IN A MAGAZINE.
There came a day, and it followed the picnic, with not a week between,
when Lyman's midnight scratching, done at the house of old Uncle
Buckley, came out into the dazzling light. A story written by him
appeared in one of the leading magazines of the East. It was a simple
recital, a picture of the country and its people, and so close down
upon the earth did it lie that a patter of rain that fell somewhere
among the words brought a sweet scent from the blackberry briars, and
a smell of dust from the rain. There were intelligent reading persons,
in Old Ebenezer, and with the big eye of astonishment they viewed the
story, but they were afraid to form an opinion until the critic of the
"State Gazette," following a bold lead struck by an eastern reviewer,
declared it to be a piece of masterly work. And then the town of Old
Ebenezer was glad to assert its admiration. The leading hardware man
said that he had noticed from the first that there was something
strange about the fellow.
"And," said he, "you can never tell what a strange sort of a fellow
may pop up and do. Now, there was old Kincade's son Phil. Everybody
knew he was curious; everybody could see that, but they didn't know
how to place him. I told them not to place him. I told them there was
no telling where he might break out. His daddy said he was a fool. I
said 'wait.' Well, they waited, and what came? The boy discovered a
process for tanning coon hides without bark, and now look at him.
Worth ten thousand dollars if he's worth a cent."
A saddler gave his opinion: "I knew he had it in him. I haven't read
his article, but I'll bet it's good. Why, he's said things in my shop
that it would be worth anybody's while to remember. Just stepped in
and said them and went out like it wasn't no trouble at all. And look
what he's done for the paper here! Every time he touches her he makes
her flinch like a hoss-fly lightin' on a hoss. And when everybody was
making such a mouth about that fool marriage, I--well, I just kept my
mouth shut and didn't say a word."
Warren was the proudest man in town. He was so elated and so busy
talking about the story that he never found time to read it, except
to dip into it here and there, to find something to start him off on a
gallop of praise.
"Why didn't you tell me, so that I might have known what to expect?
Why did you nurse it so long?" Warren asked, as he and Lyman sat in
the office.
"Oh, I hadn't anything to tell, except of a probable prospect. And
nothing is more tiresome than to listen to a man's hopes."
"But you must have known that the story would be a success."
"No, I didn't."
"Well, maybe not. It was fortunate to drive center the first shot."
Lyman laughed sadly. "Warren," said he, nodding toward the magazine,
which lay upon the table, "I began to scatter seeds so long ago that I
hardly know when; and one has sprouted. I have been writing stories
for the magazines ever since I was a boy, and they were returned with
a printed 'thank you for--' and so forth. I had thought, as many young
writers think, that I must be deep and learned. I didn't know that one
half-hidden mood of nature, one odd trait of man, one little reminder
to the reader of something that had often flitted across his mind, was
of more value than the essence of a thousand books. I strove to climb
a hill where so many are constantly falling and rolling to the bottom.
At last I opened my eyes and shut my memory, and then I began to
progress. But not without the most diligent work. This story, (again
nodding toward the magazine) was written six times at least."
"Why, you have made it look as easy as falling off a log," said
Warren.
"Yes; it was work that made it look easy. There are two sorts of
successful stories; one that makes the reader marvel at its art; the
other one that makes the reader believe that almost anybody could have
written it. The first appeals to the stylist and may soon die. The
other may live to be a classic."
"Go ahead. That sort of talk catches me. It seems now that I have
thought it many times, but just didn't happen to say it. Have you got
anything in hand now?"
"Yes; I might as well let it all out now. I have a book accepted by a
first-class house, and I have a long story which I may submit to a
magazine to be published as a serial in the event of the success of
the book."
"You are all right. I have often told you that. Why, some of the
things you have written for this paper would do to go into the school
readers along with the dialogue between some fellow--forget his name
now--and Humphrey Dobbins; and that barber who lived in the City of
Bath. Recollect? Let's see, 'Respect for the Sabbath Rewarded.' Don't
you know now? 'And say,' the stranger says to him, 'I have glorious
news for you. Your uncle is dead,' and so on. But it used to tickle me
to think the fellow could find any glory in the news of his uncle's
death, but I guess he did."
"Yes, I remember. He was the barber that wouldn't shave on Sunday. And
as a reward his uncle died and left him a lot of money. And you'd hit
it off pretty well now by marking out virtue in 'Virtue Is Its Own
Reward,' and substituting 'money.'"
"But I don't think we've got very much cause to complain," said
Warren. "We gathered in five subscribers yesterday, and three today,
besides an electric belt ad, to run for six months. Oh, we're all
right, and the first thing you know, we'll have some new clothes. We
don't want any hand-me-downs. About two weeks ago I went into the
tailor's shop across the square, and picked out a piece of cloth. But
when I passed there yesterday I noticed that some scoundrel had bought
it. Why, helloa; come in."
Uncle Buckley Lightfoot stood in the door. His approach had been so
soft that they did not hear him. His tread was always noiseless when
he walked in strange places. He appeared to be afraid of breaking
something.
"Come in!" Lyman shouted, springing to meet him.
"Howdy do; howdy do." He seized Lyman and then shook hands with
Warren. "I jest thought I'd look in and see how Sammy was gettin'
along. And I promised mother that if he was busy I'd jest peep in and
then slip away. Sammy, you look as peart as a red bird."
"Sit down, Uncle Buckley," said Lyman. "Let me take off your
leggings."
"Jest let them alone where they are, Sammy," the old man replied. "I
haven't got long to stay, for I don't want to keep you from your work.
Jest put those saddle-bags over there on the table. No, wait a minute.
I've got something in 'em for you. Look here," he added, taking out a
package; "mother sent you some pickles."
"Oh, I'm a thousand times obliged to her," said Lyman, putting the
package and the saddle-bags on the table. "Tell her so, please."
"I'll do that. Lawd bless you, Sammy; I do reckon she knows what a man
needs. And she says to me, 'Pap, you shan't go one step toward that
fetch-taked town unless you agree to take Sammy some pickles made
outen the finest cucumbers that ever growd.' And I jest said, 'You do
up your pickles and don't you be askeered of me.' And she begins then
to fix 'em up, a-talkin' all the time fitten to kill herself. 'The
idea of a man bein' shet up there in that musty place, without any
pickles,' she says; 'it's enough to kill him, the Lord knows.' And I
wanted to sorter relieve her distress, and I 'lowed that mebby there
was pickles in town; and she turned about, lookin' like she wanted
to fling somethin' at me. 'Pap,' she says, and I begin to dodge back,
'for as smart a man as you are, I do think you can say the foolishest
things of anybody I ever seen. Pickles fitten to eat in a town where
if a person ain't dressed up he can't get into the churches on the
Lord's day; and where, if they do get in, the minister won't even so
much as cast his eye on 'em while he's a preachin' of his sermon!
Pickles indeed,' she says, and I kep' on a dodgin'. How are you
gettin' along, Sammy?"
[Illustration: a discussion]
"First rate."
"But what's this joke they've got on you about bein' married?"
"That's what it is, Uncle Buckley, a joke."
"I told Jimmy and Lige that it was only a prank. I knowed you weren't
goin' to throw yourself away on no one here, when the woods are full
of 'em out our way that would like to have you. Don't dodge, Sammy.
Stand right up to your fodder, for you know it's a fact. It made
mother powerful mad. She took it that you wanted the gal, and the old
man thought you wa'n't good enough. And she boiled. 'Why, he can start
a church tune better than any person we ever had in the
neighborhood,' she 'lowed. 'Not good enough, indeed!' And I dodged on
off, sorter laughin' as I ducked behind the hen-house. And that
reminds me, Sammy, that a varmint come the other night and toated off
the likeliest rooster I had on the place. Mother woke me at night, and
asked if that wa'n't a chicken squallin.' I told her that I had the
plan of a new barn in my head, and that I couldn't let the squallin'
of no sich thing as a chicken drive it out, and I went to sleep. But
you ought to have seen the look she gave me the next mornin' when we
found feathers scattered all over the yard. By the way, Sammy, where
is the other man; the great lawyer that was your partner? Is he out at
present?"
"Yes, Uncle Buckley, he's out at present, and for good. We have
dissolved partnership."
"No!" said the old man, dropping his jaw. "Why, I thought you and him
was together for keeps. And you don't really mean to tell me that you
ain't, Sammy?"
"He has an office on the other side of the square, and I'm not in the
law business," Lyman replied. "Warren and I are running this paper."
"When did you quit each other?" the old man asked, leaning forward
and picking at his blanket leggings.
"Why, the day you were in here. You remember I left you here with him.
When I came back he had decided to set aside the partnership."
The old man looked up at the ceiling. "I reckon it's all right, but I
don't exactly get the hang of it," he said, getting up and taking his
hat off the table.
"Understand what, Uncle Buckley?" Lyman asked.
"Oh, nothin'. It's all right, I reckon. Young feller, jest keep on a
shootin' your paper at me. We find some mighty interestin' readin' in
it; and sometimes Lige he breaks out in a loud laugh over a piece, and
he 'lows, 'if that ain't old Sammy, up and up, I don't want a cent.'
Well, boys, I've some knockin' around to do and I'll have to bid you
good day."