From: Arden Town (1913; Unpublished MS)
Author: Scott Nearing
Published:
A little crowd, of which Ruth Wade was the central figure, decided, after the meeting had adjourned, that there was still time for a dance; so there was an hour of gayety at the Club House and then everyone turned homeward.
“To-morrow,” said Ruth Wade to Fred as they parted, “I am going to town. Uncle Will has promised to keep you occupied. He has a strawberry bed, you know.”
Fred Allen spent a part of the next day in the strawberry bed, picking out weeds, cutting runners, and caring for borders. At another time he was at the blacksmith shop helping to forge a pair of heavy andirons. Early in the morning, while he worked in the strawberry patch, a half dozen of the children came to him, laughing and asking if they might help. Upon being set to work, they enjoyed the weeding hugely for twenty minutes; and then, tiring of the work, they had turned to throwing weeds in each other’s hair; to racing about the bed, to riding on Fred’s back, and to playing hide and seek about the tool house, until Will Evans, fearful for his plants, begged them to find a more distant scene of action. This they did with very bad grace, and a promise that they would soon return.
“They are like my strawberry plants,” laughed Will Evans, when they had gone, “an infinite deal of trouble, but in the end worth all of it.”
Fred Allen looked earnestly after them as they played cross- tag on the common running and shouting in wild tumultuous joy.
“They are wonderful,” he breathed. “For years I have been forgetting. Once in awhile, when I visit a friend who has young children, it all comes back to me again. But I see so little of them that it does not stay with me long. Since I have been here I have seen them frolicking a dozen times every day—and such frolics as they have! It brings back the remark of one of my dearest friends.—‘Any one who hasn’t had children can’t imagine the fun it is to watch them grow.’ You know, I believe that he is right—it must be wonderful fun.”
“The real fact is bigger even than you state it,” answered Will Evans. “It is ‘fun,’ as you put it, or a ‘satisfaction,’ as I should put it, to watch anything’ grow. Look at my strawberries. You know one of our bright writers says somewhere that ‘doubtless God might have made a better berry than the wild strawberry, but doubtless God never did.’ That side appeals to me, of course. I like strawberries. Better than that, however, I like to see strawberries grow. I come down here in the early spring, rake the straw off the rows, and watch anxiously for the first peeping spots of green that show the places where leaves will appear later on. Then I see the leaves open, see the blossoms come, see the fruit set, grow, and at last color in the sunlight, and the warm red and green of the berries and of the leaves warms my whole being. Some philosophers will tell you that it is merely gastronomic anticipations, but I do not believe it for an instant. It is something much better and deeper than that—the response of man’s soul to the changes which nature works in the world, as well as in man. It is his reaction to growth in any of its myriad forms.”
“Since I have been staying here,” said Fred Allen, straightening his back as he finished a row. “I have been watching the children, and comparing their lives with the lives of the children I see in the city; and really l wonder that those brats in the city are not infinitely worse than they are.”
“Do you know” Will Evans interposed, “a pedagogical friend of mine is working out the theory that there is a definite relation between the child who intelligently watches growth and the child who does not. The country child sees plants develop with the changing seasons, and his mind unfolds, with the unfolding of nature. The city child, denied these privileges, is sharper, but far shallower in his mental make-up. On the whole, I am inclined to think that he is right. It is not for nothing that the great Hebrew prophets tended flocks and contemplated the stars. They held one hand nature while they wrote with the other. That was their hold upon the hand of God.”
“You put that very well,” said Fred Allen. “I think you are right.”
“There is another side to it, though,” Will Evans want on, “I mean work for the mere love of working close to nature. There are sermons in stones. The earth has her secrets, which she imparts only to those who come very close to her that they may listen. The cultivation of that strawberry bed is a real blessedness—more so than any job in your factory—because it is closer to mother Earth. I don’t know why, but I’ve tried both, and I know it to be true.”
“You have tried both,” queried Fred Allen. “Do you mean that you have ever worked in our factory?”
“Your factory? No, of course not! Of course not! I mean that I have tried factory work and strawberry culture, and I find more blessedness in the latter occupation. You understand my point?”
The point struck hard in Fred Allen’s mind. Of course this man had not worked in their factory but was there not something familiar? In vain he sought for a clue. Surely, though, he knew Will Evans of old, he told himself; yet knew instinctively that his fancy might well deceive him. Will Evans was one of those men who known for an hour is known forever. It only seemed that he had known him always. Really he had met him only a few days previously.
While he was wondering, two women stepped around the corner of the house; coming straight toward the strawberry bed. Will Evans, seeing them, jumped to his feet, and threw up his hands.
“I’ll give you half of everything you find,” he volunteered. “I am be soul of generosity.”
“Such generosity must be put to the test,” laughed one of the women.
Fred Allen looked on in some perplexity, while Will Evans went through pocket after pocket, producing string, pencils, nails, leather pouches, set screws, and a miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends. At last, after having emptied the last pocket without discovering a coin, he turned triumphantly to the woman.
“You see,” he cried, “that lets me out.” Then addressing Fred, “now you understand why there are no highwaymen in Arden. Pickings are so slender that they are speedily forced to go to work.”
“Perhaps I can help you out,” Fred Allen suggested.
“Indeed you may not,” replied the spokesman of the women with prompt decision, “but you may place yourself in the good graces of the community by donating the sum of twenty-five cents from your own strong box.”
By the time Fred Allen had completed his payment, Will Evans had come back from the house with a like sum. The women, without more ado, retraces their steps, and disappeared around the corner of the house.
“What may it all mean?” Fred Allen asked, as they returned to work.
“Don’t you know” Will Evans demanded in a surprised tone.
“Of course not.”
“Well, I never! For a business man you are about the easiest mark I ever saw. You parted with your money to those enchantresses as though it was the overdue interest on a debt that you had owed for twenty years. And you don’t even know why they wanted it. My boy.” and Will Evan’s tone became fatherly and serious, “you had better stay in Arden. We will look after you.”
“It’s the atmosphere,” laughed Fred Allen. “In the town, I am sane enough in money matters, but here—well, you must make allowances for the atmosphere.”
“It really isn’t as bad as it seems on the surface. Those two high-minded ladies are preparing for a floor-laying-bee.”
“Of course. Never heard of one? You can’t imagine what you have missed!”
“Will I be able to see it before I go back?” Fred Allen queried.
“See it? You’ll be in it. You can’t buy off here with thirty pieces of silver. They take your money and ask you to work into the bargain. Yonder gentle dames are engaged in taking up a collection of twenty-five cents a member. Which will be used to provide the wherewithal of a luncheon for those who work.” Then by way of an explanation, he added,—“You may have noticed that the floor of the Club House was not all that it might be.”
“Yes,” admitted Fred, grudgingly, “it did seem rough.”
“Tomorrow we will relay that floor. That is the bee which we have in our bonnet—a new dance floor. See it? Why, man, you can no more see than a street urchin could see a crowd running to a big fire. He would be so near the head of the procession, and so eager to get there first, that he would run forty days and forty nights without so much as one glance behind him. No more will you see the bee. You will be too busy working. Wait until to-morrow!”
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