Story type: Literature
Nobody ever knew, except himself, what made a foolish young newspaper reporter, who happened into a small old-fashioned hotel in New York, observe Mr. Abel Pinkham with deep interest, listen to his talk, ask a question or two of the clerk, and then go away and make up an effective personal paragraph for one of the morning papers. He must have had a heart full of fun, this young reporter, and something honestly rustic and pleasing must have struck him in the guest’s demeanor, for there was a flavor in the few lines he wrote that made some of his fellows seize upon the little paragraph, and copy it, and add to it, and keep it moving. Nobody knows what starts such a thing in journalism, or keeps it alive after it is started, but on a certain Thursday morning the fact was made known to the world that among the notabilities then in the city, Abel Pinkham, Esquire, a distinguished citizen of Wetherford, Vermont, was visiting New York on important affairs connected with the maple-sugar industry of his native State. Mr. Pinkham had expected to keep his visit unannounced, but it was likely to occasion much interest in business and civic circles. This was something like the way that the paragraph started; but here and there a kindred spirit of the original journalist caught it up and added discreet lines about Mr. Pinkham’s probable stay in town, his occupation of an apartment on the fourth floor of the Ethan Allen Hotel, and other circumstances so uninteresting to the reading public in general that presently in the next evening edition, one city editor after another threw out the item, and the young journalists, having had their day of pleasure, passed on to other things.
Mr. and Mrs. Pinkham had set forth from home with many forebodings, in spite of having talked all winter about taking this journey as soon as the spring opened. They would have caught at any reasonable excuse for giving it up altogether, because when the time arrived it seemed so much easier to stay at home. Mrs. Abel Pinkham had never seen New York; her husband himself had not been to the city for a great many years; in fact, his reminiscences of the former visit were not altogether pleasant, since he had foolishly fallen into many snares, and been much gulled in his character of honest young countryman. There was a tarnished and worthless counterfeit of a large gold watch still concealed between the outer boarding and inner lath and plaster of the lean-to bedroom which Mr. Abel Pinkham had occupied as a bachelor; it was not the only witness of his being taken in by city sharpers, and he had winced ever since at the thought of their wiles. But he was now a man of sixty, well-to-do, and of authority in town affairs; his children were all well married and settled in homes of their own, except a widowed daughter, who lived at home with her young son, and was her mother’s lieutenant in household affairs.
The boy was almost grown, and at this season, when the maple sugar was all made and shipped, and it was still too early for spring work on the land, Mr. Pinkham could leave home as well as not, and here he was in New York, feeling himself to be a stranger and foreigner to city ways. If it had not been for that desire to appear well in his wife’s eyes, which had buoyed him over the bar of many difficulties, he could have found it in his heart to take the next train back to Wetherford, Vermont, to be there rid of his best clothes and the stiff rim of his heavy felt hat. He could not let his wife discover that the noise and confusion of Broadway had the least power to make him flinch: he cared no more for it than for the woods in snow-time. He was as good as anybody, and she was better. They owed nobody a cent; and they had come on purpose to see the city of New York.
They were sitting at the breakfast-table in the Ethan Allen Hotel, having arrived at nightfall the day before. Mrs. Pinkham looked a little pale about the mouth. She had been kept awake nearly all night by the noise, and had enjoyed but little the evening she had spent in the stuffy parlor of the hotel, looking down out of the window at what seemed to her but garish scenes, and keeping a reproachful and suspicious eye upon some unpleasantly noisy young women of forward behavior who were her only companions. Abel himself was by no means so poorly entertained in the hotel office and smoking-room. He felt much more at home than she did, being better used to meeting strange men than she was to strange women, and he found two or three companions who had seen more than he of New York life. It was there, indeed, that the young reporter found him, hearty and country-fed, and loved the appearance of his best clothes, and the way Mr. Abel Pinkham brushed his hair, and loved the way that he spoke in a loud and manful voice the belief and experience of his honest heart.
In the morning at breakfast-time the Pinkhams were depressed. They missed their good bed at home; they were troubled by the roar and noise of the streets that hardly stopped over night before it began again in the morning. The waiter did not put what mind he may have had to the business of serving them; and Mrs. Abel Pinkham, whose cooking was the triumph of parish festivals at home, had her own opinion about the beefsteak. She was a woman of imagination, and now that she was fairly here, spectacles and all, it really pained her to find that the New York of her dreams, the metropolis of dignity and distinction, of wealth and elegance, did not seem to exist. These poor streets, these unlovely people, were the end of a great illusion. They did not like to meet each other’s eyes, this worthy pair. The man began to put on an unbecoming air of assertion, and Mrs. Pinkham’s face was full of lofty protest.
“My gracious me, Mary Ann! I am glad I happened to get the ‘Tribune’ this mornin’,” said Mr. Pinkham, with sudden excitement. “Just you look here! I’d like well to know how they found out about our comin’!” and he handed the paper to his wife across the table. “There–there ‘t is; right by my thumb,” he insisted. “Can’t you see it?” and he smiled like a boy as she finally brought her large spectacles to bear upon the important paragraph.
“I guess they think somethin’ of us, if you don’t think much o’ them,” continued Mr. Pinkham, grandly. “Oh, they know how to keep the run o’ folks who are somebody to home! Draper and Fitch knew we was comin’ this week: you know I sent word I was comin’ to settle with them myself. I suppose they send folks round to the hotels, these newspapers, but I shouldn’t thought there’d been time. Anyway, they’ve thought ‘t was worthwhile to put us in!”
Mrs. Pinkham did not take the trouble to make a mystery out of the unexpected pleasure. “I want to cut it out an’ send it right up home to daughter Sarah,” she said, beaming with pride, and looking at the printed names as if they were flattering photographs. “I think ‘t was most too strong to say we was among the notables. But there! ’tis their business to dress up things, and they have to print somethin’ every day. I guess I shall go up and put on my best dress,” she added, inconsequently; “this one’s kind of dusty; it’s the same I rode in.”
“Le’ me see that paper again,” said Mr. Pinkham jealously. “I didn’t more ‘n half sense it, I was so taken aback. Well, Mary Ann, you didn’t expect you was goin’ to get into the papers when you came away. ‘ Abel Pinkham, Esquire, of Wetherford, Vermont.‘ It looks well, don’t it? But you might have knocked me down with a feather when I first caught sight of them words.”
“I guess I shall put on my other dress,” said Mrs. Pinkham, rising, with quite a different air from that with which she had sat down to her morning meal. “This one looks a little out o’ style, as Sarah said, but when I got up this mornin’ I was so homesick it didn’t seem to make any kind o’ difference. I expect that saucy girl last night took us to be nobodies. I’d like to leave the paper round where she couldn’t help seein’ it.”
“Don’t take any notice of her,” said Abel, in a dignified tone. “If she can’t do what you want an’ be civil, we’ll go somewheres else. I wish I’d done what we talked of at first an’ gone to the Astor House, but that young man in the cars told me ‘t was remote from the things we should want to see. The Astor House was the top o’ everything when I was here last, but I expected to find some changes. I want you to have the best there is,” he said, smiling at his wife as if they were just making their wedding journey. “Come, let’s be stirrin’; ‘t is long past eight o’clock,” and he ushered her to the door, newspaper in hand.
Later that day the guests walked up Broadway, holding themselves erect, and feeling as if every eye was upon them. Abel Pinkham had settled with his correspondents for the spring consignments of maple sugar, and a round sum in bank bills was stowed away in his breast pocket. One of the partners had been a Wetherford boy, so when there came a renewal of interest in maple sugar, and the best confectioners were ready to do it honor, the finest quality being at a large premium, this partner remembered that there never was any sugar made in Wetherford of such melting and delicious flavor as from the trees on the old Pinkham farm. He had now made a good bit of money for himself on this private venture, and was ready that morning to pay Mr. Abel Pinkham cash down, and to give him a handsome order for the next season for all he could make. Mr. Fitch was also generous in the matter of such details as freight and packing; he was immensely polite and kind to his old friends, and begged them to come out and stay with him and his wife, where they lived now, in a not far distant New Jersey town.
“No, no, sir,” said Mr. Pinkham promptly. “My wife has come to see the city, and our time is short. Your folks’ll be up this summer, won’t they? We’ll wait an’ visit then.”
“You must certainly take Mrs. Pinkham up to the Park,” said the commission merchant. “I wish I had time to show you round myself. I suppose you’ve been seeing some things already, haven’t you? I noticed your arrival in the ‘Herald.’”
“The ‘Tribune’ it was,” said Mr. Pinkham, blushing through a smile and looking round at his wife.
“Oh no; I never read the ‘Tribune,’” said Mr. Fitch. “There was quite an extended notice in my paper. They must have put you and Mrs. Pinkham into the ‘Herald’ too.” And so the friends parted, laughing. “I am much pleased to have a call from such distinguished parties,” said Mr. Fitch, by way of final farewell, and Mr. Pinkham waved his hand grandly in reply.
“Let’s get the ‘Herald,’ then,” he said, as they started up the street. “We can go an’ sit over in that little square that we passed as we came along, and rest an’ talk things over about what we’d better do this afternoon. I’m tired out a-trampin’ and standin’. I’d rather have set still while we were there, but he wanted us to see his store. Done very well, Joe Fitch has, but ‘t ain’t a business I should like.”
There was a lofty look and sense of behavior about Mr. Pinkham of Wetherford. You might have thought him a great politician as he marched up Broadway, looking neither to right hand nor left. He felt himself to be a person of great responsibilities.
“I begin to feel sort of at home myself,” said his wife, who always had a certain touch of simple dignity about her. “When we was comin’ yesterday New York seemed to be all strange, and there wasn’t nobody expectin’ us. I feel now just as if I’d been here before.”
They were now on the edge of the better-looking part of the town; it was still noisy and crowded, but noisy with fine carriages instead of drays, and crowded with well-dressed people. The hours for shopping and visiting were beginning, and more than one person looked with appreciative and friendly eyes at the comfortable pleased-looking elderly man and woman who went their easily beguiled and loitering way. The pavement peddlers detained them, but the cabmen beckoned them in vain; their eyes were busy with the immediate foreground. Mrs. Pinkham was embarrassed by the recurring reflection of herself in the great windows.
“I wish I had seen about a new bonnet before we came,” she lamented. “They seem to be havin’ on some o’ their spring things.”
“Don’t you worry, Mary Ann. I don’t see anybody that looks any better than you do,” said Abel, with boyish and reassuring pride.
Mr. Pinkham had now bought the “Herald,” and also the “Sun,” well recommended by an able newsboy, and presently they crossed over from that corner by the Fifth Avenue Hotel which seems like the very heart of New York, and found a place to sit down on the Square–an empty bench, where they could sit side by side and look the papers through, reading over each other’s shoulder, and being impatient from page to page. The paragraph was indeed repeated, with trifling additions. Ederton of the “Sun” had followed the “Tribune” man’s lead, and fabricated a brief interview, a marvel of art and discretion, but so general in its allusions that it could create no suspicion; it almost deceived Mr. Pinkham himself, so that he found unaffected pleasure in the fictitious occasion, and felt as if he had easily covered himself with glory. Except for the bare fact of the interview’s being imaginary, there was no discredit to be cast upon Mr. Abel Pinkham’s having said that he thought the country near Wetherford looked well for the time of year, and promised a fair hay crop, and that his income was augmented one half to three fifths by his belief in the future of maple sugar. It was likely to be the great coming crop of the Green Mountain State. Ederton suggested that there was talk of Mr. Pinkham’s presence in the matter of a great maple-sugar trust, in which much of the capital of Wall Street would be involved.
“How they do hatch up these things, don’t they?” said the worthy man at this point. “Well, it all sounds well, Mary Ann.”
“It says here that you are a very personable man,” smiled his wife, “and have filled some of the most responsible town offices” (this was the turn taken by Goffey of the “Herald”). “Oh, and that you are going to attend the performance at Barnum’s this evening, and occupy reserved seats. Why, I didn’t know–who have you told about that?–who was you talkin’ to last night, Abel?”
“I never spoke o’ goin’ to Barnum’s to any livin’ soul,” insisted Abel, flushing. “I only thought of it two or three times to myself that perhaps I might go an’ take you. Now that is singular; perhaps they put that in just to advertise the show.”
“Ain’t it a kind of a low place for folks like us to be seen in?” suggested Mrs. Pinkham timidly. “People seem to be payin’ us all this attention, an’ I don’t know’s ‘t would be dignified for us to go to one o’ them circus places.”
“I don’t care; we shan’t live but once. I ain’t comin’ to New York an’ confine myself to evenin’ meetin’s,” answered Abel, throwing away discretion and morality together. “I tell you I’m goin’ to spend this sugar-money just as we’ve a mind to. You’ve worked hard, an’ counted a good while on comin’, and so’ve I; an’ I ain’t goin’ to mince my steps an’ pinch an’ screw for nobody. I’m goin’ to hire one o’ them hacks an’ ride up to the Park.”
“Joe Fitch said we could go right up in one o’ the elevated railroads for five cents, an’ return when we was ready,” protested Mary Ann, who had a thriftier inclination than her husband; but Mr. Pinkham was not to be let or hindered, and they presently found themselves going up Fifth Avenue in a somewhat battered open landau. The spring sun shone upon them, and the spring breeze fluttered the black ostrich tip on Mrs. Pinkham’ s durable winter bonnet, and brought the pretty color to her faded cheeks.
“There! this is something like. Such people as we are can’t go meechin’ round; it ain’t expected. Don’t it pay for a lot o’ hard work?” said Abel; and his wife gave him a pleased look for her only answer. They were both thinking of their gray farmhouse high on a long western slope, with the afternoon sun full in its face, the old red barn, the pasture, the shaggy woods that stretched far up the mountain-side.
“I wish Sarah an’ little Abel was here to see us ride by,” said Mary Ann Pinkham, presently. “I can’t seem to wait to have ’em get that newspaper. I’m so glad we sent it right off before we started this mornin’. If Abel goes to the post-office comin’ from school, as he always does, they’ll have it to read to-morrow before supper-time.”
This happy day in two plain lives ended, as might have been expected, with the great Barnum show. Mr. and Mrs. Pinkham found themselves in possession of countless advertising cards and circulars next morning, and these added somewhat to their sense of responsibility. Mrs. Pinkham became afraid that the hotel-keeper would charge them double. “We’ve got to pay for it some way; there. I don’t know but I’m more ‘n willin’,” said the good soul. “I never did have such a splendid time in all my life. Findin’ you so respected ‘way off here is the best of anything; an’ then seein’ them dear little babies in their nice carriages, all along the streets and up to the Central Park! I never shall forget them beautiful little creatur’s. And then the houses, an’ the hosses, an’ the store windows, an’ all the rest of it! Well, I can’t make my country pitcher hold no more, an’ I want to get home an’ think it over, goin’ about my housework.”
They were just entering the door of the Ethan Allen Hotel for the last time, when a young man met them and bowed cordially. He was the original reporter of their arrival, but they did not know it, and the impulse was strong within him to formally invite Mr. Pinkham to make an address before the members of the Produce Exchange on the following morning; but he had been a country boy himself, and their look of seriousness and self-consciousness appealed to him unexpectedly. He wondered what effect this great experience would have upon their after-life. The best fun, after all, would be to send marked copies of his paper and Ederton’s to all the weekly newspapers in that part of Vermont. He saw before him the evidence of their happy increase of self-respect, and he would make all their neighborhood agree to do them honor. Such is the dominion of the press.
“Who was that young man?–he kind of bowed to you,” asked the lady from Wetherford, after the journalist had meekly passed; but Abel Pinkham, Esquire, could only tell her that he looked like a young fellow who was sitting in the office the evening that they came to the hotel. The reporter did not seem to these distinguished persons to be a young man of any consequence.