STAGE IV.—IN WHICH CRICKET COMES TO A TURN IN THE ROAD
Y sister was now in the Heartsdale Academy, and my mother and I had a wholesome pride in her. It was partly for her sake, I must confess to you, that I had been in a when my desire would have sent me to school. One of us had to work, and there were many reasons for my sacrifice, and no credit due me. In a dozen houses I knew one might have seen better deeds: mothers working nights, sons and daughters hired for long hours and hard labor, and with no clothes fit for a holiday, so that some one of the children could go to college or the normal school.
My sister had many friends—boys and girls of her own age—who came to visit her. She was a comely girl, and sprightly and light of heart as a bird in the springtime.
At home I had either a book or a biscuit in my hand always—so my mother said of me. The supper dishes out of the way, our table was drawn to the fireside and our big lamp glowed upon us until past ten o'clock. What a magic in its light and the silent hours! Far tribes and peoples, the sayings of wise men, immortal tales and poems, the wonders of art and invention, were gathered into the lamplight. Above all, I enjoyed the poets, even the best of them, and committed pages of classic verse, and had burning thoughts of great accomplishment.
We went one night to the Thanksgiving ball at Jones'—I and my sister and some of her schoolmates—in a big sleigh. It was, I may say, historic, being the last of its kind in the neighborhood. We were not to see again the careless, old-time frolic. The bass horn, also, was thenceforth banished from like scenes forever. The big fire came, and the telegraph followed in the early spring, and the railroad in the summer; and new brick buildings, including that of the Hearts-dale Academy, and many students and workingmen. A new editor appeared who began to poke fun at the old fashions. Then came the dress-suit, and novel forms of entertainment, and a big fire-engine. All these things had their effect upon us.
Mr. Crocket appeared at this last of the oldtime dances. He sat with the fiddler, and came in, now and then, with a long streak or a sudden splash of bass.
Between dances we heard the bells ringing and hurried out-of-doors. A light rose high in the heavens above Heartsdale. The village was afire, and we made a rush for coats and caps, and our horses were soon speeding along the road.
The Rogers block was burning, and what a scene it was! A squad worked on a force-pump at the town well. Men rushed aimlessly about shouting orders mingled with profanity. Others swore back at them with equal emphasis. Every one had a plan of his own. A few were arguing loudly face to face. Mr. Boggs stood looking on with an “I-told-you-so” expression.
Some were bravely at work in the heat passing water-buckets. One was on a roof near the fire playing the hose. They said he was H. M. Pearl. I saw the ladder he had climbed, and the thought came to me that here was my chance at last, and I made my way up it through heat and smoke to the side of my friend. As I fought the falling cinders I wondered if Jo would ever hear of it.
“The fire has got more power than we have!” Pearl shouted to me.
He worked for a few minutes only when the water gave out. The fire had been forcing us back, and a blast now and then scorched our faces.
“We'll have to adjourn,” said Pearl; and we slid down the smoking ladder with blistered hands and faces, and our coats afire.
Heartsdale was more than half destroyed that night, and the marble-shop was in ruins. Pearl had seen the truth—the village had not power enough for its foe. Every day or two some town or city was burning up for that reason.
“The country is like a boy that has outgrown his strength,” Pearl said to me. “It needs more power; that stream o' water didn't have squirt enough to drown a bee.”
“And better management,” I suggested.
“Power and management go hand in hand,” said he. “When power comes it will bring brains along with it.”
I wrote an account of my adventure on the roof for the weekly Courier. It was published over my full name, and not since have I so pleased myself. Did not the editor speak of me as “a polished writer” and “a brave lad”? I read it over again and again, and sent a marked copy to my friends in Summerville.
The Courier of that week was full of history.
There were lines in it by some unknown writer which put an end to the despotic sway of the bass horn. These lines were, in a way, the Magna Charta of Heartsdale, which thereafter might have been described as a limited monarchy. Let me read a moment:
To Jones' tavern, near the ancient wood,
Come young and old from many a neighborhood.
Here comes B. Crocket with his old bass horn,
Its tone less fit for melody than scorn.
They say that thro' its tubes from first to last
A century's caravan of song has passed.
The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun,
With noisy kisses punctuate the fun.
O careless youths and red-lipped little misses!
O blush that marks the sweet disgrace of kisses!
The fiddler comes, his heart a merry store,
And shouts of welcome greet him at the door.
Tho' fashioned rough and rude the jest he flings,
What power has he to wake the tuneful strings!
The old folks smile and tell how, long ago,
Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow,
And how the God-sent magic of his art
To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart,
And shook the bonds of care from aged men
Who, 'neath the spell, returned to youth again.
He raps the fiddle-back as t'were a drum,
The raw recruits of Cupid's army come,
And heeding not the praise his playing wins,
The ebullition of his soul begins.
The zeal of Crocket, turned to scornful sound,
Pursues the measure like a baying hound;
The sprightly phrases fall like gusts of rain,
The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain;
And, midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred,
The thunder of the old bass horn is heard.