Flint

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Flint, by Maud Wilder Goodwin

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Title: Flint His Faults, His Friendships and His Fortunes
Author: Maud Wilder Goodwin
Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21690]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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FLINT
HIS FAULTS, HIS FRIENDSHIPS AND HIS FORTUNES

FLINT
His Faults, His Friendships and His Fortunes

BY
MAUD WILDER GOODWIN
AUTHOR OF "THE HEAD OF A HUNDRED," "WHITE APRONS," "THE COLONIAL CAVALIER," ETC.

BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1897

Published, 1897, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

Dedicated to Miriam.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.
* * * * * *
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS 1
II. MINGLED YARN 11
III. OLD FRIENDS 35
IV. THE DAVITTS 57
V. THE OLD SHOP 71
VI. THE GLORIOUS FOURTH 87
VII. ON THE BEACH 102
VIII. THE MARY ANN 125
IX. NORA COSTELLO 139
X. FLYING POINT 154
XI. THE POINT OF VIEW 174
XII. "PIPPA PASSES" 188
XIII. A SOLDIER 205
XIV. TWO SOUL-SIDES 218
XV. A BIRTHDAY 236
XVI. YES OR NO 252
XVII. A LITTLE DINNER 270
XVIII. A MAIDEN'S VOW 289
XIX. A SLUM POST 303
XX. THE UNFORESEEN 323
XXI. GOD'S PUPPETS 338
XXII. THE END 356

Flint:
His Faults, His Friendships, and His Fortunes
CHAPTER I
THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS
"Say not 'a small event.' Why 'small'? Costs it more pain that this ye call 'A great event' should come to pass Than that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power should fall short in, or exceed."

The following chapter is an Extract from the Journal of Miss Susan Standish, dated Nepaug, July 1, 189-.
We are a house-party.
To be sure we find pinned to our cushions on Saturday nights a grayish slip of paper, uncertain of size and ragged of edge, stating with characteristic New England brevity and conciseness the amount of our indebtedness to our hostess; but what of that? The guests in those stately villas whose lights twinkle at us on clear evenings from the point along the coast, have their scores to settle likewise, and though the account is rendered less regularly, it is settled less easily and for my part, I prefer our Nepaug plan.
We are congenial.
I don't know why we should be, except that no one expects it of us. We have no tie, sacred or secular, to bind our hearts in Christian love. We have in fact few points in common, save good birth, good breeding, and the ability to pay our board-bills as they fall due; but nevertheless we coalesce admirably.
We are Bohemian.
That is, our souls are above the standards of fashion, and our incomes below them, and of such is the kingdom of Bohemia. A life near to Nature's heart, at eight dollars a week, appeals to us all alike.
We are cross.
Yes, there is no denying it. Not one of us has escaped the irritation of temper naturally resulting from ten days experience of the fog which has been clinging with suffocating affection to earth and sea, putting an end to outdoor sport and indoor comfort, taking the curl out of hair, the starch out of dresses, the sweetness out of dispositions, and hanging like a pall over all efforts at jollity.
Irritation shows itself differently in each individual of our community. As is the temperament, so is the temper.
Master Jimmy Anstice, aged twelve, spends his time in beating a tattoo on the sofa-legs with the backs of his heels. His father says: "Stop that!" at regular intervals with much sharpness of manner; but lacks the persistent vitality to enforce his command.
My nephew, Ben Bradford, permanently a resident of Oldburyport, and temporarily of Cambridge, sits in a grandfather's chair in the corner, "Civil Government" in his lap, and "Good-Bye, Sweetheart," in his hand. Even this profound work cannot wholly absorb his attention; for he fidgets, and looks up every few minutes as if he expected the sunshine to walk in, and feared that he might miss its first appearance.
I, for occupation, have betaken myself to writing in this diary, having caught myself cheating at solitaire,--a deed I scorn when I am at my best.
Doctor Cricket, his hands nervously clasped behind him, has been walking up and down the room, now overlooking my game and remonstrating against the liberties I was taking with the cards (as if I had not a right to cheat myself if I like!) and then flying off to peer through his gold-bowed spectacles at the hygrometer, which will not budge, though he thrusts out his chin-whisker at it