fashionable place for Federal Apparatus executives to
live. Without further ado,” said Chief Atkins expansively, “I move that Mr.
Newell Cady be elected to full membership in the fire department and be named
head judge of the annual Hobby Show.”
“Audaces fortuna juvat!” said Upton Beaton, who was a tall,
fierce-seeming sixty-five. He was the last of what had been the first family of
Spruce Falls. “Fortune,” he translated after a pause, “favors the bold, that’s
true. But gentlemen—” and he paused again, portentously, while Chief Atkins
looked worried and the other members of the fire department shifted about on
their folding chairs. Like his forebears, Beaton had an ornamental education
from Harvard, and like them, he lived in Spruce Falls because it took little
effort for a Beaton to feel superior to his neighbors there. He survived on
money his family had made during the short-lived boom.
“But,” Beaton said again, as he stood up, “is this the kind
of fortune we want? We are being asked to waive the three-year residence
requirement for membership in the fire department in Mr. Cady’s case, and
thereby all our memberships are cheapened. If I may say so, the post of judge
of the Hobby Show is of far greater significance than it would seem to an outsider.
In our small village, we have only small ways of honoring our great, but we,
for generations now, have taken pains to reserve those small honors for those
of us who have shown such greatness as it is possible to achieve in the eyes of
a village. I hasten to add that those honors that have come to me are marks of
respect for my family and my age, not for myself, and are exceptions that
should probably be curtailed.”
He sighed. “If we waive this proud tradition, then that one,
and then another, all for money, we will soon find ourselves with nothing left
to wave but the white flag of an abject surrender of all we hold dear!” He sat,
folded his arms, and stared at the floor.
Chief Atkins had reddened during the speech, and he avoided
looking at Beaton. “The real estate people,” he mumbled, “swear property values
in Spruce Falls will quadruple if Cady stays.”
“What is a village profited if it shall gain a real estate
boom and lose its own soul?” Beaton asked.
Chief Atkins cleared his throat. “There’s a motion on the
floor,” he said. “Is there a second?”
“Second,” said someone who kept his head down. ‘All in favor?”
said Atkins.
There was a scuffling of chair legs, and faint voices, like
the sounds of a playground a mile away.
“Opposed?”
Beaton was silent. The Beaton dynasty of Spruce Falls had
come to an end. Its paternal guidance, unopposed for four generations, had just
been voted down.
“Carried,” said Atkins. He started to say something, then motioned
for silence. “Shhh!” The post office was next door to the meeting hall, in the
same building, and on the other side of the thin partition, Mr. Newell Cady was
asking for his mail.
“That’s all, is it, Mrs. Dickie?” Cady was saying to the postmistress.
“That’s more’n some people get around here in a year,” said Mrs. Dickie. “There’s
still a little second-class to put around. Maybe some for you.”
“Mmm,” said Cady. “That the way the government teaches its
people to sort?”
“Them teach me?” said Mrs. Dickie. “I’d like to see anybody
teach me anything about this business. I been postmistress for twenty-five
years now, ever since my husband passed on.”
“Um,” said Cady. “Here—do you mind if I come back there and
take a look at the second-class for just a minute?”
“Sorry—regulations, you know,” said Mrs. Dickie. But the
door of Mrs. Dickie’s cage creaked open anyway. “Thank you,” said Cady. “Now,
suppose, instead of holding these envelopes the way you were, suppose you took
them like this, and uh—ah—putting that rubber cap on your thumb instead of your
index finger—”
“My land!”
live. Without further ado,” said Chief Atkins expansively, “I move that Mr.
Newell Cady be elected to full membership in the fire department and be named
head judge of the annual Hobby Show.”
“Audaces fortuna juvat!” said Upton Beaton, who was a tall,
fierce-seeming sixty-five. He was the last of what had been the first family of
Spruce Falls. “Fortune,” he translated after a pause, “favors the bold, that’s
true. But gentlemen—” and he paused again, portentously, while Chief Atkins
looked worried and the other members of the fire department shifted about on
their folding chairs. Like his forebears, Beaton had an ornamental education
from Harvard, and like them, he lived in Spruce Falls because it took little
effort for a Beaton to feel superior to his neighbors there. He survived on
money his family had made during the short-lived boom.
“But,” Beaton said again, as he stood up, “is this the kind
of fortune we want? We are being asked to waive the three-year residence
requirement for membership in the fire department in Mr. Cady’s case, and
thereby all our memberships are cheapened. If I may say so, the post of judge
of the Hobby Show is of far greater significance than it would seem to an outsider.
In our small village, we have only small ways of honoring our great, but we,
for generations now, have taken pains to reserve those small honors for those
of us who have shown such greatness as it is possible to achieve in the eyes of
a village. I hasten to add that those honors that have come to me are marks of
respect for my family and my age, not for myself, and are exceptions that
should probably be curtailed.”
He sighed. “If we waive this proud tradition, then that one,
and then another, all for money, we will soon find ourselves with nothing left
to wave but the white flag of an abject surrender of all we hold dear!” He sat,
folded his arms, and stared at the floor.
Chief Atkins had reddened during the speech, and he avoided
looking at Beaton. “The real estate people,” he mumbled, “swear property values
in Spruce Falls will quadruple if Cady stays.”
“What is a village profited if it shall gain a real estate
boom and lose its own soul?” Beaton asked.
Chief Atkins cleared his throat. “There’s a motion on the
floor,” he said. “Is there a second?”
“Second,” said someone who kept his head down. ‘All in favor?”
said Atkins.
There was a scuffling of chair legs, and faint voices, like
the sounds of a playground a mile away.
“Opposed?”
Beaton was silent. The Beaton dynasty of Spruce Falls had
come to an end. Its paternal guidance, unopposed for four generations, had just
been voted down.
“Carried,” said Atkins. He started to say something, then motioned
for silence. “Shhh!” The post office was next door to the meeting hall, in the
same building, and on the other side of the thin partition, Mr. Newell Cady was
asking for his mail.
“That’s all, is it, Mrs. Dickie?” Cady was saying to the postmistress.
“That’s more’n some people get around here in a year,” said Mrs. Dickie. “There’s
still a little second-class to put around. Maybe some for you.”
“Mmm,” said Cady. “That the way the government teaches its
people to sort?”
“Them teach me?” said Mrs. Dickie. “I’d like to see anybody
teach me anything about this business. I been postmistress for twenty-five
years now, ever since my husband passed on.”
“Um,” said Cady. “Here—do you mind if I come back there and
take a look at the second-class for just a minute?”
“Sorry—regulations, you know,” said Mrs. Dickie. But the
door of Mrs. Dickie’s cage creaked open anyway. “Thank you,” said Cady. “Now,
suppose, instead of holding these envelopes the way you were, suppose you took
them like this, and uh—ah—putting that rubber cap on your thumb instead of your
index finger—”
“My land!”
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