Complete Works of L. Frank Baum
Page 851
“Is — is your husband a poor man?” the boy hazarded.
“Goodness, no! Mart’n Luther’s pretty well off, I’m told. Not by him, mind you. He only tells me what he can’t afford. But our minister once said he would n’t be s’prised if Mart’n Luther had a thousan’ dollars laid up! It’s a pretty good farm, an’ he works it himself. An’ he’s so keerful o’ spendin’.”
“Doesn’t he give you money for — for clothes and — and things?”
“Oh, yes; he ‘s good ‘bout that. We made an agreement, once, an’ he’s stuck to it like a man. Ev’ry New-Year’s, he gives me five dollars for dresses an’ hats, an’ ev’ry Fourth o’ July I git fifty cents an’ no questions asked.”
The boy’s eyes grew big at this.
“Doesn’t he spend anything on himself, either?” he inquired.
“A little, of course. He gits his clo’s secondhand from the drug-store keeper, who’s about the same size as Mart’n Luther, but some fatter, an’ he puts five cents in the contribution box ev’ry Sunday, an’ — an’ — well, there’s the tollgate he has to pay for ev’ry time he goes to town. That toll-gate makes him orful mad. We’re comin’ to it pretty soon. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” he cried, laughing merrily.
“Mart’n Luther’s savin’, an’ no mistake,’’ she continued musingly. “He wouldn’t let me put him up no lunch to-day, ‘cause he said Tom Dwyer would be sure to ask him to eat with him, an’ if he didn’t, he could easy get hold o’ some fruit on exhibition. He said to save the food fer his supper to-night, an’ he’d git along somehow.”
“He ought to be worth several thousand dollars, at that rate,’’ observed the boy, not without indignation. “But what good is his money to him, or to you, if he doesn’t enjoy it? You ought to have a better allowance than you do, for you’ve certainly helped him to accumulate the money.”
She heaved a little sigh.
“He says he can’t afford any more,” she replied, “an’ I’m satisfied, as things be. I used to long to buy pretty things an’ go ‘round, once in a while, but I’ve got all over that now. I ‘m happy, an’ the Lord takes keer o’ me. Didn’t He send you here to-day with the — this — orto — orto — machine o’ yours?”
“I wonder if He did?” returned the boy, gravely. “Oh, here’s the dreadful toll-gate, Aunt ‘Phroney.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock when they entered the big gate of the fair grounds. The automobile attracted considerable attention, although there were two or three others in Fenuport. As the boy assisted Aunt ‘Phroney from the car, she was recognized by several acquaintances who frequented her church, and it was good to witness the old woman’s pride and satisfaction at the looks of bewilderment that greeted her. She took the boy’s arm and passed through the crowd with her chin well up, and presently they were in the main pavilion, where the largest part of the display was centered.
“Let’s look at the fruits an’ veg’tibles,” she eagerly exclaimed. “I want to see if Mart’n Luther’s won any prizes. Do you know, boy, he promised me all the money he won that come to over four dollars?” “Did he really?” “Yes, he were feelin’ quite chirky this mornin’, ‘fore he left, so he promised it. But if he won first prize on ev’rything, it’d be only five dollars altogether, so I guess he didn’t risk much.”
They found the fruits, but Martin Luther’s red apples had no ribbon on them, either blue or red.
“They don’t look as good here, ‘longside the others, as they did to home,” sighed Aunt ‘Phroney; “so I guess the jedge was correc’ in lett’n’ ‘em pass by. Let’s see how the pertaters turned out.”
Martin Luther’s potatoes had failed to win. They lay just between the lots which had drawn the first and second prizes, and even the boy’s inexperienced eyes could see they were inferior to the others.
“They bake well,” murmured Aunt ‘Phroney, “an’ they bile jus’ fine; but they ain’t so pretty as them others, thet’s a fact. I guess Mart’n Luther won’t hev to give me any of his prize-money this year — ’specially as he don’t git any.”
“Didn’t you say you had a chicken in the show?” asked the boy.
“Yes, an’ a mighty fine rooster he is, if I do say it. I’ve looked after him myself, ever since he were an egg, an’ he’s that high an’ mighty, I named him ‘The Bishop.’ Seems to me he’ll be hard to beat, but p’r’aps when he’s compared to others, the Bishop’ll be like the apples an’ ‘taters.”
“Where is he?”
“The poultry show’ll be in a tent somewheres.”
“Let’s find him,” said the boy, almost as interested as his companion.
They inquired the way, and, in passing through the grounds to the poultry tent, they passed a crowd surrounding one of those fakers so prominent at every country fair. Aunt ‘Phroney wanted to see what was going on, so the boy drew her dexterously through the circle of spectators. As soon as they reached a place of observation, the old woman gave a violent start and grabbed her escort’s arm. A lean, round-shouldered man with chin whiskers was tossing rings at a board filled with jack-knives of all sizes and shapes, in a vain endeavor to “ring” one of them. He failed, and the crowd jeered. Then he drew a leather wallet from his pocket, unstrapped it, and withdrew a coin with which he purchased more delusive rings. The boy felt Aunt ‘Phroney trembling beside him.
“See that ol’ feller yonder?” she asked.
“Yes,” said he.
“That’s Mart’n Luther!”
They watched him with breathless interest, but not one of the rings he threw managed to capture a knife. Others tried them, undeterred by the failure of the old farmer, and, after watching them a short time, out came Martin Luther’s leather pocket-book again.
“Come!” whispered the woman, in deep distress; “let’s go afore I faint dead away! Who’d believe Mart’n Luther could be sech a spen’thrift an’ prodigal? I did n’t b’lieve’t was in him.”
The boy said nothing, but led her out of the crowd. To solace his companion’s grief, he “treated” Aunt ‘Phroney to pink lemonade, which had the effect of decidedly cheering her up. They found the poultry tent almost deserted, and, after a brief search, the woman recognized the Bishop. A man down the row of cages was even now judging the fowls and attaching ribbons to the winning birds as he went along.
“He ‘II come to the Plymouth Rocks in a minute,” whispered Aunt ‘Phroney; “let’s wait an’ see what happens.”
It didn’t take the judge very long to decide. Quite promptly he pinned a blue ribbon to the Bishop’s cage, and Aunt ‘Phroney exclaimed: “There! we’ve got a prize at last, boy!”
The judge looked up, saw the boy, and held out his hand with a smile of recognition.
“Why, how are you, Mr. Carroll?” he exclaimed cordially; “I thought I was the only Durham man on the grounds. Did you drive your new car over?”
The boy nodded.
“They sent for me to judge this poultry show,” continued the man, “but it’s the poorest lot of alleged thoroughbreds I ever saw together. Not a really good bird in the show.”
“That ought to make your task easier,” said the boy.
“No, it makes it harder. For instance, there’s the Sweepstakes Prize for the best bird of any sort on exhibition. Tell me, how am I to make such an award, where all are undeserving?”
“Very well, I’ll tell you,” returned the boy, audaciously. “If I were judging, I’d give this fellow” — pointing to the Bishop — ”the Sweepstakes.”
“Eh? This fellow?” muttered the judge, eying Aunt ‘Phroney’s pet critically. “Why, I don’t know but you’re right, Mr. Carroll. I had it in mind to give the Sweepstakes to that White Leghorn yonder, but this Plymouth Rock seems well set up and has good style.”
The Bishop had recognized his mistress, and was strutting proudly and showing to excellent advantage. While the judge considered him, he flapped his wings and gave a lusty crow.
Aunt ‘Phroney drew a long breath. Her eyes were sparkling.
“How much is the Sweepstakes, jedge?” she inquired.
“It’s the largest money prize offered — twenty-five dollars — and there’s a silver water-pitcher besides. I ‘m sorry such a liberal premium did not bring out a better display. But I must hurry and make my report, for I want to catch the two o’clock train home. Good day, Mr. Carroll.”
As he bowed and left the tent, Aunt ‘Phroney was staring proudly at the Bishop.
“Twenty-five dollars!” she gasped, ‘‘an’ two dollars first prize for Plymouth Rocks! Twenty-seven dollars an’ a silver pitcher! Boy, do you know what this means? It means I’ll git twenty-three dollars — an’ Mart’n Luther’ll git jus’ four.”
“Will he keep his promise?” the boy asked.
‘“Yes. Mart’n Luther’s a’ honest man, an’ God-fearin’ — but he ain’t got much jedgment ‘bout ringin’ jack-knives. Dear me, who’d ever think he ‘d turn out a squanderer?”
The boy took her away to the big dining-hall. It was divided into two sections by a rail. On one side was a sign reading: “Square Meal, 25c.” On the other side was the legend: “Regular Dinner, with Oysters and Ice-Cream, 50c.”
Disregarding his companion’s protests, the boy led her into the latter section, which had few patrons compared with the cheaper one. No sooner had Aunt ‘Phroney tucked her napkin under her chin than she grew pale and stared amazed across the rail. The boy’s eyes followed hers and recognized Martin Luther seated at a table facing them, and eating with ravenous industry.
“Twenty-five cents gone — an’ he might ‘a’ took the lunch I offered him!” wailed the old woman. Perhaps the magnetism of their combined gaze affected Martin Luther, for he raised his eyes and encountered his wife’s horrified stare. The man was justified in being equally astonished. Motionless, with a piece of beef poised half-way to his mouth, he glared alternately at the strange boy and at Aunt ‘Phroney. His face betokened bewilderment, shame at being discovered, and, at the last, an unreasoning panic. He slowly rose to his feet, turned his back, and ignominiously fled from the hall.
“Never mind,” said the woman, her lips firmly set, “he’ll know he’s got somethin’ to explain when he gits home; an’ if Mart’n Luther ever hears the last o’ them jack-knives an’ his prodigal ‘square meal,’ my name ain’t Sophroney Sager!”
After the dinner, with its accompanying luxuries of oysters and ice-cream, was over, they saw the balloon ascension and the races; and then, early in the afternoon, the boy put Aunt ‘Phroney into the touring car and they drove to Fennport, where the tank was filled with gasolene. During this operation, the boy noticed that the old woman shivered slightly in the cool autumn weather, and drew her thin shawl more closely around her as she sat waiting in the car.
“You ought to have brought a heavy coat,” he said.
“Why I haven’t got any,’’ she returned, smiling at him cheerfully.
“No coat! What do you wear in winter, when you go to church?” the boy asked.
“When it’s real cold, I wrap a comforter ‘round me on the way, an’ then wear this shawl into church. Aunt Sally left it to me when she died. It’s real Peasley.”
“Get out of the car, please, Aunt ‘Phroney,” the boy said quietly.
“Why cert’nly, if you say so; but what for?”
“I had a birthday last week, and Father gave me a check. I want to buy a present for my best girl at this store, and I wish you to help me pick it out.”
She went in, then, full of interest, and the boy whispered to the clerk, who began to display a collection of thick, warm coats in sober colors.
“Try this one on, Aunt ‘Phroney,” urged the boy.
Suddenly she became suspicious, and flushed like a school-girl.
“Boy,” she began, “if you dare — ”
“Hush, please!” he pleaded. “Do you want to shame me before all these strangers? And spoil my birthday? And prove that I haven’t any best girl?”
The appeal was effective. The old woman meekly submitted to the “try-on,” and presently he said to the clerk: “This one will do. Mrs. Sager will take it with her and wear it home, as the air is a bit chilly.”
Before she could recover from her dazed condition, they were once more in the automobile and speeding down the turnpike toward the farm.
“Feel warm enough, Aunt ‘Phroney?” asked the boy, turning a merry face toward her. Then he saw that her eyes were full of tears. She nestled closer to him and murmured softly: “You know, boy, we — we never had a chick or a child of our own!”
That evening father and son were seated in the banker’s library. “I spent twenty dollars of my birthday money, to-day.” said the boy.
“Indeed. In what way?”
“Trying to make an old country woman happy.” “Really, my son?”
“Really, Father; and I think — I ‘m quite sure — that I succeeded.”
And then he told him the whole story.
Who Called “Perry?”
From: The Chicago Times-Herald, January 19, 1896
It was nearly midnight when I boarded the train, and, entering the chair car, prepared to doze during the hours of my journey. “Call me at Perry,” I said to the conductor as I surrendered my ticket, for I may be asleep.”
He promised, and I settled myself comfortably for my nap.
I don’t know how long I had slept, when some one shook me by the shoulder and shouted, “Perry!”
Opening my eyes I found the train was slowing up, and presently it came to a full stop. “Perry!” again shouted the voice in my ear. This time I sprang to my feet, seized my valise and stepped from the car to the platform just as the train glided away up the track.
I turned to look for the town and found myself confronted by a station agent holding a lantern.
“In which direction is the town?” I asked.
“Town!” he answered in surprise; “there’s no town here.”
“Isn’t this Perry?”
“No, this is Head’s Crossing. Perry is twenty miles further on.”
“But the conductor,” I said, angry at my misadventure, “called Perry, and so I left the car. I shall report him to the superintendent.”
“The conductor was in the front car,” replied the man, “and you stepped from the rear car. He could not possibly have called you.”
“But some one shouted, ‘Perry!’“
The agent looked at me incredulously, and said nothing.
“Is there another train?” I asked.
“Not until morning,”
“Where can I sleep?”
“I’ll give you the cot in my office, if you like. The station is the only building within miles.”
Rather ungraciously, I fear, I accepted his hospitality; but the cot was hard and I was too much annoyed to sleep, so I tossed about until suddenly the agent, who was at the telegraph key, startled me by exclaiming
“Good God!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“No. 16 has gone through the bridge at Coon Rapids, and the whole train is lying twenty feet under water!”
No. 16 was the train I had left to spend the night at Head’s Crossing.
Haldeman
From: Uplifters Hymnal, 1915.
(Tune of “I’ll Get You”)
I
SOLO -
We know a fellow who’s one of us;
He’s generous - magnanimous;
Loves to be merry; never’s contrary;
He’s one of us - this genial cuss!
Uplifting art’s the stunt he loves best;
He uplifts our hears with song and with jest;
Makes us his comrades and calls us his
friends
As at our festive board he graciously unbends:
ALL THE UPLIFTERS -
Hal-de-man! Hal-de-man!
In his shirtsleeves, while at lunch,
He leads in song or Uplift bunch -
Oh, Hal-de-man! Excel him no one can!
By all our clan he is called a man,
Is Hal-de-man!
THEN, VERY SLOWLY -
Hal-de-man! Hal-de-man!
He loves girlies, he loves grub,
(For otherwise he’d be a dub)
And he loves beer, goodfellowship and cheer;
He loves to shake for the good bones’ sake
Does Hal-de-man!
II
SOLO -
He’s always cheery, he’s always gay -
That is his way - fun and fair play -
Never gets dumpy, never is grumpy -
That is his way, day after day!
We’ve found this comrade faithful and true;
Just give him a chance, the right thing he’ll do;
We love his faults, we’ll his vurtues defend,
For one a friend, a friends’s a friend unto the end!
NOW - ALL TOGETHER -
Hal-de-man! Hal-de-man!
Happiness will with us tarry
While we have our dear old Harry!
Hal-de-man! Since fellowship began
No bigger heart could uplift art
Than Hal-de-man!
REPEAT SOFTLY -
Hal-de-man! Hal-de-man!
He loves girlies, he loves grub,
(For otherwise he’d be a dub!)
And he loves beer, goodfellowship and cheer;
He loves to shake for the good bones’ sake
Does Hal-de-man!
The King Who Changed His Mind
From: unknown publication, circa 1901
There once lived a King of Arol who possessed a most terrible temper, so that people spoke of him in whispers as “the Mad King.” To his face they bowed low and fearfully, for he had a bad habit of ordering his executioner to cut off a head, now and then, upon the slightest provocation - or with no provocation at all. The least thing was liable to excite his anger, and when there was nothing to be angry about he was so annoyed that he invented something.