“JUST LIKE OLD TIMES”
Alice had a delightful day at Mandy Maxwell's. The twins, Abraham Mason
and Obadiah Strout, sturdy little fellows of the same age as Ezekiel's
boy, were full of fun and frolic. Swiss, Uncle Ike's dog, had grown old
in the past five years, but the antics of the youngsters overcame at
times both age and its accompanying dignity, or love of repose, and he
was often as frisky as in his younger days.
Mrs. Crowley told Alice, in confidence, that she “was most dead” with
the noise of them, and that, some day, she would be “kilt intirely” by
falling over them.
Alice held the little girl for hours, and, remembering Mrs. Hawkins'
complaint, called her “Martha” instead of “Mattie.”
After the death of Capt. Obed Putnam, his companion, Uncle Ike came down
from his attic and had the room that Quincy occupied when he boarded
with Ezekiel Pettingill. He was now eighty-one years of age, and too
feeble to go up and down stairs, so his meals were taken to his room.
He was greatly pleased to see Alice and to learn that there had been no
return of the trouble with her eyes.
“If we had known as much then as we do now, you wouldn't have needed any
doctor, Alice.”
“Why, how's that?” she asked.
“Because the mind governs the body; as we think we are--we are.”
“Well, Uncle Ike, why don't you think you are able to go down stairs and
walk back again?”
“I was referring to disease, not the infirmities of old age.”
“What's the difference, Uncle?”
“I can't explain it, but there's a mighty sight of difference. I've been
trying to get Mandy to let me live on sour milk, because a great doctor
in Europe says we'll live longer if we do.”
“How long would you care to live?”
“As long as I could. I've been reading up on all the religions and all
the substitutes, and it's going to take me some time to decide which is
best--for me, I mean. I don't presume to dictate to others.”
“Which do you favour so far?”
“I was brought up on theology--great, big doses of it. I was taught
that God was everything and man was nothing. Now I'm willing to give the
Almighty credit for all his wonderful works, but I can't help thinking
that _man_ deserves some credit for his thousands of years of labour.
There's a man out in Chicago who has got up a religion that he calls
Manology. There's some good points in it, but he goes too far to suit
me. I've read about ghosts and spirits, but I've got to see one before I
take stock in them.”
“I understand how you feel, Uncle. You have lost the two anchors which
make this life bearable. They are Faith and Hope. For them you have
substituted Reason--not the reason of others, or of the ages, but your
own personal opinion. Until you are satisfied, every one else is wrong.”
“Perhaps you're right, Alice. I can see now that my life has been
misspent. I should have remained at home and made my wife and children
happy. Instead, I became, virtually, a hermit, and for more than twenty
years I have thought only of myself and done nothing for humanity, that
has done everything for me.”
Alice was deeply touched by her Uncle's self-accusation. He had been
good to her, and not unkind to others. But he was drifting in a sea of
doubt, and really wishing to live his life over again. She felt sorry,
but what could she say to give his mind peace? She would begin on the
material plane.
“Uncle, how much money have you?”
“That's what troubles me, Alice. When I left home”--his voice lingered
on the word--“I gave my wife and children two-thirds of what I had. The
rest I put into an annuity, which dies with me. That will do nothing for
those I love and who love me.”
To Alice, the case seemed almost hopeless. Here was a man who, owning
his past life had been self-reliant, independent, impatient as regarded
advice and control--was now weaker than a child, for, in youth, Faith is
triumphant.
“You must have a talk with Quincy, Uncle. Perhaps he can help you.” She
went down stairs with a sinking heart. She loved her uncle, but love,
powerful as it is, cannot always cast out unbelief.
“Where can your husband be, Alice?” asked Mandy. “Half-past six, and
supper's ready. I remember how I used to call out 'supper's ready'
when you and he were in the parlour singing. I hope you'll sing some
to-night.”
Mrs. Crowley rushed into the dining room. “He's coming, but he's got a
woman with him.”
“Who can she be?” thought Alice as they followed Mrs. Crowley to the
front door.
“Hello, Alice,” cried Maude. “I've brought him back with me.”
Quincy told Ambrose, Mandy's boy-of-all-work, to drive the team to the
Hawkins' House and tell Mrs. Hawkins that he wished a room that night
for his sister. Ambrose's hand clutched the half-dollar tightly as
he repeated the message to Quincy's satisfaction. Mrs. Crowley gazed
admiringly at the Governor until he disappeared from view. Alone, in the
kitchen, she gave vent to her feelings.
“The foine gintleman that he is. 'How do you do, Mrs. Crowley.' sez he,
and he shakes me hand as jintly as if I was a born lady. And the pretty
sister that he has, an' the beautiful wife. An' he's the President of
the State, an' sez he, 'Mrs. Crowley, how do you do, an' it's delighted
I am to see you again.'”
Mrs. Crowley wiped her eyes with her apron and resumed her household
duties, occasionally repeating, “'How do you do, Mrs. Crowley.' When Dan
comes to-night I'll tell him what the Governor said.”
Hiram soon joined the party, it being his night off. As of old, he
stammered, or stuttered, when excited, and the sight of Quincy and Alice
was enough to entirely disorganize his speaking apparatus.
“Ain't this jolly?” said he. “Just like old times. I heerd you was at
Miss Hawkinses, but I didn't think as how you'd git round here so quick.
But we're mighty glad to see 'em, ain't we, Mandy? I hope you're all as
hungry as I am.” He went to the kitchen door and called, “Mrs. Crowley,
we're waiting for the supper.”
“How I wish Uncle Ike could be with us,” said Alice.
“Why can't you call him?” asked Quincy.
“He's too weak in his legs to come down,” said Mandy.
“I'll fetch him,” and Quincy bounded up stairs, while Mandy got a place
ready for him.
Quincy soon returned with Uncle Ike in his arms and placed him in a big
arm-chair at the head of the table.
Alice looked up and smiled at her husband.
“Now it is much more like old times,” she said, softly.
Maude, who had been an interested listener and spectator, finally
exclaimed, “I'm not surprised that you stayed down here four months,
Quincy, but we used to wonder, until we saw Alice, what the great
attraction was.”
Maude's explosive remark caused a general laugh in which Uncle Ike
joined. Alice, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon her, blushed
prettily, “As my husband's residence here brought good to others as well
as to myself, I am glad that a poor, blind girl, such as I was, proved
an attraction strong enough to keep him here.”
She stopped, somewhat abashed at making so long a speech, which Maude
might think indicated that she was offended at her sister-in-law's
reference to herself.
“Bravo, Alice,” cried Uncle Ike, “so say we all of us.”
After supper all adjourned to the parlour. Quincy offered to carry Uncle
Ike.
“No, young man. I'm all right on an even floor. It's these up and
down stairs that tire my loose joints”--and he made his way, without
assistance, to an easy chair in a farther corner. Quincy looked about
the room. Five years had made little change. The old square piano was
in its accustomed place, as well as the music stand. He looked over the
pieces--the same ones that he and Alice had sung together years ago.
“Let's have some music,” said Hiram. “We haven't heard any singers,
except Dan, since you folks went away. Guess that pianner's out of tune
by this time.”
It certainly was, but their hearts were in tune, and it mattered little
if some of the keys refused to move, or the sounds emitted were more
discordant than melodious.
“Is this Dan a good singer?” asked Quincy.
“Fine!” exclaimed Hiram. “He's great on Irish songs.”
“They are always humourous or pathetic,” remarked Alice. “Some of them
remind me of a person trying to laugh with a heart full of sorrow, and
their love songs are so sweet.”
“Can't we have him in?” asked Maude.
“I'll go and see if he's come,” said Mandy. “He often drops in and helps
Mrs. Crowley clear up after supper.”
Maude laughed. “A sure sign he's in love. I hope I'll get such a helpful
husband.”
“Your life will be on different lines,” remarked Uncle Ike. “You will
not be obliged to do your own housework.”
“I don't know about that. I've loafed all my life and I'd really like to
know what work is.”
Mandy came back with smiling face. “Yes, he's there, and they're putting
the dishes in the closet. He's coming in, and, of course, Mrs. Crowley
will come too.”
“While we are waiting, play something, Maude,” said Quincy.
“I only took three quarters,” she said roguishly, as she seated herself
and dashed off “Waves of Ocean” in strident style.
“I always liked that,” said Hiram.
“So do I, with my bathing-dress on,” and Maude acknowledged the applause
that greeted her efforts with a low bow.
The door was opened, and Mrs. Crowley entered followed by Mr. Daniel
Sweeney. Mrs. Crowley with her neat calico dress and white apron, did
not look her forty-five years, and Mr. Sweeney, although five years her
senior, was a young appearing man.
“I haven't the music with me,” said Mr. Sweeney to Maude, who offered to
play the accompaniment.
“Give me the key--I guess I can vamp it.”
Mr. Sweeney struck a note.
“What's the title?” asked Maude.
“Widow Mahan's Pig.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Maude. “It's one of my favourites. I often sing
it to my sister Florence. She just adores it.”
“Why, Maude,” cried Alice, “how can you tell such stories?” But Quincy
was laughing quietly. But few people understood Maude as he did.
Mr. Sweeney had a fine baritone voice; he sang with great expression,
and, what is particularly desirable in a comic song, the words could be
heard and understood.
I.
Young Widow Mahan had an iligant pig,
In the garden it loved for to wallow and dig;
On potatoes it lived, and on fresh buttermilk,
And its back was as smooth as fine satin or silk.
Now Peter McCarthy, a graceless young scamp,
Who niver would work, such a lazy young tramp,
He laid eye on the pig, as he passed by one day,
And the thafe of the world, he stole it away!
_Chorus_
An iligant pig in every way,
Young Widow Mahan used often to say:
“Faith, when it's full grown, I'll go to the fair,
A mighty foine price I'll get for it there.”
As Mr. Sweeney started to repeat the four lines of the chorus, a soprano
voice rose above his own, and, as the last note died away, Maude came
in for her share of the applause. Mrs. Crowley was delighted, and showed
her appreciation by laughing until she cried.
II
He drove the poor piggy to Ballyporeen,
And the price of it soon he did spend in poteen,
He got into a fight and was cracked on the head,
Then to jail he was carried and taken for dead.
The constable then for the Father did send,
For he thought that McCarthy was quite near his end;
He confessed to the priest, did this penitent youth,
About the pig stealing he told the whole truth.
Maude improvised a short symphony before the third and last stanza.
III
Then to young McCarthy, the Father did say:
“Now what will you do at the great Judgment Day?
For you will be there, at the bar you will stan'
The pig as a witness, and Widow Mahan.”
“Faith, what will I do?” young McCarthy did say.
“An' the pig will be there at the great Judgment Day?
Begorre! I'll say to the Widow, 'Asthore,
Take back your old pig, for I want it no more'
“'An iligant pig in ivery way,
Schwate Widow Mahan, plaze take it away.
Faith, now it's full grown, just go to the fair,
A mighty foine price you'll git for it there.'”
“Yes,” said Uncle Ike, “that's what the rich man will say. After
cheating the poor, buncoing the credulous, and 'cornering' his fellows,
he will say he is willing to give it back, for he has no further use
for it. There's a good moral in that song, Mr. Sweeney, and some of our
sordid millionaires ought to hear it.”
Quincy looked at his watch. “The hour is late--for the country, but,
fortunately, our hotel keeps open all night.”
Quincy carried Uncle Ike up stairs to his room and told him he would
come some day and have a good old-fashioned talk with him.
They walked home slowly, Maude admiring the moonlight night and the
cool, scented air. When they reached their own room, after seeing Maude
to hers, Alice repeated to her husband her conversation with Uncle Ike.
“You must do something to cheer him up, Quincy. Promise me, won't you?”
“Yes, I promise. I hope I won't forget to perform it as I have in one
instance.”
“Why--what?”
“Do you remember that young man at the Town Hall--Arthur Scates? He's in
consumption. I told him to come to the State House and I would see that
he had proper treatment. He hasn't been--or perhaps he has since I've
been away, but I will see him to-morrow.”
Alice looked up at him approvingly. “Quincy, I agree with you that the
real value of money is found in the good that can be done with it.”