O. Henry's clever wordplay hints that his characters-- especially those who escaped the summer heat for the mountains-- are playing dangerous games of chivalry and deception, as did Demetrius and Lysander, both in love with Hermia. Read on to discover who is the donkey.
Paul Mercuri, Jousting Knights at Tournament, 1861
"The knights are dead;
Their swords are rust.
Except a few who have to hust-
Le all the time
To raise the dust."
Dear Reader: It was summertime. The sun glared down upon the citywith pitiless ferocity. It is difficult for the sun to be ferociousand exhibit compunction simultaneously. The heat was--oh, botherthermometers!--who cares for standard measures, anyhow? It was sohot that--The roof gardens put on so many extra waiters that you could hope toget your gin fizz now--as soon as all the other people got theirs.The hospitals were putting in extra cots for bystanders. For whenlittle, woolly dogs loll their tongues out and say "woof, woof!"at the fleas that bite 'em, and nervous old black bombazine ladiesscreech "Mad dog!" and policemen begin to shoot, somebody isgoing to get hurt. The man from Pompton, N.J., who always wearsan overcoat in July, had turned up in a Broadway hotel drinkinghot Scotches and enjoying his annual ray from the calcium.Philanthropists were petitioning the Legislature to pass a billrequiring builders to make tenement fire-escapes more commodious,so that families might die all together of the heat instead of oneor two at a time. So many men were telling you about the number ofbaths they took each day that you wondered how they got along afterthe real lessee of the apartment came back to town and thanked 'emfor taking such good care of it. The young man who called loudly forcold beef and beer in the restaurant, protesting that roast pulletand Burgundy was really too heavy for such weather, blushed when hemet your eye, for you had heard him all winter calling, in modesttones, for the same ascetic viands. Soup, pocketbooks, shirt waists,actors and baseball excuses grew thinner. Yes, it was summertime.A man stood at Thirty-fourth street waiting for a downtown car.A man of forty, gray-haired, pink-faced, keen, nervous, plainlydressed, with a harassed look around the eyes. He wiped his foreheadand laughed loudly when a fat man with an outing look stopped andspoke with him."No, siree," he shouted with defiance and scorn. "None of your oldmosquito-haunted swamps and skyscraper mountains without elevatorsfor me. When I want to get away from hot weather I know how to doit. New York, sir, is the finest summer resort in the country. Keepin the shade and watch your diet, and don't get too far away froman electric fan. Talk about your Adirondacks and your Catskills!There's more solid comfort in the borough of Manhattan than inall the rest of the country together. No, siree! No tramping upperpendicular cliffs and being waked up at 4 in the morning by amillion flies, and eating canned goods straight from the city forme. Little old New York will take a few select summer boarders;comforts and conveniences of homes--that's the ad. that I answerevery time.""You need a vacation," said the fat man, looking closely at theother. "You haven't been away from town in years. Better come withme for two weeks, anyhow. The trout in the Beaverkill are jumping atanything now that looks like a fly. Harding writes me that he landeda three-pound brown last week.""Nonsense!" cried the other man. "Go ahead, if you like, and bogglearound in rubber boots wearing yourself out trying to catch fish.When I want one I go to a cool restaurant and order it. I laugh atyou fellows whenever I think of you hustling around in the heatin the country thinking you are having a good time. For me FatherKnickerbocker's little improved farm with the big shady lane runningthrough the middle of it."The fat man sighed over his friend and went his way. The man whothought New York was the greatest summer resort in the countryboarded a car and went buzzing down to his office. On the way hethrew away his newspaper and looked up at a ragged patch of skyabove the housetops."Three pounds!" he muttered, absently. "And Harding isn't a liar.I believe, if I could--but it's impossible--they've got to haveanother month--another month at least."In his office the upholder of urban midsummer joys dived,headforemost, into the swimming pool of business. Adkins, his clerk,came and added a spray of letters, memoranda and telegrams.At 5 o'clock in the afternoon the busy man leaned back in his officechair, put his feet on the desk and mused aloud:"I wonder what kind of bait Harding used."* * * * * * *She was all in white that day; and thereby Compton lost a bet toGaines. Compton had wagered she would wear light blue, for she knewthat was his favorite color, and Compton was a millionaire's son,and that almost laid him open to the charge of betting on a surething. But white was her choice, and Gaines held up his head withtwenty-five's lordly air.The little summer hotel in the mountains had a lively crowd thatyear. There were two or three young college men and a couple ofartists and a young naval officer on one side. On the other therewere enough beauties among the young ladies for the correspondent ofa society paper to refer to them as a "bevy." But the moon among thestars was Mary Sewell. Each one of the young men greatly desired toarrange matters so that he could pay her millinery bills, and fixthe furnace, and have her do away with the "Sewell" part of her nameforever. Those who could stay only a week or two went away hintingat pistols and blighted hearts. But Compton stayed like themountains themselves, for he could afford it. And Gaines stayedbecause he was a fighter and wasn't afraid of millionaire's sons,and--well, he adored the country."What do you think, Miss Mary?" he said once. "I knew a duffer inNew York who claimed to like it in the summer time. Said you couldkeep cooler there than you could in the woods. Wasn't he an awfulsilly? I don't think I could breathe on Broadway after the 1st ofJune.""Mamma was thinking of going back week after next," said Miss Marywith a lovely frown."But when you think of it," said Gaines, "there are lots of jollyplaces in town in the summer. The roof gardens, you know, andthe--er--the roof gardens."Deepest blue was the lake that day--the day when they had the mocktournament, and the men rode clumsy farm horses around in a glade inthe woods and caught curtain rings on the end of a lance. Such fun!Cool and dry as the finest wine came the breath of the shadowedforest. The valley below was a vision seen through an opal haze. Awhite mist from hidden falls blurred the green of a hand's breadthof tree tops half-way down the gorge. Youth made merry hand-in-handwith young summer. Nothing on Broadway like that.The villagers gathered to see the city folks pursue their maddrollery. The woods rang with the laughter of pixies and naiads andsprites. Gaines caught most of the rings. His was the privilege tocrown the queen of the tournament. He was the conquering knight--asfar as the rings went. On his arm he wore a white scarf. Comptonwore light blue. She had declared her preference for blue, but shewore white that day.Gaines looked about for the queen to crown her. He heard her merrylaugh, as if from the clouds. She had slipped away and climbedChimney Rock, a little granite bluff, and stood there, a white fairyamong the laurels, fifty feet above their heads.Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge. The bluffwas easily mounted at the rear, but the front offered small holdto hand or foot. Each man quickly selected his route and beganto climb, A crevice, a bush, a slight projection, a vine or treebranch--all of these were aids that counted in the race. It wasall foolery--there was no stake; but there was youth in it, crossreader, and light hearts, and something else that Miss Clay writesso charmingly about.Gaines gave a great tug at the root of a laurel and pulled himselfto Miss Mary's feet. On his arm he carried the wreath of roses; andwhile the villagers and summer boarders screamed and applauded belowhe placed it on the queen's brow."You are a gallant knight," said Miss Mary."If I could be your true knight always," began Gaines, but Miss Marylaughed him dumb, for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rockone minute behind time.What a twilight that was when they drove back to the hotel! The opalof the valley turned slowly to purple, the dark woods framed thelake as a mirror, the tonic air stirred the very soul in one. Thefirst pale stars came out over the mountain tops where yet a faintglow of--* * * * * * *"I beg your pardon, Mr. Gaines," said Adkins.The man who believed New York to be the finest summer resort in theworld opened his eyes and kicked over the mucilage bottle on hisdesk."I--I believe I was asleep," he said."It's the heat," said Adkins. "It's something awful in the citythese"--"Nonsense!" said the other. "The city beats the country ten to onein summer. Fools go out tramping in muddy brooks and wear themselvesout trying to catch little fish as long as your finger. Stay in townand keep comfortable--that's my idea.""Some letters just came," said Adkins. "I thought you might like toglance at them before you go."Let us look over his shoulder and read just a few lines of one ofthem:MY DEAR, DEAR HUSBAND: Just received your letter ordering us tostay another month . . . Rita's cough is almost gone . . . Johnnyhas simply gone wild like a little Indian . . . Will be themaking of both children . . . work so hard, and I know that yourbusiness can hardly afford to keep us here so long . . . best manthat ever . . . you always pretend that you like the city insummer . . . trout fishing that you used to be so fond of . . .and all to keep us well and happy . . . come to you if it werenot doing the babies so much good . . . I stood last evening onChimney Rock in exactly the same spot where I was when you putthe wreath of roses on my head . . . through all the world . . .when you said you would be my true knight . . . fifteen yearsago, dear, just think! . . . have always been that to me . . .ever and ever,MARY.The man who said he thought New York the finest summer resort in thecountry dropped into a cafe on his way home and had a glass of beerunder an electric fan."Wonder what kind of a fly old Harding used," he said to himself.
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