Perfection City

“This road isn’t called Perfection Road, is it?” she asked jerkily, as she held tight hold of the edge of the waggon to prevent herself from being pitched head foremost off the seat. She would have laid her head against her companion’s shoulder only that it was square and hard, and she was afraid of getting her temple “stove in,” as the sailors say, by the terrific bumps caused by the wheels going over a big stone or down into a deep rut. She was a bride, and he was bringing her to their new home on the Kansas Prairie.

“My poor little pet,” he said tenderly, “it is very rough here. We are going down into Cotton Wood Creek, and these stones were cast up by the last freshet which pretty well washed the road away.”

They plunged headlong into the muddy waters of the Creek, and the little bride would have felt frightened only that “he” was by her side, for the waggon creaked and groaned with the strain, and the horses snorted uneasily, feeling their way carefully through the rushing torrent. The Creek was safely passed, and they slowly toiled up the long hill out of the bottom-lands, and pulled up when once more on the high prairie.

“There is our home, dearie,” he said, pointing with his whip to some scattered houses a couple of miles away. And being a bridegroom he kissed her.

“So that is Perfection City, is it?” said she, shading her eyes with her hand, for the afternoon sun sent level rays into her face. “You know, Ezra, it is such a funny name, I always feel inclined to laugh when I say it. And how I shall ever dare to put it at the top of my letters as a real address when I write to the girls at the College at Smyrna, is more than I know.”

“Then don’t write it,” replied Ezra, a trifle sternly. “It will hurt our feelings very much if you laugh at it. You know it means a great deal to all of us.”

“Then I’ll never laugh at it,” said the little bride.

“Which is our house?” she asked a moment later.

“The one half way up the slope.”

“Oh, that is nice. I like looking down across things. I shouldn’t like to live in a valley and always have to look up, you know.”

“The large building is the Academy,” said Ezra. “That is where we hold our meetings and gather together for all the best purposes of our little community-life.”

“Is it there that Madame Morozoff-Smith lives?” asked his wife.

“Her house is the one just opposite.”

“Oh, that big one! It is quite the largest in the village—the City, I mean.”

Ezra did not make any reply to this remark. He had never realised that Madame’s house was indeed the largest in their Community, and now he felt vexed that this fact should have been the first his wife noted.

A small boy with shining black face and shining white teeth, along with a yellow puppy, welcomed them.

“This is Napoleon Pompey,” said Ezra, with much decorum presenting the small darkie who grinned and bobbed his head. “And this is Diana,” pointing to the puppy that had come up to the bars along with the negro. Diana jumped upon her new mistress and left two black dust marks on her dress. Dust is black in London and on the western prairie, nowhere else.

“Oh, you dirty dog,” said the little bride, who was a very natty body.

“You’ll have to get used to dirt in all degrees out here, Ollie,” said her husband as he led her to the door. She looked like a little girl as she stood beside him, for he was tall and angular and long of leg. A sloping plank with battens nailed across it led to the door, there were no steps. As the pair entered, Napoleon Pompey and Diana took the horses and waggon to the stable and began respectively to unharness and worry them.

“What a dear little house! It is just like a toy! And do look at the saws hanging on the walls beside the covers of the pots! Oh, won’t it be so nice and free living here! I shall feel like an explorer in a far country. And how funny to have nail-kegs for seats, and oh, you dear old darling!”

Olive jumped up and kissed her big husband.

“Things are rough now, dearie,” he said with infinite tenderness, looking at her with loving admiration, “but by and by we shall have everything very nice.”

“But I think it is just as nice as it can be now.”

“This is our room,” said he, opening a door to the right.

“Why, if you haven’t gone and got a rocking-chair!” exclaimed Olive, glancing around the small apartment.

“I made it for you myself in spare time,” answered Ezra, pleased that she had noticed the chair the first thing: he had often wondered, when working at that rocking-chair, whether she would be pleased with it. “You see,” he continued, “we have to work only five days a week for the Community. All the rest of our time is at our own disposal, and by and by, when we are flourishing, four days for the Community will suffice.”

“Do you like working for other people and not being paid?” asked Olive.

“I do not consider it as working for other people without pay,” replied her husband, with some quickness. “We each work for the general good, and if I happen to plant corn that someone else will eat, then some other member of the Community raises potatoes that I shall eat.”

“There, there, don’t be cross,” said the little wife, noting the flush that had risen to his brow as he spoke. “I am sure it is nice, and I shall like it when I understand it all. At any rate we shall be very happy whatever happens, and I like my dear little house, and please, I am very thirsty, can I have a drink?”

He brought her some water in a tin dipper with a long handle, and she did not make a face, but drank the water gratefully. She determined in her own mind, however, to have a glass tumbler the very next day, but she was new to the prairie, and she did not get the tumbler the next day, nor the next week, nor for many, many long months.

“What time are we to have breakfast?” she asked, when taking over the household from Napoleon Pompey and Diana, who had run the establishment while her husband had been to fetch her from Ohio.

“Yo’ kin eat when yo’ like,” said Napoleon Pompey, desiring to be all that was polite to his new mistress.

“But I want to know what time you have breakfast?” repeated Olive with persistence.

“We uns got ter be hout on der lan’ ploughin’ afore sun-up,” said Napoleon Pompey concisely.

“Dear me! Why, that is before six o’clock!” exclaimed Olive.

“I calkerlate,” said Napoleon Pompey affably.

Ezra did not want Olive to think she was bound to get up and prepare the working-man’s breakfast.

“You are not used to that sort of hard work, dearie. We can do very well with cold corn-bread.”

“Of all things the most stoggy and hopelessly uninviting,” interrupted his wife. “No, Ezra, I won’t have any of the people out here think I am a little fool that can’t do any useful work. I have my pride as well as other folks. I shall cook your breakfast to-morrow and every day afterwards, and I shall cook it well, see if I don’t.”

“I am sure of that,” said her husband with the confidence of a bridegroom.