The grandfather called me into the front room and handed me a book.
“Yer a schol-ar. What do you think of that?”
It was a history of the county. The frontispiece was a portrait of
Judge Somebody. But the book naturally opened at about the tenth
page, on an atrocious engraving of this goodly old man and his not
ill-looking wife. He breathed easier when I found it. It was plainly a
basis of family pride. I read the inscription.
“So you two are the oldest inhabitants?” I asked.
“The oldest per-pet-ual in-habitants. I was born in this coun-ty and
have nev-er left it. My wife is some young-er, but she has nev-er left
it, since she married me.”
Even the old lady grew civil. She tapped a brooch near her neck. “They
gave me this breast-pin at the last old-settlers’ picnic.”
The old man continued: “All the old farm is still here in our hands,
but mostly rented. It brings something, something. Our big income is
from my son’s well-digging. He never speculates and he makes money.”
It seemed a part of the old man’s pride to have even the passing
stranger realize they were well-fixed. In a furtive attempt to do
justice to their station in life they had a tall clock in the corner,
quite new and beautiful. And, as I discovered later, there was up
stairs a handsome bath-room. The rest of that new house was clean and
white, but helplessly Spartan.
The old folk were called to the back porch. At the same time I heard
the mother say, “Show the man your doll.”
And in came the little daughter like thistledown.
We were in that white room at opposite ends of the long table, and
nothing but the immaculate cloth stretching between us. She sat with
the doll clutched to her breast, looking straight into my eyes, the
doll staring at me also. The girl was such a piece of bewitchment that
the poem I brought to her about the magical _Tree of Laughing Bells_
seemed tame to me, and everyday. That foolish rhyme was soon read and
put into her hands. It seemed to give her an infinite respect for me.
And any human creature loves to be respected.
On the back porch the talking grew louder.
“Papa is telling them he wants to rent the rest of the farm and move us
all to town,” explained Gretchen.
It was the soft voice of the young wife we heard: “Of course it will be
nice to be nearer my church.”
And then the young father’s voice: “And I don’t want Gretchen to grow
up on the farm.”
And the old man’s voice, still nobly intoned: “And as I say, I don’t
want to be stub-born, but I don’t want to cross the coun-ty line.”
Gretchen banged the door on them and we crossed the county line indeed.
We told each other fairy-tales while the unheeded murmur of debate went
on.
When it came Gretchen’s turn, she alternated Grimm, and Hans Andersen
and the legends of the Roman Church. I had left the railroad resolved
to talk some one to death, and now with all my heart I was listening.
She knew the tales I had considered my special discoveries in youth:
“The Amber Witch,” “The Enchanted Horse,” “The Two Brothers.” She also
knew that most pious narrative, _Elsie Dinsmore_. She approved when I
told her I had found it not only sad but helpful in my spiritual life.
She had found it just so in hers.