THE HAPPY PEDLER COMES TO TOWN
At the close of a glad day in early June, Nance and I stood watching a horse and van, driven by a stranger of captivating appearance, turn from the down-river turnpike and halt on a grassy knoll overlooking the Ohio. The cart, which was a large two-wheeled affair with little cupboard-like boxes beneath, and a short pair of stairs for mounting stored on the top among a medley of old umbrellas, bore an adventurous, foreign aspect. At least we had seen nothing before so wonderful. Its wheels were low and broad-tired; the shafts were thick and heavy with a prop suspended from each of them, that the weight might be balanced when not supported by the ragged brown mare now pulling it. The body, held rather high above the axle by a pair of big, bowed springs, was completely closed upon all sides like a circus wagon, though, more than anything else, this queer craft seemed a sort of private Noah's ark. The entrance was in the rear and, as we afterward discovered, could be reached by mounting a wheel, hauling the steps from the roof, and attaching them to small sockets in the door-sill. This amazing and spectacular vehicle was painted a brilliant yellow.
The man idling beside this magnificent equipage was the most picturesque being I have ever seen. He was of medium height with broad, muscular shoulders, sturdy legs like one used to walking much in the open, and a general ease and grace of movement, as if each motion were made to music, indicating a perfect health of body. His features were large and generous with penetrating quizzical gray eyes, a nose slightly Roman, and a wide mouth which seemed continuously to be struggling to suppress a smile. He wore a short bushy beard that needed brushing. His hair was red, heavy, unkempt, and a trifle long, completely covering his ears. On his feet were stout, heavy-soled, laced boots. Thrust into their tops were well-worn corduroy trousers. His shirt was of dark blue woolen material, open at the neck, showing a corded, hairy chest. He wore no hat.
Upon arriving at the knoll the master of the van sat hastily upon the ground and, as if gravel had been eating into his heels, quickly removed his boots. Then he rubbed his feet slowly and sensuously over the soft cool grass as if it were a specific for drawing fever from blistered soles. Next, quite as suddenly, he arose and went about the business of unhitching the mare from the cart. Just as he was leading her from her burden we, like curious children, drew near and mumbled a bashful good evening.
"How do you do, my dears," he said, with frank good humor.
"My name," I ventured, "is Charles Reubelt King, and hers is Nance Gwyn.... This is our common," I added, with the condescending air of the small proprietor whose vanity was touched because of not having been consulted concerning its occupancy by the daring incumbent.
"Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Charles Screwbelt Ring. Miss Nance Gwyn, I am distinctly honored.... And I," said he, with an elaborate bow in which he removed and swept the ground with an imaginary hat, while one hand pressed his heart, "am Jean François, sometimes known as the Umbrella Man, at others as the Happy Pedler.... I am pedler, poet, mender of umbrellas." Here he straightened to his full height, all the time yelling directly at me, "Umbrellas to mend! Umbrellas to mend! No?" he exclaimed with a comical shrug of his shoulders, and then continued, "I am philosopher, vagabond, musician,—a very sad gentleman you see, who am fifth cousin to Master William Shakespeare, and own brother to François Villon, one-time king of the French!" Then, again turning and addressing himself particularly to me, "I own the road, the river, the hills, the trees, and all the blue summer sky. The stars are mine, too, and I turn 'em out to pasture o' nights."
"O, I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle," he cried to Nance, as if he had forgotten something pertaining to good breeding.
"This lady," here he turned, including in his bow the patient little brown mare waiting at his elbow for the bridle to be removed, "is my mare Rogue. She's not a pretty lass, and she lacks a sense of humor. There are none like her for a pleasant ramble down the road. She loves her sugar like a child.... Shake hands with Miss Gwyn, my dove," he added, while Nance timidly touched the extended hoof.
"Also," continuing the presentations, "Mademoiselle Columbine," and he waved a hand whimsically toward the yellow van. "She is beautiful, now, isn't she, my dears? And she's sound, serviceable, and optimistic. She holds my dreams.... What more could you ask? Yes?"