Signs of the Times

IN the heat of the year it is more than ever apparent that we are descended from a nation of shopkeepers. The half of our citizens who live in cities, being expelled by the heat, take themselves in legions along our Roman roads. The country and more rugged half of our population range themselves by the roadside and aim to sell whatever they possess to the carloads that pass without end. This meeting of opposites, this casual encounter of the city slicker and the country Jim, is full of unsuspected humor.

We Americans are mighty careless of our scenery. Whether we travel by train or motor, we seem to prefer commerce to nature, a good signboard to a better view. Our highways are simply long corridors of markets. Here by the road’s edge are lusciously displayed Oregon apples, Georgia peaches, and cherries from California (sent out by truck from the city before daybreak); here are crates of string beans, green and tender peas, sweet corn still with its beard, crisp radishes, and summer squash; here (for stronger palates) are fried clams, hot frankfurters, kraut juice, and chocolate-covered dill pickles; here alongside this booth is a chained bear pacing his circle, across the highway a huge haunch of beef is turning on the spit, two hundred yards farther a dance marathon shuffles its grim farce in a sleazy pavilion. And, enticing the weary traveler to pine groves or beside streams, here are individual cabins affording all the comforts of home — and no questions asked. What exodus, setting forth in holiday spirit, was ever more tempted to stop! The fleshpots of Egypt were as nothing.

Yet for the most part the cars roll by unheeding, as if their drivers were hypnotized by the motion or drugged by the fumes they inhale from each other’s exhaust. Steadily, at twenty miles to the hour, on the go, driven by that iron determination of every American motorist — not to let the man behind get ahead of him. The daring spirits impatiently weave in and out of line until suddenly stung by one of those mad hornets of the state police. A Connecticut constable surely had them at heart when on the hill leading into his village he posted this sign: —

DRIVE CAREFULLY — DEATH IS So PERMANENT

But hare and tortoise alike must stop when the red light flashes at a crossroad. For thirty seconds the pilgrimage halts and contracts into itself like a caterpillar; for thirty seconds eyes may be lifted from the concrete roadbed. That, of course, is what makes every intersection so valuable a spot for the local salesman. True, he has got to work fast if he is to attract the family’s attention before the light changes and father begins grinding the gears. But what could be more prompt than these words emblazoned over a filling station in Lynn, Massachusetts: —

What could be more telling than this happy legend which used to enliven the Newburyport Turnpike: —

RABBITS

FOR ALL PURPOSES

It strikes me that when an American sign painter gets to work his humor is very apt to mix up with the paint. The result often has that touch of exaggeration which so tickles our risibilities. When the fence enclosing the Boston Public Garden was painted a summer or so ago, this smiling phrase was displayed at suitable intervals: —

and I rather think it kept a good many fingers clean. This being a dry summer, something had to be done to keep smokers out of our brush. Where could you find a better warning than this, which appeared on a National Forest Highway: —

CHAPERONE YOUR CIGARETTES THEY SHOULD N’T GO OUT ALONE

Again, I like the keen determination in the slogan which, characteristically, was found on a back road in New Jersey: —

SAW FILING — KEY FITTING — MOSQUITO NETTING

An Englishman, of course, would never commit himself so definitely; he makes himself known by understatement, and when he advertises that ‘Our Fresh Eggs Can Hardly Be Approached’ other Englishmen know precisely what he means. But understatement never conies naturally to us, and when motorists arc advised by a famous camp in Maine that they ‘will find that our service, camps, food, and grounds are better than you can expect for the rates we charge,’suspicion, I fear, outweighs the candor.

I must speak of another device to catch the passing eye; I mean the rhyme scheme. This dodge is very effective in the open country where the motorists are beginning to pick up speed. After all, it takes forethought to stop a car running at fifty. In the hill country of New Hampshire, for example, you may whisk by this little refrain: —

That is a teaser. A mile farther on conies another: —

Then: —

And finally: —

These couplets invite ribaldry if not guests, and I have known travelers to regale an hour concocting such replies as

or

The possibilities are limitless. We have too little poetry in our lives anyway.

I’ll give poets all the license they need, but I am bothered by cute spellers. When a Kansas tailor calls his shop a ‘ Pantatorium,’ he’s said something and I won’t object. But when a sign invites me to spend the night at ’Ye Olde Mille Streame’ or to comfort myself at the ‘Duesupleze,’ I’d rather be shot. A farmer on the Mohawk Trail had the right idea when he called his trusty gasoline pump ‘Ye Olde Gasse Shoppe’; one or two more men of his calibre, and the antique racket will be laughed out of business. And I notice that New York City, which looks down its nose at us yokels, had a sophisticated rash of its own not long ago: Chez Florence, also a Chez Quick Lunch, also a Chez Quick Shoes & Hat Service. Chez, my eye!

A road not far from my house has recently been widened and repaired by the CWA. The placard that seeks to protect the men from errant motorists says with superb honesty: —

SLOW

MEN

AT

WORK

If plumbers were also equipped with this slogan, I should not mind. There is an element of surprise in our signs which quite delights me. When, as you approach Quebec, you are met by the inscription,

TANKS FOR VISITORS UNDIVIDUAL CABINS

you can forgive the French accent and anticipate what is to come. When, in the British Museum, you read the placard, ‘These basins are for casual ablutions only,’ you may be reminded that there once was an impoverished novelist who used them for more thorough bathing. Should you fetch up in a certain district in Northern Massachusetts, keep your eye peeled for that most inviting sign of all time:

NUDIST COLONY — KEEP OUT Who could resist turning in on this rude, rutted lane! And after you have proceeded for a mile and a half, and are well bogged down in a marsh, you won’t find a nudist — but you may find a farmer and team to pull you out. I am told that his prices are $1.50 and up—depending on your temper. Or if you know your Vermont, and have tried your luck in her upland brooks (as thousands of uninvited visitors have done before you), you may remember that exasperated sign which, with all the patience of Job, tells its story: —

They’s fish in this stream. Worms behind the barn.

And a boy to help dig. Fish and be damned!