AN EVENING FÊTE
My Father--His Love for Potted Trees--A Local Fête--Show
Booths--Goldfish Booths--Singing Insects--How a Potted Tree Was
Bought.
Evenings were not without enjoyment for me. And for this I owe much to
my father.
My father was a silent, close-mouthed man. His words to children were
few and mostly in a form of command. They were never disobeyed, partly
because it was father who spoke, but more because we knew that he spoke
only when he had to. Indeed, he carried a formidable air about him,
apparently engrossed in thought somewhat removed from his immediate
concern. He was by no means philosophical, however, and his reticent
habit was born of the peculiar circumstances under which he was
laboring. Fortune was evidently against him. And partly out of sympathy
with him and partly out of fear of breaking his spell, when we had
something to ask of him--boys have many wants--we had some indirect
means to devise. Thus, when my cap had worn out and I wanted a new one,
I dropped a hint in his presence by way of a soliloquy: “I wish I had a
new cap. My old one is worn out.” Saying this just once at a time and
thrice in the course of one evening, if I persevered for three nights,
I used to have my old cap replaced with a new one on the next day!
He knew that he was fighting against odds, but his spirit was never
crushed. He only persevered. One day he came back from his evening
stroll with a piece of bamboo flute. Evidently he was attracted by a
tune a man at the corner of a street was playing on it as he sold his
wares, and felt his soul suddenly gain its freedom and soar to the sky.
I remember how well he loved his instrument, and from day to day he
used to pour out low, mournful tunes. But his art was never equal to
the demand of his soul, and one evening the bamboo flute was laid aside
for a pot containing a dwarf pine-tree.
You may well wonder how a flowerless potted tree could be preferred to
even the commonest tune for spiritual solace. But at any rate it was a
piece of nature, and was healing to behold. And then, in its fantastic
shape, there was a beauty of repose which had a very soothing effect,
but which required some study for appreciation. But in his case, there
was something deeper in the matter. A tree over fifty years old, which,
if left in the field, would have grown to an immense size, was reduced
by human art to only a foot in height, and was kept alive on a potful
of earth. My father must have read a history of his own in it and tried
to learn a secret of contentment from it.
One by one potted trees were added to his stock,--he could afford to
buy only at odd intervals,--and presently shelves were provided for
them in the small garden. Morning and evening he attended to them, and
with patience as well as with pleasure looked forward to the time when
his care would result in a growth of just an inch and a quarter of pine
leaves and palm leaves two inches by three in size.
One night an unexpected thing happened. A thief found his way to the
garden from the back door and sneaked away with half a dozen of the
choice trees. Naturally, my father was distressed, but after a while he
was patiently filling the vacancy one by one, of course seeing that the
back door should be securely locked every night.
I was going to tell you something about the amusements I had in the
evening, but it was mainly due to this love of my father’s for potted
trees that I was taken regularly to a local fête, held three times a
month. The day for this was fixed; it fell on every day connected
with, the number seven; that is, the seventh, the seventeenth, and the
twenty-seventh. And as in the calendar, rain or shine, it came and
went. Naturally, I had my weather bureau open on that day to see if
the evening was all right, for a wet night would be an irretrievable
loss. At the police stand they published a forecast in the morning, but
that was not to be too much relied on. It sometimes said rain when it
was anything but wet, and fine when it was actually drizzling--though
in the latter case I rather inclined to believe the report even if it
ended in sorrow.
I did not need any formality of asking to be taken; it was a matter
of course with me as long as I behaved well. This behaving, however,
was peculiar. I had to be waiting for my father outside and follow him
when he came out, without saying anything or shouting for delight for a
block or so. The reason for this was simple. Mother objected to sending
out the younger members of our family in the evening, and especially
to such a crowded place where they were liable to be lost. My going
there must not attract their attention.
One evening I slipped off with my father in this way. The place where
the fête was held was not far away, and after two or three turnings
we soon came to the street. At a distance, you might take it for a
fire, for the tiny stalls and booths crowding the place were lighted
by hundreds of kerosene torches which flared and smoked. The central
section of the street was not more than two blocks in length, but it
was literally packed with six rows of booths and stalls and with such a
concourse of people that there did not seem to be room even to move.
The approach to the scene was marked by some show booths. Hung in front
were some wonderful pictures of what was to be seen within: a serpent
over thirty feet long, which had lived in some distant part of the
country and had actually swallowed two babies; a woman who had a real
rubber neck which could be stretched so far that while sitting still
her head could wander all over the house; monkeys dressed in old-style
costume and giving some theatrical performance, and so on. The entrance
fee was a penny, and men stood outside crying the various excellencies
of their shows, and when you stopped before one of them and looked at
the sign, they would lift the curtain for a second and drop it again,
just to whet your curiosity. I naturally wanted very much to look at
some of the monstrosities, and watched to see if the inducement would
work on my father, but, much to my disappointment, he walked calmly on
with his hands in his sleeves.
Now we came in front of the goldfish booths. It was simply fascinating
to see such a number of dear little things swimming in wooden tubs,
some being hung high in glass globes by the side of helpless turtles
enjoying air riding. In the next two or three booths were masses of
minute bamboo cages. Most of them were only three inches by two. Here
they were selling all sorts of singing insects and fire-worms. And what
an orchestra these tiny winged things were! There were bell insects
which chirped on “chinkororin, chinkororin,” in staccato, crickets
which hummed in sweet undulating “rin--rin--rin,” and katydids which
broke in with a cymbal-like “gaja, gaja,” as we say. I watched to see
if these things would tempt my father, but no, his face was set on
something else ahead.
Now a great part of these enterprising peddlers were gardeners by
profession. And out of the six rows of booths in the central portion
three were shows of potted flowers and trees. They even had for sale
grown-up trees half as tall as a telegraph-pole! As we came to this
part my father slackened his pace. Here was something at last which
interested him. He took time to examine some of the nice potted trees,
and his progress was very slow indeed, somewhat to my annoyance. I
would rather have him stop before a candy booth than in these places.
After a while, however, he found one tree much to his liking. He was
tempted just to ask the price of it.
“Ten dollars, sir,” was the answer.
My father smiled dryly and passed on.
“How much you give, Mister?” asked the man.
No answer.
“I’ll make it five dollars this time, Mister,” cried the man. Still
receiving no answer, he came after us. “But give me your price, Mister.”
“Fifty cents,” said my father.
“Ough, that won’t pay even the express. Give me a dollar, then.”
But my father was already some distance away. The man, growing
desperate to lose him, cried aloud:
“Mi-ster, you can have it for the price. This is the first one I have
sold this evening. I must start the sale, anyway.”
So my father came into possession of one more potted tree. The price
was low, to be sure, but the man did not undersell his goods.
There seemed to be nothing now to do but to wend our way home as my
father turned round at the corner and came down with the crowd. We
passed toy booths, basket booths, booths where hairpins with beautiful
artificial flowers were sold, or where all sorts of fans, bamboo
screens, and sundry other things were for sale. And we passed them
apparently without any interest, at least on my father’s part. I was
wondering what my father would buy for me, when whom should I meet but
my aunt and Tomo-chan just going round the street in the other way?
I spoke with Tomo-chan while my father and aunt were exchanging some
remarks--possibly about the potted tree.
“Did you get something bought for you?” I asked.
“No, not yet. I’ve just come, you know. And you?”
“N-no. But--”
I could not say the rest as my father and aunt parted and the crowd was
pushing between us, and so I waved my hand to say good-by to Tomo-chan.
We soon came almost to the end of the gay portion of the street, and
after a few booths a touch of festival air would be gone, when my
father halted before a molasses candy booth, and, to my great joy,
bought a nickel’s worth of cake. We got a big, swollen bagful; this
was for me and for our stay-at-home folks. I wished that I had met
Tomo-chan once more.