By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, September 21, 1946.
“We’re stupid!” grated Jimmie Frise.
“Worse,” I agreed.
“We’re fools,” asserted Jim violently, “to be going on this crazy enterprise.”
“We should have our heads read.” I subscribed. “But who got us into it?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t,” cried Jimmie indignantly, almost steering the car into the ditch so hotly did he turn on me.
“You didn’t?” I sneered. “Well, who got the letter inviting us?”
“I admit the letter was addressed to me,” admitted Jim angrily. “But it wasn’t me they wanted. It was you.”
“Me?” I scoffed. “What do I know about judging beauty contests?”
“You know more than I do,” accused Jim. “A dapper little guy you? Of course it was you they wanted to judge their beauty contest.”
“Pardon me,” I excused. “The well-known artist and illustrator, James Llewellyn Frise. That’s who they wanted to judge their beauty contest. And that’s who they addressed their letter to.”
“But they said distinctly,” cried Jim, “that I was to bring you. They said that was paramount.”
“Paramount, eh?” I mused, not displeased.
“So you can’t put the blame on me,” pursued Jim firmly. “This is a joint foolish enterprise.”
“Is it ever!” I sighed. “A beauty contest! And a beauty contest at a small local farm fair. I wouldn’t mind a beauty contest in a big city. There is something anonymous about a big city. You can judge the prettiest of 50 or 100 girls and offend nobody. It’s cold and abstract and anonymous. But at a small country fair…”
“There will probably be 10 entries,” moaned Jim, slackening the car’s speed so as to enjoy his anguish better. “Ten young farm or village girls. All of them shy and embarrassed. All of them bitterly jealous…”
“And their parents!” I reminded. “And their relatives! Each girl will be backed by her local clan. Jim, we’ll be lucky to get out alive.”
Jim drove a moment, still slackening speed.
“I’ll tell you,” he cried eagerly. “Let’s turn back. And I’ll telephone out to them that you have been taken down with an attack of trichonitis!1“
“Then they’ll insist that you go alone,” I pointed out.
“Hmmmm,” said Jim hopelessly. “We couldn’t both have trichonitis.”
“No, let’s go through with it,” I pressed, “now that we’ve come this far. But let it be a lesson to us.”
“I kind of think,” said Jim slyly, “that you WANT to judge this beauty contest.”
“I do NOT,” I asserted hotly. “My whole nature rebels at the thought of having to judge between the charms of a number of innocent young girls. I’m too kind-hearted. I doubt if I’ll be able to distinguish between them. I’m the kind of guy to whom ALL girls look equally lovely.”
“Oh yeah?” smiled Jimmie.
“It’s a fact,” I assured. “After a man passes 40, he can’t distinguish between one girl and another. They all look the same.”
“Pawff.” scoffed Jim.
A New Slant on Beauty
“You’re an artist,” I explained. “To you, beauty is evident. An artist must have an eye for beauty. But me? I’m just an ordinary guy who thinks with his heart, not with his eye. Maybe when I was a young fellow I could distinguish between the relative beauty of one girl and another. But as the years go by you lose that power. Or maybe you gain another power. Maybe you can discern in other and deeper forms.”
“For example?” demanded Jim, picking up speed.
“Well, for example, when you’re young,” I explained, “you see beauty in terms of lovely features, beautiful hair, a nice figure. You overlook entirely the ugly features to be detected in the selfish and hard eye. You miss entirely the ugliness of the way she carries herself, proudly, consciously, arrogantly. As you grow older, you look right past the pretty features. the radiant hair, the attractive figure. These superficial things do not deflect your gaze. You look at those things which are true beauty.”
“What is true beauty?” inquired Jim.
“A combination,” I enunciated. “of outward and inward things. Now that I’m middle-aged. I can see, every few weeks, some woman I knew as a girl. She was ravishingly beautiful, then, in feature and form. But she has withered from within. Now she is revealed as a hard, selfish, greedy, oppressive woman. She doesn’t want to carry her share of the load of life. She wants, at 40 or 50. to be pampered as she was when a young girl, because of her superficial beauty.
“Maybe you got something there,” ruminated Jim. “I know cases like that.
“Then I know the opposite case,” I went on. “I see women whom I knew as small, insignificant, little mousie-colored girls. Girls nobody ever looked at. The kind of girls nobody took to dances or parties. I see them now on the street; I pass them, and we exchange shy looks of remembrance. And my heart stands still. For they have turned into women of great and real beauty. They are middle-aged. But they are beautiful. Beautiful in style, in poise, in character. They have beautiful children…”
“Probably mousie-colored little girls…” smiled Jim.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “And the boys are passing them by in favor of the snappy, snazzy girls with the flaunting airs.”
“Which is as it should be,” cut in Jim. “Because the boys who are attracted to the flashy type will be the kind of men, some day, who don’t deserve the kind of women the little mousie girls will develop into.”
“And no good guy,” I rounded off, “deserves to be saddled with one of those… those…”
“I get you,” Jim agreed hastily.
“Okay, then,” said Jim more cheerly. “I can go at this beauty contest with a little more enthusiasm now. We judge the girls on their outward seeming only. We’ll act our age. We’ll be middle-aged. We’ll be discerning. We’ll introduce something new into the art and science of beauty-contest judging. We’ll judge these girls on what we, as experienced middle-aged men, can foresee will TURN OUT TO BE the most beautiful woman…”
“Ah,” I agreed contentedly.
Measles to the Rescue
“Well,” sighed Jim, happily. “We’re not fools after all. I’m glad we worked that out.”
“By the way,” I submitted. “We won’t be the sole judges. There are always three judges to a beauty contest.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Jim. “In the letter it said that Miss McCann, the school teacher, would be the other judge with us.”
“School teacher?” I said guardedly.
“Miss McCann,” explained Jim. “She’s been the schoolma’am down there for nearly 40 years.”
“Aaaaahhh,” I consented.
So we drove more cheerfully on our way. And as we drove in silence, we went back in our recollections to the girls we had known in school, and all the beauties we had scanned afar off in our young manhood, as we speculated on the mystery of how a man selects a maid. And we remembered the raving beauties and wondered where they were now. And how they had turned out, in the rough and tumble washing-machine of life. And we recollected, too, many a little gal with freckles and a funny nose and Minnie Mouse legs, who had scampered across our youthful (and thoughtful) visions. And we speculated on what great and lovely women they might have become, and in what strange and far part of the earth they might have fared to. Ah, it’s a nice thing to hold an old boys’ and girls’ reunion in your imagination.
So we came at last to the little town – one of Jim’s many birthplaces, nearly – which was holding its fall fair so early in September. The first fair they’ve held for nearly six years now. And the feature of it was to be a beauty contest judged by those eminent authorities, Frise and Clark.
We drove to the fairgrounds, where the reeve was sitting on the five-barred gate, watching for us.
“Hi, Jim!” he hailed. He was an old schoolmate of Jim’s.
But as he shook hands with us, his face fell.
“Boys,” he said anxiously. “We’re all in a terrible fix. We don’t know how to break it to you. And we don’t know how you’ll react to it.”
“What is it?” I asked suspiciously.
“The beauty contest is off,” said the reeve. “The contest is off because three of the seven entries have got the measles. There’s epidemic of measles. And when three of the girls caught them, the parents of the others wouldn’t let them enter because they were afraid they’d catch the measles too.”
Jim and I stood irresolute.
“Bill,” said Jim to the reeve, “you don’t know how relieved we are. We pretended we were going to enjoy the job. We figured out a new basis of judging beauty. But deep in our hearts…”
“Deep in our hearts,” I agreed, “we knew darn well that the girl who would win would be the flashiest one. The one who would be a thorn in the flesh all the days of her life.”
“What’s this, what’s this?” inquired Bill, the reeve
“Well, at this rate,” ignored Jimmie, “we’ll just be visitors today, Bill. We’ll just enjoy the fair…”
“Oho, no you won’t!” bellowed Bill. “We’ve got two distinguished citizens and we’re going to make them judge.”
“Judge what?” demanded Jim.
“Hogs?” suggested the reeve. “How about judging the hogs?”
“Pardon me,” I put in, “but I know less about hogs than I do about… uh…”
“Jim,” accused the reeve, “you know as much about hogs as any man in this county.”
“I’ve kinda got out of touch,” excused Jim. “It’s 20, 30 years since I paid any attention to hogs, Bill. The fashions may have changed. Maybe…”
“Okay, then,” cried the reeve, agreeably. “How about judging the pies and cakes… the baking?”
“Pickles!” I suggested eagerly.
“Sure, the pickles,” cried the reeve. “Look. You gentlemen have come a long ways. We’re not going to waste your talents. We’ll set you up then as judges of the pies, cakes… and pickles.”
“Pickles,” I assured. “That’s my field.”
And the reeve conducted us ceremoniously through the gate and led us through the gathering throng, introducing us lavishly to people right and left until we reached the big marquee tent.
At the tent door, he introduced us to Miss McCann, the school teacher who was to have been our fellow judge in the beauty contest. Miss McCann was deeply disappointed.
“Of course,” she told us confidentially, “we had the winner all picked out. It was a foregone conclusion.”
“Who was the winner?” I inquired.
“Oh, Bill’s daughter,” explained Miss McCann. “The reeve’s daughter. But when she caught the measles, why Bill arranged to have the contest called off. Naturally.”
We were shoved inside the marquee.
It was beautiful. You never saw or smelled such an array of lovely provender. The pies, cakes, loaves, biscuits and buns were tastefully presented on tables. The pickles had a table all to themselves. And despite Jim’s objection that pickles would dull our sense of taste for the cakes and pies, I pointed out that eating pickles AFTER pie was highly improper. We were introduced to the third judge in the baking entries, a Mr. Booth.
The Connoisseurs!
“I’ll just leave the pickles to you, Mr. Clark,” said Mr. Booth. “I’ll second your choice, no matter what it is. I can’t go pickles.”
“Off with the bottle tops!” I commanded heartily.
And the crowd drew back to a respectful distance while Jim and I and Mr. Booth approached the pickle table.
“You’ll find.” said Mr. Booth, quietly into my ear, “that the Wilshie pickles will win. They always do.”
And he tapped one of the bottles significantly. The pickles steward opened the bottles and handed them to us one by one. We smelled them. We examined them for color and attractive appearance. Then we tasted them.
“The Wilshie entry,” muttered Mr. Booth in my ear, handing me the bottle. I tasted. I tried a fine, big, crunchy hunk of cauliflower. It was good.
“Mrs. Wilshie a good cook?” I inquired, chewing.
“The Wilshies always win,” explained Mr. Booth in my ear, keeping an eye on the crowd. “They’ve taken the prizes for years.”
I tried another bottle. And another. I tried cucumber. I tried onion. And they were all good. Some had too much turmeric. Some a little too much tincture of puncture, or whatever you call that stuff. Then I came to a bottle that, the minute I put it to my nose, I knew was the winner. I took out a large gob of cauliflower. It crumbled with crunchy little sounds in my mouth. It melted. It was sublime. It was perfect.
I handed them to Jim.
“Not the Wilshie entry!” muttered Mr. Booth sharply in my ear. “Not the Wilshie…”
Jim’s eyes rolled. He smacked his lips. He held the bottle up admiringly, and we could hear a sudden stir and murmur from the crowd.
Mr. Booth plucked my sleeve and repeated: “The wrong one!”
“Miles ahead.” declared Jim, taking another chunk of cauliflower handing me the bottle and the fork.
Mr. Booth was white.
“The winnah!” I announced.
Mr. Booth walked away, his shoulders hunched.
We had to judge ketchup, governor’s sauce2, chili sauce, etc., etc., etc. Mr. Booth came back and tried to tell me which were the Wilshie entries, but I ignored him.
“After all, I know my pickles, Mr. Booth,” I told him firmly.
By the time we had finished with the pickle table, the crowd had mysteriously multiplied. until the tent was bulging. People were even lifting up the skirts of the marquee and peering in at us. And a veritable hubbub seemed to have the crowd in its grip.
Heroes For a Day
We next came to the pies.
Mr. Booth came and looked me fair in the eye.
“The pie on the left,” he said, hardly moving his lips.
It was a beauty. But there were many other beauties.
We lifted them and examined them for style. We smelled them. Tested the pastry. Punched with our fingers. Then, one after another, we cut very narrow slices out of them and tasted them.
“You have no right,” declared Mr. Booth, “to mutilate the pies. The rules of judging do not include tasting…”
“How can you judge a pie.” scoffed Jim, “without tasting it?”
By now the crowd was in a roar of excitement.
We could hear people shouting outside. Flushed and excited men and women fought for admission at the tent door.
The pie on the left, as Mr. Booth pointed out, had everything. It was a green apple pie. And from all angles it was perfect.
But as I chewed my portion, tasting it carefully through the mustard, turmeric, etc., of the pickles, I got a tiny bit of core in my mouth.
“Apple core,” I announced, holding up the tiny particle. “Foul.”
The next best pie was a gooseberry pie.
I held it out to Jim. Jim completed his other studies, then handed the pie to Mr. Booth.
“I vote the apple,” said Mr. Booth desperately.
“We vote the gooseberry,” I announced. And you would think the results of the federal elections had been announced. The tent emptied as if by magic, as men and women plunged out into the open air to spread the tidings far and wide.
For it was not Mrs. Wilshie’s pie that had won.
It was a Mrs. Hogan’s.
Bill, the reeve, took us both by the arms. “Boys,” he gasped excitedly, “you’ve done a wonderful thing! You’ve broken a tradition as old as the hills. The Wilshies have always won. They’ve taken all the ribbons for the pickles, the baking, the quilting, the tatting, the crocheting, the needlepoint. The Wilshies have relatives in practically every farm in the county. You can’t get a judge that won’t vote for the Wilshie entries…”
“Who’s Mrs. Hogan?” I inquired.
“She’s the mother of the boy,” said Bill, “who’s courting my girl. A beautiful girl, if I do say…”
At which moment Jim yelled, “Look out!”
And Mrs. Wilshie’s pie, flung by a lady who undoubtedly was Mrs. Wilshie, caught me fair on the back of the neck.
Aw, well, I didn’t feel like judging any more food anyway. Pickles and pie don’t mix, in case you want to know. And there were tables of cakes, rich, creamy cakes; biscuits, buns, sticky buns, buns with maple sugar on them and stuffed with currants…
So we handed the judging over to the original group who were to have done the judging before we were rung in as pinch-hitters. And we went and mingled with the crowd and visited the cattle, the hogs, the sheep, and later watched the local softball team trim the pants off the visiting team.
And everywhere we went we were beamed on by the multitude.
For we had broken a tradition.
Editor’s Notes:
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