Part 1 (2/2)
G.o.ddesses. He claimed the woods was full of G.o.ddesses. That was his way, sir.”
The agent contemplated the railroad track, running his eye along the perspective of polished rails:
”Yes, sir; his name was--and is--Clarence Guilford, an' I fust seen it signed to a piece in the Uticy Star. An' next I knowed, folks began to stop off here inquirin' for Mr. Guilford. 'Is this here where Guilford, the poet, lives?' sez they; an' they come thicker an' thicker in warm weather. There wasn't no wagon to take 'em up to Guilford's, but they didn't care, an' they called it a lit'r'y shrine, an' they hit the pike, women, children, men--'spes.h.i.+l the women, an' I heard 'em tellin' how Guilford dressed his kids in pants an' how Guilford was a famous new lit'r'y poet, an' they said he was fixin' to lecture in Uticy.”
The agent gnawed off the chewed portion of the gra.s.s stem, readjusted it, and fixed his eyes on vacancy.
”Three year this went on. Mr. Guilford was makin' his pile, I guess.
He set up a shop an' hired art bookbinders from York. Then he set up another shop an' hired some of us 'round here to go an' make them big, slabby art-chairs. All his shops was called ”At the sign of” somethin'
'r other. Bales of vellum arrived for to bind little d.i.n.ky books; art rocking-chairs was s.h.i.+pped out o' here by the carload. Meanwhile Guilford he done poetry on the side an' run a magazine; an' hearin' the boys was makin' big money up in that crank community, an' that the town was boomin', I was plum fool enough to drop my job here an' be a art-worker up to Rose-Cross--that's where the shops was; 'bout three mile back of his house into the woods.”
The agent removed his hands from his overalls and folded his arms grimly.
”Well?” inquired Briggs, looking up from his perch on the suit-case.
”Well, sir,” continued the agent, ”the hull thing bust. I guess the public kinder sickened o' them art-rockers an' d.i.n.ky books without much printin' into them. Guilford he stuck to it n.o.ble, but the shops closed one by one. My wages wasn't paid for three months; the boys that remained got together that autumn an' fixed it up to quit in a bunch.
”The poet was sad; he come out to the shops an' he says, 'Boys,' sez he, 'art is long an' life is dam brief. I ain't got the cash, but,' sez he, 'you can levy onto them art-rockers an' the d.i.n.ky vellum books in stock, an',' sez he, 'you can take the hand-presses an' the tools an' bales o'
vellum, which is very precious, an' all the wagons an' hosses, an' go sell 'em in that proud world that refuses to receive my message. The woodland fellows.h.i.+p is rent,' sez he, wavin' his plump fingers at us with the rings sparklin' on 'em.
”Then the boys looked glum, an' they nudged me an' kinder shoved me front. So, bein' elected, I sez, 'Friend,' sez I, 'art is on the b.u.m. It ain't your fault; the boys is sad an' sorrerful, but they ain't never knocked you to n.o.body, Mr. Guilford. You was good to us; you done your damdest. You made up pieces for the magazines an' papers an' you advertised how we was all cranks together here at Rose-Cross, a-lovin'
Nature an' d.i.c.ky-birds, an' wanderin' about half nood for art's sake.
”'Mr. Guilford,' sez I, 'that gilt brick went. But it has went as far as it can travel an' is now reposin' into the soup. Git wise or eat hay, sir. Art is on the blink.'”
The agent jingled his keys with a melancholy wink at Briggs.
”So I come back here, an' thankful to hold down this job. An' five mile up the pike is that there n.o.ble poet an' his kids a-makin' up pieces for to sell to the papers, an' a sorrerin' over the cold world what refuses to buy his poems--an' a mortgage onto his house an' a threat to foreclose.”
”Indeed,” said Briggs dreamily, for it was his business to attend to the foreclosure of the mortgage on the poet's house.
”Was you fixin' to go up an' see the place?” inquired the agent.
”Shall I be obliged to walk?”
”I guess you will if you can't flutter,” replied the agent. ”I ain't got no wagon an' no horse.”
”How far is it?”
”Five mile, sir.”
With a groan Mr. Briggs arose, lifted his suit-case, and, walking to the platform's edge, cast an agitated glance up the dusty road.
Then he turned around and examined the single building in sight--station, water-tower, post-office and telegraph-office all in one, and incidentally the abode of the station-agent, whose duties included that of postmaster and operator.
<script>