Part 1 (1/2)

Hempfield.

by David Grayson.

CHAPTER I

I DISCOVER THE PRINTING-OFFICE

For years my sister Harriet and I confined our relations.h.i.+ps with the neighbouring town of Hempfield to the Biblical ”yea, yea” and ”nay, nay,” not knowing how much we missed, and used its friendly people as one might use an inanimate plough or an insensate rolling-pin, as mere implements or adjuncts in the provision of food or clothing for our needs.

It came only gradually alive for us. As the years pa.s.sed the utilitarian stranger with whom we traded became an acquaintance, and the acquaintance a friend. Here and there a man or a woman stepped out of the background, as it were, of a dim picture, and became a living being.

One of the first was the old gunsmith of whom I have already written.

Another was Doctor North--though he really lived outside the town--whom we came to know late in his career. He was one of the great unknown men of this country; he lives yet in many lives, a sort of immortality which comes only to those who have learned the greatest art of all arts, the art of life. The Scotch preacher, whom we have loved as we love few human beings, was also in reality a part of the town, though we always felt that he belonged to our own particular neighbourhood. He was ever a friend to all men, town or country.

It has always been something of a mystery to me, when I think of it, how I happened for so long to miss knowing more about old Captain Doane, and MacGregor, that roseate Scotchman. It is easier to understand why I never knew Anthy, for she was much away from Hempfield in the years just after I came here; and as for Norton Carr and Ed Smith, they did not come until some time afterward.

I shall later celebrate Nort's arrival in Hempfield--and may pet.i.tion the selectmen to set up a monument upon the spot of this precious soil where he first set a shaky foot.

I lived before I knew Anthy and Nort and MacGregor and the old Captain, but sometimes I wonder how I lived. When we let new friends into our lives we become permanently enlarged, and marvel that we could ever have lived in a smaller world.

So I came to know Hempfield, and all those stories--humorous, tragic, exciting, bitter, sorrowful--which thrive so l.u.s.tily in every small town. As we treasure finally those books which are not, after all, concerned with clapping finite conclusions to infinite events, but are content to be beautiful as they go (as truth is beautiful), so I love the living stories of Hempfield, nor care deeply whether they are at Chapter I, or in the midst of the climax, or whether they are tapering toward a Gothic-lettered ”Finis.” Only I have never once come across any Hempfield story that can be said to have reached a final page. Every Hempfield story I know has been like a stone dropped in the puddle of life, with ripples that grow ever wider with the years. And I esteem it the best thing in my life that I have had a part in some of those stories: that a few people, perhaps, are different, as I am different, because I pa.s.sed that way.

How well I remember the evening when my eye was first caught by the twinkle of that luminary, the Hempfield _Star_, with which afterward I was to become so intimately acquainted. It came to me like a fresh breeze on a sultry day, or a new man in the town road. It was a paragraph in the editorial page, headed with a single word printed in robust black type:

FUDGE

At that time I had been ”taking in” the _Star_ (as they say here) for only a few weeks, and had seen little in it that made it appear different from any other weekly newspaper. I am ashamed to say that I had entertained a good-humoured tolerance, mingled with contempt, for country newspapers. They seemed to me the apotheosis of the little, the palladium of the uninteresting. It did not occur to me that anything possessed of such tenacity of life as the country newspaper must have a real meaning and perform a genuine function in our civilization. In this roaring age of efficiency we do not long support any inst.i.tution that does not set its claws deep into our common life--and hang on.

I began to take the _Star_ as a sort of concession, arguing with myself that it would at least give me the weekly price of eggs and potatoes; and, besides, Harriet always wants to know regularly where the Ladies'

Literary Society is to hold its meetings.

You cannot imagine my surprise and interest then, when I came abruptly upon that explosive, black-typed ”Fudge” in the middle of the _Star_. I have always had a fondness for the word. It is like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy library, and any man who can say ”Fudge” in a big, round voice has something in him. He's got views and a personality, even though the views may be crooked and the personality p.r.i.c.kly.

With what joy I read that paragraph--and cut it from the paper, and have it yet in my golden treasury. This is it:

FUDGE

A fellow named Wright, who lives out in Ohio, says he can fly. Mr. Wright is wrong. If the Lord had intended human beings to fly He would have grown wings on us. He made birds for the air, and fish for the sea, and men to walk on two legs. It is a common characteristic of flying-machine inventors and Democrats that they are not satisfied with the doings of the Lord, but must be turning the world topsy-turvy. Mr. Wright of Ohio should peruse the historic story of Darius Green and his flying machine. If memory serves us right Darius b.u.mped his head, and afterward lived a sensible life. The _Star_ would commend the example of Mr.

Green to Mr. Wright--and the Democrats.

Harriet heard me laughing, and called from the other room:

”David, what _are_ you laughing at?”

”Why, a new judge in Israel”--and I read the paragraph aloud with the keenest delight.

”But I thought Mr. Wright _could_ fly!” said my sister doubtfully.

”Well, he can,” said I, ”only this writer is a Republican.”