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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Life's Minor Collisions + +Author: Frances Warner + Gertrude Warner + +Release Date: November 1, 2011 [EBook #37899] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE'S MINOR COLLISIONS *** + + + + +Produced by Jana Srna and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div id="tnote"> +<p class="center"><b>Transcriber's Notes:</b></p> + +<p>Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully +as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation.</p> + +<p>Some corrections of spelling and punctuation have been made. +<span class="screen">They are marked <ins title="transcriber's note">like +this</ins> in the text. The original text appears when hovering the cursor +over the marked text.</span> A <a href="#tn-bottom">list of amendments</a> is +at the end of the text.</p> +</div> + +<h1>LIFE'S MINOR COLLISIONS</h1> + +<p class="center" style="line-height: 2em;">BY<br/> +<big>FRANCES AND GERTRUDE WARNER</big></p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: smaller;">AUTHORS (RESPECTIVELY) OF “ENDICOTT AND I” +AND “HOUSE OF DELIGHT”</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 137px;"> +<img src="images/emblem.png" width="137" height="172" alt=""/> +</div> + +<p class="center" style="line-height: 1.5em;">BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br/> +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br/> +<b>The Riverside Press Cambridge</b><br/> +1921</p> + +<p class="center page-break" style="font-size: smaller;">COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size: smaller;">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p> + +<p class="center page-break" style="line-height: 2em;">TO OUR GRANDMOTHER<br/> +<big>MARCIA JANE CHANDLER CARPENTER</big><br/> +WHO NEVER COLLIDES</p> + +<h2>WHY MINOR?</h2> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="small-caps">Collisions</span> are measured by what they +will smash. Potentially, all collisions +are major. A slight blow will explode +a bomb. But since most of us do not +commonly carry dynamite through the +busy sections of this life, we can take +a good many brisk knocks and still +survive.</p> + +<p>The collisions, though dealt with in +separate chapters by two of us, are seldom +between two people alone. They +are collisions, mostly minor, between +the individual and the group, the individual +and circumstances, the individual +and the horse he rides on.</p> + +<p>All the chapters are for those kindred +spirits who try to be easy to live +with—and find it difficult.</p> + +<p class="right">F. L. W.<br/> +G. C. W.</p> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table id="toc" summary="Contents"> +<tr> + <td>Love's Minor Frictions</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>Boston Streets</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>To Horse</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>Wheels and how they go round</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>The Will to boss</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>More to it than you'd think</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>Trio Impetuoso</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>The Return of A, B, C</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>Understanding the Healthy</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>Carving at Table</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td>The Feeling of Irritation</td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<h3>NOTE</h3> + +<p class="no-indent">Acknowledgment of permission to reprint certain +of these papers is made to the editors of <cite>The Atlantic +Monthly</cite>, <cite>Education</cite>, <cite>The Ladies' Home +Journal</cite>, <cite>The Outlook</cite>, <cite>Scribner's Magazine</cite>, and +<cite>The Unpartizan Review</cite>.</p> + +<p class="center page-break" style="font-size: x-large;"><a class="pagenum" name="Page_1" title="1"> </a>LIFE'S +MINOR COLLISIONS</p> + +<h2>LOVE'S MINOR FRICTIONS</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-m.png" width="148" height="149" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Minor</span> friction is the kind +that produces the most +showy results with the +smallest outlay. You can +stir up more electricity in a cat by +stroking her fur the wrong way than +you can by dropping her into the well. +You can ruffle the dearest member of +your family more by asking him twice +if he is <em>sure</em> that he locked the back +door than his political opponents could +stir him with a libel. We have direct +access to the state of mind of the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_2" title="2"> </a> +people with whom we share household +life and love. Therefore, in most homes, +no matter how congenial, a certain +amount of minor friction is inevitable.</p> + +<p>Four typical causes of minor friction +are questions of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tempo</i>, the brotherly +reform measure, supervised telephone +conversations, and tenure of parental +control. These are standard group-irritants +that sometimes vex the sweetest +natures.</p> + +<p>The matter of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tempo</i>, broadly considered, +covers the whole process of adjustment +between people of hasty and +deliberate moods. It involves alertness +of spiritual response, alacrity in taking +hints and filling orders, timely appreciations, +considerate delays, and all the +other delicate retards and accelerations +that are necessary if hearts are to beat +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_3" title="3"> </a> +as one. But it also includes such homely +questions as the time for setting out for +places, the time consumed in getting +ready to set out, and the swiftness of +our progress thither. When a man who +is tardy is unequally yoked with a wife +who is prompt, their family moves +from point to point with an irregularity +of rhythm that lends suspense to +the mildest occasions.</p> + +<p>A certain architect and his wife Sue +are a case in point. Sue is always on +time. If she is going to drive at four, +she has her children ready at half-past +three, and she stations them in the +front hall, with muscles flexed, at ten +minutes to four, so that the whole +group may emerge from the door like +food shot from guns, and meet the incoming +automobile accurately at the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_4" title="4"> </a> +curb. Nobody ever stops his engine +for Sue. Her husband is correspondingly +late. Just after they were married, +the choir at their church gambled +quietly on the chances—whether she +would get him to church on time, or +whether he would make her late. The +first Sunday they came five minutes +early, the second ten minutes late, and +every Sunday after that, Sue came +early, Prescott came late, and the +choir put their money into the contribution-box. +In fact, a family of this +kind can solve its problem most neatly +by running on independent schedules, +except when they are to ride in the +same automobile or on the same train. +Then, there is likely to be a breeze.</p> + +<p>But the great test of such a family's +grasp of the time-element comes when +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_5" title="5"> </a> +they have a guest who must catch a +given car, due to pass the white post at +the corner at a quarter to the hour. +The visit is drawing to a close, with five +minutes to spare before car-time. Those +members of the family who like to wait +until the last moment, and take their +chances of boarding the running-board +on the run, continue a lively conversation +with the guest. But the prompt +ones, with furtive eye straying to the +clock, begin to sit forward uneasily in +their chairs, their faces drawn, pulse feverish, +pondering the question whether +it is better to let a guest miss a car or +seem to hurry him away. The situation +is all the harder for the prompt contingent, +because usually they have behind +them a criminal record of occasions +when they have urged guests to the curb +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_6" title="6"> </a> +in plenty of time and the car turned out +to be late. The runners and jumpers of +the family had said it would be late, and +it was late. These memories restrain +speech until the latest possible moment. +Then the guest is whisked out to the +white post with the words, “If you +<em>could</em> stay, we'd be delighted, but if +you really <em>have</em> to make your train—” +Every punctual person knows the look +of patronage with which the leisured +classes of his family listen to this old +speech of his. They find something +nervous and petty about his prancing +and pawing, quite inferior to their large +oblivion. As Tagore would say, “They +are not too poor to be late.”</p> + +<p>The matter of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tempo</i> involves also the +sense of the fortunate moment, and the +timing of deeds to accord with moods. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_7" title="7"> </a> +In almost every group there is one +member who is set at a slightly different +velocity from the others, with a momentum +not easily checked. When the rest +of the household settles down to pleasant +conversation, this member thinks +of something pressing that must be done +at once.</p> + +<p>The mother of three college boys is +being slowly trained out of this habit. +Her sons say that she ought to have +been a fire-chief, so brisk is she when +in her typical hook-and-ladder mood. +Whenever her family sits talking in the +evening, she has flitting memories of +things that she must run and do. One +night, when she had suddenly rushed +out to see if the maid had remembered +to put out the milk tickets, one of the +boys was dispatched with a warrant for +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_8" title="8"> </a> +her arrest. He traced her to the door of +the side porch, and peered out at her in +the darkness. “What's little pussy-foot +doing now?” he inquired affectionately. +“Can she see better in the dark? Come +along back.” But her blood was up. +She thought of several other duties +still waiting, and went at once to the +kitchen and filled the dipper. With +this she returned to the room where +sat the waiting conversationalists, and +systematically watered the fern. It +was like wearing orange to a Sinn Fein +rally. At the chorus of reproach she +only laughed, the scornful laugh of the +villain on the stage. Six determined +hands seized her at once. The boys +explained that, when they wanted to +talk to her, it was no time to water +ferns. As habitual breaker-up of public +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_9" title="9"> </a> +meetings, she was going to be reformed.</p> + +<p>But the reform measure, a group-irritant +second to none, is generally +uphill business in the home. Welfare +work among equals is sometimes imperative, +but seldom popular. Any +programme of social improvement implies +agitation and a powerful leverage +of public opinion not wholly tranquillizing +to the person to be reformed.</p> + +<p>There is one family that has worked +for years upon the case of one of its +members who reads aloud out of season. +When this brother William finds a +noble bit of literature, he is fired to +share it with his relatives, regardless +of time and circumstances. He comes +eagerly out of his study, book in hand, +when his public is trying on a dress. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_10" title="10"> </a> +Or he begins to read without warning, +when all the other people in the room +are reading something else. Arguments +and penalties never had the slightest +effect, until one of the company hit +upon a device that proves a defensive +measure in emergencies.</p> + +<p>Brother William started suddenly +to read aloud from a campaign speech. +His youngest sister was absorbed in +that passage in “Edwin Drood” called +“A Night With Durdles,” where Jasper +and Durdles are climbing the cathedral +spire. In self-defence she also began to +read in a clear tone as follows: “Anon, +they turn into narrower and steeper +staircases, and the night air begins to +blow upon them, and the chirp of some +startled jackdaw or frightened rook +precedes the heavy beating of wings in +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_11" title="11"> </a> +a confined space, and the beating down +of dust and straws upon their heads.”</p> + +<p>The idea spread like wildfire. All the +others opened their books and magazines +and joined her in reading aloud +from the page where they had been +interrupted. It was a deafening medley +of incongruous material—a very +telling demonstration of the distance +from which their minds had jumped +when recalled to the campaign speech. +Brother William was able to distinguish +in the uproar such fragments as these: +“Just at that moment I discovered four +Spad machines far below the enemy +planes”; “‘Thankyou thankyou,’ cried +Mr. Salteena—”; “Thomas Chatterton +Jupiter Zeus, a most dear wood-rat”; +and “‘It is natural,’ Gavin said +slowly, ‘that you, sir, should wonder +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_12" title="12"> </a> +why I am here with this woman at such +an hour.’”</p> + +<p>This method did not work a permanent +cure, because nothing ever cures +the reader-aloud. His impulse is generosity—a +mainspring of character, not +a passing whim. But at a crisis, his +audience can read aloud in concert.</p> + +<p>The reform measure is more hopeful +when directed, not at a rooted trait, but +at a surface phase or custom. Even here +success is not without its battles. My +sister Barbara and I were once bent +upon teaching our younger brother +Geoffrey to rise when ladies entered the +room. Geoffrey, then at the brigand +age, looked at this custom as the +mannerism of an effete civilization. He +rose, indeed, for guests, but not as to +the manner born. One day he came +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_13" title="13"> </a> +home and reported that the lady next +door had introduced him to an aunt of +hers who had just arrived on a visit. +“And,” said he, with speculative eye +upon his sisters, “<em>I didn't get up to be +introduced.</em>”</p> + +<p>The effect was all that heart could +wish. Tongues flew. Geoffrey listened +with mournful dignity, offering no +excuse. He waited until our sisterly +vocabulary was exhausted.</p> + +<p>“Why didn't you ask me where I +was when she introduced me?” he +asked at length. “I was crawling along +the ridgepole of her garage catching her +cat for her, and I couldn't get up.”</p> + +<p>But we were not easily diverted +from our attempts to foster in him the +manly graces. We even went so far +as to invite Geoffrey to afternoon tea-parties +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_14" title="14"> </a> +with our friends. But a Tea-Lion, +he said, was one thing that he was +not. On such occasions he would be +found sitting on the kitchen table +dourly eating up the olives and refusing +to come in. We were too young in those +days to know that you cannot hurry a +certain phase. But now, when we meet +our brother at receptions, we smile at +our former despair. Reformers often +find their hardest tasks taken out of +their hands by time.</p> + +<p>Few brothers and sisters, however, +are willing to trust to time to work its +wonders. There is a sense of fraternal +responsibility that goads us to do what +we can for each other in a small way. +The friction that ensues constitutes an +experience of human values that the +hermit in his cell can never know. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_15" title="15"> </a> +Whenever people of decided views feel +personally responsible for each other's +acts, a type of social unrest begins to +brew that sometimes leads to progress +and sometimes leads to riots.</p> + +<p>For this reason, in any home that +aspires to peace at any price, the telephone +should be installed in a sound-proof +box-office with no glass in the +door. There is nothing that so incenses +a friendly nature as a family grouped +in the middle-distance offering advice +when a telephone conversation is going +on. The person at the receiver looks +so idle; there seems to be no reason why +he should not listen with his unoccupied +ear; and, when he is so evidently in need +of correct data, it seems only kind to +help him out. It is the most natural +thing in the world to listen. The family +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_16" title="16"> </a> +listens, in the first place, to find out +which one of them is wanted, and they +continue to listen to find out what is +said. When the wrong thing is said, +all loyal relatives feel responsible.</p> + +<p>The person telephoning is unfairly +handicapped by necessary politeness, +because he can be heard through the +transmitter and his advisers cannot. +Only extreme exasperation can unleash +his tongue, as happened once when +Geoffrey, in our father's absence, undertook +to answer a telephone call while +Barbara, in the next room, corrected +his mistakes.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey, pricking both ears, was +doing very well, until the lady at the +other end of the line asked a question +at the exact moment when Barbara +offered a new thought. “What did you +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_17" title="17"> </a> +say?” inquired Geoffrey. Both Barbara +and the lady repeated. “What is +it?” said Geoffrey, waving one foot +at Barbara. Barbara, not seeing the +foot, repeated, and so did the lady, this +time more distinctly. “I beg your +pardon,” said Geoffrey anxiously, “but +what did you say?” Like an incredible +nightmare the thing happened again. +“Shut up!” roared Geoffrey; “what did +you say?”</p> + +<p>Barbara, recognizing instantly that +part of the message directed to her, +wrote her suggestion on the telephone +pad and stole prudently away. Minor +friction, she had learned, can sometimes +lead to action on a large scale. Only after +some such experience as this do we allow +a kinsman to conduct his own telephone +conversations, taking his own responsibilities, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_18" title="18"> </a> +running his own dark risks.</p> + +<p>But the sense of mutual responsibility +is, after all, the prime educational +factor in family life. Every good parent +has a feeling of accountability for the +acts of his children. He may believe in +self-determination for the small States +about him, but after all he holds a +mandate. The delightful interweaving +of parental suggestion with the original +tendencies of the various children is +the delicate thing that makes each family +individual. It is also the delicate +thing that makes parenthood a nervous +occupation. When parental suggestion +is going to interweave delightfully as +planned, and when it is not going to +interweave at all, is something not foretold +in the prophets.</p> + +<p>The question of parental influence +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_19" title="19"> </a> +becomes more complex as the family +grows older and more informally organized. +Sometimes a son or daughter +wants to carry out a pet project without +any advice or warning or help from +anybody. There is nothing rash or +guilty about his plan. He simply +happens to be in the mood to act, +not in committee, but of himself. To +achieve this, surrounded by a united +and conversational family, becomes a +game of skill. To dodge advice, he +avoids the most innocent questions. At +such times as these, the wisest parents +wonder what they have done to forfeit +confidence. They see this favorite +son of theirs executing the most harmless +plans with all the secrecy of the +young poisoning princes of the Renaissance.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_20" title="20"> </a>When this happens, the over-sensitive +parent grieves, the dictatorial parent +rails, but the philosophical parent picks +up whatever interesting morsels he can +on the side, and cocks a weather eye.</p> + +<p>“Robert seems to have a good many +engagements,” wrote the mother of a +popular son in a letter to an absent +daughter, “but whether the nature of +the engagements is social, athletic, or +philanthropic, we can only infer from +the equipment with which he sets out. +I inferred the first this morning when +he asked me to have his dress-suit sent +to be pressed; but I could not be certain +until Mrs. Stone said casually that +Robert was to be a guest at Mrs. +Gardiner's dinner next week. Don't +you love to see such tender intimacy +between mother and son?”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_21" title="21"> </a>Secrecy of this kind is not the monopoly +of sons. Excellent young women +have chopped ice and frozen sherbet +behind closed doors because they did +not want to be told again not to get the +ice all over the back piazza. Certain +warnings go with certain projects as +inevitably as rubbers with the rain. +The practised mother has so often +found the warnings necessary, that the +mere sight of the act produces the +formula by rote. Model sons and +daughters should accept these hints +with gratitude, thus avoiding all friction, +however minor. But rather than +be advised to do that which they were +planning to do already, the most loyal +of daughters will resort to clandestine +measures, and go stealthily with the +ice-pick as with a poniard beneath a +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_22" title="22"> </a> +cloak. This annoys an affectionate and +capable mother very much. And she +has a right to be annoyed, has she not? +After all, it is her ice-pick.</p> + +<p>There is something of spirited affection +about the memory of all these early +broils. They were heated enough at the +time, for the most violent emotions +can fly out at a trifling cause. Remarks +made in these turbulent moments are +often taken as a revelation of your true +and inward self. The sentiments that +you express in your moment of wrath +sound like something that you have +been repressing for years and are +now turning loose upon an enlightened +world. There is an air of desperate +sincerity about your remarks that +makes your hearers feel that here, at +last, they have the truth.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_23" title="23"> </a>With friends, after such an outburst, +you could never feel quite the same +again. But with your relatives, such +moments can be lived down—as once +occurred in our own family when our +father one hot summer day sent Geoffrey +back to town to perform a forgotten +errand. I had not heard of the event +until I took my place at table.</p> + +<p>“Where's Geoffrey?” said I.</p> + +<p>“I sent him back to get a letter he +forgot,” said my father.</p> + +<p>“In all this heat?” I protested. +“Well, if I had been in his place, I'd +have gone away and stayed away.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you could,” said my father +serenely.</p> + +<p>“Well, I will,” said Little Sunshine, +and walked out of the door and up the +street in a rage.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_24" title="24"> </a>After you have left your parental +home as suddenly as this, there comes +a moment when you have the sensation +of being what is termed “all dressed up +with no place to go.” You feel that +your decision, though sudden, is irrevocable, +because going back would +mean death to your pride. You try to +fight off the practical thought that you +can hardly go far without hat or scrip. +Therefore, when Geoffrey met his eloping +sister at the corner, it was with +some little diplomacy that he learned +my history and took me back to the +table under his wing. The conversation +barely paused as we took our places. +Our father went on affably serving the +salad to the just and the unjust alike. +If, at this point, I had been treated with +the contumely that I deserved, the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_25" title="25"> </a> +memory would be unpleasant in the +minds of all. As it is, the family now +mentions it as the time when Margaret +ran away to sea.</p> + +<p>The only thing that can make minor +friction hurtful is the disproportionate +importance that it can assume when it +is treated as a major issue, or taken as +an indication of mutual dislike. It is +often an indication of the opposite, +though at the moment the contestants +would find this hard to believe. Kept +in its place, however, we find in it later +a great deal of humorous charm, because +it belongs to a period when we +dealt with our brethren with a primitive +directness not possible in later +years. An intricate ambition, this +matter of harmony in the home. +Ideally, every family would like to have +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_26" title="26"> </a> +a history of uninterrupted adorations +and exquisite accord. But growth +implies change, change implies adjustment, +and adjustment among varied +personalities implies friction. Kept at +the minimum, kept in its place, such +friction does not estrange. Instead, it +becomes a means to an intimate acquaintance +with one another's traits +and moods—an intimacy of understanding +not far remote from love.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_27" title="27"> </a>BOSTON STREETS</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-i.png" width="149" height="151" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-i1"><span class="upper-case">I am</span> trying to learn how +to get from the Majestic +Theatre to the South Station. +I am convinced that +in time I might be able to learn this, +if I were not also trying at the same +time to learn how to get from the +Hollis Street Theatre to the Dennison +Manufacturing Company on Franklin +Street.</p> + +<p>I suppose that trying to solve two +problems simultaneously is always confusing. +A student trying to compute +problems with both hands at the same +time—problems dealing respectively +with yards and pounds—might ultimately +confuse his inches with ounces. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_28" title="28"> </a> +Similarly, I confuse Eliot Street and +Essex, Kneeland and Otis.</p> + +<p>My brother Geoffrey who goes with +me to Boston thinks that this is funny; +that is, he thinks it something appalling +that should be remedied. In consequence +of this, he draws for me a series +of beautiful little sketches on an envelope +he has about him. He letters the +roads meticulously with a fountain +pen, traces our route-to-be with little +arrows, and then flings me heartlessly +into the Boston Streets.</p> + +<p>Boston Streets, and Boston Streets +on an envelope, are not alike at all. On +the envelope, the streets are simple +lines, all related to each other; in +reality, each street is an individual +personality, distracting you from a +noble grasp of the Whole, by presenting +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_29" title="29"> </a> +the sole gigantic unit of itself, further +complicated by detail. Geoffrey is not +bothered by a unit, or by a detail. He +branches from one street into another +with as sure an instinct as a cat who +retraces on foot a journey once traversed +in a bag.</p> + +<p>This is not because he <em>knows</em> Boston, +but because he has a <em>capacity</em> for Boston. +He leads me patiently over one +route a great many times, verifying +our position at intervals with reference +to his map. After a day at my books, +I am faint-heartedly supposed to have +comprehended a fact. When this actually +takes place, it is very hard for +me to conceal my pride in any trifling +bit of erudition which I may have +accidentally picked up about Boston. +Once I distinctly remember saying to +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_30" title="30"> </a> +Geoffrey, “Do you want to walk down +to the Colonial Theatre or shall we go +by Subway?” Since we were at that +time near the entrance of a suitable +subway, my good brother stared at me +in radiant expectation. I fear that he +hoped that I was at last laying a slight +hold on a working knowledge of his +favorite city. But his hope was unfounded, +for this glimmer of mine was +one of only four facts that I have +actually been able to learn about the +crooked miles in Boston.</p> + +<p>The remaining three truths are here +recorded for the curious.</p> + +<p>I know the Public Library, from any +angle, without map or guide, by its fair +face alone, and how to reach it from the +station at Back Bay. (This, in such a +meagre description of Boston, might +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_31" title="31"> </a> +perhaps qualify as two distinct facts.) +I know that if one walks far enough +past the Library, in the direction in +which the lady with the black ball is +looking, one will eventually come to +Commonwealth Avenue, where eozoic +cabbies may be seen. And now that we +have unearthed, on our way back to the +station, the Copley Theatre, I am sure +that I could go to Boston, friendless, +find this theatre, lunch across the street, +and retrace my steps to some proper +railway.</p> + +<p>It may seem to the observer that I +am abnormally interested in finding +my way to the theatres. I am. This is +my primary reason for going to Boston +at all; and surely it is a quiet wish to do +a little shopping and get a lunch before +the play begins. Therefore, our main +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_32" title="32"> </a> +interest lies in locating, on each trip, +one theatre and one depot. Then, if +time permits, I am supposed to articulate +a shop of some kind from the +tangle of Butterfly Boxes, Corner Book +Stores, and Florist windows, and some +sort of hostelry where we can eat. If +my guide is less obdurate than usual +about compelling me to find my way +without his assistance, he shows me +the front steps of a Department Store +<em>once</em>. Then I am supposed to know +that store for all time, when viewing +it from all angles—from its front door, +its back door, its basement, and from +its roof. I am supposed to know what +store I am in from the looks of the elevator +boys. It always gives me acute +pain to disappoint a valued friend. +Hence, in a department store, I suffer. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_33" title="33"> </a> +Once inside the store, I can find my +way about very easily. I merely do not +know what street I am on.</p> + +<p>There are certain things in Boston +about which even Geoffrey inquires. +This concession on his part, instead of +bringing him down to my fallible +human level, instantly elevates him to +a still higher caste. He makes his +inquiries of policemen, and he understands +what they say. When a policeman +directs <em>me</em>—solitary—to go up +one street and down another, and mixes +in a little of the Public Garden or the +Common, I cannot carry his kind words +in my mind, even with the aid of a +mnemonic. He cannot direct me from +the known to the unknown, because I +know nothing. He cannot explain to +me; he has to go with me. I do not +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_34" title="34"> </a> +know the Common from the Public Garden. +They both look like gardens to me, +both equally public, and neither, common. +“But,” protests my brother, “the +Public Garden is regular—a rectangle. +And the Common is irregular—a trapezium.” +This is perfectly true on the +envelope (now dirty). But when you +are in the park itself, you are not especially +aware of its shape. Individual +pigeons are more obvious. The park is +too big to look square.</p> + +<p>In just this same way, Washington +Street is too big to look parallel. When +you are on Washington Street, and it +alone, it is not blindingly parallel to +anything, unless, perhaps, the other +side of itself. And if my policeman, on +his pretty horse, should tell me that +that was Tremont Street, I should +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_35" title="35"> </a> +believe him. Boston has done as bad. +It would be no stranger than it is +to spring miraculously from Summer +Street into Winter, simply by following +it across the road. In fact, I was not +aware that we had changed streets at +all, when on my maiden trip through +this section. I preserved to the end +an hallucination that I was still on +Summer Street.</p> + +<p>Perhaps a few will do me the +magnificent honor of absolving me +from boasting, when I say that I am +capable of apprehending really nice +bits of information in other walks of +life;—other than Boston walks. I can +pick you out a pneumonia germ from +under the microscope, and count your +red corpuscles for you. I can receive +the Continental Code by wireless, and +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_36" title="36"> </a> +play on a violoncello. I can get a baby +to sleep.</p> + +<p>But I cannot tell you where you are +in Boston. There are people who would +not admit this. They would set themselves, +with their faces steadfastly toward +the Hub, to learn. Geoffrey is +one of these. But I have neither the +time nor the proper shoes. I readily +admit that Boston is too much for me +at my age. So I take my brother with +me. Then I placidly relegate Boston +Streets to that list of things +which I am constitutionally unable to +learn:—how to tat, just what is a +Stock, and what a Bond, and the difference +between a Democrat and a +Republican.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_37" title="37"> </a>TO HORSE</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-a.png" width="150" height="151" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-wide"><span class="upper-case"><span class="invisible">“A</span> duck</span>,” we used to read +in the primer at school, +“a duck is a long low +animal covered with feathers.” +Similarly, a horse is a long high +animal, covered with confusion. This +applies to the horse as we find him in +the patriotic Parade, where a brass-band +precedes him, an unaccustomed +rider surmounts him, and a drum-corps +brings up his rear.</p> + +<p>In our own Welcome Home Parade, +after the boys returned from France, +the Legion decided to double the number +of its mounted effectives: all the +overseas officers should ride. All the +overseas officers were instantly on their +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_38" title="38"> </a> +feet. Their protests were loud and +heated. A horse, they said, was something +that they personally had never +bestridden. They offered to ride anything +else. They would fly down the +avenue in Spads, or do the falling leaf +over the arch of triumph. They would +ride tanks or motor-cycles or army-trucks. +But a horse was a thing of independent +locomotion, not to be trifled +with. It was not the idea of getting +killed that they objected to, it was the +looks of the thing. By “the thing,” +they meant not the horse, but the +rider.</p> + +<p>In spite of the veto of the officers, +the motion was carried by acclamation. +The mediæval charm of a mounted +horse-guard instantly kindled the community +imagination. The chaplain, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_39" title="39"> </a> +fresh from the navy, was promised a +milk-white palfrey for his especial use, +if he would wear his ice-cream suit for +the occasion.</p> + +<p>There was no time to practise before +the event, but the boys were told +to give themselves no anxiety about +mounts. Well-bred and competent +horses would appear punctually just +before the time for falling in. The officers +were instructed to go to a certain +corner of a side street, find the fence +behind the garage where the animals +would be tied, select their favorite form +of horse from the collection they would +see there, and ride him up to the green.</p> + +<p>When Geoffrey came home and said +that he was to ride a horse in the procession, +our mother, who had been a +good horsewoman in her girlhood, took +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_40" title="40"> </a> +him aside and gave him a few quiet +tips. Some horses, she said, had been +trained to obey certain signals, and +some to obey the exact opposite. For +instance, some would go faster if you +reined them in, and some would slow +down. Some waited for light touches +from their master's hand or foot, and +others for their master's voice. You had +to study your horse as an individual.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey said that he was glad to +hear any little inside gossip of this +sort, and made his way alone to +the place appointed, skilfully dodging +friends. We gathered that if he had to +have an interview with a horse, he preferred +to have it with nobody looking +on.</p> + +<p>The fence behind the garage was +fringed with horses securely tied, and +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_41" title="41"> </a> +the top of the fence was fringed with a +row of small boys, waiting. Geoffrey +approached the line of horses, and +glanced judicially down the row. Books +on “Reading Character at Sight” make +a great point of the distinctions between +blond and brunette, the concave +and the convex profile, the glance of the +eye, and the manner of shaking hands. +Geoffrey could tell at a glance that the +handshake of these horses would be +firm and full of decision. As one man +they turned and looked at him, and +their eyes were level and inscrutable.</p> + +<p>“Which of these horses,” said he to +the gang on the fence-top, “would you +take?”</p> + +<p>“This one!” said an eager spokesman. +“He didn't move a muscle since they +hitched 'im.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_42" title="42"> </a>This recommendation decided the +matter instantly. Repose of manner +is an estimable trait in the horse.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey looked his animal over +with an artist's eye. It was a slender +creature, with that spare type of beauty +that we associate with the Airedale dog. +The horse was not a blond. The stirrups +hung invitingly at the sides. Geoffrey +closed the inspection with satisfaction, +and prepared to mount.</p> + +<p>In mounting, does one first untie +one's horse and then get on, or may one, +as in a steam-launch, get seated first +and then cast off the painter? Geoffrey +could not help recalling a page from +“Pickwick Papers,” where Mr. Winkle +is climbing up the side of a tall horse at +the Inn, and the 'ostler's boy whispers, +“Blowed if the gen'l'man wasn't for +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_43" title="43"> </a> +getting up the wrong side.” Well, what +governs the right and wrong side of +a horse? Douglas Fairbanks habitually +avoids the dilemma by mounting from +above—from the roof of a Mexican +monastery, for instance, or the fire-escape +of an apartment house. From +these points he lands, perpendicularly. +With this ideal in mind, Geoffrey +stepped on from the fence, clamped his +legs against the sides of the horse, and +walked him out into the street.</p> + +<p>When I say that he walked him out +into the street, I use the English language +as I have seen it used in books, +but I think that it was an experienced +rider who first used the idiom. Geoffrey +says that he did not feel, at any +time that afternoon, any sensation of +walking his horse, or of doing anything +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_44" title="44"> </a> +else decisive with him. He walked, to +be sure, dipping his head and rearing +it, like a mechanical swan. But on a +horse you miss the sensation of direct +control that you have with a machine. +With a machine, you press something, +and if a positive reaction does not +follow, you get out and fix something +else. Not so with the horse. When you +get upon him you cut yourself off from +all accurately calculable connection +with the world. He is, in the last analysis, +an independent personality. His +feet are on the ground, and yours are +not.</p> + +<p>We bow to literary convention, therefore, +when we say that Geoffrey walked +his horse.</p> + +<p>Far ahead of him, he saw the khaki +backs of two of his friends who were +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_45" title="45"> </a> +also walking their horses. One by one +they ambled up to the green and took +places in the ranks. Geoffrey discovered +that his horse would stand well +if allowed to droop his long neck and +close his eyes. Judged as a military +figure, however, he was a disgrace +to the army. If you drew up the reins +to brace his head, he thought it a signal +to start, and you had to take it all +back, hastily. With the relaxed rein +he collapsed again, his square head +bent in silent prayer.</p> + +<p>With the approach of the band, +however, all this changed. He reared +tentatively. Geoffrey discouraged that. +Then he curled his body in an unlovely +manner—an indescribable gesture, a +sort of sidelong squirm in semi-circular +formation. His rider straightened +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_46" title="46"> </a> +him out with a fatherly slap on the +flank.</p> + +<p>It was time to start. The band led +off. Joy to the world, thought the +horse, the band is gone. The rest of the +cavalry moved forward in docile files, +but not he. If that band was going +away, he would be the last person to +pursue it. Instead of going forward, +he backed. He backed and backed. +There is no emergency brake on a +horse. He would have backed to the +end of the procession, through the +Knights of Columbus, the Red Cross, +the Elks, the Masons, the D.A.R., the +Fire Department, and the Salvation +Army, if it had not been for the drum-corps +that led the infantry. The drum-corps +behind him was as terrifying as +the band in front. To avoid the drum-corps, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_47" title="47"> </a> +he had to spend part of his +time going away from it. Thus his +progress was a little on the principle +of the pendulum. He backed from the +band until he had to flee before the +drums.</p> + +<p>The ranks of men were demoralized +by needless mirth. Army life dulls the +sensibilities to the spectacle of suffering. +They could do nothing to help, except +to make a clear passage for Geoffrey as +he alternately backed from the brasses +and escaped from the drums. Vibrating +in this way, he could only discourse +to his horse with words of feigned affection, +and pray for the panic to pass off. +With a cranky automobile, now, one +could have parked down a side street, +and later joined the procession, all +trouble repaired. But there was nothing +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_48" title="48"> </a> +organic the matter with this horse. +Geoffrey could not have parked him in +any case, because it would have been +no more possible to turn him toward +the cheering crowds on the pavement +than to make him follow the band. The +crowds on the street, in fact, began to +regard these actions as a sort of interesting +and decorative manÅ“uvre, so +regular was the advance and retirement—something +in the line of a +cotillion. And then the band stopped +playing for a little. Instantly the horse +took his place in the ranks, marched +serenely, arched his slim neck, glanced +about. All was as it should be.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey's place was just behind the +marshal, supposedly to act as his aide. +During all this absence from his post +of duty, the marshal had not noticed +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_49" title="49"> </a> +his defection or turned around at all. +Now he did so, hastily.</p> + +<p>“Just slip back, will you,” he said, +“and tell Monroe not to forget the +orders at the reviewing stand.”</p> + +<p>Geoffrey opened his mouth to explain +his disqualifications as courier, +but at that moment the band struck +up, and his charger backed <ins title="precipitatly">precipitately</ins>. +The marshal, seeing this prompt +obedience to his request, faced front, +and Geoffrey was left steadily receding, +no time to explain—and the drum-corps +was taking a vacation. There +was, therefore, no reason for the horse +ever to stop backing, unless he should +back around the world until he heard +the band behind him again. As he +backed through the ranks of infantry, +Geoffrey shouted the marshal's message +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_50" title="50"> </a> +to the officer of the day. He had +to talk fast—ships that pass in the +night. But the message was delivered, +and he could put his whole mind on his +horse.</p> + +<p>He tried all the signals for forward +locomotion that he could devise. Mother +had told him that some horses +wait for light touches from their master's +hand or foot. Geoffrey touched +his animal here and there, back of the +ear—at the base of the brain. He +even kicked a trifle. He jerked the +reins in Morse Code and Continental, +to the tune of S O S. The horse understood +no codes.</p> + +<p>They were now in the ranks of the +Knights of Columbus, and the marching +boys were making room for them +with shouts of sympathetic glee. Must +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_51" title="51"> </a> +they back through the Red Cross, where +all the girls in town were marching, and +into the Daughters of the Revolution +float where our mother sat with a +group of ladies around the spinning-wheel? +Geoffrey remembered that the +Red Cross had a band, if it would only +play. It struck up just in time. The +horse instantly became a fugitive in +the right direction. On they sped, the +reviewing stand almost in sight. The +drum-corps had not begun to play. +Could they reach the cavalry before it +was too late? Geoffrey hated to pass +the reviewing stand in the guise of a +deserter, yet here he was cantering +among the Odd Fellows, undoubtedly +A.W.O.L.</p> + +<p>But Heaven was kind. The drums +waited. Through their ranks dashed +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_52" title="52"> </a> +Geoffrey at full speed, and into the +midst of his companions. The reviewing +stand was very near. At a signal, all +bands and all drums struck up together. +The horse, in stable equilibrium at last, +daring not to run forward or to run +backward, or to bolt to either side, +fell into step and marched. Deafening +cheers, flying handkerchiefs; Geoffrey +and his horse stole past, held in the +ranks by a delicate balance of four-cornered +fear. If you fear something +behind you and something in front of +you, and things on both sides of you, +and if your fear of all points of the +compass is precisely equal, you move +with the movements of the globe. +Geoffrey's horse moved that way past +the stand.</p> + +<p>People took their pictures. Our +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_53" title="53"> </a> +father, beaming down from the galaxy +on the stand, was pleased. Later he told +Geoffrey how well he sat his horse.</p> + +<p>But that evening Geoffrey had a +talk with his mother, as man to man. +He told her that, if these Victory +Parades were going to be held often, +he should vote for compulsory military +training for the horse. He told her the +various things his horse had done, how +he went to and fro, going to when +urged fro, and going fro when urged +not to.</p> + +<p>“Probably he had been trained to +obey the opposite signals,” said our +mother. “You must study your horse +as an individual.”</p> + +<p>That horse was an individual. Geoffrey +studied him as such. He is quite +willing to believe that he had been +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_54" title="54"> </a> +trained to obey the opposite signals. +But Geoffrey says that he still cannot +stifle one last question in his mind:—signals +opposite to what?</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_55" title="55"> </a>WHEELS AND HOW THEY GO ROUND</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-i.png" width="149" height="151" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-i2"><span class="upper-case">It</span> is a simple matter, I +have been told, to keep +a locomotive running +smoothly on its track, +once it is well coaled-up and started. +In an artistic moment in a summer +vacation, Margaret and I likened our +house and all its simple well-oiled +machinery to a locomotive—Mother +and Carrie being the engineer.</p> + +<p>Therefore, we accepted rather +blandly the charge of the house and +grounds while the engineer took a +vacation. I rather think we had it in +mind to look in occasionally upon the +house as it ran along, and to save the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_56" title="56"> </a> +bulk of the day for other things. We +were already accustomed to the complexities +of a house; we had officiated +at each separate complexity. But I am +not sure that we did not plan to run the +house a trifle more nonchalantly than +the average anxious housewife, and +welcome both our daily duties and any +unexpected guests with a minimum of +morbid foreboding.</p> + +<p>The first thing we noticed after we +were left alone was a little steady drip +in the back room. This was the refrigerator +leaking. When this fact had +once been agreed upon, Margaret and +I began to see with eyes of the mind +fragments of motion pictures in which +the refrigerator was being fixed. It is +queer what vague remnants of a scene +will stay with you, when at the time of +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_57" title="57"> </a> +the scene you were not responsible for +the outcome. Margaret, from her ever-active +and interesting memory, called +up Mother's dream-shape at the silcock, +all ready to turn on the garden-hose. +I dimly remembered Carrie with +her arm under the refrigerator holding +the hose and calling respectfully from +the back room—“All ready, mum.” +So we hatched a plot and proceeded to +act it.</p> + +<p>We had to assume the pipe at the +rear of the ice-box, for we could not see +it. We assumed also that it was plugged +up. I had chanced once upon Carrie, +lying prone on a rug in the back room, +directing the nozzle of the hose into +this inaccessible pipe-hole near the +farther wall. I elected to plumb for +the hole, with Margaret to run about +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_58" title="58"> </a> +alternately holding matches for me and +working the spray. My arms are the +longer; her fear of fire is somewhat +less. After I had found the hole, +Margaret attached the hose to the +silcock outside the house, threaded it +through the screen door, passed the +nozzle to me, and went back to turn on +the water. Hose in hand, face averted,—prone,—I +waited. Prone means +on your face. If you turn your head to +look under the refrigerator, your arm +is not long enough. I directed the water +almost wholly by the Braille system. +Why it should have entered into the +heart of man to construct a refrigerator +so deep that the arm of man is not long +enough to reach its drain, will have to +be explained to us when we reach the +city four-square. But a good workman +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_59" title="59"> </a> +never finds fault with his tools, Margaret +said, so we set to work with what +Nature offered us.</p> + +<p>I soon found that no cue was needed +for some of my lines. My manner of +shouting, “Turn it off!” was extremely +unstudied;—art disguising art. Twice +the back room was inundated. I +became a saturated solution. I felt +like the brave boy of Haarlem. Margaret +came in and advanced the theory +that, when you have reached a certain +stage of wetness, it does not matter at +all how much more water you lie in. +Acting on this supposition, and with +my consent, she turned on all the city's +water-power with great suddenness. +I shall always think that this did make +a difference in my wetness, but it dislodged +the obstruction. We could hear +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_60" title="60"> </a> +the glad water leaping and gurgling +through the pipe out of doors.</p> + +<p>Why this pipe should have had any +connection with the boiler and attendant +pipes behind the stove remains +forever shrouded in mystery. These +pipes began to leak on the morning of +the second day, and we sent for a +plumber. He pronounced us unpatchable, +unsolderable. Margaret and I +convened. We decided, in committee +of the whole, to be re-piped and +re-boilered. We did not know then +that the plumbers were going to find still +more serious trouble with the pipes that +led to the main. Were we justified in +ordering complete repairs? Our eternal +query of Life became, “What would +Mother do?” We went the whole figure—well +up into three figures.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_61" title="61"> </a>It was not until the third day that +we succeeded in making our nonchalance +at all prominent. We invited a +guest to supper, nonchalantly. She +was not the type of guest that you take +into the kitchen and tie an apron +around. In her honor, we decided to +have, among other things, popovers +and cherry pie. We decided that we +could conventionally have popovers +because the hour was really a supper +hour; that we might have cherry pie because +the meal was really a dinner. To +make this strange plan at all intelligible, +I shall have to state that, as far +as our names are known, we are famous +for our popovers and our cherry pie. +We were at our nonchalant best.</p> + +<p>Our cherry tree is a unique specimen +among the vegetables. It has a curious +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_62" title="62"> </a> +short, gnarled trunk just as a cherry +tree should; but, aside from that, it +runs along the general lines of a spirea. +Each main branch, nearly six inches +in diameter at the point of departure, +sprangles instantly into showers of +fragile twigs. These in turn branch +gracefully higher and higher, occasional +cherries on the outskirts. To pick our +cherries, one really ought to be a robin. +Each cherry has an exquisite red cheek +and a black ant running to and fro +across it.</p> + +<p>We chose Margaret to pick the +cherries. We chose her because she is +lighter than I by half a stone; and we +thought the fewer stone on the twigs, +the better. Then it was going to be her +pie.</p> + +<p>The cherries which could be reached +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_63" title="63"> </a> +from the ground were satisfactory in +the extreme. They rattled into the pail, +just as other people's cherries rattle. It +would have been my instinct to leave +these till the last. But I was not picking +the cherries. I found it impossible, +however, to stay away from the cherry-picking. +Margaret is rather quick in +some of her mannerisms. And her mannerism +of mounting our cherry tree was +little short of lightning. She was wearing +white silk hose and white canvas +slippers. Personally I did not consider +these correct climbing shoes, but Margaret +is accustomed, when far from home, +to choose her own boots for all occasions, +and to pay for new ones when her +choice proves disastrous. So I watched +her rise above me without remark.</p> + +<p>I freely admit that it always seems +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_64" title="64"> </a> +less dangerous to one whose feet can +feel the crotches on the tree, and on +whose arm the tin pail is, than to the +anxious relative on the ground below. +As Margaret's manÅ“uvres transmitted +unpleasant little cracks along the tree, +I recalled bits of sage advice that I had +on a time given to my mother concerning +her attitude when Geoffrey was +climbing trees. I had told Mother that +Geoffrey was just as safe in a tree as in +his bed. But Margaret did not give +this reassuring appearance. Perhaps I +like Margaret better than I do Geoffrey. +Certainly I was more afraid she would +fall out of the cherry tree.</p> + +<p>She finally passed out of my sight. +After a prolonged interval of silence, +I suggested to Margaret that she come +down.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_65" title="65"> </a>“My foot is caught,” returned my +sister, her tone of voice wholly explanatory. +“It won't come out.”</p> + +<p>“The shoe tapers to a point,” I +called encouragingly. “Try to turn it +sideways and pull backwards at the +same time.”</p> + +<p>“Barbara,” said my sister tonelessly, +“I just said it wouldn't come out.”</p> + +<p>“Then you'll have to take your foot +out, and leave the slipper up there,” +I responded with finality.</p> + +<p>“What would Mother do?” called +Margaret from her lady's bower.</p> + +<p>It was so obvious, even to me, that +Mother would not have been up a tree +at this hour that I could only repeat +my original project of abandoning the +slipper. I learned afterwards that it is +not an entirely uncomplicated process +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_66" title="66"> </a> +to buckle in the centre when swinging +in a tree-top with one foot stationary +and a tin pail on one's arm, and untie +a slipper-strap without tipping the pail +or falling out of the tree. Margaret +soon appeared within my line of vision, +listing dangerously, chastened, dignified, +and stocking-footed. She reminded +me simultaneously, as she descended, +of a mystic Russian première danseuse, +a barefooted native swinging +down his cocoanut grove, and High +Diddle Dumpling my son John.</p> + +<p>I was rash enough later to inquire +into the mechanics of retrieving the +slipper, but Margaret, as she finished +her tart, replied so appropriately in the +words of the Scriptures as to be too +sacrilegious to repeat.</p> + +<p>As our nonchalant day wore on, I +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_67" title="67"> </a> +lighted the gas-oven for popovers. Popovers +are casuals. They are not supposed +to be a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef d'Å“uvre</i>. They are the +high-grade moron of the hot-bread family. +A guest expects the popovers to be +good, just as he expects the butter to +be good. I expected mine to be good.</p> + +<p>As they neared the crisis, the city +gas was shut off. I acted instantly, +treating the phenomenon as a rare +exception in housekeeping. I aroused +a dying fire in the coal range with great +speed and an abundance of kindling, +and conveyed my gems across kitchen. +It is a sweet-tempered popover, indeed, +which will bear shifting from a hot +oven to a moderately comfortable one. +I began steadily to lose my unconcern. +Once on my knees before an oven door, +I usually ask no quarter and receive +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_68" title="68"> </a> +no advice. Advice is sometimes given +me, but my advisers realize that it is +not being received. This time I called +Margaret in consultation.</p> + +<p>“I think they are going to pop,” she +pronounced judicially, “but not over.” +She was right.</p> + +<p>Does Life hold, I wonder, a more +sorrowful moment than that time when +a true cook has to instruct her guest +to scoop out the inside of her popover +for the chickens, and eat only the +outside? Every one knows that delicate +tinkling sound that a good popover +makes when tossed on a china plate. +These made somewhat the same sound +as a Florida orange. We learned quite +cogently that evening that Hospitality +may depend, not upon greatness of +heart, but upon the gas stove.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_69" title="69"> </a>This experience of ours, however, +could not be regarded strictly as a test +case. Any one would admit that all of +our adversity was unusual. It is the +rare exception when all the pipes in the +house burst at once, when there is no +gas in the gas-stove, and when one +loses a slipper in making a cherry pie.</p> + +<p>It took another day to show us that +running a house <em>normally</em> consists in +dealing with a succession of unusual +events.</p> + +<p>We did not court disaster, or attempt +anything ambitious. We had not even +planned to invite any more company. +But an old friend of Geoffrey's appeared +at our door in uniform with his +new wife, to wait over a train. Margaret +promptly invited them to lunch. +Our lunch, as already planned, was +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_70" title="70"> </a> +simple. We told them that it would be +simple. Margaret leans, during hot +weather, to such things as iced tea, +lettuces, cheese wafers, and simple +frozen desserts. Fiction has it that the +water-ices are the simplest of anything. +They <em>are</em> simple to eat. We had +planned to freeze the water-ice together. +But in view of the fact that we had +company, Margaret, who had first +suggested our simple dessert, slipped +quietly out to freeze it alone.</p> + +<p>Ice may be cold stuff, but it is +heating to chop. Three minutes may +freeze a pudding in some freezers, but +not in ours. As much time wore away, +I gradually hitched my chair in a backward +direction, to permit a stealthy +glance at Margaret on the back piazza. +It is almost as wearing to hold +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_71" title="71"> </a> +our freezer down as it is to turn the +crank. Margaret was doing both at +once, stopping frequently to chase a +slippery chunk of ice about with her +pick, chivying the bits of ice and salt +finally into a cup. Her cheeks had +become flushed a vivid freight-car +color. It was with great relief that I +finally saw her peer into the freezer, +remove the dasher, and proceed to +seal up her confection and cover it with +newspapers and an astrakhan cape.</p> + +<p>The precise moment when a water-ice +becomes simple is when it is +smoothly slipped into a long-stemmed +sherbet glass. Our guests, we think, +enjoyed our simple meal. But after +they had gone, the word which exactly +described our state of mind was not the +word nonchalant.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_72" title="72"> </a>“Barbara!” said Margaret energetically, +“for supper, let's open a box of +blueberries.”</p> + +<p>We did. Blueberries really <em>are</em> simple. +We made our evening meal of them, +accompanied by a few left-over popover +skins.</p> + +<p>Margaret and I still feel that we +could deal somewhat hopefully with a +leaking pipe. We still think that our +calamities were a little out of the +ordinary. But we do not wonder quite +so much now that Mother does not +wholly appreciate her dinner when she +has guests, that she does not oftener +make simple frozen desserts, or that +she stays in such close company with +her wheels when they are on their way +around.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_73" title="73"> </a>THE WILL TO BOSS</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-t.png" width="142" height="144" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-t"><span class="upper-case">There</span> are people who +have a right to boss;—parents, +for instance, +and generals in the army. +With these we are not concerned. But +most of us, not officially in authority, +now and then have ideas of our own +that we are willing to pass on. Some +of us have them more than others.</p> + +<p>The typical boss is usually a capable +executive with a great unselfish imagination +and the gift of speech. He usually +knows enough to curb himself in public; +it is only in the home that his tendencies +run riot. In a family where all the +brothers and sisters belong to this type, +you can run riot only to a certain +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_74" title="74"> </a> +extent. If you go too far, you meet +somebody else also running riot, and +collisions ensue.</p> + +<p>If you are an elder sister, for instance, +with a tendency toward what your +younger brothers call “getting bossy,” +you find yourself constantly having +vivid mental pictures of the best way +to do a given thing. With these fancy-pictures +in mind, it is hard for you to +believe that your companions have any +ideas at all. As you look at another +person from the outside, you find it +hard to believe that his head is working. +If our heads were only made like these +ovens with glass in the door, so that +you could watch the half-baked thinking +rise and fall—but no. Your +brother sitting carelessly on the veranda +may have his mind on the time; +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_75" title="75"> </a> +he may be planning just how he will +presently rush to his room, bathe and +change, snatch his hat, run to the +station, and connect with the train on +daylight-saving time. He may be thinking +hard about all this, but he does not +look as if he were. You fidget while the +minutes go by, and then you go to the +window and speak. If your spirit has +been broken by much browbeating for +past attempts to give advice, you +speak timidly. If you are of stouter +stuff, you speak roughly to your little +boy.</p> + +<p>“Tom,” you say (timidly or roughly +as the case may be)—“I suppose you +know what time it is.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” says Tom.</p> + +<p>That ought to end it. But if you are +a true boss, you go on. You know that +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_76" title="76"> </a> +you are being irritating. You know +that Tom is of age. But you are willing, +like all great prophets, to risk unpopularity +for the sake of your Message. +The spirit of the crier in the wilderness +is upon you, and you keep at it until +one of two things happens. If Tom is +in a good temper, he goes upstairs to +humor you, with a condescending tread +and a tired sigh. If he is fractious, he +argues: Did you ever know him to +miss a train? Did you ever hear of his +forgetting an appointment? How do +you suppose he ever manages to get to +places when you are away from home?</p> + +<p>My brother Geoffrey, in his day, has +been a great sufferer from this kind of +thing. As memory reviews his youth, +there stands out only one occasion when +he really achieved anything like freedom +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_77" title="77"> </a> +from sisterly counsel. This was +when he picked the pears. The pears +on six large loaded trees were ready to +harvest. Geoffrey said that he was +willing to pick, but not to pick to order. +We would have to engage to let him +pick the pears in his own way. We +promised, though we knew too well our +brother's way of picking pears. He +holds quite a little reception from the +tree-tops, entertaining passers-by with +delightful repartee, and giving everybody +a pear. As time goes on, he gets +to throwing pears. “Somebody will +get hurt,” said our mother anxiously. +But a contract is a contract, and we +tried not to look out of the window. +In this unaccustomed air of freedom, +Geoffrey's spirits rose and rose. High +in the branches, taking his time, he grew +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_78" title="78"> </a> +more and more abandoned. He had +just reached the very top of the tallest +tree when he saw far up the street the +form of the ugliest and largest dog who +ever visited our town, a strange white +creature named Joe—a dog hard to +define, but resembling one's childhood +idea of the blood-hound type. Every +one spoke of this dog as “Joseph A. +Graham”: “Joe” seemed too simple +a name to be in scale with his size and +ferocity. Down the street he came, +loafing along. Geoffrey, ordinarily kind +to pets, selected a large mellow pear, +aimed it with steady eye, and hit +Joseph A. Graham, accurately, amidships. +Joseph flew up into the air, +landed on a slant, gathered his large +feet together for a plunge, and came +dashing down the street with murder +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_79" title="79"> </a> +in his great red eye. At that moment +Geoffrey looked down and saw with +horror that an elderly gentleman was +just coming up the street. It was +obvious that Joseph thought that the +old gentleman threw the pear. Geoffrey, +emitting hoarse cries of warning, +came swarming down the tree to the +rescue, swinging from branch to branch +like an orang-outang. The elderly gentleman, +grasping the situation in the +nick of time, stepped neatly inside our +screen door, and Joseph, thwarted of +reprisal, snuffed around the steps, muttered +to himself for a few moments, and +then went shuffling on down the street. +Geoffrey, still ardently apologizing to +the passer-by, went back to his tree-top +to recover from this, the only troubled +moment in that influential day.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_80" title="80"> </a>By clever bargaining, you can occasionally +buy off your natural advisers +in this way, and enjoy perfect independence. +But there are projects that really +call for a good boss. When a number +of people are at work together, the +trained worker should direct the group. +Even in your family, you are allowed +to be an autocrat in things that are +your specialty. But you are supposed +to be pleasant about it. This is not so +easy when you are in the full heat of +action. When you have your mind on +a difficult project, your commands to +your helpers are apt to sound curt. You +are likely to talk to them as if they were +beneath you. The unskilled helper in +an affair demanding skill gives the impression +of belonging to an inferior +class—something a little below the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_81" title="81"> </a> +social status of a coolie. He even feels +inferior, and is therefore touchy. If +you order him too gruffly, he is likely to +take offence and knock off for the day.</p> + +<p>Barbara, for instance, once very +nearly lost a valued slave when I was +giving her my awkward assistance about +the camera. She had decided to take a +picture of Israel Putnam's Wolf-Den +from a spot where no camera-tripod +had ever been pitched before. The +Wolf-Den sits on a slant above a cliff +in the deep woods. At one side of it +there is a capital place from which to +take its picture, a level spot on which +a tripod will stand securely. From this +point most of the pictures hitherto +taken of the Den were snapped. But +Barbara was resolved to get a full +front view to show the lettering on a +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_82" title="82"> </a> +bronze tablet that had recently been +placed on the Den. She wanted a time +exposure, and she said that she was +going to need assistance. Her idea was +to stand on a jutting rock just at the +edge of the cliff and hold the camera in +the desired position while the rest of the +party adjusted the legs of the tripod +beneath it.</p> + +<p>Every one who has ever set up a tripod +knows that its loosely hinged legs +can be elongated or telescoped by a +system of slides and screws. In order +to arrange our tripod with all its three +pods on the uneven ground, we found +that we must shorten one leg to its +extreme shortness, and lengthen the +second leg to its maximum length. This +left the third leg out in the air over the +brink of the precipice. Our guest was +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_83" title="83"> </a> +to manage the short leg, our mother +was to manage the important and +strategic leg among the rocks, and I +offered to build a combination of bridge +and flying buttress out from the slope +of the cliff, for the third.</p> + +<p>We started our project with that +cordial fellow-feeling that rises from +a common faith in a visionary enterprise, +and I am sure that we could have +kept that beautiful spirit to the end if +it had not been for the mosquitoes. +There are no wolves at the Wolf-Den +now, but on a muggy day the mosquitoes +are just as hungry. They rise all +around in insubstantial drifts, never +seeming to alight, yet stinging in +clusters. A true Wolf-Den mosquito +can land, bite, and make good his escape +before you have finished brushing +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_84" title="84"> </a> +him out of your eyes. You cannot +brush insects out of your eyes, slap the +back of your neck, and take a picture +at the same time. Barbara, both hands +busy holding the camera, was desperately +kicking the ankle of one foot with +the toe of the other. I counted fifteen +mosquitoes sitting unmoved around the +rims of her low shoes.</p> + +<p>“Don't take too much pains with +that bridge,” said she to me in considerate +company tones.</p> + +<p>“No,” said I respectfully, “but I +have to build it up high enough to meet +the leg.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, hurry,” said she, still +kindly.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said I evenly, “I am.”</p> + +<p>When two sisters discourse like this +before a guest, there creeps into their +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_85" title="85"> </a> +voices a note of preternatural sweetness, +a restraint and simplicity of utterance +that speak volumes to the trained +ear.</p> + +<p>I was hurrying all I could, but for +my unnatural bridge I had not the materials +I could have wished. I found a +weathered wooden fence-rail, balanced +one end of it on the cliff and the other +end in the crotch of a big tree that +leaned over the side hill; but this bridge +had to be built up with a pile of sand, +leaves, small stones, and stubble balanced +carefully upon it. Meanwhile, +my mother was busily drilling a hole +in the rock to make a firm emplacement +at a distance for leg number +two.</p> + +<p>Finally our three positions were approximately +correct, and the more delicate +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_86" title="86"> </a> +process of adjustment began. +Barbara, from under her dark cloth, +gave muffled directions. We obeyed, +shifting, screwing, unscrewing, adjusting. +Our guest was still cheery. Success +hovered before us in plain sight. +So did the mosquitoes. Barbara's directions +began to sound tense. They +sounded especially tense when she spoke +to me. I was balancing precariously +part-way down the shale cliff, digging +in my heels and doing the best I could +with the materials at hand. Looking +timidly up at my sister's black-draped, +mosquito studded figure, I had been first +conciliatory, then surly, then sullen. +Barbara had now begun to focus.</p> + +<p>“Lower!” said Barbara between her +teeth.</p> + +<p>Obediently we all three lowered.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_87" title="87"> </a>“No, no, not you!” said Barbara to +me. “Yours was too low already.”</p> + +<p>There are moments in this life when +the presence of a guest is an impediment +to free speech. Barbara, as anybody +can see, had the advantage. She +was the commanding officer. Any response +from me would have been a retort +from the ranks. Since one of her other +two helpers was her mother and the +other a guest, her words to them had +to be sugared. In a sugar-shortage, it +is the lower classes who suffer. By this +time one could easily distinguish her +directions to me by their truculent tone.</p> + +<p>“Make the bridge a trifle higher,” +said she curtly.</p> + +<p>I obediently brought another grain +of sand.</p> + +<p>“Higher!”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_88" title="88"> </a>I silently added five smooth stones.</p> + +<p>“Oh, build it up!” she begged. “You +ought to see the slant.”</p> + +<p>I pried a large boulder from the +ledge and balanced it on the rail.</p> + +<p>“Your rail's breaking!” cried my +mother, so suddenly that I lost my +footing.</p> + +<p>I seized the leg of the tripod in one +hand, the branch of a tree with the +other, while the flying buttress went +rumbling down the defile, and I was +left clinging to the bare rock, that refuge +of the wild goat.</p> + +<p>We have now some very attractive +pictures of the Den, taken from a spot +where no tripod was ever pitched before, +and where I hope no tripod will be +pitched again. But as we developed +the plates that night, I told Barbara +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_89" title="89"> </a> +that I did not think that I was qualified +to help her much about the camera any +more.</p> + +<p>“You were all right,” said she kindly. +“It was the mosquitoes.”</p> + +<p>And I was mollified by this as perhaps +I could have been by no logic in +the world.</p> + +<p>The right to boss is conceded to the +expert. It is also sometimes extended +to members of the family who are for +the time being in the centre of the +stage. At such times you are permitted +to dictate—when you are to have a +guest, for instance, or when you are +about to be married. For a day or two +before the wedding, your wish is law. +You really need to stay on hand until +the last minute, however, to enforce the +letter of the law to the end. Otherwise, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_90" title="90"> </a> +circumstances may get ahead of you.</p> + +<p>Geoffrey, for example, directly after +announcing his engagement to our best +friend Priscilla Sherwood, enjoyed a +time of perfect power. He knew that +he needed only to say, “Priscilla likes +so and so,” and so and so would follow. +Barbara and I reminded him that we +knew Priscilla better than he did, but we +could not say that we were engaged to +her. Just before the wedding, Geoffrey +took us aside to explain seriously about +his plans, and to give us our orders for +the day.</p> + +<p>“We don't want you to throw anything,” +said Geoffrey reasonably. “No +rice or confetti or shoes. And you +needn't even see us to the train. Priscilla +doesn't care about any demonstration, +and I think it would be just +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_91" title="91"> </a> +as well to go off quietly. We'd just as +soon the other people on the train +didn't know we were a bride and +groom.”</p> + +<p>Barbara and I, struck with the originality +of this point of view, promised +to throw nothing. Priscilla, meanwhile, +reasoned equally well with her brothers. +After the wedding, we all stood cordially +on the curbstone and let them +drive off to the train. Then, deserted, +the two families confronted each other +rather blankly.</p> + +<p>“It doesn't seem as if they had +actually gone, does it?” said Barbara +uneasily.</p> + +<p>“They wouldn't mind if we waved +to them when the train goes out, would +they?” began one of the Sherwoods +tentatively.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_92" title="92"> </a>Barbara was inspired. “Come on +down to our house,” said she, “and +then they can see us from the train.”</p> + +<p>One of the advantages of a home +near the railway is the fact that you +can see your friends off on trips without +leaving your dooryard. Each man for +himself, we went streaming down the +last hill, fearing at any minute to hear +the train pull out. To our dismay, we +saw that a long freight-train was standing +on the siding in such a position as +to cut off our view of the express.</p> + +<p>“When you are on the train,” I +panted as I ran, “you can see our upstairs +windows even when freight-cars +are in the way.”</p> + +<p>“We'll wave out of the front windows,” +said Barbara, and we all rushed +upstairs.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_93" title="93"> </a>“They'll never think to look up here, +will they?” said one of the brothers +Sherwood anxiously as we peered out +along the vista of track. “The pear +trees are in the way.”</p> + +<p>“We might just step outside the +window,” said Barbara resourcefully. +“The piazza roof is perfectly safe. +Then they couldn't help seeing us.”</p> + +<p>Wrapping our best clothes about us, +we crept out through the window one +by one, and went cautiously along the +tin roof to a vantage-point beyond the +pear trees. When a company of grown +people goes walking on a tin roof, there +are moments of shock when the tin +bubbles snap and crackle, making a +sound nothing short of terrifying, like +the reverberations of season-cracks in +the ice on a pond. We ranged ourselves +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_94" title="94"> </a> +in a row near the eaves-pipe, just in +time. The train went hooting by. They +saw us. We waved the wedding flowers, +and they waved back. We saw them +laughing. We waved until the end of +the train disappeared around the curve. +And as we assisted each other politely +one by one through the window again, +we had a comfortable sensation of having +wound up the affair with a finish +and completeness that had been lacking +after the first farewell.</p> + +<p>Still feeling a little uplifted with +excitement, we went up the street to +report events to our grandmother.</p> + +<p>“You mean to say that you went up +on to the <em>roof</em> to wave?” said our +grandmother.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Barbara thoughtfully, +“it didn't seem quite like going up +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_95" title="95"> </a> +on the roof at the time. It all happened +so gradually. We just stepped +out.”</p> + +<p>“And they saw you?” inquired +Grandmother.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. Nobody could help it. +Everybody saw us.” Barbara glowed +reminiscently.</p> + +<p>“And you waved the wedding flowers?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Barbara happily. “Father +Sherwood gave us each an armful.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said our grandmother, resuming +her sewing, “I shouldn't wonder +if the other passengers on that train +thought that something had happened +to Geoffrey.”</p> + +<hr class="thought-break"/> + +<p>To govern one's own kinsmen successfully, +one certainly does need to be +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_96" title="96"> </a> +on the spot. One cannot afford to leave +them for an instant. One should be +alert and watchful, and as diplomatic +as circumstances will allow. The ability +to boss implies a ready understanding +and the knack of seeing the end from +the beginning. It implies also a hardy +constitution and the gift of tongues. +But after all, in the last analysis, it is +largely a matter of the Will.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_97" title="97"> </a>MORE TO IT THAN YOU'D THINK</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-i.png" width="149" height="151" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-i1"><span class="upper-case">I am</span> often reminded of a +lady, who, during the war, +volunteered to oversee all +the Canteen work for +soldiers passing through our town. Her +favorite phrase, accompanied by a +surprised accent, became the following +one: “There's more <em>to</em> this job than +you'd think from the outside looking +in.” Then she would proceed with +many astounding details: soldiers who +required two cups of coffee, or three +lumps of sugar, milk that in the course +of time became dubious, and trains +that in the course of time became +late.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_98" title="98"> </a>I sympathized with this lady and +helped her wash the dishes. And I +have never questioned her statement. +Moreover, I have yet to find the job +to which this statement does not apply. +I suppose that, until you become a +postal clerk, you know very little +about the intricacies into which a +capital “S” may go, or how the rats +eat the stamps. A job is always annotated +for the employee.</p> + +<p>Certainly, teaching school introduces +you to manifold works which could not +be anticipated by looking in. In fact, +when my friendly janitor once said that +it must be very easy to teach the First +Grade, I caught myself falling back on +the popular phrase with some emotion—“There's +more to it than you'd +think.” My most baffling problems +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_99" title="99"> </a> +were just a little too complex to mention +to my janitor.</p> + +<p>“What instantly comes to your +mind,” says my college friend who is +“taking” Psychology, “when I say +the word ‘ping-pong’?”</p> + +<p>I tell him. By right of which I +retaliate, “What instantly comes to +your mind when I say the word ‘sand-table’?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, little paper pine trees,” responds +the student (who is also +“taking” Education),—“and wigwams +and canoes, and a real piece of glass for +a pond.”</p> + +<p>All this comes to my mind, too,—with +addenda. The addenda, however, +come to my mind first: Spilling Sand, +Sweeping up Sand, Trailing your fingers +in Sand as you march past, and, if +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_100" title="100"> </a> +you are <em>very</em> newly five years old, +Throwing Sand. This is not because I +am soured on the sand-table. I have +merely learned that there is more <em>to</em> one +than you would suspect from the outside +of one, looking in. Sand-tables may +mean pine trees, and they may mean +pandemonium.</p> + +<p>Throw several such freighted words +into a mixed group, and the reactions +are passionately interesting. If you +say, “Muscular movement,” “Interest +and Attention,” “Socialized Classes,” +or “Projects,” you can sift out the +school-teachers by their smile.</p> + +<p>In fact, there is a very large group of +noun substantives which mark, for an +Elementary teacher, at least, the seasons +of the year. Usually she has a top +drawer full of these. Many a teacher +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_101" title="101"> </a> +longs for the horse-chestnut-on-a-string +season to appear, if only to finish up the +season of the maple-key;—that large +pale-green maple-key, which, by clever +splitting of the central seed, may be +made to stay on one's nose. My young +friend Junior O'Brien once read to me +“The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” with +a maple-key over each ear, one on his +freckled nose, and two on his apple +cheeks. I gave over my reading-lesson +period to researches as to how his hard +little cheeks could yield enough slack +to accommodate a key; and before I +was ready to ask Junior to remove his +decorations, the force of gravity intervened.</p> + +<p>The maple-key, I suppose, suggests +eye-glasses. Certainly a bit of wire, +twisted into spectacles, follows keys. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_102" title="102"> </a> +These may be very ornate in the upper +grades, more nearly approaching the +lorgnette, or even the opera-glass. It is +a fascinating thing to see what a wire +hairpin correctly treated will do to +a young face. It lightens my day's +load, this vision of grave childish eyes +through the twisted rims, and that +magnificent effort of will, contrary to +nature, to obtain perfect immobility of +the nose.</p> + +<p>In company with the gross of wire +spectacles in my drawer are numerous +“snapping-bugs.” These may be +bought for one cent each, in the snapping-bug +season, of the ice-cream man. +They are double bugs of tin, which, if +pinched in the proper spot, will yield +a sharp click reminiscent of the old-fashioned +stereopticon lecture. Snapping-bugs +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_103" title="103"> </a> +may go far in “socializing” +a First Grade, and in making friends +with a newcomer at recess, but when +they snap in school they give me an +uneasy sense that my audience is in +haste to have the picture changed. So +I have six snapping-bugs.</p> + +<p>I have five tumble-bugs. These are +vivid green or purple gelatin capsules +about an inch long, each housing a lead +ball. Place the bug on an inclined plane, +and it will promptly turn right side up, +or the other side up, as long as the plane +continues to incline. Since tumble-bugs +are practically noiseless, their life is +somewhat longer than that of their +snapping cousins.</p> + +<p>I have one sling-shot. It might be +argued that First Graders are too +young for sling-shots. So they are. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_104" title="104"> </a> +They all too often receive their own +charge full in the eye. They much +prefer their comfortable acorn pipes. +These are pandemic in October, as are +also balloons.</p> + +<p>I once perceived Dominick, in the +height of the balloon season, with a +frankfurter balloon, a shape then new. +The active part was at just that moment +inert—a dried and crumpled +wisp of rubber. But its tube was unmistakably +going to be blown. Dominick +will never know how much his +teacher wished to see his balloon, properly +inflated, swaying and glowing as +only a green sausage balloon can glow. +I was deterred by a misgiving as to +whether this type of balloon collapsed +quietly after its magnificent spectacle, +or whether it was of that variety which +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_105" title="105"> </a> +emits a peculiar penetrating whistle +as it shrinks—an unmistakable sound, +due to be placed accurately in her list of +sounds by my teacher-friend next door, +who does not approve of balloons in +academic session. Dominick, however, +wished more than I did to see his +lighter-than-air craft in all its glory. +I finally deposited it among the false +noses and horse-chestnuts in my drawer.</p> + +<p>I used to wonder why a teacher +<em>wanted</em> marbles and walnuts, and pencil-sharpeners +shaped like a rabbit. +She doesn't. She simply does not want +to hear them dropping, dropping, ever +dropping, like the pennies in Sabbath +School. There is something thrilling to +<em>any</em>body about a real agate. If it is +about, you have to look at it. It is so +perfectly round. Anything perfectly +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_106" title="106"> </a> +round, or perfectly cylindrical, likes, +as we learn in Kindergarten, to roll. It +likes, upon occasion, to “rest”; but it +does not like this nearly as well. It is +not fair to a child to let him spend his +time playing with an agate in school. +Neither is it fair to him to destroy the +beauty of an agate for him—the charm +of its shape, or the marvel of its construction. +A teacher should strike a +medium so delicately and absolutely +medium that the angels themselves +pause lest they jar the weights.</p> + +<p>But the most curious phenomenon +which I have observed, one which +could not possibly be anticipated by an +outsider looking in, is the effect of my +setting the clock. There are times when +a perfectly innocent shuffling of thirty-four +feet in the First Grade assumes +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_107" title="107"> </a> +proportions far more important than +Murder in the First Degree. Then it is +that I set the clock. If it does not need +setting, I set it forward first, and then +back again. The clock is high on the +wall, reached by the janitor (all too +seldom) from a very high step-ladder. +I set it from the floor. I take the yardstick +and advance on the clock. It is +a nice operation to push up the glass +crystal with a pliant stick, haul down +the minute-hand, and finally to close +the door. The door must first be +lifted into its proper position, and +then hammered shut. Each bang of +the yardstick sounds as if it would be +followed certainly by showers of broken +glass. I think that this uncertainty is +what keeps my pupils' hearts fluttering +and their feet still. Deathly silence always +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_108" title="108"> </a> +accompanies my setting of the +clock. An imperceptible sound of relief, +like a group-sigh, follows the click of the +door in its catch. I can tiptoe back, on +that sigh, to quiet industry.</p> + +<p>It is true that children, with the best +intentions, sometimes bring inappropriate +busy-work to school. But teaching +them has not dowered me with +any disdain for my students. They are +beneath me only in years. In fact, I +raise my hat to some of them in spirit, +as I teach them to raise theirs to me in +truth. Here and there I calmly recognize +a superior. I am constantly taking +care that no youthful James Watt can +say to me in later years, “You put out +my first tea-kettle which boiled in +school.”</p> + +<p>I suppose that Pauline will eventually +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_109" title="109"> </a> +be a gracious hostess, saying just +the right thing to her guests and to her +husband—charming every masculine +acquaintance on sight. Even now, I +find that she is engaged, provisionally, +to James Henry Davis. Perhaps some +day Adamoskow, with his long clever +fingers and his dreamy eyes, and no +head whatever for “number,” will be +charging me five dollars a seat to hear +him play. His impresario can count the +change for him.</p> + +<p>And I know that James Henry Davis, +at seventeen, will have the power to +break hearts to the right of him, and +hearts to the left of him, with the same +dimple, the same wonderful pompadour, +and the same lifted eyebrow that +he now uses for the same purpose in +Grade I. I know that he will out-dance +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_110" title="110"> </a> +his dancing-master at his Junior Prom. +I shall wonder, when I see him in his +white gloves, how I ever dared to take +his acorn pipe away. Therefore I take +it away as innocuously as possible, and +touch his soft pompadour, in passing, +with a reverent hand.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_111" title="111"> </a>TRIO IMPETUOSO</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-t.png" width="142" height="144" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-t"><span class="upper-case">The</span> first steps of certain +things are beautiful; the +first flush of buds along a +maple branch, for instance, +or the first smooth launching of an +Indian canoe. But the first steps of +music are commonly not so. The first +note of a young robin is a squawk. +The first piercing note of a young violinist +is not in tune with the music of +any sphere.</p> + +<p>Musicians learn to expect a certain +amount of wear and tear in first attempts. +Even the professional orchestra +makes bad work of a new symphony +the first time through. And in an amateur +orchestra, where the players are of +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_112" title="112"> </a> +various grades of proficiency, the playing +of a new piece of music is a hazardous +affair.</p> + +<p>In our own orchestra, when we read +a new piece of music for the first time, +we usually decide to “try it once +through without stopping.” Come what +will, we will meet it together. The +great thing is to keep going. Sometimes +we emerge from this enterprise +with all bows flying and everybody +triumphantly prolonging the same last +note. At other times we come out at +the finish one by one, each man for +himself, like the singers in an old-fashioned +round-song rendering of +“Three Blind Mice.”</p> + +<p>To enjoy playing in an orchestra like +ours, the musician should have a great +soul and a rugged nervous system. He +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_113" title="113"> </a> +should not be too proud to play his best +on music that is too easy for him, and +he should not be afraid to try music +that is too hard. Music within the easy +reach of every member of an amateur +orchestra is scarce. The first time +through, there is usually somebody +who has to skirmish anxiously along, +experimenting softly to himself when +he loses his place, and coming out +strong when he finds it again. From +among the many desirable notes in a +rapid passage, he chooses as many as +he can hit in the time allowed, playing +selected grace-notes here and there, +and skipping the rest. We cannot all +have everything.</p> + +<p>Most amateurs call this process +“vamping the part.” This, and the +clever deed known as “cueing in” passages +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_114" title="114"> </a> +supposed to be played by instruments +that we lack, are our chief offences +against the law.</p> + +<p>There are proud spirits in the world +who refuse to have anything to do with +either of these sins. When they come +to a passage that is not well within +their reach, they lay down the fiddle +and the bow, and sit back tolerantly +while the rest go on without them. +Their motto is the one made famous by +a certain publishing house: <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tout bien +ou rien.</i> That is a fine watchword for a +publisher, but fatal in a scrub orchestra. +There, it is likely to mean that +“tout” must go “bien,” or you resign.</p> + +<p>Nobody has ever resigned from our +orchestra. We are called a Trio, because +our minimum is three. But, in +actual fact, we rarely play with less +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_115" title="115"> </a> +than seven performers. Whenever we +are about to play in public, we reënforce +ourselves with additional instruments, +beginning with a favorite extra +violin. If we are to play in the evening, +we can count on a viola and a clarinet, +played respectively by the senior and +the junior partner of a hardware firm: +Mr. Bronson and Mr. Billings, of Bronson +and Billings. If we are to play on +Sunday, we are sure of a double-bass. +And on state occasions, we are joined +by an attorney-at-law who plays the +piccolo. People who invite us to play +always request music by Our Trio, and +then inquire delicately how many of us +there will be.</p> + +<p>A trio of this kind is sure to be in +demand. In making our way to the +place where we are to play, we have +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_116" title="116"> </a> +learned to go in relays through the +streets. This is not because we are +ashamed to be seen carrying the badge +of our talent through the town, but +because if we all go together there is a +discussion about who shall carry what +instruments. Barbara, our 'cellist, is +the storm-centre of these broils. The +'cello, like some people, has the misfortune +to look a great deal heavier than +it really is. No gentleman likes to let +a lady carry one.</p> + +<p>“Really, it's as light as a feather,” +says Barbara, swinging it easily alongside.</p> + +<p>“But,” reasons the viola earnestly, +“think how it looks.”</p> + +<p>To avoid all friction, Barbara goes +ahead with the gentleman who plays +the bass-viol. Together they present +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_117" title="117"> </a> +a striking aspect to the passer-by, but +they have peace and mutual understanding +in their hearts. Nobody could +expect a gentleman, however gallant, +to carry both a 'cello and a double-bass.</p> + +<p>The rest of us follow along at a safe +distance, and arrive at becoming intervals +at the place where we are to play.</p> + +<p>For convenience in talking among +ourselves, we have divided our performances +into three classes: the platform +performance, the semi-screened, +and the screened. Our semi-screened +programmes are those where we are +partly hidden from view, in choir-lofts, +conservatories, verandas, and anterooms. +The screened are those that +take place behind palms. Of all these +sorts, we vastly prefer the screened.</p> + +<p>Each of us has a special reason for +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_118" title="118"> </a> +this preference. Mr. Bronson, the viola, +prefers it because, screened, he is +allowed to beat time with his foot. +There is something very contented-looking +about the tilt of his long shoe, +thrust out informally amidst the shrubbery—the +toe rising and falling in +exact rhythm with the music, now +legato, now appassionato, our perfect +metronome. Such happiness is contagious.</p> + +<p>Barbara likes to be screened because +then she can dig a tiny hole in the floor +for the end-pin of the 'cello, and stick +the pin into it once for all, while she +plays. The vogue of the waxed hardwood +floor is a great trial to 'cellists. +It is upsetting to feel your great +instrument skidding out from under +you suddenly, with a jerk that you can +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_119" title="119"> </a> +neither foresee nor control. When we +go to places where the device of boring +a hole in the floor may not be well +received, Barbara takes along a neat +strip of stair-carpet, anchors it at one +end with her chair and at the other with +her music-stand, and sits on it firmly, +much as the ancient Roman used to +camp upon a square of tessellated +pavement brought with him from +Rome.</p> + +<p>Mr. Billings, the clarinet, likes the +screened performance because his wife +has told him that he has a mannerism +of arching his eyebrows when he plays. +In playing a wind-instrument, the eyebrows +are a great help. He can arch +them all he likes, behind the palms.</p> + +<p>The rest of us enjoy the sense of +cosy safety that comes when we arrange +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_120" title="120"> </a> +our racks, distribute the parts, and +settle down with our backs to the +foliage for an evening of music, out of +sight. We can play old favorites, far +too tattered to appear on a printed +programme; new things not sufficiently +rehearsed; extracts from compositions +that we cannot play beyond a certain +point; and, best of all, those beloved +collections of what Mr. Robert Haven +Schauffler used to call “derangements.” +All these things, barred by the platform +artist, we play blissfully, behind the +potted plants.</p> + +<p>Since everybody outside our leafy +covert is talking, we are free, not only +from criticism, but also from the +obligation of acknowledging applause. +All the little niceties of platform procedure—bowings, +exits, dealing with +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_121" title="121"> </a> +encores—are out of the question. +Since we play continuously, there is no +chance for encores.</p> + +<p>There has been one exception to this +rule. One night at a Saint Patrick's +Day banquet, Our Trio was out in full +force. Even the piccolo was with us. +Our corner was carefully walled in with +heavy burlap screens, because this was +a business-men's supper, and no ladies +were supposed to be present. We had +brought along a sheaf of Irish music in +honor of the day, and we played it unexpectedly +after a series of other things. +As we finished one of the appealing +Irish airs, the applause broke out all +over the hall in a genuine encore. We +listened, electrified, laying an ear to the +cracks. Barbara, who thinks that we +are altogether too easily set up by the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_122" title="122"> </a> +plaudits of the crowd, stood up, 'cello +at an angle, and made a series of elaborate +bows for our benefit behind the +screen. The viola sprang to his feet and +joined her, and they were bowing and +scraping hand in hand like Farrar and +Caruso, when the front screen was +thrown suddenly wide open by the +toastmaster who had been sent to request +an encore, and no less than forty +gentlemen looked in. Since that time, +we have not felt too sheltered, even +with burlap screens.</p> + +<p>The question of applause, so nearly +negligible in the screened performance, +is a matter of the greatest moment on +the platform. The process of responding +to it is complicated by numbers. A +solo artist can step in easily, bow, and +step out again. But it takes too long +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_123" title="123"> </a> +for a trio of eight or more to step in, +bow, and step out. We have to wait +behind the scenes for a real encore.</p> + +<p>We are highly gratified at a chance +to play our encores, of which we carry +a supply. The only hitch is the little +matter of deciding just what an encore +is. The viola thinks that an encore consists +of applause going in waves—starting +to die out and reviving again +in gusts of hearty clapping. Two such +gusts, he says, should comprise an encore. +But our pianist thinks that we +should wait until the clapping stops +entirely, and that, if it then bursts out +afresh, it shall be esteemed an encore.</p> + +<p>One evening the encore was by every +standard unmistakable. Our mother +was at the piano that night, and, supposing +that we were ready, led the way +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_124" title="124"> </a> +in. The rest of us, absorbed in giving +out the parts of the music, did not see +her go. We waited, wondering where +she was. Tempests of amused applause +meanwhile surged up around our lonely +accompanist stranded in the hall. We +heard the thundering, and scattered in +frantic search. One of us could have +played the piano part, but the music +for that had disappeared as well as the +musician. The double-bass chanced +upon the janitor's little boy in the corridor, +and asked him if he knew where +our accompanist could be.</p> + +<p>“Why, yes! Can't you hear 'em +clap?” said the boy in surprise. “She's +went in.”</p> + +<p>I have heard that there are sensitive +people who are jarred upon by applause, +people who hold the perfect-tribute +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_125" title="125"> </a> +theory: they think that the +audience, out of respect to the artist, +ought to remain reverently silent after +each number. I cannot answer for the +great artist, but I know that our trio +does not feel that way about it. We +like applause. Silence is a mysterious +thing. From behind the stage how are +you to tell a reverent hush from a +shocked one? The trained ear can instantly +classify applause; but silence, +however reverent, does not carry well +behind the scenes. We like a little +something after each number to cheer +us on.</p> + +<p>We do know, however, that in a +small private audience there is a sense +of strain if the listeners feel obliged to +make a demonstration after each selection. +Clapping seems affected in a +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_126" title="126"> </a> +group of three or four, and the business +of thinking up well-selected remarks is +a serious matter. Knowing this, we always +relieve our drawing-room audiences +of embarrassment by making the +remarks ourselves. The moment the +last lingering whisper has completely +died away from the strings, we turn as +one man and begin to compliment the +music. “We like that ending better +than any other part of the whole thing,” +we say appreciatively. This lifts a load +of anxiety from the minds of our hearers, +and serves to break the hush.</p> + +<p>The question of playing to guests in +our own home is the subject on which +our family <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ensemble</i> most nearly came to +mutiny. Our father had a way, contrary +to orders, of suggesting a little +music when we had visitors. The rest +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_127" title="127"> </a> +of us objected to this, especially if the +guests were people who did not play. +Once, when an evening of hospitality +to strangers was in store, our mother +was giving us all our final instructions. +She turned to our father last of all.</p> + +<p>“Endicott,” she began impressively, +“this evening you mustn't say the +word ‘music’ unless somebody else suggests +it. If they want us to play, they +will ask us.”</p> + +<p>Our father, a little grieved to think +that any one should worry lest he do so +strange a thing, promised to comply.</p> + +<p>But that evening, finding the guests +more and more congenial in the midst +of firelight conversation, he turned to +them cordially and said, “I know that +this is just the time when you would +enjoy a little music, but I have been +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_128" title="128"> </a> +told that I must not say the word unless +you suggest it first.”</p> + +<p>The guests, highly diverted, rose to +the occasion and begged prettily. They +said that they had been starving for +some music all along. When visitors +who do not really care for music have +once been launched on the process of +asking for it, the kindest thing to do is +to play promptly something brief and +sweet and trailing—some <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Abendlied</i> or +<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Albumblatt</i>, for instance, and have it +over. In the presence of guests, such +family crises must be tided over with +neat persiflage. It was only after the +company had gone that the mutiny +took place.</p> + +<p>But there is one kind of audience +that we like the best of all. Sometimes +of an early summer evening, when our +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_129" title="129"> </a> +whole orchestra has gathered to rehearse +for a performance that we have +in store, the relatives and friends of the +players ask to be allowed to come and +listen. We arrange the hammock and +steamer-chairs in a screened corner +outside the house, and there our listeners—perhaps +the sister of the bass-viol, +the business partner of the piccolo, and +a neighbor or two—settle themselves +comfortably under the windows. Then +we play, interrupted only by an occasional +shout from outside, when somebody +requests an encore, or asks what +that last thing was. Our steamer-chair +audience has often begged us to announce +the composer and the name of +each selection as we go along, and we +usually appoint somebody to do this, +megaphoning the titles through the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_130" title="130"> </a> +window. But before we have gone very +far, we forget our audience. They lie +there neglected, scattered on the lawn. +The dew falls around them, the shadows +gather over them, and they give up +the attempt to attract our notice. We +are rehearsing now, not performing, +and our blood is up.</p> + +<p>Sometimes we have a strong-minded +guest who refuses to be treated in this +way. He declines the steamer-chair, +with steamer-rug and cushion, preferring +to sit against the wall in a cramped +corner of the room where we are playing. +We assure him that the music +sounds better from a distance, but he +begs to be allowed to stay. He says +that he likes to watch as well as listen. +This does not disturb us; we are rather +flattered if the truth were known. In +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_131" title="131"> </a> +fact, we know a little how he feels. There +is a dramatic and pictorial value in the +humblest orchestra, no matter how +densely you populate your music-room. +Usually the guest who enjoys this sight +is a person who would like to play if he +knew how—one who can join in the +excitement when things are going well.</p> + +<p>Like all amateurs, we do become excited. +And when we are excited, we +tend to play faster and faster, and +louder and louder, unless something +holds us up. “Pianissimo!” shouts the +double-bass, fortissimo. Thus exhorted, +we settle down just as earnestly, but +with more attention to the waymarks +and the phrasings of the score.</p> + +<p>Probably it is at these moments that +we do our very best. The bass-viol +standing by the fireplace, his genial face +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_132" title="132"> </a> +unsmiling now, intent, takes the rich +low harmony with great sweeps of his +practised bow. Barbara, over against +the music-cabinet, plays smoothly on, +her dark old 'cello planted firmly, the +shadow of her hair across its great +brown pegs. Mr. Billings, with pointed +eyebrows arching steeply, pipes and +carols above us like a lark. And +through it all the vibrant foot of Mr. +Bronson faithfully beats time.</p> + +<p>“Why don't you get together and +play like this often?” inquires the sister +of the bass-viol, when the audience at +last, with arms full of steamer-rugs and +cushions, comes trailing in.</p> + +<p>The piccolo, passing sandwiches, +looks up with hearty response. “Yes, +why can't we?” he asks. “After the +reception, let's try to keep it up.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_133" title="133"> </a>The rest of us, fastening the covers +around our instruments, give enthusiastic +consent. “Every other Monday, +let's meet without fail,” we say. But +in our hearts we know that we shall not. +We shall all be busy—all sorts of +things will happen to prevent—and +the weeks will fly. Yet we know that +sooner or later our trio will meet +again—probably for a desperate rehearsal +some months hence, just in time +for the next event where we are asked +to play.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_134" title="134"> </a>THE RETURN OF A, B, C</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-t.png" width="142" height="144" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-t"><span class="upper-case">That</span> is, I used to hope +that they were returning. +My neighbor's small son, +Tony, aged six, needed +them. He needed them to learn to read +with. This was before I had any first-hand +evidence about modern school +methods. I saw school only through +Tony.</p> + +<p>Tony was able to read, “over to +school,” such excerpts as the following: +“The gingerbreadboy went clickety-clack +down the road.” “Sail far, sail +far, o'er the fabulous main!” “Consider, +goat, consider!” “You have +made a mistake, Mr. Alligator.” Just +why, I reflected, should “Mr. Alligator” +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_135" title="135"> </a> +and “fabulous” be introduced to a +pleasant child like Tony, who had not +as yet been allowed to meet “cat,” +“dog,” “hen,” “red,” “boy,” “bad,” +and a great many other creatures really +necessary to a little boy's existence?</p> + +<p>His mother knew that Tony was not +learning to read very fast. She argued +with me a little on principle. She +said that James Whitcomb Riley wrote +“fabulous.” I reminded her in a neighborly +way that Mr. Milton wrote the +“Areopagitica,” thought by some to be +a good sort, but that, until Tony knew +his letters, the “Areopagitica” would +be almost wasted on him. I would have +stepped in at this point myself and +ponied him a bit, for pure love, had it +not been for the fact that I hated to +have him get a sensible A, B, or C +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_136" title="136"> </a> +mixed up with such corrupting associates +as a considering goat or a mistaken +alligator. And he would certainly +have mixed them up. He would never +have been able in this world to decide +in his little mind what relation “consider” +had to A,B,C. And he would +have been quite excusable.</p> + +<p>I began to think that his mother was +too optimistic. She was trying to console +herself by the fact that, if she +should die, Tony could at least order +gingerbread off a menu card. But +could he? The sad fact that my neighbor +overlooked was that he didn't +know “gingerbread” when he saw it, +but just “gingerbread<em>boy</em>”! Perhaps +even at that, Tony might not have +starved, for even gingerbread<em>boys</em> are +edible, if Tony really could have recognized +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_137" title="137"> </a> +that. But he couldn't. Not +outside the confines of his “reading-book”—Heaven +save the mark! A +modern word-fiend tried to explain to +me here, that, after having learned +“gingerbreadboy,” a child comes naturally +by three words (and even four if +they allowed “gin” in the school curriculum)—namely, +“ginger,” “bread,” +and “boy.” But Tony didn't. I tried +him. He looked upon “ginger” as an +entire stranger, interesting in form, +perhaps, but still foreign. Something, +I was convinced, was wrong. And I +attributed this state to the fact that +Tony didn't know A, B, and C.</p> + +<p>Just as I reached the high noon of +this conviction, I was drawn by the +most curious of circumstances into the +business of teaching little children to +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_138" title="138"> </a> +read. I held the novel position of being +besought to bring all my heresies +and all my notions, and join the influenza-thinned +ranks of the teaching +profession. The Board of Education +said that it was desperate. It must +have been.</p> + +<p>I suppose that no other power on +earth could have converted me so +quickly to the decried method, as my +being forced, out of loyalty to my employers, +to support it. I was plunged +on the first day—not into “clickety-clack,” +but “slippety-slip.” It was my +first object lesson to hear the laughter of +many little children, as the small gray +cat swallowed slippety-slip in rapid +succession the white goose, the cinnamon +bear, the great, big pig, and others +which have “slippety-slipped” my mind +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_139" title="139"> </a> +just now. It was easy to teach them +which fantastic word said “slippety-slip.” +It was very hard to teach them +which plain-faced word said “and.” +I was happy to find many fine old words +ranging themselves in the same category +as “slippety-slip.” “Goose” is +intrinsically easier to learn than “duck”; +“red” is a bagatelle beside “blue.” +But the easiest word of all is “slippety-slip.”</p> + +<p>I took notes of phenomena like these, +for use later in dealing with critics who +theorized as I had theorized on the day +previous. I was not quite ready with +any solution on this first day when a +visiting mother assured me that she, +when a girl, was wont to read much +better when her book was open before +her. Her son, on the contrary, read better, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_140" title="140"> </a> +she told me, and with more interpretation +and fine feeling, without his +book. “People think,” said my visitor, +“that when a child has his book open +and says aloud the words printed on +that page, that he is reading. He +may be,” she added mildly, “and then +again, of course, he mayn't.”</p> + +<p>I determined that, when this logical +lady should come again, her son should +be reading. So I taught him to read. +I taught him via the method I had disparaged; +via “Mrs. Teapot,” “Goosey-Poosey-Loosey,” +and the goat that +would not go home, without once mentioning +the names of A, B, or C. This +boy is in the third grade now, skimming +the “Literary Digest” for material for +his oral language.</p> + +<p>The second step in my conversion +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_141" title="141"> </a> +occurred when one of the overworked +teachers showed me hastily how to +teach Phonics. She drew a flight of stairs +on the blackboard, and on each step she +placed a letter of the alphabet. I did +not find “A” among them, but I discerned +both B and C. To my surprise, +the little children knew these, but they +called them (as nearly as the printed +page can convey the sound) <em>buh</em> and +<em>kuh</em>. They called “R” <em>err</em>, and “H” +they called <em>huh</em>.</p> + +<p>When I reached home, I looked up a +few letters in the Dictionary, and received +new light. Of what use is it, +after all, to know that “W” is called +“Double-you,” unless you know first +the sound for which it stands? The +Dictionary, in fact, explains that the +proper sound of this letter is really a +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_142" title="142"> </a> +“half u” instead of a “double u.” +Certainly “W” is a more helpful tool +to a child when he has been taught to +pucker up his lips like the howling wind +when he sees this letter coming, than +when he has been taught to get set for +a “d” sound which is not there. Why +confuse a child's mind at first with +what a letter is arbitrarily called by +some one else? Surely it is more sensible +to show him what noise to make +when he sees it.</p> + +<p>But I found that some of the children +did not connect the delightful game +of the blackboard stairs with their +reading at all. Tony was among this +number. Right here I was electrified +to find out the real trouble with +Tony. I found that it had not occurred +to him that the letter “g,” at +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_143" title="143"> </a> +the beginning of the word “good,” for +instance, could have any part in distinguishing +this word from the Little +Red Hen. I found also that many of +the children were recognizing “good-day +to you” wholly by the quaint little +dash in the middle of “good-day.” +They shouted heartily “good-day to +you” whenever I showed them any +word containing a hyphen.</p> + +<p>To remedy this difficulty, I abstracted +Phonics bodily from my afternoon +session, and inserted it directly before +the reading period in the morning. +In fact, I allowed a few Phonics to +spill over into Reading, and commenced +to read a little before the children +were quite finished with the staircase. +I can say that the greatest triumphal +moment of my life was when an +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_144" title="144"> </a> +entire class saw, independently and +suddenly and of themselves, that “ice-cream” +could not possibly be “good-day +to you.” And the fact that the +children now knew these apart by a +phonetic tool did not prevent them from +saying “good-day to you” just as cordially +and just as fast as before. Moreover, +they had not compelled the school +system to wait for them to spell out the +words letter by letter.</p> + +<p>This is the only stage in a modern +phrase-and-sentence method which contains +a pitfall. If this is solidly bridged, +most children will learn to read more +understandingly than we used to. They +will read twice as well, and three times +as fast.</p> + +<p>At the end of the school year, after +Tony had read nineteen books, I did +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_145" title="145"> </a> +throw in the alphabet itself as a classic. +We even sang it to the good old-fashioned +tune.</p> + +<p>Tony will use A, B, and C, in the +Second Grade to spell with, and in the +Fourth Grade to look up words in the +Dictionary with; but he did not need +them, after all, in the First Grade, to +learn to read with.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_146" title="146"> </a>UNDERSTANDING THE HEALTHY</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-t.png" width="142" height="144" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-t"><span class="upper-case">The</span> healthy in all centuries +have misunderstood the +sick. In the days when +sickness was supposed to +be the result of possession by devils, the +healthy gathered around the invalid, +beating upon drums. When all disease +was supposed to be the chastening of +the Lord, they gathered at the bedside +again, teaching repentance of sins. And +in our own generation, they come again +around the sufferer telling him to take +his mind off himself.</p> + +<p>I myself, being healthy, have never +been the victim of that form of ministration. +I have simply observed the effect +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_147" title="147"> </a> +of it on others. And since there is no +hope of converting the healthy from this +habit, the next best thing is to explain the +obscure workings of the healthy mind.</p> + +<p>Of course, no two healthy people are +quite alike, and general statements +about any great composite type are dangerous. +But no matter how divergent +their styles, all up-to-date, unspoiled, +healthy persons can be trusted to make +certain stock remarks to or about the +sick. The context may vary, but sooner +or later the following phrases will crop +up: “pulling yourself together”; “bracing +up”; “standing a little real hardship”; +“forgetting all about your aches +and pains”; “people who never have +<em>time</em> to be sick”; “people who are +worse off than you are”; and, “taking +your mind off yourself.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_148" title="148"> </a>At any one of these cheery phrases, the +spirited sick man feels his gorge begin to +rise. He knows that if his gorge rises, +so will his temperature. With a mighty +effort he swallows his temper, and his +temperature goes up anyway at the exertion. +All this time he knows that his +visitor meant well, and he despises himself +for his irritation. He has no way of +defending himself, for, if he should describe +how ill he really is, would not that +convict him of having his mind on himself, +of craving sympathy, of “enjoying +poor health”? Over and over the words +of his visitor go ringing in his ears—words +intended tactfully to stimulate +recuperation. “It's fine to see you looking +so well. All you need to do now is to +get something to take up your mind. +I know how hard it will be, for I have +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_149" title="149"> </a> +been there myself, but circumstances +were such that <em>I</em> just <em>had</em> to brace up. +It would be the best thing in the world +for you if you only had to rough it a +little.”</p> + +<p>Any one of these remarks is guaranteed +to leave the person who is really +suffering in a very storm-beaten state +of mind, unless by the luckiest chance +he understands two basic facts about +the healthy: first, our healthy imagination; +second, our healthy ignorance.</p> + +<p>The healthy imagination, in the first +place, cannot bear to move in circles. +Any novelist knows that a story must +progress. If the action is dramatic, the +final downfall or the final victory must +follow swiftly upon the heels of conflict. +The attention wanders if the story goes +monotonously along in the style of “Another +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_150" title="150"> </a> +grasshopper came and brought +another grain of corn. And then another +grasshopper came and brought +another grain of corn.”</p> + +<p>On the same principle, the general +public gives intelligent understanding +to the great dangerous diseases where +there is a grand struggle of life and +death, where the sufferer grows rapidly +worse, reaches the crisis, hangs +for a moment between time and eternity, +and then either dies or gets well. +Here is the stuff of contest, the essence +of Greek drama: pity and fear, unity of +action, and dignity of conflict. The imagination +rises to it as to whirlwinds and +the noise of waterspouts. But when it +comes to the good friend who neither +dies nor gets well, who begins to recover +and succumbs again, travelling the monotonous +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_151" title="151"> </a> +round of one ill after another, +none of them fatal,—then the healthy +imagination stops following the circles.</p> + +<p>It is time by every calculation that +our friend recovered. We hope that he +will soon be well and strong. He hopes +so, too, we admit broad-mindedly. But +most of us fall into generalities at this +point. We are not impatient <em>with</em> our +friend; we are impatient for him. A delayed +convalescence, we have heard, is +usually the result of mismanagement +somewhere; the wrong doctor, perhaps, +a family inclined to spoil by kindness, +or mind over matter imperfectly understood. +Suppose our sick friend could +get away from his anxious relatives, and +be suddenly cast upon a desert island; +would he not have to brace up and rattle +down his own cocoanuts with a will? +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_152" title="152"> </a> +We have known such cases—paralytics +who got thrown overboard and nimbly +swam ashore, rescuing women and children +on their way. Our friend is not an +extreme case like that, but, if he actually +had to get to work, would he not forget +all about his troubles, and suddenly +find himself cured?</p> + +<p>Once having put him into the class of +needless suffering, we roll along merrily +to the moment when we decide that it is +time for us to speak. Let us speak tactfully, +by all means. Let us auto-suggest +as it were! Let those of us who are +amateurs do what we can in a quiet +way.</p> + +<p>At this point, the healthy do three +things. We diagnose, we prescribe, and +we tell you to take your mind off yourself.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_153" title="153"> </a>This is where the healthy ignorance +comes in. When we are well, we think +of the mind as a convenient tool; in +Huxley's words, “a cool, clear, logic engine.” +We know that minor ailments of +our own have vanished when we have +vigorously taken our mind off our symptoms +and gone to the movies. We are +at our best, we know, when we have +given our whole attention to something +absorbing, quite outside ourselves; business, +friendship, good works. We feel +that our acquaintance will be the better +for this valuable thought. We do not +know that every other healthy person +in town has also decided that it is time +to pass on the same idea. Neither do +we realize that the ability to do as we +suggest is the sick person's idea of +heaven.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_154" title="154"> </a>Thinking thus masterfully of the +mind, we speak glibly of doing things +with it. We do not know how slippery +and complex a thing the mind is when +assailed by suffering. “Take off your +mind.” Take off your hat. We do not +know what long hours every invalid +spends driving his mind along on +every pleasant topic under the sun, +only to feel it skidding, skidding, from +side to side, just as you feel yourself +steering for the nearest tree when you +begin to drive a car. And after all this +effort, what has he been doing but putting +his mind on his mind? Less exhausting +to put it on the pain and be +done with it. When we urge our friend +not to steer for the tree, we feel that we +are presenting him with a new idea.</p> + +<p>Healthy ignorance, in the second +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_155" title="155"> </a> +place, assumes that the mind of a sick +person is more than normally susceptible +to suggestion. We have heard that, if +you say to a patient, “How thin you +are,” he will instantly feel thinner and +thinner, will droop and wilt and brood +morbidly upon his state. Very well, +then. We go to visit our friend resolved +to make no such unfortunate remark. +We conceal our shock at the changed +appearance of our friend, but we cannot +help thinking about it. Every +healthy person is a trifle taken aback +when he sees anybody else laid low. The +neat white corners of the counterpane +lend an awe-inspiring geometrical effect; +if the patient is a man, he looks subtly +changed without his high collar; if the +patient is a lady, she is transformed +with her hair in braids. We know that +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_156" title="156"> </a> +we must not cry, “How changed you +are, Grandmother,” lest we send the patient +into a relapse. It is a poor rule +that will not work both ways. If a comment +on frail appearance would thus +depress our friend, surely the contrary +assurance ought to chirk him up in proportion. +We therefore say blithely, +“Well, you certainly do look fine!” +Then later we perhaps repeat it, to make +sure that auto-suggestion has a chance +to set in.</p> + +<p>Now, personally, if somebody told +me that I looked well, I feel that I could +manage to bear up. But in the sick-room, +the remark seldom makes a hit. +Nine chances out of ten the patient does +not understand the healthy. He feels +that we suspect him of rusticating in +bed under false pretences. He does not +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_157" title="157"> </a> +want to be ill, nor to look ill; but since +he <em>is</em> ill, he would be sorry to have us +think that he might as well be up and +about. He does not know that we +adopt the cheery note to avoid the +fatal opposite, and to encourage him. +He does not know how helpless we are, +nor how sure of the susceptibility of +the stricken mind.</p> + +<p>All these traits of the healthy imagination +and the healthy ignorance are +magnified tenfold if the invalid's disorder +is nervous. To the untutored +layman, a nervous disorder means +an imaginary disorder. What nervous +wreck has not prayed to exchange his +baffling torments for something showy +and spectacular, like broken bones or +Spotted Fever? The healthiest imagination +can grasp a broken leg. The +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_158" title="158"> </a> +healthiest ignorance can see that it +should lie for a while in splints, and +that we cannot help our friend by urging +him, however tactfully, to forget +all about his fracture and join us on a +hike. But disordered nerves are different. +Everybody admits that. We feel +instantly competent to prescribe. We +have read up on psychotherapy, in the +magazines.</p> + +<p>Having diagnosed the case, having +prescribed remedies, we feel a trace of +impatience if our friend seems not +quite cured.</p> + +<p>In addition to our eager way of giving +advice, we who are healthy have also +a way of confusing cause and effect. +When our patient finally does succeed +in building up his vitality to the point +where he can resume his work, when +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_159" title="159"> </a> +we see him going busily about the +world again taking his share of hard +knocks without flinching, then we say, +“There! Didn't we say he'd be better +the minute he had something to do?” +We know nothing about the times when +he hoped that he had recovered, attempted +to take up work again, and +succumbed. We see only the triumphant +emerging of his renewed vitality. +To us the cause is obvious, just what +we had been prescribing all along. +When he was idle, he was ill. Now that +he is busy, he is well. Could anything +be more logical? Therefore, when we +find him working hard at his old profession, +we smile indulgently upon him +and we say, “That's right! It will do +you good! <em>Now</em> you have something to +take your mind off your—”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_160" title="160"> </a>But I will not repeat it. Never in all +my life shall I say that beautiful and +grammatical phrase again. There is +probably a good deal in it—how much, +I, for one, have not the least idea. +Probably there are invalids in the world +who would be completely cured if they +could be worried into hard work at all +costs, “roughing it” with a vengeance. +We stray perilously near the fields contested +by experts when we come to +that. The point is that the subject will +always be a field for experts, and that +never in the long history of suffering +was very much accomplished by +the well-meant exhortations of friends. +As far back as Old Testament days, +friends came to see a patient man, and +reasoned at length with him. And he +cried unto the Lord.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_161" title="161"> </a>Nearly every invalid loves his +friends. He cannot bear to have them +misunderstand him. And yet, if he +only understands <em>them</em>—if he understands +the healthy as a class, with our +healthy imaginations, our healthy ignorance, +our superstitions, and all our +simple ways, the most desolate Job in a +friend-strewn world can afford to brandish +his potsherd and take cheer. He +will know the explanation of our kindly +words, and their proper discount at the +bank. And perhaps he may be able +finally, with a prodigious effort of his +will, to take them off his mind.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_162" title="162"> </a>CARVING AT TABLE</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-c.png" width="148" height="150" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-t"><span class="upper-case">Carving</span> at table is one +of the most virile things +that a man can do, and +yet it usually has to be +done according to feminine standards. +It is a primitive art overlaid with +a complex technique, a pioneer act in +a dainty environment. For so masterful +a deed with an edged tool, a man +should be allowed the space and freedom +of the Maine woods. Environed +by the modern tablecloth, he must be +not only masterful but cautious; not +so much fearless as adroit.</p> + +<p>The process tests not only the man +himself, but also his relations with his +wife. When a married couple feel +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_163" title="163"> </a> +equally responsible for an act at which +only one of them can officiate, they +are tempted to exchange remarks. The +most tactful wife yields now and then +to the impulse to do a little coaching +from the side-lines, and many husbands +have been known to reply with a few +well-chosen words about the knife. +They sometimes carry on quite a little +responsive service. This happens occasionally +even when the husband is an +artist at his work. The ideals of two +artists will occasionally conflict. And +even the model wife, who ignores the +carving and engages the guests in +conversation until the worst is over, +will at times find herself clutching the +tablecloth or holding her breath at the +critical points—when the drum-stick +is being detached from the second +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_164" title="164"> </a> +joint, for instance, or when the knife +hovers over the guest's portion of the +steak. These two crises are the great +moments for the man who carves.</p> + +<p>In fact, you have not taken the complete +measure of a man until you have +seen him carve both steak and fowl. +These two make totally different demands +upon the worker. The chicken +calls for a sense of structure, a versatile +skill in manÅ“uvring for position, and +the delicate wrist of the violinist. But +your true porterhouse calls for shrewd +judgment and clear-cut decisions, with +no halfway measures or reconsiderations +at all. With the chicken, you can +modify, slice, combine, arrange to best +advantage on the plate. With the steak, +you work in the flat and in one color; +every stroke must count. There are +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_165" title="165"> </a> +men who would rather parcel out the +Balkans than map a steak.</p> + +<p>Great artists in carving are of several +classes: those who stand up to their +work and those who remain seated; +those who talk and those who do not. +I recall one noble old aristocrat, with +the eye of a connoisseur and the suavity +of an Italian grandee, who stood above +the great turkey that he had to carve +and discoursed with us as follows, pronouncing +every word with the dramatic +vigor that I try to indicate by the spelling, +and illustrating each remark with +one deft motion of his knife; this was his +monologue: “Now, we cut off his Legg.... +Now, we take his Winng!... +And now,—we <em>Slice</em> him.”</p> + +<p>To my mind, this conversation is +about the only sort in which the successful +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_166" title="166"> </a> +carver can afford to indulge. +The nervous amateur thinks it necessary +to keep up a run of wise comment +on the topics of the day to show that he +is at ease; or perhaps he does it as the +magician talks when he puts the rabbits +into his hat, to distract the spectators' +attention from his minor tactics. But +he might as well learn that he cannot +distract us. The matter is too close to +our hearts. It is natural to watch the +carving intently, not necessarily with +an eye to our own interests, but because +for the moment the platter is the +dramatic centre of the group. Action, +especially in an affair demanding skill, +irresistibly holds the eye. The well-bred +guest chats along of one thing and +another, but his eye strays absently +toward the roast.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_167" title="167"> </a>This is very hard upon the newly married +husband. Spectators add immensely +to his difficulties. Some years ago, one +such bridegroom, now an experienced +host and patriarch, was about to carve +a chicken for his bride and her one guest. +I was the guest, and at that time I +held theories about the married state. +While we were setting the table, I had +mentioned a few of these, among them +my belief that all little boys should be +taught the rudiments of carving, so +that when married they would know +how to preside correctly at their own +tables. My friend the bride agreed with +me, and supported my views by anecdotes +from real life. The anecdotes +were about boys who had not been +so trained. Meanwhile the bridegroom +listened intently from his post on the +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_168" title="168"> </a> +kitchen table. Young women are likely +to forget that young men have feelings, +especially if they have been trained +by brothers who displayed none. We +therefore went on at great length. Carving, +we said, was not an instinct, but +a craft.</p> + +<p>As we sat at soup, the young husband +became more and more uneasy, +and when the chicken made its appearance +he leaned back with beads of perspiration +on his brow. “After all this,” +said he, “I hope nobody expects me to +carve that chicken. I'll just pass it +around, and you girls chip off what you +like.”</p> + +<p>The central difficulty in carving, +however, is found not so much in the +actual chipping as in the tactful distribution +of choice parts. This matter +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_169" title="169"> </a> +is complicated by the fact that unselfish +people will lie about their preferences, +polite people will refuse to disclose +them, and critical people expect you to +remember them. Even the expert carver, +therefore, looks with favor on those +convenient meats that come naturally +in individual units—croquettes, cutlets, +chops, sausages; here the only difficulty +is the choice between brown and +not so brown, large and small. There is +only the mathematical matter of making +the food go around, and the man +with the vaguest sense of proportion +can count chops and divide by the +number of guests.</p> + +<p>But when the company is large, and +the platter of steak just adequate, there +really is cause for anxiety. Some carvers, +under such circumstances, begin cautiously, +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_170" title="170"> </a> +serving small helpings at first +until they are sure they are safe, and +then becoming gradually more lavish. +Others begin recklessly, and have to +retrench. A group of college students +once made a study of this matter with +data and statistics that would have +adorned a doctor's degree. The object +was to locate the seat at any table of +fourteen where one could count on the +most even diet, the golden mean between +feast and famine, no matter +which member of the faculty chanced +to carve. There were many variables +to be considered: some members of the +faculty habitually carved with giant +portions at first, and then dwindled +suddenly; others varied from day to +day, profiting at one meal by what they +learned at the last. A few were expert +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_171" title="171"> </a> +dividers by fourteen. The conclusion +was reached after weeks of minute toil. +Like all great investigators, these students +were prepared to warrant their +findings for all time. The best seat at +a table of fourteen—the one where +you can count on the least fluctuation +and the largest security—in short, +Whitman's Divine Average—is the +fifth seat from the professor, left. +Things in that position run, barring +accidents, quite well. If caution was +the slogan at the outset, the plentiful +supply on the platter has by that time +begun to tell upon the mind of the +carver, and things are looking up. If the +first helpings were extravagant, there +has still not been quite time to feel the +real pinch of want. Fifth seat from the +professor, left.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_172" title="172"> </a>Of course, fourteen is too large a +number to divide by. When it comes +to long division, brain-fag is bound to set +in. Since those days, I am told, food in +that college is sent in ready apportioned +in advance.</p> + +<p>We should miss something in our +homes, however, if the art of carving +should decline. There is a certain symbolic +grace in the fatherly act of hewing +away at a large roast, even if a man +does not do it so very well. It is true +that a great many pleasant gentlemen +do not feel quite at home when dealing +with a meat; they do not feel quite at +their best. They carve tentatively, +parcelling it out at random. Until they +come to their own serving, they are +vague. At that point, however, the +most helpless amateur takes on cheer. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_173" title="173"> </a> +Watch him as he settles himself more +comfortably, draws up the platter at a +better angle, and selects the fragments +of his choice. It is here that he does his +best carving, not consciously, not at all +selfishly, but because he now feels sure. +He has something to go by. He knows +what he wants.</p> + +<p>After all, the task of carving at table +is not an infallible test of man. Some +of the most uncertain carvers in the +world are great and good men, standing +high in their professions and revered +by a family who must nevertheless +shiver for the fate of the table-linen +when the sirloin steak comes on. But +the fact remains that the man who can +carve equitably, neatly, and with discrimination +has nearly always a balanced +brain and a reliable self-command. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_174" title="174"> </a> +In an army test he would stand +high. He is your genuine “officer material.” +And he is very scarce.</p> + +<h2><a class="pagenum" name="Page_175" title="175"> </a>THE FEELING OF IRRITATION</h2> + +<div><img class="drop-cap" src="images/cap-t.png" width="142" height="144" alt=""/></div> + +<p class="drop-cap drop-t"><span class="upper-case">The</span> feeling of irritation in +its earliest form once overtook +a little girl whose mother +had enforced a wholesome +bit of discipline. In a great state +of wrath the little girl went to her room, +got out a large sheet of paper, and ruled +it heavily down the middle. Then she +headed one column “People I Like,” +and crowded that half of the sheet +with the names of all her acquaintances. +The other half of the page she headed +“People I Don't Like,” and in that column +listed one word only—“Mama.” +This done, she locked the grim document +in her safe-deposit box, and hid +the key.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_176" title="176"> </a>That glowering deed was the very +ritual of irritation. The feeling of irritation +is not merely one of heat; it is +a tall wave of violent dislike that goes +mounting up our blood. When we have +it, it feels permanent. Our friend is not +what we thought he was—our family +is not what it should be—our job +is a failure—we have placed our affections +in the wrong quarter. When +young politicians have this feeling, +they bolt the ticket; when young employees +have it, they resign. The first +time when young married people have +it, they think that love is dead. If +they have too much wealth and leisure, +they fly apart and eventually get a +decree. But in households where the +budget does not cover alimony, they +commonly stay together and see for +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_177" title="177"> </a> +themselves how the wave of wrath +goes down. The material inconveniences +of resignations, abscondings, law-suits, +and the like have been a great safeguard +in many a career. Nothing in +Barrie's plays is more subtle than the +perfect moment when the young couple +decide to postpone separation until +the laundry comes home.</p> + +<p>It is not necessary to be a “temperamental” +person or a fire-eater of any +sort in order to know how it feels to +be irritated—and irritating. The gentlest +folk are capable of both sensations. +Any one who has seen a lovely lady +deliberately stir up strife in the bosom +of a genial story-teller, by correcting his +facts for him and exposing his fictions, +will remember the tones of restrained +choler with which the merry tale progressed. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_178" title="178"> </a> +Who has not remarked to a +kind relative, “Well, if you know so +much about it, why don't you tell it +yourself?”</p> + +<p>There is no ratio or proportion at all +between the cause of irritation and the +ensuing state of mind. In our moments +of ferment we lose the faculty of discrimination. +We hardly ever refer our +exasperation to the trivial detail that +brought it on. We feel that the detail +is simply an indication of the great +flaws in the whole situation. We have +a crow to pluck, not only with our +friend, but—to use the words of +Quiller-Couch—with everything that +appertains to that potentate.</p> + +<p>For example, suppose that we are at +loggerheads with a fellow-member of a +public-welfare committee. He opposes +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_179" title="179"> </a> +a measure that we endorse. He will not +see reason. We therefore refer him to +his class: he is a typical politician, a +single-track mind, a combination of +Mugwump and Boss Tweed. We ourselves, +meanwhile, are a blend of Martin +Luther, John Huss, and the prophet +Isaiah, with tongs from the altar.</p> + +<p>Or perhaps we are irritated with a +colleague on a teaching-staff after the +events of a varied day. Irrelevant matters +have happened all the morning in +amazing succession: an itinerant janitor +filling inkwells; an inkwell turning +turtle—blotters rushed to flood-sufferers; +an electrician with tall step-ladder +and scaling-irons to repair the electric +clock; a fire-drill in examination period; +one too many revolutions of the pencil-sharpener; +one too many patriotic +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_180" title="180"> </a> +“drives” involving the care of public +moneys kept in a candy-box. And now +our zealous academic friend calls an +unexpected committee meeting to tabulate +the results of intelligence-tests.</p> + +<p>We are in no mood for intelligence-tests. +We object. He persists. We +take umbrage. He still calls the meeting. +Then, up rears the wave of dislike +and irritation, not at the details that +have brought us to our crusty state—not +dislike of ink and electricity and +patriotism and intelligence—but dislike +of our friend and of the Art of +Teaching that he represents. The +trouble with our friend, we decide, is +his academic environment. He is over-educated—attenuated; +a Brahmin. +Nobody in touch with Real Life could +be so thoroughly a mule and an opinionist. +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_181" title="181"> </a> +Better get out of this ultra-civilized +atmosphere before our own beautiful +catholicity of thought is cramped, +crippled, like his. At these moments +we do not stop to remember that people +are opinionated also on the island of +Yap.</p> + +<p>Most frequently of all, we apply our +dudgeon to the kind of community in +which we live. We are nettled at a bit +of criticism that has reached our ears. +Instantly we say cutting things about +the narrow ways of a small community, +with page-references to “Main Street” +and the Five Towns. We forget that +our friends in great cities might be +quite as chatty. Margot Asquith lives +and thrives in crowds.</p> + +<p>We refer our irritation, also, to types. +Any skirmish in a women's organization +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_182" title="182"> </a> +is referred to women and their catty +ways. Any Church or Red Cross breeze +is an example of the captious temper of +the godly. All friction between soldiers +of different nations is a sign of Race +Antagonism; the French are not what +we had inferred from Lafayette.</p> + +<p>In short, the whole history and +literature of dissension shows that +people have always tried to make their +irritations prove something about certain +types, or situations, or nations, or +communities. Whereas the one thing +that has been eternally proved is the +fact that human beings are irritable.</p> + +<p>If we accept that fact as a normal +thing, we find ourselves ready for one +more great truth. Violent irritation +produced on small means is a deeply +human thing, a delicately unbalanced +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_183" title="183"> </a> +thing, something to reckon with, and +something from which we eventually +recover on certain ancient and well-recognized +lines. When our feeling is at +its height, we are ready to throw away +anything, smash anything, burn all +bridges. Nothing is too valuable to cast +into the tall flame of our everlasting +bonfire. This sounds exaggerated. +Emotion remembered in tranquillity +is a pallid thing, indeed. But it is hot +enough at the time. The whole range +of sensation and emotion may be travelled +in an hour, at a pace incredible—a +sort of round-trip survey of the +soul.</p> + +<p>The father of a large family sat in +church at one end of a long pew. His +wife sat at the other end of the pew, +with a row of sons, daughters, and +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_184" title="184"> </a> +guests ranged in the space between. +Near the close of the sermon one morning, +the father glanced down the line, +gazed for a horrified moment at his +eldest daughter, Kate, got out his pencil, +wrote a few words on a scrap of +paper, put the paper into his hat, and +passed the hat down the line. As the +hat went from hand to hand, each member +of the family peered in, read the +message, glanced at Kate, and began to +shake as inconspicuously as is ever possible +in an open pew. Kate, absorbed +in the sermon, was startled by a nudge +from her brother, who offered her the +hat, with note enclosed. She looked in +and read, “Tell Kate that her mouth is +partly open.”</p> + +<p>Kate remembered that it must have +been. The whole pew was quivering +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_185" title="185"> </a> +with seven concentrated efforts at self-control.</p> + +<p>Now, one would think that a moment +like this would be jolly even for +the cause of laughter in others. But it +was not. Kate knew that they had +been laughing before the note reached +her, and she was hurt. If they loved her +as she loved them, they would not want +to laugh. She set her jaw like iron, and +looked straight ahead. This started +them all off again. With the instinct of +a well-trained elder sister, she knew +that if she wanted any peace she ought +to turn and smile and nod cordially all +down the row, as at a reception. But it +was too late for that. She had taken +the proud line, and she would follow it.</p> + +<p>As her expression grew more austere, +the boys grew more convulsed. Aloof +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_186" title="186"> </a> +now, cut off from her kin entirely, she +sat seething. Floods of scarlet anger +drowned the sermon's end. The closing +hymn was given out, but she declined +the offered half of her brother's hymnal. +“Tell Kate she can open it now,” telegraphed +one of the boys as the congregation +began to sing. Here was Kate's +chance to unbend and join the group +and nod and smile again, but she was +too far gone. She received the message +with lifted eyebrows, and stood with +cold pure profile averted until after the +benediction. Then she turned away +from her reeling family, and walked off +in a white heat. Her anger was not at +her father whose note caused the stir. +She had no resentment toward him at +all. If one's mouth is open, one would +wish to be advised of the fact. Her feeling +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_187" title="187"> </a> +was the mighty wrath of the person +who has been laughed at before being +told the joke. Unwilling to face her +family, she went up to take dinner at +her grandmother's house, that refuge +for all broken hearts.</p> + +<p>After dinner, Kate looked out of the +window and saw her family coming up +the drive. They filed into the house +and gathered in a group. “I think,” +said one of the boys, “that in the +cause of friendship we owe Kate an +apology.”</p> + +<p>The grand manner of formal apology +from one's relatives is the most disarming +thing in the world. Friendly conversation +flowed back into the normal +at once. But it was years before it was +quite safe for Kate to rest her chin on +her hand in church.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_188" title="188"> </a>Very often our most genuine irritations +appear unreasonable to our +friends. For instance, why should +people object to being called by each +other's names? Two brilliant young +lawyers once developed animosity +against each other because their names +Stacey and Stanton were constantly +interchanged. Children suffer from this +sort of thing continually; grown people +tend to confuse brothers and to call +them by one another's names promiscuously. +We may love our brother tenderly, +and yet not like to be confounded +with him. Even parents sometimes +make slips. The smallest boy in a lively +family had a mother who used to call +the roll of all her children's names, +absent-mindedly, before she hit upon +the right one. Consequently, the smallest +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_189" title="189"> </a> +boy learned to respond to the +names George, Alice, Christine, and +Amos. But the thing had happened to +him once too often. One morning he +came down to breakfast with a large +square of cardboard pinned to his +bosom; and on the placard in large letters +was printed the word “Henry.” +Rather go through life with a tag +around his neck than be called Alice +any more.</p> + +<p>All these capricious facts about irritability +rather explode the old adage +that it takes two to make a quarrel. If +we are really on the rampage, the other +person may be a perfect pacifist and +still call down our ire. We can make +the hot-foot excursion to the heights of +madness, for instance, when a friend +with whom we are arguing whistles +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_190" title="190"> </a> +softly away to himself while we talk. +Even worse is the person who sings a +gay little aria after we are through. In +the presence of such people, we feel like +the college girl who became annoyed +with her room-mate, and, reflecting +prudently upon the inconveniences of +open war, rushed out of the room and +down the stairs to relieve her feelings +by slamming the front door. She tore +open the great door with violent hands, +braced it wide, and flung it together +with all her might. But there was no +crash. It was the kind of door that +shuts with an air-valve, and it closed +gradually, tranquilly, like velvet; a +perfect lady of a door. People who sing +and hum and whistle softly to themselves +while we rage, are like that door.</p> + +<p>Knowing that human beings are occasionally +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_191" title="191"> </a> +irritable, that they can recover +from their irritation, and that we +can also recover from ours, why is it +that we ever hold resentment long? +Some people, like soap-stones, hold +their heat longer than others; but the +mildest of us, even after we have quite +cooled off, sometimes find ourselves +warming up intermittently at the mere +memory of the fray. We are like the old +lady who said that she could forgive +and forget, but she couldn't help thinking +about it. We love our friend as +much as ever, but one or two of the +things he said to us do stay in mind. +The dumb animals have an immense +advantage over us in this regard. They +may be able to communicate, but their +language has presumably fewer descriptive +adjectives than ours. Words +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_192" title="192"> </a> +spoken in the height of irritation are +easily memorized. They have an epigrammatic +swing, and a racy Anglo-Saxon +flavor all their own. Unless we +are ready to discount them entirely, +they come into our minds in our pleasantest +moods, checking our impulses of +affection, and stiffening our cordial +ways.</p> + +<p>On this account, the very proud and +the very young sometimes let a passing +rancor estrange a friend. When we are +young, and fresh from much novel-reading, +we are likely to think of love as a +frail and perishable treasure—something +like a rare vase, delicate, and +perfect as it stands. One crash destroys +it forever. But love that involves the +years is not a frail and finished crystal. +It is a growing thing. It is not even a +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_193" title="193"> </a> +simple growing thing, like a tree. A +really durable friendship is a varied +homelike country full of growing things. +We cannot destroy it and throw it +away. We can even have a crackling +bonfire there without burning up the +world. Fire is dangerous, but not final.</p> + +<p>Of course, it is in our power to let a +single conflagration spoil all our love, if +we burn the field all over and sow it +with salt, and refuse to go there ever +again. But after the fires have gone +down on the waste tract, the stars wheel +over and the quiet moon comes out—and +forever afterwards we have to skirt +hastily around that territory in our +thought. It is still there, the place that +once was home.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it is trifling and perverse to +be harking back to nature and to childhood +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_194" title="194"> </a> +for parables. But sometimes there +is reassurance in the simplest things. +The real war-god in our own family was +Geoffrey, and Barbara was his prophet. +Many a doughty battle they waged +when they both happened to be in the +mood. Whenever Barbara wanted a +little peace, she used to take her dolls +to the attic, saying to our mother as +she went, “K. G.” This meant, “Keep +Geoffrey.” But one time Barbara was +very ill. Geoffrey was afraid that she +was going to die, and showered her with +attentions assiduously. He even gathered +flowers for her every day. The +trained nurse was much impressed. +One afternoon, when the crisis was +passed, the nurse told Geoffrey that she +thought that he was very sweet, indeed, +to his little sick sister. Geoffrey was +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_195" title="195"> </a> +squatting on the arm of the sofa, watching +Barbara with speculative eye. He +considered this new light on his character +for a moment, and then remarked, +“Well, you just wait until she gets her +strength.”</p> + +<p>We live in cantankerous days. Anybody +who has enough energy to do anything +particular in the world has more +or less difficulty in getting on with +people. Unless he chooses to take his +dolls to the attic, he is in for occasional +criticisms, laughter, interruptions, and +the experience of being called by names +that are not his own. The world sends +flowers to the dying, but not to people +when they get their strength. It is the +very rare person, indeed, who goes +through life with nothing to ruffle him +at all.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_196" title="196"> </a>In moments of irritation at all this, +we unconsciously divide the world into +two columns: people who agree with us +and people who do not; “People I +Like,” and “People I Don't Like.” +Instinctively we make the lists, and +file them away. If we could lay hands +on the ghostly files of twenty years and +scan them through, we should find that +the black-lists were not a catalogue of +permanent and bitter hatreds, but a +sort of Friendship Calendar. Many of +our collisions, after all, were with the +people to whom we came most near.</p> + +<p>Almost every one wants to be easy +to get along with. Some of us find it +hard. In those discouraging moments +when we have proved obnoxious to our +friends, we are inclined to feel that a +policy of isolation would be the most +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_197" title="197"> </a> +attractive thing in the world. But +there are practical drawbacks even to +isolation.</p> + +<p>A blizzard had once drifted all the +streets of our town. Our mother, with +the true pioneering spirit, decided that +she was going out. Our father was +urging her to wait until the streets were +cleared.</p> + +<p>“Now, Endicott,” said our mother +reasonably, “the snow-plough has been +down, and there's a path.”</p> + +<p>“But,” persisted Father, “the wind +has drifted it all in again.” He paused +while she put on her hat, and then he +added earnestly, “You don't know how +windy and drifted it really is. I just +saw Mrs. Muldoon coming down the +street, and she was going along single +file, and making hard work of it too.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_198" title="198"> </a>The family was immensely taken +with the picture of Mrs. Muldoon's +ample figure going downtown in single-file +formation; but, in spite of the jeers +of his audience, our father still insisted +that Mrs. Muldoon <em>was</em> going single +file, and that she <em>was</em> making hard +work of it at that.</p> + +<p>Now and then there is an extreme +individualist who yearns to go through +life absolutely unmolested, single file. +He is impatient of collisions, and collisions +certainly do occur through one's +proximity to one's kind. But even the +most arrant individualist can hardly +go single file all by himself—not without +making hard work of it, at least. +And even if such a thing were possible +it would not be a natural or kindly +way of life. Our hardy race has always +<a class="pagenum" name="Page_199" title="199"> </a> +valued the strength that comes from +contacts of every sort and kind. We +therefore keep up the hearty old custom +of going through life in groups of families +and associates and friends—even +though, inadvertently, we sometimes +do collide.</p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 4em;">THE END</p> + +<p class="center page-break" style="line-height: 1.5em;"><b>The Riverside Press</b><br/> +<small>CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS<br/> +U. S. A.</small></p> + +<div id="tnote-bottom"> +<p class="center"><a name="tn-bottom"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></a></p> +<p>The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The +first passage is the original passage, the second the corrected one.</p> + +<ul id="corrections"> +<li><a href="#Page_49">Page 49</a>:<br/> +up, and his charger backed <span class="correction">precipitatly</span>.<br/> +up, and his charger backed <span class="correction">precipitately</span>. +</li> +</ul> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Life's Minor Collisions, by +Frances Warner and Gertrude Warner + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE'S MINOR COLLISIONS *** + +***** This file should be named 37899-h.htm or 37899-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/8/9/37899/ + +Produced by Jana Srna and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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