HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON
By William James Lampton ( -1917)
Humorous Short Stories
[From Harper's Bazaar, April, 1911; copyright, 1911, by Harper &
Brothers; republished by permission.]
Of course the Widow Stimson never tried to win Deacon Hawkins, nor any
other man, for that matter. A widow doesn't have to try to win a man;
she wins without trying. Still, the Widow Stimson sometimes wondered
why the deacon was so blind as not to see how her fine farm adjoining
his equally fine place on the outskirts of the town might not be
brought under one management with mutual benefit to both parties at
interest. Which one that management might become was a matter of
future detail. The widow knew how to run a farm successfully, and a
large farm is not much more difficult to run than one of half the
size. She had also had one husband, and knew something more than
running a farm successfully. Of all of which the deacon was perfectly
well aware, and still he had not been moved by the merging spirit of
the age to propose consolidation.
This interesting situation was up for discussion at the Wednesday
afternoon meeting of the Sisters' Sewing Society.
"For my part," Sister Susan Spicer, wife of the Methodist minister,
remarked as she took another tuck in a fourteen-year-old girl's skirt
for a ten-year-old—"for my part, I can't see why Deacon Hawkins and
Kate Stimson don't see the error of their ways and depart from them."
"I rather guess she has," smiled Sister Poteet, the grocer's better
half, who had taken an afternoon off from the store in order to be
"Or is willing to," added Sister Maria Cartridge, a spinster still
possessing faith, hope, and charity, notwithstanding she had been on
the waiting list a long time.
"Really, now," exclaimed little Sister Green, the doctor's wife, "do
you think it is the deacon who needs urging?"
"It looks that way to me," Sister Poteet did not hesitate to affirm.
"Well, I heard Sister Clark say that she had heard him call her
'Kitty' one night when they were eating ice-cream at the Mite
Society," Sister Candish, the druggist's wife, added to the fund of
reliable information on hand.
"'Kitty,' indeed!" protested Sister Spicer. "The idea of anybody
calling Kate Stimson 'Kitty'! The deacon will talk that way to 'most
any woman, but if she let him say it to her more than once, she must
be getting mighty anxious, I think."
"Oh," Sister Candish hastened to explain, "Sister Clark didn't say she
had heard him say it twice.'"
"Well, I don't think she heard him say it once," Sister Spicer
asserted with confidence.
"I don't know about that," Sister Poteet argued. "From all I can see
and hear I think Kate Stimson wouldn't object to 'most anything the
deacon would say to her, knowing as she does that he ain't going to
say anything he shouldn't say."
"And isn't saying what he should," added Sister Green, with a sly
snicker, which went around the room softly.
"But as I was saying—" Sister Spicer began, when Sister Poteet, whose
rocker, near the window, commanded a view of the front gate,
interrupted with a warning, "'Sh-'sh."
"Why shouldn't I say what I wanted to when—" Sister Spicer began.
"There she comes now," explained Sister Poteet, "and as I live the
deacon drove her here in his sleigh, and he's waiting while she comes
in. I wonder what next," and Sister Poteet, in conjunction with the
entire society, gasped and held their eager breaths, awaiting the
entrance of the subject of conversation.
Sister Spicer went to the front door to let her in, and she was
greeted with the greatest cordiality by everybody.
"We were just talking about you and wondering why you were so late
coming," cried Sister Poteet. "Now take off your things and make up
for lost time. There's a pair of pants over there to be cut down to
fit that poor little Snithers boy."
The excitement and curiosity of the society were almost more than
could be borne, but never a sister let on that she knew the deacon was
at the gate waiting. Indeed, as far as the widow could discover, there
was not the slightest indication that anybody had ever heard there was
such a person as the deacon in existence.
"Oh," she chirruped, in the liveliest of humors, "you will have to
excuse me for today. Deacon Hawkins overtook me on the way here, and
here said I had simply got to go sleigh-riding with him. He's waiting
out at the gate now."
"Is that so?" exclaimed the society unanimously, and rushed to the
window to see if it were really true.
"Well, did you ever?" commented Sister Poteet, generally.
"Hardly ever," laughed the widow, good-naturedly, "and I don't want to
lose the chance. You know Deacon Hawkins isn't asking somebody every
day to go sleighing with him. I told him I'd go if he would bring me
around here to let you know what had become of me, and so he did. Now,
good-by, and I'll be sure to be present at the next meeting. I have to
hurry because he'll get fidgety."
The widow ran away like a lively schoolgirl. All the sisters watched
her get into the sleigh with the deacon, and resumed the previous
discussion with greatly increased interest.
But little recked the widow and less recked the deacon. He had bought
a new horse and he wanted the widow's opinion of it, for the Widow
Stimson was a competent judge of fine horseflesh. If Deacon Hawkins
had one insatiable ambition it was to own a horse which could fling
its heels in the face of the best that Squire Hopkins drove. In his
early manhood the deacon was no deacon by a great deal. But as the
years gathered in behind him he put off most of the frivolities of
youth and held now only to the one of driving a fast horse. No other
man in the county drove anything faster except Squire Hopkins, and him
the deacon had not been able to throw the dust over. The deacon would
get good ones, but somehow never could he find one that the squire
didn't get a better. The squire had also in the early days beaten the
deacon in the race for a certain pretty girl he dreamed about. But the
girl and the squire had lived happily ever after and the deacon, being
a philosopher, might have forgotten the squire's superiority had it
been manifested in this one regard only. But in horses, too—that
graveled the deacon.
"How much did you give for him?" was the widow's first query, after
they had reached a stretch of road that was good going and the deacon
had let him out for a length or two.
"Well, what do you suppose? You're a judge."
"More than I would give, I'll bet a cookie."
"Not if you was as anxious as I am to show Hopkins that he can't drive
by everything on the pike."
"I thought you loved a good horse because he was a good horse," said
the widow, rather disapprovingly.
"I do, but I could love him a good deal harder if he would stay in
front of Hopkins's best."
"Does he know you've got this one?"
"Yes, and he's been blowing round town that he is waiting to pick me
up on the road some day and make my five hundred dollars look like a
"So you gave five hundred dollars for him, did you?" laughed the
"Is it too much?"
"Um-er," hesitated the widow, glancing along the graceful lines of the
powerful trotter, "I suppose not if you can beat the squire."
"Right you are," crowed the deacon, "and I'll show him a thing or two
in getting over the ground," he added with swelling pride.
"Well, I hope he won't be out looking for you today, with me in your
sleigh," said the widow, almost apprehensively, "because, you know,
deacon, I have always wanted you to beat Squire Hopkins."
The deacon looked at her sharply. There was a softness in her tones
that appealed to him, even if she had not expressed such agreeable
sentiments. Just what the deacon might have said or done after the
impulse had been set going must remain unknown, for at the crucial
moment a sound of militant bells, bells of defiance, jangled up behind
them, disturbing their personal absorption, and they looked around
simultaneously. Behind the bells was the squire in his sleigh drawn by
his fastest stepper, and he was alone, as the deacon was not. The
widow weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, net—which is weighting a
horse in a race rather more than the law allows.
But the deacon never thought of that. Forgetting everything except his
cherished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a twist
hold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and let him
out for all that was in him. The squire followed suit and the deacon.
The road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth. The track
couldn't have been in better condition. The Hopkins colors were not
five rods behind the Hawkins colors as they got away. For half a mile
it was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging his horse and the widow
encouraging the deacon, and then the squire began creeping up. The
deacon's horse was a good one, but he was not accustomed to hauling
freight in a race. A half-mile of it was as much as he could stand,
and he weakened under the strain.
Not handicapped, the squire's horse forged ahead, and as his nose
pushed up to the dashboard of the deacon's sleigh, that good man
groaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit. The widow
was mad all over that Squire Hopkins should take such a mean advantage
of his rival. Why didn't he wait till another time when the deacon was
alone, as he was? If she had her way she never would, speak to Squire
Hopkins again, nor to his wife, either. But her resentment was not
helping the deacon's horse to win.
Slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon's horse,
realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely,
but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for him,
and he dropped to the rear. The squire shouted in triumph as he drew
past the deacon, and the dejected Hawkins shrivelled into a heap on
the seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold the lines. He
had been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and that, too, with
the best horse that he could hope to put against the ever-conquering
squire. Here sank his fondest hopes, here ended his ambition. From
this on he would drive a mule or an automobile. The fruit of his
desire had turned to ashes in his mouth.
But no. What of the widow? She realized, if the deacon did not, that
she, not the squire's horse, had beaten the deacon's, and she was
ready to make what atonement she could. As the squire passed ahead of
the deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve. A deep bed of drifted
snow lay close by the side of the road not far in front. It was soft
and safe and she smiled as she looked at it as though waiting for her.
Without a hint of her purpose, or a sign to disturb the deacon in his
final throes, she rose as the sleigh ran near its edge, and with a
spring which had many a time sent her lightly from the ground to the
bare back of a horse in the meadow, she cleared the robes and lit
plump in the drift. The deacon's horse knew before the deacon did that
something had happened in his favor, and was quick to respond. With
his first jump of relief the deacon suddenly revived, his hopes came
fast again, his blood retingled, he gathered himself, and, cracking
his lines, he shot forward, and three minutes later he had passed the
squire as though he were hitched to the fence. For a quarter of a mile
the squire made heroic efforts to recover his vanished prestige, but
effort was useless, and finally concluding that he was practically
left standing, he veered off from the main road down a farm lane to
find some spot in which to hide the humiliation of his defeat. The
deacon, still going at a clipping gait, had one eye over his shoulder
as wary drivers always have on such occasions, and when he saw the
squire was off the track he slowed down and jogged along with the
apparent intention of continuing indefinitely. Presently an idea
struck him, and he looked around for the widow. She was not where he
had seen her last. Where was she? In the enthusiasm of victory he had
forgotten her. He was so dejected at the moment she had leaped that he
did not realize what she had done, and two minutes later he was so
elated that, shame on him! he did not care. With her, all was lost;
without her, all was won, and the deacon's greatest ambition was to
win. But now, with victory perched on his horse-collar, success his at
last, he thought of the widow, and he did care. He cared so much that
he almost threw his horse off his feet by the abrupt turn he gave him,
and back down the pike he flew as if a legion of squires were after
He did not know what injury she might have sustained; She might have
been seriously hurt, if not actually killed. And why? Simply to make
it possible for him to win. The deacon shivered as he thought of it,
and urged his horse to greater speed. The squire, down the lane, saw
him whizzing along and accepted it profanely as an exhibition for his
especial benefit. The deacon now had forgotten the squire as he had
only so shortly before forgotten the widow. Two hundred yards from the
drift into which she had jumped there was a turn in the road, where
some trees shut off the sight, and the deacon's anxiety increased
momentarily until he reached this point. From here he could see ahead,
and down there in the middle of the road stood the widow waving her
shawl as a banner of triumph, though she could only guess at results.
The deacon came on with a rush, and pulled up alongside of her in a
condition of nervousness he didn't think possible to him.
"Hooray! hooray!" shouted the widow, tossing her shawl into the air.
"You beat him. I know you did. Didn't you? I saw you pulling ahead at
the turn yonder. Where is he and his old plug?"
"Oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything. Are
you hurt?" gasped the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep the
lines in his hand. "Are you hurt?" he repeated, anxiously, though she
looked anything but a hurt woman.
"If I am," she chirped, cheerily, "I'm not hurt half as bad as I would
have been if the squire had beat you, deacon. Now don't you worry
about me. Let's hurry back to town so the squire won't get another
chance, with no place for me to jump."
And the deacon? Well, well, with the lines in the crook of his elbow
the deacon held out his arms to the widow and——. The sisters at the
next meeting of the Sewing Society were unanimously of the opinion
that any woman who would risk her life like that for a husband was