That Home-Town Feeling
We all have our ambitions. Mine is to sit in a rocking-chair onthe sidewalk at the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets, and watchthe crowds go by. South Clark Street is one of the mostinteresting and cosmopolitan thoroughfares in the world (NewYorkers please sniff). If you are from Paris, France, or Paris,Illinois, and should chance to be in that neighborhood, you willstop at Tony's news stand to buy your home-town paper. Don'tmistake the nature of this story. There is nothing of theshivering-newsboy-waif about Tony. He has the voice of a fog-horn,the purple-striped shirt of a sport, the diamond scarf-pin of aracetrack tout, and the savoir faire of the gutter-bred. You'dnever pick him for a newsboy if it weren't for his chapped handsand the eternal cold-sore on the upper left corner of his mouth.It is a fascinating thing, Tony's stand. A high woodenstructure rising tier on tier, containing papers from every cornerof the world. I'll defy you to name a paper that Tony doesn'thandle, from Timbuctoo to Tarrytown, from South Bend to SouthAfrica. A paper marked Christiania, Norway, nestles next to asheet from Kalamazoo, Michigan. You can get the War Cry, or LeFigaro. With one hand, Tony will give you the Berlin Tageblatt,and with the other the Times from Neenah, Wisconsin. Take yourchoice between the Bulletin from Sydney, Australia, or the Bee fromOmaha.But perhaps you know South Clark Street. It is honeycombedwith good copy--man-size stuff. South Clark Street reminds one ofa slatternly woman, brave in silks and velvets on the surface, butragged, and rumpled and none too clean as to nether garments. Itbegins with a tenement so vile, so filthy, so repulsive, that themunicipal authorities deny its very existence. It ends with abrand-new hotel, all red brick, and white tiling, and Louise Quinzefurniture, and sour-cream colored marble lobby, and oriental rugslavishly scattered under the feet of the unappreciative guest fromKansas City. It is a street of signs, is South Clark. They varyall the way from "Banca Italiana" done in fat, fly-specked lettersof gold, to "Sang Yuen" scrawled in Chinese red and black.Spaghetti and chop suey and dairy lunches nestle side by side.Here an electric sign blazons forth the tempting announcement oflunch. Just across the way, delicately suggesting a means ofavailing one's self of the invitation, is another which announces"Loans." South Clark Street can transform a winter overcoat intohamburger and onions so quickly that the eye can't follow the hand.Do you gather from this that you are being taken slumming?Not at all. For the passer-by on Clark Street varies as to color,nationality, raiment, finger-nails, and hair-cut according to thelocality in which you find him.At the tenement end the feminine passer-by is apt to beshawled, swarthy, down-at-the-heel, and dragging a dark-eyed,fretting baby in her wake. At the hotel end you will find herblonde of hair, velvet of boot, plumed of head-gear, and prone tohave at her heels a white, woolly, pink-eyed dog.The masculine Clark Streeter? I throw up my hands. Prayremember that South Clark Street embraces the dime lodging house,pawnshop, hotel, theater, chop-suey and railway office district,all within a few blocks. From the sidewalk in front of hisgroggery, "Bath House John" can see the City Hall. The trim,khaki-garbed enlistment officer rubs elbows with the lodging housebum. The masculine Clark Streeter may be of the kind that begs adime for a bed, or he may loll in manicured luxury at themarble-lined hotel. South Clark Street is so splendidlyindifferent.Copy-hunting, I approached Tony with hope in my heart, a smileon my lips, and a nickel in my hand."Philadelphia--er--Inquirer?" I asked, those being the cityand paper which fire my imagination least.Tony whipped it out, dexterously.I looked at his keen blue eye, his lean brown face, and hispunishing jaw, and I knew that no airy persiflage would deceivehim. Boldly I waded in."I write for the magazines," said I."Do they know it?" grinned Tony."Just beginning to be faintly aware. Your stand looks like astory to me. Tell me, does one ever come your way? For instance,don't they come here asking for their home-town paper--sobs intheir voice--grasp the sheet with trembling hands--type swims in amisty haze before their eyes--turn aside to brush away a tear--allthat kind of stuff, you know?"Tony's grin threatened his cold-sore. You can't stand on thecorner of Clark and Randolph all those years without getting wiseto everything there is."I'm on," said he, "but I'm afraid I can't accommodate,girlie. I guess my ear ain't attuned to that sob stuff. What'sthat? Yessir. Nossir, fifteen cents. Well, I can't help that;fifteen's the reg'lar price of foreign papers. Thanks. There, didyou see that? I bet that gink give up fifteen of his last two bitsto get that paper. O, well, sometimes they look happy, and thenagain sometimes they--Yes'm. Mississippi? Five cents. Los VegasOptic right here. Heh there! You're forgettin' your change!--an'then again sometimes they look all to the doleful. Say, stickaround. Maybe somebody'll start something. You can't never tell."And then this happened.A man approached Tony's news stand from the north, and a womanapproached Tony's news stand from the south. They brought my storywith them.The woman reeked of the city. I hope you know what I mean.She bore the stamp, and seal, and imprint of it. It had ground itsheel down on her face. At the front of her coat she wore a hugebunch of violets, with a fleshly tuberose rising from its center.Her furs were voluminous. Her hat was hidden beneath the cascadesof a green willow plume. A green willow plume would make Edna Maylook sophisticated. She walked with that humping hip movementwhich city women acquire. She carried a jangling handful ofuseless gold trinkets. Her heels were too high, and her hair tooyellow, and her lips too red, and her nose too white, and hercheeks too pink. Everything about her was "too," from the blackstitching on her white gloves to the buckle of brilliants in herhat. The city had her, body and soul, and had fashioned her in itsmetallic cast. You would have sworn that she had never seenflowers growing in a field.Said she to Tony:"Got a Kewaskum Courier?"As she said it the man stopped at the stand and put hisquestion. To present this thing properly I ought to be able todescribe them both at the same time, like a juggler keeping twoballs in the air at once. Kindly carry the lady in your mind'seye. The man was tall and rawboned, with very white teeth, veryblue eyes and an open-faced collar that allowed full play to anobjectionably apparent Adam's apple. His hair and mustache weresandy, his gait loping. His manner, clothes, and complexionbreathed of Waco, Texas (or is it Arizona?)Said he to Tony:"Let me have the London Times."Well, there you are. I turned an accusing eye on Tony."And you said no stories came your way," I murmured,reproachfully."Help yourself," said Tony.The blonde lady grasped the Kewaskum Courier. Her green plumeappeared to be unduly agitated as she searched its columns. Thesheet rattled. There was no breeze. The hands in the too-blackstitched gloves were trembling.I turned from her to the man just in time to see the Adam'sapple leaping about unpleasantly and convulsively. Whereupon Ijumped to two conclusions.Conclusion one: Any woman whose hands can tremble over theKewaskum Courier is homesick.Conclusion two: Any man, any part of whose anatomy can becomeconvulsed over the London Times is homesick.She looked up from her Courier. He glanced away from hisTimes. As the novelists have it, their eyes met. And there, ineach pair of eyes there swam that misty haze about which I had soearnestly consulted Tony. The Green Plume took an involuntary stepforward. The Adam's Apple did the same. They spokesimultaneously."They're going to pave Main Street," said the Green Plume,"and Mrs. Wilcox, that was Jeri Meyers, has got another baby girl,and the ladies of the First M. E. made seven dollars and sixty-ninecents on their needle-work bazaar and missionary tea. I ain't beenhome in eleven years.""Hallem is trying for Parliament in Westchester and the Kingis back at Windsor. My mother wears a lace cap down to breakfast,and the place is famous for its tapestries and yew trees and familyghost. I haven't been home in twelve years."The great, soft light of fellow feeling and sympathy glowed inthe eyes of each. The Green Plume took still another step forwardand laid her hand on his arm (as is the way of Green Plumes theworld over)."Why don't you go, kid?" she inquired, softly.Adam's Apple gnawed at his mustache end. "I'm the blacksheep. Why don't you?"The blonde lady looked down at her glove tips. Her lower lipwas caught between her teeth."What's the feminine for black sheep? I'm that. Anyway, I'dbe afraid to go home for fear it would be too much of a shock forthem when they saw my hair. They wasn't in on the intermediatestages when it was chestnut, auburn, Titian, gold, and orangecolored. I want to spare their feelings. The last time they sawme it was just plain brown. Where I come from a woman who dyes herhair when it is beginning to turn gray is considered as good aslost. Funny, ain't it? And yet I remember the minister's wifeused to wear false teeth--the kind that clicks. But hair isdifferent.""Dear lady," said the blue-eyed man, "it would make nodifference to your own people. I know they would be happy to seeyou, hair and all. One's own people----""My folks? That's just it. If the Prodigal Son had been adaughter they'd probably have handed her one of her sister's motherhubbards, and put her to work washing dishes in the kitchen. Yousee, after Ma died my brother married, and I went to live with himand Lil. I was an ugly little mug, and it looked all to theCinderella for me, with the coach, and four, and prince left out.Lil was the village beauty when my brother married her, and shekind of got into the habit of leaving the heavy role to me, andconfining herself to thinking parts. One day I took twenty dollarsand came to the city. Oh, I paid it back long ago, but I've neverbeen home since. But say, do you know every time I get near a newsstand like this I grab the home-town paper. I'll bet I've kepttrack every time my sister-in-law's sewing circle has met for thelast ten years, and the spring the paper said they built a newporch I was just dying to write and ask'em what they did with theVirginia creeper that used to cover the whole front and sides ofthe old porch.""Look here," said the man, very abruptly, "if it's money youneed, why----""Me! Do I look like a touch? Now you----""Finest stock farm and ranch in seven counties. I come toChicago once a year to sell. I've got just thirteen thousandnestling next to my left floating rib this minute."The eyes of the woman with the green plume narrowed down totwo glittering slits. A new look came into her face--a look thatmatched her hat, and heels and gloves and complexion and hair."Thirteen thousand! Thirteen thous---- Say, isn't it chillyon this corner, h'm? I know a kind of a restaurant just around thecorner where----""It's no use," said the sandy-haired man, gently. "And Iwouldn't have said that, if I were you. I was going back to-dayon the 5:25, but I'm sick of it all. So are you, or you wouldn'thave said what you just said. Listen. Let's go back home, you andI. The sight of a Navajo blanket nauseates me. The thought ofthose prairies makes my eyes ache. I know that if I have to eatone more meal cooked by that Chink of mine I'll hang him by his ownpigtail. Those rangy western ponies aren't horseflesh, fit for aman to ride. Why, back home our stables were-- Look here. I wantto see a silver tea-service, with a coat-of-arms on it. I want todress for dinner, and take in a girl with a white gown and smoothwhite shoulders. My sister clips roses in the morning, beforebreakfast, in a pink ruffled dress and garden gloves. Would youbelieve that, here, on Clark Street, with a whiskey sign overhead,and the stock-yard smells undernose? O, hell! I'm going home.""Home?" repeated the blonde lady. "Home?" The sagging linesabout her flaccid chin took on a new look of firmness and resolve.The light of determination glowed in her eyes."I'll beat you to it," she said. "I'm going home, too. I'llbe there to-morrow. I'm dead sick of this. Who cares whether Ilive or die? It's just one darned round of grease paint, and skyblue tights, and new boarding houses and humping over to thetheater every night, going on, and humping back to the room again.I want to wash up some supper dishes with egg on 'em, and set someyeast for bread, and pop a dishpan full of corn, and put a shawlover my head and run over to Millie Krause's to get her kimonosleeve pattern. I'm sour on this dirt and noise. I want to spendthe rest of my life in a place so that when I die they'll put acolumn in the paper, with a verse at the top, and all theneighbors'll come in and help bake up. Here--why, here I'd just betwo lines on the want ad page, with fifty cents extra for `Kewaskumpaper please copy.'"The man held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said, "and pleaseexcuse me if I say God bless you. I've never really wanted to sayit before, so it's quite extraordinary. My name's Guy Peel."The white glove, with its too-conspicuous black stitching,disappeared within his palm."Mine's Mercedes Meron, late of the Morning Glory Burlesquers,but from now on Sadie Hayes, of Kewaskum, Wisconsin. Good-byeand--well--God bless you, too. Say, I hope you don't think I'm inthe habit of talking to strange gents like this.""I am quite sure you are not," said Guy Peel, very gravely,and bowed slightly before he went south on Clark Street, and shewent north.Dear Reader, will you take my hand while I assist you to makea one year's leap. Whoop-la! There you are.A man and a woman approached Tony's news stand. You are quiteright. But her willow plume was purple this time. A purple willowplume would make Mario Doro look sophisticated. The man wassandy-haired, raw-boned, with a loping gait, very blue eyes, verywhite teeth, and an objectionably apparent Adam's apple. He camefrom the north, and she from the south.In story books, and on the stage, when two people meetunexpectedly after a long separation they always stop short, bringone hand up to their breast, and say: "You!" Sometimes,especially in the case where the heroine chances on the villain,they say, simultaneously: "You! Here!" I have seen peoplereunited under surprising circumstances, but they never said,"You!" They said something quite unmelodramatic, and commonplace,such as: "Well, look who's here!" or, "My land! If it ain't Ed!How's Ed?"So it was that the Purple Willow Plume and the Adam's Applestopped, shook hands, and viewed one another while the Plume said,"I kind of thought I'd bump into you. Felt it in my bones." Andthe Adam's Apple said:"Then you're not living in Kewaskum--er--Wisconsin?""Not any," responded she, briskly. "How do you happen to bestraying away from the tapestries, and the yew trees and the ghost,and the pink roses, and the garden gloves, and the silvertea-service with the coat-of-arms on it?"A slow, grim smile overspread the features of the man. "Youtell yours first," he said."Well," began she, "in the first place, my name's MercedesMeron, of the Morning Glory Burlesquers, formerly Sadie Hayes ofKewaskum, Wisconsin. I went home next day, like I said I would.Say, Mr. Peel (you said Peel, didn't you? Guy Peel. Nice, neatname), to this day, when I eat lobster late at night, and havedreams, it's always about that visit home.""How long did you stay?""I'm coming to that. Or maybe you can figure it out yourselfwhen I tell you I've been back eleven months. I wired the folks Iwas coming, and then I came before they had a chance to answer.When the train reached Kewaskum I stepped off into the arms of adowd in a home-made-made-over-year-before-last suit, and a hat thatwould have been funny if it hadn't been so pathetic. I grabbed herby the shoulders, and I held her off, and looked--looked at thewrinkles, and the sallow complexion, and the coat with the sleevesin wrong, and the mashed hat (I told you Lil used to be the villagepeach, didn't I?) and I says:"`For Gawd's sakes, Lil, does your husband beat you?'"`Steve!' she shrieks, `beat me! You must be crazy!'"`Well, if he don't, he ought to. Those clothes are groundsfor divorce,' I says."Mr. Guy Peel, it took me just four weeks to get wise to thefact that the way to cure homesickness is to go home. I spentthose four weeks trying to revolutionize my sister-in-law's house,dress, kids, husband, wall paper and parlor carpet. I took all thedoilies from under the ornaments and spoke my mind on the subjectof the hand-painted lamp, and Lil hates me for it yet, and will toher dying day. I fitted three dresses for her, and made her getsome corsets that she'll never wear. They have roast pork fordinner on Sundays, and they never go to the theater, and they likebread pudding, and they're happy. I wasn't. They treated me fine,and it was home, all right, but not my home. It was the same, butI was different. Eleven years away from anything makes it shrink,if you know what I mean. I guess maybe you do. I remember that Iused to think that the Grand View Hotel was a regular littleoriental palace that was almost too luxurious to be respectable,and that the traveling men who stopped there were gods, and just toprance past the hotel after supper had the Atlantic City board walklooking like a back alley on a rainy night. Well, everything hadsort of shriveled up just like that. The popcorn gave meindigestion, and I burned the skin off my nose popping it.Kneading bread gave me the backache, and the blamed stuff wouldn'traise right. I got so I was crazy to hear the roar of an L train,and the sound of a crossing policeman's whistle. I got to thinkinghow Michigan Avenue looks, downtown, with the lights shining downon the asphalt, and all those people eating in the swell hotels,and the autos, and the theater crowds and the windows, and--well,I'm back. Glad I went? You said it. Because it made me so darnedglad to get back. I've found out one thing, and it's a greatlittle lesson when you get it learned. Most of us are where we arebecause we belong there, and if we didn't, we wouldn't be. Say,that does sound mixed, don't it? But it's straight. Now you tellyours.""I think you've said it all," began Guy Peel. "It's queer,isn't it, how twelve years of America will spoil one for afternoontea, and yew trees, and tapestries, and lace caps, and roses. Themater was glad to see me, but she said I smelled woolly. Theythink a Navajo blanket is a thing the Indians wear on the war path,and they don't know whether Texas is a state, or a mineral water.It was slow--slow. About the time they were taking afternoon tea,I'd be reckoning how the boys would be rounding up the cattle forthe night, and about the time we'd sit down to dinner somethingseemed to whisk the dinner table, and the flowers, and the men andwomen in evening clothes right out of sight, like magic, and Icould see the boys stretched out in front of the bunk house aftertheir supper of bacon, and beans, and biscuit, and coffee. They'dbe smoking their pipes that smelled to Heaven, and further, andWing would be squealing one of his creepy old Chink songs out inthe kitchen, and the sky would be--say, Miss Meron, did you eversee the night sky, out West? Purple, you know, and soft as soap-suds, and so near that you want to reach up and touch it with yourhand. Toward the end my mother used to take me off in a corner andtell me that I hadn't spoken a word to the little girl that I hadtaken in to dinner, and that if I couldn't forget my uncouthwestern ways for an hour or two, at least, perhaps I'd better nottry to mingle with civilized people. I discovered that home isn'talways the place where you were born and bred. Home is the placewhere your everyday clothes are, and where somebody, or somethingneeds you. They didn't need me over there in England. Lord no!I was sick for the sight of a Navajo blanket. My shack's glowingwith them. And my books needed me, and the boys, and the critters,and Kate.""Kate?" repeated Miss Meron, quickly."Kate's my horse. I'm going back on the 5:25 to-night. Thisis my regular trip, you know. I came around here to buy a paper,because it has become a habit. And then, too, I sort offelt--well, something told me that you----""You're a nice boy," said Miss Meron. "By the way, did I tellyou that I married the manager of the show the week after I gotback? We go to Bloomington to-night, and then we jump to St. Paul.I came around here just as usual, because--well--because----"Tony's gift for remembering faces and facts amounts to genius.With two deft movements he whisked two papers from among the manyin the rack, and held them out."Kewaskum Courier?" he suggested."Nix," said Mercedes Meron, "I'll take a Chicago Scream.""London Times?" said Tony."No," replied Guy Peel. "Give me the San Antonio Express."
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