Green Valley | Page 4

to answer.
"From the middle of next May on into early June."
The stranger smiled his thanks in a way that made Martin look at his
clerk with a mournful eye.
"Jee-rusalem! Now, Eddie, why can't you smile like that? Say, if I had
that fellow behind this soda counter I'd be doing a rushing business
every night."
When the Limited was again winging its way toward the Golden West
and train life had settled down to its regular routine, one dining-car
waiter was saying to another:
"Yes, sah--the gentleman in Number 7 is sure the mighty-nicest white
man I eber did see. And he sure does like rice. Says he comes from
India where everybody eats it all the time. I ain' sure but what that man
ain' a sure-enough prince."
CHAPTER II
SPRING IN GREEN VALLEY
Traveling men have a poor opinion of it. Ministers of the gospel have
been known to despair of it. Socially ambitious matrons move out of it,
or, if that is not possible, despise it. Real estate men can not get rich in
it. And humorless folk sometimes have a hard, sad time of it in Green
Valley.
But Uncle Tony, the slowest man in town but the very first at every fire
and accident, says that once, when the Limited was stalled at the Old

Roads Corner, a crowd of swells gathered on the observation platform
and sized up the town.
One official, who--Uncle Tony says--couldn't have been anything less
than a Chicago alderman, said right out loud:
"Great Stars! What peace--and cabbages!"
And another said solemnly, said he, "This is the place to come to when
you have lost your last friend." And there was no malice, only a hungry
longing in his voice.
The stylish, white-haired woman who, Uncle Tony guessed, must have
been the alderman's wife, said, "Oh--John! What healing, lovely
gardens!"
There's always a silly little wind fooling around the Old Roads Corners
and so you get all the sweet smells from Grandma Wentworth's herb
garden and all the heavenly fragrance that the flower gardens of this
end of town send out.
Standing there you can look into any number of pretty yards but
especially Ella Higgins'. Of course Ella's yard and garden is a wonder.
It's been handed down from one old maid relative to another till in
Ella's time it does seem as if every wild and home flower that ever
bloomed was fairly rooted and represented there. It's in Ella's garden
that the first wild violets bloom; where the first spring beauty nods
under the bushes of bridal wreath; where the last chrysanthemum
glows.
Everybody in town got their lilies-of-the-valley roots and their yellow
roses from Ella. Her peonies and roses, pansies and forget-me-nots are
known clear over in Bloomingdale and bespoken by flower lovers in
Spring Road. And as for her tulips, well--there are little flocks of them
everywhere about, looking for all the world like crowds of gayly
dressed babies toddling off to play.
The only time that poor Fanny Foster came near making trouble was

when she said that of course Ella's place was all right but that it had no
style or system, and that you couldn't have a proper garden without a
gardener. Ella had scolded Fanny's children for carelessly stripping the
lilacs.
Fanny Foster is as wonderful in her way as Ella's garden, though not so
beautiful at first sight. Of course Green Valley loves Fanny Foster.
Green Valley has reason to. Fanny did Green Valley folks a great
service one still spring morning. But strangers just naturally
misunderstand Fanny. They see only a tall, sharp-edged wisp of a
woman with a mass of faded gold hair carelessly pinned up and two
wide-open brown eyes fairly aching with curiosity. You have to know
Fanny a long time before the poignant wistfulness of her clutches at
your heart, before you can know the singular sweetness of her nature.
And even when you come to love her you keep wishing that her collars
were pinned on straight and that her skirts were hung evenly at the
bottom. There are those who remember the time when Fanny was a
beautiful girl, happy-go-lucky but always kind-hearted. Now she is
famous for her marvelous instinct for news gathering and her great
talent in weaving the odds and ends of commonplace daily living into
an interesting, gossipy yarn. Green Valley without Fanny Foster would
not be Green Valley, for she is a town institution.
However, before going any further into Green Valley's special
characters and institutions it would be well to get a general feel of the
town into one's mind. For it is only when you know how cozily Green
Valley sets in its hollows, how quaintly its old tree-shaded roads dip
and wander about over