June is For Romance

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, June 4, 1938.

“Ah, June, June,” sighed Jimmie Frise, “what a month.”

“A lot of the world’s troubles,” I agreed, “start in June.”

“And most of the world’s joys,” declared Jim.

“In May,” I decreed, “most young people may see each other for the first time with love’s soft gaze; but it is in June that they get to the point of proposing. And in June, if the society pages are any evidence to go by, they mostly marry.”

“And,” demanded Jim, as we drove the car lazily through the soft summer night, amidst the quiet streets all slumber bound, “do you include marriage amongst the troubles of the world?”

“Certainly,” I replied. “Certainly. And so do you.”

“I have had a happy life,” declared Jim emotionally. “And so have you.”

“Ah,” I explained, “that’s the mischief of it. We who write and draw cartoons and entertain the public are naturally happy people. If we weren’t born happy, we’d be accountants or storekeepers, or something else gloomy like that. But being happy by nature, we think everybody else is happy and we talk about marriage and love and everything, and kid thousands of people into thinking that’s the way to be happy.”

“Oh, most people are happily married,” protested Jim, slowing the car and waving his hand at all the quiet homes, the sleeping and peaceful homes with their dimmed lights and gardens glossy and secret in the night. “In all these homes, there are men and women and children all living in happiness and quiet joy. You can’t deny that.””

“Think,” I said, “of all the big sloppy men in those houses, cranky and tired and kicking about the noise.”

“They’re pretty nice homes to my eye,” said Jim, reducing the speed of the car to a crawl.

“Think,” I continued, “of all the thin, nagging women in those deceptive houses. True, the houses look tidy and snug and homey. But that is just habit, just tradition. Often the sourest women are the neatest housekeepers.”

“Listen,” said Jim, “can you hear any sounds of discord? Or see any signs of it? Do you see boots or rolling pins come smashing out through the windows? No, sir, just peace, perfect peace.”

“The meanest man I ever knew,” I declared, “had the best kept house and garden I ever saw. His kids slunk and hid when supper time drew nigh and the old man was expected.”

“We can always think of exceptions easiest,” stated Jimmie. “We are exceptions, because we were born happy and soft-witted. And skinny women and bad-tempered men are exceptions too. The mass of mankind are pretty decent, happy people, a little overweight, a little too easy-going, a little too lazy to suit their bosses. But, as only one man in a hundred is a boss, so ninety-nine people out of a hundred are pretty decent people.”

Magic in the Air

“Aren’t you a little hard on the bosses?” I inquired.

“Oh, no offence,” said Jim. “I’m just being a realist, as they say. You don’t get to be boss by being easy-going and good-natured. You get to be boss of a hundred men, mostly, by being the hardest worker of the hundred, the most ambitious, the most practical and business-like, the one man in the hundred least willing to let things slide. He is generally a restless person, and you would rather go fishing with any one of the other ninety- nine.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “and he probably got married in June, too. Because he felt most like getting married then. If he had waited until August, he probably would have turned a practical eye on the girl and seen that she was pretty, all right, but mussy about cooking and a little sharp with her mother when she was upstairs and thought he couldn’t hear.”

“Mmm, mmm,” muttered Jim. “You’ve got a skunner¹ against June, haven’t you?”

“In June,” I said, “men feel big. It is the season of growth. Men feel big and buy farms in June, and buy houses and launch out into programs of expanded business. In June, statesmen look back over a bitter and contentious winter, and seeing nothing done, come to big decisions and go ahead and create the world’s troubles. June is a month when all humanity should summon up all caution, all intelligence, all its shrewdness, to counteract the climate.”

“A fine way,” said Jim, “to try to foil nature. Nature made June in order to make people fall in love and get married and have children. Nature made June this way, in order that we would be full of a sense of power and growth, with big ideas and caution thrown aside. What a world this would be if our native caution were never dulled and dimmed by soft airs and gentle breezes and lavish flowers?”

“Man’s conquest of nature,” I announced, “must never end. And we should never forget that for one June, we have October, November, December, January, February…”

“Ugh,” said Jim, “and March.”

“And March,” I agreed. “Why let one little month like this entangle us for all the long winter to come?”

“You’re getting old,” said Jim, steering the car down a specially bowered and secret and lovely street, with elms and maples arching old-fashioned overhead. “When you can talk, or even think, things like that on a night like this, you are getting old. June is the narcotic month. June is the anaesthetic month. June is the month to eat the lotus flower and forget all the Januaries.”

“Puh,” I said.

“June,” said Jim, “is for romance.”

Upon which words, as we coasted slowly along the quiet, deserted street, taking the longest way home only because of a kind of magic in the air, something caught my eye out the window of the car, something moving in a garden.

“Psst, Jim,” I said. “Hanged if I didn’t see a ladder up against…”

Jim braked the car quietly.

“Burglars,” I hissed. “Second-storey men. Back up easy.”

“It’s an Elopement”

Jim backed the car ever so softly. Through hedges of lilac and orange blossom bushes, we peered for openings and came, shortly, to the one I had glimpsed through.

Sure enough, up against the back wall of a house only a short distance from the street, a ladder was set, its paint catching one glint of light from the street lamp. And at the very moment, two figures were to be seen moving cautiously down.

“It’s a girl,” gasped Jim, “and a man.”

“They’ve got suitcases,” I whispered.

“It’s an elopement,” grated Jim joyously.

“Ssshhh,” I warned.

“An elopement,” cried Jim exulting, and starting to open the car door. “Let’s help them.”

“Help them what?” I gritted angrily. “Just scare the heck out of them.”

“Their car must be hidden around the corner,” said Jim, peering in the yard. “We can help them with their suitcases. Look at him…”

The man was cautiously lowering the suitcases and trying to balance the girl above him at the same time. She was all of a dither, waving her hands in that helpless feminine way that means, “hurry, hurry.”

“Just let’s watch,” I advised.

But Jim, leaving the car door open for fear of noise, crept up to the hedge and felt for the fence. I saw him hoist his leg over what appeared to be a wire fence.

I heard him whistle low, and the two figures on the ladder froze. I saw him skulk forward across the dim lawn. I saw him whispering up the ladder to the young man and motioning towards our car. So I got out quick and scrambled over the wire fence and ran across the lawn to help.

“Whissssh,” said Jim, lurching down a laden suitcase.

“Elopement?” I whispered.

“Yes,” breathed Jim.

So I reached up and took a package from the young fellow and it was a radio, hastily disconnected from its wires. Then a suit case. And then the young man, tenderly assisted by Jim and me.

“An elopement?” I quivered in his ear.

He nodded and cleared his throat gently. He was chalk white with excitement and nervousness. What an old brute the girl’s father must be, I thought.

All three of us assisted the girl down. She was young and nervous, but gay. She was not white in the dim light of moon and street lamp, but full of color and vivacity.

We seized bags and suitcases. The young fellow grabbed up the radio. We all assisted one another over the wire fence and through the garden bushes, after taking a cautious look up and down the streets to make sure no misunderstanding disturbance would create a row and warn the girl’s parents.

Into the car, silent and slick, we piled everything and everybody. We were all breathless. Doors were suddenly slammed and Jim tramped on the running engine and away we lurched down the street and around the astonished corner.

“Where to?” called Jim hoarsely.

“Union Station,” replied the young man and girl, with a tremble and a joy in their voices. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see they were hugged in a joyous embrace in the back seat of our car.

“Now what do you think?” hissed Jim at me as he bent over the steering wheel just like we see heroes do in the movies. “Isn’t this romance for you? Doesn’t this make you feel young again?”

“Sir,” said I, in my most dignified tone, “I apologize, June is for romance. June is the time when we should relax our convictions and give optimism full play.”

“This is mighty wonderful of you,” said the girl, presently. “How on earth did you see us?”

“I saw a glint of light from the street lamp on the ladder,” I explained, “and imagined I saw two figures creeping down. We were just talking about June and romance at the time.”

“Yeah,” put in Jim, “and at first, his reaction was that you were burglars.”

“Burglars!” laughed the young couple behind.

“In fact,” said I, jocosely, “you’ve carried this elopement off so successfully you seem like expert elopers. Just as though you’d done it half a dozen times before. How did you manage to find a ladder and put it up to the window without making any noise?”

“Ah – the ladder was already there on the lawn,” said the young man. “I – ah – think the house is being painted or something. All I had to do was raise it up against the house. The hardest part was getting out of the widow and on to the ladder. The ladder kept banging against the wall.”

The girl giggled deliciously.

“It was me,” said Jim, “who forced the issue and decided you were elopers.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the girl earnestly. “I don’t know how we would have made our getaway without you and your car. We would be a funny sight, walking out to the street car with all these bags and this radio.”

“That radio,” I said, “seems funny. Imagine eloping and bringing your radio,”

“I’m very attached to that radio,” said the girl firmly.

“It was a present from me,” explained the young man.

Down Yonge St. we whizzed.

“Is… ah… is your father…?” I began, cautiously.

“He’s a fine man,” said the girl, “but very pig-headed.”

“And your mother,” added her young man, “she’s a fine woman, but pig-headed too.”

“Oh, no, she…” began the girl, but it was smothered suddenly, so I stopped sitting half turned round and faced the front strictly.

And in this state of slight coughs and throat clearings and humming and hawing and nobody speaking, we whammed and rattled down Yonge St.

“Er… ah…” interrupted Jim, finally, down around Queen St. “Pardon me, be what train are you catching?”

“The 11 p.m. for Hamilton, Buffalo and points west,” said the young man.

“Say,” said Jim suddenly, an eager light in his eye, “I’ll tell you what! I’ll drive you over to Hamilton – or Buffalo. My friend and I haven’t a thing to do”

“Jim,” said I sternly, “I have things to do. But least of all is it my intention to thrust my presence on elopers!”

“No, no,” said Jim waving his head, “that’s not the point. It’d be too bad, if the father catches up with them right at the Union Station, wouldn’t it? And the chances are he’s discovered what’s happened by now and is raging around the house, breaking dishes, threatening murder and calling every police station in the city. And where’s the first place they’ll look? Right at the Union Station!” Jim thumped the steering wheel for emphasis and the horn gave a loud sympathetic bellow.

“We wouldn’t think of letting you go to all that trouble,” said the young lady.

“No,” said the young man in a curious tone, “certainly not. In fact,” he added, leaning forward and putting both hands on the back of the front seat, “It’d be better if you did drop us at the station. I’m sure there won’t be any trouble like that.”

“Very well,” said Jim in an aggrieved tone.”

And we pulled up in front of the Union Station at 10.50.

Wishing For Confetti

“I wish,” I said somewhat wistfully, as I handed the young lady out of the car, “I wish I had some confetti or something.”

“A bad beginning,” said Jim, “means a good end. Strangers to see you off, friends for all your life.”

“You certainly are friends,” agreed the young couple, as we all grabbed suitcases and started in. The boy bought the tickets in no time and we helped carry the luggage right down to the entrance to the trains.

“Good-by, good luck,” we cried, shaking hands and the girl giving both Jimmie and me a little quick hug and daughterly sort of kiss, and waving, she ran in the entrance.

“Gentlemen,” said the young fellow, pausing with all his great load of bags, “just before I leave you, I feel you have been so decent to us, it’s a shame to leave you in ignorance. We’ve been married two years!”

“Aha,” I cried, “a secret marriage?”

“Nooooo,” said the young chap, “no, not secret. We’ve been married two years, and we’re just on our way home to see our parents.”

“Er,” said Jimmie and I.

“It was our landlord,” explained the young fellow delightedly, “we were eloping on. He lives in the duplex below us. We… ah heard his radio on very full. This is Thursday night, you know? So we seized the opportunity to elope down the ladder, while he and his family were listening to the big programs. He’s a very nasty fellow, really. Much worse than my wife’s father. Much.”

“But … but… your possessions,” said Jim, “your furniture?”

“It’s not paid for,” explained the young fellow, while the conductor at the entrance roared all aboard for Hamilton, Buffalo, etc. “Just the radio. We’ve paid for it.”

“But,” I said, “you’re skipping? Just skipping?”

“Eloping,” smiled the young fellow, moving towards the exit. “It’s all the same thing.”

And in a final tumult of conductor roaring and people barging through the gate, he vanished to chase heavy-laden after his pretty girl.

“So,” I said to Jimmie as we slowly backed away, “so, Mister Frise, you’re an accessory to a crime, eh?”

“Isn’t it lovely?” sighed Jim. “Two years married, can’t pay their rent, lose all they’ve paid down on their instalment furniture, and yet they’re as happy as two lovers.”

“Puh,” I said, “romance.”

“Hurray,” yelled Jimmie so sudden and so loud that all the sleepy people in the station started up and stared and we had to hurry out of the Union Station, with Jimmie bounding ahead so fast and so jaunty, I was glad people wouldn’t think I was with him.

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Editor’s Notes:

1. Having a “skunner” against something means you have a strong dislike or aversion towards something. ↩︎