upon my word this does go a little beyond my experience,” said Abel Day,
as he bent down to examine the delicate white frogs’ legs, which were
ranged in rows, tastefully fringed with a border of parsley leaves. “But
are you sure they are what you say they are? No toads among them?”
“We don’t eat toads in France, sir,” returned Marguerite, the blood
mounting to her cheeks.
“In France! Why, are you from France?”
“I am. _O la belle France!_ And father and mother used to keep a
frog-stand in Rouen; and they had a fine mushroom garden there, too. But
folks here don’t know what is good to eat. Oh! I wish my parents had
never come to America; and so did they wish it before they died.”
“Well, what sort of a place is France?” inquired the other, who began to
feel interested in the girl.
“I was very young, sir, when I left it; therefore I cannot describe it
to you. But I know France is a beautiful country. It must be beautiful;
no country in all the world can compare with it. Father and mother used
to drink wine in France.”
“Well, people here drink wine, too, sometimes.”
“Do they? All those I know drink nasty water or else horrid whiskey,”
said Marguerite, making a wry mouth.
“Humph! you are the first I ever met who didn’t like America,” pursued
Abel Day. “However, I’ll not let this set me against you; so what is the
price of your frogs?”
“How many do you wish?” inquired Marguerite, who hardly expected him to
take over a quarter of a dollar’s worth at most.
“Let me have the whole lot.”
“Well, will four dollars be too much?” she said hesitatingly.
“Here is your money,” answered Abel, drawing forth the sum. “And now,
while you are wrapping up these funny-looking creatures—verily, I might
take ’em for little pigmies just ready for a swim—please tell me how
business is.”
“Bad, sir. It always is with me; and I sometimes think of giving it up.”
“And trying something else? Well, now, take my advice—don’t. This
business can be made to pay as well as any other. All that’s wanted is
to know how to go about it.”
“Oh! I’d be only too thankful if you’d tell me what to do,” exclaimed
Marguerite. “Too thankful; for I’m almost in despair.”
“Well, then, open your ears, and I’ll give you a ‘wrinkle’ that’ll set
you on the highroad to prosperity.” Here Abel lifted his forefinger;
then, after clearing his throat, “My young friend,” he went on, “you
must know that the world is largely composed of fools. Of course it
wouldn’t do to tell ’em so; nevertheless, it’s the truth, though they
are not to be blamed for it—not a bit. We are born what we are; we don’t
make ourselves. A pumpkin can be nothing but a pumpkin; a genius is a
genius. And this makes the world all the more interesting, at least to
me. Why, what a dull place ’twould be if we were all alike! Oh! I do
love to look down upon the broad pumpkin-field of humanity, and feel how
far, far above it some few men are elevated—some very few.”
“Like yourself,” interposed Marguerite, with an air of seriousness, only
belied by a laughing gleam in her eyes.
“Please let that pass; no digressions,” said Abel, waving his hand. “But
come back now to where we started from—namely, how to make the frog
business pay.” Here he gave another cough. “In the first place, my young
friend, this booth is altogether too small. It not only doesn’t allow
your frogs half a chance to be seen, but you yourself are almost hidden
inside of it. And, speaking of yourself, do not be offended if I observe
that you have wonderfully attractive eyes, and a charming voice, and
spirits which keep bright and cheerful no matter how cloudy the sky is.
Yes, this much I know, though I never met you before. Well, now, here is
the advice I give: Hire a small store close by; then have an immense
sign-board hung over the entrance, with Frog Emporium painted on it in
twelve-inch letters, and let every letter be of a different color, so
that people will be attracted by it when they are a good block off. Then
beneath the words Frog Emporium, and on the left-hand side, you must
paint a fat, contented old mother frog, squatting, at the edge of a
pond, watching a lot of merry tadpoles swimming about. This will
represent maternal felicity. At the other end of the sign you may paint
a hungry-looking man with mouth wide open, and Mr. Bullfrog taking a
header down his throat, and screeching out as he goes down, ‘This fellow
knows what’s good!’ You should likewise get a cooking-stove, so as to
have a dainty dish of frogs all prepared for anybody who may come in and
wish to taste them. There, now, is my plan; I submit it to your
consideration. Carry it out, and you’ll soon find it difficult to supply
all your customers.”
“Well, indeed, sir,” answered Marguerite, “I thank you from the bottom
of my heart for the interest you take in me. But, alas! I am too poor to
pay the rent of ever so small a store; why, I couldn’t even pay for such
a sign-board as you describe. In fact, if you knew how very narrow my
means are, you would wonder that I can manage to keep alive.”
“Is that so?” said Abel, in a tone of compassion. “Well, then, leave the
sign to me; I will order it this very day, and the moment it is ready it
shall be brought to you. I’ll also go security for your rent.”
At these words Marguerite’s eyes filled with tears, glad tears, and,
clasping one of his hands, she pressed it warmly; while Abel thought to
himself, “How full of sentiment she is! Poor creature!”
“Oh! what a blessed thing it is to be rich,” exclaimed the girl
presently. “But all rich people, sir, are not like you—no, indeed.”
“Never mind my wealth,” said Abel; “we’ll talk about that some other
time. Go ahead, now, and carry out my notion; put implicit trust in me.
Everything will come out right in the end.”
Again Marguerite pressed his hand—her heart was too full for words—after
which Abel Day went away, promising to return before the week was ended
to see how she was getting on. The girl followed him with her eyes until
he was lost to view, wondering who he could be. “Well, whoever he is,”
she thought to herself, “he is a real gentleman. True, his clothes are
rather worn; but we cannot judge a man by his clothes. Yes, he is a real
gentleman, and different from any other that I have ever seen. He didn’t
beat me down in my price; no, he bought all my frogs and paid me what I
asked. Anybody else would have forced me to take three dollars and a
half or three dollars. I might even have let them go for two and a half.
But no, he isn’t like other rich persons. And, oh! may God bless him and
make him happy; for I am sure from his looks there is something weighing
on his heart.”
During the next few days Marguerite’s thoughts constantly turned upon
her strange friend, who had evidently been in downright earnest and kept
his word; for the sign-board was promptly sent to her, and she could not
contain her delight when she saw it hanging above the doorway of the
little store which she hired.
True to his promise, Abel Day came soon again to visit Marguerite,
bringing money wherewith to pay her month’s rent in advance. It seemed
to do him good to talk to her, and his face brightened when she told him
how many people had already entered the Frog Emporium. “And every one,
sir, who eats a plate of my frogs declares they are better than an
oyster-stew. And they say, too, that the sign-board makes them roar with
laughter and entices them in whether they will or no. O sir! how can I
thank you enough for what you have done for me?”
“Don’t speak any thanks,” replied Abel. “No, don’t speak any; but show
your thanks by being good and virtuous. ’Tis getting down in the world
leads so many to the bad. Ay, misery is the devil’s best friend.
Therefore, my dear girl, improve your condition as fast as you can. Put
money in the savings-bank; then when you meet any poor wretch hard up,
and you have the means to help him, do it.”
“Oh! indeed I will,” said Marguerite. “But now please, kind sir, let me
know the name of my benefactor. I wish to know it, that I may tell it to
the only other friend I have on earth—Mother Catherine. She’ll be sure
to ask me who you are.”
“My name is Abel Day,” he replied.
“And you live—? Well, perhaps I shouldn’t ask that, sir. Though if I did
know your address, I’d slip into your kitchen some morning bright and
early, and cook you a nice mess of frogs for breakfast.” Then, arching
her pretty eyebrows: “You live in Fifth Avenue—beautiful Fifth Avenue?”
“I do, and yet I don’t,” answered Abel. “I often see myself there,
dwelling in a marble mansion; ’tis sure to happen—so sure that I may
consider myself already in Fifth Avenue.” Here, observing a puzzled look
upon Marguerite’s face, “Ah!” he added, “you do not understand me. Well,
nobody else does, either. But never mind. The world will wake up some
fine morning and find the name of Abel Day on every lip. And ’tis all
coming out of here—here.” At these words he tapped his forehead. “My
fortune will not be built on other men’s misfortunes; ’twill not come
through gambling in stocks, through swindling, through falsehood,
through dishonor. But out of my brain the great thing is slowly but
surely taking shape and form which ere long will astound the world.”
“Well, truly, sir, I believe you. Oh! I do,” exclaimed Marguerite, who
felt herself carried away by his own enthusiasm. “I knew from the first
moment I laid eyes on you that you were an extraordinary man.”
“’Tis often thus,” pursued Abel musingly. “Genius is not seldom
recognized by the humble ones of earth, when those who dwell in high
places, with ears and eyes stuffed and blinded by prosperity, have only
fleers and gibes to give.”
“And would it be showing too much curiosity,” inquired Marguerite, “if I
were to ask what is this wonderful thing which I doubt not will bring
you in riches and renown? And certainly no one deserves these more than
yourself; for but for you, oh! I shudder to think what might have become
of me. My future was dark—dark—dark.”
“And I have brightened it a little. Yet what is what I have done
compared with what remains to be done!” said Abel, speaking like one who
thinks aloud. “O mystery of life! Why is there so much misery around
me?” Then, addressing Marguerite: “Well, if you like, I will be here at
four o’clock this afternoon, when I shall make clear to you what now you
do not comprehend. But, remember, it must be a profound secret; no other
human being except yourself must know what I am inventing—no other human
being.”
“You will find, sir, that I can keep a secret,” said Marguerite. “So
please come at the hour you mention.”
Punctual to the minute Abel Day was at the Frog Emporium, which was so
thronged with customers that he had to wait half an hour for the girl.
But at length, the last frog being sold, off they went together; and as
they took their way along the streets Marguerite wondered whither he
would lead her. Would it be to some fashionable quarter of the city—to
some place where quiet, well-mannered people dwelt? And as her companion
did not open his lips, she was left to her own hopes and conjectures,
and kept wondering and wondering, until by and by she found herself,
with a slight pang of disappointment, in Tompkins Square. A few minutes
later the girl was following Abel Day into a third-class boarding-house,
and, observing several scrawny females making big eyes at her as she
mounted up to his room, which was on the top story, he whispered: “They
are jealous of you, my dear; but pay no attention to them, and above all
do not reveal to any of these Paul Prys what I am going to show you.”
Presently they reached the door of his chamber, which he hastily
unlocked, saying to Marguerite: “Pass in quick—pass in quick”; for Abel
fancied he heard footsteps and voices close behind him.
Marguerite obeyed and made haste into the room; then, while Abel was
stuffing paper into the keyhole, she threw her eyes about her in utter
astonishment.
The apartment was barely half the size of her own at the tenement
building; nor could it compare with it for order and neatness. Indeed,
’twas in the greatest disorder. Numberless slips of paper were strewn
over the floor, with queer pencil-marks upon them, and the wall was
covered by the same odd drawings, especially near the bed, as though
Abel did most of his brain-work after he retired for the night and
before he arose in the morning. On a shelf by the window lay a
dust-covered manuscript, and beside it a cigar-box half full of buttons,
dimly visible through a spider’s web.
But where was the wonderful machine he had told her about?
“Here it is,” spoke Abel in a semi-whisper and drawing something out
from under the bed.
“Really! Oh! do let me see,” cried Marguerite, flying towards him.
“It is almost finished,” added Abel. “But pray lower your voice, for
there are listeners outside—vile eavesdroppers.”
He now went on to explain what this curious object was, which looked
like nothing so much as a big toy; for all the girl could perceive was a
stuffed chicken sitting in a box, gaudily painted red, white, and blue.
“You must know,” said Abel, “that every time a hen lays an egg the very
first thing she does is to turn and look at it, as if to make sure it is
really laid. Well, now, this machine which you behold is the Magic Hen’s
Nest. There is a spring bottom to it, so that the instant the egg is
dropped it will disappear. Then, when the fowl turns to see if it is
there—lo! she’ll find it isn’t there. Whereupon, concluding she must
have made a mistake, like a good creature she’ll sit down again, and
presently out’ll come egg number two, which will likewise vanish through
the trap. And so on and on and on, until—well, really, I can’t tell what
may happen in the end, for of course there is a limit to all good
things: the hen may lose her wits. But if she doesn’t—if she keeps her
senses, and if I can force her to continue laying and laying—why, my
fortune is made sure, and I’d not change places with old Howe and his
sewing-machine—no, indeed I wouldn’t.”
“Well, I declare!” ejaculated Marguerite when Abel was through with the
explanation. “This is certainly a grand idea. Why, one hen will do the
work of a score of hens.”
“Of five hundred,” said Abel solemnly. “And I wrote some time ago to a
couple of my acquaintances on Long Island, advising them to sell off
every hen on their farm except one. But they are not willing to follow
my advice; and, what’s more, they both came here last week when I was
out, and asked all kinds of questions about my health. The fools! But
never mind; it’s all the worse for them, for just as soon as I get out
my patent down will go the price of hens to zero.”
“Well, upon my word, this is wonderful, wonderful!” said Marguerite,
kneeling and stroking the back of the stuffed chicken.
“Ay, and I am filled with wonder at myself for having invented such a
thing,” continued Abel. “But it only shows what the brain of man can do.
And yet what man is able to accomplish now is nothing compared with what
he will accomplish in the ages to come.”
“Well, what is needed, sir, to make this Magic Nest perfect? It seems to
me to be in good working order.”
“Nothing remains to be done but to get a live hen and put it to the
proof; though I have no more doubt of its success than I have of my own
existence.”
“Well, do let me be present when you make the trial. Will you?”
“Yes, you may come, for you do not laugh and jeer at me like the rest of
the world; and, moreover, there is something soothing in your presence.
Oh! I believe if I had had you always by my side this Magic Nest would
have been ready long ago.”
“And when I come again,” said Marguerite a little timidly, “I’ll put the
room in order—may I?”
Here Abel’s brow lowered; but quickly the dark look passed away, for she
was gazing so sweetly at him, and he said: “You perceive, then, that it
is not in order? Well, you are right. I live all by myself and have no
time to sweep and dust—no time.”
“All by yourself!” repeated Marguerite compassionately.
“Yes; and when evening comes round I light my candle and play at
solitaire, and listen to the cats caterwauling on the roof.”
“How lonely!” exclaimed the girl.
“Perhaps it may be. Yet in solitude one hears and sees strange things. I
love solitude.”
“Really?”
“I do; nevertheless, I own ’twould be better in some respects not to
dwell so much by myself. Therefore I give you leave to come here
whenever you please; yes, come and sweep and rummage and turn things
topsy-turvy, if you like.”
At this Marguerite burst into a laugh.
“Ha! probably you think my apartment is already topsy-turvy? Well, it
only seems so to you; to my eye there is perfect order in all this
chaos.”
“And the buttons, sir, in yonder cigar-box—”
Marguerite did not end the phrase; she hoped he would understand her,
and Abel did.
“Humph! you have discovered those buttons, eh? Well, they came off my
clothes. And here let me observe, my young friend, the next important
thing to invent is a suit of clothes without any buttons.”
“Well, until you invent one, please allow me to sew those buttons on
again. Will you?”
“Alas!” replied Abel, “the shirts and coats and trousers to which they
once belonged are long since worn out; and now I have no clothes left
but the clothes I have on.”
“This was a very fine suit once,” said Marguerite. “The cloth is
excellent.”
“Yes, I had it made by a fashionable tailor; for I intended to wear it
when I went to visit influential people, and try and interest them in
my—in my—”
Here Abel heaved a sigh, while a look of deeper gloom shadowed his face
than the girl had yet observed upon it.
“Pray tell me what troubles you,” said Marguerite. “Do tell me. Perhaps
I may be able to comfort you.” Then, as he made no response, she went
on: “Have those of whom you sought aid turned a cold shoulder upon you?
Have they refused to help you with this Magic Hen’s Nest? Why, I
thought, sir, ’twas a profound secret; that you had told nobody about
it.”
“No, no; I don’t allude to this, but to something else—to something
which I cannot think of without an agony of mind I hope God may spare
you from ever suffering. I had forgotten all about it; I had not thought
of it for ever so long, till our conversation brought it back to me. Oh!
do let me forget it—forget it for ever.”
“I guessed when I first saw you, poor dear man, that there was a heavy
burden on your heart,” spoke Marguerite inwardly. “Now your own lips
have confessed it to me. Oh! if I only knew you better, I might be able
to console you.”
She refrained, however, from asking again what his cross was; but little
doubting that ’twas connected in some way with another invention, she
determined on a future occasion to ask him to tell her the history of
his life. “And who knows but I may find the means of bringing back the
smiles to his mournful visage. If I do, ’twill be a slight return for
all the kindness he has shown me.”
Here Marguerite cast another glance about the forlorn-looking chamber,
and wondered how he had been able to pay the first quarter’s rent of her
store. “He must have pinched himself to do it,” she thought to herself.
“Oh! what other man in New York with only one suit of clothes would have
been so generous?”
And now, ere she withdrew, her feelings got the better of her judgment,
and she burst into a fervent expression of thanks for his great
benevolence and sympathy, and hoped that for her sake he had not
deprived himself of money which he really needed. But Abel sharply
interrupted her.
“Do not talk thus,” he said, “if you have true faith in my Magic Nest.
Poor I may seem, but I consider myself rich—ever so rich; a mountain of
gold is within my reach. You ought to be convinced of it, yet still you
doubt.”
“Oh! no, no; I don’t doubt it for one moment,” answered Marguerite, very
much confused. “Pray, sir, be not offended at my words—I forgot”; then,
looking up in his face, “But I cannot help speaking what is in my heart.
O sir! you are the dearest person to me in all the wide world.”
“Well, come here some evening and play at solitaire with me,” said Abel
in a milder tone. “But no, it won’t be solitaire with you—it will be
two-handed euchre.”
“Oh! I’ll come most willingly. True, I know nothing about cards, but you
can teach me.”
The girl now bade him adieu, and his parting words to her were:
“I will inform you when I am ready to experiment with the live hen. But,
remember, breathe not a syllable of it to any human being.”
During the week which followed this visit to Abel Day’s den—as the other
boarders called his room—Marguerite did not see her benefactor. But
daily she looked for him, and he was seldom absent from her thoughts. He
was so vastly unlike other people—the selfish, deceitful herd around
her; loving solitude, yet evidently glad to have her with him; poor, yet
calling himself rich; full of bright hopes, yet a prey to melancholy.
His very singularities possessed a charm for the girl and made her long
for his coming.
“He brings me into quite another world,” she said; and while she was
selling frogs (business at the Frog Emporium was increasing rapidly)
Marguerite would indulge in pleasing reveries about good Abel Day. She
almost hoped that his fortune might not come too soon.
“Yes, I should like him to stay awhile longer in his humble home, so
that I might have a chance to make it snug and cosey for him. We might
pass happy days there together—happy days.”
And every morning and evening she knelt before her crucifix and prayed
for Abel.
But if Marguerite often thought of Abel Day, he did not think of her;
no, not once during these seven days. Her presence had indeed flashed a
ray of light into the darkness of his soul; but it was like the coming
and going of a meteor, and the instant she left him he relapsed into his
sombre mood. The paper remained stuffed in the keyhole; ever and anon he
would utter a word to himself, but ’twas in a whisper; and thus from
morning till night, solitary and silent, he passed the time, seated on a
bench with his hollow eyes fixed upon the Magic Nest—inventing,
inventing, inventing; for, although Abel had not told Marguerite, there
was still one little thing wanting to make the invention absolutely
perfect.
Then, when dusk approached and the first cat began to caterwaul, he
would get into bed, and there rack his brain for hours longer and until
the candle went out. People wondered how he managed to live without
eating; but a few crusts of bread sufficed to keep Abel alive, and ’twas
one of his odd fancies that we might in time bring ourselves to live
without nourishment.
“Oh! he is thinner than ever, poor dear man,” exclaimed Marguerite, when
she saw Abel entering her store the next Monday afternoon; and he was
carrying a hen under his arm. Then, after the first warm greeting was
over, she made haste to prepare a nice dish of frogs, which she invited
him to partake of. But Abel shook his head, and it was not until she had
almost gone on her knees that he finally placed the hen in her
safekeeping and sat down to the savory repast.
“Oh! I’m so glad you relish my frogs; everybody declares I cook so
well,” said the girl, as she stood watching him.
“The world thinks far too much about eating,” returned Abel. “It is the
grossest act humanity can perform; and I believe if we tried we might
exist without food.”
“Well, I hope that day is far off,” said Marguerite; “for when it
arrives I’ll have to close my business.”
“Ah! true, I didn’t think of that,” said Abel, rising up from the table.
“But now are you ready to accompany me and witness the triumph of my
Magic Nest?”
“Yes, indeed I am; I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” answered
Marguerite; and so, telling a customer, who appeared just at this
moment, that the last Emporium frog was sold, not a single one left, she
closed the store and they departed.
“You are happy to-day,” observed the girl when they had gone half-way to
Tompkins Square, and hearing Abel give a laugh. “Oh! I’m so glad. Let us
always try to be happy.” But even as she spoke his countenance settled
once more into the old look, and, bending down (for Abel was rather
tall), “Learn this truth, my young friend,” he said: “Nothing lies like
a laugh.”