The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1955, Síða 19

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
17
horses as they sleep, favoring one foot
at a time. The manner of their care
appears in their reactions as I pet their
heads.
With sweet expectations I enter the
store, and immediately dignity and
pride possess me when I see the pro-
prietor. His tall, stately shoulders carry
the air of authority associated with
commercial wealth, yet he is a richer
man in his own heritage. Children are
out of place in his aura, yet he teaches
us the lesson of respect; and I find him
in my thinking as I classify business
men by his measure.
And now my thin threads of thought
are weaving a web of gratitude around
the only clerk in the store. I realize
that he is the direct opposite of what
a salesman should be, for I never see
him chatting in a friendly mood with
anyone. He is a tall, thin man with
grey hair and sharp eyes, who makes
us feel very uncomfortable whenever
we behave like children. His soft, quick
step makes him appear as if he
were coming out of nowhere. He never
allows us children to linger in the
store to look at things; he silently
pushes us out like farmers’ wives clear
their yards of chiokens with their
aprons. He is even annoyed with the
grown-ups when they handle his wares,
or when the ladies wish to see the
bright, shining bales of calico, or
the bundles of woolens piled neat-
ly on his spotless shelves. Whenever
we have a nickel to spend he gives
us a disgusted look because we waste
it on candy.
I follow him around in the store,
and he asks me several times what I
want; but I only shake my head, wish-
ing my father had been more forceful
m sending my younger brother, even
if my mother had objected, as it would
have been serious to me then if my
teasing playmates had heard of my
mission. Finally the opportunity comes
and I say quickly and in a low voice:
‘‘A plug of Yankee Girl tobacco.”
With an understanding look he puts
it in a sack and hands it to me. I will
seldom ask for it by name after that,
for he will have a way of knowing
when I linger near. He shows me that
the gem of thoughtfulness comes in
many different settings. I think of him
when I polish this jewel of thought.
With light-footed glee I rush out of
the store for a long cool drink of deep
well water, and I put the rusty dipper
back in its place above the hand-worn
handle as my eyes begin to search for
a shadow near the barn west of the
w'ell. In those days I had never seen a
Jack-in-the-box, but now, whenever 1
do, I think of a little middle-aged man,
called the proprietor’s shadow. He is
like a half grown boy, who obeys his
master like a faithful child, his arms
and legs always in motion. His sweet,
simple soul reflects a flowering weed
in a fallow field and, when his chores
are done, he comes out to play with
the rest of the children in the same
youthful spirit as ours. On bright
winter nights he pulls up our sleighs
when the hill is alive with figures,
and many a little one runs to his
protection. We are able to tell the time
of day when we see his jaunty figure,
swinging a slender willow bough, on
his way south of town to bring home
the cows. We follow him on the cow
trails through the woods, to listen to
him mimic the bold crow, the first sign
of spring on the cold prairies. My
childhood glee still echoes in the
shrieking of the crow.
Now he takes us to a wide clearing
in the woods, leading to a sloping
meadow that serves as a graveyard, to
see a patch of wild tiger lilies in full