Alas for a dusty world that would not permit it—that will never permit any perfect thing to be. These houses, a little faded now, a little puffy with damp, a little heavier for paint, a little grey or brown or greenish black, suggest by their atmosphere that they have yielded up crops of children. We have seen several generations go by since they were built. Have they been any better than their sires, if as good? It seems to me as if I myself have witnessed a great revolt against all the binding perfection which these lovely homes represented. In my youthful day it was taken for granted that we were to be good and beautiful and true, and God was to reward us in heaven. We were to die and go straight before the throne of grace. Each of us was to take one wife or one husband to our heart and hearth. We were never to swindle or steal or lie or do anything wrong whatsoever. America was to make the sermon on the mount come true—and look at us. Have we done it?
I call attention to Pittsburg, Chicago, and New York, to go no further: to the orgies of trust building, stock gambling, stock watering, get rich quick-ing; to the scandals of politics and finance; to the endless divorces and remarriages and all the license of the stage and the hungry streets of harlots and kept women. Have we made the ten commandments work? Do not these small towns with their faded ideal homes stand almost as Karnak and Memphis—in their frail way pointing the vanity of religious and moral ideals in this world? We have striven for some things but not the ideals of the sermon on the mount. Our girls have not been virtuous beyond those of any other nation—our boys more honest than those of any other land. We have simply been human, and a little more human for being told that we were not or ought not to be so.
In Waverley, despite the fact that we had determined to reach Elmira before stopping for dinner, we became suddenly hungry and while “cruising,” as Speed put it, down the principal street, about three quarters of a mile long, with various stores and movies in full swing, we discovered an irresistible “lunch car” crowded in between two buildings. Inside was the usual “hash slinger,” at his pots and pans. He was a swarthy skinned black-haired youth, this impresario with a penchant for doing his work gallantly, like an acrobat. He had nothing to offer save pork and beans, ham and eggs, various sandwiches, and one kind of pie. All the remainder of his stock had been disposed of. I ordered ham and eggs—somehow in small towns I always feel safest in so doing. It was amusing to watch him “flip” an egg with a turn of the wrist and at the same time hold bantering converse with a frowsy headed youth whose face was pressed to a small porthole giving out onto the sidewalk. Every now and then, as we were eating, some familiar of the town would tap on the window to give evidence of his passing, and soon the place was invaded by five evening roysterers, smart boys of the town, who made all sorts of quips and jests as to the limited bill of fare.
“How about a whole egg? Have you got one?”
“Do you ever keep any salt and pepper here, Jake?”
“Somebody said you’d have a new pie, tomorrow. Is that right?”
“What’s the matter with the old one?” inquired someone.
“Why, a feller bit into it by mistake. They’re goin' to sell it to the shootin' gallery for a target.”
“Why don’t you fellers get up a new line o' dope?” interjected the host at one place. “My pies ain’t in it with what you’re springin'.”
This drew a laugh and more chatter.