"now, ain't i glad to see you! come right along in and set down, unless you'd rather set out. i'm that proud to have you here i'm right light in the head, that i am!" and john maxwell's hand was shaken heartily. "lord, what a big man you've gone and got to be! your dotingest grandma wouldn't have believed you would grow into good looks when you was fifteen. you were the ugliest, nicest boy i ever seen at fifteen, and look at you now! look at you now!"
mrs. mcdougal stood off and gazed with admiring candor at the man before her, and the man, laughing good-naturedly, seated himself on the railing of the little porch and threw his hat on a chair at its far end. "if i've changed it's more than you have. just as young and gay as ever," he said, nodding toward her, "and still a woman of sense and discrimination. nobody but you knows i'm handsome."
"i ain't sayin' you're an appolus belviderus. you ain't. but you look like a man, and that's what many who wars pants don't. and good clothes is a powerful help to face and figger. i certainly am proud to see you. i certainly am!"
"and i certainly am glad to see you. i certainly am!" he bobbed his head in imitation of mrs. mcdougal, whose words were always emphasized by gestures, and laughed in the puzzled eyes of the girl beside her, pulling off her long gloves. "miss cary asked me the other day if i didn't want to know you. she didn't know you were a friend of mine before you were a friend of hers. remember those apple-jacks i used to get from you? bully things! don't have anything like that in new york."
"don't have the same kind of stomach to put 'em in, i reckon. anything is good to boys and billy-goats, but edjicated insides is sniffy, they tell me. set down, mary cary. here, take this rockin'-chair. ain't anything been spilt on this one, and it's the only one what ain't. i'm that thankful nothin's caught on fire that i was thinkin' of settin' down myself, but 'twon't be no use. look-a-yonder! if that bickles boy ain't tied a pop-cracker to mis' jepson's chief rooster, and right on to its comb! hi, there! don't you light that thing!" and mrs. mcdougal waved vigorously with her apron in the direction of a small group of stooping watchers, hands on knees and eyes eagerly intent.
the warning was too late. an explosion, a frantic crow from a once lordly cock, a scurry to safer quarters, jeering cheers from heartless throats, and then silence as mrs. mcdougal's waving arms were seen.
"let me go down and see what they are doing," and mary cary laid gloves and parasol on the chair, unpinned her hat and put it beside them. "we were so late i was afraid the children would be gone. look at that little rascal tying two dogs' tails together!" down the steps she ran and across the yard, and as she approached there was a rush toward her. instantly she was the centre of a crowding, swarming group of children, all talking at once, and all trying to see what she had come to do, but as she raised her hand there was momentary stillness.
"now i can set down." with a sigh of relief mrs. mcdougal took the chair offered to miss cary, folded her arms, and began to rock, her eyes fastened on the man still on the railing of the little porch, but now with his back against a post and hands clasped over the knee of his right leg.
"i can set down in peace for a few minutes anyhow," she went on, "for as long as miss mary is out there things will go right. some women is born with a way to manage children. she was." she nodded toward the yard. "remember how she used to do those 'sylum children? led 'em into more mischief than all the rest put together, but she always led 'em out, and they were like sheep behind her. loved her. that was it. ain't it funny the things folks will do for a person just on account of lovin' 'em? and ain't it funny how you can't love some people to save your life? you know you ought to, specially if they're kin, and you try to, but you can't do it. the very sight of some folks makes the old boy rise up in you, and you wish they was in—well, i ain't sayin' where you wish they was. my grandmother always told me you'd better keep some wishes to yourself.
"but there's one person in this town what makes me want to do to her just what billy bickles did to that rooster just now. she's that superior, and so twisty in the corners of her mouth, that i'm always wishin' i could fix the kind of fall her pride's goin' to have some day. bound to have it, pride is. 'ain't no law to hold it up any more than an apple in the air, and both of 'em is got to come down. when folks pass other folks what they know in the street, and don't any more speak to 'em than if they was worms of the dust, they think it's on account of bein' who they are, and they don't know it's on account of bein' what they is. of course a person can't be blamed for bein' born a fool, but a fool ought to know better than to be fooler than it's bound to be. i don't mind mrs. deford not noticin' me, but susie, who sells her all her hats, says—"
"mrs. deford?" john maxwell, who was only half listening, and who had been watching the children, turned toward mrs. mcdougal. "you mean mrs. walter deford?"
"that's who i mean, though i don't see what she's called mrs. walter deford for, being as 'tis mr. walter deford don't seem to enjoy her company any more than i do. if he's been in yorkburg for eight years, nobody's heard of it. when she dies she oughtn't to be res'rected. in heaven there'll be saints, born plain. she couldn't associate with them. in hell there'll be blue-blooded sinners, and she can't mix with sinners. the grave's the place for her, and won't anybody round here weep when she's put in it. but lord-a-mercy, what am i wastin' time talking about an old teapot like her for? she's hurt susie's feelin's so often, susie bein' like her pa, and not havin' much spirit, that i get kinder riled when her name is mentioned. but my grandmother always did say if you didn't like a person, spew them out of your heart and shut your mouth. and here i am talkin' about a nothin', 'stead of askin' you 'bout yourself. it's been a long time since i seen you. them other times when you've been down i ain't even had a chance to glimpse you on the street, but the children told me, susie and hunt did, that you was a new-yorker all right, and you is that. i tell you good clothes and an easy air don't hurt anybody." she nodded her head. "you look like where you come from."
"any difference in new-yorkers and other people? mind my smoking?" he took a package of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighted one and put the rest back. "in new york i tell people i'm from yorkburg. could i have arranged it i would have been born here. not my fault i'm not a virginian." he laughed, knocking the ashes from his cigarette. "you've got a bunch of them. all those yours?"
she peered above the railing and counted. "ain't but five of 'em mine. the four oldest works. susie stays in miss patty moore's millinery store, lizzie lives with her grandpa, hunt is at the woolen mills with his pa, and teeny helps mrs. blick with the children. the youngest is twins, they're seven. the next is twins, too. they will be nine on the fourth of july, and over who was to be invited that i had to keep 'em in bed all day yesterday, and not let it be their party at all. i told 'em 'twas peggy's, but i'd do the invitin' myself. i didn't want that billy bickles, but if i hadn't asked him there'd been trouble for me as long as life. i know his ma too well. don't reckon you ever knew mis' bickles? she's one of them kind of women who's always seein' she gets what's comin' to her, and takes what ain't. her husband lives up the country. he warn't much to leave: one of them lazy, good-natured kind what always had a pain handy; and mis' bickles says she left him while her family was small. mis' bickles says she left him while her family was small. mis' bickles's got more sense than you'd think from lookin' at her, and a tongue what tells all it knows and makes up what it don't. it don't do to get that kind of a tongue down on you.
"them two children over there"—she pointed vaguely toward the now shouting group—"those two with red hair and red ribbons is mr. sam winter's little girls. i don't like 'em, but if there's any one woman in this world i feel sorry for it's sam winter's wife, and so i invited 'em. ain't they the ugliest, freckledest little things you ever saw? don't reckon you remember their ma, either? she used to stay in mr. pat horston's bakery and confectionery when you lived here. that's been—"
"ten years ago this october."
"that's so. i remember it now like 'twas yesterday. never will forget the day your father died so sudden, just like mr. pryor, and everything in yorkburg seemed to stop. he was the kind of man who makes wheels go round, and everybody thought when he died the shoe factory would shut down and the 'lectric-light plant would go out; and people round here say they would if you hadn't put your foot down and told your ma they had to keep up. sixteen was right young to be buttin' into business matters, but some folks is born older than others, and i reckon you've got right much of your pa in you. and that's what i told mcdougal i like about you. you knew what you wanted, and when you made up your mind to do a thing, 'twould be death or you would win. and my grandmother always did say, for winning, will was worth more than anything else on earth.
"but i ain't asked you what kind of business you're in, or how you're gettin' on in it, nor how your ma is. i hope she's well. and your sister, too. they tell me she's married—"
"she is. living in california. got two children. mother is very well, thank you. she's abroad just now. i'm in the law business. i get my bread out of it, but not much jam yet. you were speaking of sam winter's wife just now. i remember her; used to sell us cakes and pies, and so afraid she wouldn't get the change right she nearly wore her fingers out counting on them. we used to borrow a big piece of money—a dollar was big in those days—just to watch her face get red when we'd tell her the change was wrong. little beasts! somebody ought to have beaten us."
"that they ought. and somebody ought to beat sam winter every day in the week. ain't nothing i would like better than to have a whack at him. i've often wished i was his wife for just five minutes. he'd be jelly or i one when 'twas over. some men need lickin'. sam's one of the kind who thinks when the lord made woman he made her to be man's footstool when she warn't anything else he needed at the time. certainly is funny how many people talk like they had a private telegraph-wire running right up to the throne of god, and you'd think they had special messages from him from the cocksure way in which they tell you what he says and means. and specially 'bout women. the bible is a great stand-by with some men when it comes to women. but i reckon women has brought a lot of it on themselves. they ain't had a chance to fight fair in life. being mothers has made 'em stand a heap they wouldn't otherwise. a woman will stand most anything for her children."
john maxwell laughed. "you are looking at me as if i didn't agree with you. i do. i know some men of the sam winter kind. and they always get the wrong sort of wife. now if sam had married you—"
"he'd be dead or different by this time. there ain't much in life to be sure of, but you can be sure of that. a woman is a human being, if she is a female, and i ain't ever seen a male creature who had any respect for a female one he could step on. and that's what poor, meek little fanny winter lets sam do, and of course he takes advantage. 'tain't in human nature for a man not to kick something every now and then what sits at his feet all the time."
"good lord! he doesn't beat her?" john maxwell turned suddenly, in his eyes a queer light. "you mean he strikes her?"
mrs. mcdougal brought her chair closer to the railing. "i don't believe those children are ever goin' home. some come at three, and it's after seven. they've et up all there was to eat, and drunk a washtub full of lemonade, but that bickles boy and fuzzy toone and mineola hodgkins will stay till next week if i don't make 'em go. i believe the little winters is gone. look at peggy! ain't she havin' a grand time? i'm glad you and miss mary didn't come till the first rush-round was over. there's been twenty-one of 'em here includin' of my five, and i tell you when you get through feedin' and fillin' of twenty-one hollow stomachs you're ready for rest. how many out there now?"
"eleven. let me see." john counted again. "no, ten. miss cary makes the eleventh. i believe she's going to tell them a story. they're getting ready to sit down under your mulberry-tree. yes, that's what they're going to do. let them alone. they're having a good time."
"and so am i. certainly am enjoyin' of myself hearin' all about you. i tell you the mother of nine don't often have time to set down and rock in daylight, and at night i'm so tired that if 'twasn't for the basin of cold water i keep on the back porch to put my face in i'd go to sleep before i'd read a page."
a fresh cigarette was lighted. "like to read? why didn't you tell me? got a lot of books i don't know what to do with. will send them down if you want them—"
"want them?" mrs. mcdougal sat upright, hands up also. "it's the sin of my life, readin' is. but it's saved me from losin' my mind. when a person gets up at five o-clock three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, except sundays, when it's six; cooks, washes dishes, cleans, sews, cooks, washes dishes, sews, cooks, washes dishes, and in between times scrambles round doin' dozens of odd jobs that don't count, life ain't true poetry, and if 'twarn't for risin' out the world i live in and gettin' into a book one at night i'd gone crazy long before this. makes my mouth water just to think of havin' some books of my own. all i read is borrowed, and i have to hide 'em under the mattress to keep the children from gettin' 'em dirty. i thank you hearty, mr. john; i certainly do."
john maxwell took a note-book and pencil out of his pocket. "i've a good forgettery and if i don't put that down you'd have to write, perhaps. how about mr. mcdougal? what kind does he like?"
mrs. mcdougal's jolly laugh reached to the mulberry-tree and the children looked up. "books! mcdougal!" her hands came down on her knees with a resounding smack. "if mcdougal has read a book since i've been married to him he's done it in the dark. books ain't his line. he's a good man, mcdougal is, but you couldn't call him lit'rary. you see"—she settled herself back in her chair and again folded her arms— "he hasn't got what you might say was imaginations. he can't understand why some days i'd so much rather use the axe on the kitchen stove than in the wood-house, or why the sight of a dish-pan makes me sick in my stomach. as for my chickens—calling hens and roosters by names of big people is tommy-rot to him, and he don't any more know my longin's for a look at high life and for people who use elegant language and paint pictures and play the pianer than i understand how he can live in a teacup and not smash it. he's one of the kind what believes you ought to stay where you're put, but in my opinion them what believes that, as a rule, ain't got sense or hustle enough to get out. i'm not sayin' mcdougal is lazy or lackin', but his own ma couldn't think he had a brain that was lively. he ain't got it. did you ever see a mule goin' round a cider mill? that's mcdougal. in the daytime he's as given to silence as i am to talk, but couldn't anybody beat him snorin'. sometimes i think the roof has gone."
john maxwell coughed. the smoke from the cigarette had gone the wrong way and his eyes were watery.
"but he's a good man, mcdougal is," his wife continued, "and everything he makes he hands over to me. a woman couldn't ask a man to do more than that, even if she'd like a little more to be handed. but we ain't never had no quarrels about money. some men is so cussin' mean about money, and some women is so cussin' onreasonable in demandin' of it, that it's caused more trouble between husbands and wives than any one thing on earth, i believe. no, we ain't ever had no words that way. but i know a lot what has. sam winter is one of them kind of men who thinks a woman don't need to know the color of cash. when he married his wife you'd think he'd bought her by the pound. she's his. he gives her what he feels like, and his feelin's are few. what'd you ask me about her just now? did he strike her? no, he don't strike her, not with his fists, but there ain't a day he don't hurt her some way. it don't do to have too tender feelin's, and there ain't much show for a woman born meek and humble. a man can't stand it. i don't blame him much. nothin' is so wearin' on you as humbleness. good gracious, if it ain't strikin' seven o'clock!"
she got up, pushed her chair back and started down the steps. "excuse me, mr. john, but if i don't send them children home they'll stay to supper. that they will. i'll be back in a moment."
it was ten minutes before she came, and john maxwell, who had changed his seat and was now on the upper step of the little porch, rose as she and miss cary, followed by the five children, approached, and held out his hand.
"hello, peggy! had a good time? much obliged to you for inviting me.
sorry i missed the fireworks. miss cary's fault. she was an hour late."
peggy shook hands and also her head. "miss mary ain't never late. 'twas you, i reckon. we've had a grand time. wash and jeff drank thirteen glasses of lemonade apiece. i counted. mineola and me didn't drink but five. we couldn't." she turned to her mother. "you sit down, muther; i'll fix supper. good-bye, mr. maxwell. good-bye, miss mary. that was a beautiful story you told, but i don't believe it. there ain't fairies sure 'nough." and marshalling the boys before her she disappeared in the little hall and closed the door behind her.
mary cary put on her hat, wiped her face, and handed john her gloves. "put them in your pocket; it's too warm to wear them." she turned to the woman beside her and laid her hand on her shoulder. "it's been a fine party, mrs. mcdougal. the children had a lovely time and certainly did behave nicely."
"lor', miss mary, you didn't see 'em. half was gone when you got here. the hour to come was four, but some come by three. becky koontz says she always goes early to a party, 'cause if you don't there's just scraps, and she don't like leavin's. i did all the invitin', and when i thought out who i'd ask i felt downright fashionable. that i did. ain't a child been here this evenin' that i care shucks for, 'cept two; and they tell me that's the way they do now in high society. you don't ask the folks you like or really want, but the folks what's asked you or you think 'twould sound nice to have. i ain't familiar with high life, but you have to do a heap of things for peace and politics, and milltown and king street does pretty much the same things in different ways, i reckon. if there's anybody in this town i ain't got any use for it's mis' feckles, but mr. feckles is my boy's boss, and if her children hadn't been invited she'd never let up till she got even. some women is like that. and there was that frisky little mary lou simmons. she's a limb of the law, mary lou is, and my hands just itch to spank her. but i had to invite her. her mother invited peggy to her party, and her mother's right smart of a devil when she gets mad with you. but i certainly am sorry you've got to go. it takes me back to old times to see you, mr. john. and what a shakin' up there's been since you young people lived here ten years ago! funny you ain't either one married. i don't blame you. there's a heap to be said both ways, and times when you'd wish you hadn't, no matter which one you went. good-bye. i certainly have enjoyed hearin' of you talk. come again. good-bye." and as long as they could be seen mrs. mcdougal's arm was waving up and down at the backs of the unthinking couple, who forget to turn and wave in reply.
