A year later, when Jack took his fortune to his old mother and smiled delightedly at her amazement, he kissed her and said:
“It’s honestly come by, mother, ev’ry cent. An’ yet that ain’t altogether my fault, but the mistake that old Hawks made when he took me fer an honest man.”
Aunt Phroney’s Boy
From: St. Nicholas, December 1912
The boy realized he had made a mistake before he had driven the big touring car a half-mile along this dreadful lane. The map had shown the road to Fennport clearly enough, but it was such a roundabout way that, when the boy came to this crossing, he decided to chance it, hoping it would get him to Fennport much quicker. The landscape was barren of interest, the farm-houses few and far between, and the cross-road seemed as promising as the main way. Meanwhile, at Fennport, the county fair was progressing, and there was no use wasting time on the road.
The promise faded after a short stretch; ruts and ditches appeared; rotten culverts and sandy hollows threatened the safety of the car. The boy frowned, but doggedly kept going. He must be fully half-way to another road by this time, and, if he could manage to keep on without breaking a spring or ripping a tire, it would be as well to continue as to turn back.
Suddenly the engines began muttering and hesitated in doing their duty. The boy caught the warning sound, and instantly divined the reason: he had forgotten to replenish the gasolene before starting, and the tank was about empty. Casting a quick, inquiring glance around, he saw the roof of a farm-house showing through the trees just ahead. That was a joyful sight, for he had scarcely dared hope to find a building upon this unused, seemingly abandoned lane. He adjusted the carbureter, and urged the engines to feed upon the last drops of the precious fluid they could absorb. Slowly, with staggering gait, the automobile pushed forward until just opposite the farm-house, when, with a final moan, the engines gave up the struggle, and the car stopped dead.
Then the boy turned and looked at the lonely dwelling. It was a small, primitive sort of building, ancient and weather-stained. There was a simple garden at the front, which faced the grove and not the lane, and farther along, stood a rickety, rambling barn that was considerably larger than the house.
Upon a tiny side porch of the dwelling, directly facing the road, sat an old woman with a battered tin pan full of rosy-cheeked apples in her lap. She was holding a knife in one hand and a half-pared apple in the other. Her mouth was wide open in amazement, her spectacled eyes staring fixedly at the automobile — as if it had been a magical apparition and the boy a weird necromancer who had conjured it up.
He laughed a little at the amusing expression of the old woman, for he was a good-humored boy in spite of his present vexations. Then, springing to the ground, he walked toward the porch and removed his cap, to make a graceful bow. She did not alter her pose, and, with eyes still fixed upon the car, she gasped:
“Laws-a-me! ef it ain’t one o’ them no-hoss keeridges.”
“Nothing wonderful about that, is there?” asked the boy, smiling, as he reached the porch.
“Why not?” said she; “ain’t they the mos’ wunnerful things in all the world? Mart’n Luther’s seen ‘em in town, an’ told me about ‘em, but I never thought as I’d see one with my own eyes.”
Her awe and interest were so intense that, as yet, she had not glanced once at the boy’s face. He laughed, in his quiet way, as he leaned over the porch rail, but it occurred to him that there was something pathetic in the fact that the lonely old woman had never seen an automobile before.
“Don’t you ever go to town yourself?” he asked curiously.
She shook her head. “Not often, though sometimes I do,” she replied. “Went to Fennport a year ago las’ June, an’ put in a whole day there. But it tired me, the waggin jolts so. I ‘m too old now fer sech doin’s, an’ Mart’n Luther ‘lows it ain’t wuth payin’ toll-gate both ways for. He has to go sometimes, you know, to sell truck an’ buy groceries; he’s there to-day, ‘tendin’ the county fair; but I ‘ve stayed home an’ minded my own business ‘til I hain’t got much hankerin’ fer travel any more.”
During this speech, she reluctantly withdrew her eyes from the automobile and turned them upon the boy’s face. He was regarding her placid features with a wonder almost equal to her own. It seemed so strange to find one so isolated and secluded from the world, and so resigned to such a fate.
“No near neighbors?” he said.
“The Bascomes live two miles north, but Mis’ Bascome an’ I don’t git on well. She ain’t never had religion.”
“But you go to church?”
“Certain sure, boy! But our church ain’t town way, you know; it’s over to Hobbs’ Corners. Ev’ry Sunday fer the las’ year, I’ve been lookin’ out fer them no-hoss waggins, thinkin’ one might pass the Corners. But none ever did.”
“This is a queer, forsaken corner of the world,” the boy said reflectively, “and yet it’s in the heart of one of the most populous and progressive States in the Union.”
“You’re right ‘bout that,” she agreed. “Silas Herrin’s bought the lates’ style thrash’n’-machine — all painted red — an’ I guess the county fair at Fennport makes the rest o’ the world open its eyes some. We’re ahead of ‘em all on progressin’, as Mart’n Luther ‘s said more ‘n once.”
“Who is Martin Luther?” asked the boy.
“He’s my man. His name’s Mart’n Luther Sager, an’ I ‘m Aunt ‘Phroney Sager — the which my baptism name is Sophroney. Mart’n Luther were named fer the great Meth’dis’ leader. He had a hankerin’ to be a Baptis’ in his young days, but he dasn’t with such a name. So he j’ined the Meth’dists to make things harmoni’us, an’ he ‘s never regretted it.”
The boy smiled in an amused way, but he did not laugh at her. There was something in her simple, homely speech, as well as in the expression of her face, that commanded respect. Her eyes were keen, yet gentle; her lips firm, yet smiling: her aged, wrinkled features complacent and confident, yet radiating a childlike innocence.
“Ain’t ye ‘fraid to run the thing?” she asked, reverting to the automobile.
“No, indeed. It’s as simple as a sewing machine — when you know how.”
“I’d like to see it go. It come so sudden-like past the grove that when I looked up, you’d stopped short.”
“I’d like to see it go myself, Aunt ‘Phroney,” the boy answered; “but it won’t move a step unless you help it. Just think, ma’am, you’ve never seen a motor-car before, and yet the big machine can’t move without your assistance!”
She knew he was joking, and returned his merry smile; but the speech puzzled her.
“As how, boy?” she inquired.
“The ‘no-hoss kerridge’ is a hungry monster, and has to be fed before he’ll work. I hope you will feed him, Aunt ‘Phroney.”
“On what?”
“Gasolene. I forgot to fill up the tank before I started, and now the last drop is gone.”
“Gasolene!” she exclaimed, with a startled look; “why, we don’t keep gasolene, child. How on earth did you expec’ to find sech a thing in a farm-house?”
“Don’t you cook with gasolene?” he asked.
“My, no! We use good chopped wood — splinters an’ knots. Mis’ Bascome had a gas’lene stove once, but it bu’sted an’ set fire to the baby; so they buried it in the back yard.”
“The baby?”
“No, boy; the stove. They managed to put the baby out.”
The statement puzzled him, but his mind was more on the gasolene.
“Doesn’t your husband use gasolene around the farm?” he inquired.
“No, ‘ndeed.”
“And you haven’t any naphtha or benzene - just a little?”
“Not a drop.”
“Nor alcohol?”
“Mercy, no!”
The boy’s face fell. “Where is the nearest place I might get some gasolene?” he asked. “Lemme see. Harpers’ might have it �
� that’s six mile’ west — or Clark’s store might have some, at Everdale. That’s seven mile’ off, but I ain’t sure they keep it. The only place they’re sure to have it is over to Fennport, which is ‘leven mile’ from here by the turnpike.”
The boy considered all this seriously. “Can I borrow a horse from you — and a buggy?” he asked.
‘‘Mart’n Luther ‘s gone to town with the only team we own. We ain’t had a buggy fer twenty-two years.”
He sighed, and sat down on the steps, looking disconsolately toward the big touring car that was now so helpless. Aunt ‘Phroney resumed her task of paring the apples, but now and then she also would glance admiringly at the automobile
“Come far?” she presently inquired.
“From Durham.”
“To-day? Why, Durham’s thirty mile’ from here.”
“I know; that’s only an hour’s run, with good roads.”
“Mercy me!”
“But the roads are not good in this neighborhood. I wanted to run over to Fennport to see the fair. I thought there might be some fun there, and I’d jog over this morning and run back home to-night. That wouldn’t have been any trick at all, if I hadn’t forgotten the gasolene.”
“Live in Durham?” she asked.
“Yes; Father has the bank there.”
“Pretty big town, I’ve heard.”
“Why, it’s only a village. And a stupid, tiresome village at that. Lonely, too. That’s why Father got this touring car; he said it would help to amuse me. May I have an apple?”
Aunt ‘Phroney smiled indulgently, and handed him an apple from the pan. The idea of one who lived in the thriving, busy town of Durham becoming lonely filled her with amusement. For her part, she hadn’t left the old farm-house, except to go to church, for nearly two years, and days at a time she never saw a human being other than her silent, morose husband. Yet she was not lonely — not really lonely — only at times did her isolation weigh upon her spirits.
“Got a mother, child?” she softly inquired.
He nodded, biting the apple.
“Mother’s an invalid. She doesn’t leave her own rooms, and keeps two trained nurses and a special cook, and she studies social science — and such things.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know; it’s only a name to Father and me. But Father has the bank to interest him, and as I ‘m not ready for the bank yet, he lets me run the automobile.”
Aunt ‘Phroney gave him a pitying look.
“Guess I un’erstan’ your hist’ry now,” she said gently. “You needn’t say no more ‘bout it. Hev another apple?”
“I will, thank you. They’re fine. Grow ‘em here?”
“Yes. Mart’n Luther ‘s entered a peck at the county fair, an’ hopes to git the premium. It’s two dollars, in cash. He’s put up our Plymouth Rock rooster an’ some pertaters fer prizes, too, an’ seein’ he’s entered ‘em, it don’t cost him anything to get into the fair grounds — only the ten cents fer toll-gate.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?” asked the boy.
Aunt ‘Phroney flushed a little. “That’s some more hist’ry — the kind that’s better not studied,” she remarked quietly. “Mart’n Luther took it from his pa, I guess. His pa once cried like a baby when he lost four cents through a hole in his pocket. After that, ev’ry penny was kep’ strapped up in his leather pocket-book, which were never unstrapped without a groan. Yes, Mart’n Luther’s a’ honest man, an’ God-fearin’; but I guess he takes after his pa.”
The boy finished his apple.
“Come out and see our touring car,” he said. “I’d like to show it to you, although I can’t take you to ride in it.”
“Thank you,” she eagerly replied. “I’ll come in a minute. Let me git this apple-sass started cookin’ first.”
She went into the kitchen with the apples, but soon came back, and with a brisk air followed the boy across the patch of rank grass to the road.
“I can’t walk six miles or more, you know,” he remarked, “and lug a can of gasolene back with me; so I ‘11 have to wait until your husband conies back to-night with the team. You don’t mind my staying with you, do you?”
“Of course not,” she answered. “I like boys — boys like you, that is. We — we never had no children of our own.”
He showed her all the parts of the automobile, and explained how they worked and what they were for, all in a simple way that enabled her readily to understand. She was in a flutter of excitement at her close proximity to the wonderful invention, and the luxury of the seats and interior fittings filled her with awe. At first, he could not induce Aunt ‘Phroney to enter the car and sit down upon the soft cushions, but, after much urging, she finally yielded, and was frankly delighted at the experience.
“It must ‘a’ cost a lot o’ money,” she observed. “I guess your pa is pretty good to you. Like enough he didn’t take after any one with a strapped pocket-book.”
“No,” laughed the boy; “Father is always kind to me. But I wish – I wish”
“What, child?”
“I wish we lived together on a farm like this, where we could enjoy each other. All day he’s at the bank, you know.”
“If he worked the farm,” said the woman, “you wouldn’t see much of him then, either, ‘cept at meal-time. Mart’n Luther gits up at daylight, works in the fields all day, an’ goes to bed after supper. In heaven we may find time to enjoy the sassiety of our friends, but p’r’aps there’ll be so much company there, it won’t matter.”
“I think,” said the boy, solemnly, “we need a good deal more here than we shall need in heaven. Does any one get what he needs, I wonder?”
“Some may, but not many,” she rejoined cheerfully. “Some of us don’t get even gasolene, you know. Funny, ain’t it, how such a little thing’ll spoil a great big creation like this? Why, in some ways, it beats Silas Herrin’s new thrash’n’machine; but it ain’t so useful, ‘cause the thrash’n’-machine runs along the road without horses to where it wants to go, an’ then its injynes do the thrashin’ better ‘n hands can do it.”
“I’ve never really examined one,” he replied thoughtfully; “it must be very interesting.”
“Come into the barn,” she said, “an’ I’ll show you Silas Herrin’s new one. He brought it here yest’day, but he an’ all his crew are at the fair to-day, an’ they won’t begin thrashin’ our crop till nex’ Monday.”
He followed her to the barn, willing to while away the time examining the big thresher. It filled nearly all the clear space on the barn floor, and towered half as high as the haymow. With its bright red body and diverse mechanical parts, the machine certainly presented an imposing appearance. The boy examined it with much curiosity.
“There are two distinct engines,” he said musingly; “one a motor, I suppose, and one to do the work. The big one runs by steam, but this smaller one seems a gasolene engine.”
“Perhaps it is,” said the woman; “I never had it explained to me like you did your own machine.”
“If it is,” he suddenly exclaimed, “there must be some gasolene among Mr. Herrin’s traps to run it with! If I can only find it, I’ll borrow enough to get me to Fennport.”
Eagerly, now, he began the search, the woman looking on with interest. In a short time, he drew out from the interior of the thresher a ten-gallon can, which proved to be filled with the fluid he sought.
“Hooray!” he cried joyfully. “We’ll have our ride, after all, Aunt ‘Phroney.”
“It — it ain’t stealin’, is it?” she asked doubtfully. “This all b’longs to Silas Herrin, you know.”
“It’s a law of the road, ma’am, that any one needing gasolene has the right to help himself — if he pays for what he takes. I’ll pay Silas Herrin a good price, and he’ll have plenty left to run his engine with.”
He got a bucket, measured out about three gallons, and placed a silver dollar on top of the can for payment. Then,
when he had “fed” his automobile, an operation watched carefully by the old woman, the boy turned and said:
“Aunt ‘Phroney, I’ve a proposition to make. Get on your things, and I’ll take you to the fair at Fennport and give you a good time.”
“Land sakes, boy!” she cried, holding up both hands; “I couldn’t think of it.”
“Why not?”
“There’s the work to do.”
“Cut it out for to-day. Martin Luther ‘s having a holiday, and I ‘m sure you ‘re entitled to one, too.”
“He — he might be mad.”
“I don’t see why. It won’t cost him a cent, you know, and perhaps we won’t see him at all. We ‘11 have a good dinner somewhere, see all the sights, have a fine auto ride, and I’ll fetch you home in plenty of time to get supper for your husband.”
The temptation was too strong to be resisted. Aunt ‘Phroney’s face broke into a beaming smile, and she hurried into the house to get on her “bes’ bib an’ tucker.”
Her reappearance caused the boy’s eyes to twinkle. She wore a plain, black gown, baggy and ill made, an old-fashioned “Peasley” shaw’, wrapped around her shoulders, and a wonderful hat that no milliner would have recognized as modern head-gear. But the boy did not mind. He helped her to the seat beside him, saw that she was comfortable, and started the engines slowly, so as not to alarm her.
The lane from the farm-house to the Fennport turnpike was in much better condition than the other end, which Aunt ‘Phroney said was seldom used by any one. They traversed it with merely a few bumps, and on reaching the turnpike glided along so smoothly, that the old woman was in an ecstasy of delight.
“I almos’ hope Mart’n Luther will see us,” she remarked. “Wouldn’t he be s’prised, though, to see me in this stylish no-hoss keeridge?”
“I think he would,” said the boy.
“An’ jealous, too. Mart’n Luther says I take life easier ner he does, ‘though my work’s jus’ as hard fer me as his is fer him. Only difference is, I don’t complain.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 850