The Easter of the Soul

by O. Henry

　　

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It is hardly likely that a goddess may die. ThenEastre, the old Saxon goddess of spring, must belaughing in her muslin sleeve at people who believethat Easter, her namesake, exists only along certainstrips of Fifth Avenue pavement after church service.Aye! It belongs to the world. The ptarmigan inChilkoot Pass discards his winter white feathers forbrown; the Patagonian Beau Brummell oils his chi-gnon and clubs him another sweetheart to drag to hisskull-strewn flat. And down in Chrystie Street --Mr. "Tiger" McQuirk arose with a feeling ofdisquiet that be did not understand. With a prac-tised foot be rolled three of his younger brothers likelogs out of his way as they lay sleeping on the floor.Before a foot-square looking glass hung by the win-dow he stood and shaved himself. If that may seem toyou a task too slight to be thus impressively chron-icled, I bear with you; you do not know of the areasto be accomplished in traversing the cheek and chinof Mr. McQuirk.McQuirk, senior, had gone to work long before.The big son of the house was idle. He was a marble-cutter, and the marble-cutters were out on a strike."What ails ye?" asked his mother, looking at himcuriously; "are ye not feeling well the morning,maybe now?""He's thinking along of Annie Maria Doyle, im-pudently explained younger brother Tim, ten yearsold.""Tiger" reached over the hand of a champion andswept the small McQuirk from his chair."I feel fine," said he, "beyond a touch of theI-don't-know-what-you-call-its. I feel like there wasgoing to be earthquakes or music or a trifle of chillsand fever or maybe a picnic. I don't know how Ifeel. I feel like knocking the face off a policeman,or else maybe like playing Coney Island straightacross the board from pop-corn to the elephantboudabs.""It's the spring in yer bones," said Mrs. McQuirk."It's the sap risin'. Time was when I couldn't keepme feet still nor me head cool when the earthwormsbegan to crawl out in the dew of the mornin'. 'Tisa bit of tea will do ye good, made from pipsissewaand gentian bark at the druggist's.""Back up!" said Mr. McQuirk, impatiently."There's no spring in sight. There's snow yet onthe shed in Donovan's backyard. And yesterday theyputs open cars on the Sixth Avenue lines, and thejanitors have quit ordering coal. And that meanssix weeks more of winter, by all the signs that be."After breakfast Mr. McQuirk spent fifteen minutesbefore the corrugated mirror, subjugating his hairand arranging his green-and-purple ascot with itsamethyst tombstone pin-eloquent of his chosencalling.Since the strike had been called it was this par-ticular striker's habit to hie himself each morningto the corner saloon of Flaherty Brothers, and thereestablish himself upon the sidewalk, with one footresting on the bootblack's stand, observing thepanorama of the street until the pace of time broughttwelve o'clock and the dinner hour. And Mr."Tiger" McQuirk, with his athletic seventy inches,well trained in sport and battle; his smooth, pale,solid, amiable face -- blue where the razor had trav-elled; his carefully considered clothes and air of capa-bility, was himself a spectacle not displeasing to theeye.But on this morning Mr. McQuirk did not hastenimmediately to his post of leisure and observation.Something unusual that he could not quite grasp wasin the air. Something disturbed his thoughts, ruffledhis senses, made him at once languid, irritable, elated,dissastisfied and sportive. He was no diagnostician,and he did not know that Lent was breaking upphysiologically in his system.Mrs. McQuirk had spoken of spring. ScepticallyTiger looked about him for signs. Few theywere. The organ-grinders were at work; but theywere always precocious harbingers. It was nearenough spring for them to go penny-hunting when theskating ball dropped at the park. In the milliners'windows Easter hats, grave, gay and jubilant, blos-somed. There were green patches among the side-walk debris of the grocers. On a third-story window-sill the first elbow cushion of the season -- old goldstripes on a crimson ground -- supported the kimo-noed arms of a pensive brunette. The wind blewcold from the East River, but the sparrows were fly-ing to the eaves with straws. A second-hand store,combining foresight with faith, had set out an ice-chest and baseball goods.And then "Tiger's" eye, discrediting these signs,fell upon one that bore a bud of promise. From abright, new lithograph the head of Capricornus con-fronted him, betokening the forward and heady brew.Mr. McQuirk entered the saloon and called for hisglass of bock. He threw his nickel on the bar, raisedthe glass, set it down without tasting it and strolledtoward the door."Wot's the matter, Lord Bolinbroke?" inquiredthe sarcastic bartender; want a chiny vase or agold-lined epergne to drink it out of -- hey?""Say," said Mr. McQuirk, wheeling and shootingout a horizontal hand and a forty-five-degree chin,"you know your place only when it comes for givin'titles. I've changed me mind about drinkin -- see?You got your money, ain't you? Wait till you getstung before you get the droop to your lip, willyou?"Thus Mr. Quirk added mutability of desires to thestrange humors that had taken possession of him.Leaving the saloon, he walked away twenty stepsand leaned in the open doorway of Lutz, the barber.He and Lutz were friends, masking their sentimentsbehind abuse and bludgeons of repartee."Irish loafer," roared Lutz, "how do you do?So, not yet haf der bolicemans or der catcher ofdogs done deir duty!""Hello, Dutch," said Mr. McQuirk. "Can't getyour mind off of frankfurters, can you?""Bah!" exclaimed the German, coming and lean-ing in the door. "I haf a soul above frankfurtersto-day. Dere is springtime in der air. I can feel itcoming in ofer der mud of der streets and das icein der river. Soon will dere be bienics in der islands,mit kegs of beer under der trees.""Say," said Mr. McQuirk, setting his bat on oneside, "is everybody kiddin' me about gentle Spring?There ain't any more spring in the air than there isin a horsehair sofa in a Second Avenue furnishedroom. For me the winter underwear yet and thebuckwheat cakes.""You haf no boetry," said Lutz. True, it isyedt cold, und in der city we haf not many of dersigns; but dere are dree kinds of beoble dot shouldalways feel der'approach of spring first -- dey areboets, lovers and poor vidows."Mr. McQuirk went on his way, still possessed bythe strange perturbation that he did not understand.Something was lacking to his comfort, and it madehim half angry because be did not know what it was.Two blocks away he came upon a foe, one Conover,whom he was bound in honor to engage in combat.Mr. McQuirk made the attack with the charac-teristic suddenness and fierceness that had gained forhim the endearing sobriquet of "Tiger." The de-fence of Mr. Conover was so prompt and admirablethat the conflict was protracted until the onlookers un-selfishly gave the warning cry of "Cheese it -- thecop!" The principals escaped easily by runningthrough the nearest open doors into the communi-cating backyards at the rear of the houses.Mr. McQuirk emerged into another street. Hestood by a lamp-post for a few minutes engaged inthought and then he turned and plunged into a smallnotion and news shop. A red-haired young woman,eating gum-drops, came and looked freezingly at himacross the ice-bound steppes of the counter."Say, lady," he said, "have you got a song bookwith this in it. Let's see bow it leads off --"When the springtime comes well wander in the dale, love,And whisper of those days of yore -- ""I'm having a friend," explained Mr. McQuirk,"laid up with a broken leg, and he sent me afterit. He's a devil for songs and poetry when he can'tget out to drink.""We have not," replied the young woman, with un-concealed contempt. "But there is a new song outthat begins this way:"'Let us sit together in the old armchair;And while the firelight flickers we'll be comfortable there.'"There will be no profit in following Mr. "Tiger"McQuirk through his further vagaries of that dayuntil he comes to stand knocking at the door of AnnieMaria Doyle. The goddess Eastre, it seems, hadguided his footsteps aright at last."Is that you now, Jimmy McQuirk?" she cried,smiling through the opened door (Annie Maria hadnever accepted the "Tiger"). "Well, whatever!""Come out in the ball," said Mr. McQuirk. "Iwant to ask yer opinion of the weather - on thelevel.""Are you crazy, sure?" said Annie Maria."I am," said the "Tiger." "They've been tellingme all day there was spring in the air. Were theyliars? Or am I?""Dear me!" said Annie Maria -- "haven't you no-ticed it? I can almost smell the violets. And thegreen grass. Of course, there ain't any yet -- it'sjust a kind of feeling, you know.""That's what I'm getting at," said Mr. McQuirk.I've had it. I didn't recognize it at first. Ithought maybe it was en-wee, contracted the otherday when I stepped above Fourteenth Street. Butthe katzenjammer I've got don't spell violets. Itspells yer own name, Annie Maria, and it's you Iwant. I go to work next Monday, and I make fourdollars a day. Spiel up, old girl -- do we make ateam?""Jimmy," sighed Annie Maria, suddenly disap-pearing in his overcoat, "don't you see that springis all over the world right this minute?"But you yourself remember how that day ended.Beginning with so fine a promise of vernal things,late in the afternoon the air chilled and an inch ofsnow fell -- even so late in March. On Fifth Ave-nue the ladies drew their winter furs close aboutthem. Only in the florists' windows could be per-ceived any signs of the morning smile of the cominggoddess Eastre.At six o'clock Herr Lutz began to close his shop.He beard a well-known shout: "Hello, Dutch!""Tiger" McQuirk, in his shirt-sleeves, with hishat on the back of his bead, stood outside in thewhirling snow, puffing at a black cigar."Donnerwetter!" shouted Lutz, "der vinter, hehas gome back again yet!""Yer a liar, Dutch," called back Mr. McQuirk,with friendly geniality, it's springtime, by thewatch."

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