MIXING WORD MEANINGS
Misunderstandings and Half-meanings—The Lazy
Vocalists—The Minister and the Chicken Pie—Reconciling
the Deaf Old Couple—When One Book Agent Received a
Welcome—Putting the “Sick” in “Music.”
The average man does not begin to realize how sadly he has neglected the
training of his vocal organs. I have known men who have less than half
the articulation of a bullfrog to blame people with dull hearing because
they cannot understand the muffled mouthings and lazy vocalisms. Here we
deaf have a real grievance. There ought to be a world where the blame
and the ridicule for a failure to hear would go to the talker rather
than to the listener. The mouth is more often at fault than the ears,
although society will not have it so. There are people who run their
words together like beads crowded on a string. Others talk as though
their mouths were made for eating entirely, and were constantly employed
for that purpose. “His mouth is full of hot hasty pudd’n,” is the way
my deaf aunt would put it—and she was right in more ways than one,
for usually these mumblers and mouthers come with a foolish or useless
message, though they may consider it of the highest importance. Others
seem to consider it bad form to talk loud enough for the ordinary ear to
catch the sounds. I frequently wonder if people with such featureless
voices realize how they are regarded by those who are approaching the
silence. They seem to me persons who have hidden a priceless talent—not
in the earth like the unfaithful servant of the parable, but in their
chests, like a miser. It seems to me a crime to turn what might become
a flute or a silver-toned cornet into a whimpering bellows or a cracked
tin horn. I would have every child trained in some form of elocutlon
or music; such lessons would be far more useful to the world than much
of the geography and so-called science now taught in our schools. Many
blunders can be traced to the mumblers and lazy-voiced talkers.
Some of our commonest and most amusing mishaps are caused by our getting
only a word here and there in a conversation—and it often happens
that we seize upon something unimportant in a sentence and dress it up
grotesquely with our own ideas of what the speaker is trying to convey.
This is bad business, I know, but many people show such impatience when
we ask for repetitions that we prefer to take chances.
I remember one farm family consisting years ago of a very deaf and
dominating woman, her mild and well-drilled husband, and the boy they
were “bringing up.” The woman mastered the household, partly because
it was her nature to rule, and partly because it was impossible to
argue with her. She never heard any opposing opinions. The evidence was
always all one way—her way. The dominant or self-assertive deaf are the
greatest tyrants on earth; those who are not self-assertive are usually
bossed and put aside. In this family the deaf man and the boy well knew
how to keep to their places. There was something calculated to make you
shiver in the almost uncanny way the deaf woman would catch that boy at
his tricks. Every now and then she would stand him up in a corner, point
a long, bony finger at him and demand:
“_Boy, are you doing right?_”
As he was usually meditating some bit of mischief, this constant appeal
to conscience kept him well under subjection.
One cold day in early Spring the man and the boy were sorting potatoes
down cellar. That is a hungry job, and they were poorly fortified by a
light breakfast. The old man had cut a piece from the salt fish which
hung from a nail and divided it with the boy, but he truthfully said
it was not very “filling.” However, it made them thirsty, so in a few
minutes the man went up to the kitchen for a drink of water, and also
for the purpose of considering the prospects for dinner. His wife sat by
the stove reading her Bible, and he came up close to her.
“What ye goin’ ter have for dinner?”
“Who’s goin’ ter be here?”
“Nobody but the boy.”
In those days the line-up at the dinner-table made considerable
difference to the housekeeper. A “picked-up dinner” was ample for the
family, but special guests meant more elaborate fare. The lady had
listened attentively and had caught the sound of just one word—“boy.”
She used that for the foundation of the sentence, and let imagination do
the rest. So she gave her husband credit for saying:
“The Reverend Mr. Joy.”
Now this Mr. Joy was the minister. There was little about him to suggest
his name, but those were the good old days when “the cloth” was entitled
to a full yard of respect—and received it. In these days a woman may
gain fame by writing a book, running for office or appearing in some
spectacular divorce case; but these are commonplace affairs compared
with the old-time excitement of entertaining the minister and having him
praise the dinner. If the Rev. Mr. Joy was to be her guest, the farm
must shake itself to provide a full meal. So the deaf lady hastened at
once into action; she put her book aside, shook up the fire vigorously,
and meanwhile acquired a program.
“In that case we’ll have chicken pie!”
The man and the boy went out and ran down the old Brahma rooster. They
finally cornered him by the fence, where the old gentleman fell on him
and pinned him to the ground. Then they cut off his head, plunged him
into hot water, and the boy picked him, having stepped into a grain
sack, which served as an apron. That rooster had the reputation of being
old enough to vote, but those New England housekeepers well knew how to
put such a tough old customer into the pot and take him out as tender as
a broiler.
It was not until that chicken pie was on the table that the old lady
finally understood that she had exerted herself for the boy and not
for the minister. But again she rose at once to the occasion. That pie
was too rich for her plain family, so she carefully put it away in the
pantry and fed her husband and the boy on remnants. These consisted
of scrapings from the bean-pot, one fish ball, boiled turnips and one
“Taunton turkey,” which was the fashionable name for smoked herring. The
pie was held for next day, when the reverend was actually invited, and
he came.
It may have been your pleasant privilege to see a hungry minister, whose
lines are cast in a community where thrift marches a little ahead of
charity in the social parade, get within a few feet of a genuine New
England chicken pie. If you have not experienced this, you do not know
the real meaning of eloquent anticipation. Mr. Joy was hungry, and old
Brahma had certainly acquired the tenderness of youth. The minister had
had two helps and wanted another; he saw a fine piece of breast meat
right at the edge of the crust. It was an occasion for diplomacy, for
well he knew that the lady was planning to save enough of that pie for
the Sunday dinner. He cleared his throat and put his best pulpit voice
into the announcement:
“Mrs. Reed, this is an excellent pie!”
This compliment did not quite carry across the table.
“What say?”
Very slowly and distinctly did Mr. Joy repeat his compliment in shorter
words.
“_This hen is a great success._”
The lady got part of that sentence. She was sure of “hen” and “great
success.” It happened that her nephew, Henry, was a student at the
theological seminary, and had delivered a strong sermon in the local
church shortly before. Naturally she thought the “hen” referred to him,
particularly as anyone ought to have known that the pie had been made
from an old rooster. So, with a pleasant smile she acknowledged the
compliment, coming as near to the target as the deaf generally do:
“_Yes, I always said that Henry was best fitted of all our flock to
enter the ministry._”
The Reverend Mr. Joy put his head on one side and let this remark
thoroughly soak into his mind. Then he silently passed his plate for
that piece of white meat, as he should have done before. Action is far
more emphatic than words to the deaf.
Then there were the two old people who had become estranged. Both were
very deaf, without imagination, and very stubborn. They quarreled
over some trivial misunderstanding, and refused to speak to each
other; for years they had lived in the same house, with never a word
passing between them. Probably the original trouble was due to a
misunderstanding of words, but when the deaf are obstinate and “set in
their ways,” you have the human mind like an oyster depositing a thick
shell of prejudice around the germ of charity and good nature. This is
one reason why they of all people should continuously read good poetry
and stories of human nature; this is their best chance for keeping in
touch with common humanity, and if a man lose the contact he is no
longer a full man.
So these old people lived together and yet never addressed each other.
There was one ear trumpet between them, and they always waited for
visitors to come before trying to communicate. They had been known to
call in some stranger who chanced to be passing in order that he might
act as intermediary. In truth, the old couple still loved each other in
an odd, clumsy fashion, and both would gladly have broken the silence
had not the pride of each refused to “give way.”
One day the neighbor’s boy came to borrow some milk, and both seized
upon him to act as interpreter. He screamed an explanation of his errand
to the old lady.
“Pa tried to milk old Spot, and she kicked him and the pail over. Ma
wants to borry some milk to feed the baby.”
“Tell him to get the pan off the pantry shelf.”
The boy delivered the message and the old man got the milk.
“Tell her I want my dinner.”
The boy did his best to scream this into the lady’s ear, but his feeble
voice cracked under the strain. The listener got only one clear sound.
“Says he’s a miserable sinner, does he? You’re right; he is. I’m glad to
see he’s getting humble. Tell him I’m waiting for dry wood. If I don’t
get it, I’ll raise Cain!”
The boy ran over to the man with this message. The part about the wood
was easy for there was the empty wood box. The rest of the message was
too dull for his ears. So he hunted up pencil and paper and told the boy
to write it out, while his wife sat congratulating herself with:
“Well, I may be kinda deaf; but I ain’t so bad as he is.”
After a protracted struggle with the pencil, the boy produced:
“She says she’ll give you cane.”
“A gold-headed cane. Just what I wanted! ’Pears to me Aunt Mary’s
getting ready to admit she was wrong. You tell her I knew she’d smart
for it!”
The boy went faithfully back across the room and screamed the message,
which she understood to be:
“He knew you’re awful smart!”
There was no question about the pleasure this gave her, but when was any
woman of spirit easily won? She could not give way so quickly.
“You just tell him to keep his soft soap for washing days!”
The boy again did his best, but the old man only heard “soap” and
“days,” and happily, imagination came to his aid and framed:
“I hope for happy days!”
The old man looked at his wife for a moment, and there was a mighty
struggle in his mind. Finally he hunted for their community ear trumpet,
and marched across the room to her side. At great cost of pride he put
the tube of the trumpet to her ear and shouted:
“I’d like to _make_ it happy days, Mary; and I kinda think I was part
wrong. Anyway, here I be speaking first.”
Aunt Mary took her turn at the trumpet.
“Reuben, I’m awful glad you spoke first. Thinking it over, I guess I was
a little to blame, too, but not half as much as you were!”
And Reuben saw visions of his old courting days, when they could both
hear whispered confidences, when this gray and wrinkled woman was a
blooming girl. And the old man rose to heights of wild extravagance.
“Here, boy,” he said, “I’ll give you ten cents to go out to the shed and
split an armful of that soft pine.”
And after the door closed behind him—well, there is a human language
which needs no words for its interpretation; it is action.
It is no wonder that when the boy returned Aunt Mary was so flustered
that instead of filling the pail with the skim-milk, she poured in fine
cream! That baby had a full supply of vitamines for once.
I am acquainted with a young man who once went out into a country
neighborhood to canvass for a subscription book. This man was somewhat
deaf, just enough to make him mix words a little. Of course, he had no
business to serve as a book agent, but the deaf will sometimes attempt
strange things. He stopped at one farmhouse and found a middle-aged
man and woman in the sitting-room. The man was evidently annoyed and
embarrassed by the book agent’s entrance, but the latter paid little
attention. He ran glibly through his story twice, and finished as usual,
handing his pencil over with his usual persuasive:
“Sign right here, on this dotted line.”
“Not on your life,” was the man’s response; but the agent heard only one
word distinctly, and got that wrong. He understood:
“Talk to my wife,” and, being on the lookout for any encouragement, he
proceeded to do this in his best style.
“Why, madam, think for a moment what it will mean to have this beautiful
book on your center table. When your husband here comes in from his work
it will entertain him and give him a kindly regard for his family. And,
madam, consider your children. When they come to the age of maturity
with such parents—” But that was as far as he could go, for the woman
dropped her work, screamed and ran from the room, leaving the book agent
completely mystified over what he had said to start such a scene. The
man glanced at him for a moment, and then snorted with satisfaction. He
rose and started after the woman, only halting in the doorway to say:
“It’s a good idea, all right. You wait here until I come back.”
Moments like these test the temper of the deaf man’s steel. He had
evidently stirred up a violent tumult, but he has no idea what it is
about and when or where it will boil over. The troubled agent sat by the
window and looked out at a savage bulldog which had come from behind the
house and was now waiting in the path with something like a sneer on his
brutal face, expressing:
“Here I am, on duty. Come and get yours! I need a new toothbrush, and
your coat is just what I have been looking for.”
And then back came the man, smiling like a May morning.
“Here, let me have the book. I’ll take two copies. Never had anything do
me so much good. Why, sir, I’ve been courting that fine woman for ten
years, and neither one of us could ever get up to the point, leap year
or any other. Then you come along and make that break about calling her
my wife. That did the business, sure—pushed us right into the river. I
just chased right after her and caught her in the kitchen. ‘Ain’t it the
truth?’ says I. ‘And if it ain’t, let’s make it so.’ And all she said
was: ‘Oh, William, I’m so happy—go right in and tell him to stay to
dinner.’ Say, give me that pencil. I’ll sign up for three copies while
I’m at it.”
Looking through the window, the agent saw that the bulldog was
listening, and he must in some way have understood, for he shook himself
and walked mournfully back to the barn.
If lifelong practice will bring perfection in the art of communicating
with the deaf, my daughter ought to be an expert. Her experience shows
something of the magnitude of the job. This young woman and her mother
attended a reception at the Old Ladies’ Home. There was to be a very
fine musical program, and the elder lady, as one of the managers,
appointed her daughter a scout to see that all the old ladies came in
to hear the music. This energetic scout found one sweet-faced inmate
waiting patiently in her room, even after the entertainment had started.
“Can you hear the music?”
The young woman knows how to talk to the deaf, and she did her best.
“What?”
“Are you not coming to hear the music?”
The words were carefully separated, and shouted close to the ear.
“Hey, who’s sick? I’m sure I don’t know.”
The old lady heard one sound clearly, and twisted it into the wrong
word.
“Of course, you went on and explained the thing carefully to her,” I
suggested.
“No, I did not. I just changed the subject, and told her it was a fine
day.”
And that, I take it, is typical of much of the effort to interpret life
to the deaf. We can always tell them that it is a fine day. The old lady
sat contentedly in the silence, unaware of the fact that near at hand
the orchestra was working gloriously through what the local paper called
a “fine musical program.” The chances are that she was better off in the
silence. Most of us hear too much, anyway.