Chapter 10

"I tell ye what! I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems, then soon 's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not, I'll astonish the nation, An' all creation, By flyin' over the celebration! I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow; An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 'What world 's this 'ere That I've come near?' Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon! An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' bulloon." He crept from his bed; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm gittin' over the cold'n my head." And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed.

His brothers had walked but a little way, When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, "What is the feller up to, hey?" "Do'no': the's suthin' ur other to pay, Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." Says Burke, "His toothache's all'n his eye! _He_ never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, Ef he hedn't got some machine to try." Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn! Le's hurry back an' hide'n the barn, An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!" "Agreed!" Through the orchard they crept back, Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, Dressed in their Sunday garments all; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. And there they hid; And Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark!" said he, "While I squint an' see what the' is to see."

As knights of old put on their mail,-- From head to foot an iron suit, Iron jacket and iron boot, Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot instead, And under the chin the bail (I believe they call the thing a helm), Then sallied forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm,-- So this _modern_ knight Prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight, Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,-- Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip; Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! And a helm had he, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship. "Hush!" Reuben said, "He's up in the shed! He's opened the winder,--I see his head! He stretches it out, an' pokes it about, Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear An' nobody near: Guess he do'no' who's hid in here! He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still! He's a climbin' out now--Of all the things! What's he got on? I van, it's wings! An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail! An' there he sets, like a hawk on a rail! Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat, Peeps over his shoulder, this way an' that, Fur to see 'f the 's any one passin' by; But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. _They_ turn up at him a wonderin' eye, To see--The dragon! he's goin' to fly! Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump! Flop--flop--an' plump To the ground with a thump! Flutt'rin an' flound'rin', all 'n a lump!"

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere,-- Heels over head and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-- So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs, Broken tail and broken wings, Shooting-stars, and various things, Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, And much that wasn't so sweet by half. Away with a bellow fled the calf; And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, "Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?" Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. "Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said; "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight O' fun in't when ye come to light."

I just have room for the MORAL here: And this is the moral: Stick to your sphere. Or, if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is, Take care how you light.

PAPER: A POEM

BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Some wit of old,--such wits of old there were,-- Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care, By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, Called clear blank paper every infant mind! Then still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. I (can you pardon my presumption), I-- No wit, no genius--yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce, The wants of fashion, elegance and use. Men are as various; and, if right I scan, Each sort of _paper_ represents some _man_.

Pray not the fop,--half powder and half lace,-- Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; He's the _gilt paper_, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the escritoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth, Are _copy-paper_, of inferior worth,-- Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed. Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is coarse _brown paper_, such as peddlers choose To wrap up wares which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys Health, fame and fortune in a round of joys. Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout. He's a true _sinking paper_, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought Deems _this_ side always right, and _that_ stark naught; He foams with censure, with applause he raves,-- A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves: He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim While such a thing as _foolscap_ has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Who picks a quarrel if you step awry, Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure,-- What's he? What? _Touch-paper_, to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall, Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? Them and their works in the same class you'll find: They are the mere _waste paper_ of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet; She's fair _white paper_, an unsullied sheet, On which the happy man, whom fate ordains, May write his _name_, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one, I'll bring; 'Tis the _great man_ who scorns a little thing, Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims, are his own, Formed on the feelings of his heart alone; True genuine _royal paper_ is his breast,-- Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

NIAGARA BE DAMMED[7]

BY WALLACE IRWIN

"Them beauties o' Nature," said Senator Grabb, As he spat on the floor of Justitia's halls, "Is pretty enough and artistic enough-- Referrin', of course, to Niagara Falls, Whose waters go rumblin' and mumblin' and grumblin' And tearin' and stumblin' and bumblin' and tumblin' And foamin' and roarin' And plungin' and pourin' And wastin' the waters God gave to us creechers To wash down our liquor and wash up our feechers-- Then what in the deuce Is the swish-bingled use O' keepin' them noisy old cataracts busy To give folks a headache and make people dizzy?

"Some poets and children and cripples and fools They say that them Falls is eternal. That so? Say, what is Eternity, Nature, and God Compared to the Inter-Graft Gaslighting Co.? Could all the durn waterfalls born in creation Compete with a sugar or soap corporation? But Nature, you feel, Has a voice in the deal? She ain't. For I'm deaf both in that ear and this un-- If Nature talks Money I'm willin' to listen! So bring on your dredges, And shovels and sledges, Yer bricklayers, masons, yer hammers and mauls-- The public be dammed while we dam up the Falls.

"Just look at the plans o' me beautiful dream! A sewer-pipe conduit to carry the Falls Past eight hundred mill-wheels (great savin' of steam): The cliffs to be covered with dump heaps and walls, With many a smokestack and fly-wheel and pulley, Bridge, engine, and derrick--say, won't it look bully! With, furnaces smokin', And stokers a-stokin' With factory children a-workin' like Scotches A-turnin' out chewing-gum, shoe-laces, watches, And kitchen utensils, And patent lead-pencils, And mission-oak furniture, pie-crust, and flannels-- Thus turnin' Niag' to legitimate channels.

"The province o' Beauty," said Senator Grabb, "Is bossed by us fellers that know what to do. When Senator Copper hogs half of a State He builds an Art Palace on Fift' Avenoo. What people believed in the dark Middle Ages Don't go in this chapter o' history's pages, And the worship of mountains And rivers and fountains Is sinful, idolatrous, dark superstition-- And likely to lose in a cash proposition. Ere the good time is past Let's get busy and cast Our bread on the waterfall--it'll come back. We'll first pass the Grabb Bill, and then pass the sack."

FOOTNOTES:

[7] From "At the Sign of the Dollar," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1905, by Fox, Duffield & Co.

THE FORBEARANCE OF THE ADMIRAL[8]

BY WALLACE IRWIN

I ain't afeard o' the Admiral, Though a common old tar I be, And I've oftentimes spoke to the Admiral Expressin' a bright idee; For he's very nice at takin' advice And a tractable man is he.

For once I says to the Admiral, Unterrified, though polite, "Don't think me critical, Admiral, But yer vessel ain't sailin' right; For our engine should be burnin' wood And our rattlelines should be tight."

But when I spoke to the Admiral He wasn't inclined to scold, Though me words, addressed to the Admiral, Was intimate-like and bold, (But he was up on deck at the time And I was down in the hold).

FOOTNOTES:

[8] From "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1904, by Dodd, Mead & Co.

FATE

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK

Once I planted some potatoes In my garden fair and bright; Unelated Long I waited, And no sprout appeared in sight.

But my "peachblows" in the cellar, On the cold and grimy flag, All serenely Sprouted greenly In an ancient paper bag.

THE LIFE ELIXIR OF MARTHY

BY ELIZABETH HYER NEFF

"An-ndrew! An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"Andrew, what be you doin' out there? You've ben sayin' 'Yes, Marthy,' for the last ten minutes."

The patient, middle-aged face of Andrew appeared in the doorway, its high, white forehead in sharp contrast with the deeply tanned features below it.

"I've jest ben takin' your buryin' clothes off the line an' foldin' 'em up. It is such a good day to air 'em for fall--and, then,--I jest hate to tell you!--the moths has got into the skirt of your shroud. I sunned it good, but the holes is there yet."

"Moths!" screamed the thin voice, sharpened by much calling to people in distant rooms. "Then they've got all over the house, I presume to say, if they've got into that. Why don't you keep it in the cedar chist?"

"Because it's full of your laid-by clothes now, and I keep my black suit that you had me git for the funeral in there, too. There ain't room. You told me allus to keep your buryin' clothes in a box in the spare room closet, so's they'd be handy to git if they was wanted in the night. You told me that four or five years ago, Marthy."

"So I did. And I presume to say that my good three-ply carpet that mother gave me when we was married is jest reddled with moths--if they're in that closet. If it wasn't for keepin' that spare room ready for the cousins in Maine when they come to the buryin', I'd have you take up that carpet and beat it good and store it in the garret. My, oh, my, what worries a body has when they can't git around to do for themselves! Now it's moths, right on top of Mr. Oldshaw's death after he'd got my discourse all prepared on the text I picked out for him. He had as good as preached it to me, and it was a powerful one, a warnin' to the ungodly not to be took unawares. I advised him to p'int it that way. Then, Jim Woodworth's Mary is leavin' the choir to marry and go west, and I jest won't have Palmyra Stockly sing 'Cool Siloam' over me. I can settle that right now, for I couldn't abide the way she acted about that church fair--and she sings through her nose anyway. An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"You oughtn't to go walkin' off when a body is talkin' to you. You allus do that."

"I c'n hear you, Marthy. I'm jest in the kitchen. I thought the dinner had b'iled dry."

"Are you gittin' a b'iled dinner? It smells wonderful good. What you got in it?"

"Corned beef and cabbage and onions and potatoes and turnips. I've het up a squash pie and put out some of the cider apple sauce that will spile if it isn't et pretty soon. I'll put the tea a-drawin' soon's the kittle b'iles."

Andrew's voice came into the sick room in a mechanical recitative, as if accustomed to recount every particular of the day's doings.

"Well, I guess you can bring me some of it. You bring me a piece of the corned beef and consid'able of the cabbage and potaters and an onion or two. And if that cider apple sauce is likely to spile, I might eat a little of it; bring me a cooky to eat with it. And a piece of the squash pie. What else did you say you had?"

"That's all."

"Don't forgit to put on consid'able of bread. It's a good while till supper, and I don't dast to eat between meals."

Andrew brought the tray to the bedside and propped up the invalid before he ate his own dinner. He had finished it and cleared up the table before the high voice called again: "An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"Is there any more of the corned beef? You brought me such a little mite of a piece."

"Yes, there's plenty more, but I knew you'd object if I brought it first. Like it, did you?"

"Yes, it was tol'able. Them vegetables was a little rich, but maybe they won't hurt me. You might bring me another cooky when you come.--Now, you set down a minute while you're waitin' for my dishes. I've ben worryin' 'bout them moths every minute since you told me, and somethin' has got to be done."

"I know it. I hated to tell you, but I thought you ought to know. I guess I c'n clean 'em out the next rainy spell when I have to stay in."

"No, you can't wait for that. And you can't do it anyway. There's things a man can do, and then again there's things he can't. You're uncommon handy, Andrew, but you're a man."

Andrew's deprecatory gesture implied that he couldn't help it.

"I've thought of that ever so much in the years that I've ben layin' here, and I've worried about what you're goin' to do when I ain't here to plan and direct for you. Those moths are jest an instance. Now, what you goin' to do when you have to think for yourself?"

"I do' know, but you ain't goin' to git up a new worry 'bout that, I hope?"

"No, it is not a new worry. It's an old one, but it's such a delicate subject, even between man and wife, that I've hesitated to speak of it. Andrew, I don't want you to stay single but jest six months--jest six months to the very day after I'm laid away. I've spoken to Hannah Brewster to come in and do for you twice a week, same as she does now, and to mend your socks and underclothes for six months, and then I want you to--git married."

"Why, Marthy!"

"You needn't gasp like you was struck. I presume to say you'd do it anyway without thinkin' it over well beforehand. I've allus planned and thought things over for you till I don't know whether you'd be capable of attendin' to that or not. And I'd go off a sight easier if I knew 'twas all settled satisfactory. I'd like to know who's goin' to keep my house and wear my clothes and sun my bed quilts, and I could have her come and learn my ways beforehand."

"Good gracious, Marthy! There's a limit to plannin'--and directin'--even for as smart a woman as you be. You're not goin' to know whether she'll--consent or not, not while--while you're here, yet. And you're gittin' no worse; it does seem like you're gittin' better all the time. Last time Aunt Lyddy was here she said you was lookin' better'n she ever see you before. I told her you'd picked up in your appetite consid'able. You'll git up yet and be my second wife yourself."

"Yes, Aunt Lyddy allus thinks great things 'bout me; she never would believe how low I've ben, but I guess I know how I be. No, you can't head me off that way, with the moths in my best things and one of my grandmother's silver spoons missin'. If there's one thing a forethoughtful woman ought to plan beforehand, it's to pick out the woman who's to have her house and her things and her husband."

Andrew wriggled uncomfortably. "I shouldn't wonder if the dish water was a-b'ilin', Marthy."

"No, it isn't. You haven't got fire enough. And we'd better settle this matter while we're at it."

"Settle it! Why, Marthy, you talk 's if you wanted me to go 'n' git married on the spot and bring my second wife home to you before--while you're still here. I'm no Mormon. Like's not you've got her selected; you're such a wonderful hand to settle things."

"I can't say 's I've got her selected--not the exact one--but I've ben runnin' over several in my mind. We'd better have several to pick from, and then if some refused you, we'd still have a chance."

"But how would you git any of 'em to consent?" asked Andrew with a show of interest.

"How else but ask 'em? They would understand how I feel about you. The hull town knows how I've laid here expectin' every day to be to-morrow, and if I want that thing settled before I go, I don't see how it could make talk."

"Now, who had you sorted out to pick from?" and Andrew leaned back comfortably in his chair. His wife punched up her pillow to lift her head higher.

"Well, there's the widows first. I've sorted them over and over till I've got 'em down to four that ain't wasteful cooks nor got too many relations. There's Widow Jackson--"

"She's weakly," promptly decided Andrew.

"And Mary Josephine Wilson--"

"She don't go to our church. What about the old maids?"

"I don't take much stock in old maids. The likeliest person I know, and I wouldn't call her an old maid, either, is Abilonia Supe. Her mother was counted the best breadmaker in North Sudbury, and Abby was the neatest darner in her class at sewing school."

"But, why, Marthy, isn't Abby promised to Willy Parks?"

"No; I asked Mis' Parks about that yisterday. She said Willy had been waitin' on Abby for four or five years, but they'd had a misunderstandin' this summer, and it was broke off for good."

"He ought to be horsewhipped!" said Andrew warmly. "Abilonia Supe is the finest girl in North Sudbury."

"Ye-es," admitted Marthy reluctantly. "You're sure she wouldn't be too young for you, are you?"

"Too young? For me? I don't want to marry my grandmother, I guess. And I'm not Methusalem myself," and he shook the stoop out of his back and spread the thin hair across his bald spot. His wife looked at him in wondering surprise.

"Abby has had rather a hard time since her mother died," she said weakly.

"Indeed she has, and she deserves to have it easy now. She needs somebody to take care of her if that scamp--and she isn't bad lookin', either--Abby isn't. I tell you, Marthy, there isn't your beat in the hull town for managin' forethoughtedness. Sick or well, you've allus ben a captain at managin'. Now, come to think it over, this isn't a bad idee. But, how'll we git her consent? Maybe I'd better step over and--well--ruther lead up to the subject. I might--"

"That dish water's a-b'ilin', Andrew. It's a-b'ilin' hard. I c'n hear it."

Andrew started briskly for the kitchen, and the dishes clattered merrily. An hour later he framed himself in the doorway in his Sunday clothes.

"I have to go down to the store this afternoon to git that baggin' for the hops, and I can jest as well 's not go round by Supes' and--sort of--talk that over with Abby--and tell her your wishes. I never deny you nothin', Marthy; you know that. If it'll be any comfort to you, I'll jest brace up and do it, no matter how hard it is."

"Well--say, Andrew, wait a minute. Maybe you'd better wait till we talk it over a little more. I might consult with Abby, myself, on the subject--An-ndrew! An-ndrew! That man is gittin' a good deal deafer'n he'll own to."

It was quite supper time when Andrew returned; it was too late to cook anything, so he brought Marthy some of the Sunday baked beans and brown bread, with the cider apple sauce.

"Well, you must 'a' had a time of it with her," suggested his wife as he placed the tray. "I hope you didn't do more'n make a suppositious case and find out what her sentiments was."

"That was what I set out to do, but she was so surprised an' asked so many questions that I jest had to up and tell her what I was drivin' at. I told her that it was your last wish, and that you'd set your heart on it till you felt like you couldn't die easy unless you knew who was goin' to have your house and your beddin' and--me, and after I'd reasoned with her quite a spell and she'd ruther got used to the idee, she saw how 'twas. I thought you'd like to have it settled, because you allus do, and, as you say, there's no tellin' what day'll be to-morrow. Then, that Willy Parks is likely to come back and spile the hull plan."

"Settle it all? Why, what did she say to it?"

"I guess you may call it settled. I asked her if she'd consider herself engaged to me--"

"What? What's that? Engaged to you?"

"Yes; isn't that what you wanted?"

"What did she say to that?"

"She said yes, she guessed that she would, though she would like to think it over a little."

"I didn't presume to think you'd go and get it all settled without talkin' it over with me, and I calc'lated to--to do the arrangin' myself. What did she say when she consented to it, Andrew?"

Andrew squirmed on the edge of his chair. "I guess my tea is coolin' out there. I'd better go and eat, now."

"A minute more won't make no difference. What did she say?"

"She said--why, she said--a whole lot of things. She said she never expected to marry; that she wanted to give her life to makin' folks happy and doin' for them, folks that had a sorrow--but the Lord hadn't given her any sorrowful folks to do for. It's my opinion that she thought consid'able of that fickle Willy Parks. Then I reasoned with her some, and she come to see that maybe this was the app'inted work for her to do--considerin' you'd set your heart on it so. She said she didn't know but I needed lookin' after and doin' for as much as any one she knew, and it would be a pleasure to--now, Marthy, let me go and have my tea."

"What else did she say?"

"Well, she said I certainly had--that I had--a hard trial this trip, and I'd served my time so faithfully it would be a comfort and a pleasure to--now, Marthy, I know my tea's cold."

It took him so long to have his tea and wash the dishes and bring in the squashes for fear of frost that Marthy had no further opportunity to consider the new position of her husband as an engaged man that night. She resumed the subject early the next morning.