The Red Book Magazine/Volume 2/Number 6/In the Shadow of Daniel Webster

“Philetus, I've brought Melindy Briggs home,” timidly announced Mrs. Carr to her husband, who was busy in the tool-house storing away some farm implements.

“What! Brought old Mrs. Briggs here?” he asked in a sour voice, while his gnarled features were drawn down in evident displeasure.

“Yes; she's in the house now,” repeated Mrs. Carr, her faded face taking on a look of unusual determination.

“But she's a pauper. Good Lord! ain't we enough to do without turning our place into a poor farm?” rasped the farmer, his bushy brows contracting. “Besides, when you spoke of bringing her here I made no bones of putting my foot down and saying 'no.' I know she's old and all that, and needs a home, but there's the town farm. It ain't the same, even, as if she was a slim feeder. She's hale and hearty and it'll cost as much to feed her as would a hired man.”

“Oh, we'll never miss the food,” soothed his wife, believing the battle was almost won. “And she can help me about the house. Goodness knows, I've needed help these thirty years.”

“And who'll pay her funeral expenses?” growled the husband. “It ain't the same as if she was jest going to stay here this winter. But we've adopted her, that's what we've done. And we've all we can do to educate Joe.”

“Philetus, I've told her to come. She's here. She must stay. What's more, you must be careful and not show you don't consider her welcome. I've give in and give in all my life, but Melindy must stay,” declared Mrs. Carr.

“Wal, have it your own way. But remember, if I'm ten dollars short in my tax money next spring, don't blame me. Blame your boarder.” And the last words were said bitterly.

But Mrs. Carr, having gained her point, sighed in relief and returned to the house. Here she found Mrs. Briggs, wraps off, busying herself in the kitchen; and it would be difficult to say which of the two found the greater solace in the other's company.

The new-comer was considerably older than her benefactor, but was still vigorous. The wind from the White Mountains, blowing down across Oxford County to mingle with the breezes of the Pine Tree state, had brought her only health; and her black eyes snapped as brightly and her step was as quick, as when forty years before she was at the head of her own home. After her husband was brought home dying from Antietam things went badly with her. Too proud to ask for a pension she sought to support herself, until the man who sent the volunteers on their way to the firing line with his patriotic speech ringing in their ears, had foreclosed the mortgage on her little farm and stamped her as a pauper.

But Mrs. Briggs would never consider herself in that light, and daily prayed that death might intervene between her and the poor farm. It was then that the child friend of her girlhood looked her up and asked her to come and live under the Carr roof tree. Mrs. Briggs accepted, never dreaming but that Philetus' welcome would be as warm as his wife's. It was simply an answer to her prayers, and if any credit was to be given she was prepared to render it to the Almighty. Thus, without feeling subservient, she stepped about the kitchen and whisked milk pans to and fro, from sink to table, and waited for Mr. Carr to come in from the shed.

Mrs. Carr was nearly happy. For years she had labored in common with her husband to give their only son, Joseph, an education. An occasional visit to the village for groceries, a day at the county fair, comprised her circle of social enjoyments. With no daughter with whom to gossip, with neighbors whom she seldom saw, her life had been uneventful, always hard and full of toil. In Mrs. Briggs she could revive scenes of her childhood, and indulge in reminiscences, talk of those now living in other states, and of those long since dead. It was a sweet recompense for her, and she looked upon Mrs. Briggs' coming only as a boon.

That night Philetus was preoccupied, but heeding his wife's injunction he said nothing to wound Mrs. Briggs' feelings. He did not need to be told that it would require only a word to cause his guest to pack up her meager belongings and step out into the autumn night. If his answers were short and sharp, they were so to both women, and the supper passed off almost pleasantly.

The old lady was a famous talker, and quite entranced Mrs. Carr with her recollections of weddings and funerals.

“Did Elmira Johnson marry a Durgin or a Pratt?” she asked, pausing at the sink, dishcloth in hand “I vum, if it wasn't a Pratt.”

“No, Melindy; wasn't it James Durgin?” Mrs. Carr insisted eagerly

“No, and I'll tell you why. She was going to marry a Durgin, and I won't say it wa'n't James, but he died. I remember of being over there when the doctor came, after driving twenty miles. The doctor told his folks that he had a slight chance to live, and he left some medicine to be given right after his supper. But, poor man, he was so weak he couldn't eat no supper, and they waited and give it to him after breakfast. He died two hours and fifteen minutes afterwards. Some said it was the breakfast that killed him, some said it was the medicine, and some stuck to it that it was because he took both at the wrong time. Howsomever, Elmira was in mourning a year and then married Pratt.”

How you do remember!” cried Carr. “I can see it all now. Of course it was a Pratt. Don't know when I've thought of Elmira before to-night.”

“And then,” rattled on the old lady, “there was Henrietta Pease. She married a Philpot”—and so on, until Philetus had retired in disgust.

Joseph, the son, was not at home. By saving and pinching, his parents had sent him through a nearby academy and had at last got him fairly started in college. Joseph was not unusually brilliant. He was an average sort of a boy, whose life on the farm had made him a valuable man for the football squad. But knowing his father's hopes and his mother's prayers he honestly strove to excel in his books, and thus far with poor success,

“If he'd only take a prize,” Mr. Carr would moan. “Then I'd feel as if it wasn't throwing away good money to give him an education. But out of all the prizes and scholarships he hasn't taken one. Now he writes he's dreading the prize debates, when he oughter be kicking himself in gratitude. If he'd take that prize he'd get the next year's schooling without no expense to me.”

“Mebbe he will,” Mrs. Carr would say, knowing full well her son's defects.

On the day after Mrs. Briggs' arrival, the fond mother, with many tears, told of Joseph's lack of ability and his father's wishes.

“If Philetus would only be satisfied with having him a good boy, and a healthy boy, I'd be happy. But no! He wants him to win prizes that he can't git. I know he can't. I knew it when he was in the academy; but I kept cheering Philetus up, thinking the school days would soon be over. But now he's on his second year and Philetus is gitting impatient. He knows Joe has got to do it soon, or never.”

“If I was a man in college, I'd larn 'em,” cried Mrs. Briggs, striking her little withered hand on a milk pail. “I'd give 'em their needings! I guess the blood of Daniel Webster would git to boiling in my veins and we'd soon see who was the prize gitter. Yes, my dear, I never forgit that I am a third cousin to Daniel Webster. And when I think of it, it seems as if I could do anything if I was a man.”

“Good Lord, Melindy! I guess you could,” cried Mrs. Carr, opening her tired eyes very wide. Then adding tearfully, “And I do wish Joseph was Daniel's cousin, or something. If he could jest git one prize I know his father would be perfectly satisfied."'

The beauty of autumn had no charms for Philetus. When he saw the stubble in the cornfield, the gold and russet of the maples, a squirrel running along the stone wall in the glorious pathway of a sunbeam, he could only remember the football field, and would always mutter, “Frittering away his time. Throwing away his strength. If he could only git a prize.”

When the first snow fell in November, Mrs. Carr began to step more sprightly. “I couldn't believe  Thanksgiving was so near,” she said to her companion, “until I saw the snow. Now I know it is really coming and Joseph will be here. He has until after Christmas for a vacation. Dear, dear me! I believe his father would deed him the farm if he'd only take a prize.”

“Well, why don't he git a prize, then? I vum! I'd git one if I was a man, if I had to steal it,” said Mrs Briggs.

“Why, Melindy!” gasped Mrs. Carr.

“I mean it,” declared the old lady. “If I had a old father waiting at home for me to git a prize, I'd git one. Not that I put any stock in prizes, 'cause I don't. There was Melly Togers, who was in school with me. She could spell any word she ever heard, and was called the best speller in the county. Why, folks use to come from far and near to hear that child spell. She had a room full of prizes she took. Then when she was fourteen years old her folks found out she was foolish. Head hadn't grown any, and her brains had had no room to expand in. Spelling was her way of showing she was crazy. Some folks try to git the north pole, and that's their way of being crazy. I'm too sot to git a pension, and folks say I'm crazy.

“Now Joseph is a well-balanced, every day sort of a boy, and he'll never git a prize, less he steals it. His father oughter be glad he ain't a speller, or a north pole gitter, or any other kind of a crank. Still, I'm sorry he don't git a prize, s'long as his father hankers that way.”

On the day before Thanksgiving Day Joseph came. His sturdy form, his laughing eyes, showed at a glance that he was more at home on the gridiron than in the debating hall. Thanksgiving was royally observed, several of Mr. Carr's kinsmen being invited to welcome the boy home. And after they all were seated at the table, Philetus said grace, and concluded with these words, which four around the board readily appreciated, “O Lord, on this day which we prize, may it not be wrong to pray for prizes.”

Joseph blushed deeply and gazed at his plate. After the guests had departed he went to the kitchen and told his mother that he was miserable. “It's like this, mother,” he explained; “we are expected to get up our prize debates for January during the holidays. I'm regular stuck. I can't think of a thing to write. I can memorize and deliver all right, but I can't scare up an idea. Father is expecting I'll get something, either second or third place, and he'll feel all cut up.”

The poor mother tried to comfort him, as with tear-filled eyes she lamented, “O Joey, if I only knew enough to help you! If I only had ideas I could give you! But none of us was ever taken that way.”

“You are the best mother in the world, and—hang prizes, anyway,” cried the young man hotly, stamping out to the barn.

Here he walked up and down, shaking his fist at the astonished cattle and raving in his deep, bass voice, “Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen. It is my duty to-night. No, no! It is my pleasure, it is my—my—O, hang it all!”

His efforts to frame a speech attracted the attention not only of the women folks, but also of the father. Philetus, with a pleased smile on his rugged face, stole up to the kitchen door and held up his finger to admonish silence. “He's let loose. Joey's tearing it off by the yard. Git a prize, sure,” he whispered. “Don't make no noise up here, as it might disturb him.”

Then he tip-toed back to the barn, his rough boots squeaking fearfully on the snow-skimmed ground. As he listened at the door and as Joseph laid unusual stress on “Mr. President,” the old man chuckled with pride and silently slapped his boot-leg. When the boy, sad faced and humble, returned to the kitchen, his mother was undeceived. “It isn't in me, mother. I can talk, but can't think. We can get help outside, or out of books, but in this debate there is nothing ready made. The question is, 'Resolved, That circumstances make great men, and not that great men make circumstances.' I'm booked for the affirmative.”

“Do you think circumstances make great men, Joey?” asked his mother bashfully.

“Why, of course I do.”

“Then why don't you git up and say so?” she continued.

“Oh, that won't do, mother. I've got to debate it.”

“He means he's got to prove it with facts and figgers,” observed Mrs. Briggs.

“That's it. Aunty has the right idea,” said Joseph, who called every old lady “aunty.”

“And you can't prove it,” said Mrs. Briggs, pursing up her thin lips.

“Right again,” groaned Joseph.

Evidently Philetus believed his son was making rapid progress as a debater; for at the supper table that night he smiled often. Once he asked, “Let's see, Joey, what do you call your moderator, or chairman of your society?”

“We always begin by saying, 'Mr. President.' Then, father, we have to turn to the audience and say 'Ladies and gentlemen,'” explained Joseph.

“Jest so. Mr. President. Lord! I guess you can talk as loud as any of 'em, eh?” hinted Philetus, winking one eye slowly.

“Why yes; I can talk all right, if I can think of anything to say.”

“Oh, that'll come, that'll come. Now, Joey, I'm going to town to-morrow. Is there anything I can git that will help you on your debate? Remember, you must git a prize.” And the old man's face grew stern again.

“Nothing, father, unless you can buy brains,” said Joseph wearily.

“I'm buying brains when I pay for your schooling,” said the father proudly. Then he added joyfully, “And to think he is going to do it all out of his head and don't want no books, nor nothing!” Joseph looked sad, but remained silent.

In the morning, after his father had driven away, he again harangued the cattle. But no inspiration came. Then the side door creaked on its rusty hinges and Mrs Briggs came in. Mrs. Carr had seen her leave the house and had followed her, but did not enter the barn.

“Joseph,” she heard the old lady say, “I understand that you want to prove that sarcumstances make great men. Is that it?”

“Yes, Aunty,” replied Joseph.

“Then, why under heaven's name, don't you git at it? Leave this 'Mr President' business alone. Forgit about 'ladies and gentlemen.' Git started! Think up your larning. Oh, I wish I was a man, I do, by vum! Who was Napoleon? What made him great?

“Why, the revolution in France. In the year”

“Never mind the year. Look that up afterwards. What busted him?”

“Why, Wellington”

“Then you've proved it both ways. And was Wellington great?”

“O yes. After he”

“Never mind; you've proved it in proving Napoleon. One was the sarcumstance for 'tother. Now for Washington and Abe Lincoln. Good Lord! I saw that man when I went to bring Hiram home sick. And if ever there was a angel—But let's stick to our text. Now why don't you give it to 'em something like this”

And Mrs. Carr in amazement heard the old lady talk for thirty minutes without seeming to pause for breath.

“Sha'n't you give up!” she cried to herself, bending over with ear to the door. “She sartainly is a cousin to Daniel Webster!”

When Joseph entered the house he came on the run, and without stopping to speak dashed upstairs to the cold and deserted attic and wrote frantically for more than two hours. He had got 'started.' When he met his father that night he emanated hope from every feature “I've got a bit of a start and shall polish it up to-night, Dad. So don't be surprised if I sit up late working. I've got a general plan and have only to connect it and fill in some dates. If I don't get a prize, don't feel badly. But I really think I shall get second or third. I'm the best man down there in delivery, and if I can be half decent in construction I'll land something.” He worked nearly all night.

When the great day came, Philetus and his wife took the train and went to town. It was only thirty miles from the Carr homestead, but it was the first time either of the two had seen the college.

The hall was crowded, and the group of speakers, seated at the side of the stage, fumbled their watch chains, and re-adjusted their ties nervously, as they gazed on the sea of faces. All but Joseph: he sat calm and immovable.

“I wish Melindy was here to see him. She'd say he oughter git some kind of a prize for looking so handsome,” whispered the proud mother.

Then came the speaking and the audience cheered each favorite enthusiastically.

“Carr, the center rush, is coming next,” whispered a freshman to a friend. “He's a great ground gainer and line bucker, can talk well, but he can't think.”

Mr. and Mrs. Carr overheard this remark and the father sighed. He feared he had left home only to experience another heart ache. Then Joseph began. His voice was adapted to speech making, being rich, full and expressive. The student body began to straighten up in surprise, while the faculty opened eyes in amazement. Instead of being bombastic and sophomoric, like the others, Joseph's speech was based on common sense, characterized by homely truths and couched in the language of the open.

“Shades of Cicero!” gasped the freshman. “Who'd thought old Joey had it in him. He's simply great.” The young man was immediately astounded to find his hand nearly crushed by the muscular grip of an old farmer seated in front of him. Joseph jumped from climax to climax, arranging his facts and illustrations as a skilful football general would marshall his men. With ponderous energy each conviction was driven home until the question was fairly exhausted. When the delighted audience thought he had finished he stepped forward a step or two and said:

“My friends, mow for a last, a brief and a very humble illustration of how simple circumstances influence a man's life. There was a young man who was to debate for a prize. He could think of nothing to say. He was about to flunk and refuse to speak, thereby wounding an old father's heart, when he went home for a short vacation. There he met a dear old lady, a third cousin to Daniel Webster, who took him aside and started him on the right line. If she had not been a cousin to the great orator, if she had not been visiting in the young man's home, if he had not gone home—and originally he planned not to go—if he had not met her, he could not have spoken here to-night.”

After the applause had died away the judges proclaimed Joseph the winner of the first prize. When Philetus and his wife returned on the night train they found old Mrs. Briggs sitting up in the kitchen, waiting for them.

“Did he git second?” she cried, as they stamped the snow from their feet.

“No,” replied Philetus, in a peculiar voice.

“Didn't he git third?” she implored.

“No,” answered Philetus again.

“There ain't no virtue in prayer,” moaned the old lady.

“He got first, Melindy! He got first!” sobbed Mrs. Carr, unable to keep up the deceit longer.

Philetus went up and kissed his guest tenderly. “Mother,” he said, “so you are a cousin to Daniel Webster.”

“A third cousin,” corrected the astonished dame.

“Wal, mother, Daniel Webster was a powerful man. Don't ever leave us.”