CHAPTER XXIX MINERVA AND THE SNAKE.

THE latter part of the week Ethel received a letter from Billy, saying that he and Jack would be delighted to come up.

Billy’s letter was characteristic. It ran:

“My Dear Mrs. Vernon:

“You are a kind, good lady. Jack agrees with me in this. You have saved our lives. It has been a long time since we sold any pictures, and we have forgotten the address of our bank, so we were not thinking of going to any summer resort this summer, but your invitation could not be refused without insulting you.

“It is not entirely as if we were strangers, however, because we know Tom (oh, don’t we know him) and we know your husband. Tom has brought him to the Olla Podrida Club more than once and has made him smoke the club cigars which we thought unkind. So we have a certain sympathy with your husband and are prepared to like him better the more we know him.

“Will you please ask Tom to tell us what train to take, and also to do any other things that are necessary. He will understand.

“Please give my regards to Miss Paxton. You mentioned her as part of your ‘party,’ and she must be a large part, unless she has changed. I used to know her before I came to New York, when she was a little girl (three years ago).

“Jack wants me to tell you that whatever I think of you he thinks also, and that you do not know how much you have done for ART IN AMERICA by making it possible for us to set down on canvas the beauties of your state. (I’m not sure whether that should be a capital S or not.)

“Yours cordially,

“William Edson.”

When we showed the letter to Tom and asked him what Mr. Edson meant by saying, “ask Tom to do any other things that are necessary,” he burst into a roar of laughter.

“That means in plain English that the dear boys are stone broke, and that they will need money before they can buy their tickets. I will telegraph them ten dollars.”

“Do you mean to say,” said Benedict, “that those young men are going to borrow the money to come up here?”

“Yes, why not?” said Tom with just a suspicion of heat in his tone.

“Why, nothing,” said Benedict, “only I’d stay in the city all summer before I’d borrow money to go away. I’d be too independent.”

“Independent, poppycock,” said Tom. “We’re told to let independence be our boast, but we’re also told that it’s wrong to boast. So it’s wrong to boast of independence. No man can be independent in this world. He relies on one man to bring him into the world and on another to bury him, and all the time he’s here he’s relying on one person or another. The only thing is for him to accept help and be willing to help. That’s all,” Tom laughed. “Sermon’s over. Collection will now be taken up to bring those two babes to the place where they can make bread for next winter. No, sir. You, Phil, can not contribute. This hard-as-nails Benedict, who thinks he’s made his own way, and who has been helped all along by our free institutions, will chip in, and so will old Cr?sus when he comes back from his horseback ride with Cherry.” He paused. “Sibthorp ought to learn to ride.”

Benedict’s hand went down into his pocket and brought out a bill.

“Now, see here,” said Tom. “I don’t want you to have the idea that you’re doing a charitable act, for you’re not. Those boys are going to give us a couple of sketches before they go back, and we’ll sell them for more than ten dollars and refund pro rata. Will that satisfy your sordid business soul?”

Benedict drew off and gave Tom a friendly punch. They were always insulting each other, having been friends for years, and both of them members of the Olla Podrida Club, which, by the way, is an association of artists and men interested in art. Benedict buys a picture once in a while and, according to Tom, when he relies on the advice of an artist friend, he gets a good one. When he relies on his own judgment he gets something that provides no end of amusement to all the artists except the one who painted the picture.

“I want none of your impudence, Tom,” said he, and then Minerva interrupted.

It seems as if Minerva were always interrupting and generally with a shriek.

“Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! there’s a big worm in the kitchen!” cried she as she came running out of the sitting room to where we were standing.

“Worms can’t hurt you, Minerva,” said Tom. “Go get a bird and see him catch the worm.”

“Oh, my! but this worm would eat any bird I ever saw. It’s that long.”

She showed how long it was, and Tom said,

“Why, it must be a snake.”

We men ran into the kitchen, and there, sure enough, was a little green snake about a foot long and frightened in every inch.

Tom picked up the mop, and carefully aiming at the little creature, he brought it down about three feet away from it. For the snake had eluded him.

Minerva’s curiosity was greater than her fear, and she came to the door of the kitchen to watch us.

Benedict picked up a broom and made a swipe at the snake that upset a pitcher of milk, but missed the snake which coiled its pretty green length in the middle of the floor raised its pretty head and darted out a needle-like and beautifully red tongue at us in a way that reminded me of the Morse alphabet.

I cannot explain why I was thus reminded, and probably such a reminder was far from the snake’s intention.

I could not help feeling sorry for the little fellow. They say that snakes love milk. Here was a place flowing with milk, but he could not stop to drink it because three huge beings threatened his very life.

“Can he jump?” said Minerva, preparing to jump herself.

“No, Minerva, he is perfectly harmless,” said I, resolved to save his life. “Say, you fellows, stop whacking at him and capture him alive. I want to show Minerva that these snakes haven’t a vicious thought in their heads.”

I took the mop from Tom, and watching my chance, I brought it down on the snake in such a way as to pin it, wriggling. Then I picked it up by the neck.

“Oh, Lawdy!” cried Minerva, and stepping backward trod on the tail of Miss Pussy who happened to be coming into the kitchen.

Miss Pussy emitted a yell that Minerva firmly believed to come from the mouth of the snake, and clapping both her hands to her ears she rushed through the dining room and met Ethel coming in.

Ethel and she met on their foreheads, and Minerva was not hurt at all. Ethel, however, was hard hit, and, infected with Minerva’s panic, she turned and ran through the sitting room into the arms of Madge, who had come to see what was happening.

Madge was almost bowled over, but managed to withstand the shock, and brought the chain of concussions to an end.

I am perhaps a crank on the subject of snakes, but I do object to the senseless panic that seizes on some people when they see one. Now, if it were a mouse, it would be different. A mouse has cluttering little feet and a method of approach that reminds one of happenings in a previous state of existence, and I confess that a mouse in a room will spoil my peace of mind, but a snake is generally good to look upon, and it is graceful beyond measure, and it is nearly always harmless and perfectly willing to leave you most of the world for your inheritance.

So I kept hold of the snake, and after Ethel had assured me that she was not seriously hurt by the impact of Minerva’s splendidly built skull, I told her that I wanted to give Minerva a little lesson in natural history.

There is one thing about Minerva. She is a reasonable being. Her fear of cows vanished after we had assured her that cows were for the most part friendly, and as there were no rattle-snakes in the vicinity, I knew I was safe in calming her fears in regard to the snake. So I asked her and the rest to come out of doors and I would show her what a perfectly innocuous thing our little green friend was.

“Nearly everything we meet out doors, Minerva,” said I, “is disposed to leave us alone if we will leave it alone. This little green snake, that looks as if it were fresh from Ireland, is only anxious now to get away from me and rejoin its little ones. If you kept the kitchen full of snakes there would never be any flies there, because snakes love flies. Come and stroke him. I give you my word he will neither sting nor bite.”

Minerva came up with confidence, and amid shrieks from all the women she patted the little green head, and the little red tongue came out and spelled a message of love to her.

“See there, Minerva! He wants to show you that he is perfectly friendly.”

“My, aint he clean!”

“Of course he’s clean. Snakes are all the while washing themselves with their tongues.” I caught Ethel’s eye, and felt that my natural history was shaky, but I wanted to make an interesting story for Minerva, and who cares for facts in natural history, so long as you have something that will be read?

“I dare say that at one time snakes and cats belonged to the same family. When you see a cat crouched down and creeping along after a bird, it looks like a snake. Its head is flattened and its ears are laid back and its tail looks just like a snake in itself. Probably snakes once had fur—”

“And they rubbed it all off creepin’ ’round.”

“Exactly. Now, take this little snake and be kind to him and overcome your antipathy to him—”

As I said this I loosened my hold on him, preparatory to handing him to Minerva.

But instead of going to Minerva, he turned and made his way swiftly up my arm and around my neck.

Ugh. I never felt anything so creepy in my life. I flung him from me (with a wild cry, Ethel says, although I think she is mistaken). At any rate I tossed the snake far from me, and he made his sinuous, chilly, gliding, repulsive way to his waiting family. And probably wrote a book on the bad habits of human beings from his short and superficial observation of them.

There is a certain rooted antipathy to snakes that lies deep at the base of our being. I cannot explain it, but I know it’s there. I am no snake charmer.

Minerva might have said something, but she knew her place, and refrained. She merely went out to the kitchen and guffawed all by herself, while I, ignoring the remarks of my friends, went upstairs to wash the feeling of cold snake from my neck.