by Van Reid
Following dinner, Mr. Fern sent one of his sons back to the schoolhouse to tell the other children that afternoon class was dismissed. Seldom does a herald so enjoy his task. “They didn’t riot, did they?” asked the teacher when the boy returned. It was pleasing for Mister Walton to see that Mr. Fern had retained his sense of humor through the family’s pig crisis.
“They gave you three cheers,” said the boy.
“They are good students on the whole,” said Mr. Fern to his guests, “but an unexpected holiday is never despised.”
“I should be concerned if it was,” said Mister Walton.
The ragged end of the storm blew overhead as Sundry and Johnny set out; small, dark clouds chased hard upon a field of gray. The Ferns and Mister Walton stood in the yard to wave the young men off, so that Sundry might have thought he wasn’t coming back. He glanced over his shoulder once they were under way and smiled to see Mister Walton standing with his hands folded behind him and his head back to look at the weathercock atop the barn.
“Mister Walton doesn’t seem like a pig farmer,” said Johnny Poulter when they had gone over the hill.
Sundry was interested to hear it but betrayed no surprise. “Doesn’t he?” he replied.
“Like almost anything else, I guess.”
Sundry considered Johnny carefully and could see no guile or wryness in the man. “Appearances can be deceiving,” he said, wondering why Mister Walton should have looked like a pig farmer.
“It’s true,” Johnny agreed. “Mr. Fern doesn’t seem much like a farmer.”
“Madeline is very pleasant,” offered Sundry.
It was Johnny’s turn to consider Sundry. “I had noticed,” he said.
“I thought she was glad to see you,” said Sundry.
“Did you?” said Johnny, and that amiable caution with which he regarded his passenger melted in a heartbeat. Sundry was working more on intuition than hard evidence, but he had guessed at a mutual admiration between Madeline Fern and Johnny Poulter. “Ach!” said Johnny, as if thoughts on this course were pointless. He was an even-featured, dark-haired fellow, with a bit of dirt beneath his fingernails and a smudge of something on the back of his neck, but he was smart and had proven to have a sense of humor (the surest sign of intelligence, according to certain intelligent men). “I can hardly speak to her,” said Johnny, and he smiled ironically.
Sundry waved a hand to indicate how inconsequential this was. “Mister Walton says that listening is the first signal of good conversation.”
They both looked ahead then and said nothing till Sundry laughed and Johnny laughed with him. The blacksmith then began to explain to Sundry what Sundry had already supposed.
There is an aesthetic sort of pleasure that men derive from praising the women they admire, and one might think that a young fellow like Johnny was holding the apple of his eye in the palm of his hand when he described, in decorous fashion, the many accomplishments and fascinations of Madeline Fern. Simply hearing them, Sundry half fell in love with her himself.
Jonas Fink was standing on the steps of his store as they went by and he called out to Sundry, “Anything you need?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Sundry. He wondered again how the notion that Mister Walton would know something about pigs had first taken flight.
“I thought maybe your friend had sent you back for a cure,” said the store owner.
“He’s still studying on it,” said Sundry.
Johnny Poulter dropped Sundry off at the station. The mechanics were still working on the first engine, which was pulled up on a siding, but another engine had been brought up the line and the train was long gone. Sundry and Johnny parted on good terms, though the blacksmith might have felt some jealousy toward anyone going back to spend time at the Ferns’.
“Fix that creature up, yet?” wondered a man at the railroad station. Several other heads came up and Sundry knew that the whole town was talking about Hercules and the two strangers who’d gone out to see him.
“It’s no simple thing to gladden a pig,” averred Sundry, and the railroad man nodded at this wisdom. While he was at the station, Sundry wired the Baffins at home as to his and Mister Walton’s whereabouts. On the way to the livery, he passed Fink’s General Store and Post Office, where certain locals were still gathered. It did not take them long to detect his presence, and he was met with a barrage of questions. “How’s the pig?” asked one fellow.
“Not inspired,” said Sundry.
Another farmer was leaving town when Sundry reached the livery stable with his and Mister Walton’s bags. “How’s old Hercules?” asked this fellow, after he’d offered to take Sundry back to Fern Farm.
“No better,” said Sundry.
“There’s some would be glad to do that well,” said the man.
Sundry offered nothing more, though the fellow must have been curious. The farmer refrained from further questions. “What’s it going to do tomorrow?” wondered Sundry, looking into the sky.
“We’ll know more about it tomorrow night,” said the farmer, who could be as helpful as Sundry when need arose.
“Like water off a duck’s back,” might be an appropriate phrase to characterize how life generally affected the outward poise of Sundry Moss. In most circumstances, Sundry’s inner self remained as calm, but it was spring and he had recently spoken with a young woman who had, at their first and only other meeting (and unknowingly), startled his heart like an unexpected gunshot. As a rule, it was not difficult for Sundry to keep his head, even when all about him might have lost their composure; indeed, it was difficult for him to acknowledge those rare moments when his nerves were genuinely struck, during which instances his practiced calm served him well.
Suffering quietly from his too-brief experience of Priscilla Morningside, it did not hurt his condition that he suffered it in the general purview of a lovely young woman like Madeline Fern. Madeline could not make him forget Priscilla, nor in any way replace her in his estimation, but Miss Fern’s beautiful smile and sweet demeanor did hoist his spirits.
The Fern plantation, too, was natural balm to Sundry, so, upon his return, when the family dispersed to their afternoon chores, he quite gladly joined them. He took visible pleasure in tending the animals, relished the familiar scents and sounds of the vast barn, and even took a turn in the rope swing that hung from the rafters. Eventually he wandered outside and explored the grounds, strolling fence and field as a tourist might walk the ruins of a Greek amphitheater. A rural upbringing provided Sundry’s eyes and ears with the means to interpret signs that must have escaped Mister Walton; the repair and order of things, the health of the livestock, and recent events were made plain to him by small and (to the unseasoned eye) insignificant details.
When Mister Walton and their hosts came out of the barn, they found Sundry considering a single rut that ran like the track of a wheelbarrow along the lawn from one corner of the house to the side of the barn, where a ladder lay on its side. “Working on the roof?” Sundry asked Mr. Fern, his hands behind his back as he looked up.
Vergilius Fern also tipped his head back to consider the top of the house. “No,” he said with a puzzled expression. “Should I be?”
Sundry only shook his head.
“I’m not very fond of heights, to be honest with you,” added the farmer
“I like my feet on the ground,” admitted Sundry.
“You don’t think Hercules has been up on the roof, do you?” said Mr. Fern, exhibiting more wryness than his guests would have credited.
“Have you tried keeping him in?” wondered Sundry.
“We kept him penned for three days, though it broke my heart to do it, and I saw not a whisker of difference, Mr. Moss.”
Sundry turned his back to the house and approached the corner of the property inhabited by the unfortunate pig.
“It’s very nice of you to be here, Mister Walton,” said Mr. Fern.
“It’s very nice of you to have us, Mr. Fern,
” replied the portly fellow. He had taken off his spectacles and was rubbing them with his handkerchief.
“I trust you have been thinking about our Hercules.”
Mister Walton reestablished his spectacles upon his nose and peered after Sundry. “Yes, we have,” he said a little absently.
“Mr. Moss is a bit of your right hand, I surmise.”
“A bit of my right arm, Mr. Fern.”
Mister Walton marveled at the many stories the F ems began to tell about the creature. The pig could pull a cart and play hide-and-seek, if the children were to be believed, and Mr. Fern related how Hercules had earned his name (when he was merely large, and not enormous) by driving off a stray dog that had threatened little Homer.
In better days, Hercules had acted as footman by greeting visitors at the hitching post and as night watchman by patrolling the grounds of the farm at odd hours after sunset. The pig seemed impervious to the heat of August and the chill of January, and on pleasant evenings he sat on the veranda, grunting to Mr. Fern’s orations of Longfellow and Poe. All this Mr. Fern expressed in regretful tones, as if his porcine companion had already gone to his reward, and the more Mister Walton heard about the remarkable pig, the more he wished he knew how to help the beast.
Hercules let out a long forlorn sigh, and Mr. Fern echoed this with one of his own. “He’s a good pig, Mister Walton,” said Mr. Fern.
“I’ve never known one better,” said the bespectacled guest.
Mr. Fern produced a handkerchief from a vest pocket to dab at his eyes. “That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Mr. Fern.
They were still communing with the depressed pig when someone rang the dinner bell and Mister Walton followed his host back to the house. Sundry lingered by the flower beds but then caught up with them, and Mister Walton noticed that his trusted friend and companion seemed almost cheerful.
from The Dresden Herald for the week of May 28, 1897
NEWS IN TOWN
Come lads and lasses to the fields
(For Summer is a comin’ today)
Where Winter’s heavy mantle yields,
To the merry morning of May.
The flowers bloom in splendid hue,
(For Summer is a comin’ today)
The trees leaf out for all to view,
In the merry morning of May.
Oh, who draws nigh in gold and green
(For Summer is a comin’ today
The Lass of Spring, fair to be seen,
On this merry morning of May.
So sings the ancient ballad, but it is a ballad from across the water where Spring spreads light and warmth over the English Counties, or it is a song for these shores, but in southern climes. Here in Dresden, Spring is the mare welcome for heralding the summer that June all but ensures. April will have her crocuses, and May sports the tulip and the jonquil, but June is the lady whose promise breathes life into the fields of Maine and coaxes the leaves of the trees and the wildflower to peer from their buds.
Poets by Winter’s hearth speak of blue”eyed, green”gowned May and seem forgetful of swarming blackflies and muddy byways. Elias Judkins didn’t forget, and he tells us he purchased a spyglass with which to keep an eye on his back field. The blackflies were so thick there, last Tuesday, that he could see them like a shadow from his parlor window, and he gave up repairing a wall when he spied them, saving himself a trip over field and brook. He came into town then and spent part of the day at Labarge’s General Store trading memories with same of the village patriarchs.
Sally Innsey came in for a sack of flour and baking powder far Mr. Innsey’s biscuits and said a warren of rabbits had appeared over on the south side of Calls Hill. Some who sat about the store remembered how Jack Crosby and Barne Baker raced their horses from Cork Cove to the Great Bog and Jack’s mount shied as a swarm of rabbits scurried from a hole down by Nequasset Brook. Jack fell off his horse and right through the ground into the warren, and Barne graciously called the race against interference.
Mrs. Henrietta Lincoln has not been feeling well of late and several neighbors have been by to offer her company. We all wish her a speedy recovery.
Mrs. Anne Babcock is back from visiting her sister’s family in Thorndike, and Mr. Babcock must be pleased to have her, as he is by his own admission, “no better cook than an old sinner deserves.”
Mrs. Gemma Cooley’s cat ruined part of a skein of yarn she was using to make her son James a sweater, and if anyone has some gray yarn she would gladly trade with them so she might finish it.
On Monday, Burthold Handy received a letter from his brother Beale in Hawaii and he shared it with folks at Grange on Wednesday night. Everyone was greatly interested in the descriptions of the island flora, the volcanic heights, and the strange customs of the people. Beale is foreman of a pineapple plantation on the island of Oahu.
Oliver Worthen reports that his dog Petunia littered a dozen pups this week. That was litter indeed!
16. The Afternoon of May
Ezra Porch was up in the lilacs when Dee came out that afternoon. He liked this place and often peered out at the life of the village from the screen of branch and leaf. If he were still enough, birds sometimes roosted here; he might dare grab one if Dee wasn’t in sight. He thought himself very wicked and was content.
A breeze fell off Orchard Hill and swept with it the scents of the Kennebec River as it passed. Even a human might smell the water and the intervening earth on a day when the sun roused these scents into the air.
Dee opened the gate and stepped into the street. There were still some muddy places from the morning’s rain and she described a crooked path on her way to the post office. She had not gone far, however, before she slowed her pace and then stood for a time looking up at the sky, where bright, scratchy clouds lingered in a pale blue. There was enough of a breeze to keep the bugs away, she thought. She had a small hat and only a shawl about her shoulders for a wrap, but the sun was strong, and she set out past the school, up the field in the direction of the river. The grass was barely damp, but the ground gave like a cushion, still soft with the morning’s rain.
She climbed over a fence rather than walk to the stile. A bramble caught her sleeve and she pierced a finger releasing herself. “A toll on every road,” her Uncle Fale often said. Dee had a small taste of blood when she put the finger to her lips. Then she shook the sting from her hand and scaled the little rise beyond. There were sheep on the other side of the hill, and she could see before her, just east of where she stood, the broad Kennebec; when she glanced to the west, over her shoulder, past her home and a grove of trees, there was the smaller Eastern River. Near an inlet of the Eastern were two small islands, bristling with alder and willow. She remembered that there was a table of rock somewhere near, and she cast about the hillside till she found it.
Pulling her shawl tightly around her, she sat upon the gray surface of ledge and watched for ducks on the river. She looked to the clouds again and thought about the wind—how fast it blew, where it had come from, and where it went. A swarm of blackflies milled below her on the hill, but the breeze never let them rise very far above the turf.
Looking back toward the Kennebec, she saw someone walking the meadow—a man taking long, purposeful strides in her direction. Dee looked about her and could find no other goal but herself. She thought of walking back to the village before the man got near, but it was too obvious that she had seen him, and her curiosity was up besides.
It was not long before she shaded her eyes to get a better look, and not much longer before she was able to descry Olin Bell making the steeper southwest slope of the hill. He kept his head up, though it was natural to look down as he climbed. At a certain distance she smiled at him, and Olin stopped and called to her. “Good morning, Dee.”
“Good morning, Olin,” she replied. He might have skirted the hill then, if he were going somewhere else, but her friendly tone was like permission for him to approach. She stayed seated as he came.
> Olin Bell was about two or three years younger than Dee. She remembered him from school and thought that he hadn’t changed very much since those days. He still had the same pale hair, pale blue eyes, and pale freckles across his face. He was a tall man, strong and broad shouldered. He had recently inherited his family’s farm when his uncle died. Dee could see the place from where she sat, neatly placed among a line of maples and along the banks of the larger river.
“I thought it was you,” he said as he drew up a few feet away.
“Wiser people would wear more than a shawl today,” she said, as if she had been identified by this shortcoming.
“The sun’s warm enough,” he said.
“Or wiser people have more to do with themselves,” she posited, seemingly bent on self-deprecation.
He did not answer this but looked about them, and she watched him and watched the places he set his gaze. “There are a lot of people who don’t look at things,” he said after some thought. He had not been searching for an answer, Dee thought, only a way to frame it. “Uncle Tim said your mother would walk the fields,” he added, as if this were reason enough. “Just as you do. Back when she did walk.”
“It is a necessity,” she replied.
He nodded. He leaned down and snatched a blade of grass from the turf, then wound this about a finger. He had boots on; their uppers were muddy but the grass had swept the vamps clean. He took a large breath and looked past her out over the Eastern River.
Oddly, Dee was suddenly a little fearful of what Olin might say. But Olin Bell? she wondered to herself. She chanced a look in his direction and observed a handsome profile against the sky.
He said, “Jimmy Baker and I made a raft from some boards we got out of an abandoned barn down by the Stafford place and used it to explore those islands. We thought we were pirates.”
Dee liked the image. “You would never have invited a girl, I suppose.”
“Didn’t know enough to,” he said with a laugh. “How is your mother?”
