MR. GIVEMFITS AND DR. BUTTERFIELD.
The tea-kettle never sang a sweeter song than on the evening I speak of. It
evidently knew that company was coming. At the appointed time our two
friends, Dr. Butterfield and Mr. Givemfits, arrived. As already intimated,
they were opposite in temperament--the former mild, mellow, fat,
good-natured and of fine digestion, always seeing the bright side of
anything; the other, splenetic, harsh, and when he swallowed anything was
not sure whether he would be the death of it, or it would be the death of
him.
No sooner had they taken their places opposite each other at the table than
conversation opened. As my wife was handing the tea over to Mr. Givemfits
the latter broke out in a tirade against the weather. He said that this
winter was the most unbearable that had ever been known in the almanacs.
When it did not rain, it snowed; and when it was not mud, it was sleet. At
this point he turned around and coughed violently, and said that in such
atmosphere it was impossible to keep clear of colds. He thought he would go
South. He would rather not live at all than live in such a climate as this.
No chance here, save for doctors and undertakers, and even they have to
take their own medicines and lie in their own coffins. At this Dr.
Butterfield gave a good-natured laugh, and said, "I admit the
inconveniences of the weather; but are you not aware that there has been a
drought for three years in the country, and great suffering in the land for
lack of rain? We need all this wet weather to make an equilibrium. What is
discomfort to you is the wealth of the land. Besides that, I find that if I
cannot get sunshine in the open air I can carry it in the crown of my hat.
He who has a warm coat, and a full stove, and a comfortable house, ought
not to spend much of his time in complaint."
Miss Smiley slid this moment into the conversation with a hearty "Ha! ha!"
She said, "This last winter has been the happiest of my life. I never hear
the winds gallop but I want to join them. The snow is only the winter in
blossom. Instead of here and there on the pond, the whole country is
covered with white lilies. I have seen gracefulness enough in the curve of
a snowdrift to keep me in admiration for a week. Do you remember that
morning after the storm of sleet, when every tree stood in mail of ice,
with drawn sword of icicle? Besides, I think the winter drives us in, and
drives us together. We have never had such a time at our house with
checker-boards and dominoes, and blind-man's-buff, and the piano, as this
winter. Father and mother said it seemed to them like getting married over
again. Besides that, on nights when the storm was so great that the
door-bell went to bed and slept soundly, Charles Dickens stepped in from
Gad's Hill; and Henry W. Longfellow, without knocking, entered the
sitting-room, his hair white as if he had walked through the snow with his
hat off; and William H. Prescott, with his eyesight restored, happened in
from Mexico, a cactus in his buttonhole; and Audubon set a cage of birds on
the table--Baltimore oriole, chaffinch, starling and bobolink doing their
prettiest; and Christopher North thumped his gun down on the hall floor,
and hung his 'sporting jacket' on the hat-rack, and shook the carpet brown
with Highland heather. As Walter Scott came in his dog scampered in after
him, and put both paws up on the marble-top table; and Minnie asked the
old man why he did not part his hair better, instead of letting it hang all
over his forehead, and he apologized for it by the fact that he had been on
a long tramp from Melrose Abbey to Kenilworth Castle. But I think as
thrilling an evening as we had this winter was with a man who walked in
with a prison-jacket, his shoes mouldy, and his cheek pallid for the want
of the sunlight. He was so tired that he went immediately to sleep. He
would not take the sofa, saying he was not used to that, but he stretched
himself on the floor and put his head on an ottoman. At first he snored
dreadfully, and it was evident he had a horrid dream; but after a while he
got easier, and a smile came over his face, and he woke himself singing and
shouting. I said, 'What is the matter with you, and what were you dreaming
about?' 'Well,' he said, 'the bad dream I had was about the City of
Destruction, and the happy dream was about the Celestial City;' and we all
knew him right away, and shouted, 'Glorious old John Bunyan! How is
Christiana?' So, you see," said Miss Smiley, "on stormy nights we really
have a pleasanter time than when the moon and stars are reigning."
Miss Stinger had sat quietly looking into her tea-cup until this moment,
when she clashed her spoon into the saucer, and said, "If there is any
thing I dislike, it is an attempt at poetry when you can't do it. I know
some people who always try to show themselves in public; but when they are
home, they never have their collar on straight, and in the morning look
like a whirlwind breakfasting on a haystack. As for me, I am practical, and
winter is winter, and sleet is sleet, and ice is ice, and a tea-cup is a
tea-cup; and if you will pass mine up to the hostess to be resupplied, I
will like it a great deal better than all this sentimentalism. No
sweetening, if you please. I do not like things sweet. Do not put in any of
your beautiful snow for sugar, nor stir it with an icicle."
This sudden jerk in the conversation snapped it off, and for a moment there
was quiet. I knew not how to get conversation started again. Our usual way
is to talk about the weather; but that subject had been already exhausted.
Suddenly I saw the color for the first time in years come into the face of
Mr. Givemfits. The fact was that, in biting a hard crust of bread, he had
struck a sore tooth which had been troubling him, and he broke out with the
exclamation, "Dr. Butterfield, the physical and moral world is
degenerating. Things get worse and worse. Look, for instance, at the tone
of many of the newspapers; gossip, abuse, lies, blackmail, make up the
chief part of them, and useful intelligence is the exception. The public
have more interest in murders and steamboat explosions than in the items of
mental and spiritual progress. Church and State are covered up with
newspaper mud."
"Stop!" said Dr. Butterfield. "Don't you ever buy newspapers?"