Middle West -- Fiction; Real estate developers -- Fiction; Suburbs -- Fiction
“No; not right away,” he admitted. “That is, not much of a house, so to
speak. It was bought by a man that wants to own a small picnic ground of
his own, because he’s got a large family; and at first he’s only goin’
to have a sort of shack there. But he _will_ build when he sees the
other houses goin’ up all around him.”
“Pardon me,” said Frederic Oliphant. “Which other houses are you
mentioning now?”
“The houses that _will_ go up there,” Dan returned promptly. “The houses
that’ll be there for my young son to see.”
“Your ‘young son?’” Fred repeated. “Your son is still young yet, then?
It’s remarkable when you consider he’s the meaning of the universe. You
feel that when he grows up he’ll have houses to look at?”
Dan’s chest expanded with the great breath he took; his high colour grew
higher, his bright eyes brighter. “Just _think_ what he’ll have to look
at when he grows up! Why, the nurse let me hold him a few minutes, and I
got to thinkin’ about how I’m goin’ to work for him, and then about how
this country’s moved ahead every minute since it was begun, goin’ ahead
faster and faster till now it just jumps out from under your feet if you
stand still a _second_—and it grows so big and it grows so magnificent
that when I thought of what sort of a world it’s goin to be for my son,
I declare I was almost afraid to look at him; it was like lookin’ at
somebody that’s born to be a god!”
He spoke with such honest fervour, and with such belief in what he said,
that, for the moment, even his bibulous cousin said nothing, but sat in
an emotional silence, staring at him. As for Martha, an edge of tears
suddenly showed along her eyelids; but Harlan was not so susceptible.
“Dear me!” he said dryly. “After that burst of eloquence don’t you think
we’d better be starting for home? At least it would avoid an
anti-climax.”
Dan had been so rapt in his moment of vision, his exultant glimpse of a
transcendent world for his son’s heritage, that his brother’s dry voice
confused him;—he was like a balloonist who unexpectedly finds the earth
rising swiftly to meet him. “What?” he said blankly; and then, as
secondary perceptions clarified Harlan’s suggestion to him, he laughed.
“Why, yes; of course we ought to be goin’; we mustn’t keep Martha up,”
he said. “Harlan, you always do find a way to make me look mighty
ridiculous. I guess I am, too!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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