Produced by David Widger
By Winston Churchill
Summer, intolerable summer, was upon the city at last. The families ofits richest citizens had fled. Even at that early day some braved thelong railroad journey to the Atlantic coast. Amongst these were ourfriends the Cluymes, who come not strongly into this history. Some wentto the Virginia Springs. But many, like the Brinsmades and the Russells,the Tiptons and the Hollingsworths, retired to the local paradise oftheir country places on the Bellefontaine road, on the cool heights abovethe river. Thither, as a respite from the hot office, Stephen was ofteninvited by kind Mr. Brinsmade, who sometimes drove him out in his ownbuggy. Likewise he had visited Miss Puss Russell. But Miss VirginiaCarvel he had never seen since the night he had danced with her. This wasbecause, after her return from the young ladies' school at Monticello,she had gone to Glencoe, Glencoe, magic spot, perched high on woodedhighlands. And under these the Meramec, crystal pure, ran lightly on sandand pebble to her bridal with that turbid tyrant, the Father of Waters.
To reach Glencoe you spent two dirty hours on that railroad which (it wasfondly hoped) would one day stretch to the Pacific Ocean. You generallyspied one of the big Catherwood boys in the train, or their tall sisterMaude. The Catherwoods likewise lived at Glencoe in the summer. And onsome Saturday afternoons a grim figure in a linen duster and a silkskull-cap took a seat in the forward car. That was Judge Whipple, on hisway to spend a quiet Sunday with Colonel Carvel.
To the surprise of many good people, the Judge had recently formedanother habit. At least once a week he would drop in at the little houseon Olive Street next to Mr. Brinsmade's big one, which was shut up, andtake tea with Mrs. Brice. Afterward he would sit on the little porch overthe garden in the rear, or on the front steps, and watch the bob-tailedhorse-cars go by. His conversation was chiefly addressed to the widow.Rarely to Stephen; whose wholesome respect for his employer had in nowise abated.
Through the stifling heat of these summer days Stephen sat in the outeroffice, straining at the law. Had it not been for the fact that Mr.Whipple went to his mother's house, despair would have seized him longsince. Apparently his goings-out and his comings-in were noted only byMr. Richter. Truly the Judge's methods were not Harvard methods. And ifthere were pride in the young Bostonian, Mr. Whipple thought he knew thecure for it.
It was to Richter Stephen owed a debt of gratitude in these days. Hewould often take his midday meal in the down-town beer garden with thequiet German. Then there came a Sunday afternoon (to be marked with a redletter) when Richter transported him into Germany itself. Stephen's eyeswere opened. Richter took him across the Rhine. The Rhine was MarketStreet, and south of that street was a country of which polite Americansociety took no cognizance.
Here was an epic movement indeed, for South St. Louis was a great soduprooted from the Fatherland and set down in all its vigorous crudity inthe warm black mud of the Mississippi Valley. Here lager beer took theplace of Bourbon, and black bread and sausages of hot rolls and friedchicken. Here were quaint market houses squatting in the middle of widestreets; Lutheran churches, square and uncompromising, and bulky TurnerHalls, where German children were taught the German tongue. Here, in ashady grove of mulberry and