“So that we must try to do exactly what we think he would have liked us to do,” said George. “Nothing else, dear?”
“Why, of course we are to have some discretion, some margin; and besides, nobody possibly could guess precisely what he would have us do.”
“But now, at any rate, George, we can realize fully one of our longing desires and give to the people the lovely park and library?”
George seemed thoughtful. “I think, Mary Jane,” he said, “I would not act precipitately about that. Let us reflect upon the matter. It might seem unkind to the memory of the General just to give away his gift almost before we get it.”
They looked at each other, and Mrs. Grimes said: “Of course there is no hurry. And we are really a little cramped in this house. The nursery is much too small for the children and there is not a decent fruit tree in our garden.”
“The thing can just stay open until we have time to consider.”
“But I am so glad for dear old Isaac. We can take care of him, anyhow, and of Mrs. Clausen, too.”
“To be sure,” said George. “The obligation is sacred. Let me see, how much was it we thought Isaac ought to have?”
“Twelve hundred a year.”
“H-m-m,” murmured George, “and he has two hundred now; an increase of five hundred percent. I’m afraid it will turn the old man’s head. However, I wouldn’t exactly promise anything for a few days yet.”
“Many a man in his station in life is happy upon a thousand.”
“A thousand! Why, my dear, there is not a man of his class in town that makes six hundred.”
“George?”
“Well?”
“We must keep horses, and there is no room to build a stable on this place.”
“No.”
“Could we live here and keep the horses in the General’s stables across the way, even if the place were turned into a park?”
“That is worth thinking of.”
“And George?”
“Well, dear?”
“It’s a horrid thing to confess, but do you know, George, I’ve felt myself getting meaner and meaner, and stingier and stingier ever since you brought the good news.”
George tried to smile, but the effort was unsuccessful; he looked half-vexed and half-ashamed.
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it just that way,” he said. “The news is so exciting that we hardly know at once how to adjust ourselves to it. We are simply prudent. It would be folly to plunge ahead without any caution at all. How much did you say the debt of the Presbyterian Church is?”
“Six thousand, I think.”
“A good deal for a little church like that to owe.”
“Yes, but—”
“You didn’t promise anything, Mary Jane, did you, to Mrs. Borrow?”
“No, for I had nothing to promise, but I did tell her on Sunday that I would help them liberally if I could.”
“They will base large expectations on that, sure. I wish you hadn’t said it just that way. Of course, we are bound to help them, but I should like to have a perfectly free hand in doing it.”
There was silence for a moment, while both looked through the window at the General’s place over the way.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Grimes.
“Lovely. That little annex on the side would make a snug den for me; and imagine the prospect from that south bedroom window! You would enjoy every look at it.”
“George?”
“What?”
“George, dear, tell me frankly, do you really feel in your heart as generous as you did yesterday?”
“Now, my dear, why press that matter? Call it meaner or narrower or what you will; maybe I am a little more so than I was; but there is nothing to be ashamed of. It is the conservative instinct asserting itself; the very same faculty in man that holds society together. I will be liberal enough when the time comes, never fear. I am not going to disregard what one may call the pledges of a lifetime. We will treat everybody right, the Presbyterian Church and Mr. Borrow included. His salary is a thousand, I think you said?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I am willing to make it fifteen hundred right now, if you are.”
“We said, you remember, it ought to be two thousand.”
“Who said so?”
“You did, on the porch here the other evening.”
“I never said so. There isn’t a preacher around here gets that much. The Episcopalians with their rich people only give eighteen hundred.”
“And a house.”
“Very well, the Presbyterians can build a house if they want to.”
“You consent then to pledge five hundred more to the minister’s salary?”
“I said I would if you would, but my advice is just to let the matter go over until tomorrow or next day, when the whole thing can be considered.”
“Very well, but, George, sixty thousand dollars is a great deal of money, and we certainly can afford to be liberal with it, for the General’s sake as well as for our own!”
“Everything depends upon how you look at it. In one way the sum is large. In another way it isn’t. General Jenkins had just twenty times sixty thousand. Tremendous, isn’t it? He might just as well have left us another million. He is in Heaven and wouldn’t miss it. Then we could have some of our plans more fully carried out.” “I hate to be thought covetous,” answered Mrs. Grimes, “but I do wish he had put on that other million.”
The next day Mr. Grimes, while sitting with his wife after supper, took a memorandum from his pocket and said: “I’ve been jotting down some figures, Mary Jane, just to see how we will come out with our income of sixty thousand dollars.”
“Well?”
“If we give the place across the street for a park and a library and a hundred thousand dollars with which to run it, we shall have just nine hundred thousand left.”
“Yes.”
“We shall want horses, say a carriage pair, and a horse for the station wagon. Then I must have a saddle horse and there must be a pony for the children. I thought also you might as well have a gentle pair for your own driving. That makes six. Then there will have to be, say, three stable men. Now, my notion is that we shall put up a larger house farther up town with all the necessary stabling. Count the cost of the house and suitable appointments, and add in the four months’ trip to Europe which we decided yesterday to take next summer, and how much of that fifty-four thousand do you think we shall have left at the end of the year?”
“But why build the house from our income?”
“Mary Jane, I want to start out with the fixed idea that we will not cut into our principal.”
“Well, how much will we have over?”
“Not a dollar! The outlay for the year will approximate fifty-six thousand dollars.”
“Large, isn’t it?”
“And yet I don’t see how we can reduce it if we are to live as people in our circumstances might reasonably be expected to live.”
“We must cut off something.”
“That is what I think. If we give the park and the library building to the town, why not let the town pay the cost of caring for them?”
“Then we could save the interest on that other hundred thousand.”
“Exactly, and nobody will suffer. The gift of the property alone is magnificent. Who is going to complain of us? We will decide now to give the real estate and then stop.”
Two days later Mr. Grimes came home early from the bank with a letter in his hand. He looked white and for a moment after entering his wife’s room he could hardly command utterance.
“I have some bad news for you, dear—terrible news,” he said, almost falling into a chair.
The thought flashed through Mrs. Grimes’ mind that the General had made a later will which had been found and which revoked the bequest to George. She could hardly whisper: “What is it?”
“The executors write to me that the million dollars left to me by the General draws
only about four percent interest.”
“George!”
“Four percent! Forty thousand dollars instead of sixty thousand! What a frightful loss! Twenty thousand dollars a year gone at one breath!”
“Are you sure, George?”
“Sure? Here is the letter. Read it yourself. One-third of our fortune swept away before we have a chance to touch it!”
“I think it was very unkind of the General to turn the four percents over to us while somebody else gets the six percents. How could he do such a thing? And you such an old friend, too!”
“Mary Jane, that man always had a mean streak in him. I’ve said so to myself many a time. But, anyhow, this frightful loss settles one thing; we can’t afford to give that property across the street to the town. We must move over there to live, and even then, with the huge expense of keeping such a place in order, we shall have to watch things narrowly to make ends meet.”
“And you never were good at retrenching, George.”
“But we’ve got to retrench. Every superfluous expenditure must be cut off. As for the park and free library, that seems wild now, doesn’t it? I don’t regret abandoning the scheme. The people of this town never did appreciate public spirit or generosity, did they?”
“Never.”
“I’m very sorry you spoke to Mrs. Borrow about helping their church. Do you think she remembers it?”
“She met me today and said they were expecting something handsome.”
Mr. Grimes laughed bitterly.
“That’s always the way with those people. They are the worst beggars! When a lot of folks get together and start a church it is almost indecent for them to come running around to ask other folks to support it. I have half a notion not to give them a cent.”
“Not even for Mr. Borrow’s salary?”
“Certainly not! Half the clergymen in the United States get less than a thousand dollars a year; why can’t he do as the rest do? Am I to be called upon to support a lot of poor preachers? A good deal of nerve is required, I think, to ask such a thing of me.”
Two weeks afterward Mr. Grimes and his wife sat together again on the porch in the cool of the evening.
“Now,” said Grimes, “let us together go over these charities we were talking about and be done with them. Let us start with the tough fact staring us in the face that, with only one million dollars at four percent, and all our new and necessary expenses, we shall have to look sharp or I’ll be borrowing money to live on in less than eight months.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Grimes, “what shall we cut out? Would you give up the Baptist organ that we used to talk about?”
“Mary Jane, it is really surprising how you let such things as that stay in your mind. I considered that organ scheme abandoned long ago.”
“Is it worth while, do you think, to do anything with the Methodist Church mortgage?”
“How much is it?”
“Three thousand dollars, I think.”
“Yes, three thousand from forty thousand leaves us only thirty-seven thousand. Then, if we do it for the Methodists we shall have to do it for the Lutherans and the Presbyterians and swarms of churches all around the country. We can’t make flesh of one and fowl of another. It will be safer to treat them all alike; and more just, too. I think we ought to try to be just with them, don’t you, Mary Jane?”
“And Mr. Borrow’s salary?”
“Ha! Yes! That is a thousand dollars, isn’t it? It does seem but a trifle. But they have no children and they have themselves completely adjusted to it. And suppose we should raise it one year and die next year? He would feel worse than if he just went along in the old way. When a man is fully adjusted to a thing it is the part of prudence, it seems to me, just to let him alone.”
“I wish we could—”
“Oh, well, if you want to; but I propose that we don’t make them the offer until next year or the year after. We shall have our matters arranged better by that time.”
“And now about Isaac Wickersham?”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“Two or three days ago.”
“Did he seem discontented or unhappy?”
“No.”
“You promised to help him?”
“What I said was, ‘We are going to do something for you, Isaac.’ ”
“Something! That commits us to nothing in particular. Was it your idea, Mary Jane, to make him an allowance?”
“Yes.”
“There you cut into our insufficient income again. I don’t see how we can afford it with all these expenses heaping up on us; really I don’t.”
“But we must give him something; I promised it.”
George thought a moment and then said: “This is the end of September and I sha’nt want this straw hat that I have been wearing all summer. Suppose you give him that. A good straw hat is ‘something.’ ”
“You remember Mrs. Clausen, George?”
“Have we got to load up with her, too?”
“Let me explain. You recall that I told her I would try to make her comfortable, and when I found that our circumstances were going to be really straitened, I sent her my red flannel petticoat with my love, for I know she can be comfortable in that.”
“Of course she can.”
“So this afternoon when I came up from the city she got out of the train with me and I felt so half-ashamed of the gift that I pretended not to see her and hurried out to the carriage and drove quickly up the hill. She is afraid of horses, anyhow.”
“Always was,” said George.
“But, George, I don’t feel quite right about it yet; the gift of a petticoat is rather stingy, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“And, George, to be perfectly honest with ourselves now, don’t you think we are a little bit meaner than we were, say, last June?”
George cleared his throat and hesitated, and then he said: “I admit nothing, excepting that the only people who are fit to have money are the people who know how to take care of it.”
SOURCE: The Saturday Evening Post: An Illustrated Weekly Magazine. Philadelphia: Curtis Publishing Company, March 7, 1903.
SAMANTHA AT THE ST. LOUIS EXPOSITION (1904)
Josiah Allen’s Wife (Marietta Holley)
Holley (1836–1926) was from Upstate New York. She published many collections of “Samantha Smith Allen” adventures, all as penned by “Josiah Allen’s Wife,” the narrator from Jonesville, New York.
I HAD NOTICED for some time that Josiah Allen had acted queer. He would seem lost in thought anon or oftener, and then seemin’ly roust himself up and try to act natural. And anon he would drag his old tin chest out from under the back stairway and pour over musty old deeds and papers, drawed up by his great-grandpa mebby.
He did this last act so often that I said to him one day, “What under the sun do you find in them yeller old papers to attract you so, Josiah?”
But he looked queer at me, queer as a dog, as if he wuz lookin’ through me to some distant view that interested him dretfully, and answered evasive, and mebby he wouldn’t answer at all.
And then I’d see him and Uncle Sime Bentley, his particular chum, with their heads clost together, seemin’ly plottin’ sunthin’ or ruther, though what it wuz I couldn’t imagine.
And then they would bend their heads eagerly over the daily papers, and more’n once Josiah got down our old Olney’s Atlas and he and Uncle Sime would pour over it and whisper, though what it wuz about I couldn’t imagine. And if I’d had the curosity of some wimmen it would drove me into a caniption fit.
And more’n a dozen times I see him and Uncle Sime down by the back paster on the creek pacin’ to and fro as if they wuz measurin’ land. And most of all they seemed to be measurin’ off solemn like and important the lane from the creek lot up to the house and takin’ measurements, as queer lookin’ sights as I ever see, and then they would consult the papers and atlas agin, and whisper and act.
And about
this time he begun to talk to me about the St. Louis Exposition. He opened the subject one day by remarkin’ that he spozed I had never hearn of the Louisana Purchase. He said that the minds of females in their leisure hours bein’ took up by more frivolous things, such as tattin’ and crazy bed-quilts, he spozed that I, bein’ a female woman, had never hearn on’t.
And my mind bein’ at that time took up in startin’ the seams in a blue and white sock I wuz knittin’ for him, didn’t reply, and he went on and talked and talked about it.
But good land! I knowed all about the Louisana Purchase; I knowed it come into our hands in 1803, that immense tract of land, settlin’ forever in our favor the war for supremacy on this continent between ourselves and England, and givin’ us the broad highway of the Mississippi to sail to and fro on which had been denied us, besides the enormous future increase in our wealth and population.
I knowed that between 1700 and 1800 this tract wuz tossted back and forth between France and Spain and England some as if it wuz a immense atlas containing pictured earth and sea instead of the real land and water.
It passed backwards and forwards through the century till 1803 when it bein’ at the time in the hands of France, we bought it of Napoleon Bonaparte who had got possession of it a few years before, and Heaven only knows what ambitious dreams of foundin’ a new empire in a new France filled that powerful brain, under that queer three-cornered hat of hisen when he got it of Spain.
But ’tennyrate he sold it in 1803 to our country, the writin’s bein’ drawed up by Thomas Jefferson, namesake of our own Thomas Jefferson, Josiah’s child by his first wife. Napoleon, or I spoze it would sound more respectful to call him Mr. Bonaparte, he wanted money bad, and he didn’t want England to git ahead, and so he sold it to us.
He acted some as Miss Bobbett did when she sot up her niece, Mahala Hen, in dressmakin’ for fear Miss Henzy’s girl would git all the custom and git rich. She’d had words with Miss Henzy and wanted to bring down her pride. And we bein’ some like Miss Hen in sperit (she had had trouble with Miss Henzy herself, and wuz dretful glad to have Mahala sot up), we wuz more’n willin’ to buy it of Mr. Bonaparte. You know he didn’t like England, he had had words with her, and almost come to hands and blows, and it did come to that twelve years afterwards.
Humorous American Short Stories Page 13