Part 25 (1/2)

One of the best ways to attract and interest other people is by going about one's own business as though it were the most wonderful and fascinating thing in the world. People soon begin to look on wistfully, begin to wonder what all this activity and triumphant joyousness is about, and are presently drawn to it as bees are drawn by a blooming clover field. So the printing-office began to be a place of importance and curiosity in Hempfield. The news spread that almost any surprise might be expected in the _Star_.

”It's that fellow Carr that's doing it,” said old Mr. Kenton, voicing the hopeless philosophy of the country when facing compet.i.tion with the city. ”One o' these days, you'll see, he'll get a better job in Bosting, and that'll be the end of _him_.”

In the meantime, however, we were too busy to indulge in any forebodings, and as for Nort the whole great golden world of real life was opening to him for the first time.

No sooner had the interest in the old Captain's autobiography somewhat subsided, and the advertising scheme, with several lesser matters, been disposed of, than Nort's fertile brain began to devise new schemes.

”Say,” he exclaimed one winter day, coming in from one of his expeditions and looking us all over as though we were specimens of a curious sort, ”this office is a pretty interesting place.”

”Just found it out?” grunted Fergus.

”Well,” said Nort, ”I've suspected it all along, and now I know it.

There's the Cap'n, for example. We didn't know we had a gold mine in the Cap'n, now, did we? But we had! Great thing, the Cap'n's story! Finest thing done in country journalism anywhere, at any time, I suppose.”

I exchanged an amused glance with Anthy, and we both looked at the old Captain. As Nort talked the Captain grew more and more erect in his chair, wagged his head, and, finally, arising from his seat, took two or three steps down the room looking very grand. Nort went on talking, glancing at the old Captain out of the corner of his eye, and evidently enjoying himself hugely.

”Now, I say, we've got other gold mines here, if we only knew how to work 'em. There's David! Let's have a column from him--wise saws and modern instances. David will become the official Hempfield philosopher.

And then there's Fergus----”

”Humph!” observed Fergus.

”There's Fergus. Everybody in town knows Fergus, and I'll stake my reputation that anything that Fergus writes over his own name will be read.”

Nort was riding his highest horse.

”Miss Doane, let's announce it in big type this very week, something like this: 'The _Star_ of Hempfield has arranged a new treat for its readers. We shall soon present a column containing the ripe observations of our esteemed printer, fellow citizen, and spotless Scotchman, Mr.

Fergus MacGregor. We shall also have contributions in a philosophical vein by Mr. David Grayson, and a column by that paragon of country journalism'”--here he paused and looked solemnly at the old Captain, and then resumed--”'that paragon of country journalism, Mr. Norton Carr.'”

We all thought that Nort was joking, but he wasn't. He was in dead earnest. That afternoon he walked home with me down the wintry road. It was a cold, bl.u.s.tery day with a fine snow sifting through the air, but Nort's head was so hot with his plans that I am sure, if his feet were chilled, he never knew it. He laboured hard with me to write something each week for the _Star_, and the upshot of the matter was that I began to contribute short paragraphs and bits of description and narrative which we headed

DAVID GRAYSON'S COLUMN

It was made up of the very simplest and commonest elements, mostly little sc.r.a.ps of news from my farm--the description of a calf drinking, the sound of pigeons in the hay loft. I told also about the various country odours in spring, peach leaves, strawberry leaves, and new hay, and of the curious music of the rain in the corn. I inquired what was the finest hour of the day in Hempfield, and tried to answer my own question. I put in a hundred and one inconsequential things that I love to observe and think about, and added here and there, for seasoning, a bit of common country philosophy. It was very enjoyable to do, and a number of people said they liked to read it, because I told them some of the things they often thought about, but had never been able to express.

Nort found Fergus far harder to influence than he found me. A curious change had been going on in Fergus which I did not at first understand.

At times he was more garrulous than ever I had known him to be, and at times he was a very sphinx for silence. It is a curious thing how people surprise us. In our vanity we begin to think we know them to the uttermost, and then one day, possibly by accident, possibly in a moment of emotion, a little secret door springs open in the smooth panel of their visible lives, and we see within a long, long corridor with other doors and pa.s.sages opening away from it in every direction--the vast secret chambers of their lives.

I had some such experience with that p.r.i.c.kly Scotchman, Fergus MacGregor. It began one evening when I found him alone by the office fire. He was sitting smoking his impossible pipe and gazing into the glowing open draft of the corpulent stove. He did not even look around when I came in, but reaching out one foot kicked a chair over toward me.

Suddenly he fetched a big sigh, and said in a tone of voice I had not before heard:

”Night is the mither o' thoughts.”

He relapsed into silence again. After some moments he took his pipe out and remarked to the stove:

”Oaks fall when reeds stand.”