Chapter XXI

A contract of true love to celebrate.—_The Tempest_, iv, 1.

Whitfield’s observance of holidays was in the nature of a religious rite. The patriotism of the Fourth of July, as shown in the firing of the anvil in the early morning, the speeches in the grove, and the reading of the Declaration of Independence, invariably by Dr. Bushnell, was all that the Father of his Country could have desired. Christmas and Thanksgiving had lost none of their original character. The flippant might have observed the groaning of boards from one end of the town to the other. May Day was a triumph of maidens crowned with wilted wild flowers holding court in rickety bowers. Other days had their importance; in fact any holiday which had any excuse for being was seized upon and made much of by the Whitfield citizens.

But above and beyond all others, in the hearts of the countrymen, was Circus Day. For the days intervening between the posting of the bills announcing its coming and the fateful day of its arrival, there were fierce debates at the post-office and at the blacksmith shop concerning the relative merits of the hippopotamus and the other animals. The postmaster himself averred that the man-eating tiger and the hippopotamus, whose wide-opened jaws showed glistening teeth of vast size, were much more fearsome beasts than the Behemoth of Holy Writ, and although this staggered the ultra-orthodox, yet were they fain to believe it.

The fact that the people of Whitfield had seen for many successive years the same posters representing the same gaudily attired ladies whose skirts were the soul of wit itself, poised on toe-tip upon the same madly careering charger, in no way interfered with their interest in them.

This interest perennially expressed itself in long and deep arguments, embracing various views which resolved themselves finally into a generally commendatory condemnation.

The laws of the Medes and Persians were laxly obeyed in comparison with the unwritten but traditional law which demanded that every citizen take his or her nearest child relative to see the show. Census reports, however, showed the proportion of about one child to seventeen grown people. But this rather aided than hindered the law-abiding citizens, and uncles, aunts, and cousins cheerfully accompanied their particular portion of the juvenile audience.

The fact that there were no children in the Adams house in no wise disconcerted Miss Esther and her guests. They appropriated Jack and Chub, and days before the circus, had arranged to escort them. Jack announced that he had already been invited to attend the function by Dr. Bushnell, but this, of course, made no difference. Chub, being unattached, graciously signified her willingness to attend.

“I have theen the thircuth,” Chub announced. “It ith on the big, high fenth. There are lionth and ’pottymutheth and a beauty horth with a lovely lady on it—oh, a lovely lady, jutht like Couthin Helen.”

“I noticed the picture,” said Brewster. “It is indeed just like Miss Fairbanks.”

“But that isn’t the real circus,” explained Helen. “Those are only the pictures of what you are going to see when you get there.”

“Oh,” said Chub; “and will you weally wide on the horth on your tippy-toeth?”

“If she doesn’t, somebody else will,” said Brewster.

Another traditional law required that the country people for miles around, as well as the villagers, should assemble at the railway station to see the circus train come in. As its arrival was inconsiderately timed at four in the morning, this necessitated early rising. But this necessity was cheerfully met, the more so in that it made Circus Day just that much longer.

At the Adams house all the traditions were strictly observed. Alarm-clocks were set for half-past three, and after a hasty cup of coffee Lincoln hustled Miss Esther, his father, and Putnam into the automobile, picked up Brewster and the three girls, and they reached the station just in time for the first act of the day’s play.

To the men of the party the sight was a novel one, and not uninteresting. The sun was rising much as usual, although George Washington Dodd remarked that he thought the sun was always up a few feet in the morning. He was not given to getting up solely to see the spectacle, and though he had a dim idea that there were such things as sunrises, raved over by poets and such persons, he found the picturesqueness of the real thing of a character to call forth approving remarks from him. “Pretty good work for such a young sun,” he said, looking at the long streaks of light that shot across the fields and made a spectacular gathering of the otherwise commonplace crowd that swarmed over the railroad tracks. Into this crowd the locomotive puffed and snorted, and children shrieked with delight, while their elders—though hardly less vociferous, were no less eager. Vehicles of all descriptions lined the roadway. Luncheon baskets were in evidence in the democrat wagons. There was a superfluity of whiskers of varying shades of color and cut, and alpaca dresses, still showing the wrinkles of long-time packing, gave evidence that the holiday spirit was rampant in the hearts, even of the staid grandmothers and the mothers.

“I’ll bet,” said Lincoln, “that every one of them is possessed of some haircloth chairs, and is distinctly proud of a certain bunch of wax fruit under a glass bell in the parlor.”

The small boys stood about, ecstatically rubbing bare foot against bare leg, and letting off sympathetic grunts of helpfulness as the men of the circus train pushed and shoved and lifted the big wagons and other paraphernalia off the cars. From one of the closed cages came the roar of a lion. Little girls clutched their mothers’ hands in an agony of fear and delight. These sounds were the foretaste of the joys to come.

The people who had come from the surrounding country prepared to make a full day of it camped under the trees in the grove near the circus grounds. The men sat about and discussed the outlook for the crops, while the women prepared a breakfast. The children stared, wide-open-eyed, at the closed cages, from which from time to time there issued strangely fascinating growlings of wild beasts. The circus men laid out the ring and raised the tent, and the side-show men, being quick in action, insistently proclaimed the presence of the bearded lady, the educated pig, the living skeleton, and the strong man who could shiver rocks with his fist. From the top of the big tent-pole a wire was stretched, and from the dizzy height a wonderful woman, clad in tightly fitting pink, slid boldly to the ground. This was in the nature of a daring advertisement of the wonderful, magnificent, marvelous, myriad of startling feats to be seen during the performance.

“Well, I swan!” exclaimed an elderly man, with whiskers of an ancient design; “I should think she’d of fell off’n that slim wire.”

But the villagers, not being obliged to camp under the trees, returned to their homes for breakfast. In celebration of Circus Day, and incidentally because it might materially assist her plans, Miss Esther had a house-party, and the clients of her Bureau made merry at the Adams house breakfast.

“We’ll see the morning parade,” said George Washington Dodd, “from the front fence.”

“I choose to sit on the gate-post,” said Jean.

“You can have one gate-post,” said Mr. Dodd, “but I want the other myself.”

“One is enough,” said Jean. “I rarely use two at once.”

“And then this afternoon we’ll take the children and Dr. Bushnell to the performance, and this evening we’ll go by ourselves.”

“And stay to the concert,” said Helen.

“And then we’ll all walk home in the moonlight,” continued Dodd. “My fiancée is very romantic.”

“It must be very nice to have a romantic fiancée,” said Putnam.

“You never will have,” said Jean. “No romantic girl could possibly accept you.”

“This is good pie,” said Lincoln, gazing off into space.

“Do they have nice circuses in Europe?” asked Lillian.

“Yes,” replied Dodd, instructively; “they have a very large one in Rome, and Paris is a good deal of a circus all by itself, as you shall see.”

“Yes,” said Lillian, happily; “I’m so glad I’m going. I’ve always loved a circus, and if Paris is anything like it, I know I shall like that city.”

“People always take their little boys to the circus,” said Lincoln, plaintively, “and I think you might take me—Ma-ma!”

“All right, son, you shall go if you want to—the next time we go,” replied Lillian, kindly.

“Oh, that’s what I meant,” said Lincoln. “Of course I’d be a bother this time.”

“Indeed you would,” said his father. “We’re going for pleasure.”

“When do you sail?” asked Brewster.

“I’ve tickets for the fifteenth,” said Dodd.

“So soon?” said Brewster, in surprise.

“Yes; isn’t it lovely,” said Lillian. “I always did like to get married in a hurry.”

“I don’t care how soon you get married,” said Jean, “so long as you wait till after this year’s Circus Day, and come home before the next one.”

“Next Circus Day you may be away on your own wedding trip,” said Miss Esther.

“No,” said Jean; “I’d never marry anybody who would take me away from Whitfield on Circus Day.”

“January would be a safe month,” said Putnam, musingly.

Jean’s only reply to this sally was a glance which was meant to be withering, but somehow it turned into a vivid blush.

“Do you know the address of a good flagmaker in the city, Governor?” said Lincoln. “I want to telegraph an order for some banners.”

“Do!” said Miss Esther.