But to go back to the guests. Such a heterogeneous collection of people one does not often see, and yet they all had one common object; to render homage to a woman who, for a century, had breathed a spirit of kindliness and tolerance that was American in the best sense. Yankee farmer, Hungarian immigrant, Pat Casey—who was there, alert and smiling—all were the better for Mrs. Hartlett’s having lived so long a life, and each one felt it in his own way.
And almost every one present had brought a gift. In some instances they were trifling affairs—like the peach pit basket—but the kindly spirit of giving was there, and I doubt not that Mrs. Hartlett valued the little carving for the sake of the associations it brought up full as well as she did the handsome antique chair that the Guernseas gave her.
One of the last arrivals was a man who had walked many miles to visit her on her birthday. He drew after him a toy express wagon.
He was patriarchal in appearance, with a long white beard and eyes more shrewd than kindly, and yet it was a kindly spirit that had drawn him ten miles out of his accustomed itinerary that he might pay his respects to the woman who had never bought a single one of his wares, but who had always given him a pleasant salutation and had more than once invited him to come in and partake of berries and milk, or, if it was wintertime, to have a cup of coffee and fortify himself against the elements.
It was Isidor Pohalski, an old man about thirty years Mrs. Hartlett’s junior, a peddler by occupation, who in summer drew his wares around the country on a little express wagon and in winter drew them on a boy’s sled. (So they told me.)
He had brought a present too, a bertha of Belgian lace, and when I saw him and Father Hogan and Rev. Mr. Hughson and the bank president and the artists so near together it gave me a kind of lion and lamb feeling that smacked of the millennium.
“Do you mean it for me?” asked Mrs. Hartlett, recognising the beautiful lace.
Isidor nodded, saying nothing. His English was for but one at a time. In a crowd he was reduced to signs.
“Much thanks. Much thanks,” said Mrs. Hartlett, quaintly, being one of those who talk to a foreigner with special idioms. She held out her hand and shook his and said,
“You stay for lemonade? Yes?”