TRADE was dull at the Cross-Roads. Jim Bowser, his hands thrust into his
pockets and his lips puckered to a whistle, stood looking through the
dingy glass of his front door. March was coming in with a snow-storm,
and all he could see in any direction was a blinding fall of white
flakes. There were only three men behind the stove that afternoon, and
one of them was absorbed in a newspaper. Conversation flagged, and from
time to time Bud Hines yawned audibly.
"This is getting to be mighty monotonous," remarked the storekeeper,
glancing from the falling snow to the silent group by the stove.
"March always is," answered Bud Hines. "The other months have some
holiday in 'em; something to brighten 'em up, if it's no more than a
family birthday. But to me, March is as dull and uninteresting as a mud
road."
"There's the inauguration this year," suggested Cy Akers, looking up
from his newspaper. "That's a big event. This paper is full of it."
"Well, now you've hit it!" exclaimed Bud, with withering scorn, as he
bit off another chew of tobacco. "That is exciting! Just about as
interesting as watching a man take his second helping of pie. I wouldn't
go across the road to see it. Now in a monarchy, where death makes the
changes, it can't get to be a cut and dried affair that takes place
every four years. They make a grand occasion of it, too, with their pomp
and ceremony. Look at what England's just seen. It's the sight of a
lifetime to bury a queen and crown a king. But what do we see when we
change Presidents? One man sliding into a chair and another sliding out,
same as when the barber calls 'Next!' Humph!"
Cy Akers rubbed his chin. "Fuss and feathers! That's all it amounts
to," he exclaimed. "I'm down on monopolies, and in my opinion it's the
worst kind of monopoly to let one family crowd out everybody else in the
king business. I like a country where every man in it has a show. Not
that I'd _be_ President, if they offered me double the salary, but it is
worth a whole lot to me to feel that in case I did want the office, I've
as good a right to it as any man living. And talk about sights--I say
it's the sight of a lifetime to see a man step out from his place among
the people, anywhere he happens to be when they call his name, take his
turn at ruling as if he'd been born to it, and then step back as if
nothing had happened."
Bud smiled derisively. "You only see that on paper, my boy. Men don't
step quietly into offices in this country. They run for 'em till they
are red in the face, and it's the best runner that gets there, not the
best man. Monopoly in the king business keeps out the rabble, any how,
and it gives a country a good deal more dignity to be ruled by a dynasty
than by Tom, Dick, and Harry."
"Well, there's no strings tied to you," said Cy, testily, taking up his
newspaper again. "When people don't like the way things are run on this
side of the water, there's nothing to hinder emigration."
There was a stamping of snowy feet outside the door, and a big, burly
fellow blustered in, whom they hailed as Henry Bicking. He was not
popular at the Cross-Roads, having the unenviable reputation of being a
"born tease," but any diversion was welcome on such a dull day.
In the catalogue of queer characters which every neighbourhood
possesses, the Autocrat, Bore, and Crank may take precedence of all
others alphabetically, but the one that heads the list in
disagreeableness is that infliction on society known as the "born
tease." One can forgive the teasing propensity universally found in
boys, as he would condone the playful destructiveness of puppyhood;
something requiring only temporary forbearance. But when that trait
refuses to be put away with childish things it makes of the man it
dominates a sort of human mosquito. He regards every one in reach his
lawful prey, from babies to octogenarians, and while he does not always
sting, the persistency of his annoying attacks becomes exasperating
beyond endurance.
The same motive that made Henry Bicking pull cats' whiskers out by the
roots when he was a boy, led him to keep his children in a turmoil, and
his sensitive little wife in tears half the time. He had scarcely seated
himself by the stove when he was afforded opportunity for his usual
pastime by the entrance of half a dozen children, who came tumbling in
on their way home from school to warm.
He began with a series of those inane questions by which grown people
have made themselves largely responsible for the pertness of the younger
generation. If children of this day have departed from that delectable
state wherein they were seen and not heard, the fault is due far more to
their elders than to them. Often they have been made self-conscious, and
forced into saucy self-assertion by the teasing questions that are asked
merely to provoke amusing replies.
Henry Bicking's quizzing had an element of cruelty in it. His was the
kind that pinches his victims' ears, that tickles to the verge of agony,
that threatens all sorts of disagreeable things, for the sake of seeing
little faces blanch with fright, or eyes fill with tears of pain.
"Come here, Woodpecker," he began, reaching for a child whose red hair
was the grief of his existence. But the boy deftly eluded him, and the
little fellow standing next in line, drying his snowball-soaked mittens,
became the victim. He was dragged unwillingly to his tormentor's knee.
"What are you going to be when you're a man?" was demanded, when the
first questions had elicited the fact that the child's name was Sammy
Perkins, and that he was eight years old. But Perkins's oldest, having
no knowledge of the grammar of life beyond its present tense indicative,
hung his head and held his tongue at mention of its future potential.
"If you don't tell me you sha'n't have your mittens!" Bicking dangled
them tantalisingly out of reach, until, after an agonising and
unsuccessful scramble, the child was forced into a tearful reply.
Then he began again: "Which are you for, Democrats or Republicans?"
"Ain't for neither."
"Well, you're the littlest mugwump I ever did see. Mugwumps ain't got
any right to wear mittens. I've a notion to pitch 'em in the stove."
"Oh, _don't_!" begged the child. "_Please_, mister! I'm not a mugwump!"
The tragic earnestness of the child as he disclaimed all right to the
term of reproach which he could not understand, yet repudiated because
of its obnoxious sound, amused the man hugely. He threw back his head
and laughed.
"Tell me who you holler for!" he continued, catching him up and holding
him head downward a moment. Then goaded by more teasing questions and a
threatening swing of his red mittens toward the stove door, Perkins's
oldest was at last led to take a bold stand on his party platform, and
publicly declare his political preference. But it was in a shaking voice
and between frightened sobs.
"M-ma, she's for McKinley, an' p-pap, he's for B-Bryan, so I jus' holler
for Uncle Sam!"
"Good enough for you, sonny," laughed the storekeeper. "That's true blue
Americanism. Stick to Uncle Sam and never mind the parties. They've had
new blades put on their old handles, and new handles put on those old
blades again, till none of 'em are what we started out with. We keep on
calling them 'genuine Barlows,' but it's precious little of the original
Barlows we're hanging on to nowadays."
* * * * *
It was a woman's voice that interrupted the conversation. Mrs. Teddy
Mahone had come in for some tea.
"Arrah, Misther Bicking! Give the bye his mitts! You're worrse than a
cat with a mouse."
The loud voice with its rich Irish brogue drew Cy Akers's attention from
his newspaper. "By the way, Bud," he exclaimed, raising his voice so
that Mrs. Mahone could not fail to hear, "you were complaining about
March being so dull and commonplace without any holidays. You've
forgotten St. Patrick's Day."
"No, I haven't. St. Patrick is nothing to me. There's no reason I should
take any interest in him."
"And did you hear that, Mrs. Mahone," asked Henry Bicking, anxious to
start a war of words.
"Oh, Oi heard it, indade Oi did!" she answered with a solemn shake of
the head. "It grieves the hearrt of me to hear such ingratichude.
There's niver a sowl in all Ameriky but has cause to be grateful for
what he's done for this counthry."
"What's he ever done?" asked Bud, skeptically. There was a twinkle in
Mrs. Mahone's eyes as she answered:
"It was this way. A gude while back whin it was at the beginnin' iv
things, Ameriky said to herself wan day, 'It's a graand pudding Oi'll be
afther makin' meself, by a new resait Oi've just thought iv.' So she
dips into this counthry for wan set iv immygrants, an' into another
counthry for another batch, and after a bit a foine mess she had iv 'em.
Dutch an' Frinch an' Eyetalian, Rooshian, Spaniards an' haythen Chinee,
all stirred up in wan an' the same pudding-bag.
"'Somethin's lackin',' siz she, afther awhile, makin' a wry face.
"'It's the spice,' siz St. Pathrick, 'ye lift out iv it, an' the
leaven. Ye'll have to make parsinal application to meself for it, for
Oi'm the only wan knowin' the saicret of where it's to be found.'
"'Then give me some,' siz she, an' St. Pathrick, not loikin' to lave a
leddy in trouble, reached out from the auld sod and handed her a fair
shprinklin' of them as would act as both spice an' leaven.
"'They'll saison the whole lot,' siz he, 'an' there's light-heartedness
enough among them to raise the entoire heavy mass in your whole united
pudding-bag.'
"'Thanks,' siz she, stirrin' us in. 'It's the makin' of the dish, sorr,
and Oi'm etarnally obliged to ye, sorr. Oi'll be afther puttin' the name
of St. Pathrick in me own family calendar, and ivery year on that day,
it's the pick iv the land that'll take pride in addin' to me own shtars
an' shtripes the wearin' o' the green.'
"Ye see, Misther Hines, ye may think ye're under no parsinal obligation
to him, but down-hearted as ye are by nature, what wud ye have been had
ye niver coom in conthact with the leaven of St. Pathrick at all, sorr?
Oi ask ye that."
* * * * *
Late that night Bowser pushed his ledger aside with a yawn, and got
down from his high stool to close the store. As he counted the meagre
contents of the cash drawer, he reviewed the day, whose minutes had been
as monotonous in passing as the falling of the snowflakes outside. It
had left nothing behind it to distinguish it from a hundred other days.
The same old faces! The same kind of jokes! The same round of
commonplace duties! A spirit of unrest seized him, that made him chafe
against such dreary monotony.
When he went to the door to put up the shutters, the beauty of the night
held him a moment, and he stood looking across the wide fields, lying
white in moonlight and snow. Far down the road a lamp gleamed from the
window of an upper room in the old miller's house, where anxious vigil
had been kept beside him for hours. The crisis was passed now. Only a
little while before, the doctor had stopped by to say that their old
friend would live. Down the track a gleaming switch-light marked the
place where a wreck had been narrowly averted that morning.
"And no telling how many other misfortunes we've escaped to-day,"
mused Bowser. "Maybe if a light could be swung out for each one, folks
would see that the dull gray days when nothing happens are the ones to
be most thankful for, after all."