went home with
him, and thoroughly relished his evening meal.