The Frog and the Puddle

by Edna Ferber

　　

---

Any one who has ever written for the magazines (nobody coulddevise a more sweeping opening; it includes the iceman who does ahumorous article on the subject of his troubles, and the neglectedwife next door, who journalizes) knows that a story the scene ofwhich is not New York is merely junk. Take Fifth Avenue as aframework, pad it out to five thousand words, and there you havethe ideal short story.Consequently I feel a certain timidity in confessing that I donot know Fifth Avenue from Hester Street when I see it, becauseI've never seen it. It has been said that from the latter to theformer is a ten-year journey, from which I have gathered that theylie some miles apart. As for Forty-second Street, of which musicalcomedians carol, I know not if it be a fashionable shoppingthoroughfare or a factory district.A confession of this kind is not only good for the soul, butfor the editor. It saves him the trouble of turning to page two.This is a story of Chicago, which is a first cousin of NewYork, although the two are not on chummy terms. It is a story ofthat part of Chicago which lies east of Dearborn Avenue and southof Division Street, and which may be called the Nottingham curtaindistrict.In the Nottingham curtain district every front parlor windowis embellished with a "Rooms With or Without Board" sign. Thecurtains themselves have mellowed from their originaldepartment-store-basement-white to a rich, deep tone of Chicagosmoke, which has the notorious London variety beaten by severalshades. Block after block the two-story-and-basement housesstretch, all grimy and gritty and looking sadly down upon the fivesquare feet of mangy grass forming the pitiful front yard of each.Now and then the monotonous line of front stoops is broken by anoutjutting basement delicatessen shop. But not often. TheNottingham curtain district does not run heavily to delicacies. Itis stronger on creamed cabbage and bread pudding.Up in the third floor back at Mis' Buck's (elegant rooms $2.50and up a week. Gents preferred) Gertie was brushing her hair forthe night. One hundred strokes with a bristle brush. Anyone whoreads the beauty column in the newspapers knows that. There wassomething heroic in the sight of Gertie brushing her hair onehundred strokes before going to bed at night. Only a woman couldunderstand her doing it.Gertie clerked downtown on State Street, in a gents' glovedepartment. A gents' glove department requires careful dressing onthe part of its clerks, and the manager, in selecting them, isparticular about choosing "lookers," with especial attention tofigure, hair, and finger nails. Gertie was a looker. Providencehad taken care of that. But you cannot leave your hair and fingernails to Providence. They demand coaxing with a bristle brush andan orangewood stick.Now clerking, as Gertie would tell you, is fierce on the feet.And when your feet are tired you are tired all over. Gertie's feetwere tired every night. About eight-thirty she longed to peel offher clothes, drop them in a heap on the floor, and tumble,unbrushed, unwashed, unmanicured, into bed. She never did it.Things had been particularly trying to-night. After washingout three handkerchiefs and pasting them with practised hand overthe mirror, Gertie had taken off her shoes and discovered a holethe size of a silver quarter in the heel of her left stocking.Gertie had a country-bred horror of holey stockings. She darnedthe hole, yawning, her aching feet pressed against the smooth, coolleg of the iron bed. That done, she had had the colossal courageto wash her face, slap cold cream on it, and push back the cuticlearound her nails.Seated huddled on the side of her thin little iron bed, Gertiewas brushing her hair bravely, counting the strokes somewhere inher sub-conscious mind and thinking busily all the while ofsomething else. Her brush rose, fell, swept downward, rose, fell,rhythmically."Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety -- Oh, darnit! What's the use!" cried Gertie, and hurled the brush across theroom with a crack.She sat looking after it with wide, staring eyes until thebrush blurred in with the faded red roses on the carpet. When shefound it doing that she got up, wadded her hair viciously into ahard bun in the back instead of braiding it carefully as usual,crossed the room (it wasn't much of a trip), picked up the brush,and stood looking down at it, her under lip caught between herteeth. That is the humiliating part of losing your temper andthrowing things. You have to come down to picking them up, anyway.Her lip still held prisoner, Gertie tossed the brush on thebureau, fastened her nightgown at the throat with a safety pin,turned out the gas and crawled into bed.Perhaps the hard bun at the back of her head kept her awake.She lay there with her eyes wide open and sleepless, staring intothe darkness.At midnight the Kid Next Door came in whistling, like oneunused to boarding-house rules. Gertie liked him for that. At thehead of the stairs he stopped whistling and came softly into hisown third floor back just next to Gertie's. Gertie liked him forthat, too.The two rooms had been one in the fashionable days of theNottingham curtain district, long before the advent of Mis' Buck.That thrifty lady, on coming into possession, had caused a flimsypartition to be run up, slicing the room in twain and doubling itsrental.Lying there Gertie could hear the Kid Next Door moving aboutgetting ready for bed and humming "Every Little Movement Has aMeaning of Its Own" very lightly, under his breath. He polishedhis shoes briskly, and Gertie smiled there in the darkness of herown room in sympathy. Poor kid, he had his beauty struggles, too.Gertie had never seen the Kid Next Door, although he had comefour months ago. But she knew he wasn't a grouch, because healternately whistled and sang off-key tenor while dressing in themorning. She had also discovered that his bed must run along thesame wall against which her bed was pushed. Gertie told herselfthat there was something almost immodest about being able to hearhim breathing as he slept. He had tumbled into bed with a littlegrunt of weariness.Gertie lay there another hour, staring into the darkness.Then she began to cry softly, lying on her face with her headbetween her arms. The cold cream and the salt tears mingled andformed a slippery paste. Gertie wept on because she couldn't helpit. The longer she wept the more difficult her sobs became, untilfinally they bordered on the hysterical. They filled her lungsuntil they ached and reached her throat with a force that jerkedher head back."Rap-rap-rap!" sounded sharply from the head of her bed.Gertie stopped sobbing, and her heart stopped ,beating. Shelay tense and still, listening. Everyone knows that spooks rapthree times at the head of one's bed. It's a regular high-signwith them."Rap-rap-rap!"Gertie's skin became goose-flesh, and coldwater effects chasedup and down her spine."What's your trouble in there?" demanded an unspooky voice sonear that Gertie jumped. "Sick?"It was the Kid Next Door."N-no, I'm not sick," faltered Gertie, her mouth close to thewall. Just then a belated sob that had stopped halfway when theraps began hustled on to join its sisters. It took Gertie bysurprise, and brought prompt response from the other side of thewall."I'll bet I scared you green. I didn't mean to, but, on thesquare, if you're feeling sick, a little nip of brandy will set youup. Excuse my mentioning it, girlie, but I'd do the same for mysister. I hate like sin to hear a woman suffer like that, and,anyway, I don't know whether you're fourteen or forty, soit's perfectly respectable. I'll get the bottle and leave itoutside your door.""No you don't!" answered Gertie in a hollow voice, prayingmeanwhile that the woman in the room below might be sleeping. "I'mnot sick, honestly I'm not. I'm just as much obliged, and I'm deadsorry I woke you up with my blubbering. I started out with thesoft pedal on, but things got away from me. Can you hear me?""Like a phonograph. Sure you couldn't use a sip of brandywhere it'd do the most good?""Sure.""Well, then, cut out the weeps and get your beauty sleep, kid.He ain't worth sobbing over, anyway, believe me.""He!" snorted Gertie indignantly. "You're cold. There neverwas anything in peg-tops that could make me carry on like theheroine of the Elsie series.""Lost your job?""No such luck.""Well, then, what in Sam Hill could make a woman----""Lonesome!" snapped Gertie. "And the floorwalker got freshto-day. And I found two gray hairs to-night. And I'd give my nextweek's pay envelope to hear the double click that our front gategives back home.""Back home!" echoed the Kid Next Door in a dangerously loudvoice. "Say, I want to talk to you. If you'll promise you won'tget sore and think I'm fresh, I'll ask you a favor. Slip on akimono and we'll sneak down to the front stoop and talk it over.I'm as wide awake as a chorus girl and twice as hungry. I've gottwo apples and a box of crackers. Are you on?"Gertie snickered. "It isn't done in our best sets, but I'mon. I've got a can of sardines and an orange. I'll be ready insix minutes."She was, too. She wiped off the cold cream and salt tearswith a dry towel, did her hair in a schoolgirl braid and tied itwith a big bow, and dressed herself in a black skirt and a babyblue dressing sacque. The Kid Next Door was waiting outside in thehall. His gray sweater covered a multitude of sartorialdeficiencies. Gertie stared at him, and he stared at Gertie in thesickly blue light of the boarding-house hall, and it took herone-half of one second to discover that she liked his mouth, andhis eyes, and the way his hair was mussed."Why, you're only a kid!" whispered the Kid Next Door, insurprise.Gertie smothered a laugh. "You're not the first man that'sbeen deceived by a pig-tail braid and a baby blue waist. I couldlocate those two gray hairs for you with my eyes shut and my feetin a sack. Come on, boy. These Robert W. Chambers situations makeme nervous."Many earnest young writers with a flow of adjectives and apassion for detail have attempted to describe the quiet of a greatcity at night, when a few million people within it are sleeping, orought to be. They work in the clang of a distant owl car, and theroar of an occasional "L" train, and the hollow echo of thefootsteps of the late passer-by. They go elaborately intodescription, and are strong on the brooding hush, but the thing hasnever been done satisfactorily.Gertie, sitting on the front stoop at two in the morning, withher orange in one hand and the sardine can in the other, put itthis way:"If I was to hear a cricket chirp now, I'd screech. Thisisn't really quiet. It's like waiting for a cannon cracker to gooff just before the fuse is burned down. The bang isn't there yet,but you hear it a hundred times in your mind before it happens.""My name's Augustus G. Eddy," announced the Kid Next Door,solemnly. "Back home they always called me Gus. You peel thatorange while I unroll the top of this sardine can. I'm guilty ofhaving interrupted you in the middle of what the girls call a goodcry, and I know you'll have to get it out of your system some way.Take a bite of apple and then wade right in and tell me what you'redoing in this burg if you don't like it.""This thing ought to have slow music," began Gertie. "It'spathetic. I came to Chicago from Beloit, Wisconsin, because Ithought that little town was a lonesome hole for a vivaciouscreature like me. Lonesome! Listen while I laugh a low mirthlesslaugh. I didn't know anything about the three-ply,double-barreled, extra heavy brand of lonesomeness that a big townlike this can deal out. Talk about your desert wastes! They'resociable and snug compared to this. I know three-fourths of thepeople in Beloit, Wisconsin, by their first names. I've lived heresix months and I'm not on informal terms with anybody except Teddy,the landlady's dog, and he's a trained rat-and-book-agent terrier,and not inclined to overfriendliness. When I clerked at theEnterprise Store in Beloit the women used to come in and ask forsomething we didn't carry just for an excuse to copy the way thelace yoke effects were planned in my shirtwaists. You ought to seethe way those same shirtwaist stack up here. Why, boy, thelingerie waists that the other girls in my department wear make mybest hand-tucked effort look like a simple English country blouse.They're so dripping with Irish crochet and real Val and Clunyinsertions that it's a wonder the girls don't get stoop-shoulderedcarrying 'em around.""Hold on a minute," commanded Gus. "This thing is uncanny.Our cases dovetail like the deductions in a detective story. Kneelhere at my feet, little daughter, and I'll tell you the story of mysad young life. I'm no child of the city streets, either. Say, Icame to this town because I thought there was a bigger field for mein Gents' Furnishings. Joke, what?"But Gertie didn't smile. She gazed up at Gus, and Gus gazeddown at her, and his fingers fiddled absently with the big bow atthe end of her braid."And isn't there?" asked Gertie, sympathetically."Girlie, I haven't saved twelve dollars since I came. I'm notightwad, and I don't believe in packing everything away into awhite marble mausoleum, but still a gink kind of whispers tohimself that some day he'll be furnishing up a kitchen pantry ofhis own.""Oh!" said Gertie."And let me mention in passing," continued Gus, winding theribbon bow around his finger, "that in the last hour or so thatwhisper has been swelling to a shout.""Oh!" said Gertie again."You said it. But I couldn't buy a secondhand gas stove withwhat I've saved in the last half-year here. Back home they used tothink I was a regular little village John Drew, I was so dressy.But here I look like a yokel on circus day compared to the otherfellows in the store. All they need is a field glass strung overtheir shoulder to make them look like a clothing ad in the back ofa popular magazine. Say, girlie, you've got the prettiest hairI've seen since I blew in here. Look at that braid! Thick as arope! That's no relation to the piles of jute that the Flossieshere stack on their heads. And shines! Like satin.""It ought to," said Gertrude, wearily. "I brush it a hundredstrokes every night. Sometimes I'm so beat that I fall asleep withmy brush in the air. The manager won't stand for any romping curlsor hooks-and-eyes that don't connect. It keeps me so busy beingbeautiful, and what the society writers call `well groomed,' thatI don't have time to sew the buttons on my underclothes.""But don't you get some amusement in the evening?" marveledGus. "What was the matter with you and the other girls in thestore? Can't you hit it off?""Me? No. I guess I was too woodsy for them. I went out withthem a couple of times. I guess they're nice girls all right; butthey've got what you call a broader way of looking at things thanI have. Living in a little town all your life makes you narrow.These girls!--Well, maybe I'll get educated up to their plane someday, but----""No, you don't!" hissed Gus. "Not if I can help it.""But you can't," replied Gertie, sweetly. "My, ain't this agrand night! Evenings like this I used to love to putter aroundthe yard after supper, sprinkling the grass and weeding theradishes. I'm the greatest kid to fool around with a hose. Andflowers! Say, they just grow for me. You ought to have seen mypansies and nasturtiums last summer."The fingers of the Kid Next Door wandered until they foundGertie's. They clasped them."This thing just points one way, little one. It's just asplain as a path leading up to a cozy little three-room flat uphere on the North Side somewhere. See it? With me and youmarried, and playing at housekeeping in a parlor and bedroom andkitchen? And both of us going down town to work in the morningjust the same as we do now. Only not the same, either.""Wake up, little boy," said Gertie, prying her fingers awayfrom those other detaining ones. "I'd fit into a three-room flatlike a whale in a kitchen sink. I'm going back to Beloit,Wisconsin. I've learned my lesson all right. There's a fellowthere waiting for me. I used to think he was too slow. But say,he's got the nicest little painting and paper-hanging business youever saw, and making money. He's secretary of the K. P.'s backhome. They give some swell little dances during the winter,especially for the married members. In five years we'll own ourhome, with a vegetable garden in the back. I'm a little frog, andit's me for the puddle."Gus stood up slowly. Gertie felt a little pang of compunctionwhen she saw what a boy he was."I don't know when I've enjoyed a talk like this. I've heardabout these dawn teas, but I never thought I'd go to one," shesaid."Good-night, girlie," interrupted Gus, abruptly. "It's thedreamless couch for mine. We've got a big sale on in tan and blackseconds to-morrow."

---

---