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“DOWN AT THE STORE” I TALKED,
a week
ago, as if, in my time as a boy, we lived out of doors every day, and
all day
long, regardless of everything that winter could do to hinder us. That
was an
exaggeration. Now and then there came a time when the weather shook
itself
loose, as it were, and bore down upon us with banners flying. Then the
strong
man bowed himself, and even the playful boy took to his burrow. The
pond might
be smooth as glass, but he did not skate; the hill-track might be in
prime
condition, but he did not slide. He sang low, and waited for a change. Not that
he stayed
at home from school. Let no degenerate reader, the enfeebled victim of
modern
ideas, think that. The day of coddling had not yet dawned upon New
England.
There was no bell then to announce a full holiday, or “one session,”
because of
rain or snow. And as truly as “school kept,” so truly the boy was
expected to
be there. No alternative was so much as considered. But on such a
morning as
we now have in mind he went at full speed, looking neither to right nor
left,
and he thanked his stars when he came in sight of the village store.
That,
whether going or coming, he hailed as a refuge. Possibly he had a cent
in his
pocket, a real “copper,” and felt it in danger of burning through; but
cent or
no cent, he went in to warm his fingers and his ears, and incidentally
to
listen to the talk of the assembled loafers. I can see
them now,
one perched upon a barrel-head, one on a pile of boxes, three or four
occupying
a long settee, and one, wearing a big light-colored overcoat, who came
every
day, sitting like a lord in the comfortable armchair in front of the
cylinder
stove. This last man was not rich; neither was he in any peculiar sense
a
social favorite; he said little and bought less; but he always had the
chief
seat. I used to wonder what would happen if some day he should come in
and find
it occupied. But on that point it was idle to speculate. As well expect
a simple
congressman to drop into the Speaker's chair, leaving that functionary
to dispose
of his own corporeal dignity as best he could. Prescription, provided
it be old
enough, is the best of titles. What other has the new king of Great
Britain and
Ireland? If it was
shortly
before schooltime, on one of those mornings when the weather seemed to
be
laying itself out to establish a record, the talk was likely to be of
thermometers.
“My glass
was down
to nineteen below,” one man would say, by way of starting the ball. “Mine
touched
twenty at half-past six,” the next one would remark. And so the
topic
would go round, the mercury dropping steadily, notch by notch. As I
said a week
ago, winter was winter in those days. It may have occurred to me,
sometimes,
that the man who managed to speak last had a decided moral advantage
over his
rivals. He could save the honor of his thermometer at the least
possible expense
of veracity. So far
things were
not very exciting, though on the whole rather more so, perhaps, than
studying
a geography lesson (as if it were anything to me which were the
principal towns
in Indiana!); but now, not unlikely, the conversation would shift to
hunting
exploits. This was more to the purpose. Wonderful game had been shot,
first and
last, down there in the Old Colony; almost everything, it seemed to a
listening
boy, except lions and elephants. If Mr. Roosevelt had lived in those
times, he
need not have gone to the Rocky Mountains in search of adventure. I listened
with
both ears. There never was a boy who did not like to hear of doings
with a
gun. I remember still one of my very early excitements in that line. I
was on
my way home at noon when a flock of geese flew directly over the
street, honking
loudly. At that moment a shoemaker ran out of his little shop, gun in
hand, and
aiming straight upward, let go a charge. Nothing dropped, to my intense
surprise and no small disappointment; but I had seen the shot fired,
and that
was something — as is plain from the fact that I remember it so vividly
these
many years afterward. The names of the principal towns of Indiana long
ago
folded their tents like the Arabs and silently stole away, but I can
still see
that shoemaker running out of his shop. It was a
common
practice, I was to learn as I grew older, for shoemakers to keep a
loaded gun
standing in a corner, ready for such contingencies. There was a
tradition in
the town that a certain man (I have forgotten his name or I would
bracket it
with Mr. Roosevelt's) had once brought down a goose in this way. It is
by no
means impossible; for flocks of geese were an everyday sight in the
season (I
am sure I have seen twenty in an afternoon), and sometimes, in thick
weather,
they almost grazed the chimney-tops. Geese (of that kind) have grown
sadly
fewer since then, and perhaps have learned to fly higher. After the
hunting
reminiscences would likely enough come a discussion of fast horses,
Flora
Temple and others — including “Mart” So-and-So's of our village; or
possibly
(and this I liked best of all, I think), the conversation would flag,
and old
Jason Andcut would begin whistling softly to himself. Then I was all
ears. Such
a tone as he had, especially in the lower register! And such trills
and
bewitching turns of melody! Why, it was almost as good as the Weymouth
Band,
which in those days was every whit as famous as the Boston Symphony
Orchestra
is now. When it played the “Wood-up Quickstep” or “Departed Days,” the
whole
town was moved, and one boy that I knew was almost in heaven. In fact,
ours was a
musical community. The very man who now occupied the armchair in front
of the
stove (how plainly he comes before me as I write, taking snuff and
reading the
shopkeeper's newspaper of the evening before) had acquired the
competency of
which he was supposed to be possessed by playing the flute (or was it
the
clarinet?) in a Boston theatre orchestra; and at this very minute three
younger
men of the village were getting rich in the same sure and easy manner.
As for
whistling, there was hardly a boy in the street but was studying that
accomplishment, though none of them could yet come within a mile of
Jason
Andcut. His was indeed “a soft and solemn-breathing sound,” as unlike
the
ear-piercing notes which most pairs of puckered lips gave forth as the
luscious
fruit of his own early pear tree (“Andcut's pears,” we always called
them) was
unlike certain harsh and crabbed things that looked like pears, to be
sure, but
tied your mouth up in a hard knot if, in a fit of boyish hunger, you
were ever
rash enough to set your teeth in one. The good man! I should love to
hear his
whistle now; I believe I should like it almost as well as Mr. Longy's
oboe; but
the last of those magical improvisations was long ago finished. I have
heard
good whistling since (not often, but I have heard it, both
professional and
amateur), but nothing to match that soliloquistic pianissimo, which I
stole
close to the man's elbow to get my fill of. Was the prosperity of the
music
partly in the boyish ear that heard it? That
corner-grocery
gathering was one of our institutions; I might almost say the chief of
then —
casino and lyceum in one. If somebody once called the place a “yarn
factory,”
that was only in the way of a joke. On a rainy holiday it was a great
resource.
There were always talkers and listeners there, — the two essentials, —
and the
talk was often racy, though never, so far as I know, unfit for a boy's
hearing.
The town supported no local newspaper, nor did we feel the need of
any. You
could get all the news there was, and more too, “down at the store.” If
the
regular members of the club failed to bring it in, the baker or the
candy
peddler would happen along to supply the lack. And after all, say what
you
will, word of mouth is better than printers' ink. And while
you listened
to the talk, you could be eating a stick of barber's-pole candy or a
cent's
worth of dates, or, if your wealth happened to admit of such
extravagance, you
could enjoy, after the Cranford fashion, quite unembarrassed by
Cranford
pudicity, a two-cent orange. Those were the days of small things.
Dollars did
not grow on every bush. Seven-year-old boys, at all events, were not
yet
accustomed to go about jingling a pocketful of silver. Once, I
remember, I saw
a little chap sidle up to the counter and look long at the jack-knives
and
other temptations displayed in the showcase. By and by the shopkeeper
espied a
possible customer, and came round to see what was wanted. “How much
are those
tops?” asked the boy, pointing with his finger. “Ten
cents,” was
the answer. The boy
was silent.
He was thinking it over. Then he said: “I'll take two cents' worth of
peanuts.”
Poor
fellow! I have
seen many a grown man since then who was obliged to content himself
with the
same kind of philosophy. And who shall say it is not a good one? If you
cannot
spend the summer in Europe, take a day at the seashore. If you miss of
an
election to Congress, bid for a place on the school committee. If you
cannot
write ten-thousand-dollar novels, write — well, write a weekly column
in a newspaper.
There is always something within a capable man's reach, though it be
only “two
cents' worth of peanuts.” |