My Neighbors’ Ways

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 6, 1916

My Neighbors’ Ways

“Look at that!” exclaimed Mrs. Rand with a flushed, angry face, as she held out for my inspection a blue-and-brown sport coat on which was a grimy smirch. “That bear of a Driver boy,” she continued, “threw a handful of mud at Wilbert, and ruined this pretty new coat. Wilbert—of all boys! He is such a gentleman himself, and never does anything to annoy the others.”

“But, Mrs. Rand,” I began.

“Of course,” she interrupted, “the boy’s parents are to blame for his being such a boor. But I’ve taught them a lesson. Just as soon as I discovered this, I telephoned Mrs. Driver how horrid her son was, and how he ruined Wilbert’s coat. She was furious, and said he was no more to blame than Wilbert, and sputtered away over the telephone. But after I had said what I wished, I shut off. Then I called up my husband, and told him to see Mr. Driver at his office and demand reparation; and I’ve directed Wilbert not to speak to the Driver boy again. I fancy they understand plainly that they can’t destroy my son’s clothes without paying for them.”

“But, Mrs. Rand,” I suggested, “aren’t you making much of a small matter? That stain will disappear under a little soap-and-water treatment. And don’t you think it was the result of mere boys’ play, after all? And won’t you stir up hard feeling in the neighborhood?”

“No, it was not proper boys’ play; it is wholly the Driver boy’s fault; Wilbert never plays rough and tumble. And I am perfectly willing to stir up trouble in the neighborhood righteously; I’d like to make people understand that they must teach their children manners, or pay for their neglect.” Mrs. Rand was decided and self-satisfied.

My neighbor, Mrs. Bland, when I entered her living-room, was carefully matching the ragged edges of a jagged rent in her son’s topcoat.

“That is particular work,” I said. “How did Will meet with an accident? He is so careful a boy.”

“O, somebody’s skate swinging about caught in the coat, I believe,” she answered lightly. “My expert darning and pressing will soon make the coat as good as new. I did not ask who did it. Accidents will happen when boys are playing together. I never interfere in the children’s little differences; they’re young and coltish, and are soon over troubles, if no fuss is made over them. But if parents take up a small quarrel, they magnify a childish thing, raise it into a grown-up affair, and stir up the neighborhood to hard feelings and sharp words. Once or twice, when one of the young folks has seemed to be really persistently quarrelsome, I’ve advised my boys quietly to keep away from that one; but generally the more those little scraps are passed over with scant attention, the sooner they are forgotten.”

Mrs. Weed’s pretty cottage has a kind of transient atmosphere; the curtains are fresh, and the lawn is neatly trimmed, but the green shades are often close drawn under the white curtains, and not a leaf nor a blossom adorns the empty window boxes; the furniture is sufficient and suitable, but no little homelike touches appear in the living-room, and really it seems as if the sunshine is not so bright in this house as in the other Dutch colonial cottages on this Ashdale street.

“We have just come back,” apologized Mrs. Weed as she greeted me, picked up several newspapers of previous days’ dates, removed a partly unpacked suit case from one chair, and its recent contents from another. “You see,” she continued, “I like to be with my family as much as I can; so I make Albert go home with me nearly every week. I do love to be with the folks at home.”

“Your home is here in Ashdale,” said Mr. Weed from the open door, where he stood with a perplexed expression in his eyes.

His wife looked at him with a curious smile that meant quite defiantly that she did not retract, and her lips were firmly set, while the perplexity in Mr. Weed’s face changed to bitter disappointment. I was sorry for him—and for his wife.

Mrs. Leed’s cheery living-room in the cottage next to the Weed’s was bright with sunshine, green growing plants, the gay lilting song of a canary, and Mrs. Leed’s own smiling presence.

I knew that she had just returned from a week’s visit with her parents at their splendid mansion, her first visit since her marriage, two years before; and I spoke of the pleasure it must have been.

“Yes, indeed,” she agreed; “we had the very best visit anybody ever had; the housekeeper planned to make every meal a feast of my favorite dishes that she remembered; the girls had some festivity ready for every day; and, of course, it was a joy to be with father and mother. It was a lovely week. But O, I am so glad to be at home again! Home is the very best, after all, isn’t it, Billy boy?” she asked her husband.

“Billy boy” smiled a broad, contented smile, and looked with proud, glad eyes at his wife, as he replied, “It is, sure, when it has the best little home maker of them all!”—Selected.