From the Improvement Era, September 1939 –

No Sale! – A Short Short Story

By Mary Elizabeth Bouck

Dan Spellman was discouraged. “Everything,” he muttered to himself, “holds me down. I never get a break.” He turned back to the house, avoiding from force of habit the rotten boards in the walk, and slumped down on the porch steps. He drew the letter from its envelop again and started to unfold it; then thrust it back into the envelop. No need to read it again; he knew what it said: His sister, Libbie, recently widowed, was going to move in on him. “As if,” he exclaimed in exasperation, “I don’t have it hard enough just to keep myself going! Why can’t she go to Charley’s folks?” But even as he said it, he realized deep in his own heart that if Libbie were alone and poor she belonged with her brother and not with her in-laws. To do him justice, it wasn’t that he had any real resentment against Libbie; it was only that the idea of the added financial burden appalled him.

For years Dan Spellman had saved every penny he could possibly lay hands on in his endeavor to “get ahead,” as he termed it. He never wasted anything; he never gave anything away; he belonged to no clubs. But money kept getting scarcer and scarcer. And now here was Libbie coming to live with him!

He arose from the sagging steps and went into the house. Everything was shabby, from the window shades to the furniture. Well, perhaps when Libbie saw how he was fixed, she’d realize that he couldn’t possibly support her and would make other arrangements. With that, his first impulse to tell her not to come gave way to the idea of letting her decide for herself that she couldn’t stay.

He picked up an old lard pail from the kitchen table and went out to the back yard. He’d pick a few cherries and sell them. Better get what he could from the cherries; he’d have no peaches at all this year.

With his pailful as samples he set out around the neighborhood. But his usual “luck,” as he was wont to term it, accompanied him. Nobody wanted cherries. If they hadn’t already bought, they weren’t buying; and several people were out. Discouraged, he turned back home. He had walked blocks in the hot sun and not an order! And he must find some way to dispose of those cherries. He couldn’t afford to let them rot on the trees.

At the corner of High Street he met little Betty Smythe. Smythes were Dan’s neighbors across the street and he and Mr. Smythe sometimes worked on carpentering jobs together. They were nice people, and Betty was a nice child. Dan hadn’t tried to sell his cherries there; they had never bought any from him.

“O! What grand cherries!” exclaimed Betty as he overtook her. “And they’re dee-licious,” she added, after sampling the handful Dan offered her.

Dan smiled as he noticed her stained lips. “You can have ’em all,” he said on impulse, “Just bring my pail back.” After all, he might as well give those few away since he couldn’t sell them. And again his spirits sank.

It was while he was eating his supper that Betty returned the pail. She stood in the doorway, her eyes not quite accustomed to the comparative darkness of the room, and extended a plate toward him, a plate on which reposed a large piece of pie. Dan could hardly believe his eyes — it was so long since he’d had any pie. But Betty spoke cheerfully, “Mama says thank you for the cherries, and here’s a piece of the pie she made from ’em.”

It wasn’t till she set the plate on the table that Dan found voice to reply, “You give her my thanks. And she can have more cherries if she wants ’em.”

After the child had left he realized what he had done. “Givin’ away my cherries when they’re all I got to sell this summer,” he muttered to himself. “Well, maybe she won’t want but a few. Anyway it was wuth it,” he concluded as he took a large bite of the pie.

However, Dan little realized what he had started. Next morning while he was picking cherries to take to the store where he hoped Nick Eldridge would sell them on commission, Mrs. Lovett came. She was Mrs. Smythe’s sister.

“Oh, Mr. Spellman,” she called cheerfully as she came under the tree where he was picking, I’ve come begging.”

“You’ve come to a poor place,” returned Dan, growing apprehensive.

“I just want a few of those delicious cherries like you gave my sister yesterday,” she explained. “I’m having guests to dinner and I want to make a cobbler.”

“Sure, help yourself,” said Dan, but fear smote him. Suppose all the neighbors came asking for fruit?

He pondered the problem over his dinner, and decided he’d better not give away anything more. “She didn’t even offer me any cobbler,” he thought.

That night when he was cleaning up after his meagre supper, Mrs. Lovett came again, “Mr. Spellman,” she asked, “have you any more cherries?”

“Yes — no— that is — ” stammered Dan, hardly knowing what to say to such a direct question.

“If you have,” she continued without noticing his perturbation, “my guests want some. They’d like a bushel.”

A bushel! His heart gave a bound. That was a real order. “Yes, yes, I have ’em,” he told Mrs Lovett. “I can pick ’em in the morning.” My! But he was glad now that he’d given Mrs. Lovett those few for her cobbler.

The next week Mrs. Lovett came again. Dan was repairing the fence to keep the neighbor’s chick- ens out of his yard. He greeted her with mixed feelings. As usual she came directly to the point. The Community Club was having a rummage sale and could Mr, Spellman give them something?

Dan shook his head mournfully. He w^as very low in spirit. He had just received a card from Libbie announcing her arrival within a few days and the burden of his poverty was heavy upon him.

“Isn’t there anything?” wheedled Mrs. Lovett. “You know we can use anything — dishes, clothes, books, furniture —”

Dan didn’t hear the rest. A sudden crafty idea had occurred to him. “You say furniture?” he queried.

Mrs. Lovett nodded emphatically.

“Well,” pursued Dan, “I got an old bed. Tell me when you want it, and I’ll bring it over.”

“Oh, Mr. Spellman, you’re so kind!” On that note Mrs. Lovett departed, after having given explicit directions as to time and place.

Dan stood by the fence staring moodily after her. He wasn’t quite sure whether he had done the right thing. If he were rich like the Oliphants, for example, it would be different, but as it was, he couldn’t support Libbie. Still, to give away the bed she would have to sleep in — All day the question bothered him, no matter where he went or what he did. He was still struggling with it at supper time when Betty Smythe came to the door.

She had a plate covered with a napkin from which the odor of fresh bread rose temptingly. “Mama baked today,” she said, “and she thought you might like some of these hot rolls.”

Dan thanked her and set the plate on the table. He couldn’t remember when he’d had any fresh bread. Libbie had been a great one to bake. Maybe when she came — Then he remembered that there was no place for Libbie to sleep. Here was a pretty kettle of fish. But why had Mrs. Smythe sent the rolls? Why should people start giving him things all of a sudden?

He ate slowly, enjoying every bite and trying to find the answer. Suddenly a great light seemed to break over him. Finally he said aloud, as if to be sure that he understood, “Well, I guess I’ve been putting the cart before the horse. It ain’t those that has, that gives; it’s those that gives that has.” Over and over he repeated it to himself as if to establish the principle firmly in his mind. Then he pushed aside his dishes and brought out the pen and ink to write Libbie to bring her own bed and any other furniture she liked. He was giving the rest of that bedroom suite to the rummage sale.