Neighborhood Stories — Zona Gale

“When I die,” said Calliope Marsh, “don't you get anybody that's always treated me like a dog and put them on the front seat. Make 'em sit back.” Then she looked at me, her rare and somewhat abashed smile on her face. “Birds and stars and children and God in the world,” she said, “and hark at me talking like that. Honest, I don't care where you seat 'em.” That is like Calliope. And that is like the village. Blunt and sometimes bitter speech there is, and now and again what we gently call “words”; but the faith of my experience is that these are facile, and need never trouble one. These are born of circumscription, of little areas, of teasing tasks, of lack of exercise, of that curious mingling which we call social life; but any one who takes seriously our faint feuds or even our narrow judgments does not know and love the Middle Western villages, nor understand that seeds and buds are not the norm of bloom. Instance, if you will, this case and that to show the contrary. But the days of pioneering, when folk drew together in defense, left us a heritage which no isolated instances can nullify. On the whole, we are all friends.