St. Nicholas/Volume 32/Number 1/Dan Webster
THE DÉBUT OF “DAN’L WEBSTER.”
By Isabel Gordon Curtis.
“I guess you can get the all roof shingled now, ‘most any old time,” cried Homer Tidd. He bounced in at the kitchen door. A blast of icy wind followed him.“Gracious! shet the door, Homer, an’ then tell me your news.” His mother shivered and pulled a little brown shawl tighter about her shoulders.
The boy planted himself behind the stove and laid his mittened hands comfortably around the pipe. “Oh, I ‘ve made a great deal, mother.” Homer’s freckled face glowed with satisfaction.
“What?” asked Mrs. Tidd.
“Did you see the man that jest druv out o’ the yard?”
“No, I did n‘t, Homer,”
“Well, ‘t was Mr. Richards—the Mr. Richards o’ Finch & Richards, the big market folks over in the city.”
“Has he bought your Thanksgivin’ turkeys?”
“He hain’t bought ’em for Thanksgivin’.”
“Well, what are you so set up about, boy?”
“He’s rented the hull flock. He’s to pay me three dollars a day for them, then he’s goin’ to buy them all for Christmas.”
“Land sakes! Three dollars a day!” Mrs. Tidd dropped one side of a pan of apples she was carrying, and some of them went rolling about the kitchen floor.
Homer nodded.
“For how long?” she asked eagerly.
“For a week,” Homer's freckles disappeared in the crimson glow of enthusiasm that over-spread his face.
“Eighteen dollars for nothin’ but exhibitin’ a bunch o’ turkeys! Seems to me some folks must have money to throw away.” Mrs. Tidd stared perplexedly over the top of her glasses.
“I ’ll tell you all about it, mother.” Homer took a chair and planted his feet on the edge of the oven. “Mr. Richards is goin’ to have a great Thanksgivin’ food show, an’ he wants a flock o’ live turkeys. He’s been drivin’ round the country lookin’ for some. The postmaster sent him here. He told him about Dan’! Webster’s tricks.”
“They don’t make Dan’l any better eatin’,” objected the mother.
“Maybe not. But don’t you see? Well!” Homer’s laugh was an embarrassed one. “I ’m goin’ to put Dan'l an’ Gettysburg through their tricks right in the store window.”
“You be n’t?” and the mother looked in rapt admiration at her clever son.
“I be!” answered Homer, triumphantly.
I don't know, boy, jest what I think o’ it,” said his mother, slowly. “’T ain't exactly a—a gentlemanly sort o’ thing to do; be it?”
“I reckon I be n’t a gentleman, mother,” replied Homer, with his jolly laugh.
“Tell me all about it.”
“Well, 1 was feedin’ the turkeys when Mr. Richards druv in. He said he heered I had some trick turkeys an’ he ‘d like to see ‘em. Lucky enough, I had n’t fed ’em; they was awful hungry, an’ I tell you they never did their tricks better.”
“What did Mr. Richards say?”
“He thought it was the most amazin’ thing he'd ever seen in his life. He said he would n’t have believed turkeys had enough gumption in them to learn a trick o’ any kind.”
“Did you tell him how you ’d fussed with them ever since they was little chicks?”
“I did. He wuz real interested, an’ he offered me three dollars to give a show three times a day, He’s got a window half as big as this kitchen. He 'll have it wired in, an’ the turkeys ‘ll stay there at his expense. Along before Christmas he ‘ll give me twenty-two cents a pound for ‘em.”
“Well, I vow, Homer, it ’s pretty good pay.
“Mr. Richards give me a commutation on the railroad. He’s to send after the turkeys an’ bring ’em back, so I won't have any expense.”
Homer rose and sauntered about the kitchen, picking up the apples that had rolled in all directions over the floor.
A week before Thanksgiving, the corner in front of Finch & Richards’s great market looked as it was wont to look on circus day: only the eyes of the crowds were not turned expectantly up Main Street; they were riveted on a window in the big store, Passers-by tramped out into the snowy street when they reached the mob at the corner. The front of the store was decorated with a fringe of plump turkeys. One window held a glowing mountain of fruit and vegetables arranged by some one with a keen eye to color—monstrous pumpkins, splendid purple cabbages, rosy apples and russet pears, green and purple grapes, snowy stalks of celery, and corn ears yellow as sunshine. Crimson beets neighbored with snowy parsnips, scarlet carrots, and silk-wrapped onions. Egg-plants gleaming like deep-hued amethysts circled about magnificent cauliflowers, while red and yellow bananas made gay mosaic walks through the fruit mountain. Wherever a crack or a cranny had been left was a mound of ruby cranberries, fine raisin bunches, or brown nuts.
It was a remarkable display of American products; yet, after the first “Ah” of admiration, people passed on to the farther window, where six plump turkeys, supremely innocent of a feast-day fate, flapped their wings or gobbled impertinently when a small boy laid his nose flat against the window. Three times a day the crowd grew twenty deep. It laughed and shouted and elbowed one another good-naturedly, for the Thanksgiving spirit was abroad. Men tossed children up on their stalwart shoulders, then small hands clapped ecstatically, and small legs kicked with wild enthusiasm.
The hero of the hour wasa freckled, red-haired boy, who came leaping through a wire door with an old broom over his shoulders. Every turkey waited for him eagerly, hungrily! They knew that each old familiar trick—learned away back in chickhood—would earn a good feed. When the freckled boy began to whistle, or when his voice rang out in a shrill order, it was the signal for Dan’l Webster, for Gettysburg, for Amanda Ann, Mebitable, Nancy, or Farragut to step to the center of the stage and do some irresistibly funny turn with a turkey’s bland solemnity. None of the birds had attacks of stage-fright; their acting was as self-possessed as if they were in the old farm-yard with no audience present but Mrs. Tidd to lean smiling over the fence with a word of praise and the coveted handful of golden corn.
With every performance the crowd grew more dense, the applause more uproarious, and the Thanksgiving trade at Finch & Richards’s bigger than it had been in years. Each night Homer took the last train home, tired but happy, for three crisp greenbacks were added to the roll in his small shabby wallet.
Two days before Thanksgiving, Homer, in his blue overalls and faded sweater, was busy
“The boy planted himself ehind the stoe and laid his mittened hand comfortably around the pipe.”
Salvia clucked over the corn appreciatively.
“Homer, Homer, come here, quick!”
Down the frozen path through the yard came Mrs. Tidd, with the little brown shaw! wrapped tightly about her head. She fluttered a yellow envelop in her hand.
“Homer, boy, it ’s a telegraph come, I can’t read it; I’ ve mislaid my glasses.”
Homer was by her side in a minute, tearing open the flimsy envelop.
“It’s from Finch & Richards, mother,” he cried excitedly. “They say, “Take the first train to town without fail.”
“What do you s’pose they want you for?” asked Mrs. Tidd, with an anxious face.
“P’r’aps the store ’s burned down,” gasped Homer, He brushed one rough hand across his eyes. “Poor Dan’l Webster an’ Gettysburg! I did n’t know anybody could set so much store by turkeys.”
Maybe ’t ain't nothin’ bad, Homer,” Mrs. Tidd laid her band upon his shoulder. “Maybe they want you to give an extra early show or somethin’.” She suggested it cheerfully.
“Maybe,” echoed Homer, “But, mother, I ’ve got to hurry to catch that 7.30 train.”
“Let me go with you, Homer.”
“You don’t need to,” ericd the boy. “It probably ain’t nothin’ serious.”
“I’m goin’,” said Mrs. Tidd, decisively; you don’t s’pose I could stay here doin’ nothin’ but waitin’ an’ wond'rin’?”
Mrs. Tidd and Homer caught a car at the city depot. Five minutes later they stood in front of Finch & Richards’s big market.
“Mother,” whispered the boy, as he stepped off the car, “mother, my turkeys! They ’re not there! Something ’s happened. See the crowd.”
They pushed their way through a mob that was peering in at the windows and through the windows of locked doors. The row of plump turkeys was not hung this morning under the big sign; the magnificent window display of fruit and vegetables had been ruthlessly demolished.
“What do you s’pose can have happened?” whispered Mrs. Tidd, while they waited for a clerk to come hurrying down the store and unlock the door.
Homer shook his head.
Mr. Richards himself came to meet them.
“Well, young man,” he cried, “I ’ve had enough of your pesky bird show, There 's a hundred dollars’ worth of provisions gone, to say nothing of the trade we are turning away. Two days before Thanksgiving, of all times in the year!”
“Good land!” whispered Mrs, Tidd. Her eyes were wandering about the store. It was scattered from one end to the other with wasted food. Sticky rivers trickled here and there across the floor, A small army of clerks was hard at work sweeping and mopping.
“Where ’s my turkeys?” asked Homer,
“Your turkeys, confound them!” snarled Mr. Richards. “They ’re safe and sound in their crate in my back store, all but that blasted old gobbler you call Dan’l Webster. He ’s doing his stunts on a top shelf. We found him there, tearing cereal packages into shreds, For mercy’s sake, go and see if you can’t get him down, He has almost pecked the eyes out of every clerk who has tried to lay a finger on him. I ’d like to wring his ugly neck!”
Mr. Richards’s face grew red as the comb of Dan’l Webster himself.
Homer and his mother dashed across the store. High above their heads strutted Dan’l Webster with a slow, stately tread. Occasionally he peered down at the ruin and confusion below, commenting upon it with a lordly, satisfied gobble.
Dan'l Webster,” called Homer, coaxingly, “good old Dan’l, come an’ see me.”
The boy slid cautiously along to where a step-ladder stood.
“Dan’l,” he called persuasively, “would ’t you like to come home, Dan’l?”
Dan'l perked down with pleased recognition in his eyes. Homer crept up the ladder. He was preparing to lay a hand on one of Dan’l’s black legs when the turkey hopped away with a triumphant gobble, and went racing gleefully along the wide shelf. A row of bottles filled with salad-dressing stood in Dan'l’s path. He cleared them out of the way with one energetic kick. They tumbled to a lower shelf; their yellow contents crept in a sluggish stream toward the mouth of a tea-box.
“I ’ll have that bird shot!” thundered Mr. Richards. “That ’s all there is about it.”
“Wait a minute, sir,” pleaded Mrs. Tidd, “ Homer ’ll get him.”
Dan’l Webster would neither be coaxed nor commanded. He wanderer up and down the shelf, gobbling vociferously into the faces of the excited mob.
“Henry, go and get a pistol,” cried Mr. Richards, turning to one of his clerks.
“Homer,”— Mrs. Tidd clutched the boy’s arm,—“why don’t you make b’lieve you ’re shootin’ Dan’l? Maybe he ’ll lie down, so you can git him.”
Homer called for a broom, He tossed it, gun fashion, across his shoulder, and crept along slowly, sliding a ladder before him to the spot where the turkey stood watching with intent eyes. He put one foot upon the lowest step, then he burst out in a spirited whistle. It was “Marching through Georgia.” The bird stared at him fixedly,
“Bang!” cried Homer, and he pointed the broom straight at the recreant turkey.
Dan'l Webster dropped stiff. A second later Homer had a firm grasp of the scaly legs. Dan'l returned instantly to life, but the rebellious head was tucked under his master’s jacket. Dan'l Webster thought he was being strangled to death.
“There!” cried Homer, triumphantly. He closed the lid of the poultry-crate and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “There! I guess you won't get out again.”
He followed Mr. Richards to the front of the store to view the devastation.
“Who ’d have thought turkeys could have ripped up strong wire like that?” cried the enraged market man, pointing to the shattered door.
“I guess Dan’l began the mischief,” said Homer, soberly; “he ’s awful strong.”
“I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Dan'l,” exclaimed Mr. Richards. “I ’ll hate to see Finch. He ‘ll be in on the 4.20 train, He’s conservative; he never had any use for the turkey show.”
“When did you find out that they—what had happened?” asked Homer, timidly.
“At five o’clock, Two of the men got here early. They telephoned me, I never saw such destruction in my life. Your turkeys had sampled most everything in the store, from split peas to molasses. What they didn’t eat they knocked over or tore open. I guess they won’t need feeding for a week. They ’re chuckful of oatmeal, beans, crackers, peanuts, pickles, toothpicks, prunes, soap, red herrings, cabbage—about everything their crops can hold.”
“I ’m awful sorry,” faltered Homer.
“So am I,” said Mr. Richards, resolutely, “Now, the best thing you can do is to take your flock and clear out. I ’ve had enough of performing turkeys.”
Homer and his mother waited at the depot for the 11 o’clock train, Beside them stood a crate filled with turkeys that wore a well-fed, satisfied expression. Somebody tapped Homer on the shoulder.
“You ’re the boy who does the stunts with turkeys, are n’t you?” asked a well-dressed man with a silk hat, and a flower in his buttonhole.
“Yes,” answered the boy, wonderingly.
“I ’ve been hunting for you. That was a great rumpus you made at Finch & Richards’s. The whole town’s talking about it.”
“Yes,” answered Homer again, and he blushed scarlet.
“Taking your turkeys home?”
Homer nodded.
“I ’ve come to see if we can keep them in town a few days longer.”
The boy shook his head vigorously. “I don’t want any more turkey shows.”
“Not if the price is big enough to make it worth your while?”
“No!” said Homer, sturdily.
“Let us go into the station and talk it over.”
On Thanksgiving afternoon the Colonial Theater, the best vaudeville house in the city, held a throng that had dined well and was happy enough to appreciate any sort of fun. The children—hundreds of them—shrieked with delight over every act. The women laughed, the men applauded with great hearty hand-claps. A little buzz of excitement went round the house when, at the end of the fourth turn, two boys, instead of setting up the regulation big red number, displayed a brand-new card, It read: “Extra Number— Homer Tidd and his Performing Turkeys.” A shout of delighted anticipation went up from the audience. Every paper in town had made a spectacular story of the ruin at Finch & Richards’s. Nothing could have been so splendid a surprise. Everybody broke into applause—everybody except one little woman who sat in the front row of the orchestra, Her face was pale, her hands clasped and unclasped each other tremulously. “Homer, boy,” she whispered to herself.
The curtain rolled up, The stage was set for a realistic farm-yard scene. The floor was scattered with straw, an old pump leaned over in one corner, hay tumbled untidily from a barn-loft, a coop with a hen and chickens stood by the fence. From her stall stared a white-faced cow; her eyes blinked at the glare of the footlights, The orchestra struck up a merry
“Homer threw up his head and led the turkey march round and round past the footlights.”
tune; the cow uttered an astonished mow, then in walked a sturdy lad with fine broad shoulders, red hair, and freckles. His boots clumped, his blue overalls were faded, his sweater had once been red. At his heels stepped six splendid turkeys, straight in line, every one with its eyes on the master. Homer never knew how he did it. Two minutes earlier he had said to the manager, desperately: “I ’ll cut an’ run right off as soon as I set eyes on folks.” Perhaps he drew courage from the anxious gaze in his mother’s eyes. Hers was the only face he saw in the great audience. Perhaps it was the magnificent aplomb of the turkeys that inspired him. They stepped serenely, as if walking out on a gorgeously lighted stage was an every-day event in their lives. Anyhow, Homer threw up his head and led the turkey march round and round past the footlights, till the shout of applause dwindled into silence. The boy threw back his head and snapped his fingers. The
turkeys retreated to form in line at-the back of the stage.“Gettysburg,” cried Homer, pointing to a stately plump hen. Gettysburg stepped to the center of the stage. “How many kernels of corn have I thrown you, Getty?” he asked.
The turkey turned to count them, with her head cocked reflectively on one side. Then she scratched her foot on the floor.
“One, two, three, four, five!”
“Right! Now you may eat them, Getty.”
Gettysburg wore her new-won laurels with an excellent grace. She jumped through a row of hoops; slid gracefully about the stage on a pair of miniature roller-skates; she stepped from stool to chair, from chair to table, in perfect time with Homer’s whistle and a low strain of melody from the orchestra, She danced a stately jig on the table, then, with a satisfied cluck, descended on the other side to the floor, Amanda Ann, Mehitable, Nancy, and Farragut achieved their triumphs in a slow dance made up of dignified hops and mazy turns. They stood in a decorous line awaiting the return of their master, for Homer had dashed suddenly from the stage. He reappeared, holding his head up proudly. Now he wore the blue uniform and jaunty cap of a soldier boy; a gun leaned on his shoulder.
The orchestra put all its vigor, patriotism, and wind into “Marching through Georgia.” Straight to Homer’s side, when they heard his whistle, wheeled the turkey regiment, ready to keep step, to fall inline, to march and countermarch. Only one feathered soldier fell. It was Dan'l Webster. At a bang from Homer’s rifle he dropped stiff and stark. From children here and there in the audience came a cry of horror. They turned to ask in frightened whispers if the turkey was “truly shooted.” As if to answer the question, Dan’l leaped to his feet. Homer pulled a Stars and Stripes from his pocket and waved it enthusiastically; then the orchestra dashed into “Yankee Doodle.” It awoke some patriotic spirit in the soul of Dan’l Webster. He left his master, and, puffing himself to his stateliest proportions, stalked to the footlights to utter one glorious, soul-stirring gobble. The curtain fell, but the applause went on and on and on! At last, out again across the stage came Homer, waving “Old Glory.” Dan’l Webster, Gettysburg, Amanda Ann, Nancy, Mehitable, and Farragut followed in a triumphal march. Homer’s eyes were bent past the footlights, searching for the face of one little woman. This time the face was one radiant flush and her hands were adding their share to the deafening applause.
“Homer, boy,” she said fondly. This time she spoke aloud, but nobody heard it. An encore for the “Extra ‘Turn” was so vociferous, it almost shook the plaster from the ceiling.
