Author of “Sons and Fathers,” “Two Runaways,” etc.
WHAT it really was that twisted Aunt Tildy’s features into the anxious expression which inevitably waits on an approaching sneeze, no one, it is likely, will ever discover, though several plausible explanations have been offered; but twisted they were, early in life, and for all time Aunt Tildy was condemned to face the world with wrinkles on her forehead, lifted brows, a ruffled nose, half-closed eyes, and a drawn mouth. The theory of an arrested sneeze was advanced many years ago by Tim Broggins, who still sits around the cotton warehouse and, while he whittles white pine splinters and chews tobacco, is wont to settle all questions as they arise. Tim knows everything worth knowing and probably some things that are not; and of course he knew what was the trouble with Aunt Tildy’s face.
“Hit’s er comin’ sneeze, that’s what!” said he once, when Aunt Tildy, passing in her little country buggy, drew comment after her. “Hit’s er comin’ sneeze! Hit’s er sollum fac’, gentlemen, that Aunt Tildy ain’t been known ter sneeze in her whole life. She started oncet erlong back in th’ sixties; got her face twisted jes right, looked at th’ sun an’ was er-strainin’ of her corsits when somebody hollered ‘Cyclone!’ She’d been in one cyclone that like ter drug her hair out by th’ roots, an’ when she heard th’ name ag’in, she jes natchully hunted cover an’ forgot to pull ’er face together. When th’ cyclone passed, hit were too late. She ain’t never sneeze’ sence that day. Thought I’d try her some time with snuff or red pepper an’ see if hit wouldn’t tech ’er off an’ straighten out things; but hit’s done growed that erway now. The thing is sot an’ fixed!”
Aunt Tildy, however, did not let the tangled condition of her features interfere with business. From the profits of her little farm and country store she managed to sustain herself admirably; to educate and marry off her niece and lay up a competency for old age. It mattered not how hard the times, how poor the crops, and how bad were general collections, there was seldom a day when she did not have money in bank to loan at legal interest on exceptional collateral. With her bonnet pushed back, her fat umbrella grasped by its middle, and her little worn bag, she was a familiar figure in town on most Saturdays.
It was on a Saturday that Aunt Tildy and handsome Jack Cromby met for the first time, and Jack heard from Tim Broggins the old legend of the coming sneeze. Jack was the wide-awake and pushing representative of an up-State snuff factory, and was flooding the county with little red labeled tin boxes that contained samples of its product.
“Tell yer what, Jack,” said Tim, as he passed his knife-blade under a delicate curl of pine to the end of his splinter, “ef you was ter git th’ ole lady’s face on your boxes an’ call it ‘The Comin’ Sneeze’ brand, hit would ketch th’ town. Say, Jack! why ’n’t you try er little of the stuff on her, anyhow? Seems ter me ef you could jes git her up-town on the Court-House Square whar folks could see it all, an’ git her to turn loose that sneeze that’s been er hangin’ fire forty years, you’d sell er million! I ain’t er-sayin’ yo’ ole stuff could reach it, but it mout. My private opinion is that when that sneeze do come, hit’ll have ter be broke up with dynamite firs’ an’ then took out of her system piece by piece. Still, as I said, yo’ pertickerlar brand of tickler mout tech it off!”
Jack laughed heartily at the drollery of the wag; and then, the spirit of commercial enterprise taking possession of him, he suddenly grew serious.
“Not a bad idea, Tim—that about the picture. Think of the big ones to hang in the window—three colors—‘The coming sneeze’! And what a trade-mark! By George! I wonder whether I can get a photograph of her.”
“Dunno ’bout that. But I did hear John Belton who runs the gallery up-town say as how las’ week he took some to sen’ to her niece out in Texas. Maybe you mout git hold o’ one ef you go ’bout it right. But looker here, Jack!—don’t you git me mixed up in this thing! Lord! She run down that sneeze joke o’ mine ten years ago an’ sech er tongue lashin’!—Keep me out o’ hit er I’ll call you er liar, sho’!”