Tramping on Life. Harry 1883-1960 Kemp
her, she was so obstinate. She had broken away despite the solicitude of all her children—who all loved her and wanted her to stay with them.
At last she had answered an advertisement for a housekeeper … that appeared in a farm journal … and so she had met her old cork-legged veteran, whom she now had her mind set on marrying.
"But Granma, to get married at your age?"
"I'd like to ask why not?" she answered sweetly, "I feel as young as ever when it comes to men … and the man … you wait till you see him … you'll like him … he's such a good provider, Johnnie; he draws a steady pension of sixty dollars a month from the Government, and he'll give me a good home."
"But any of my aunts and uncles would do the same."
"Yes, Johnnie, but it ain't the same as having a man of your own around … there's nothing like that, Johnnie, for a woman."
"But your own children welcome you and treat you well?"
"Oh, yes, Johnnie, my little boy, but in spite of that, I feel in the way. And, no matter how much they love me, it's better for me to have a home of my own and a man of my own."
"Besides, Billy loves me so much," she continued, wistfully, "and even though he's seventy whereas I'm eighty past, he says his being younger don't make no difference … and he's always so jolly … always laughing and joking."
"We must begin to allow for Granma," Aunt Alice told me, "she's coming into her second childhood."
Granma believed thoroughly in my aspirations to become a poet. With great delight she retailed incidents of my childhood, reminding me of a thousand youthful escapades of which she constituted me the hero, drawing therefrom auguries of my future greatness.
One of the incidents which alone sticks in my memory:
"Do you 'mind,'" she would say, "how you used to follow Millie about when she papered the pantry shelves with newspapers with scalloped edges? and how you would turn the papers and read them, right after her, as she laid them down, and make her frantic?"
"Yes," I would respond, highly gratified with the anecdote, "and you would say, Oh, Millie, don't get mad at the little codger, some day he might turn out to be a great man!'"
Uncle Beck had a fine collection of American Letters. I found a complete set of Hawthorne and straightway became a moody and sombre Puritan … and I wrote in Hawthornian prose, quaint essays and stories. And I lived in a world of old lace and lavender, of crinoline and brocade.
And then I discovered my uncle's books on gynecology and obstetrics … full of guilty fevers I waited until he had gone out on a call and then slunk into his office to read. …
One afternoon my doctor-uncle came suddenly upon me, taking me unaware.
"Johnnie, what are you up to?"
"—was just reading your medical books."
"Come over here," already seated at his desk, on his swivel-chair, he motioned me to a seat.
"Sit down!"
I obeyed him in humiliated silence.
He rose and closed the door, hanging the sign "Busy" outside.
At last I learned about myself and about life.
The harvesting over, Anders began to chum with me. We took long walks together, talking of many things … but, chiefly, of course, of those things that take up the minds of adolescents … of the mysteries of creation, of life at its source … of why men and women are so … and I took it for granted, after he confessed that he had fallen into the same mistakes as I, suffering similar agonies, that he had been set right by his father, the doctor, as I just had. I was surprised to find he had not. So I shared with him the recent knowledge I had acquired.
"And you mean to tell me that Uncle Beck has said nothing to you?"
"Not a single word … never."
"But why didn't you ask him then … him being a doctor?"
"How can a fellow talk with his father about such things?"
"It's funny to me he didn't inform you, anyhow."
"I was his son, you see!"
Anders had a girl, he told me, confidingly. She was off on a visit to Mornington, at present … a mighty pretty little girl and the best there was. …
"By the way, Anders, do you know second cousin Phoebe at all?"
"Sure thing I know her … the last time I heard of her … which was almost a year ago—she was wilder than ever."
"How do you mean, Anders?"
"Her folks couldn't keep her in of nights … a gang of boys and girls would come and whistle for her, and she'd get out, sooner or later, and join them."
"I tell you what," I began, in an unpremeditated burst of invention, which I straightway believed, it so appealed to my imagination, "I've never told anybody before, but all these years I've been desperately in love with Phoebe."
Anders scrutinised me quizzically, then the enthusiasm of the actor in my face made him believe me. …
"Well, no matter how bad she is, she certainly was a beaut, the last time I saw her."
"I'm going," I continued "(you mustn't tell anybody), I'm going down to Aunt Rachel's, after I leave here, and get Phoebe." And eagerly and naïvely we discussed the possibilities as we walked homeward. …
After my talk with Uncle Beck all my morbidity began to melt away, and, growing better in mind, my body grew stronger … he wrote to my father that it was not consumption … so now I was turning my coming West into a passing visit, instead of a long enforced sojourn there for the good of my health.
I found different household arrangements on revisiting Aunt Rachel and her household.
For one thing, the family had moved into town … Newcastle … and they had a fine house to live in, neat and comfortable. Gone was that atmosphere of picturesque, pioneer poverty. Though, to be sure, there sat Josh close up against the kitchen stove, as of old. For the first sharp days of fall were come … he was spitting streams of tobacco, as usual.
"I hate cities," was his first greeting to me. He squirted a brown parabola of tobacco juice, parenthetically, into the wood-box behind the stove, right on top of the cat that had some kittens in there.
Aunt Rachel caught him at it.
"Josh, how often have I told you you mustn't spit on that cat."
"'Scuse me, Ma, I'm kind o' absint-minded."
The incident seemed to me so funny that I laughed hard. Aunt Rachel gave me a quiet smile.
"Drat the boy, he's allus findin' somethin' funny about things!"
This made me laugh more. But I had brought Uncle Josh a big plug of tobacco, and he was placated, ripping off a huge chew as soon as he held it in his hands.
The great change I have just spoken of came over the family because Phoebe's two sisters, Jessie and Mona—who had been off studying to be nurses, now had come back, and, taking cases in town, they were making a good living both for themselves and the two old folks. …
I had learned from Uncle Beck, as he drove me in to Mornington, that, the last he heard of Phoebe, she was working out as a maid to "some swells," in that city.
"Damme, ef I don't hate cities an' big towns," ejaculated Uncle Josh, breaking out of a long, meditative silence, "you kain't keep no dogs there … onless they're muzzled … and no ferrets, neither … and what 'ud be the use if you could? … there ain't nothin' to hunt anyhow … wisht we lived back on thet old muddy hilltop agin."
Supper almost ready … the appetizing smell of frying ham—there's nothing, being cooked, smells better. …
Paul came in from work … was working steady in the mills now, Aunt