O Henry

                       Witches' Loaves

   MISS MARTHA MEACHAM kept the little bakery on the comer (the one 
where you go up three steps, and the bell tinkles when you open the 
door).
   Miss Martha was forty, her bank-book showed a credit of two 
thousand dollars, and she possessed two false teeth and a sympathetic 
heart. Many people have married whose chances to do so were much 
inferior to Miss Martha's.
   Two or three times a week a customer came in in whom she began to 
take an interest. He was a middle-aged man, wearing spectacles and a 
brown beard trimmed to a careful point.
   He spoke English with a strong German accent. His clothes were worn 
and darned in places, and wrinkled and baggy in others. But he looked 
neat, and had very good manners.
   He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five 
cents a loaf. Stale ones were two for five. Never did he call for 
anything but stale bread.
   Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on his fingers. She was 
sure then that he was an artist and very poor. No doubt he lived in a 
garret, where he painted pictures and ate stale bread and thought of 
the good things to eat in Miss Martha's bakery.
   Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops and light rolls and 
jam and tea she would sigh, and wish that the gentle-mannered artist 
might share her tasty meal instead of eating his dry crust in that 
draughty attic.
   Miss Martha's heart, as you have been told, was a sympathetic one.
   In order to test her theory as to his occupation, she brought from 
her room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale, and set it 
against the shelves behind the bread counter.
   It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio (so it said on 
me picture) stood in the foreground - or rather forewater. For the 
rest there were gondolas (with the lady trailing her hand in the 
water), clouds, sky, and chiaroscuro in plenty. No artist could fail 
to notice it.
   Two days afterward the customer came in.
   'Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease.
   'You haf here a fine bicture, madame,' he said while she was 
wrapping up the bread.
   'Yes?' says Miss Martha, revelling in her own cunning. 'I do so 
admire art and' (no, it would not do to say 'artists' thus early) 'and 
paintings,' she substituted. 'You think it is a good picture?'
   'Der balace,' said the customer, 'is not in good drawing. Der 
bairspective of it is not true. Goot morning, madame.'
   He took his bread, bowed, and hurried out.
   Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the picture back to her 
room.
   How gentle and kindly his eyes shone behind his spectacles! What a 
broad brow he had! To be able to judge perspective at a glance - and 
to live on stale bread! But genius often has to struggle before it is 
recognized.
What a thing it would be for art and perspective if genius were backed 
by two thousand dollars in the bank, a bakery, and a sympathetic heart 
to - But these were day-dreams, Miss Martha.
   Often now when he came he would chat for awhile across the 
showcase. He seemed to crave Miss Martha's cheerful words.
   He kept on buying stale bread. Never a cake, never a pie, never one 
of her delicious Sally Lunns.
   She thought he began to look thinner and discouraged. Her heart 
ached to add something good to eat to his meagre purchase, but her 
courage failed at the act. She did not dare affront him. She knew the 
pride of artists.
   Miss Martha took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind the 
counter. In the back room she cooked a mysterious compound of quince 
seeds and borax. Ever so many people use it for the complexion.
   One day the customer came in as usual, laid his nickel on the 
showcase, and called for his stale loaves. While Miss Martha was 
reaching for them there was a great tooting and clanging, and a fire-
engine came lumbering past.
   The customer hurried to the door to look, as anyone will. Suddenly 
inspired, Miss Martha seized the opportunity.
   On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter 
that the dairyman had left ten minutes before. With a bread-knife Miss 
Martha made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserted a 
generous quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again.
   When the customer turned once more she was tying the paper around 
them.
When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Martha 
smiled to herself, but not without a slight fluttering of the heart.
   Had she been too bold? Would he take offence? But surely not. There 
was no language of edibles. Butter was no emblem of unmaidenly 
forwardness.
   For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the subject. She 
imagined the scene when he should discover her little deception.
   He would lay down his brushes and palette. There would stand his 
easel with the picture he was painting in which the perspective was 
beyond criticism.
   He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He would 
slice into a loaf- ah!
   Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it 
there as he ate? Would he -
   The front door bell jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in, 
making a great deal of noise.
   Miss Martha hurried to the front. Two men were there. One was a 
young man smoking a pipe - a man she had never seen before. The other 
was her artist.
   His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his 
hair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook them 
ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha.
   'Dummkopf!' he shouted with extreme loudness; and then 
'Tausendonfer!' or something like it, in German.
   The young man tried to draw him away.
   'I vill not go,' he said angrily, 'else I shall told her.'
   He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter.
   'You haf shpoilt me,' he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his 
spectacles. 'I vill tell you. You vas von meddingsmne old cat!'1
   Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on 
her blue-dotted silk waist. The young man took his companion by the 
collar.
   'Come on,' he said, 'you've said enough.' He dragged the angry one 
out at the door to the sidewalk, and then came back.
   'Guess you ought to be told, ma'am,' he said, 'what the row is 
about. That's Blumberger. He's an architectural draughtsman. I work in 
the same office with him.
   'He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new 
city hall. It was a prize competition. He finished inking the lines 
yesterday. You know, a draughtsman always makes his drawing in pencil 
first. When it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of 
stale breadcrumbs. That's better than india-rubber.
   'Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, to-day - well, you 
know, ma'am, that butter isn't - well, Blumberger's plan isn't good 
for anything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches.'
   Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off the blue-dotted 
silk waist and put on the old brown serge she used to wear. Then she 
poured the quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the 
ash can.