§ 145 An Exception for a Native Son
The clannishness of the rural Vermonter is proverbial. In illustration of this trait a distinguished citizen of the Green Mountain state told me a story. He said that on a rather cloudy day a typical group of natives sat on the porch of the main general store in a town on the shores of Lake Champlain. Among them appeared a youth citified as to dress and having rather an air of assurance about him. In silent disapproval the company took in his belted coat, his knickerbockers and golf stockings and, most disapprovingly of all, the confident manner of the alien.
“Good morning, everybody,” he said breezily.
The elder of the group, a venerable gentleman, made answer for the rest:
“How’ do,” he said shortly.
Somewhat abashed at the coolness of his reception, the young man tried again:
“Looks rather like rain,” he said.
“’Twon’t rain,” said the old man in a tone of finality.
“But I rather thought from the looks of these clouds——”
“’Twon’t rain,” repeated the ancient in the voice of one who is not used to being argued with.
A daunting silence ensued. The stranger fidgeted in his embarrassment. The old man fixed him with a cold and hostile eye.
“What mout your name be?” he inquired, as though desirous properly to classify a curious zoölogical specimen.
“My name is Nelson—Herbert Nelson,” stated the youth.
“Nelson, hey?” said the patriarch. “There used to be some Nelsons out in the Kent neighborhood. Don’t s’pose you ever heerd of them.”
“I’ve been hearing of them all my life,” said the young man. “I come from New York, but my father’s name was Henry Nelson and he was born out near Kent in this county.”
“Then you must a-been a grandson of the late Ezra Nelson,” said the aged Vermonter. His manner perceptibly had warmed; indeed, by now it was almost cordial.
“Yes, sir,” said the youth. “Ezra Nelson was my grandfather.”
“Dew tell, now!” said the patriarch. “So you’re a son of Henry Nelson and a grandson of Ezra Nelson? Well, in that case it may rain.”