Story-5

IN ALMOST ANY big town, around Autumn, you will annually run across that famous agricultural show known as a County Fair; and, as Branton Hills had a big park, which you know all about, right in front of Nancy’s and Frank’s small bungalow, it was a most natural spot for holding it. And so, as this happy pair’s third Autumn got around, stirring activity in that big park also got a-going; for railings for stockyards don’t grow all built; yards and yards of brown canvas don’t just blow into a park; nor do “hot dog” and popcorn stands jump up from nothing. And Nancy, rocking on that bungalow porch, could watch all this work going on. And rocking was about all that Nancy could, or, I should say, should do, just now.

What a sight it was! Trucks; small cars; wagons; a gang with a tractor plowing up hard spots; a gang picking up rocks, grading bumpy spots, and laying out ground plans. Masons building walls, and all kinds of goods arriving, by tons. But out of all that confusion and ado a canvas town will grow, strung from top to bottom with gaily flapping flags and hanging bunting, and that customary “mid-way” with its long rows of gaudy billboards, in front of which circus ballyhoo artists will continuously bawl and shout out claims about sword-swallowing, tattooing, hula-hula dancing, boa constrictor charming, or a Punch and Judy show.

At a County Fair two things stand out as most important: farm stock and that oval track around which swiftly trotting colts will thrill thousands; and, I’ll say, shrink a bank account or two! But, of all sights, I don’t know of any with such drawing ability for kids as just such a carnival lot. So, daily, as soon as school was out, throngs of happy, shouting, hopping, jumping boys and girls would dash for that big park; looking, pointing, and climbing up on auto tops, into lofty oaks, onto tall rocks, or a pal’s back; for if anything is difficult for a boy to obtain a sight of, nothing in climbing that an orang-outang can do, will balk him!

So Nancy sat calmly rocking, rocking, rocking, and, —but, pardon! I’ll go on with this story. All I know is that Frank, arriving from work at Radio Station KBH, wouldn’t so much as look at that big carnival lot, but would rush in, in a most loving, solicitous way which always brought a kiss and a blush from Nancy. Now if I don’t quit talking about this young pair you won’t know anything about that big show going up in front of that happy bungalow. Almost daily Lady Gadsby would drop in on Nancy, bringing all sorts of dainty foods; and His Honor, with Kathlyn, Julius and Bill, paid customary visits.

“But that fair!” you say. “How about that fair?”

Ah! It was a fair, I’ll say! What mobs on that first day! And what a din!! Bands playing, ballyhoos shouting, popcorn a-popping, “hot dogs” a-sizzling, ducks squawking, cows lowing, pigs grunting, an occasional baby squalling; and amidst it all, a choking cloud of dust, a hot Autumn wind, panting, fanning matrons, cussing husbands; all working toward that big oval track at which all had a flimsy possibility of winning a million or two (or a dollar or two!). Oh, you County Fairs! You bloom in your canvas glory, annually. You draw vast crowds; you show high quality farm stock, gigantic pumpkins, thousands of poultry, including our “Thanksgiving National Bird”. You fill coops with fancy squabs, fat rabbits, and day-old chicks. You show many forms of incubators, churns, farming

apparatus, pumps, plows, lighting plants for small farms, windmills, “bug” poisons, and poultry foods. And you always add a big balloon, which you anchor, so that kids may soar aloft until a windlass pulls it down. You fill us with food that would kill a wild goat, but you still last! And may you always do so; for, within your flapping, bulging canvas walls, city man rubs against town man, rich and poor girls bump, snobs attain no right of way, and a proud, happy boy or girl shows a “First Class” satin ribbon which a lovingly brought-up calf or poultry brood has won.

Only a satin ribbon, but, displaying it to a group of admiring young pals brings to a child that natural thrill from accomplishing anything worthy of public acclaim. Such thrills will not crowd in as Maturity supplants Youth; and so I say, “a trio of our customary huzzas” for any child who can carry away a satin ribbon from a County Fair.

But what about our good Mayor during all this circus hullabaloo? Did important thoughts for still improving Branton Hills pass through his busy mind? Not just now; but fond, anxious thoughts did; for his mind was constantly on Nancy; tiny, darling Nancy, his baby girl. For, during that noisy carnival, folks saw (or thought so, you know), a big bird with long shanks and a monstrous bill, circling round and round that small bungalow’s roof, plainly looking for a spot to land on. Lady Gadsby and old Doctor Wilkins saw it, too, and told Nancy that that big hospital which our old Organization had built, was holding a room for instant occupancy; and, as that big bird daily swung down, down, down, almost grazing that small roof, Frank, poor chap, as shaky as at his church ritual, thirty months ago, staid away from Radio Station KBH, and stuck to that small bungalow as a fly sticks around a sugar bowl.

Finally, on a crisp Autumn night, that soaring bird shot straight down with such an assuring swoop, that old Doc Wilkins, indoors with Nancy, saw it and said, quickly:— “On your way, Nancy girl!!” and that part of Branton Hills saw his car racing hospital- wards, with Lady Gadsby fondly patting Nancy’s tiny, cold hands, and saying just such loving things as a woman would, naturally, to a young girl on such a trip. But Gadsby and Frank? Ah! Poor, half-crazy things! No car would do at all! No, sir!! A car was far too slow! And so, across lots, down into many a man’s yard, and jumping high walls, shot two shadowy forms, arriving at that big hospital, badly blown, just as Lady Gadsby and old Doc Wilkins took Nancy’s arms, and got slowly to that big door with its waiting rolling chair.

Now this stork’s visit is nothing out of ordinary in World affairs. Millions and billions of visits has it, and its kind, flown—to king’s mansion or a black Zulu woman’s hut. But this flight was poor Frank’s initiation to that awful hour of blank panic, during which a young husband is boiling hot or icy cold in turn. God!! How still a hospital corridor is!! How doctors and assistants do float past without as much sound as falling snow! Oh! How long Frank and His Honor sat, stood, or trod up and down, watching that room door!! What was going on? Was Nancy all right? Oh!! Why this prolonging of agonizing inactivity? Can’t anybody- say anything? Isn’t anybody around, at all? But hospital doctors and nursing staffs, though pitying a young chap, must pass him up for that tiny lady, who now was but a tool in God’s hands; in God’s magic laboratory. And so Ah! Doctor Wilkins is coming—and smiling!!

“A baby girl—and with a ripping good pair of lungs!” but has to jump quick to catch

Frank, who has sunk in a swoon. And Mayor Gadsby’s collar is as limp as a dish-rag! Ah! Man, man, man! and woman, woman, woman! Just you two! God’s only parts in His mighty plan for living actuality. Not only with Man and animals, but also down,—way, way down amongst plants. Just two parts. Only two!! And Baby, you tiny bunch of wriggling, gurgling humanity by that slowly ticking clock is your turn in this mighty World, unavoidably arriving. Mama, Papa, and all of us will go on, for a bit, growing old and gray, but you, now so young and frail, will stand sturdily, and willingly, in our vacancy; and carry on God’s wills

As this is a history of a city I must not stay around any part too long. So, as it was almost “a small morning hour,” Nina Adams, a widow, was sitting up; for Virginia, a High School girl, was still out; and, around two-thirty, was brought back in a fast car; two youths actually dumping an unconscious form on Nina’s front porch, and dashing madly away. But Nina Adams saw it; and, calling for aid in carrying Virginia indoors, put in a frantic call for old Doc Wilkins, an old, long-ago school pal, who found Nina frantic from not knowing Virginia’s condition, nor why that pair of youths shot madly away without calling anybody. But it only took Doctor Wilkins an instant to find out what was wrong; and Nina, noting his tight lips and growing scowl was in an agony of doubt.

“What is it, Tom? Quick!! I’m almost crazy!!”

Dr. Wilkins, standing by Virginia’s couch, said, slowly:-

“It’s nothing to worry about, Nina. Virginia will pull through all right, by morning.”

But that didn’t satisfy Nina Adams, not for an instant, and Dr. Wilkins, knowing that ironclad spirit of school days which would stand for no obstructions in its path, saw that a “blow-up” was coming; but, through a kindly thought for this woman’s comfort, did not say what his diagnosis was, until Nina, now actually livid with worry, said:—

“Tom Wilkins! Doctor Wilkins, if you wish, — I claim a natural right to know why my child is unconscious! And you, a physician, cannot, by law, withhold such information.” But Wilkins, trying to find a way out of a most unhappy condition of affairs, said:-

“Now, Nina, you know I wouldn’t hold anything from you if Virginia was critically ill, but that is not so. If you’ll only wait until morning you’ll find that I am right.”

But this only built obstruction upon obstruction to Nina’s strong will, until Dr. Wilkins, noticing coming total prostration, had to say:-

“Nina, Virginia is drunk; horribly drunk.”

“Drunk!!” Widow Adams had to grab wildly at a chair, sinking into it; at first as limp as a rag, but instantly springing up, blood surging to a throbbing brow. “Drunk! Drunk!! My baby drunk!! Tom, I thank you for trying to ward off this shock; but I’ll say right now, with my hand on high, that I am going to start a rumpus about this atrocity that will rock Branton Hills to its foundations! Who got this young school-girl drunk? I know that Virginia wouldn’t drink that stuff willingly. How could it occur? I pay through taxation for a patrolman in this district; in fact in all districts of this city. What is a patrolman for, if not to watch for just such abominations as this, pray?”

Dr. Wilkins didn’t say, though probably thinking of a rumor that had run around town for a month or two. At this point Virginia, partly conscious was murmuring:

“Oh, Norman! Oh! I’m so sick!!” Don’t!! I can’t drink it!

This brought forth all of Nina Adams’ fury instantly.

“Aha! Aha! Norman! So that’s it! That’s Norman Antor, that low-down, good-for-nothing night-owl! Son of our big Councilman Antor. So!! It’s ‘Norman! I can’t drink it’!

Tom Wilkins, this thing is going to court!!”

****

About noon of that day, our good doctor, walking sadly along, ran across Mayor Gadsby, in front of City Hall; and did His Honor “burn” at such an abomination?

“What? High School boys forcing young girls to drink? And right in our glorious Branton Hills? Oh, but, Doc! This can’t pass without a trial!”

“That’s all right, John; but a thorn sticks out, right in plain sight.”

“Thorn? Thorn? What kind of a thorn?” and our Mayor was flushing hard, as no kind of wild thoughts would point to any kind of thorns.

“That thorn,” said Wilkins, “is young Norman Antor; son of—”

“Not of Councilman Antor?”

“I am sorry to say that it is so,” and Wilkins told of Virginia’s half-conscious murmurings. “And Nina wants to know why, with a patrolman in all parts of town, it isn’t known that all this drinking is going on. I didn’t say what I thought, but you know that a patrolman don’t go into dancing pavilions and night clubs until conditions sanction it.”

“Who is supplying this liquor?”

“Councilman Antor; but without knowing it.”

All His Honor could say was to gasp:—

“How do you know that, Doc?” and Wilkins told of four calls for him in four days, to young girls, similarly drunk.

“And my first call was to young Mary— Antor’s tiny Grammar School kid, who was as drunk as Virginia; but, on coming out of it, told of robbing Antor’s pantry, in which liquor was always on hand for his political pals, you know; that poor kid taking it to various affairs and giving it to boys; and winning ‘popularity’ that way.”

“So,” said Gadsby, “Councilman Antor’s boy and girl, brought up in a family with liquor always handy, now, with ignorant, childish braggadocio, bring Councilman Antor into this mix-up! I’m sorry for Antor; but his pantry is in for an official visit.”

It wasn’t so long from this day that Court got around to this rumpus. To say that that big room was full, would put it mildly Although, according to an old saying, “a cat is only as big as its skin,” that room’s walls almost burst, as groups of church organizations and law abiding inhabitants almost fought for admission; until standing room was nothing but a suffocating jam. As Gadsby and Doc Wilkins sat watching that sight, Gadsby said:— “It’s an outpouring of rightful wrath by a proud city’s population; who, having put out good, hard work in bringing it to its high standing as a community, today, will not stand for anything that will put a blot on its municipal flag, which is, right now, proudly flying on City Hall.”

As Wilkins was about to say so, a rising murmur was rolling in from out back, for Norman Antor was coming in, in custody of a big patrolman, and with four youths, all looking, not only anxious, but plainly showing humiliation at such an abomination against trusting young girlhood. Scowls and angry rumblings told that high official, way up in back of that mahogany railing, that but a spark would start a riot. So, in a calm, almost uncanny way, this first trial of its kind in Branton Hills got along to a court official calling, loudly:— “Virginia Adams!”

If you think that you know what a totally still room is, by no kink of your imagination could you possibly know such an awful, frightful hush as struck that crowd dumb, as Virginia, a tall, dark, willowy, stylish girl quickly took that chair, from which Truth, in all its purity, is customarily brought out. But Virginia was not a bit shaky nor anxious, nor doubtful of an ability to go through with this ugly task.

Gadsby and Doc Wilkins sat watching Nina; Gadsby with profound sympathy, but Wilkins with an old school-pal’s intuition, watching for a blowup. But Nina didn’t blow up, that is, not visibly: but that famous rigid will was boiling, full tilt; boiling up to a point for landing, “tooth and claw” on our pompous Councilman’s son, if things didn’t turn out satisfactorily.

Virginia didn’t occupy that stand long; it was only a half-sobbing account of a night at a dancing pavilion; and with a sob or two from a woman or girl in that vast crowd. All Virginia said was:— “Norman Antor said I was a cry-baby if I wouldn’t drink with him. But I said, ‘All right; I am a cry-baby!’ And I always will turn ‘crybaby’ if anybody insists that I drink that stuff.” (Just a short lull, a valiant fight for control, and)—

“But I had to drink!! Norman was tipping my chair back and John Allison was forcing that glass into my mouth! I got so sick I couldn’t stand up, and didn’t know a thing until I found I was on a couch in my own parlor.”

A court official said, kindly:—

“That will do, Miss Adams.”

During this, Nina was glaring at Norman; but Virginia’s bringing Allison into it, also, was too much. But Wilkins, watching narrowly, said, snappingly:-

“Nina! This is a court room.”

Now this trial was too long to go into, word for word; so I’ll say that not only Norman Antor and Allison, but also our big, pompous Councilman Antor, according to our popular slang, “got in bad”; and Branton Hills’ dancing and night spots got word to prohibit liquor or shut up shop. Young Mary Antor was shown that liquor, in dancing pavilions or in a family pantry was not good for young girls; and soon this most disgusting affair was a part of Branton Hills’ history. And what vast variations a city’s history contains! What valorous acts by far-thinking officials! What dark daubs of filth by avaricious crooks! What an array of past Mayors; what financial ups and downs; what growth in population. But, as I am this particular city’s historian, with strict orthography controlling it, this history will not rank, in volubility, with any by an author who can sow, broadcast, all handy, common words which continuously try to jump into it!

BRANTON HILLS, NOW an up-to-today city, coming to that point of motorizing all city apparatus, had just a last, solitary company of that class which an inhabitant frantically calls to a burning building—Company Four, in our big shopping district; all apparatus of which was still animal drawn; four big, husky chaps: two blacks and two roans. Any thought of backing in any sort of motor apparatus onto this floor, upon which this loyal four had, during many months, stood, champing at bits, pawing and whinnying to start out that big door, in daylight or night-gloom, calm or storm, — was mighty tough for old Dowd and Clancy. A man living day and night with such glorious, vivacious animals, grows to look upon such as almost human. Bright, brainy, sparkling colts can win a strong hold on a man, you know.

And now!! What form of disposal was awaiting “Big Four”, as Clancy and Dowd took a fond joy in dubbing this pair of blacks and two roans? Clancy and Dowd didn’t know anything but that a mass of cogs, piping, brass railings, an intricacy of knobs, buttons, spark-plugs, forward clutch and so forth was coming tomorrow.

“Aw!!” said Dowd, moaningly, “you know, Clancy, that good old light shifting about and that light ‘stomping’ in that row of stalls, at night; you know, old man, that happy crunching of corn; that occasional cough; that tail-swatting at a fly or crazy zigzagging moth; that grand animal odor from that back part of this floor.”

“I do,” said Clancy. “And now what? A loud whizz of a motor! A suffocating blast of gas! and a dorn thing a-standin’ on this floor, wid no brain; wid nothin’ lovin’ about it. Wid no soul.”

“Um-m-m,” said Dowd, “I dunno about an animal havin’ a soul, but it’s got a thing not so dom far from it.”

As Clancy sat worrying about various forms of disposal for Big Four, an official phoning from City Hall, said just an ordinary, common word, which had Clancy bopping up and down, furiously mad.

“What’s all this? What’s all this?” Dowd sang out, coming from a stall, in which a good rubbing down of a shiny coat, and continuous loving pats had brought snuggling and nosing.

“Auction!!” said Clancy, wildly, and sitting down with a thud. “Auction? Auction for Big Four? What?

Put up on a block as you would a Jap urn or a phony diamond?” “Uh-huh; that’s what City Hall says.”

An awful calm slunk insidiously onto that big smooth floor, as Dowd and Clancy, chins on hands, sat,—just thinking! Finally Clancy burst out with:-

“Aw! If an alarm would only ring in, right now, to stop my brain from cracking! Auction! Bah!!”

****

A big crowd stood in City Park, including His Honor, many a Councilman, and, naturally, Old Bill Simpkins, who was always bound to know what was going on. A loud, fast- talking man, on a high stand, was shouting:— “All right, you guys! How much? How much for this big black? A mountain of muscular ability! Young, kind, willing, smart! How

much? How much?”

Bids abominably low at first, but slowly crawling up; crawling slowly, as a boa constrictor crawls up on its victim. But, without fail, as a bid was sung out from that surging, gawking, chin-lifting mob, a woman, way in back, would surpass it! And that woman hung on, as no boa constrictor could! Gadsby, way down in front, couldn’t fathom it, at all. Why should a woman want Big Four? A solitary animal, possibly, but four! So His Honor, turning and making his way toward that back row, ran smack into Nancy.

“Daddy! Lady Standish is outbidding all this crowd I”

“Oho! So that’s it!”

So Gadsby, pushing his way again through that jam, and coming to that most worthy woman, said:-

“By golly, Sally! It’s plain that you want Big Four.”

“John Gadsby, you ought to know that I do. Why! A man might buy that big pair of roans to hitch up to a plow! Or hook a big black onto an ash cart!”

“I know that, Sally, but that small back yard of yours is—”

“John!! Do your Municipal occupations knock all past days’ doings out of your skull? You know that I own a grand, big patch of land out in our suburbs, half as big as Branton Hills. So this Big Four will just run around, jump, roll, kick, and loaf until doomsday, if I can wallop this mob out of bidding.”

As Lady Standish was long known as standing first in valuation on Branton Hills’ tax list, nobody in that crowd was so foolish as to hang on, in a war of bidding, against that bankroll. So Gadsby shook hands, put an arm about Nancy, walking happily away, as a roar of plaudits shot out from that crowd, for that loud, fast-talking man was announcing: — “Sold! All four to Lady Standish!!”

As Gadsby and Nancy ran across Old Bill Simpkins, Gadsby said:—

“Bill, you know that grand old day.

Look! A building is burning! A patrolman has put in an alarm! And now look! Coming down Broadway! Two big blacks, and following on, two big roans! What grand, mighty animals! Nostrils dilating; big hoofs pounding; gigantic flanks bulging; mighty lungs snorting; monstrous backs straining; thick, full tails standing straight out. Coming, sir! Coming, sir!! Just as fast as brain and brawn can! And that gong-clanging, air-splitting, whistling, shining, sizzling, smoking four tons of apparatus roars past, grinding and hanging on Broadway’s paving! You saw all that, Bill.”

“Uh-huh,” said Simpkins, “but a motor don’t hurt our paving so much.”

As Nancy took His Honor’s arm again, Gadsby said:— “Poor, cranky old Bill! Always running things down.”

But how about Clancy and Dowd? On moving out from that big park, that happy pair, if Knighthood was in bloom today, would bow low, and kiss fair Lady Standish’s hand.

OH HUM. Now that Nancy’s baby is gurgling or squalling, according to a full tummy, or tooth conditions; and Nancy is looking, as Gadsby says, “as good as a million dollars,” I find that that busy young son-of-a-gun, Dan Cupid, is still snooping around Branton Hills And now who do you think is hit? Try to think of a lot of girls in Gadsby’s old Organization Youth. No, it’s not Sarah Young, nor Lucy Donaldson, nor Virginia Adams. It was brought to your historian in this way:—

Lady Gadsby and His Honor sat around his parlor lamp, His Honor noticing that Lady G. was smiling, finally saying:—

“John.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kathlyn and John Smith —”

“What?”

“I said that Kathlyn and John Smith want to —”

“Oho! Aha!! I’ll call up Pastor Brown to start right off dolling up his big church!”

“No, no! Not now! Wait about six months. This is only a troth. Folks don’t jump into matrimony, that way.”

“Hm-m-m! I don’t know about that,” said Gadsby, laughing; and thinking way back to that captivating lassoo!

John Smith was Branton Hills’ famous church organist; and, at a small, dainty lunch, Kathlyn told of this troth. In a day or two about all Branton Hills’ young girlhood had, on rushing in, told Kathlyn what a grand chap John was; and all that town’s young manhood had told John similar things about Kathlyn. So, as this is a jumpy sort of a story, anyway, why not skip months of happy ardor, and find how this tying of an additional knot in our Mayor’s family will turn out? You know that Kathlyn don’t think much of pomp or show, and such a big church ritual as Nancy had is all right if you want it, but Kathlyn had fond thoughts of just a small, parlor affair, with only a group of old chums; and no throwing of old boots, and “sharp food-grains,” which work downward, to scratch your back, or stick in your hair as stubbornly as burrs.

“Such crazy doings,” said Kathlyn, “always look foolish. It’s odd how anybody can follow up such antiquarian customs.”

As Kathlyn’s big night was drawing nigh, Lady Gadsby and Nancy had constantly thought of a word synonymous with “woman”, and that word is “scrub.” Which is saying that Gadsby’s mansion was about to submit to a gigantic scrubbing, painting, dusting, and so forth, so that Kathlyn should start out on that ship of matrimony from a spic-span wharf. Just why a woman thinks that a grain of dust in a totally inconspicuous spot is such a catastrophic abnormality is hard to say; but if you simply broach a thought that a grain of it might lurk in back of a piano, or up back of an oil painting, a flood of soap-suds will instantly burst forth; and any man who can find any of his things for four days is a clairvoyant, or a magician!

As Gadsby sat watching all this his thoughts took this form:—

“Isn’t it surprising what an array of things a woman can drag forth, burrowing into attics, rooms and nooks! Things long out of mind; an old thing; a worn-out thing; but it has lain

in that room, nook or bag until just such a riot of soap and scrubbing brush brings it out. And, as I think of it, a human mind could, and should go through just such a ransacking, occasionally; for you don’t know half of what an accumulation of rubbish is kicking about, in its dark, musty corridors. Old fashions in thoughts; bigotry; vanity; all lying stagnant. So why not drag out and sort all that stuff, discarding all which is of no valuation? About half of us will find, in our minds, a room, having on its door a card, saying: “It Was Not So In My Day.” Go at that room, right off. That “My Day” is long past. “Today” is boss, now. If that “My Day” could crawl up on “Today,” what a mix-up in World affairs would occur! Ox cart against aircraft; oil lamps against arc lights! Slow, mail information against radio! But, as all this stuff is laid out, what will you do with it? Nobody wants it. So I say, burn it, and tomorrow morning, how happy you will find that musty old mind!”

But His Honor’s mansion finally got back to normal as clouds of dust and swats and slaps from dusting cloths had shown Lady Gadsby and Kathlyn that “that parlor was simply awful” though Gadsby, Julius and Bill always had thought that “It looks all right,” causing Kathlyn to say:—

“A man thinks all dust stays outdoors.”

Though marrying off a girl in church is a big proposition, it can’t discount, in important data, doing a similar act in a parlor; for, as a parlor is a mighty small room in comparison with a church, you can’t point to an inch of it that won’t do its small part on such an occasion; so a woman will find about a thousand spots in which to put tacks from which to run strings holding floral chains, sprays, or small lights. So Gadsby, Bill and Julius, with armfuls of string and mouthfuls of tacks, not only put in hours at pounding said tacks, but an occasional vigorous word told that a thumb was substituting! But what man wouldn’t gladly bang his thumb, or bark his shins on a wobbly stool, to aid so charming a girl as Kathlyn? And, on that most romantically important of all days!!

Anyway, that day’s night finally cast its soft shadows on Branton Hills. Night, with its twinkling stars, its lightning-bugs, and its call for girls’ most glorious wraps; and youths’ “swallowtails”, and tall silk hats,—is Cupid’s own; lacking but organ music to turn it into Utopia.

And was Gadsby’s mansion lit up from porch to roof? No. Only that parlor and a room or two upstairs, for wraps, mascarra, a final hair-quirk, a dab of lip-stick; for Kathlyn, against all forms of “vain display,” said:— “I’m only going to marry a man; not put on a circus for all Branton Hills.”

“All right, darling,” said Gadsby, “you shall marry in a pitch dark room if you wish; for, as you say, a small, parlor affair is just as binding as a big church display. It’s only your vows that count.”

So but a small group stood lovingly in Gadsby’s parlor, as Parson Brown brought into unity Kathlyn and John. Kathlyn was radiantly happy; and John, our famous organist, was as happy with only charming Sarah Young at an upright piano, as any organist in a big choir loft.

But to Lady Gadsby and His Honor, this was, in a way, a sad affair; for that big mansion now had lost two of its inhabitants; and, as many old folks know, a vast gap, or chasm thus forms, backward across which flit happy visions of laughing, romping, happy girlhood; happy hours around a sitting room lamp; and loving trips in night’s small hours to a room

or two, just to know that a small girl was all right, or that a big girl was not in a draft. But, though marrying off a girl will bring such a vacancy, that happy start out into a world throbbing with vitality and joy, can allay a bit of that void in a big mansion, or a small cabin. A birth, a tooth, a growth, a mating; and, again a birth, a tooth, and so on. Such is that mighty Law, which was laid down on that first of all days; and which will control Man, animal, and plant until that last of all nights.

So it was first Nancy, and now Kathlyn; and Branton Hills’ gossips thought of Bill and Julius, with whom many a young, romantic maid would gladly sit in a wistaria-drooping arbor on a warm, moon-lit night; flighty maids with Bill, adoring his high class social gossip; studious maids with Julius, finding much to think about in his practical talks on physics, zoology, and natural history. Tho Bill and Julius had shown no liability of biting at any alluring bait on any matrimonial hook; and Gadsby, winking knowingly, would say:— “Bill is too frivolous, just now; and Julius too busy at our Hall of Natural History. But just wait until Dan Cupid starts shooting again, and watch things whiz!”

SARAH, WALKING ALONG past City Park on a raw, cold night, found a tiny,— oh so tiny,—puppy, whining, shaking and crying with cold. Picking up that small bunch of babyhood, Sarah was in quandary as just what to do; but Priscilla Standish, coming along, said:— “Oh! Poor baby!! Who owns him, Sarah?”

“I don’t know; but say! Wouldn’t your Ma —?”

“My Ma would!! Bring him along, and wrap your cloak around him. It’s awfully cold for so young a puppy.”

So Lady Standish, with that “back-yard zoo” soon had his quaking babyship lapping good warm milk, and a stumpy tail wagging as only a tiny puppy’s stumpy tail can wag. Along towards six o’clock a vigorous pounding on Lady Standish’s front door brought Priscilla, to find Old Bill Simpkins with a tiny, wildly sobbing girl of about four. Walking into Lady Standish’s parlor, Simpkins said:

“This kid has lost a-a-a-crittur; I think it was a pup, wasn’t it, kid?”

A vigorous up and down bobbing of a small shock of auburn hair.

“So,” said Simpkins, “I thought it might show up in your back-yard gang.”

“It has, Bill, you old grouch!!” for Lady Standish, as about all of Branton Hills grown-ups, was in school with Bill. “It’s all right, now, and warm and cuddly. Don’t cry, Mary darling. Priscilla will bring in your puppy.”

As that happy baby sat crooning to that puppy, also a baby, Old Bill had to snort out:— “Huh! A lot of fuss about a pup, I’ll say!” “Oh, pooh-pooh, Bill Simpkins!” said Lady S. “Why shouldn’t a child croon to a puppy? Folks bring all kinds of animals to my back yard, if sick or hurt. Want to walk around my zoo?”

“No!! No zoos for Councilman Simpkins! Animals ain’t worth so much fuss!”

“Pshaw, Bill! You talk ridiculously! I wish you could know of about half of my works. I want to show you a big Angora cat. A dog bit its foot so I put a balm on it and wound it with cotton —”

“You put balm on a cat’s foot!! Bah!”

But Lady Standish didn’t mind Old Bill’s ravings having known him so long; so said:— “Oh, how’s that old corn of yours? Can’t I put a balm —”

“No! You cannot! Mary, bring your pup; I’m going along.”

As a happy tot was passing out that big, kindly front door, Sarah said

“Was Councilman Simpkins always so grouchy, Lady Standish?”

“No. Not until John Gadsby ‘cut him out’ and won Lady Gadsby.”

“Aha!! And a Ho, Ho!!” said Sarah, laughing gayly. “So folks had what you call ‘affairs’ way back, just as today!” and also laughing inwardly, at what Lucy had said about this kindly Lady Standish and His Honor.

Ah! That good old schoolday, now so long past! How it bobs up, now-a-days, if you watch a young lad and a happy, giggling lass holding hands or laughing uproariously at youthful witticisms. And how diaphanous and almost imaginary that far-back day looks, if that girl with whom you stood up and said “I do,” laughs, if you try a bit of romantic kissing, and says:—

“Why, John! How silly! You act actually childish!!”

****

And now it won’t do any harm to hark back a bit on this history, to find how our big Night School is doing. Following that first graduation day, many and many a child, and adult, too, had put in hours on various nights; and if you visit it you will find almost as many forms of instruction going on as you will find pupils; for thousands of folks today know of topics which, with a bit of study, could turn out profitably. Now Branton Hills had, as you know, built this school for public instruction; and, as with all such institutions, visiting days occur. And what a display of goods and workmanship! And what bright, happy pupils, standing proudly back of it! For mankind knows hardly a joy which will surpass that of approval of his work.

Gadsby’s party first took in a wood-working shop; finding small stands which fit so happily into many a living room nook; book racks for walls or floor; moth-proof bins, smoking stands, many with fancy uprights or inlaid tops; high chairs for tiny tots; arm chairs for old folks; cribs, tobacco humidors, stools, porch and lawn swings, ballbats, rolling pins, mixing boards; in fact about anything that a man can fashion from wood.

As an indication of practical utility coming from such public instruction, a man told Gadsby:-

“I didn’t know much about wood-working tools until I got into this class. This thing I am making would cost about thirty dollars to buy, but all it cost, so far, is two dollars and a half, for wood and glass,” which Gadsby thought was worth knowing about; as so many of his Council had put forth so many complaints against starting such a school without charging for instruction. In an adjoining room His Honor’s party found boys banging and pounding happily; and, if you should ask, —noisily, —on brasswork: making bowls, trays, lamp standards, photograph stands, book supports and similar artistic things. Across from that was a blacksmith shop, with its customary flying sparks and sizzling cooling-vats. But, by going upstairs, away from all this din, Gadsby, humming happily, found Sarah and Lucy, Nancy and Kathlyn amidst a roomful of girls doing dainty fancy-work. And what astonishing ability most of that group did show! Nancy bought a baby-cap which was on a par with anything in Branton Hills’ shops; and though Kathlyn said it was “just too cunning for anything”, John Smith’s bungalow didn’t contain anybody (just now!) whom it would fit.

But Lady Gadsby, with a party of Branton Hills matrons, was calling for Gadsby to hurry down a long corridor to a loom-room, saying that such dainty rugs, mats and scarfs of cotton and silk hung all around on walls or racks, it was truly astonishing that girls could do such first-class work, having had long hours of labor in Broadway’s shops all day. Although most of our standard occupations found room for activity, an occasional oddity was run across. So His Honor’s party found two boys and two girls working at that always fascinating art of glass-blowing. And what a dainty trick it is! And what an opportunity to burn a thumb or two, if you don’t wait for things to cool! Things of charming form and fragility, grow as by a magician’s wand, from small glass tubings of various colors. Birds with glorious wings, ships of crystal sailing on dark billows, tiny buildings in a thick glass ball which upon agitation, stirs up a snowstorm which softly lands on pink roof-tops; many a fancy drinking glass and bowl, oil lamps, ash trays, and gaudy strings of tiny crystal balls for adorning party gowns. And did Nancy want to buy out this shop? And

did Frank doubt his ability to do so? And did Kathlyn ask: “How about it, Johnny?” and did John Smith say: “Nothing doing”? It was just that. But it only shows that good old Branton Hills’ inclination for aiding anything which looks worthy; and such a school I know you will admit, looks that way.

Tramping upstairs, still again, Gadsby and party found a class so varying from all downstairs as to bring forth murmurs of joy, for this was known as “Music Floor”; upon which was taught all forms of that most charming of all arts—from solo work to community singing, from solitary violin pupil to a full brass band. On our party’s arrival, Lucy, Doris and Virginia, hurrying from classrooms, sang, in trio, that soft, slow Italian song, “O Solo Mio;” and, as Gadsby proudly said, “Not for many a day had such music rung out in Branton Hills;” for most girls, if in training with a practical vocalist, can sing; and most charmingly.

In a far room was a big string outfit of banjos, mandolins and guitars, happily strumming out a smart, throbbing Spanish fandango, until His Honor could not avoid a swinging of body and tapping of foot; causing Lady Gadsby to laugh, saying:-

“Rhythm has a mighty grip on Zulus, I am told.”

To which our swaying Mayor said:-

“Anyway, a Zulu has a lot of fun out of it. If singing, playing and dancing could only crowd out sitting around and moping, folks would find that a Zulu can hand us a tip or two on happy living.”

But all music is not of string form; so, in a big auditorium, our party found a full brass band of about fifty boys, with a man from Branton Hills’ Municipal Band as instructor. Now as Gadsby was, as you boys say, “not at all bad” on a big bass horn in his youthful days, this band instructor, thinking of it, was asking him to “sit it” and play. So, as Lady Gadsby, two girls, and two sons-in-law sat smiling and giggling in a front row, and as fifty boys could hardly play, from laughing, that big horn got such a blasting that it was practically a horn solo! And Nancy, doubling up from giggling, said:— “D-d-daddy! If-f-f-f B-b-b-barnum’s circus hits town, you must join its cl-cl-clown band!”

But I had to rush this happy party out of that building, as an awful thing was occurring but a block from it; which told its own story by a lurid light, flashing through windows; clanging gongs, shrilling horns and running, shouting crowds; for an old, long-vacant factory building just across from City Hall, was blazing furiously. Rushing along Broadway was that “motor thing,” with Clancy and Dowd clinging wildly on a running board. Pulling up at a hydrant, Clancy said to His Honor:-

“As I was a-hangin’ onto this dom thing, a-thinkin’ it was going to bang into a big jam at two crossroads, I says, ‘By Gorra! that big pair of blacks wouldn’t bang into nuthin’! But this currazy contraption! It ain’t got no brain—no nuthin, no soul—nuthin’ but halitosis!!’” As Gadsby took a long look at Clancy’s “dom thing, a vision was wafting through his mind of a calm, sunny patch of land, way out in Branton Hills’ suburbs, on which day by day, two big blacks and two big roans could—anyway, taking all things into account, a big conflagration, with its din, rush and panic, is no spot for such animals as Big Four.” As for Old Bill’s squawk about animals “ruining our paving,” Gadsby thought that was but small talk, for paving, anyway, can’t last for long. But, that is a glorious spot, way out amongst our hills!

Gadsby took his party to a room in City Hall from which that burning factory was in plain sight; and as Nancy and Kathlyn stood watching that awful sight a big wall, crashing down, had a crowd rushing to that spot.

A man’s form was brought out to a patrol wagon; and a boy, rushing past City Hall, sang out to Gadsby

“It’s Old Man Donaldson!” Tiny Nancy, almost swooning, said:—

“Donaldson? Oh, Kathy! That’s Lucy’s Dad, of Company Two, you know!” and Frank and John Smith shot wildly downstairs to find out about it. In an instant a sobbing girlish form was dashing madly from that Night School building towards our Municipal Hospital. It was Lucy; bright, always laughing Lucy; but half an hour ago singing so happily in that girls’ trio.

As that big factory was still blazing furiously, Frank and John, coming in, said:—

“It was only a scalp wound, and a sprung wrist. Lucy is coming upstairs, now.” Lucy, coming in, badly blown from running and fright, said:-

“That wall caught Daddy; but it was so old and thin it didn’t crush him. Oh! How I worry if that alarm rings!”

“But,” put in Nancy, “it’s man’s work. Pshaw!! What good am I? Why, I couldn’t do a thing around that factory, right now! Look at my arm! About as big as a ball bat!” and as Frank took that sad, tiny form in his arms, Gadsby said:—

“All throughout Natural History, Nancy, you will find man built big and strong, and woman small and frail. That is so that man can obtain food for his family, and that woman may nourish his offspring. But today, I am sorry to say, you’ll find girls working hard, in gymnasiums, fondly hoping to attain man’s muscular parity. How silly!! It’s going straight against all natural laws. Girls can find a lot of bodily good in gymnasiums, I’ll admit! but not that much. And as for your ‘ball-bat’ arm, as you call it, what of it? You’d look grand, now wouldn’t you, with Frank’s big oak-branch arms hanging way down to your shins. But that ball-bat arm can curl around your tiny baby as softy as a down pillow. Aw, darling! Don’t say you can’t do anything; for I know you can. How about our old Organization of Youth days? You, —”

And Nancy, now laughing, said, gaily:—

“Oho! Our old Organization! What fun it was! But, Daddy, I don’t know of any young crowd following us up.”

“No. Our young folks of today think such things too much work;” and, as that old factory was but a mass of ruins now, and midnight was approaching, Gadsby’s family was soon in that mythical Land of Nod, in which no horns blow, no sparks fall; only occasionally a soft gurgling from a crib in Nancy’s bungalow.

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