Part I
Time: Daylight, the day before Christmas.
Place: Rowton’s store, Simpkinsville.
First Monologue, by Mr. Trimble:
“Who-a-a, there, ck, ck, ck! Back, now, Jinny! Hello, Rowton! Here we come, Jinny an’ me—six miles in the slush up to the hub, an’ Jinny with a unweaned colt at home. Whoa-a-a, there!
“It’s good Christmus don’t come but once’t a year—ain’t it, Jinny?
“Well, Rowton, you’re what I call a pro-gressive business man, that’s what you are. Blest ef he ain’t hired a whole row o’ little niggers to stand out in front of ’is sto’e an’ hold horses—while he takes his customers inside to fleece ’em.
“Come here, Pop-Eyes, you third feller, an’ ketch aholt o’ Jinny’s bridle. I always did like pop-eyed niggers. They look so God-forsaken an’ ugly. A feller thet’s afflicted with yo’ style o’ beauty ought to have favors showed him, an’ that’s why I intend for you to make the first extry to-day. The boy thet holds my horse of a Christmus Eve always earns a dollar. Don’t try to open yo’ eyes no wider—I mean what I say. How did Rowton manage to git you fellers up so early, I wonder. Give out thet he’d hire the first ten that come, did he? An’ gives each feller his dinner an’ a hat.
“I was half afeered you wouldn’t be open yet, Rowton—but I was determined to git ahead o’ the Christmus crowd, an’ I started by starlight. I ca’culate to meet ’em all a-goin’ back.
“Well, I vow, ef yo’ sto’e don’t look purty. Wish she could see it. She’d have some idee of New York. But, of co’se, I couldn’t fetch her to-day, an’ me a-comin’ specially to pick out her Christmus gif’. She’s jest like a child. Ef she s’picions befo’ hand what she’s a-goin’ to git, why, she don’t want it.
“I notice when I set on these soap-boxes, my pockets is jest about even with yo’ cash-drawer, Rowton. Well, that’s what we’re here for. Fetch out all yo’ purties, now, an’ lay ’em along on the counter. You know her, an’ she ain’t to be fooled in quality. Reckon I will walk around a little an’ see what you’ve got. I ain’t got a idee on earth what to buy, from a broach to a barouche. Let’s look over some o’ yo’ silver things, Rowton. Josh Porter showed me a butter-dish you sold him with a silver cow on the led of it, an’ I was a-wonderin’ ef, maybe, you didn’t have another.
“That’s it. That’s a mighty fine idee, a statue like that is. It sort o’ designates a thing. D’rec’ly a person saw the cow, now, he’d s’picion the butter inside the dish. Of co’se, he’d know they wouldn’t hardly be hay in it—no, ez you say, ‘nor a calf.’ No doubt wife’ll be a-wantin’ one o’ these cow-topped ones quick ez she sees Josh’s wife’s. She’ll see the p’int in a minute—of the cow, I mean. But, of co’se, I wouldn’t think o’ gittin’ her the same thing Josh’s got for Helen, noways. We’re too near neighbors for that. Th’ ain’t no fun in borryin’ duplicates over a stile when company drops in sudden, without a minute’s warnin’.
“No, you needn’t call my attention to that tiltin’ ice-pitcher. I seen it soon ez I approached the case. Didn’t you take notice to me a-liftin’ my hat? That was what I was a-bowin’ to, that pitcher was. No, that’s the thing wife hankers after, an’ I know it, an’ it’s the one thing I’ll never buy her. Not thet I’d begrudge it to her—but to tell the truth it’d pleg me to have to live with the thing. I wouldn’t mind it on Sundays or when they was company in the house, but I like to take off my coat, hot days, an’ set around in my shirt-sleeves, an’ I doubt ef I’d have the cheek to do it in the face of sech a thing as that.
“Fact is, when I come into a room where one of ’em is, I sort o’ look for it to tilt over of its own accord an’ bow to me an’ ask me to ‘be seated.’
“You needn’t to laugh. Of co’se, they’s a reason for it—but it’s so. I’m jest that big of a ninny. Ricollec’ Jedge Robinson, he used to have one of ’em—jest about the size o’ this one—two goblets an’ a bowl—an’ when I’d go up to the house on a errand for pa, time pa was distric’ coroner, the jedge’s mother-in-law, ol’ Mis’ Meredy, she’d be settin’ in the back room a-sewin’; an’ when the black gal would let me in the front door she’d sort o’ whisper: ‘Invite him to walk into the parlor and be seated.’ I’d overhear her say it, an’ I’d turn into the parlor, an’ first thing I’d see’d be that ice-pitcher. I don’t think anybody can set down good, noways, when they’re ast to ‘be seated,’ an’ when, in addition to that, I’d meet the swingin’ ice-pitcher half way to the patent rocker, I didn’t have no mo’ consciousness where I was a-settin’ than nothin’. An’ like ez not the rocker’d squawk first strain I put on it. She wasn’t no mo’n a sort o’ swingin’ ice-pitcher herself, ol’ Mis’ Meredy wasn’t—walkin’ round the house weekdays dressed in black silk, with a lace cap on her head, an’ half insultin’ his company thet he’d knowed all his life. I did threaten once-t to tell her, ‘No, thank you, ma’am, I don’t keer to be seated—but I’ll set down ef it’s agreeable,’ but when the time would come I’d turn round an’ there’d be the ice-pitcher. An’ after that I couldn’t be expected to do nothin’ but back into the parlor over the Brussels carpet an’ chaw my hat-brim. But, of co’se, I was young then.
“Reckon you’ve heerd the tale they tell on Aleck Turnbull the day he went there in the old lady’s time. She had him ast into the cushioned sanctuary—an’ Aleck hadn’t seen much them days—an’ what did he do but gawk around an’ plump hisself down into that gilt-backed rocker with a tune-playin’ seat in it, an’, of co’se, quick ez his weight struck it, it started up a jig tune, an’ they say Aleck shot out o’ that door like ez ef he’d been fired out of a cannon. An’ he never did go back to say what he come after. I doubt ef he ever knew.
“How much did you say for the ice-pitcher, Rowton? Thirty dollars—an’ you’ll let me have it for—hush, now, don’t say that. I don’t see how you could stand so close to it an’ offer to split dollars. Of co’se I ain’t a-buyin’ it, but ef I was I wouldn’t want no reduction on it, I’d feel like ez ef it would always know it an’ have a sort of contemp’ for me. They’s suitableness in all things. Besides, I never want no reduction on anything I buy for her, someways. You can charge me reg’lar prices an’ make it up on the Christmus gif’ she buys for me—that is, ef she buys it from you. Of co’se it’ll be charged. That’s a mighty purty coral broach, that grape-bunch one, but she’s so pink-complected, I don’t know ez she’d become it. I like this fish-scale set, myself, but she might be prejerdyced ag’in’ the idee of it. You say she admired that hand-merror, an’ this pair o’ side-combs—an’ she ’lowed she’d git ’em fur my Christmus gif’ ef she dared? But, of co’se, she was jokin’ about that. Poor little thing, she ain’t never got over the way folks run her about that side-saddle she give me last Christmus, though I never did see anything out o’ the way in it. She knew thet the greatest pleasure o’ my life was in makin’ her happy, and she was jest simple-hearted enough to do it—that’s all—an’ I can truly say thet I ain’t never had mo’ pleasure out of a Christmus gif’ in my life than I’ve had out o’ that side-saddle. She’s been so consistent about it—never used it in her life without a-borryin’ it of me, an’ she does it so cunnin’. Of co’se I don’t never loand it to her without a kiss. They ain’t a cunnin’er play-actor on earth ’n she is, though she ain’t never been to a theatre—an’ wouldn’t go, bein’ too well raised.
“You say this pitcher wasn’t there when she was here—no, for ef it had ’a’ been, I know she’d ’a’ took on over it. Th’ ain’t never been one for sale in Simpkinsville before. They’ve been several of ’em brought here by families besides the one old Mis’ Meredy presided over—though that was one o’ the first. But wife is forever a-pickin’ out purty patterns of ’em in catalogues. Ef that one hadn’t ’a’ give me such a setback in my early youth I’d git her this, jest to please her. Ef I was to buy this one, it an’ the plush album would set each other off lovely. She’s a-buyin’ it on instalments from the same man thet enlarged her photograph to a’ ile-painted po’trait, an’ it’s a dandy! She’s got me a-settin’ up on the front page, took with my first wife, which it looks to me thet if she’d do that much to please me, why, I might buy almost anything to please her, don’t it? Of co’se I don’t take no partic’lar pleasure in that photograph—but she seems to think I might, an’ no doubt she’s put it there to show thet she ain’t small-minded. You ricollec’ Mary Jane was plain-featured, but Kitty don’t seem to mind that ez much ez I do, now thet she’s gone an’ her good deeds ain’t in sight. I never did see no use in throwin’ a plain-featured woman’s looks up to her post mortem.
“This is a mighty purty pitcher, in my judgment, but to tell the truth I’ve made so much fun o’ the few swingin’ pitchers thet’s been in this town that I’d be ashamed to buy it, even ef I could git over my own obnoxion to it. But of co’se, ez you say, everybody’d know thet I done it jest to please her—an’ I don’t know thet they’s a more worthy object in a married man’s life than that.
“I s’pose I’ll haf to git it for her. An’ I want a bold, outspoke dedication on it, Rowton. I ain’t a-goin’ about it shamefaced. Here, gimme that pencil. Now, I want this inscription on it, word for word. I’ve got to stop over at Paul’s to git him to regulate my watch, an’ I’ll tell him to hurry an’ mark it for me, soon ez you send it over.
“Well, so long. Happy Christmus to you an’ yo’ folks.
“Say, Rowton, wrap up that little merror an’ them side-combs an’ send ’em along, too, please. So long!”