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Chapter 7

The Chick of the Easter Egg

The old fellow who told that story of dream-transference on a
sleeping-car at Christmas-time was again at the club on Easter Eve.
Halson had put him up for the winter, under the easy rule we had, and he
had taken very naturally to the Turkish room for his after-dinner coffee
and cigar. We all rather liked him, though it was Minver’s pose to
be critical of the simple friendliness with which he made himself at
home among us, and to feign a wish that there were fewer trains between
Boston and New York, so that old Newton (that was his name) could have a
better chance of staying away. But we noticed that Minver was always a
willing listener to Newton’s talk, and that he sometimes
hospitably offered to share his tobacco with the Bostonian. When brought
to book for his inconsistency by Rulledge, he said he was merely
welcoming the new blood, if not young blood, that Newton was infusing
into our body, which had grown anaemic on Wanhope’s psychology and
Rulledge’s romance; or, anyway, it was a change.

Newton now began by saying abruptly, in a fashion he had, “We
used to hear a good deal in Boston about your Easter Parade here in New
York. Do you still keep it up?”

No one else answering, Minver replied, presently, “I believe it
is still going on. I understand that it’s composed mostly of
milliners out to see one another’s new hats, and generous Jewesses
who are willing to contribute the ‘dark and bright’ of the
beauty in which they walk to the observance of an alien faith.
It’s rather astonishing how the synagogue takes to the feasts of
the church. If it were not for that, I don’t know what would
become of Christmas.”

“What do you mean by their walking in beauty?” Rulledge
asked over his shoulder.

“I shall never have the measure of your ignorance, Rulledge.
You don’t even know Byron’s lines on Hebrew loveliness?

“‘She walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her

“Pretty good,” Rulledge assented. “And they
are splendid, sometimes. But what has the Easter Parade got to
do with it?” he asked Newton.

“Oh, only what everything has with everything else. I was
thinking of Easter-time long ago and far away, and naturally I thought
of Easter now and here. I saw your Parade once, and it seemed to me one
of the great social spectacles. But you can’t keep anything in New
York, if it’s good; if it’s bad, you can.”

“You come from Boston, I think you said, Mr. Newton,”
Minver breathed blandly through his smoke.

“Oh, I’m not a real Bostonian,” our guest
replied. “I’m not abusing you on behalf of a city that
I’m a native proprietor of. If I were, I shouldn’t perhaps
make your decadent Easter Parade my point of attack, though I think
it’s a pity to let it spoil. I came from a part of the country
where we used to make a great deal of Easter, when we were boys, at
least so far as eggs went. I don’t know whether the grown people
observed the day then, and I don’t know whether the boys keep it
now; I haven’t been back at Easter-time for several generations.
But when I was a boy it was a serious thing. In that soft Southwestern
latitude the grass had pretty well greened up by Easter, even when it
came in March, and grass colors eggs a very nice yellow; it used to
worry me that it didn’t color them green. When the grass
hadn’t got along far enough, winter wheat would do as well. I
don’t remember what color onion husks would give; but we used
onion husks, too. Some mothers would let the boys get logwood from the
drug-store, and that made the eggs a fine, bold purplish black. But the
greatest egg of all was a calico egg, that you got by coaxing your
grandmother (your mother’s mother) or your aunt (your
mother’s sister) to sew up in a tight cover of brilliant calico.
When that was boiled long enough the colors came off in a perfect
pattern on the egg. Very few boys could get such eggs; when they did,
they put them away in bureau drawers till they ripened and the mothers
smelt them, and threw them out of the window as quickly as possible.
Always, after breakfast, Easter Morning, we came out on the street and
fought eggs. We pitted the little ends of the eggs against one another,
and the fellow whose egg cracked the other fellow’s egg won it,
and he carried it off. I remember grass and wheat colored eggs in such
trials of strength, and onion and logwood colored eggs; but never calico
eggs; they were too precious to be risked; it would have seemed

“I don’t know,” the Boston man went musingly on,
“why I should remember these things so relentlessly; I’ve
forgotten all the important things that happened to me then; but perhaps
these were the important things. Who knows? I only know I’ve
always had a soft spot in my heart for Easter, not so much because of
the calico eggs, perhaps, as because of the grandmothers and the aunts.
I suppose the simple life is full of such aunts and grandmothers still;
but you don’t find them in hotel apartments, or even in flats
consisting of seven large, light rooms and bath.” We all
recognized the language of the advertisements, and laughed in sympathy
with our guest, who perhaps laughed out of proportion with a pleasantry
of that size.

When he had subdued his mirth, he resumed at a point apparently very
remote from that where he had started.

“There was one of those winters in Cambridge, where I lived
then, that seemed tougher than any other we could remember, and they
were all pretty tough winters there in those times. There were forty
snowfalls between Thanksgiving and Fast Day—you don’t know
what Fast Day is in New York, and we didn’t, either, as far as the
fasting went—and the cold kept on and on till we couldn’t,
or said we couldn’t, stand it any longer. So, along about the
middle of March somewhere, we picked up the children and started south.
In those days New York seemed pretty far south to us; and when we got
here we found everything on wheels that we had left on runners in
Boston. But the next day it began to snow, and we said we must go a
little farther to meet the spring. I don’t know exactly what it
was made us pitch on Bethlehem, Pennsylvania; but we had a notion we
should find it interesting, and, at any rate, a total change from our
old environment. We had been reading something about the Moravians, and
we knew that it was the capital of Moravianism, with the largest
Moravian congregation in the world; I think it was Longfellow’s
‘Hymn of the Moravian Nuns’ that set us to reading about the
sect; and we had somehow heard that the Sun Inn, at Bethlehem, was the
finest old-fashioned public house anywhere. At any rate, we had the
faith of our youthful years, and we put out for Bethlehem.

“We arrived just at dusk, but not so late that we
couldn’t see the hospitable figure of a man coming out of the Sun
to meet us at the omnibus door and to shake hands with each of us. It
was the very pleasantest and sweetest welcome we ever had at a public
house; and though we found the Sun a large, modern hotel, we easily
accepted the landlord’s assurance that the old Inn was built up
inside of the hotel, just as it was when Washington stayed in it; and
after a mighty good supper we went to our rooms, which were piping warm
from two good base-burner stoves. It was not exactly the vernal air we
had expected of Bethlehem when we left New York; but you can’t
have everything in this world, and, with the snowbanks along the streets
outside, we were very glad to have the base-burners.

“We went to bed pretty early, and I fell into one of those
exemplary sleeps that begin with no margin of waking after your head
touches the pillow, or before that, even, and I woke from a dream of
heavenly music that translated itself into the earthly notes of bugles.
It made me sit up with the instant realization that we had arrived in
Bethlehem on Easter Eve, and that this was Easter Morning. We had read
of the beautiful observance of the feast by the Moravians, and, while I
was hurrying on my clothes beside my faithful base-burner, I kept quite
superfluously wondering at myself for not having thought of it, and so
made sure of being called. I had waked just in time, though I
hadn’t deserved to do so, and ought, by right, to have missed it
all. I tried to make my wife come with me; but after the family is of a
certain size a woman, if she is a real woman, thinks her husband can see
things for her, and generally sends him out to reconnoitre and report.
Besides, my wife couldn’t have left the children without waking
them, to tell them she was going, and then all five of them would have
wanted to come with us, including the baby; and we should have had no
end of a time convincing them of the impossibility. We were a good deal
bound up in the children, and we hated to lie to them when we could
possibly avoid it. So I went alone.

“I asked the night porter, who was still on duty, the way I
wanted to take, but there were so many people in the streets going the
same direction that I couldn’t have missed it, anyhow; and pretty
soon we came to the old Moravian cemetery, which was in the heart of the
town; and there we found most of the Moravian congregation drawn up on
three sides of the square, waiting and facing the east, which was
beginning to redden. Of all the cemeteries I have seen, that was the
most beautiful, because it was the simplest and humblest. Generally a
cemetery is a dreadful place, with headstones and footstones and shafts
and tombs scattered about, and looking like a field full of granite and
marble stumps from the clearing of a petrified forest. But here all the
memorial tablets lay flat with the earth. None of the dead were assumed
to be worthier of remembrance than another; they all rested at regular
intervals, with their tablets on their breasts, like shields, in their
sleep after the battle of life. I was thinking how right and wise this
was, and feeling the purity of the conception like a quality of the
keen, clear air of the morning, which seemed to be breathing straight
from the sky, when suddenly the sun blazed up from the horizon like a
fire, and the instant it appeared the horns of the band began to blow
and the people burst into a hymn—a thousand voices, for all I
know. It was the sublimest thing I ever heard, and I don’t know
that there’s anything to match it for dignity and solemnity in any
religious rite. It made the tears come, for I thought how those people
were of a church of missionaries and martyrs from the beginning, and I
felt as if I were standing in sight and hearing of the first Christians
after Christ. It was as if He were risen there ‘in the midst of

Rulledge looked round on the rest of us, with an air of acquiring
merit from the Bostonian’s poetry, but Minver’s gravity was
proof against the chance of mocking Rulledge, and I think we all felt
alike. Wanhope seemed especially interested, though he said nothing.

“When I went home I told my wife about it as well as I could,
but, though she entered into the spirit of it, she was rather
preoccupied. The children had all wakened, as they did sometimes, in a
body, and were storming joyfully around the rooms, as if it were
Christmas; and she was trying to get them dressed. ‘Do tell them
what Easter is like; they’ve never seen it kept before,’ she
said; and I tried to do so, while I took a hand, as a young father will,
and tried to get them into their clothes. I don’t think I dwelt
much on the religious observance of the day, but I dug up some of my
profane associations with it in early life, and told them about coloring
eggs, and fighting them, and all that; there in New England, in those
days, they had never seen or heard of such a thing as an Easter egg.

“I don’t think my reminiscences quieted them much. They
were all on fire—the oldest hoy and girl, and the twins, and even
the two-year-old that we called the baby—to go out and buy some
eggs and get the landlord to let them color them in the hotel kitchen. I
had a deal of ado to make them wait till after breakfast, but I managed,
somehow; and when we had finished—it was a mighty good
Pennsylvania breakfast, such as we could eat with impunity in those
halcyon days: rich coffee, steak, sausage, eggs, applebutter, buckwheat
cakes and maple syrup—we got their out-door togs on them, while
they were all stamping and shouting round and had to be caught and
overcoated, and fur-capped and hooded simultaneously, and managed to get
them into the street together. Ever been in Bethlehem?”

We all had to own our neglect of this piece of travel; and Newton,
after a moment of silent forgiveness, said:

“Well, I don’t know how it is now, but twenty-five or
thirty years ago it was the most interesting town in America. It
wasn’t the old Moravian community that it had been twenty-five
years before that, when none but Moravians could buy property there; but
it was like the Sun Hotel, and just as that had grown round and over the
old Sun Inn, the prosperous manufacturing town, with its iron-foundries
and zinc-foundries, and all the rest of it, had grown round and over the
original Moravian village. If you wanted a breath of perfect
strangeness, with an American quality in it at the same time, you
couldn’t have gone to any place where you could have had it on
such terms as you could in Bethlehem. I can’t begin to go into
details, but one thing was hearing German spoken everywhere in the
street: not the German of Germany, but the Pennsylvania German, with its
broad vowels and broken-down grammatical forms, and its English vocables
and interjections, which you caught in the sentences which came to you,
like av coorse, and yes and no for ja and nein. There were
stores where they spoke no English, and others where they made a
specialty of it; and I suppose when we sallied out that bright Sunday
morning, with the baby holding onto a hand of each of us between us, and
the twins going in front with their brother and sister, we were almost
as foreign as we should have been in a village on the Rhine or the

“We got a little acquainted with the people, after awhile, and
I heard some stories of the country folks that I thought were pretty
good. One was about an old German farmer on whose land a prospecting
metallurgist found zinc ore; the scientific man brought him the bright
yellow button by which the zinc proved its existence in its union with
copper, and the old fellow asked in an awestricken whisper: ‘Is it
a gold-mine?’ ‘No, no. Guess again.’ ‘Then
it’s a brass-mine!’ But before they began to find
zinc there in the lovely Lehigh Valley—you can stand by an open
zinc-mine and look down into it where the rock and earth are left
standing, and you seem to be looking down into a range of sharp mountain
peaks and pinnacles—it was the richest farming region in the whole
fat State of Pennsylvania; and there was a young farmer who owned a vast
tract of it, and who went to fetch home a young wife from Philadelphia
way, somewhere. He drove there and back in his own buggy, and when he
reached the top overlooking the valley, with his bride, he stopped his
horse, and pointed with his whip. ‘There,’ he said,
‘as far as the sky is blue, it’s all ours!’ I thought
that was fine.”

“Fine?” I couldn’t help bursting out;
“it’s a stroke of poetry.”

Minver cut in: “The thrifty Acton making a note of it for
future use in literature.”

“Eh!” Newton queried. “Oh! I don’t mind.
You’re welcome to it, Mr. Acton. It’s a pity somebody
shouldn’t use it, and of course I can’t.”

“Acton will send you a copy with the usual forty-per-cent.
discount and ten off for cash,” the painter said.

They had their little laugh at my expense, and then Newton took up
his tale again. “Well, as I was saying—By the way, what
was I saying?”

The story-loving Rulledge remembered. “You went out with your
wife and children for Easter eggs.”

“Oh yes. Thank you. Well, of course, in a town geographically
American, the shops were all shut on Sunday, and we couldn’t buy
even an Easter egg on Easter Sunday. But one of the stores had the shade
of its show-window up, and the children simply glued themselves to it in
such a fascination that we could hardly unstick them. That window was
full of all kinds of Easter things—I don’t remember what
all; but there were Easter eggs in every imaginable color and pattern,
and besides these there were whole troops of toy rabbits. I had
forgotten that the natural offspring of Easter eggs is rabbits; but I
took a brace, and remembered the fact and announced it to the children.
They immediately demanded an explanation, with all sorts of scientific
particulars, which I gave them, as reckless of the truth as I thought my
wife would suffer without contradicting me. I had to say that while
Easter eggs mostly hatched rabbits, there were instances in which they
hatched other things, as, for instance, handfuls of eagles and
half-eagles and double-eagles, especially in the case of the golden eggs
that the goose laid. They knew all about that goose; but I had to tell
them what those unfamiliar pieces of American coinage were, and promise
to give them one each when they grew up, if they were good. That only
partially satisfied them, and they wanted to know specifically what
other kinds of things Easter eggs would hatch if properly treated. Each
one had a preference; the baby always preferred what the last one said;
and she wanted an ostrich, the same as her big brother; he was
seven then.

“I don’t really know how we lived through the day; I mean
the children, for my wife and I went to the Moravian church, and had a
good long Sunday nap in the afternoon, while the children were pining
for Monday morning, when they could buy eggs and begin to color them, so
that they could hatch just the right kind of Easter things. When I woke
up I had to fall in with a theory they had agreed to between them that
any kind of two-legged or four-legged chick that hatched from an Easter
egg would wear the same color, or the same kind of spots or stripes,
that the egg had.

“I found that they had arranged to have calico eggs, and they
were going to have their mother cover them with the same sort of cotton
prints that I had said my grandmother and aunts used, and they meant to
buy the calico in the morning at the same time that they bought the
eggs. We had some tin vessels of water on our stoves to take the dryness
out of the hot air, and they had decided that they would boil their eggs
in these, and not trouble the landlord for the use of his kitchen.

“There was nothing in this scheme wanting but their
mother’s consent—I agreed to it on the spot—but when
she understood that they each expected to have two eggs apiece, with one
apiece for us, she said she never could cover a dozen eggs in the world,
and that the only way would be for them to go in the morning with us,
and choose each the handsomest egg they could out of the eggs in that
shop-window. They met this proposition rather blankly at first; but on
reflection the big brother said it would be a shame to spoil
mamma’s Easter by making her work all day, and besides it would
keep till that night, anyway, before they could begin to have any fun
with their eggs; and then the rest all said the same thing, ending with
the baby: and accepted the inevitable with joy, and set about living
through the day as well as they could.

“They had us up pretty early the next morning—that is,
they had me up; their mother said that I had brought it on myself, and
richly deserved it for exciting their imaginations, and I had to go out
with the two oldest and the twins to choose the eggs; we got off from
the baby by promising to let her have two, and she didn’t
understand very well, anyway, and was awfully sleepy. We were a pretty
long time choosing the six eggs, and I don’t remember now just
what they were; but they were certainly joyous eggs; and—By the
way, I don’t know why I’m boring a brand of hardened
bachelors like you with all these domestic details?”

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Minver responded to
his general appeal. “We may not understand the feelings of a
father, but we are all mothers at heart, especially Rulledge. Go on.
It’s very exciting,” he urged, not very ironically, and
Newton went on.

“Well, I don’t believe I could say just how the havoc
began. They put away their eggs very carefully after they had made their
mother admire them, and shown the baby how hers were the prettiest, and
they each said in succession that they must be very precious of them,
for if you shook an egg, or anything, it wouldn’t hatch; and it
was their plan to take these home and set an unemployed pullet,
belonging to the big brother, to hatching them in the coop that he had
built of laths for her in the back yard with his own hands. But long
before the afternoon was over, the evil one had entered Eden, and
tempted the boy to try fighting eggs with these treasured specimens, as
I had told we boys used to fight eggs in my town in the southwest. He
held a conquering course through the encounter with three eggs, but met
his Waterloo with a regular Blücher belonging to the baby. Then he
instantly changed sides; and smashed his Blücher against the last egg
left. By that time all the other children were in tears, the baby
roaring powerfully in ignorant sympathy, and the victor steeped in
silent gloom. His mother made him gather up the ruins from the floor,
and put them in the stove, and she took possession of the victorious
egg, and said she would keep it till we got back to Cambridge herself,
and not let one of them touch it. I can tell you it was a tragical time.
I wanted to go out and buy them another set of eggs, and spring them for
a surprise on them in the morning, after they had suffered enough that
night. But she said that if I dared to dream of such a thing—which
would be the ruin of the children’s character, by taking away the
consequences of their folly—she should do, she did not know what,
to me. Of course she was right, and I gave in, and helped the children
forget all about it, so that by the time we got back to Cambridge I had
forgotten about it myself.

“I don’t know what it was reminded the boy of that
remaining Easter egg unless it was the sight of the unemployed pullet in
her coop, which he visited the first thing; and I don’t know how
he managed to wheedle his mother out of it; but the first night after I
came home from business—it was rather late and the children had
gone to bed—she told me that ridiculous boy, as she called him in
self-exculpation, had actually put the egg under his pullet, and all the
children were wild to see what it would hatch. ‘And now,’
she said, severely, ‘what are you going to do? You have filled
their heads with those ideas, and I suppose you will have to invent some
nonsense or other to fool them, and make them believe that it has
hatched a giraffe, or an elephant, or something; they won’t be
satisfied with anything less.’ I said we should have to try
something smaller, for I didn’t think we could manage a chick of
that size on our lot; and that I should trust in Providence. Then she
said it was all very well to laugh; and that I couldn’t get out of
it that way, and I needn’t think it.

“I didn’t, much. But the children understood that it took
three weeks for an egg to hatch, and anyway the pullet was so
intermittent in her attentions to the Easter egg, only sitting on it at
night, or when held down by hand in the day, that there was plenty of
time. One evening when I came out from Boston, I was met by a doleful
deputation at the front gate, with the news that when the coop was
visited that morning after breakfast—they visited the coop every
morning before they went to school—the pullet was found perched on
a cross-bar in a high state of nerves, and the shell of the Easter egg
broken and entirely eaten out. Probably a rat had got in and done it,
or, more hopefully, a mink, such as used to attack eggs in the town
where I was a boy. We went out and viewed the wreck, as a first step
towards a better situation; and suddenly a thought struck me.
‘Children,’ I said, ‘what did you really expect that
egg to hatch, anyway?’ They looked askance at one another, and at
last the boy said: ‘Well, you know, papa, an egg that’s been
cooked—’ And then we all laughed together, and I knew they
had been making believe as much as I had, and no more expected the
impossible of a boiled egg than I did.”

“That was charming!” Wanhope broke out. “There is
nothing more interesting than the way children join in hypnotizing
themselves with the illusions which their parents think they
have created without their help. In fact, it is very doubtful whether at
any age we have any illusions except those of our own creation;

“Let him go on, Wanhope,” Minver dictated; and Newton

“It was rather nice. I asked them if their mother knew about
the egg; and they said that of course they couldn’t help telling
her; and I said: ‘Well, then, I’ll tell you what: we must
make her believe that the chick hatched out and got away—’
The boy stopped me: ‘Do you think that would be exactly true,
papa?’ ‘Well, not exactly true; but it’s only
for the time being. We can tell her the exact truth afterwards,’
and then I laid my plan before them. They said it was perfectly
splendid, and would be the greatest kind of joke on mamma, and one that
she would like as much as anybody. The thing was to keep it from her
till it was done, and they all promised that they wouldn’t tell;
but I could see that they were bursting with the secret the whole

“The next day was Saturday, when I always went home early, and
I had the two oldest children come in with the second-girl, who left
them to take lunch with me. They had chocolate and ice-cream, and after
lunch we went around to a milliner’s shop in West Street, where my
wife and I had stopped a long five minutes the week before we went to
Bethlehem, adoring an Easter bonnet that we saw in the window. I wanted
her to buy it; but she said, No, if we were going that expensive
journey, we couldn’t afford it, and she must do without, that
spring. I showed it to them, and ‘Now, children,’ I said,
‘what do you think of that for the chick that your Easter egg
hatched?’ And they said it was the most beautiful bonnet they had
ever seen, and it would just exactly suit mamma. But I saw they were
holding something back, and I said, sharply, ‘Well?’ and
they both guiltily faltered out: ‘The bird, you know,
papa,’ and I remembered that they belonged to the society of Bird
Defenders, who in that day were pledged against the decorative use of
dead birds or killing them for anything but food. ‘Why, confound
it,’ I said, ‘the bird is the very thing that makes it an
Easter-egg chick!’ but I saw that their honest little hearts were
troubled, and I said again: ‘Confound it! Let’s go in and
hear what the milliner has to say.’ Well, the long and short of it
was that the milliner tried a bunch of forget-me-nots over the bluebird
that we all agreed was a thousand times better, and that if it were
substituted would only cost three dollars more, and we took our
Easter-egg chick home in a blaze of glory, the children carrying the
bandbox by the string between them.

“Of course we had a great time opening it, and their mother
acted her part so well that I knew she was acting, and after the little
ones were in bed I taxed her with it. ‘Know? Of course I
knew!’ she said. ‘Did you think they would let you
deceive me? They’re true New-Englanders, and they told me
all about it last night, when I was saying their prayers with
them.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘they let you deceive
me; they must be true Westerners, too, for they didn’t
tell me a word of your knowing.’ I rather had her there, but she
said: ‘Oh, you goose—’ We were young people in those
days, and goose meant everything. But, really, I’m ashamed of
getting off all this to you hardened bachelors, as I said

“If you tell many more such stories in this club,” Minver
said, severely, “you won’t leave a bachelor in it. And
Rulledge will be the first to get married.”

The End

William Dean Howells

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