people harboring telephones in their homes which absolutely decline to
be civil until you feed them five cents, I think of our Homeburg
blessings and am content. Six dollars a year buys a telephone at home,
and about the only families which haven't telephones are a few widows
who live frugally on nothing a year, and old Mr. Stephens, who has one
hundred thousand dollars loaned out on mortgages and spends half an hour
picking out the biggest eggs when he buys half a dozen. There isn't a
farm within ten miles which isn't connected with the town, and while the
desk 'phone is a novelty with us and we still have to grind away at a
handle to get Central, we can put just as much conversation into the
transmitter and take just as much out of the receiver as if we were
connected with a million telephones. Our Homeburg 'phones are
old-fashioned; and the lines sound as if eleven million bees were
holding indignation meetings on them, but they have made a big family
out of three whole counties, and I guess they will take care of us all
right--so long as Carrie holds out and we can keep that Sam fellow where
he belongs.
XI
A HOMEBURG SCHOOL ELECTION
_Where Woman is Allowed to Vote and Man Has To_
Well, Jim, you've taken me to see a great many wonderful sights in this
municipal monstrosity of yours, but I don't believe one of them has
interested me as much as this parade. I've worn three fat men on my toes
for an hour to get a chance to watch it, but it was worth the agony.
Think of it--at home we are doing well to get an attendance of two
thousand at a fire. Here in New York are several hundred thousand people
stopping their mad grabs at limousines and country houses, and blocking
up the streets to watch a few women parading in the interest of the
ballot for psyche knots as well as bald heads. It's wonderful! How did
the women persuade you to do it? I can't help thinking that they lost a
tremendous chance for the cause. Think how much money the ladies would
have made if each one had worn a sandwich board advertising some new
breakfast food or velveteen tobacco! With a crowd like this reading
every word, they could have charged enough to pay the expenses of a
whole campaign!
It's the crowd that interested me. As far as the parade went, it wasn't
so much. Half a hundred women in cloaks and staffs setting off on foot
for Washington or Honolulu isn't terrifically exciting. I'd a lot rather
go down the line about twenty or thirty miles and watch them come in to
roost at night. There would be some inhuman interest in that. But what
does all this mob mean? Have you New Yorkers gone crazy over suffrage?
What! Just the novelty of the thing? Well, let me tell you then, you are
goners! You may not want suffrage now, but if the women are going to
choke traffic every time they spring a novelty, you're going to have to
grant them suffrage just to get the chance to attend to business now and
then.
Me? Of course I'm a suffragist. I'm a suffragist on twenty counts. No,
thanks, I won't argue the question now, because we have to get over to
the hotel for dinner in an hour or two, and there's no use starting a
thing you will have to leave in the middle. I'll just tell you the last
count to save time, and let it go at that. I'm a suffragist because I
want the rest of mankind to have what we've had in Homeburg for the last
twenty years or so. We've been through the whole thing. Whenever a man's
been through anything, he naturally isn't content until he can stand by
and watch some other man get his. Understand? I'm for suffrage in aged
little New York. I want you to have it and have it a plenty. And I want
to watch you while you're having it. It's a grand thing when you've got
used to it. It will do you good, Jim, just like medicine.
Do women vote in Homeburg? Of course they do. I'd like to see anybody
stop them. I don't mean that they vote for President. That is, they
won't until next time. It's only the more important elections that they
take part in. Oh, I know you folks in the big town think that unless
you're voting for governor or for the ringleaders of your city
government, the job isn't worth while. But that's where you differ from
Homeburg. We men vote for President and get a good deal of fun out of
the campaign. It's a favorite masculine amusement, and the women don't
interfere with us. But it's not important. I mean it's not important to
Homeburg. We stand up all summer and tear our suspender buttons off
trying to persuade each other that Homeburg's future depends on who
reviews the inaugural parade at Washington; but it isn't so, and we know
it.
The really burning question in Homeburg is the make-up of the next
school board. That is the election which paralyzes business, splits
families, and sours friendships. And let me just convey to you in a few
brief words, underscored with red ink, the fact that women vote in the
Homeburg school elections. If you want to see real, concentrated
politics with tabasco sauce trimmings, go to Homeburg or some other
small town which is fond of its school system and watch the women
getting out the vote.
Don't waste your time by coming the day before election. Don't even
expect to see any excitement in the morning. We don't smear our school
election troubles all over the almanac. We have the convulsion quickly
and get over it. You could stray into Homeburg on the morning of a
school election and not suspect that anything was going on except,
perhaps, a general funeral. Absolute quiet reigns. People are attending
to business with the usual calm.
You can tell that there is an election on by the little flags stuck out
a hundred feet from the engine-house doors, but that's the only way.
Inside the judges sit waiting for business about as successfully as a
cod fisher on the banks of the Mississippi. Now and then some one strays
in and casts a vote. By noon half a dozen are in the ballot box. The
nation is safe, the schools are progressing satisfactorily, the ticket
is going through without a kick. Even the candidates stop standing
around outside peddling their cards, go home to dinner and forget to
come back.
Pretty placid, eh? You bet it is. You know all about the calm before
the storm and the little cloud the size of the man's hand which comes up
about eight bells and does a general chaos business without any advance
notices. Well, that cloud in our school elections is impersonated by
Mrs. Delia Arbingle, and she usually arrives at the polls about three
P.M. with a new ticket, twenty warlike followers, and several thousand
assorted snorts of defiance.
That's when the storm breaks--and it's a whole lot bigger than a man's
hand by that time. Delia is a mighty plentiful woman physically, and
when she gets her war paint on, she's a regular cloudburst. As I say,
about three o'clock or thereabouts, we suddenly wake up to the fact that
we have a school election in our midst, and that unless we arise as true
men and patriots, it will soon be at our throats. How do we find it out?
Our women folks tell us. You never saw such devoted women folks, or such
determined ones, either. The minute Delia leaves her house with her
marauding band in her annual attempt to get the scalp of the high school
principal who whipped her oldest son seventeen years ago, the women of
Homeburg _rise_. And we men go and vote.
Now, we're not enthusiastic about voting. We're not afraid of Delia.
We've seen her insurge too often. But we go and vote, anyway. We go by
request. You've never had your loving wife come in and request you to
vote, have you, Jim? Well, you've got something coming. It's a request
which you're going to grant. You may not want to, but that has nothing
to do with the case. This is about the way it happens in Homeburg: I am
sitting in my office. I've got a lot of work on hand, and it's no use to
vote, anyway, and, to tell the truth, I had forgotten all about it.
Suddenly the telephone bell rings: I answer it. Here's my cross-section
of the conversation:
"Hello? Oh, hello!... No, I haven't voted yet.... Pretty busy to-day....
You're coming down?... No, I don't want to vote.--What's the use? It's
the same old.... Now, my dear, it's just the same old row. She can't get
any.... But I tell you I'm busy. You go on and.... Yes, of course I'm an
American citizen, but I don't get a salary for it. I'm trying to
earn.... Well, five minutes to cast a useless vote is.... Oh, all right.
Anything to please you.... No, I'll not call up Judge Hicks. He's old
enough to vote by himself.... Oh, all right.... Now, look here, my dear,
I can't ask Fleming to do that. His wife is a friend of Mrs.
Arbingle's.... Yes, I can say that, but it would be a threat.... Oh, the
schools will run anyway. Now, don't get excited.... All right, doggone
it, it'll make a regular fool of me though!... Good-by.
"Gosh."
I am mopping my forehead while I say that. I'm going to vote and, what
is more, I'm going over to get Judge Hicks, who is a cross old
man-eater, and get him to vote, and then I am going to call up Fleming,
who would otherwise vote against us, and tell him that if he doesn't
support our ticket, our grocery account will go elsewhere. I hate to do
that like the mischief. It isn't considered ethical in national
elections. But somehow we can't stop and discuss these fine points at
3.15 P.M. with our loving but excited wives. They don't seem to allow
it.
I get into my coat, pretty cross, and go down-stairs. Homeburg is
frantically awake. Down the street scores of patriots are marching to
the polls. They are not marching in lock-step, but most of them are
under guard just the same. Mrs. Chet Frazier, pale but determined, is
towing Chet out of his store. Mrs. Wimble Horn is hurrying down the
street with an umbrella in one hand and Wimble in the other. From the
post-office comes Postmaster Flint emitting loud wails. It is against
the law to leave the post-office unoccupied, but he can thresh that out
with his wife at home after he has voted. Attorney Briggs was going to
Chicago this afternoon, but I notice he is coming back from the depot.
Mrs. Briggs is bringing him. If I know anything about rage, Attorney
Briggs is ready to masticate barbed wire. His arms are making a blue
haze as they revolve. But he's coming back to vote. He can go to Chicago
to-morrow, but the nation must be saved before five o'clock.
I do my errands, losing one friend at Fleming's and considerable dignity
at the judge's, because the judge is an old widower and mighty
outspoken. Then I hurry back and go to the polls arm in arm with my
loving wife. We have to wait our turn outside the engine house. From
all corners of town the votes roll in, most of them under convoy. It's
a weird mixture--the men sullen and sheepish, the women inspired and
terrible. Even the candidates, most of whom are men, are embarrassed.
They are peddling tickets frantically, and whenever they falter and show
signs of running, their wives hiss something into their ears and brace
them up again.
The two hostile forces are eying each other with horrid looks. Mrs.
Arbingle is quiet but deadly. I never saw so much hostility coated over
one face as there is on hers. She is in her glory. This time she is
going to unmask the hosts of corruption, including those who will not
call on her, cave in the school ring, boot out the incompetents, and see
justice done to her son at last. Mrs. Wert Payley, who generally leads
the other side, has higher ideals, of course, and isn't so red in the
face. But she is hostile too. No viperess shall tread on the school
system if she can help it! She keeps her lieutenants hustling, and now
and then she looks over the crowd of captive men on the enemy's side and
issues a command. Then some woman talks to her husband, and he gets red
and mad and wags his arms. But in the end he goes over and talks to a
man on the other side. And then that conversation spreads like a prairie
fire, and the men knot up into a cluster, and hard words are used, and a
lot more friendships go into the back shop for repairs.
Five o'clock is coming fast. Mrs. Payley looks over her list. Young Ad
Summers has refused to budge from his shop. Miss Ri Hawkes blushes a
little and then goes away to a telephone. Pretty soon Ad appears. He's
panting, into the bargain. He gets in line, votes, and Ri walks away
with him. There is a sigh of relief from the Payley cohorts now because
old man Thompson is coming. He is over ninety and hates like thunder to
go out and vote, but he can't help himself. He has lived in a wheeled
chair for ten years and has to go wherever his granddaughter wheels him.
He passes in, muttering.
Only five minutes more. The excitement is intense. Hurrah! Some one has
gotten the telegraph operator's goat. He's coming on the run. That
probably means he'll go to the next dancing-club party. Judge Hicks
appears, four women around him. He is mad, but they are triumphant and
they look scornfully at me, saying "chump" with their eyes. He votes.
There is a commotion at the corner because Gibb Ogle has attempted in a
mild way to be corrupted. He wants to know why he can't sleep in the
South School basement. The women are indignant, and appoint two husbands
to deal with him. Gibb votes. Bang! The polls are closed. It's all over
but the counting.
We'd like to go back to work, but the suspense is too great. Not that we
have any suspense, but our wives have; and if we are worthy of the name
of men, we must help them endure it, even if we ourselves are not
interested in the schools. So we hang around and fume over the
jungle-fingered judges who take as much time as if they were enumerating
the fleas of Africa. Finally a cheer comes from the front of the crowd.
The women beside us gasp anxiously. Which side cheered? Hurrah! There's
Mrs. Payley waving her handkerchief. We win.
After that, we men can go. The schools have been saved by a vote of 453
to 78, but it was no thanks to us. No, indeed! If it weren't for the
women where would our schools be?
We've had women's suffrage in our midst for almost twenty years, as I
say, and looking back over it I can't see a single dull moment
politically. From the day when an indulgent State gave them permission,
our women have guarded the schools at the ballot box. They've done a
thorough and painstaking job, and I must say the schools have improved a
lot. But they have sprung a lot of political ideas which have made the
old-timers sit up with startled looks and scratch their heads
hopelessly.
That's what you are going to find out, Jim, when woman begins to vote
for herself around here and to vote you into the bargain. She isn't
going to play the game according to the old rules. She has no use for
them. She has her own way of going about things politically, and while
it is effective, its wear and tear on mankind is terrific. When the
Homeburg women first attempted to place a woman on the school board,
about fifteen years ago, most of the men objected, and they decided to
hold a town caucus and call the women in. There were a great many
reasons why a woman shouldn't leave her home and sit around on a school
board, and they felt sure that if they were to talk it over frankly in
meeting they could show them these reasons. And, anyway, the chairman
would be a man, which would of course take care of the situation.
So a caucus was called, and the Grand Opera House, which holds six
hundred human beings, and about a hundred boys in the front seats, was
jammed until it bulged. We knew that no woman could out-argue our
seasoned old politicians, and when Calvin Briggs, who has planned all
the inside work in the congressional district for twenty years, got up
and showed just why woman ought not to intrude, there was an abashed
silence all over the house, until Emma Madigan, who is a town character
and does just as she pleases, got up. She stood up about fifty-nine
seconds after Briggs had got a good start, and she argued with him as
follows:
"That's all right, Mr. Briggs--You can't make me sit down, Mr.
Chairman, you nor any of you politicians--You're a fine man to talk
about schools, Mr. Briggs. No, I won't stop. You know a lot about
children, don't you, coming up here with tobacco juice all over your
shirt front; and why don't you pay some taxes before you get up here and
tell how to run a town? All right, Chairman, I'm done."
But so was Briggs. We couldn't help laughing at him. Editor Simpson, who
runs the _Argus_, stepped into the breach and regretted greatly that so
disgraceful an attack had been made upon a well-beloved citizen by a
woman. No man would dare make such an attack, he opined. Then Emma got
up again. The chairman called her to order, but he might as well have
rapped down the rising tide.
"I know mighty well no man 'ud dare say what I did, Lafe Simpson," she
shouted. "'Nd you're the biggest coward of 'em all. If you thought you'd
have to lose the school printing, you'd vote for the devil for
president of the school board."
Of course it was perfectly disgraceful, but what could we do? Emma was a
woman. We couldn't throw her out. We couldn't even get her to listen to
parliamentary rules. And the worst of it was, she was telling the truth.
That was something no one presumes to tell in local elections. To do it
breaks the first commandment of politics; but what do the women, bless
'em, care for our commandments?
The president of the school board at that time was Sanford Jones. He was
a large party who panned out about ninety-five per cent. solemnity and
the rest water on the brain. At this point in the proceedings he judged
it best to rise and turn the subject by telling us why woman should stay
at home. He got about two hundred words into circulation before Emma got
up. Her scandalized women friends tried to pull her down, and Pelty
Amthorne yelled "whoa," but she was in politics to stay.
"You look mighty fine standing up there, Mr. Jones," she shouted, "and
tellin' us women to go back home where we belong. But I just want to
tell this here crowd to-night that if you wasn't tighter than the bark
on a tree, your wife wouldn't have to do her own washing.
"That's why you want her to home. So you can save money."
After that a gloom fell over the meeting, and as no one else seemed to
care to speak, people began adjourning on all sides of Emma. After every
one else had gone she adjourned. There was no further attempt to hold a
caucus that year, and even now when any school faction desires to get
together and discuss things, it carefully conceals the news from Miss
Madigan.
That was just one of the many little surprises woman has handed to us
in Homeburg politics. Since they've gotten interested in school
affairs, it beats all how much influence they've got. Take Sadie
Askinson for instance. Her husband wanted to run for member of the
school board, and Sadie didn't want him to, because he was away from
home enough nights anyway, goodness knows. Sim was stubborn, and said
the night before election that he was going down and have some ballots
printed, anyway, and run. But he didn't, because that night Sadie cut
every button off of every garment he had and threw them down into the
well. When the kindergarten business came up about ten years ago, old
Colonel Ackley hung out against it on the board. Said he wasn't going to
stand for wasting the people's money on such foolishness. But he did,
because the Young Ladies' Vigilance Society came and wept upon his
shoulder. It was organized for that purpose, and after the seventh young
lady had soaked up Ackley's coat, he said he'd either vote for
kindergarten or leave town, and he didn't care much which.
Mrs. Wert Payley, who really runs our school system and once marred her
proud record by defeating a good school superintendent because he didn't
give her daughter good marks, says the English suffragettes are poor
sticks and don't know how to demand the ballot. "If the Homeburg women
were ready to go after any more ballot than we have now," says she,
"would we fool away time getting arrested? Not much! We'd turn our
attention to the men. Every Homeburg woman would take care of her
husband and argue with him. Maybe all the men in town would find 'Votes
for Women' in place of their dinners on the table one night, and sewed
on to their coats the next morning. Maybe they would get corn-meal mush
for thirty days, and maybe, if any he politician presumed to get
obnoxious, he would be dealt with on the public street by a committee.
I know Homeburg, I think, and before Calvin Briggs would stand for the
guying he would receive after half a dozen women had gone down on their
knees to him and grabbed him around the legs so he couldn't get away,
he'd go out of politics. Suffragettes? Bah! What do they know about it?
I'd just like to know how long our men-folks in Homeburg would hold out
if we women were to get sick some fine morning and remain hopeless
invalids until we got the ballot. Why, if Wert Payley presumed to deny
me the ballot, I wouldn't think of parading about it. I'd just have the
girl starch his underwear for about two months, and if that didn't fetch
him, I'd start cleaning house and quit in the middle. The men will give
you anything, if you ask them the right way."
All of this makes us shiver, because we don't know just how long it will
be before the Homeburg women do make up their minds to have more
ballot. But when they do, we'll brace up like men and give it to them if
the State will let us. We just naturally hate to disappoint our
women-folks.
XII
CHRISTMAS AT HOMEBURG
_And What It Means_
Now don't urge me to stay longer, Jim, because I'm going to anyway. Just
to prove it, I'll take another of those gold-corseted cigars of yours,
which would elevate me from the masses to the classes in three puffs if
I smoked it back home. I didn't begin telling you how much I have
enjoyed myself because I intended to go and wanted to start the soft
music. I just wanted to begin on the job, that was all. It's going to
take me an hour, at least, to tell you and Mrs. Jim what this meal has
meant for me.
Oh, I know there have been better meals in history perhaps. I suppose
now and then a king gets real hungry and orders up a feed that might
have a shade on this one--just a shade. That's as far as I'll
compromise, Mrs. Jim. You needn't argue the matter. I'm a regular mule
in my opinions. But if you had given me crackers and cheese, and old,
decrepit flexible crackers at that, it would have been all the same. I'd
have devoured them with awe and thanksgiving, and I'd have marveled at
my luck. Here it is Christmas Day, and while half a million strangers in
New York have been eating their hearts along with the regular bill of
fare at boarding-houses and restaurants, I have been grabbed up and
taken into an actual home where they have a Christmas tree!
I always was lucky, Jim. Every time I fell out of a tree in my youth, I
landed on my head or some other soft spot, but this beats any luck I
ever had. Think of it! Me sitting around in the sub-cellar of gloom
yesterday afternoon with my family a thousand miles away, and deciding
to go to Boston for Christmas just because I'd have to travel ten hours
and that would be some time killed; and then, when I went to my
boarding-house for a clean collar, you called me up, just as I was
leaving. There's a special department of Providence working on my case.
Got a permanent assignment. And you are a Deputy Angel, Mrs. Jim.
Gratitude! You couldn't get my brand of gratitude anywhere. They don't
keep it in stock. Say the word and I will go back and eat a third piece
of mince pie, and die for you.
I don't want to seem critical. It's hard for me to criticize anything
right now, anyway, I'm so soaked and soused in contentment. I always
strive to admit all of New York's good points, and I've gotten a job
here largely to encourage the old town and help it along. But I do think
that in one respect New York is in the bush league, so to speak. Even
with such people as you to help, you can't get much Christmas out of it.
When I think of Homeburg to-day, I feel proud and haughty. You can beat
us on most everything else, but when it comes to Christmas, we can't
notice you. You don't compete.