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CHAPTER XXXIV THE LITTLE IMAGE PEDDLERS I THINK it
was the following Friday
afternoon that a curious diversion occurred at the schoolhouse, just as
the
school was dismissed. Coming slowly along the white highway two small
boys were
espied, each carrying on his head a raft-like platform laden with
plaster-of-Paris images. They were dark-complexioned little fellows,
not more
than twelve or thirteen years old; and were having difficulty to keep
their
feet and stagger along with their preposterous burdens. The
plaster casts comprised images
of saints, elephants, giraffes, cherubs with little wings tinted in
pink and
yellow, a tall Madonna and Child, a bust of George Washington, a
Napoleon, a
grinning Voltaire, an angel with a pink trumpet and an evil-looking Tom
Paine. I suppose
the loads were not as
heavy as they looked, but the boys were having a hard time of it, to
judge from
their distressed faces peering anxiously from underneath the rafts
which, at
each step, rocked to and fro and seemed always on the point of
toppling.
Frantic clutches of small brown hands and the quick shifting of feet
alone
saved a smash-up. The master
was still in the
schoolhouse with some of the older boys and girls; but the younger ones
had
rushed out when the bell rang. "Hi, where
are you going?"
several shouted. "What you got on your heads?" The little
strangers turned their
faces and, nodding violently, tried to smile ingratiatingly. Some one
let fly a
snowball, and in a moment the mob of boys, shouting and laughing
noisily,
chased after them. No harm was intended; it was merely excess of
spirits at
getting out from school. But the result was disastrous. The little
fellows
faced round in alarm, cried out wildly in an unknown tongue and then,
in spite
of their burdens, tried to run away. The
inevitable happened: one of them
stumbled, fell against the other, and down they both went headlong with
a
crash. The tall Madonna was broken in two; Washington had his cocked
hat
crushed; the cherubs had lost their wings; and as for the elephants and
the
giraffes, there was a general mix-up of broken trunks and long necks. The little
fellows had scrambled to
their feet, and after a frightened glance set up wails of lamentation
in which
the word padrone
recurred fast and fearfully. By that time Master Brench, with the older
pupils,
among whom were my cousins, Addison, Theodora and Ellen, had come out.
The old
Squire, too, chanced to be approaching with a horse sled; often of
late, since
the traveling was bad, he had driven to the schoolhouse to get us. It was a
wholly compassionate group
that now gathered about the forlorn itinerants. Who they were or
whither they
were traveling was at first far from clear, for they could not speak a
word of
English. At last
the old Squire, touched by
their looks of despair and sorrow, decided to put their "rafts" on
the horse sled and to take the little strangers home with us for the
night. They
seemed to be chilled to the
very marrow of their bones, for they hung round the stove in the
kitchen as if
they would never thaw out. When grandmother Ruth set a warm supper
before them,
they ate like starved animals and cast pathetic glances at the table to
see
whether there was more food. Tears stood in grandmother's eyes as she
replenished their plates. Little by
little, with the aid of
many signs and gestures, they managed to tell us their story. A padrone
had brought them with nine other boys from Naples to sell plaster
images for
him; we gathered that this man, who lived in Portland, cast the images
himself.
The only English words he had taught them were "ten cent,"
"twenty-five cent" and "fifty cent" — the
prices of the plaster casts. A few days
before, in spite of the
bitterly cold weather, he had sent them out with their wares and bidden
them to
call at every house until they had sold their stock. Then they were to
bring
back the money they had taken in. He had given a package of dry, black
bread to
each of them and had told them to sleep at nights in barns. Sales were
few, and long after their
bread was gone they had wandered on, not daring to go back until they
had sold
all their wares. What little money they had taken in they dared not
spend for
food, for fear the padrone
would whip them! Their tale roused
no little indignation in the old Squire and grandmother Ruth. What with
the food and the warmth
the little Italians soon grew so sleepy that they drowsed off before
our eyes.
We made a couch of blankets for them in a warm corner, and they were
still
soundly asleep there when Addison and I went out to do the farm chores
the next
morning. We kept
the little image peddlers
with us for several days thereafter. In fact, we were at a loss to know
what to
do with them, for a cold snap had come on. With their thin clothes and
worn-out
shoes they were in no condition either to go on or to go back; and,
moreover,
now that their images were broken, they were in terror of their padrone.
One of the
boys was slightly larger
and stronger than the other; his name, he managed to tell us, was
Emilio
Foresi. The first name of the other was Tomaso, but I have forgotten
his
surname. Tomaso, I recollect, had little gold rings in his ears. His
voice was
soft, and he had gentle manners. Under the
influence of good food and
a warm place to sleep both boys brightened visibly and even grew
vivacious. On
the third morning we heard Emilio singing some Neapolitan folk-song to
himself.
Yet they were shy about singing to us, and it was only after
considerable
coaxing that Theodora induced them to sing a few Italian songs
together.
Halstead had an old violin, and we found that Tomaso could play it
surprisingly
well. By
carefully sorting our reserve of
worn clothes and shoes we managed to fit out the little strangers more
comfortably, but the problem of what to do with them remained.
Grandmother Ruth
thought that their padrone
might trace them and appear on the
scene. Several
days more passed; and then
the old Squire, having business at Portland, decided to take them with
him. He
intended to find this Neapolitan padrone and try to secure
better treatment
for the boys in the future. Addison
drove them to the railway
station, where the old Squire checked their empty image "rafts" in
the baggage car. Before they left the old farm, first Emilio and then
Tomaso
took grandmother Ruth's hand very prettily and said, with deep feeling,
"Vi ringrazio,"
several times,
and managed to add "Tank you." After his
return from Portland the
old Squire told us that he had gone with the lads to the place where
they
lodged and had taken an officer with him. They found the padrone in a basement,
engaged in casting more images. At first the Italian was very angry;
but partly
by persuasion, partly by putting the fear of the law into his heart,
they made
him promise not to send his boys out again until May. The old
Squire also enlisted the
sympathies of two women in Portland, who undertook to see that the boys
were
better housed and cared for in the future. And there for the time being
the
episode of the little image venders ended. Twelve,
perhaps it was thirteen,
years passed. Addison, Halstead, Theodora and Ellen went their various
ways in
life, and of the group of young folks at the old farm I alone was left
there.
The old Squire was not able now to do more than oversee the work and to
give me
advice from his large experience of the past. One day,
late in October, we were in
the apple house getting the crop of winter apples ready for market —
Baldwins,
Greenings, Blue Pearmains, Russets, Orange Apples, Arctic Reds — about
four
hundred barrels of them. We were sorting the apples carefully and
putting the
"number ones" in fresh, new barrels. It was
near noon, and grandmother
Ruth had come out to say that our midday meal would soon be ready. She
remained
for a few moments and was counting the barrels we had put up that
forenoon,
when the doorway darkened behind her, and, looking up, we saw a
stranger
standing there — a well-dressed, rather handsome young man with dark
hair and
dark moustache. He was looking at us inquiringly, smilingly, almost
timidly, I
thought. "How do
you do?" I said.
"You wanted to see some one here?" He came a
step nearer and said, with
a foreign accent, "I ver glad see you again." Seeing our
puzzled looks, he went
on: "I tink maybe you not remember me. But I come here one time, when
snow
ver deep. Ver cold then," and he shuddered to show how cold it was.
"I stay here whole week. You no 'remember? I Emilio — Emilio Foresi."
Now,
indeed, we remembered the
little image peddlers. "Yes, yes, yes!" the old Squire cried. "Well, I
never! Can it be
possible?" grandmother Ruth exclaimed. "Why, you've grown up, of
course!" Grown up,
in good truth, and a very
prosperous-looking young man was Emilio. He evidently remembered well
his
sojourn with us years ago, and, moreover, remembered it with pleasure;
for now
he grasped the old Squire's hand warmly and then, laughing joyously,
held
grandmother Ruth's in both his own. "But where
have you been all
this time?" the old Squire exclaimed. "I live
now in Boston. Not long
did I sell the images. I leave my padrone. He was hard man, not
so ver bad,
but ver poor. Then I have a cart and sell fruit, banan, orange, apple,
in de
street, four year. After that I have fruit stand on Tremont Street
three year.
I do ver well, and have five fruit stands; and now I buy apples to send
to
Genoa and Messina." "But
Tomaso, where's little
Tomaso?" grandmother Ruth exclaimed. Emilio's
face saddened. "Tomaso
he die," said he and shook his head. "He tak bad colds and have cough
two year. Doctors said he have no chance in dis climate. I send him
home to
Napoli, and he die. But America fine place," Emilio added, as if
defending
our climate. "Good country. Everybody do well here." We had
Emilio as a guest at our
midday meal that day — quite a different Emilio from the pinched little
fellow
of thirteen years before. He glanced round the old dining-room. "Here
where I sit dat first
night!" he cried, laughing like a boy. "Big old clock right over
there, Tomaso dis side of me, and young, kind, pretty girl on other
side. All
smile so kind to us; and oh, how good dat warm, nice food taste, we so
hongry!" He
remembered every detail of his
stay. The red apples that we had given him seemed to have impressed him
especially; neither of the boys had ever eaten an apple before. Whole big
basketful you fetch up
from de cellar and say tak all you want," he ran on, still laughing.
"Naver any apple taste like dose, so beeg, so red!" As we sat
and talked he told us of
his present business and how he had tried the then novel experiment of
shipping
small lots of New England apples to Italy. There had been doubt whether
the
apples would bear the voyage and arrive in sound condition, but he had
no
trouble when the fruit was carefully selected and well put up. That led
him to
inquire about our apple crop and to explain that that was perhaps one
of the
reasons — not the only one — for his visit. "I know
you raise good
apples," he said. "I like to buy them." We told
him how many we had, and he
asked what price we expected to get. We answered that the local dealers
had
already fixed the price that fall at two dollars a barrel. "I will
pay you two dollars and
a half," Emilio said without a moment's hesitation. "But,
Emilio," the old
Squire put in, "we couldn't ask more than the market price." "Ah, but
you have good
apples!" he replied. "I know how dose apples taste, and I know dey
will be well barreled. No wormy apples, no bruised apples. Dey worf
more
because good honest man put dem up. I pay you two fifty." We shipped
the entire lot to him the
following week and received prompt payment. Incidentally, we learned
that
Foresi's rating as a business man was high, and that he enjoyed the
reputation
of being an honorable dealer. For many years — as long as he was in the
business, in fact — we sent him choice lots of winter fruit, for which
he
always insisted on paying a price considerably in advance of the market
quotations. |