OLD SHOES AND ORANGE-BLOSSOMS.
Not many weeks after the tea party, there were two weddings. Mr. Burton
and Aunt Mercy were married on Wednesday quietly at her house, and none
of the boys were there except Phaeton and Ned. Roderick Ayr and Miss
Glidden were married next morning in church, and all the boys were
there.
In the arrangements for this wedding, it was planned that there should
be no bridesmaids and no best man, though it was then the fashion to
have them,--but four ushers. Jack had asked Phaeton and Ned Rogers,
Isaac Holman, and me, to officiate in this capacity; and we, with a few
of the other boys, met in the printing-office to talk it over.
"I suppose we shall get along somehow," said Ned, "but I never ushed in
my life, and I wouldn't like to make any blunder."
"You can buy a behavior-book that tells all about it," said Charlie
Garrison.
"I don't much believe in books for such things," said Ned. "I remember
once when we were going to take Uncle Jacob's horse to pasture, Fay sat
up half the night reading a book about horseback-riding, and yet when
we actually had the horse under us, we didn't get along very well."
"That," said I, "was only because we hadn't the proper things. If we
had had a Mexican saddle and a gag bit and wheel spurs, we should have
galloped over the ground so fast we could hardly have viewed the
scenery as we rode by."
"Yes," said Charlie, "and you'll find you must have a lot of trappings
for this affair--white gloves and bouquets, and rosettes and cockades,
and bridal favors, and a little club with ribbons on it, to hit the
boys when they don't keep still."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Jimmy the Rhymer, "half of those are the same thing.
And as for hitting the boys, they'd better hit the whole congregation,
who never know any better than to jump up and gaze around every time
there's a rumor that the bridal party have arrived."
"I don't think we need be troubled about it," said Phaeton. "Of course
Jack will rehearse us a little, and instruct us what to do."
"_Bonus ego cervus!_ Good idea!" said Holman. "Let's go up to the Box
this afternoon and ask him."
And we agreed that we would.
"That's all very well for that part of the business," said Jimmy the
Rhymer; "but there's something else we ought to talk over and agree
upon, which we can't ask Jack about."
"What's that?"
"I mean," said Jimmy, "our own demonstration. Of course we're not going
to stand by and see Jack-in-the-Box married and disposed of without
doing something to show our friendship for him."
"They won't receive any presents," said Holman.
"And I think all the flowers there need be will be provided by somebody
else," said Phaeton.
"Then," said Jimmy, "there is but one thing left for us."
"What's that?"
"Old shoes."
"Old shoes?"
"Yes. Don't you know that it's a famous custom to throw old shoes after
people, as a sign that you wish them good luck--especially when they're
just married and starting off on their wedding journey?"
"I've heard of it," said Phaeton, "but I never saw it done."
"I'll go for that," said Monkey Roe. "Horseshoes, or human shoes?"
"For Roderick Ayr and his beautiful bride, nothing but the softest
velvet moccasins," said the poet.
"Don't believe I can get them," said Monkey. "We don't wear that kind
at our house."
"I'm afraid it won't do to have any throwing about it," said Holman.
"Last week I read a paragraph about a negro wedding where they all
threw their old shoes after the couple as they were riding away, and
one of them knocked the bridegroom's five-dollar silk hat into the
middle of next week, while another broke the bride's jaw."
"Was there a full account of the other ceremonies at that wedding?"
said Patsy Rafferty.
"I don't remember," said Holman. "Why?"
"Because," said Patsy, "whatever they did, we must do the very
contrary."
"There needn't be any throwing, that's certain," said Jimmy. "And that
will give us a chance to put in an old horseshoe, which is luckier than
any other."
"Those carriages," said Phaeton, "generally have a platform behind to
carry trunks on. While the bridal party are in the church, we might
have all our old shoes piled up on that platform."
"That's it," said Jimmy. "And that will give us a chance to decorate
them with a few flowers and ribbons."
We appointed Jimmy a committee of one to manage the old shoes.
In the afternoon we four who were to be ushers went to see
Jack-in-the-Box.
"Jack," said Ned, "if we're going to ush for you, you'll have to
instruct us a little. None of us understand the science very well, and
we're afraid to try learning it from books."
Jack laughed heartily.
"As to the science of ushing, as you call it," said he, "it's a very
simple matter."
Then he got a sheet of paper and a pencil, drew roughly a ground plan
of the church, showed us our places at the heads of the aisles, and
gave us all the information that was needed for our simple duties.
"And about the clubs?" said Ned. "Will you make those? or do we buy
them?"
"What clubs?" said Jack.
"The little clubs with ribbons wound around them," said Ned, "to hit
the boys with when they don't keep still."
Jack laughed more heartily than before.
"I guess we won't hit the boys," said he. "They needn't keep any
stiller than they want to, at my wedding."
And then he explained to us the difference between a marshal and an
usher.
"A marshal," said he, "is a sort of commander, and the little club, as
you call it, is the symbol of his authority. But an usher stands in the
relation of servant to those whom he shows to their places."
"I must tell Charlie Garrison about that," said Ned; "it was he who
started the story about the little clubs. Charlie's an awful good boy,
but he generally gets things wrong. I'm afraid he's too ready to
believe everything anybody tells him."
In trying to describe Charlie, Ned had so exactly described himself,
that we all broke into a smile.
As we were walking away, Holman suggested that perhaps while we were
about it we ought to have got instructions as to the reception, also;
for there was to be a brief one at the house immediately after the
ceremony in the church.
"Oh, I know all about that," said Phaeton.
"Then let's hear how it is," said Holman.
"It's simply this," said Phaeton. "You go up to the couple, and shake
hands, and if you're a girl you kiss the bride--What did you say? You
wish you were?--and wish them many happy returns of the day; then you
say what kind of weather you think we've had lately, and the bridegroom
says what kind he thinks, and the bride waves her fan a little; then
you give a real good smile and a bow, and go into another room and eat
some cake and ice-cream; and then you go home. That's a reception."
"It sounds reasonable," said I; "but I don't feel quite certain about
it. I will ask my sisters."
When I asked them, they laughed, but said that if I did as Phaeton had
directed, I'd probably get through safely.
Two days before the wedding, Jack resigned his place in the employ of
the railroad, and took all his things away from the Box. Patsy
Rafferty's father succeeded him as signal-man.
Thursday was a beautiful, dreamy October day, and as we had settled all
the weighty questions of etiquette, we put on the white gloves with a
feeling of the most dignified importance. The people began coming
early. The boys, who were among the earliest, came in a compact crowd,
and we gave them first-rate seats in the broad aisle, above the ribbon.
Before ten o'clock every seat was filled, and in the steep gallery
beauty and fashion were banked up, "like Niobe, all tiers."
Everybody in town seemed to be present. There were matrons with a blush
of the spring-time returned to their faces, who must have witnessed
scores of weddings and become connoisseurs in all that pertains to
them. There were little misses in short dresses, who had never looked
on such a spectacle before. There were young ladies evidently in the
midst of their first campaign, just a little excited over one of those
events toward which ill-natured people say all their campaigning is
directed. There were fathers of families, with business-furrowed brows,
brushing the cobwebs from dim recollections, and marking the discovery
of each with the disappearance of a wrinkle. There were bachelors who,
if not like the irreverent hearers of Goldsmith's preacher, were at
least likely to go away with deep remorse or desperate resolve. There
were some who would soon themselves be central figures in a similar
spectacle. There were those, perhaps, whose visions of such a triumph
were destined to be finally as futile as they were now vivid.
Frequent ripples of good-natured impatience ran across the sea of
heads, and we who felt that we had the affair in charge began to be a
little anxious, till the organ struck up a compromise between a
stirring waltz and a soothing melody, which speeded the precious
unoccupied moments on their long journey.
The usual number of false alarms caused the usual automatic turning of
heads and eyes. But at last the bridal party, like the wolf in the
fable, really came; and as they glided up the broad aisle, the bride
might almost have mounted bodily to the seventh heaven on the
substantial stares that were directed at her,--whence perhaps she could
have slidden down again on some whispered railing at her want of
bridesmaids. But her eyes were on the ground, and she heard nothing but
the rustle of her own train, and saw nothing, I trust, but the visions
that are dear to every human heart, in spite of the sorrowful comment
of human experience.
The organ checked its melodious enthusiasm as the party reached the
chancel. Then the well-known half-audible words were uttered, with a
glimmer of a ring sliding upon a dainty finger. The benediction was
said, a flourish of the organ sounded the retreat, and the party ran
the gauntlet of the broad aisle again, while the audience, as was the
fashion of that day, immediately rose to its feet and closed and
crushed in behind them, like an avalanche going through a tunnel.
While we were in the church, Jimmy the Rhymer, with Lukey Finnerty to
help him, had brought the old shoes in an immense basket, and arranged
them on the platform at the back of the bridegroom's carriage. The
cluster of seven boots which Patsy had used for a drag to control
Phaeton's car, was laid down as a foundation. On this were piled all
sorts of old shoes, gaiters, and slippers, bountifully contributed by
the boys, and at the top of the pyramid a horseshoe contributed by
Jimmy himself. Sticking out of each shoe was a small bouquet, and the
whole was bound together and fastened to the platform with narrow white
ribbons.
[Illustration: BRIDAL FAVORS.]
"I wanted to write a little poem for the occasion," said Jimmy to me,
the next day, "and tie it to the horseshoe; but somehow when I tried
there was a lump in my throat, and the inspiration wouldn't come."
My young lady readers will want to know what the bride wore. As nearly
as I can recollect--and I have refreshed my memory by a glance at the
best fashion-magazines--it was a wine-colored serge Sicilienne, looped
up with pipings of gros-grain galloon, cut _en train_ across the
sleeve-section; the overskirt of Pompadour passementerie, shirred on
with striped gore of garnet silk, the corners caught down to form
shells for the heading, and finished off in knife plaitings of brocaded
facing that she had in the house. Coiffure a fanchon remnant of
pelerine blue, laced throughout and crossing at the belt. The corsage
was a pea-green fichu of any material in vogue, overshot with delicate
twilled moss-heading cut bias, hanging gracefully in fan outline at the
back, trimmed with itself and fitted in the usual manner with darts;
bertha panier of suit goods, and Watteau bracelets to match.
With such a costume as this overflowing its open sides, and our
contribution on the trunk-board, the carriage presented a very original
and picturesque appearance as it rolled away.
The boys went to the reception as they had gone to the tea party and
the wedding, in a solid crowd. When we presented ourselves, Ned made us
all laugh by literally following his brother's humorous instructions.
The caterer thought he had provided bountifully for the occasion; but
when the boys left the refreshment-room, he stood aghast. The premium
boy in this part of the performance was Monkey Roe.
As Ned and I walked silently toward home, he suddenly spoke:
"It's all right! For the fact is, Miss Glidden was too awful old for
Fay and Jimmy and Holman. She's nineteen, if she's a day."
"I've no doubt of it," said I, "and besides, they couldn't all have had
her. But how came you to know that about Fay and Jimmy and Holman?"
I thought Ned had not discovered what I had.
Without a word, he placed his forefinger in the corner of his eye, then
pulled the lobe of his ear, and then, spreading the fingers of both
hands, brought them carefully together, finger-end upon finger-end, in
the form of a cage. By which he meant to say that he could see, and
hear, and put this and that together.
"Ah, well!" said I, "let us not talk about it. We may be nineteen
ourselves some day."
THE END.