# The Oracles of the Stove

Extracted from "Everybody's" magazine, April 1904, pp. 484-490. Accompanying illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg may be omitted
The Oracles of the Stove
By HUGH PENDEXTER
"WANT ter drive over ter th’ store?” asked Mr. Currier one evening as I sat by the front window, gazing into the heart of the night, while strings of sleet slapped the small window-panes venomously.
Ordinarily I should have refused the invitation, but to-night the weather was so foul, the wind so dreary, and my life so dull that any change was welcome. I nodded my head gloomily and wondered if the storm was blowing the leaves over the Widow Pashley’s grave. Possibly it was because I had attended her funeral that afternoon that now I felt so melancholy.
“Si’s goin’, too,” said Mr. Currier. “But I guess we all three can ride ’f I take th’ concord. Bad night ter be spilled in.”
Again I nodded, but my thoughts were outside in the little cemetery. My first term of school was nearly half over, and I had tried to enjoy life in the rural community and had come to believe that homesickness would trouble me no more. But the chill wind and the gray November sky, and the look of the naked, scrubby growth on the brown hillsides, as seen from Methuel Currier’s porch through the thin dusk of late afternoon, impressed me as being desolate and dreary—very dreary. I had carried the picture inside, and even Mrs. Currier’s observation that “hot tea and saleratus biscuit go good after funerals” failed to revive my spirits.
I wondered what Jeff Pashley would do, now his mother was dead. I had learned his story from the Curriers and had come to have a strong liking far the man; possibly because we were both strangers in the district. But there was a reserve that neither I nor the good people in “Deestric” No. 6 could break through. He was about fifty-five years old and in person slight and wiry, with a cold, proud air that ill became a tiller of a rocky Maine farm. His story, in brief, was the old one of a youngster running away to war in the early ’60’s and failing to return until almost too late. His father had been hard on him, some of the older people told me, and died believing his son had fallen in battle. Three years before I came to No. 6 he had returned to find his mother aged and worn, but overjoyed at recovering him from the grave. She always called him “that boy, Jeff,” and if he were reticent with my host and the other families, there was nothing lacking in his tenderness to her. Under his silent persistence the little farm had been forced to yield a livelihood, and Mrs. Pashley, I am sure, enjoyed more comforts and luxuries in her declining years than ever she had before. Pashley never went to town but he brought her home a new easy chair, books, and what not. I respected him, for all his silent ways, and despite the fact that he had kept away until the eleventh hour.
It was thinking on all this, and a desire to get away from myself, that led me to nod acquiescence to Mr. Currier’s proposal and endure Si’s noisy tongue for a whole evening. Jessup’s was just as much of an institution in the district as was the poor farm. Primarily a general store, it was also the rendezvous for all the farmers far and near, a clearing-house for gossip. While produce was exchanged for canned goods and groceries, little items of personal interest were also bartered, and Dame Gossip, enthroned before the old-fashioned cylinder-stove, ruled until the closing hour. I had been there often enough to realize that no man left the nightly gathering before nine of the clock without standing an excellent chance of being “talked about.” Subjects were never lacking for the cynics.
To this desirable gathering we drove through the rain and wind, with mud flying in circles on other side, until I was chilled to the bone. Si was in fine fettle at the prospect of having a whole evening of neighborly vivisection, but Mr. Currier was preoccupied, speculating, I suppose, on whether we were late and had sustained an attack.
On entering Jessup’s I was glad to take up a position in a dark corner, out the way, but where the warmth from the pleasant wood fire played agreeably on my benumbed limbs. The little circle of oracles was so enveloped in tobacco-smoke that my presence was hardly detected. Si, however, and his employer courted attention by forcing their way to the hearth.
The first words I heard after sliding into my seat came from William Pease, our neighbor, and I noted at once that the game was on. “He sartainly ain’t a good pervider,” declared William as he skilfully cut a deep notch in a sugar-barrel stave.
“Naw,” assented old Jameson Thomas, loading his pipe and shaking his grizzly head sadly; “he ain’t a good pervider. I knowed his father when he had a note go ter protest in Portland. Guess he’ll have purty tough sleddin’ this winter.”
Mr. Currier slapped his hands together before the stove and gazed searchingly about to see who was absent; one glance gave him his cue, and he cheerfully added, “Lem Lubert has owed me fer a sheep fer two years.”
“He owes Fuller, too,” declared Si.
Storekeeper Jessup paused in weighing his hand with four pounds of sugar, ordered by the Bean boy,and said: “D’ye know, Lem’s ben owin’ me on a little bill fer more’n seven years. Don’t s’pose I’ll ever git it.”
“I don’t have much sympathy fer a man what won’t look ahead,” remarked Ezra Judkins, holding his boots over the hearth so that the water dripping from them would sizzle.
“Lawd! What a life that man must lead!” chimed in Jim Lougee, the highway commissioner.
At this point the door opened and a muffled figure stamped noisily in. When the face emerged from the deep coat-collar it was Lem Lubert himself, and I wondered how the iconoclasts would cover their confusion. I had not appreciated the resources of the little group.
William Pease without any hesitation cordially saluted the newcomer with: “Why, hullo, Lem. How be ye ?” While the storekeeper smiled warmly and cried: “Always th’ same old Lem, rough an’ hearty.”
What was more, Mr. Pease had the duplicity to make room near the stove with a “Have a chair up here by th’ blaze, Lem. How’s yer fambly?”
Lem grinned a general acknowledgment to his greeting and cut off a chew of tobacco before replying. Then he said: “Shouldn’t wonder ’f them Klinks fambly’s got ter be helped by th’ town this winter. I heard tell as how Tom had quit in th’ woods an’ won’t work fer Jerdan any more.”
“By vum! Ain’t that jest like Tom Klinks. An’ he with a fambly of eight,” ejaculated Mr. Currier, as he tenderly brushed some raindrops from Lem’s coat-collar.
“It’s a shame, way that man shirks his work,” declared the storekeeper, adding in the date of the month on Miss Cynthia Hopper’s account-book, while that lady, shrewdly discovering the mistake, smiled sweetly and pronounced it a most natural error.
“Yas,” assented Si, “he don’t seem ter have no thought of th’ futer, naw nawthin’.”
“Wal,” announced Mr. Pease, rising slowly and gazing regretfully at his seat near the raisin-box, “I’ve got ter go home. Promised my woman I’d be back early ter-night. Ain’t some of you fellers goin’ my way?”
But none was, and he walked alone to the door, paused a minute, and then, after casting a suspicious glance backward, raised the latch.
“Will’s close enough on a bargain,” said Commissioner Lougee, making some fine pine shavings.
“Close!” laughed Si sneeringly, helping himself to a prune; “wal, I should say so.”
“I hear he tried ter git th’ best of Jeff Pashley in a cattle-deal,” observed Mr. Currier.
“A man that’ll keep away from his mother so long is a purty hard man ter beat,” suggested Jessup.
“Not what you’d call a warm-hearted man,” sighed Mr. lougee. “Guess th’ war hardened him all right.”
“Narrered an’ harried him,” corrected Si.
It was on my tongue to speak up and remind the group that once he had returned he did not leave his home every night to visit the store, but perhaps it was just as well that Eben Fairbrother’s arrival forestalled me. As a country school-teacher it was well that I took no sides; for it was from these gentlemen that my eight dollars a week and board were forthcoming.
“Mis’ Lougee wants ye ter come home an’ see ter a cow that’s took sick, Jim,” announced Eben, very cheerful at bearing unwelcome intelligence.
“Dod rot that cow! S’pose I’ve got ter go,” growled Mr. Lougee, rising in disgust and malevolently eying Eben, who was waiting to take his chair. Then he added more gently: “Comin’ my way, any of you boys?” But as all preferred to remain, he slammed the door and set off alone.
“Queer how a man’ll neglect his critters,” observed Eben, taking the vacant seat.
“Don’t see how he manages ter git along,” said Mr. Lubert, eating a pickle.
“They say his father was peculiar,” added old man Thomas.
“Yas,” affirmed Si, taking another prime. “I know a man who know his father, an’ he says th’ ol’ man was mighty queer.”
“Guess it runs in his fambly, all right,” summed up the storekeeper, pouring out a quart of beans with his hand inside the measure.
“They say Jeff Pashley’s father was hard on him,” said Mr. Currier reflectively, as he squinted along a pine-stick to see if it were whittled correctly. “I didn’t live here then an’ can only speak from hearsay.”
“Ye’ve heard it right enough,” declared Jessup, delicately aiding the scales with the index-finger of his right hand. “I guess ’f he’d ben harder ’twould have ben better fer ’em all.”
“I guess his mother was too easy on him an’ kinder offset th’ old man’s ha’shness,” decided Si. “Wonder what he ever come back fer?”
“Did ye ever hear of folks bein’ sort of kind an’ gentle jest ter git hold of a little property?” asked Mr. Lubert, winking one eye slowly.
“Ye’re a shrewd one,” declared Jessup, pausing in cutting off the end of some black plug-tobacco to give vent to his admiration.
“He’s after th’ property all right,” chuckled Mr. Lubert, enjoying the incense of praise.
I knew it matter little what they said about Pashley; I knew he would never have dignified it by aught but a look, and I knew he would not thank me, comparatively a stranger, to speak in his behalf. Yet I had thrust my head around the stove and was about to give free rein to my hasty tongue, when for the second time a newcomer saved me by turning the conversation into other channels. He was a farmer who wished to sell a tub of butter, and the storekeeper was forced to leave us in order to escort turn to the back room where the scales were kept.
“Did ye ever hear that Mr. Jessup didn’t treat his fust wife overwell?” inquired Mr. Lubert in a low voice, making a regular onslaught on the raisins.
“Yas, an’ I guess there’s something in it,” replied Mr. Currier, devoting his attention to the dried apples.
Old man Thomas coughed gently over a bit of boneless cod and whispered: “He was sartainly talked about. No fire, no smoke, ye know.”
“Thomas, jest come out here a minute,” bawled Jessup. “I want ye ter decide on th’ weight of this butter.”
“He’s goin’ ter stand fer head s’lectman, ain't he?” asked Mr. Lubert, looking after Mr. Thomas with a leer.
“Yas, he’s goin’ ter stand, but that ain’t sayin’ he’ll git it,” laughed Mr. Currier.
“I know one vote he won’t git,” declared Eben Fairbrother stoutly.
“There was some talk of running Jeff Pashley fer office next spring,” hinted my host; who, desirous of retaining his office of selectman, was keenly anxious to discover all other booms.
“A man that deserts his mother till she’s most ready ter die ain’t got much comin’ ter him in th’ way of political favors,” replied Mr. Fairbrother.
“Another thing,” added Si: “what do we know about his war record? He never does nawthin’ in a military way, such as playin’ in th’ band, an’ I never even see’d him decorate a grave on Decoration Day.”
The three men in the back room now fell to arguing violently, the man with the butter to sell being in the minority.
“Wal, durn it all! We’ll call in Methuel,” the storekeeper said; and my host was requested to “step out here an’ see fair play.”
“Did Methuel’s aunt go on th’ town farm?” inquired Mr. Lubert, shaving off a bit of cheese with his pocket-knife.
“She did. She married a wuthless cuss,” informed Si readily, somewhat to my surprise, for I had always believed that Si was true blue to his employer.
“Sometimes I think Methuel fergits where he sprung from an’ gives himself airs,” said Mr. Fairbrother, filling his mouth with crackers.
“An’ they do say he thinks of runnin’ ag’in’ Thomas fer s’lectman,” chipped in Mr. Judkins.
“That’s why he’s so keen ter keep Jeff Pashley out of th’ runnin’. I never had nawthin’ ag’in’ Pashley,” concluded Mr. Fairbrother.
“Yas, I guess— Why, good evenin’, Mis’ Philpott. Cold, ain’t it?” Si broke off to greet a tall, angular woman muffled in a shawl, who now entered, carrying a large basket.
“That’s a queer woman,” spoke up the storekeeper, as Mrs. Philpott closed the door behind her.
“Don’t seem ter have a good word fer nobody or nawthin’,” commented Mr. Fairbrother.
“Bitter’d be a better word fer her disposition,” declared Si.
“D’ye know,” said old man Thomas, “I always had a idea that she’d planned on havin’ her old maid sister marry Pashley.”
“Wal,” declared Mr. Judkins, “while I don’t envy any one that marries inter that fambly, I should feel mighty uncertain if I’s a woman an’ had married Pashley.”
“Kind of afraid that Jeff might go away an’ fergit ter come back fer forty years, or sich a matter, eh?” said my host.
“That’s th’ idea, Meth,” cried Mr. Lubert. “Ye’ve hit th’ nail on th’ head. How surprised his mother must ’a’ ben! There she had his picture, a old daguerreotype, framed with a flag, in her front room, an’ she mournin’ him fer dead, when up he pops, a man growed.”
“She knew him?” I asked from my corner.
“Wal, no, teacher; not exactly. She’d have passed him in th’ road, I guess, an’ not knowed him, but when he walked inter th’ house something told her ’twas Jeff, although her eyesight was poorly,” explained the storekeeper, as he secured a handful of silver coin in a leather pouch, preparatory to closing up for the night. “She ran right ter him, before he could say a word, an’ my woman, who was there, says he was took back powerfully, an’ at fust could hardly speak. Ye’ll admit ’twas kind of a tardy home-comin’.”
“He’ll probably sell th’ place an’ git out,” commented Si.
“That’s all he come back fer, in my opinion,” maintained Mr. Lubert. “An’ he didn’t have ter wait long, neither.”
“I don’t believe it,” I objected; and as if the store door was fated to open whenever I opened my mouth, that portal now swung back and Jeff Pashley, thin and gaunt, the gray hair contrasting sharply with his black eyes, stepped softly in and threw a fan of rain from his old slouch hat. He nodded slightly to the oracles, but favored me with a bit of a smile, and it lighted up his somber face wonderfully. I had seen him smile in much the same way on his mother.
“Evenin’, Mister Pashley. Ain’t often we see ye here, but ye’re welcome. Come up near th’ fire,” said Jessup.
“This is all right,” said Pashley, leaning back against the counter, still holding his hat in his hand. “Keep your seats, all of you.”
“Ye have our sympathy in yer trouble,” said Si gravely.
Pashley nodded. Then, after examining the crown of his hat for a minute, he said: “I don’t know just how to explain, but I’m going away from here and wanted to see Mr. Currier about Mrs. Pashley’s little place. As selectman I thought you’d look after it until it’s disposed of.” This last to my host.
Mr. Lubert slyly pinched Mr. Judkins’s leg and the others exchanged knowing looks.
“Goin’ ter leave us, eh?” asked the storekeeper, trying to appear unconcerned.
“Yes,” replied Pashley listlessly, spinning his hat. “I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I have if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Pashley.”
This frank avowal caused Mr. Judkins to prod Jessup with the sugar-scoop, while my host remarked, “An’ ye want me ter find a purchaser fer th’ place. Wal, I guess it can be done. Every one ain’t that anxious ter leave No. 6.”
Pashley raised his eyes inquiringly; then dropped them and frowned, as he said: “I forgot. Of course, you don’t understand. The property won’t be sold unless Mrs. Pashley’s nephews and nieces wish to divide it. It isn’t mine, you know.”
“Not yourn!” gasped Eben Fairbrother. “What d’ye mean? Be ye goin’ ter give it ter ’em?”
“It isn’t mine to give,” replied Pashley shortly, straightening up and throwing his hat on the back of his head. “It isn’t mine to give, I say; for I’m not her son."
The little group sank back, the pipes half raised, in amazement. And I was as much astounded as any. Before one of us could find voice to ply him with questions, he continued: “My name isn’t Pashley. If it had been, the good woman you saw buried to-day would have lived a happier life. That is, I believe she would. I never had a mother that I remember. She was the only mother I ever knew. As a youngster I was uncared for and was wild. I was raised, or rather, grew up, in the South. When the war broke out I enlisted on the Confederate side.” Then he paused and fumbled his hat in silence.
“Yas, but—but—go on,” cried the storekeeper.
“Well, there isn’t much to tell. I was in the brush against Sheridan’s men when young Pashley was shot. That was in the Shenandoah. He was brought into our lines, mortally wounded, and before he died he told me as how he’d run away from home to go to war, and all about his people. I told him if ever I come North I’d hunt his people up. That was a long time ago,” he added thoughtfully; “a long time ago.”
“But you came at last, Mr.—Pashley?” I prompted, hesitating as to how I should style him.
“Yes, call me Pashley,” he smiled. “It’ll do so long as I’m here. Yes, I came at last. I’d been West for years knocking around, and when I drifted into New England, a few years back, I remembered my promise to the boy and wandered up here. I’ll admit I didn’t want to come. Didn’t know but what it was my bullet that laid him low. But I came, intending to tell his people who I was and all about it.
“But you’ve all heard how she ran to me, before I could say a word, thinking I was her son. I’d used several names in my life and I reckoned if it would please her to think I was Jeff, the deception wouldn’t be very wrong. And I stayed, and no one knew; she never knew, and now it’s all over and I’m going back South. So, if you’ll notify her relations, I’ll be much obliged. Good night.”
It was the longest speech he was ever known to make in No. 6, and the circle about the stove remained stupefied as he opened the door and passed out into the rain. I was first on my feet to rush after him; why, I know not, unless it were a desire to shake his hand. But he was already out of sight.
My two companions said never a word as we blundered home until we reached the house. Then Si observed: “D’ye know, I never took ter that feller. Seem’s ’f he always had a proud, haughty, Southern way with him.”
After the hired man had departed to the barn with the horse Mr. Currier recovered his power of speech, and, drawing me aside, declared in a hoarse whisper: “Si means all right, but he’s a shiftless cuss an’ a awful liar.”
And somewhere out in the night the quondam Jeff Pashley, possibly as good a son as the genuine would have been, had he lived, picked his way through the mud of No. 6 for the last time.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1945, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 78 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse