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Gadsby
- A novel
Over 50,000 words, written
in 1939 by Ernest Vincent Wright without using the Letter “E”. A work of
writing that deliberately excludes particular letters is called a
lipogram.
Page #1
If youth, throughout all history, had had a champion to stand up for it; to
show a doubting world that a child can think; and, possibly, do it
practically; you wouldn’t constantly run across folks today who claim that
“a child don’t know anything.”A child’s brain starts functioning at birth;
and has, amongst its many infant convolutions, thousands of dormant atoms,
into which God has put a mystic possibility for noticing an adult’s act, and
figuring out its purport.
Up to about its primary school days a child thinks, naturally, only of play.
But many a form of play contains disciplinary factors. “You can’t do this,”
or “that puts you out,” shows a child that it must think, practically or
fail. Now, if, throughout childhood, a brain has no opposition, it is plain
that it will attain a position of “status quo,” as with our ordinary
animals. Man knows not why a cow, dog or lion was not born with a brain on a
par with ours; why such animals cannot add, subtract, or obtain from books
and schooling, that paramount position which Man holds today.
But a human brain is not in that class. Constantly throbbing and pulsating,
it rapidly forms opinions; attaining an ability of its own; a fact which is
startlingly shown by an occasional child “prodigy” in music or school work.
And as, with our dumb animals, a child’s inability convincingly to impart
its thoughts to us, should not class it as ignorant.
Upon this basis I am going to show you how a bunch of bright young folks did
find a champion; a man with boys and girls of his own; a man of so
dominating and happy individuality that Youth is drawn to him as is a fly to
a sugar bowl. It is a story about a small town. It is not a gossipy yarn;
nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such customary “fill-ins” as
“romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down a long, winding country
road.” Nor will it say anything about tinklings lulling distant folds;
robins carolling at twilight, nor any “warm glow of lamplight” from a cabin
window. No. It is an account of up-and-doing activity; a vivid portrayal of
Youth as it is today; and a practical discarding of that worn-out notion
that “a child don’t know anything.”
Now, any author, from history’s dawn, always had that most important aid to
writing: an ability to call upon any word in his dictionary in building up
his story. That is, our strict laws as to word construction did not block
his path. But in my story that mighty obstruction will constantly stand in
my path; for many an important, common word I cannot adopt, owing to its
orthography.
I shall act as a sort of historian for this small town; associating with its
inhabitants, and striving to acquaint you with its youths, in such a way
that you can look, knowingly, upon any child, rich or poor; forward or
“backward;” your own, or John Smith’s, in your community. You will find many
young minds aspiring to know how, and why such a thing is so. And, if a
child shows curiosity in that way, how ridiculous it is for you to snap
out:— “Oh! Don’t ask about things too old for you!”
Such a jolt to a young child’s mind, craving instruction, is apt so to dull
its avidity, as to hold it back in its school work. Try to look upon a child
as a small, soft young body and a rapidly growing, constantly inquiring
brain. It must grow to maturity slowly. Forcing a child through school by
constant night study during hours in which it should run and play, can bring
on insomnia; handicapping both brain and body.
Now this small town in our story had grown in just that way:— slowly; in
fact, much too slowly to stand on a par with many a thousand of its kind in
this big, vigorous nation of ours. It was simply stagnating; just as a small
mountain brook, coming to a hollow, might stop, and sink from sight, through
not having a will to find a way through that obstruction; or around it. You
will run across such a dormant town, occasionally; possibly so dormant that
only outright isolation by a fast-moving world, will show it its folly. If
you will tour Asia, Yucatan, or parts of Africa and Italy, you will find
many sad ruins of past kingdoms. Go to Indo-China and visit its gigantic
Ankhor Vat; call at Damascus, Baghdad and Samarkand. What sorrowful lack of
ambition many such a community shows in thus discarding such high-class
construction! And I say, again, that so will Youth grow dormant, and hold
this big, throbbing world back, if no champion backs it up; thus providing
it with an opportunity to show its ability for looking forward, and
improving unsatisfactory conditions.
So this small town of Branton Hills was lazily snoozing amidst up-and-doing
towns, as Youth’s Champion, John Gadsby, took hold of it; and shook its
dawdling, flabby body until its inhabitants thought a tornado had struck it.
Call it tornado, volcano, military onslaught, or what you will, this town
found that it had a bunch of kids who had wills that would admit of no
snoozing; for that is Youth, on its forward march of inquiry, thought and
action.
If you stop to think of it, you will find that it is customary for our
“grown-up” brain to cast off many of its functions of its youth; and to
think only of what it calls “topics of maturity.” Amongst such discards is
many a form of happy play; many a muscular activity such as walking,
running, climbing; thus totally missing that alluring “joy of living” of
childhood. If you wish a vacation from financial affairs, just go out and
play with Youth. Play “blind-man’s buff,’’ “hop-scotch,” “ring toss,” and
football. Go out to a charming woodland spot on a picnic with a bright,
happy, vivacious group. Sit down at a corn roast; a marshmallow toast; join
in singing popular songs; drink a quart of good, rich milk; burrow into that
big lunch box; and all such things as banks, stocks, and family bills, will
vanish on fairy wings, into oblivion.
But this is not a claim that Man should stay always youthful. Supposing that
that famous Spaniard, landing upon Florida’s coral strands, had found that
mythical Fountain of Youth; what a calamity for mankind! A world without
maturity of thought; without man’s full-grown muscular ability to construct
mighty buildings, railroads and ships; a world without authors, doctors,
savants, musicians; nothing but Youth! I can think of but a solitary
approval of such a condition; for such a horror as war would not, —could not
occur; for a child is, naturally, a small bunch of sympathy. I know that
boys will “scrap ;” also that “spats” will occur amongst girls; but, at such
a monstrosity as killings by bombing towns, sinking ships, or mass
annihilation of marching troops, childhood would stand aghast. Not a tiny
bird would fall; nor would any form of gun nor facility for manufacturing
it, insult that almost Holy purity of youthful thought. Anybody who knows
that wracking sorrow brought upon a child by a dying puppy or cat, knows
that childhood can show us that our fighting, our policy of “a tooth for a
tooth,” is abominably wrong.
So, now to start our story.
Branton Hills was a small town in a rich agricultural district; and having
many a possibility for growth. But, through a sort of smug satisfaction with
conditions of long ago, had no thought of improving such important adjuncts
as roads; putting up public buildings, nor laying out parks; in fact a
dormant, slowly dying community. So satisfactory was its status that it had
no form of transportation to surrounding towns but by railroad, or “old
Dobbin.” Now, any town thus isolating its inhabitants, will invariably find
this big, busy world passing it by; glancing at it, curiously, as at an odd
animal at a circus; and, you will find, caring not a whit about its
condition. Naturally, a town should grow. You can look upon it as a child;
which, through natural conditions, should attain manhood; and add to its
surrounding thriving districts its products of farm, shop, or factory. It
should show a spirit of association with surrounding towns; crawl out of its
lair, and find how backward it is.
Now, in all such towns, you will find, occasionally, an individual born with
that sort of brain which, knowing that his town is backward, longs to start
things toward improving it; not only its living conditions, but adding an
institution or two, such as any city, big or small, maintains, gratis, for
its inhabitants. But so forward looking a man finds that trying to instill
any such notions into a town’s ruling body is about as satisfactory as
butting against a brick wall. Such “Boards” as you find ruling many a small
town, function from such a soporific rut that any hint of digging cash from
its cast iron strong box with its big brass padlock, will fall upon minds as
rigid as rock.
Branton Hills had such a man, to whom such rigidity was as annoying as a
thorn in his foot. Continuous trials brought only continual thornpricks;
until, finally, a brilliant plan took form as John Gadsby found Branton
Hills’ High School pupils waking up to Branton Hills’ sloth. Gadsby
continually found this bright young bunch asking:— “Aw! Why is this town so
slow? It’s nothing but a dry twig!!”
“Ha !” said Gadsby; “A dry twig! That’s it! Many a living, blossoming branch
all around us, and this solitary dry twig, with a tag hanging from it, on
which you will find: ‘Branton Hills; A twig too lazy to grow!’”
Now this put a “hunch” in Gadsby’s brain, causing him to say: “A High School
pupil is not a child, now. Naturally a High School boy has not a man’s
qualifications; nor has a High School girl womanly maturity. But such kids,
born in this swiftly moving day, think out many a notion which will work,
but which would pass our dads and granddads in cold disdain. Just as ships
pass at night. But supposing that such ships should show a light in passing;
or blow a horn; or, if—if—if— By Golly! I’ll do it !”
And so Gadsby sat on his blossom-bound porch on a mild Spring morning,
thinking and smoking. Smoking can calm a man down; and his thoughts had so
long and so constantly clung to this plan of his that a cool outlook as to
its promulgation was not only important, but paramount. So, as his cigar was
whirling and puffing rings aloft; and as groups of bright, happy boys and
girls trod past, to school, his plan rapidly took form as follows:— “Youth!
What is it? Simply a start. A start of what? Why, of that most astounding of
all human functions; thought. But man didn’t start his brain working. No.
All that an adult can claim is a continuation, or an amplification of
thoughts, dormant in his youth. Although a child’s brain can absorb
instruction with an ability far surpassing that of a grown man; and,
although such a young brain is bound by rigid limits, it contains a capacity
for constantly craving additional facts. So, in our backward Branton Hills,
I just know that I can find boys and girls who can show our old moss-back
Town Hall big-wigs a thing or two. Why! On Town Hall night, just go and sit
in that room and find out just how stupid and stubborn a Council, (put into
Town Hall, you know, through popular ballot!), can act. Say that a road is
badly worn. Shall it stay so? Up jumps Old Bill Simpkins claiming that it is
a townsman’s duty to fix up his wagon springs if that road is too rough for
him!”
As Gadsby sat thinking thus, his plan was rapidly growing: and, in a month,
was actually starting to work. How? You’ll know shortly; but first, you
should know this John Gadsby; a man of “around fifty;” a family man, and
known throughout Branton Hills for his high standard of honor and altruism
on any kind of an occasion for public good. A loyal churchman, Gadsby was a
man who, though admitting that an occasional fault in our daily acts is
bound to occur, had taught his two boys and a pair of girls that, though
folks do slip from what Scriptural authors call that “straight and narrow
path,” it will not pay to risk your own Soul by slipping, just so that you
can laugh at your ability in staying out of prison; for Gadsby, having grown
up in Branton Hills, could point to many such man or woman. So, with such
firm convictions in his mind, this upstanding man was constantly striving so
to act that no complaint from man, woman or child should bring a word of
disapproval. In his mind, what a man might do was that man’s affair only and
could stain no Soul but his own. And his altruism taught that it is not
difficult to find many ways in which to bring joy to such as cannot, through
physical disability, go out to look for it; and that only a small bit of
joy, brought to a shut-in invalid will carry with it such a warmth as can
flow only from acts of human sympathy.
For many days Gadsby had thought of ways in which folks with a goodly bank
account could aid in building up this rapidly backsliding town of
contribution could do? In this town, full of capitalists and philanthropists
contributing, off and on, for shipping warming pans to Zulus, Gadsby saw a
solution. In whom? Why, in just that bunch of bright, happy school kids,
back from many a visit to a city, and noting its ability in improving its
living conditions. So Gadsby thought of thus carrying an inkling to such
capitalists as to how this stagnating town could claim a big spot upon our
national map, which is now shown only in small, insignificant print.
As a start, Branton Hills’ “Daily Post” would carry a long story, outlining
a list of factors for improving conditions. This it did; but it will always
stay as a blot upon high minds and proud blood that not a man or woman
amongst such capitalists saw, in his plan, any call for dormant funds. But
did that stop Gadsby? Can you stop a rising wind? Hardly So Gadsby took into
council about forty boys of his vicinity and built up an Organization of
Youth. Also about as many girls who had known what it is, compulsorily to
pass up many a picnic, or various forms of sport, through a lack of public
park land. So this strong, vigorous combination of both youth and untiring
activity, avidly took up Gadsby’s plan; for nothing so stirs up a youthful
mind as an opportunity for accomplishing anything that adults cannot do. And
did Gadsby know Youth? I’ll say so! His two sons and girls, now in High or
Grammar school, had taught him a thing or two; principal amongst which was
that all-dominating fact that, at a not too far distant day, our young folks
will occupy important vocational and also political positions, and will look
back upon this, our day; smiling kindly at our way of doing things. So, to
say that many a Branton Hills “King of Capital” got a bit huffy as a High
School stripling was proving how stubborn a rich man is if his dollars don’t
aid so vast an opportunity for doing good, would put it mildly! Such
downright gall by a half-grown kid to inform him; an outstanding light on
Branton Hills’ tax list, that this town was sliding down hill; and would
soon land in an abyss of national oblivion! And our Organization girls! How
Branton Hills’ rich old widows and plump matrons did sniff in disdain as a
group of High School pupils brought forth straightforward claims that cash
paving a road, is doing good practical work, but, in filling up a strong
box, is worth nothing to our town.
Oh, that class of nabobs! How thoroughly Gadsby did know its parsimony!! And
how thoroughly did this hard-planning man know just what a constant
onslaught by Youth could do. So, in about a month, his “Organization” had
“waylaid,” so to say, practically half of Branton Hills’ cash kings; and had
so won out, through that commonly known “pull” upon an adult by a child
asking for what plainly is worthy, that his mail brought not only cash, but
two rich landlords put at his disposal, tracts of land “for any form of
occupancy which can, in any way, aid our town.” This land Gadsby’s
Organization promptly put into growing farm products for gratis distribution
to Branton Hills’ poor; and that burning craving of Youth for activity soon
had it sprouting corn, squash, potato, onion and asparagus crops; and, to
“doll it up a bit,” put in a patch of blossoming plants.
Naturally any man is happy at a satisfactory culmination of his plans and
so, as Gadsby found that public philanthropy was but an affair of plain,
ordinary approach, it did not call for much brain work to find that,
possibly also, a way might turn up for putting handicraft instruction in
Branton Hills’ schools; for schooling, according to him, did not consist
only of books and black-boards. Hands, also should know how to construct
various practical things in woodwork, plumbing, blacksmithing, masonry, and
so forth; with thorough instruction in sanitation, and that most important
of all youthful activity, gymnastics. For girls such a school could instruct
in cooking, suit making, hat making, fancy work, art and loom-work; in fact,
about any handicraft that a girl might wish to study, and which is not in
our standard school curriculum. But as Gadsby thought of such a school, no
way for backing it financially was in sight. Town funds naturally, should
carry it along; but town funds and Town Councils do not always form what you
might call - synonymous words. So it was compulsory that cash should
actually “drop into his lap,” via a continuation of solicitations by his now
grandly functioning Organization of Youth. So, out again trod that bunch of
bright, happy kids, putting forth such plain, straightforward facts as to
what Manual Training would do for Branton Hills, that many saw it in that
light. But you will always find a group, or individual complaining that such
things would “automatically dawn” on boys and girls without any training.
Old Bill Simpkins was loud in his antagonism to what was a “crazy plan to
dip into our town funds just to allow boys to saw up good wood, and girls to
burn up good flour, trying to cook biscuits.” Kids, according to him, should
go to work in Branton Hills’ shopping district, and profit by it.
“Bah! Why not start a class to show goldfish how to waltz! I didn’t go to
any such school; and what am I now? A Councilman! I can’t saw a board
straight, nor fry a potato chip; but I can show you folks how to hang onto
your town funds.”
Old Bill was a notorious grouch; but our Organization occasionally did find
a totally varying mood. Old Lady Flanagan, with four boys in school, and a
husband many days too drunk to work, was loud in approval.
“Whoops! Thot’s phwat I calls a grand thing! Worra, worra! I wish Old Man
Flanagan had had sich an opporchunity. But thot ignorant old clod don’t know
nuthin’ but boozin’, tobacca shmokin’ and ditch-diggin’. And you know thot
our Council ain’t a-payin’ for no ditch-scoopin’ right now. So I’ll shout
for thot school! For my boys can find out how to fix thot barn door our old
cow laid down against.”
Ha, ha! What a circus our Organization had with such varying moods and
outlooks! But, finally such a school was built; instructors brought in from
surrounding towns; and Gadsby was as happy as a cat with a ball of yarn.
As Branton Hills found out what it can accomplish if it starts out with
vigor and a will to win, our Organization thought of laying out a big park;
furnishing an opportunity for small tots to romp and play on grassy plots; a
park for all sorts of sports, picnics, and so forth; sand pots for babyhood;
cozy arbors for girls who might wish to study, or talk. (You might,
possibly, find a girl who can talk, you know!); also shady nooks and winding
paths for old folks who might find comfort in such. Gadsby thought that a
park is truly a most important adjunct to any community; for, if a growing
population has no out-door spot at which its glooms, slumps and morbid
thoughts can vanish upon wings of sunlight, amidst bright colorings of
shrubs and sky, it may sink into a grouchy, faultfinding, squabbling group;
and making such a showing for surrounding towns as to hold back any gain in
population or valuation. Gadsby had a goodly plot of land in a grand
location for a park and sold it to Branton Hills for a dollar; that stingy
Council to lay it out according to his plans. And how his Organization did
applaud him for this, his first “solo work !”
But schools and parks do not fulfill all of a town’s calls. Many minds of
varying kinds will long for an opportunity for finding out things not
ordinarily taught in school. So Branton Hills’ Public Library was found too
small. As it was now in a small back room in our High School, it should
occupy its own building; down town, and handy for all; and with additional
thousands of books and maps. Now, if you think Gadsby and his youthful
assistants stood aghast at such a gigantic proposition, you just don’t know
Youth, as it is today. But to whom could Youth look for so big an outlay as
a library building would cost? Books also cost; librarians and janitors draw
pay. So, with light, warmth, and all-round comforts, it was a task to stump
a full-grown politician; to say nothing of a plain, ordinary townsman and a
bunch of kids. So Gadsby thought of taking two bright boys and two smart
girls to Washington, to call upon a man in a high position, who had got it
through Branton Hills’ popular ballot. Now, any’ politician is a convincing
orator. (That is, you know, all that politics consists of !) and this big
man, in contact with a visiting capitalist, looking for a handout for his
own district, got a donation of a thousand dollars. But that wouldn’t start
a public library; to say nothing of maintaining it. So, back in Branton
Hills, again, our Organization was out, as usual, on its war-path.
Branton Hills’ philanthropy was now showing signs of monotony; so our
Organization had to work its linguistic ability and captivating tricks full
blast, until that thousand dollars had so grown that a library was built
upon a vacant lot which had grown nothing but grass; and only a poor quality
of it, at that; and many a child and adult quickly found ways of profitably
passing odd hours.
Naturally Old Bill Simpkins was snooping around, sniffing and snorting at
any signs of making Branton Hills “look cityish,” (a word originating in
Bill’s vocabulary.)
“Huh!! I didn’t put in any foolish hours with books in my happy childhood in
this good old town! But I got along all right; and am now having my say in
its Town Hall doings. Books!! Pooh! Maps! BAH!! It’s silly to squat in a hot
room squinting at a lot of print! If you want to know about a thing, go to
work in a shop or factory of that kind, and find out about it first-hand.”
“But, Bill,” said Gadsby, “shops want a man who knows what to do without
having to stop to train him.”
“Oh, that’s all bosh! If a boss shows a man what a tool is for; and if that
man is any good, at all, why bring up this stuff you call training? That man
grabs a tool, works ‘til noon; knocks off for an hour; works ‘til ?
At this point in Bill’s blow-up an Italian Councilman was passing, and put
in his oar, with:-
“Ha, Bill! You thinka your man can worka all right, firsta day, huh? You
talka crazy so much for my boota! You lasta just a half hour. Thisa library
all righta. This town too mucha what I call tight-wad!”
Oh, hum!! It’s a tough job making old dogs do tricks. But our Organization
was now holding almost daily sittings, and soon a bright girl thought of
having band music in that now popular park. And what do you think that
stingy Council did? It actually built a most fantastic band-stand; got a
contract with a first-class band, and all without so much as a Councilman
fainting away!! So, finally, on a hot July Sunday, two solid hours of grand
harmony brought joy to many a poor Soul who had not for many a day, known
that balm of comfort which can “air out our brains’ dusty corridors,” and
bring such happy thrills, as Music, that charming Fairy, which knows no
human words, can bring. Around that gaudy band-stand, at two-thirty on that
first Sunday, sat or stood as happy a throng of old and young as any man
could wish for; and Gadsby and his “gang” got hand-clasps and hand-claps,
from all. A good band, you know, not only can stir and thrill you; for it
can play a soft crooning lullaby, a lilting waltz or polka; or, with its
wood winds, bring forth old songs of our childhood, ballads of courting
days, or hymns and carols of Christmas; and can suit all sorts of folks, in
all sorts of moods; for a Spaniard, Dutchman or Russian can find similar joy
with a man from Italy, Norway or far away Brazil.
To read more visit
http://www.spinelessbooks.com/gadsby/
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