Henry Drummond - "The Greatest Thing In the World and Other Addresses"

Various - "The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 2"

Jan Gordon - "The Luck of Thirteen"

H. A. Cody - "The King's Arrow"

Books of The Times: It’s Still Making the World Go ’Round
Becky Saletan, publisher of the adult trade division, will leave next week in a sign of further unraveling at the publisher.

Houghton Mifflin Publisher Resigns
Michael Wolff has written a supercilious yet star-struck portrait of Rupert Murdoch, the planet’s most notorious press baron.

Books of The Times: A Media Mogul With Relentless Moxie
Mr. Friedlaender was a book-loving lawyer and financial adviser whose collection of early printed books caused a stir in bibliophilic circles when it went to auction.

Various - Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary Schools

V >> Various >> Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary Schools




With our despised immigrant clothing we shed also our impossible Hebrew
names. A committee of our friends, several years ahead of us in American
experience, put their heads together and concocted American names for us
all. Those of our real names that had no pleasing American equivalents
they ruthlessly discarded, content if they retained the initials. My
mother, possessing a name that was not easily translatable, was punished
with the undignified nickname of Annie. Fetchke, Joseph, and Deborah
issued as Frieda, Joseph, and Dora, respectively. As for poor me, I was
simply cheated. The name they gave me was hardly new. My Hebrew name
being Maryashe in full, Mashke for short, Russianized into Marya
(_Mar-ya_) my friends said that it would hold good in English as _Mary_;
which was very disappointing, as I longed to possess a strange-sounding
American name like the others.

I am forgetting the consolation I had, in this matter of names, from the
use of my surname, which I have had no occasion to mention until now. I
found on my arrival that my father was "Mr. Antin" on the slightest
provocation, and not, as in Polotzk, on state occasions alone. And so I
was "Mary Antin," and I felt very important to answer to such a
dignified title. It was just like America that even plain people should
wear their surnames on week days.

As a family we were so diligent under instruction, so adaptable, and so
clever in hiding our deficiencies, that when we made the journey to
Crescent Beach, in the wake of our small wagon-load of household goods,
my father had very little occasion to admonish us on the way, and I am
sure he was not ashamed of us. So much we had achieved toward our
Americanization during the two weeks since our landing.

Crescent Beach is a name that is printed in very small type on the maps
of the environs of Boston, but a life-size strip of sand curves from
Winthrop to Lynn; and that is historic ground in the annals of my
family. The place is now a popular resort for holiday crowds, and is
famous under the name of Revere Beach. When the reunited Antins made
their stand there, however, there were no boulevards, no stately
bath-houses, no hotels, no gaudy amusement places, no illuminations, no
showmen, no tawdry rabble. There was only the bright clean sweep of
sand, the summer sea, and the summer sky. At high tide the whole
Atlantic rushed in, tossing the seaweeds in his mane; at low tide he
rushed out, growling and gnashing his granite teeth. Between tides a
baby might play on the beach, digging with pebbles and shells, till it
lay asleep on the sand. The whole sun shone by day, troops of stars by
night, and the great moon in its season.

Into this grand cycle of the seaside day I came to live and learn and
play. A few people came with me, as I have already intimated; but the
main thing was that _I_ came to live on the edge of the sea--I, who had
spent my life inland, believing that the great waters of the world were
spread out before me in the Dvina. My idea of the human world had grown
enormously during the long journey; my idea of the earth had expanded
with every day at sea, my idea of the world outside the earth now budded
and swelled during my prolonged experience of the wide and unobstructed
heavens.

Not that I got any inkling of the conception of a multiple world. I had
had no lessons in cosmogony, and I had no spontaneous revelation of the
true position of the earth in the universe. For me, as for my fathers,
the sun set and rose, and I did not feel the earth rushing through
space. But I lay stretched out in the sun, my eyes level with the sea,
till I seemed to be absorbed bodily by the very materials of the world
around me; till I could not feel my hand as separate from the warm sand
in which it was buried. Or I crouched on the beach at full moon,
wondering, wondering, between the two splendors of the sky and the sea.
Or I ran out to meet the incoming storm, my face full in the wind, my
being a-tingle with an awesome delight to the tips of my fog-matted
locks flying behind; and stood clinging to some stake or upturned boat,
shaken by the roar and rumble of the waves. So clinging, I pretended
that I was in danger, and was deliciously frightened; I held on with
both hands, and shook my head, exulting in the tumult around me, equally
ready to laugh or sob. Or else I sat, on the stillest days, with my back
to the sea, not looking at all, but just listening to the rustle of the
waves on the sand; not thinking at all, but just breathing with the sea.

Thus courting the influence of sea and sky and variable weather, I was
bound to have dreams, hints, imaginings. It was no more than this,
perhaps: that the world as I knew it was not large enough to contain
all that I saw and felt; that the thoughts that flashed through my
mind, not half understood, unrelated to my utterable thoughts, concerned
something for which I had as yet no name. Every imaginative growing
child has these flashes of intuition, especially one that becomes
intimate with some one aspect of nature. With me it was the growing
time, that idle summer by the sea, and I grew all the faster because I
had been so cramped before. My mind, too, had so recently been worked
upon by the impressive experience of a change of country that I was more
than commonly alive to impressions, which are the seeds of ideas.

Let no one suppose that I spent my time entirely, or even chiefly, in
inspired solitude. By far the best part of my day was spent in
play--frank, hearty, boisterous play, such as comes natural to American
children. In Polotzk I had already begun to be considered too old for
play, excepting set games or organized frolics. Here I found myself
included with children who still played, and I willingly returned to
childhood. There were plenty of playfellows. My father's energetic
little partner had a little wife and a large family. He kept them in the
little cottage next to ours; and that the shanty survived the tumultuous
presence of that brood is a wonder to me to-day. The young Wilners
included an assortment of boys, girls, and twins, of every possible
variety of age, size, disposition, and sex. They swarmed in and out of
the cottage all day long, wearing the door-sill hollow, and trampling
the ground to powder. They swung out of windows like monkeys, slid up
the roof like flies, and shot out of trees like fowls. Even a small
person like me couldn't go anywhere without being run over by a Wilner;
and I could never tell which Wilner it was because none of them ever
stood still long enough to be identified; and also because I suspected
that they were in the habit of interchanging conspicuous articles of
clothing, which was very confusing.

You would suppose that the little mother must have been utterly lost,
bewildered, trodden down in this horde of urchins; but you are mistaken.
Mrs. Wilner was a positively majestic little person. She ruled her brood
with the utmost coolness and strictness. She had even the biggest boy
under her thumb, frequently under her palm. If they enjoyed the wildest
freedom outdoors, indoors the young Wilners lived by the clock. And so
at five o'clock in the evening, on seven days in the week, my father's
partner's children could be seen in two long rows around the supper
table. You could tell them apart on this occasion, because they all had
their faces washed. And this is the time to count them: there are twelve
little Wilners at table.

I managed to retain my identity in this multitude somehow, and while I
was very much impressed with their numbers, I even dared to pick and
choose my friends among the Wilners. One or two of the smaller boys I
liked best of all, for a game of hide-and-seek or a frolic on the beach.
We played in the water like ducks, never taking the trouble to get dry.
One day I waded out with one of the boys, to see which of us dared go
farthest. The tide was extremely low, and we had not wet our knees when
we began to look back to see if familiar objects were still in sight. I
thought we had been wading for hours, and still the water was so shallow
and quiet. My companion was marching straight ahead, so I did the same.
Suddenly a swell lifted us almost off our feet, and we clutched at each
other simultaneously. There was a lesser swell, and little waves began
to run, and a sigh went up from the sea. The tide was turning--perhaps a
storm was on the way--and we were miles, dreadful miles from dry land.

Boy and girl turned without a word, four determined bare legs ploughing
through the water, four scared eyes straining toward the land. Through
an eternity of toil and fear they kept dumbly on, death at their heels,
pride still in their hearts. At last they reach high-water mark--six
hours before full tide.

Each has seen the other afraid, and each rejoices in the knowledge. But
only the boy is sure of his tongue.

"You was scared, warn't you?" he taunts.

The girl understands so much, and is able to reply:

"You can schwimmen, I not."

"Betcher life I can schwimmen," the other mocks.

And the girl walks off, angry and hurt.

"An' I can walk on my hands," the tormentor calls after her. "Say, you
greenhorn, why don'tcher look?"

The girl keeps straight on, vowing that she would never walk with that
rude boy again, neither by land nor sea, not even though the waters
should part at his bidding.

I am forgetting the more serious business which had brought us to
Crescent Beach. While we children disported ourselves like mermaids and
mermen in the surf, our respective fathers dispensed cold lemonade, hot
peanuts, and pink popcorn, and piled up our respective fortunes, nickel
by nickel, penny by penny. I was very proud of my connection with the
public life of the beach. I admired greatly our shining soda fountain,
the rows of sparkling glasses, the pyramids of oranges, the sausage
chains, the neat white counter, and the bright array of tin spoons. It
seemed to me that none of the other refreshment stands on the
beach--there were a few--were half so attractive as ours. I thought my
father looked very well in a long white apron and shirt sleeves. He
dished out ice cream with enthusiasm, so I supposed he was getting rich.
It never occurred to me to compare his present occupation with the
position for which he had been originally destined; or if I thought
about it, I was just as well content, for by this time I had by heart my
father's saying, "America is not Polotzk." All occupations were
respectable, all men were equal, in America.

If I admired the soda fountain and the sausage chains, I almost
worshipped the partner, Mr. Wilner. I was content to stand for an hour
at a time watching him make potato chips. In his cook's cap and apron,
with a ladle in his hand and a smile on his face, he moved about with
the greatest agility, whisking his raw materials out of nowhere, dipping
into his bubbling kettle with a flourish, and bringing forth the
finished product with a caper. Such potato chips were not to be had
anywhere else on Crescent Beach. Thin as tissue paper, crisp as dry
snow, and salt as the sea--such thirst-producing, lemonade-selling,
nickel-bringing potato chips only Mr. Wilner could make. On holidays,
when dozens of family parties came out by every train from town, he
could hardly keep up with the demand for his potato chips. And with a
waiting crowd around him our partner was at his best. He was as voluble
as he was skilful, and as witty as he was voluble; at least so I guessed
from the laughter that frequently drowned his voice. I could not
understand his jokes, but if I could get near enough to watch his lips
and his smile and his merry eyes, I was happy. That any one could talk
so fast, and in English, was marvel enough, but that this prodigy should
belong to _our_ establishment was a fact to thrill me. I had never seen
anything like Mr. Wilner, except a wedding jester; but then he spoke
common Yiddish. So proud was I of the talent and good taste displayed at
our stand that if my father beckoned to me in the crowd and sent me on
an errand, I hoped the people noticed that I, too, was connected with
the establishment.

And all this splendor and glory and distinction came to a sudden end.
There was some trouble about a license--some fee or fine--there was a
storm in the night that damaged the soda fountain and other
fixtures--there was talk and consultation between the houses of Antin
and Wilner--and the promising partnership was dissolved. No more would
the merry partner gather the crowd on the beach; no more would the
twelve young Wilners gambol like mermen and mermaids in the surf. And
the less numerous tribe of Antin must also say farewell to the jolly
seaside life; for men in such humble business as my father's carry their
families, along with their other earthly goods, wherever they go, after
the manner of the gypsies. We had driven a feeble stake into the sand.
The jealous Atlantic, in conspiracy with the Sunday law, had torn it
out. We must seek our luck elsewhere.

In Polotzk we had supposed that "America" was practically synonymous
with "Boston." When we landed in Boston, the horizon was pushed back,
and we annexed Crescent Beach. And now, espying other lands of promise,
we took possession of the province of Chelsea, in the name of our
necessity.

In Chelsea, as in Boston, we made our stand in the wrong end of the
town. Arlington Street was inhabited by poor Jews, poor Negroes, and a
sprinkling of poor Irish. The side streets leading from it were occupied
by more poor Jews and Negroes. It was a proper locality for a man
without capital to do business. My father rented a tenement with a store
in the basement. He put in a few barrels of flour and of sugar, a few
boxes of crackers, a few gallons of kerosene, an assortment of soap of
the "save the coupon" brands; in the cellar a few barrels of potatoes,
and a pyramid of kindling-wood; in the showcase, an alluring display of
penny candy. He put out his sign, with a gilt-lettered warning of
"Strictly Cash," and proceeded to give credit indiscriminately. That was
the regular way to do business on Arlington Street. My father, in his
three years' apprenticeship, had learned the tricks of many trades. He
knew when and how to "bluff." The legend of "Strictly Cash" was a
protection against notoriously irresponsible customers; while none of
the "good" customers, who had a record for paying regularly on Saturday,
hesitated to enter the store with empty purses.

If my father knew the tricks of the trade, my mother could be counted on
to throw all her talent and tact into the business. Of course she had no
English yet, but as she could perform the acts of weighing, measuring,
and mental computation of fractions mechanically, she was able to give
her whole attention to the dark mysteries of the language, as
intercourse with her customers gave her opportunity. In this she made
such rapid progress that she soon lost all sense of disadvantage, and
conducted herself behind the counter very much as if she were back in
her old store in Polotzk. It was far more cozy than Polotzk--at least,
so it seemed to me; for behind the store was the kitchen, where, in the
intervals of slack trade, she did her cooking and washing. Arlington
Street customers were used to waiting while the storekeeper salted the
soup or rescued a loaf from the oven.

Once more Fortune favored my family with a thin little smile, and my
father, in reply to a friendly inquiry, would say, "One makes a living,"
with a shrug of the shoulders that added "but nothing to boast of." It
was characteristic of my attitude toward bread-and-butter matters that
this contented me, and I felt free to devote myself to the conquest of
my new world. Looking back to those critical first years, I see myself
always behaving like a child let loose in a garden to play and dig and
chase the butterflies. Occasionally, indeed, I was stung by the wasp of
family trouble; but I knew a healing ointment--my faith in America. My
father had come to America to make a living. America, which was free and
fair and kind, must presently yield him what he sought. I had come to
America to see a new world, and I followed my own ends with the utmost
assiduity; only, as I ran out to explore, I would look back to see if my
house were in order behind me--if my family still kept its head above
water.

In after years, when I passed as an American among Americans, if I was
suddenly made aware of the past that lay forgotten,--if a letter from
Russia, or a paragraph in the newspaper, or a conversation overheard in
the street-car, suddenly reminded me of what I might have been,--I
thought it miracle enough that I, Mashke, the granddaughter of Raphael
the Russian, born to a humble destiny, should be at home in an American
metropolis, be free to fashion my own life, and should dream my dreams
in English phrases. But in the beginning my admiration was spent on more
concrete embodiments of the splendors of America; such as fine houses,
gay shops, electric engines and apparatus, public buildings,
illuminations, and parades. My early letters to my Russian friends were
filled with boastful descriptions of these glories of my new country. No
native citizen of Chelsea took such pride and delight in its
institutions as I did. It required no fife and drum corps, no Fourth of
July procession, to set me tingling with patriotism. Even the common
agents and instruments of municipal life, such as the letter carrier and
the fire engines, I regarded with a measure of respect. I know what I
thought of people who said that Chelsea was a very small, dull,
unaspiring town, with no discernible excuse for a separate name or
existence.

The apex of my civic pride and personal contentment was reached on the
bright September morning when I entered the public school. That day I
must always remember, even if I live to be so old that I cannot tell my
name. To most people their first day at school is a memorable occasion.
In my case the importance of the day was a hundred times magnified, on
account of the years I had waited, the road I had come, and the
conscious ambitions I entertained.

I am wearily aware that I am speaking in extreme figures, in
superlatives. I wish I knew some other way to render the mental life of
the immigrant child of reasoning age. I may have been ever so much an
exception in acuteness of observation, powers of comparison, and
abnormal self-consciousness; none the less were my thoughts and conduct
typical of the attitude of the intelligent immigrant child toward
American institutions. And what the child thinks and feels is a
reflection of the hopes, desires, purposes of the parent who brought him
overseas, no matter how precocious and independent the child may be.
Your immigrant inspectors will tell you what poverty the foreigner
brings in his baggage, what want in his pockets. Let the overgrown boy
of twelve, reverently drawing his letters in the baby class, testify to
the noble dreams and high ideals that may be hidden beneath the greasy
caftan of the immigrant. Speaking for the Jews, at least, I know I am
safe in inviting such an investigation.

Who were my companions on my first day at school? Whose hand was in
mine, as I stood, overcome with awe, by the teacher's desk, and
whispered my name as my father prompted? Was it Frieda's steady, capable
hand? Was it her loyal heart that throbbed, beat for beat with mine, as
it had done through all our childish adventures? Frieda's heart did
throb that day, but not with my emotions. My heart pulsed with joy and
pride and ambition; in her heart longing fought with abnegation. For I
was led to the schoolroom, with its sunshine and its singing and the
teacher's cheery smile; while she was led to the workshop, with its foul
air, care-lined faces, and the foreman's stern command. Our going to
school was the fulfilment of my father's best promises to us, and
Frieda's share in it was to fashion and fit the calico frocks in which
the baby sister and I made our first appearance in a public schoolroom.

I remember to this day the gray pattern of the calico, so affectionately
did I regard it as it hung upon the wall--my consecration robe awaiting
the beatific day. And Frieda, I am sure, remembers it, too, so
longingly did she regard it as the crisp, starchy breadths of it slid
between her fingers. But whatever were her longings, she said nothing of
them; she bent over the sewing-machine humming an Old-World melody. In
every straight, smooth seam, perhaps, she tucked away some lingering
impulse of childhood; but she matched the scrolls and flowers with the
utmost care. If a sudden shock of rebellion made her straighten up for
an instant, the next instant she was bending to adjust a ruffle to the
best advantage. And when the momentous day arrived, and the little
sister and I stood up to be arrayed, it was Frieda herself who patted
and smoothed my stiff new calico; who made me turn round and round, to
see that I was perfect; who stooped to pull out a disfiguring
basting-thread. If there was anything in her heart besides sisterly love
and pride and good-will, as we parted that morning, it was a sense of
loss and a woman's acquiescence in her fate; for we had been close
friends, and now our ways would lie apart. Longing she felt, but no
envy. She did not grudge me what she was denied. Until that morning we
had been children together, but now, at the fiat of her destiny she
became a woman, with all a woman's cares; whilst I, so little younger
than she, was bidden to dance at the May festival of untroubled
childhood.

I wish, for my comfort, that I could say that I had some notion of the
difference in our lots, some sense of the injustice to her, of the
indulgence to me. I wish I could even say that I gave serious thought to
the matter. There had always been a distinction between us rather out of
proportion to the difference in our years. Her good health and domestic
instincts had made it natural for her to become my mother's right hand,
in the years preceding the emigration, when there were no more servants
or dependents. Then there was the family tradition that Mary was the
quicker, the brighter of the two, and that hers could be no common lot.
Frieda was relied upon for help, and her sister for glory. And when I
failed as a milliner's apprentice, while Frieda made excellent progress
at the dressmaker's, our fates, indeed, were sealed. It was understood,
even before we reached Boston, that she would go to work and I to
school. In view of the family prejudices, it was the inevitable course.
No injustice was intended. My father sent us hand in hand to school,
before he had ever thought of America. If, in America, he had been able
to support his family unaided, it would have been the culmination of his
best hopes to see all his children at school, with equal advantages at
home. But when he had done his best, and was still unable to provide
even bread and shelter for us all, he was compelled to make us children
self-supporting as fast as it was practicable. There was no choosing
possible; Frieda was the oldest, the strongest, the best prepared, and
the only one who was of legal age to be put to work.

My father has nothing to answer for. He divided the world between his
children in accordance with the laws of the country and the compulsion
of his circumstances. I have no need of defending him. It is myself that
I would like to defend, and I cannot. I remember that I accepted the
arrangements made for my sister and me without much reflection, and
everything that was planned for my advantage I took as a matter of
course. I was no heartless monster, but a decidedly self-centered child.
If my sister had seemed unhappy it would have troubled me; but I am
ashamed to recall that I did not consider how little it was that
contented her. I was so preoccupied with my own happiness that I did not
half perceive the splendid devotion of her attitude towards me, the
sweetness of her joy in my good luck. She not only stood by approvingly
when I was helped to everything; she cheerfully waited on me herself.
And I took everything from her hand as if it were my due.

The two of us stood a moment in the doorway of the tenement house on
Arlington Street, that wonderful September morning when I first went to
school. It was I that ran away, on winged feet of joy and expectation;
it was she whose feet were bound in the tread-mill of daily toil. And I
was so blind that I did not see that the glory lay on her, and not on
me.

* * * * *

Father himself conducted us to school. He would not have delegated that
mission to the President of the United States. He had awaited the day
with impatience equal to mine, and the visions he saw as he hurried us
over the sun-flecked pavements transcended all my dreams. Almost his
first act on landing on American soil, three years before, had been his
application for naturalization. He had taken the remaining steps in the
process with eager promptness, and at the earliest moment allowed by the
law, he became a citizen of the United States. It is true that he had
left home in search of bread for his hungry family, but he went blessing
the necessity that drove him to America. The boasted freedom of the New
World meant to him far more than the right to reside, travel, and work
wherever he pleased; it meant the freedom to speak his thoughts, to
throw off the shackles of superstition, to test his own fate, unhindered
by political or religious tyranny. He was only a young man when he
landed--thirty-two; and most of his life he had been held in
leading-strings. He was hungry for his untasted manhood.

Copyright (c) 2007. topmasterworks.com. All rights reserved.