August 19, 2025 • 30 mins
In the late 19th century, being a Jew in Russia came with its own set of challenges and dangers. Facing persecution for their faith, many sought solace in their rich cultural traditions. When Mary Antins father decided to abandon these customs, he discovered that he no longer belonged in Russia. Thus, he emigrated to America with his family. While life presented its own struggles, Mary recalls her childhood in Boston with an almost idyllic sense of wonder. A bright and resilient young girl, she finds beauty in adversity and shares her inspiring journey through her captivating autobiography. Join Bridget as she brings Marys story to life, allowing you to experience her trials and triumphs firsthand. (Summary by Stav Nisser)
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter seventeen of The Promised Land. This LibriVox recording is
in the public domain. Recording by bridget Gage. The Promised
Land by Mary Anton, chapter seventeen, The land Lady. From
sunrise to sunset. The day was long enough for many things.
Beside school, which occupied five hours. There was time for
me to try to earn my living, or at least
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the rent of our tenement. Rent was a standing trouble.
We were always behind, and the landlady was very angry.
So I was particularly ambitious to earn the rent. I
had had one or two poems published since the celebrated
eulogy of George Washington, but nobody had paid for my
poems yet. I was coming to that, of course, But
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in the meantime I could not pay the rent with
my writing. To be sure, my acquaintance with men of
letters gave me an opening. A friend of mine introduced
me to a slightly literary lady, who introduced me to
the editor of the Boston Searchlight, who offered me a
generous commission for subscriptions to his paper. If I rent
was three and one half dollars per week, payable on
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strong demand, and the annual subscription to the search flight
was one dollar, and my commission was fifty percent. How
many subscribers did I need? How easy? Seven subscribers a week,
one a day. Anybody could do that, Mister James, the
editor said so. He said I could get two or
three any afternoon between the end of school and supper.
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If I worked all Saturday. My head went dizzy computing
the amount of my commissions. It would be rent and
shoes and bonnets and everything for everybody. Bray. In early
one Saturday morning in the Fall, I started out canvassing
in my hand a neatly folded copy of The Searchlight
in my heart, faith in my lucky Star, and good
will towards all the world. I began with one of
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the great office buildings on Tremont Street, as mister James
had advised. The first half hour I lost wandering through
the corridors reading the names on the doors. There were
so many people in the same office. How should I
know when I entered, which was Wilson and Reed solicitors,
and which see Jenkins Smith, Mortgages and Bonds. I decided
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that it did not matter. I would call them all sir.
I selected a door and knocked. After waiting some time,
I knocked a little louder. The building buzzed with noise.
Swift footsteps echoed on the stone floors. Snappy talk broke
out with the opening of every door. Bells tinkled, elevators hummed.
No wonder they did not hear me knock. But I
noticed that other people went in without knocking, so after
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a while I did the same. There were several men
and two women in the small, brightly lighted room. They
were all busy. It was very confusing. Should I say,
sir to the roomful? Excuse me, sir? I began. That
was a very good beginning, I felt, sure, But I
must speak louder. Lately My voice had been poor in school,
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gave out sometimes in the middle of a recitation. I
cleared my throat, but I did not repeat myself. The
back of the bald head that I had addressed revolved
and presented its compliment, a bald front. Will you would
you like? I'd like? I stared in dismay at the
bald gentleman, unable to recall a word of what I
meant to say, and he stared in impatience at me. Well, well,
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he snapped, what is it? What is it that reminded me?
It's the bustin Searchlight, sir, I take sub take it away,
take it away. We're busy here. He waved me away
over his shoulder, the back of his head once more
presented to me. I stole out of the room in
great confusion. Was that the way I was going to
be received? Why mister James had said nobody would hesitate
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to subscribe? It was the best paper in Boston, the Searchlight,
and no business man could afford to be without it.
I must have made some blunder was mortgages and bonds
of business? I'd never heard of it, and very likely
I had spoken to see Jenkins Smith. I must try again,
of course I must try again. I selected a real
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estate office next, a real estate broker I knew for
certain was a business man. Mister George A. Hooker must
just be waiting for the Boston Searchlight. Mister Hooker was
indeed waiting, and he was telling Central about it. Yes, Central,
waiting waiting what yes? Yes? Ring for what's that? Since?
When why didn't you say so at first? Then? Instead
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of keeping me on the line, what oh is that? So? Well?
Never mind? This time, Central, I see I see all right.
I had become so absorbed in this monolog that when
mister Hooker swung around on me in his revolving chair,
I was startled, feeling that I had been caught eavesdropping.
I thought he was going to rebuke me, but he
only said, what can I do for you? Miss? Encouraged
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by his forbearance, I said, would you like to subscribe
to the Boston search Light, sir? Sir was safer, after all,
it's a dollar a year. I was supposed to say
that it was the best paper in Boston, et cetera.
But mister Hooker did not look interested, though he was
not cross. No thank you, miss, no new papers for me.
Excuse me, I am very busy, and he began to
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dictate to a stenographer. Well, that was not so bad.
Mister Hooker was at least polite. I must try to
make a better speech next time. I stuck to real estate. Now, oh,
Lair and Kennedy were both in in my next office,
and both apparently enjoying a minute of relaxation, tilted back
in their chairs behind a low railing, said I determined
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to be business like at last, and addressing myself to
the whole firm. Would you like to subscribe to the
Boston Searchlight. It's a very good paper. No business man
can afford it, afford to be without it. I mean,
it's only a dollary year. Both men smiled at my brake,
and I smiled too. I wondered would they subscribe separately,
or would they take one copy for the firm The
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Boston Searchlight, repeated one of the partners, never heard of it?
Is that the paper you have there? He unfolded the
paper I gave him, looked it over, and handed it
to his partner. Ever heard of the search Light? O'lair?
What do you think can we afford to be without it?
I guess we'll make out somehow, replied mister Olaire me
back my paper, but I'll buy this copy of you miss,
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he added from second thoughts, and I'll go partner on
the bargain, said mister Kennedy. But I objected, this is
a sample, I said. I don't sell single papers. I
take subscriptions for the year. It's one dollar and no
business man can afford it, you know. Mister Kennedy winked
as he said it, and we all smiled again. It
would have been stupid not to see the joke. I'm sorry,
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I can't sell my sample, I said, with my hand
on the doorknob. That's all right, my dear, said mister
Kennedy with a gracious wave of the hand, and his
partner called after me. Better luck next door. Well, I
was getting on. The people grew friendlier all the time,
but I skipped next door. It was mortgages and bonds.
I tried insurance. The best paper in Boston is it,
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remarked mister Thomas F. Dix, turning over my sample. And
who told you that, young lady, mister James? Was my
prompt reply. Who is mister James the editor? Oh? I see?
And do you also think the Searchlight the best paper
in Boston? I don't know, sir. I like the Herald
much better. And the transcript. At that mister Dix left.
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That's right, he said, business is business, but you tell
the truth. One dollar? Is it? Here? You are? My
name is on the door. Good day. I think I
spent twenty minutes copying the name and room number from
the door. I did not trust myself to read plain English.
What if I made a mistake and the Searchlight went
astray and good. Mister Dix remained unilluminated. He had paid
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for the year. It would be dreadful to make a mistake.
Emboldened by my one success, I went into the next
office without considering the kind of business announced on the door.
I tried brokers, lawyers, contractors and all just as they
came around the corridor, but I copied no more addresses.
Most of the people were polite. Some men waved me away,
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like c. Jenkins Smith. Some looked impatient at first, but
excused themselves politely. In the end, almost everybody said we're
busy here, as if they suspected I wanted them to
read a whole year's issue of The Searchlight at once.
At last, one man told me he did not think
it was a nice business for a girl going through
the offices like that. This took me aback. I had
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not thought anything about the nature of the business. I
only wanted the money to pay the rent. I wandered
through miles of stone corridors, unable to see why it
was not a nice business, and yet reluctant to go
on with it, with a doubt in my mind. Intent
on my new problem, I walked into a messenger boy
and looking back to apologize to him. I collided softly
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with a cushion shaped gentleman getting off an elevator. I
was making up my mind to leave the building forever
when I saw an office door standing open. It was
the first open door I had come across since morning.
It was past noon now, and it was a sign
to me to keep on. I must not give up
so easily. Mister Frederick A. Strong was alone in the office,
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surreptitiously picking his teeth. He had been to lunch. He
heard me out, good naturedly, how much is your commission?
If I may ask? It was the first thing he
had said, fifty cents, sir, Well, I'll tell you what
I will do. I don't care to subscribe, but here's
a quarter for you. If I did not blush, it
was because it is not my habit. But all of
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a sudden I choked. A lump jumped into my throat.
Almost the tears were in my eyes. That man was
right who said it was not nice to go through
the offices. I was taken for a beggar. A stranger
offered me money for nothing. I could not say a word.
I started to go out, but mister Strong jumped up
and prevented me. Oh, don't go like that, he cried,
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I didn't mean to offend you. Upon my word, I didn't.
I beg your pardon. I didn't know you. See. Won't
you sit down a minute to rest? That's kind of you.
Mister Strong was so genuinely repentant that I could not
refuse him. Besides, I felt a little weak. I had
been on my feet since morning and had had no lunch.
I sat down and mister Strong talked. He showed me
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a picture of his wife and little girl and said
I must go and see them sometime. Pretty soon, I
was chatting too, and I told mister Strong about the
Latin school, and of course he asked me if I
was French, the way people always did when they wanted
to say that I had a foreign accent. So we
got started on Russia and had such an interesting time
that we both jumped up surprised when a fine young
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lady in a beautiful hat came in to take possession
of the idle typewriter. Mister Strong introduced me very formally,
thanked me for an interesting hour, and shook hands with
me at the door. I did not add his name
to my short subscription list. But I counted it a
greater triumph that I had made a friend. It would
have been seeking an anti climax to solicit any more
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in the building. I went out into the roar of
Tremont Street and across the common, still green and leafy,
I rested awhile on a bench, debating where to go next.
It was past two by the clock on Park Street Church.
I had had a long day already, but it was
too early to quit work with them. One half dollar
of my own in my pocket. It was Saturday. In
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the evening, the landlady would come. I must try a
little longer. I went out along Columbus Avenue, a popular
route for bicyclists at that time. The bicycle stores all
along the way looked promising to me. The people did
not look so busy as in the office building. They
would at least be polite. They were not particularly rude,
but they did not subscribe. Nobody wanted the searchlight. They
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had never heard of it. They made jokes about it.
They did not want it at any price. I began
to lose faith in the paper myself. I got tired
of its name. I began to feel dizzy, I stopped
going into the stores. I walked straight along, looking at nothing.
I wanted to go back, go home, but I wouldn't.
I felt like doing myself spite. I walked right along,
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straight as the avenue ran. I did not know where
it would lead me. I did not care. Everything was horrid.
I would go right on until night. I would get lost.
I would fall in a faint on a strange doorstep,
and be found dead in the morning and be pitied.
Wouldn't that be interesting? The adventure might even end happily.
I might faint at the door of a rich old
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man's house, who would take me in and order his
housekeeper to nurse me, just like in the story books.
In my delirium, of course, I would have a fever.
I would talk about the landlady and how I had
tried to earn the rent, and the old gentleman would
wipe his spectacles for pity. Then I would wake up
and ask plaintively where am I? And when I got
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strong after a delightfully long convalescence, the old gentleman would
take me to Dover Street in a carriage, and we
would all be reunited and laugh and cry together. The
old gentleman, of course, would engage my father as his
steward on the spot, and we would all go to
live in one of his houses with a garden around it.
I walked on and on, gleefully, aware that I had
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not eaten since morning. Wasn't I beginning to feel shaky? Yes,
I should certainly faint before long. But I didn't like
the house as I passed. They did not look fit
for my adventure. I must keep up till I reached
a better neighborhood. Anybody who knows Boston knows how cheaply
my adventure ended. Columbus Avenue leads out to Roxbury Crossing.
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When I saw that the houses were getting shabbier instead
of finer, my heart sank. When I came out on
the noisy thrice Commonplace street car center, my spirit collapsed utterly.
I did not spoon. I woke up from my foolish,
childish dream with a shock. I was disgusted with myself
and frightened. Besides, it was evening now, and I was
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faint and sick in good earnest, and I did not
know where I was. I asked a starter at the
transfer station the way to Dover Street and he told
me to get on a car that was just coming in.
I'll walk, I said, if you will, please tell me
the shortest way. How could I spend five cents out
of the little I had made? But the starter discouraged me.
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You can't walk it before midnight. The way you look,
my girl, better hop on that car before it goes.
I could not resist the temptation. I rode home in
the car and felt like a thief when I paid
the fare. Five cents gone to pay for my folly.
I was grateful for a cold supper thrice, grateful to
hear that Missus Hutch, the landlady, had been and gone
content with two dollars that my father had brought home.
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Missus Hutch seldom succeeded in collecting the full amount of
the rents from her tenants. I suppose that made the
book keeping complicated, which must have been wearing on her
nerves and hence her temper. We lived on Dover Street
in fear of her temper. Saturday had a distinct quality
about it, derived from the eminence of Missus Hutch's visit.
Of course, I awoke on Saturday morning with the no
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school feeling, but the grim thing that leaped to its
feet and glowered down on me while the rest of
my consciousness was still yawning. On its back was the
Missus Hutches coming, And there's no rent feeling. It is
hard if you are a young girl, full of life
and inclined to be glad, to go to sleep in
anxiety and awake in fear. It is apt to enter
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fear with the circulation of the vital ether of happiness
in the young, which is damaging to the complexion of
the soul. It is bitter when you are middle aged
and unsuccessful, to go to sleep and self reproach and
awake unexonerated. It is likely to cause fermentation in the
sweetest nature. It is certain to breed gray hairs and
a premature longing for death. It is pitiful if you
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are the home keeping mother of an impoverished family, to
drop in your traces helpless at night and awake unstrengthened
in the early morning. The haunting consciousness of rooted poverty
is an improper bedfellow for a woman who still bears.
It has been known to induce physical and spiritual malformations
in the babies she nurses. It did require strength to
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lift a burden of life in the gray morning on
Dover Street, especially on Saturday morning. Perhaps my mother's pack
was the heaviest to lift. To the man of the house,
poverty is a bulky dragon with gripping talons and a
poisonous breath. But he bellows in the open, and it
is possible to give him nightly battle with the full
swing of the angry arm that cuts to the enemy's vitals.
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To the housewife, wand is an insidious myriapod creature that
crawls in the dark, mates with its own offspring, breeds
all the year round, persists like leprosy. The woman has
an endless inglorious struggle with the pest. Her triumphs are
too petty for applause, her failures too mean for notice.
Care to the man is a hound to be kept
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in leash and mastered. To the woman, care is a
secret parasite that infects the blood. Missus Hutch, of course,
was only one symptom of the disease of poverty, but
there were times when she seemed to me the sharpest
tooth of the gnawing canker. Shorelia's sorrow trails behind sin
Saturday evening brought missus Hutch. The landlady did not trail.
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Her movements were anything but impassive. She climbed the stairs
with determination and landed at the top with emphasis. Her
knock on the door was clear, sharp, unfaltering. It was
impossible to pretend not to hear it. Her good evening
announced business. Her manner of taking a chair suggested the
throwing down of the gauntlet. Invariably, she asked for my father,
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calling him mister Anton, and refusing to be corrected. Almost invariably,
he was not at home, was looking for work. Had
he left her the rent? My mother's gentle no, ma'am,
was the signal for the storm. I do not want
to repeat what missus Hutch said. It would be hard
on her and hard on me. She grew red in
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the face, her voice grew shriller with every word. My
poor mother hung her head where she stood. The children
stared from their corners. The frightened baby cried. The angry
landlady rehearsed our sins like a prophet for telling doom.
We owed so many weeks rent. We were too lazy
to work. We never intended to pay. We lived on
others we deserved to be put out without warning. She
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reproached my mother for having too many children. She blamed
us all for coming to America. She enumerated her losses
to non payment of her rents, told us that she
did not collect the amount of her taxes, showed us
how our irregularities were driving a poor widow to roun.
My mother did not attempt to excuse herself, but when
missus Hutch began to reil against my absent father, she
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tried to put in a word in his defense. The
landlady grew all the shriller at that and silenced my
mother impatiently. Sometimes she addressed herself to me. I always
stood by if I was at home, to give my
mother the moral support of my dumb sympathy. I understood
that missus Hutch had a special grudge against me because
I did not go to work as a cash girl
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and earn three dollars a week. I wanted to explain
to her how I was preparing myself for a great career,
and I was ready to promise her the payment of
the arrears as soon as I began to get rich.
But the landlady would not let me put in a
word and I was sorry for her, because she seemed
to be having such a bad time. At last, Missus
Hutch got up to leave, marching out as determinedly as
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she had marched in. At the door, she turned in
undiminished wrath to shoot her parting dart. And if mister
Anton does not bring me the rent on Monday, I
will serve notice of eviction on Tuesday without fail. We breathed.
When she was gone. My mother wiped away a few
tears and went to the baby crying in the windowless,
air tight room. I was the first to speak, isn't
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she queer? Mamma? I said, she never remembers how to
say our name. She insists on saying Anton, Anton, Celia,
say Anton. And I made the baby laugh by imitating
the landlady who had made her cry. But when I
went to my little room, I did not mock Missus Hutch.
I thought about her, thought long and hard, and to
a purpose. I decided that she must hear me out once.
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She must understand about my plans, my future, my good intentions.
It was too irrational to go on like this. We
living in fear of her, she in distrust of us.
If Missus Hutch would only trust me, and the tax
collectors would trust her. We could all live happily forever.
I was the more certain that my argument would prevail
with the landlady if only I could make her listen,
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because I understood her point of view. I even sympathized
with her. What she said about the babies, for instance,
was not all unreasonable to me. There was this last baby,
my mother sixth, born on Missus Hutch's premises. Yes, in
the windowless, air tight bedroom. Was there any need of
this baby? When May was born two years earlier on
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Wheeler Street, I had accepted her. After a while, I
even welcomed her. She was born an American, and it
was something to me to have one genuine American relative.
I had to set up with her the whole of
her first nay on Earth, and I questioned her about
the place she came from, and so we got acquainted.
As my mother was so ill that my sister Frida,
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who was a nurse, and the doctor from the dispensary
had all they could do to take care of her.
The baby remained in my charge a good deal, and
so I got used to her. But when Celia came,
I was two years older, and my outlook was broader.
I could see around a baby's charms and discern the
disadvantages of possessing the baby. I was supplied with all
kinds of relatives. Now I had a brother in law
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and an American born nephew who might become a president. Moreover,
I knew there was not enough to eat before the
baby's advent, and she did not bring any supplies with
her that I could see. The baby was one too many.
There was no need of her. I resented her existence.
I recorded my resentment in my journal. I was pleased
with my broad mindedness that enabled me to see all
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sides of the baby question. I could regard even the
rent question disinterestedly, like a philosopher reviewing natural phenomena. It
seemed not unreasonable that missus Hutch should have a craving
for the rent, as such a school girl dots on
her books, a baby cries for its rattle, and a
landlady yearns for her rents. I could easily believe that
it was doing missus Hutch spiritual violence to withhold the
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rent from her, and hence the vehemence with which she
pursued there. Yes, I could analyze the landlady very nicely.
I was certainly qualified to act as a peace maker
between her and my family. But I must go to
her own house, and not on a rent day Saturday evening,
when she was embittered by many disappointments. Was no time
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to reproach her with diplomatic negotiations. I must go to
her house on a day of good omen, and I
went as soon as my father could give me a
week's rent to take along. I found missus Hutch in
the gloom of a long faded parlor, divested of the
ample black coat and widow's bonnet in which I had
always seen her. Her presence would have been less formidable
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had I not been conscious that I was a mere
rumpled sparrow fallen into the lions den. When I had
delivered the money, I should have begun my speech, but
I did not know what came. First of all there
was to say. While I hesited, Missus Hutch observed me.
She noticed my books and asked about them. I thought
this was my opening, and I showed her eagerly my
Latin grammar, my geometry, my Virgil. I began to tell
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her how I was to go to college to fit
myself to write poetry and get rich and pay the arrears.
But missus Hutch cut me short. At the mention of college.
She broke out with her old reproaches and worked herself
into a worse fury than I had ever witnessed before.
I was all alone in the tempest, and a very
old lady was sitting on a sofa drinking tea, and
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the tidy on the back of the sofa was sliding down.
I was so bewildered by the suddenness of the ansela.
I felt so helpless to defend myself that I could
only stand and stare at missus Hutch. She kept on rowling,
without stopping for breath, repeating herself over and over. At
last I ceased to hear what she said. I became
hypnotized by the rapid motions of her mouth. Then the
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moving tidy caught my eye, and the spell was broken.
I went over to the sofa with a decided step
and carefully replaced the tidy. It was now the landlady's
turn to stare, and I stared back, surprised at my
own action. The old lady also stared, her teacup suspended
under her nose. The whole thing was so ridiculous. I
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had come on such a grand mission, ready to dictate
the terms of a noble peace. I was met with anger,
and countumly the dignity of the ambassador of peace rubbed
off at a touch, like the golden dust from the
butterfly's wing. I took my scolding like a meek child.
And then, when she was in the middle of a
trenchant phrase, her eye fixed daggerlike on mine, I calmly
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went to put the enemy's house in order. It was ridiculous,
and I laughed immediately. I was sorry. I wanted to apologize,
but missus Hutch didn't give me a chance. If she
had been harsh before, she was terrific. Now did I
come there to insult her? She wanted to know. Wasn't
it enough that I and my family lived on her
that I must come to her on purpose to rile
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her with my talk about college, college these beggars, and
laugh in her face? What did you come for? Who
sent you? Why do you stand there staring say something? College,
these beggars? And you think I'll keep you till you
go to college? You learning geometry? Did you ever figure
out how much wrench your father owes me. You were
all too lazy. Don't say a word. Don't speak to me,
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coming here to laugh in my face. I don't believe
you can say one sensible word Latin and French. Oh
these beggars. You ought to go to work. If you
know enough to do one sensible thing, college, go home
and tell your father never to send you again. Laughing
in my face and staring, why don't you say something?
How old are you? Missus Hutch actually stopped and I
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jumped into the pause. I'm seventeen, I said quickly, and
I feel like seventy. This was too much, even for me,
who had spoken. I had not meant to say the
last it broke out like my wicked laugh. I was
afraid if I stayed any longer, missus Hutch would have
the apoplexy, and I felt that I was going to cry.
I moved towards a door, but the landlady got in
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another speech before I had escaped. Seventeen seventy and looks
like twelve. The child is silly, can't even tell her
own age, No wonder with her Latin and French. And
I did cry when I got outside, and I didn't
care if I was noticed. What was the use of anything?
Everything I did was wrong. Everything I tried to do
for missus Hutch turned out bad. I tried to sell
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papers for the sake of the rent, and nobody wanted
the searchlight, and I was told it was not a
nice business. I wanted to take her into my confidence,
and she wouldn't hear a word, but scolded and called
me names. She was an unreasonable, ungrateful landlady. I wish
she would put us out. Then we should be rid
of her. But wasn't it funny about that tidy? What
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made me do that? I never meant to curious the
way we sometimes do things we don't want to at all.
The old lady must be deaf. She didn't say anything
all that time. Oh, I have a whole book of
the in need to review, and it's getting late. I
must hurry home. It was impossible to remain despondent long.
The landlady came only once a week, I reflected as
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I walked home, And the rest of the time I
was surrounded by friends. Everybody was good to me at home,
of course, and at school. And there was Miss Dillingham
and her friend who took me out in the country
to see the autumn leaves, and her friend's friend who
let me books. And mister Hurd, who put my poems
in the transcript and gave me books almost every time
I came. And a dozen others who did something good
(27:18):
for me all the time, besides a several dozen who
wrote me such nice letters. Friends. If I named one
for every block I passed, I should not get through.
Before I reached home. There was mister Strong too, and
he wanted me to meet his wife and little girl,
and mister Pastor. I had almost forgotten mister Pastor. I
arrived at the corner of Washington and Dover Street on
(27:39):
my way home and looked into mister Pastor's showy drug
store as I passed, and that reminded me of the
history of my latest friendship. My cough had been pretty bad,
kept me awake nights, my voice gave out frequently. The
teachers had spoken to me several times, suggesting that I
ought to see a doctor. Of course, the teachers did
not know that I could not afford a doctor, but
(28:01):
I could go to the free dispensary, and I did.
They told me to come again and again, and I
lost precious hours sitting in the waiting room watching for
my turn. I was examined, thumped, studied, and sent out
with prescriptions and innumerable directions. All that was said about food,
fresh air, sunny rooms, et cetera, was of course impossible,
(28:21):
but I would try the medicine. A bottle of medicine
was a definite thing with a fixed price. You either
could or could not afford it on a given day.
Once you began with milk and eggs and such things,
there was no end of it. You were always going
around the corner for more till the grocer said he
could give no more credit. No, the medicine bottle was
the only safe thing. I had taken several bottles and
(28:44):
was told that I was looking better. When I went
one day to have my prescription renewed. It was just
after a hard rain, and the pools on the broken
pavements were full of blue sky. I was delighted with
the beautiful reflections. There were even white clouds moving across
the blue there at my feet on the pavement. I
walked with my head down all the way to the
drug store, which was all right, but I should not
(29:06):
have done it going back with the new bottle of
medicine in my hand. In front of a cigar store
half way between Washington Street and Harrison Avenue, stood a
wooden Indian with a package of wood and cigars in
his hand. My eyes on the shining rain pools, I
walked plump into the Indian and the bottle was knocked
out of my hand and broke with a crash. I
(29:27):
was horrified at the catastrophe. The medicine cost fifty cents.
My mother had given me the last money in the house.
I must not be without my medicine. The dispensary doctor
was very emphatic about that it would be dreadful to
get sick and have to stay out of school. What
was to be done? I made up my mind in
less than five minutes. I went back to the drug
(29:47):
store and asked for mister Pastor himself. He knew me.
He often sold me postage stamps and joked about my
large correspondence and heard a good deal about my friends.
He came out on this occasion from his little office
and the of the store, and I told him of
my accident and that there was no more money at home,
and asked him to give me another bottle, to be
paid for as soon as possible. My father had a
(30:10):
job as a night watchman in a store. I should
be able to pay very soon. Certainly, my dear certainly,
said mister pastor, very glad to oblige you. It's doing
you good, isn't it. That's right. You're such a studious
young lady, with all those books and so many letters
to write. You need something to build you up. There
you are, Oh, don't mention it any time at all,
(30:31):
and look out for wild Indians. Of course we were
great friends after that, and this is the way my
troubles often ended on Dover Street. To bump into a
wooden Indian was to bump into good luck a hundred
times a week, No wonder, I was happy most of
the time. End of Chapter seventeen.
Chapter seventeen of The Promised Land. This LibriVox recording is
in the public domain. Recording by bridget Gage. The Promised
Land by Mary Anton, chapter seventeen, The land Lady. From
sunrise to sunset. The day was long enough for many things.
Beside school, which occupied five hours. There was time for
me to try to earn my living, or at least
(00:21):
the rent of our tenement. Rent was a standing trouble.
We were always behind, and the landlady was very angry.
So I was particularly ambitious to earn the rent. I
had had one or two poems published since the celebrated
eulogy of George Washington, but nobody had paid for my
poems yet. I was coming to that, of course, But
(00:41):
in the meantime I could not pay the rent with
my writing. To be sure, my acquaintance with men of
letters gave me an opening. A friend of mine introduced
me to a slightly literary lady, who introduced me to
the editor of the Boston Searchlight, who offered me a
generous commission for subscriptions to his paper. If I rent
was three and one half dollars per week, payable on
(01:03):
strong demand, and the annual subscription to the search flight
was one dollar, and my commission was fifty percent. How
many subscribers did I need? How easy? Seven subscribers a week,
one a day. Anybody could do that, Mister James, the
editor said so. He said I could get two or
three any afternoon between the end of school and supper.
(01:25):
If I worked all Saturday. My head went dizzy computing
the amount of my commissions. It would be rent and
shoes and bonnets and everything for everybody. Bray. In early
one Saturday morning in the Fall, I started out canvassing
in my hand a neatly folded copy of The Searchlight
in my heart, faith in my lucky Star, and good
will towards all the world. I began with one of
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the great office buildings on Tremont Street, as mister James
had advised. The first half hour I lost wandering through
the corridors reading the names on the doors. There were
so many people in the same office. How should I
know when I entered, which was Wilson and Reed solicitors,
and which see Jenkins Smith, Mortgages and Bonds. I decided
(02:06):
that it did not matter. I would call them all sir.
I selected a door and knocked. After waiting some time,
I knocked a little louder. The building buzzed with noise.
Swift footsteps echoed on the stone floors. Snappy talk broke
out with the opening of every door. Bells tinkled, elevators hummed.
No wonder they did not hear me knock. But I
noticed that other people went in without knocking, so after
(02:29):
a while I did the same. There were several men
and two women in the small, brightly lighted room. They
were all busy. It was very confusing. Should I say,
sir to the roomful? Excuse me, sir? I began. That
was a very good beginning, I felt, sure, But I
must speak louder. Lately My voice had been poor in school,
(02:50):
gave out sometimes in the middle of a recitation. I
cleared my throat, but I did not repeat myself. The
back of the bald head that I had addressed revolved
and presented its compliment, a bald front. Will you would
you like? I'd like? I stared in dismay at the
bald gentleman, unable to recall a word of what I
meant to say, and he stared in impatience at me. Well, well,
(03:12):
he snapped, what is it? What is it that reminded me?
It's the bustin Searchlight, sir, I take sub take it away,
take it away. We're busy here. He waved me away
over his shoulder, the back of his head once more
presented to me. I stole out of the room in
great confusion. Was that the way I was going to
be received? Why mister James had said nobody would hesitate
(03:33):
to subscribe? It was the best paper in Boston, the Searchlight,
and no business man could afford to be without it.
I must have made some blunder was mortgages and bonds
of business? I'd never heard of it, and very likely
I had spoken to see Jenkins Smith. I must try again,
of course I must try again. I selected a real
(03:54):
estate office next, a real estate broker I knew for
certain was a business man. Mister George A. Hooker must
just be waiting for the Boston Searchlight. Mister Hooker was
indeed waiting, and he was telling Central about it. Yes, Central,
waiting waiting what yes? Yes? Ring for what's that? Since?
When why didn't you say so at first? Then? Instead
(04:16):
of keeping me on the line, what oh is that? So? Well?
Never mind? This time, Central, I see I see all right.
I had become so absorbed in this monolog that when
mister Hooker swung around on me in his revolving chair,
I was startled, feeling that I had been caught eavesdropping.
I thought he was going to rebuke me, but he
only said, what can I do for you? Miss? Encouraged
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by his forbearance, I said, would you like to subscribe
to the Boston search Light, sir? Sir was safer, after all,
it's a dollar a year. I was supposed to say
that it was the best paper in Boston, et cetera.
But mister Hooker did not look interested, though he was
not cross. No thank you, miss, no new papers for me.
Excuse me, I am very busy, and he began to
(05:00):
dictate to a stenographer. Well, that was not so bad.
Mister Hooker was at least polite. I must try to
make a better speech next time. I stuck to real estate. Now, oh,
Lair and Kennedy were both in in my next office,
and both apparently enjoying a minute of relaxation, tilted back
in their chairs behind a low railing, said I determined
(05:20):
to be business like at last, and addressing myself to
the whole firm. Would you like to subscribe to the
Boston Searchlight. It's a very good paper. No business man
can afford it, afford to be without it. I mean,
it's only a dollary year. Both men smiled at my brake,
and I smiled too. I wondered would they subscribe separately,
or would they take one copy for the firm The
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Boston Searchlight, repeated one of the partners, never heard of it?
Is that the paper you have there? He unfolded the
paper I gave him, looked it over, and handed it
to his partner. Ever heard of the search Light? O'lair?
What do you think can we afford to be without it?
I guess we'll make out somehow, replied mister Olaire me
back my paper, but I'll buy this copy of you miss,
(06:03):
he added from second thoughts, and I'll go partner on
the bargain, said mister Kennedy. But I objected, this is
a sample, I said. I don't sell single papers. I
take subscriptions for the year. It's one dollar and no
business man can afford it, you know. Mister Kennedy winked
as he said it, and we all smiled again. It
would have been stupid not to see the joke. I'm sorry,
(06:25):
I can't sell my sample, I said, with my hand
on the doorknob. That's all right, my dear, said mister
Kennedy with a gracious wave of the hand, and his
partner called after me. Better luck next door. Well, I
was getting on. The people grew friendlier all the time,
but I skipped next door. It was mortgages and bonds.
I tried insurance. The best paper in Boston is it,
(06:47):
remarked mister Thomas F. Dix, turning over my sample. And
who told you that, young lady, mister James? Was my
prompt reply. Who is mister James the editor? Oh? I see?
And do you also think the Searchlight the best paper
in Boston? I don't know, sir. I like the Herald
much better. And the transcript. At that mister Dix left.
(07:10):
That's right, he said, business is business, but you tell
the truth. One dollar? Is it? Here? You are? My
name is on the door. Good day. I think I
spent twenty minutes copying the name and room number from
the door. I did not trust myself to read plain English.
What if I made a mistake and the Searchlight went
astray and good. Mister Dix remained unilluminated. He had paid
(07:32):
for the year. It would be dreadful to make a mistake.
Emboldened by my one success, I went into the next
office without considering the kind of business announced on the door.
I tried brokers, lawyers, contractors and all just as they
came around the corridor, but I copied no more addresses.
Most of the people were polite. Some men waved me away,
(07:53):
like c. Jenkins Smith. Some looked impatient at first, but
excused themselves politely. In the end, almost everybody said we're
busy here, as if they suspected I wanted them to
read a whole year's issue of The Searchlight at once.
At last, one man told me he did not think
it was a nice business for a girl going through
the offices like that. This took me aback. I had
(08:15):
not thought anything about the nature of the business. I
only wanted the money to pay the rent. I wandered
through miles of stone corridors, unable to see why it
was not a nice business, and yet reluctant to go
on with it, with a doubt in my mind. Intent
on my new problem, I walked into a messenger boy
and looking back to apologize to him. I collided softly
(08:36):
with a cushion shaped gentleman getting off an elevator. I
was making up my mind to leave the building forever
when I saw an office door standing open. It was
the first open door I had come across since morning.
It was past noon now, and it was a sign
to me to keep on. I must not give up
so easily. Mister Frederick A. Strong was alone in the office,
(08:57):
surreptitiously picking his teeth. He had been to lunch. He
heard me out, good naturedly, how much is your commission?
If I may ask? It was the first thing he
had said, fifty cents, sir, Well, I'll tell you what
I will do. I don't care to subscribe, but here's
a quarter for you. If I did not blush, it
was because it is not my habit. But all of
(09:18):
a sudden I choked. A lump jumped into my throat.
Almost the tears were in my eyes. That man was
right who said it was not nice to go through
the offices. I was taken for a beggar. A stranger
offered me money for nothing. I could not say a word.
I started to go out, but mister Strong jumped up
and prevented me. Oh, don't go like that, he cried,
(09:39):
I didn't mean to offend you. Upon my word, I didn't.
I beg your pardon. I didn't know you. See. Won't
you sit down a minute to rest? That's kind of you.
Mister Strong was so genuinely repentant that I could not
refuse him. Besides, I felt a little weak. I had
been on my feet since morning and had had no lunch.
I sat down and mister Strong talked. He showed me
(10:01):
a picture of his wife and little girl and said
I must go and see them sometime. Pretty soon, I
was chatting too, and I told mister Strong about the
Latin school, and of course he asked me if I
was French, the way people always did when they wanted
to say that I had a foreign accent. So we
got started on Russia and had such an interesting time
that we both jumped up surprised when a fine young
(10:22):
lady in a beautiful hat came in to take possession
of the idle typewriter. Mister Strong introduced me very formally,
thanked me for an interesting hour, and shook hands with
me at the door. I did not add his name
to my short subscription list. But I counted it a
greater triumph that I had made a friend. It would
have been seeking an anti climax to solicit any more
(10:42):
in the building. I went out into the roar of
Tremont Street and across the common, still green and leafy,
I rested awhile on a bench, debating where to go next.
It was past two by the clock on Park Street Church.
I had had a long day already, but it was
too early to quit work with them. One half dollar
of my own in my pocket. It was Saturday. In
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the evening, the landlady would come. I must try a
little longer. I went out along Columbus Avenue, a popular
route for bicyclists at that time. The bicycle stores all
along the way looked promising to me. The people did
not look so busy as in the office building. They
would at least be polite. They were not particularly rude,
but they did not subscribe. Nobody wanted the searchlight. They
(11:27):
had never heard of it. They made jokes about it.
They did not want it at any price. I began
to lose faith in the paper myself. I got tired
of its name. I began to feel dizzy, I stopped
going into the stores. I walked straight along, looking at nothing.
I wanted to go back, go home, but I wouldn't.
I felt like doing myself spite. I walked right along,
(11:48):
straight as the avenue ran. I did not know where
it would lead me. I did not care. Everything was horrid.
I would go right on until night. I would get lost.
I would fall in a faint on a strange doorstep,
and be found dead in the morning and be pitied.
Wouldn't that be interesting? The adventure might even end happily.
I might faint at the door of a rich old
(12:08):
man's house, who would take me in and order his
housekeeper to nurse me, just like in the story books.
In my delirium, of course, I would have a fever.
I would talk about the landlady and how I had
tried to earn the rent, and the old gentleman would
wipe his spectacles for pity. Then I would wake up
and ask plaintively where am I? And when I got
(12:30):
strong after a delightfully long convalescence, the old gentleman would
take me to Dover Street in a carriage, and we
would all be reunited and laugh and cry together. The
old gentleman, of course, would engage my father as his
steward on the spot, and we would all go to
live in one of his houses with a garden around it.
I walked on and on, gleefully, aware that I had
(12:52):
not eaten since morning. Wasn't I beginning to feel shaky? Yes,
I should certainly faint before long. But I didn't like
the house as I passed. They did not look fit
for my adventure. I must keep up till I reached
a better neighborhood. Anybody who knows Boston knows how cheaply
my adventure ended. Columbus Avenue leads out to Roxbury Crossing.
(13:13):
When I saw that the houses were getting shabbier instead
of finer, my heart sank. When I came out on
the noisy thrice Commonplace street car center, my spirit collapsed utterly.
I did not spoon. I woke up from my foolish,
childish dream with a shock. I was disgusted with myself
and frightened. Besides, it was evening now, and I was
(13:33):
faint and sick in good earnest, and I did not
know where I was. I asked a starter at the
transfer station the way to Dover Street and he told
me to get on a car that was just coming in.
I'll walk, I said, if you will, please tell me
the shortest way. How could I spend five cents out
of the little I had made? But the starter discouraged me.
(13:54):
You can't walk it before midnight. The way you look,
my girl, better hop on that car before it goes.
I could not resist the temptation. I rode home in
the car and felt like a thief when I paid
the fare. Five cents gone to pay for my folly.
I was grateful for a cold supper thrice, grateful to
hear that Missus Hutch, the landlady, had been and gone
content with two dollars that my father had brought home.
(14:17):
Missus Hutch seldom succeeded in collecting the full amount of
the rents from her tenants. I suppose that made the
book keeping complicated, which must have been wearing on her
nerves and hence her temper. We lived on Dover Street
in fear of her temper. Saturday had a distinct quality
about it, derived from the eminence of Missus Hutch's visit.
Of course, I awoke on Saturday morning with the no
(14:39):
school feeling, but the grim thing that leaped to its
feet and glowered down on me while the rest of
my consciousness was still yawning. On its back was the
Missus Hutches coming, And there's no rent feeling. It is
hard if you are a young girl, full of life
and inclined to be glad, to go to sleep in
anxiety and awake in fear. It is apt to enter
(15:00):
fear with the circulation of the vital ether of happiness
in the young, which is damaging to the complexion of
the soul. It is bitter when you are middle aged
and unsuccessful, to go to sleep and self reproach and
awake unexonerated. It is likely to cause fermentation in the
sweetest nature. It is certain to breed gray hairs and
a premature longing for death. It is pitiful if you
(15:22):
are the home keeping mother of an impoverished family, to
drop in your traces helpless at night and awake unstrengthened
in the early morning. The haunting consciousness of rooted poverty
is an improper bedfellow for a woman who still bears.
It has been known to induce physical and spiritual malformations
in the babies she nurses. It did require strength to
(15:43):
lift a burden of life in the gray morning on
Dover Street, especially on Saturday morning. Perhaps my mother's pack
was the heaviest to lift. To the man of the house,
poverty is a bulky dragon with gripping talons and a
poisonous breath. But he bellows in the open, and it
is possible to give him nightly battle with the full
swing of the angry arm that cuts to the enemy's vitals.
(16:06):
To the housewife, wand is an insidious myriapod creature that
crawls in the dark, mates with its own offspring, breeds
all the year round, persists like leprosy. The woman has
an endless inglorious struggle with the pest. Her triumphs are
too petty for applause, her failures too mean for notice.
Care to the man is a hound to be kept
(16:26):
in leash and mastered. To the woman, care is a
secret parasite that infects the blood. Missus Hutch, of course,
was only one symptom of the disease of poverty, but
there were times when she seemed to me the sharpest
tooth of the gnawing canker. Shorelia's sorrow trails behind sin
Saturday evening brought missus Hutch. The landlady did not trail.
(16:47):
Her movements were anything but impassive. She climbed the stairs
with determination and landed at the top with emphasis. Her
knock on the door was clear, sharp, unfaltering. It was
impossible to pretend not to hear it. Her good evening
announced business. Her manner of taking a chair suggested the
throwing down of the gauntlet. Invariably, she asked for my father,
(17:10):
calling him mister Anton, and refusing to be corrected. Almost invariably,
he was not at home, was looking for work. Had
he left her the rent? My mother's gentle no, ma'am,
was the signal for the storm. I do not want
to repeat what missus Hutch said. It would be hard
on her and hard on me. She grew red in
(17:30):
the face, her voice grew shriller with every word. My
poor mother hung her head where she stood. The children
stared from their corners. The frightened baby cried. The angry
landlady rehearsed our sins like a prophet for telling doom.
We owed so many weeks rent. We were too lazy
to work. We never intended to pay. We lived on
others we deserved to be put out without warning. She
(17:53):
reproached my mother for having too many children. She blamed
us all for coming to America. She enumerated her losses
to non payment of her rents, told us that she
did not collect the amount of her taxes, showed us
how our irregularities were driving a poor widow to roun.
My mother did not attempt to excuse herself, but when
missus Hutch began to reil against my absent father, she
(18:15):
tried to put in a word in his defense. The
landlady grew all the shriller at that and silenced my
mother impatiently. Sometimes she addressed herself to me. I always
stood by if I was at home, to give my
mother the moral support of my dumb sympathy. I understood
that missus Hutch had a special grudge against me because
I did not go to work as a cash girl
(18:37):
and earn three dollars a week. I wanted to explain
to her how I was preparing myself for a great career,
and I was ready to promise her the payment of
the arrears as soon as I began to get rich.
But the landlady would not let me put in a
word and I was sorry for her, because she seemed
to be having such a bad time. At last, Missus
Hutch got up to leave, marching out as determinedly as
(18:59):
she had marched in. At the door, she turned in
undiminished wrath to shoot her parting dart. And if mister
Anton does not bring me the rent on Monday, I
will serve notice of eviction on Tuesday without fail. We breathed.
When she was gone. My mother wiped away a few
tears and went to the baby crying in the windowless,
air tight room. I was the first to speak, isn't
(19:22):
she queer? Mamma? I said, she never remembers how to
say our name. She insists on saying Anton, Anton, Celia,
say Anton. And I made the baby laugh by imitating
the landlady who had made her cry. But when I
went to my little room, I did not mock Missus Hutch.
I thought about her, thought long and hard, and to
a purpose. I decided that she must hear me out once.
(19:46):
She must understand about my plans, my future, my good intentions.
It was too irrational to go on like this. We
living in fear of her, she in distrust of us.
If Missus Hutch would only trust me, and the tax
collectors would trust her. We could all live happily forever.
I was the more certain that my argument would prevail
with the landlady if only I could make her listen,
(20:08):
because I understood her point of view. I even sympathized
with her. What she said about the babies, for instance,
was not all unreasonable to me. There was this last baby,
my mother sixth, born on Missus Hutch's premises. Yes, in
the windowless, air tight bedroom. Was there any need of
this baby? When May was born two years earlier on
(20:28):
Wheeler Street, I had accepted her. After a while, I
even welcomed her. She was born an American, and it
was something to me to have one genuine American relative.
I had to set up with her the whole of
her first nay on Earth, and I questioned her about
the place she came from, and so we got acquainted.
As my mother was so ill that my sister Frida,
(20:48):
who was a nurse, and the doctor from the dispensary
had all they could do to take care of her.
The baby remained in my charge a good deal, and
so I got used to her. But when Celia came,
I was two years older, and my outlook was broader.
I could see around a baby's charms and discern the
disadvantages of possessing the baby. I was supplied with all
kinds of relatives. Now I had a brother in law
(21:11):
and an American born nephew who might become a president. Moreover,
I knew there was not enough to eat before the
baby's advent, and she did not bring any supplies with
her that I could see. The baby was one too many.
There was no need of her. I resented her existence.
I recorded my resentment in my journal. I was pleased
with my broad mindedness that enabled me to see all
(21:33):
sides of the baby question. I could regard even the
rent question disinterestedly, like a philosopher reviewing natural phenomena. It
seemed not unreasonable that missus Hutch should have a craving
for the rent, as such a school girl dots on
her books, a baby cries for its rattle, and a
landlady yearns for her rents. I could easily believe that
it was doing missus Hutch spiritual violence to withhold the
(21:56):
rent from her, and hence the vehemence with which she
pursued there. Yes, I could analyze the landlady very nicely.
I was certainly qualified to act as a peace maker
between her and my family. But I must go to
her own house, and not on a rent day Saturday evening,
when she was embittered by many disappointments. Was no time
(22:16):
to reproach her with diplomatic negotiations. I must go to
her house on a day of good omen, and I
went as soon as my father could give me a
week's rent to take along. I found missus Hutch in
the gloom of a long faded parlor, divested of the
ample black coat and widow's bonnet in which I had
always seen her. Her presence would have been less formidable
(22:37):
had I not been conscious that I was a mere
rumpled sparrow fallen into the lions den. When I had
delivered the money, I should have begun my speech, but
I did not know what came. First of all there
was to say. While I hesited, Missus Hutch observed me.
She noticed my books and asked about them. I thought
this was my opening, and I showed her eagerly my
Latin grammar, my geometry, my Virgil. I began to tell
(23:01):
her how I was to go to college to fit
myself to write poetry and get rich and pay the arrears.
But missus Hutch cut me short. At the mention of college.
She broke out with her old reproaches and worked herself
into a worse fury than I had ever witnessed before.
I was all alone in the tempest, and a very
old lady was sitting on a sofa drinking tea, and
(23:22):
the tidy on the back of the sofa was sliding down.
I was so bewildered by the suddenness of the ansela.
I felt so helpless to defend myself that I could
only stand and stare at missus Hutch. She kept on rowling,
without stopping for breath, repeating herself over and over. At
last I ceased to hear what she said. I became
hypnotized by the rapid motions of her mouth. Then the
(23:44):
moving tidy caught my eye, and the spell was broken.
I went over to the sofa with a decided step
and carefully replaced the tidy. It was now the landlady's
turn to stare, and I stared back, surprised at my
own action. The old lady also stared, her teacup suspended
under her nose. The whole thing was so ridiculous. I
(24:05):
had come on such a grand mission, ready to dictate
the terms of a noble peace. I was met with anger,
and countumly the dignity of the ambassador of peace rubbed
off at a touch, like the golden dust from the
butterfly's wing. I took my scolding like a meek child.
And then, when she was in the middle of a
trenchant phrase, her eye fixed daggerlike on mine, I calmly
(24:27):
went to put the enemy's house in order. It was ridiculous,
and I laughed immediately. I was sorry. I wanted to apologize,
but missus Hutch didn't give me a chance. If she
had been harsh before, she was terrific. Now did I
come there to insult her? She wanted to know. Wasn't
it enough that I and my family lived on her
that I must come to her on purpose to rile
(24:49):
her with my talk about college, college these beggars, and
laugh in her face? What did you come for? Who
sent you? Why do you stand there staring say something? College,
these beggars? And you think I'll keep you till you
go to college? You learning geometry? Did you ever figure
out how much wrench your father owes me. You were
all too lazy. Don't say a word. Don't speak to me,
(25:09):
coming here to laugh in my face. I don't believe
you can say one sensible word Latin and French. Oh
these beggars. You ought to go to work. If you
know enough to do one sensible thing, college, go home
and tell your father never to send you again. Laughing
in my face and staring, why don't you say something?
How old are you? Missus Hutch actually stopped and I
(25:30):
jumped into the pause. I'm seventeen, I said quickly, and
I feel like seventy. This was too much, even for me,
who had spoken. I had not meant to say the
last it broke out like my wicked laugh. I was
afraid if I stayed any longer, missus Hutch would have
the apoplexy, and I felt that I was going to cry.
I moved towards a door, but the landlady got in
(25:53):
another speech before I had escaped. Seventeen seventy and looks
like twelve. The child is silly, can't even tell her
own age, No wonder with her Latin and French. And
I did cry when I got outside, and I didn't
care if I was noticed. What was the use of anything?
Everything I did was wrong. Everything I tried to do
for missus Hutch turned out bad. I tried to sell
(26:15):
papers for the sake of the rent, and nobody wanted
the searchlight, and I was told it was not a
nice business. I wanted to take her into my confidence,
and she wouldn't hear a word, but scolded and called
me names. She was an unreasonable, ungrateful landlady. I wish
she would put us out. Then we should be rid
of her. But wasn't it funny about that tidy? What
(26:35):
made me do that? I never meant to curious the
way we sometimes do things we don't want to at all.
The old lady must be deaf. She didn't say anything
all that time. Oh, I have a whole book of
the in need to review, and it's getting late. I
must hurry home. It was impossible to remain despondent long.
The landlady came only once a week, I reflected as
(26:57):
I walked home, And the rest of the time I
was surrounded by friends. Everybody was good to me at home,
of course, and at school. And there was Miss Dillingham
and her friend who took me out in the country
to see the autumn leaves, and her friend's friend who
let me books. And mister Hurd, who put my poems
in the transcript and gave me books almost every time
I came. And a dozen others who did something good
(27:18):
for me all the time, besides a several dozen who
wrote me such nice letters. Friends. If I named one
for every block I passed, I should not get through.
Before I reached home. There was mister Strong too, and
he wanted me to meet his wife and little girl,
and mister Pastor. I had almost forgotten mister Pastor. I
arrived at the corner of Washington and Dover Street on
(27:39):
my way home and looked into mister Pastor's showy drug
store as I passed, and that reminded me of the
history of my latest friendship. My cough had been pretty bad,
kept me awake nights, my voice gave out frequently. The
teachers had spoken to me several times, suggesting that I
ought to see a doctor. Of course, the teachers did
not know that I could not afford a doctor, but
(28:01):
I could go to the free dispensary, and I did.
They told me to come again and again, and I
lost precious hours sitting in the waiting room watching for
my turn. I was examined, thumped, studied, and sent out
with prescriptions and innumerable directions. All that was said about food,
fresh air, sunny rooms, et cetera, was of course impossible,
(28:21):
but I would try the medicine. A bottle of medicine
was a definite thing with a fixed price. You either
could or could not afford it on a given day.
Once you began with milk and eggs and such things,
there was no end of it. You were always going
around the corner for more till the grocer said he
could give no more credit. No, the medicine bottle was
the only safe thing. I had taken several bottles and
(28:44):
was told that I was looking better. When I went
one day to have my prescription renewed. It was just
after a hard rain, and the pools on the broken
pavements were full of blue sky. I was delighted with
the beautiful reflections. There were even white clouds moving across
the blue there at my feet on the pavement. I
walked with my head down all the way to the
drug store, which was all right, but I should not
(29:06):
have done it going back with the new bottle of
medicine in my hand. In front of a cigar store
half way between Washington Street and Harrison Avenue, stood a
wooden Indian with a package of wood and cigars in
his hand. My eyes on the shining rain pools, I
walked plump into the Indian and the bottle was knocked
out of my hand and broke with a crash. I
(29:27):
was horrified at the catastrophe. The medicine cost fifty cents.
My mother had given me the last money in the house.
I must not be without my medicine. The dispensary doctor
was very emphatic about that it would be dreadful to
get sick and have to stay out of school. What
was to be done? I made up my mind in
less than five minutes. I went back to the drug
(29:47):
store and asked for mister Pastor himself. He knew me.
He often sold me postage stamps and joked about my
large correspondence and heard a good deal about my friends.
He came out on this occasion from his little office
and the of the store, and I told him of
my accident and that there was no more money at home,
and asked him to give me another bottle, to be
paid for as soon as possible. My father had a
(30:10):
job as a night watchman in a store. I should
be able to pay very soon. Certainly, my dear certainly,
said mister pastor, very glad to oblige you. It's doing
you good, isn't it. That's right. You're such a studious
young lady, with all those books and so many letters
to write. You need something to build you up. There
you are, Oh, don't mention it any time at all,
(30:31):
and look out for wild Indians. Of course we were
great friends after that, and this is the way my
troubles often ended on Dover Street. To bump into a
wooden Indian was to bump into good luck a hundred
times a week, No wonder, I was happy most of
the time. End of Chapter seventeen.
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