married woman, but I heard 'em callin' her 'Miss Laura,' and I found
out afterwards that she was an old maid. In my day, child, you could
tell an old maid the minute you set eyes on her. But nowadays the old
maids and the married women looks about alike, and one's jest as happy
and good lookin' and busy and well contented as the other, and folks
seem to think jest as much of the old maids as they do of the married
women. I said somethin' o' this sort to Henrietta, and she laughed
and says, 'Yes, grandma; the old maids nowadays have their hands so
full lookin' after the rights o' the married women and the little
children that they don't have time to grow old or worry about not
bein' married, and of course,' says she, 'we can't help lovin' 'em and
lookin' up to 'em when they're so good and so useful.'
"But, as I was sayin', this Miss Laura told how her club had worked
for ten years to git married women their rights, so's a married woman
could own her own property and manage it to suit herself and have the
spendin' of her own wages while she lived and make a will when she
come to die. And that made me think o' Sally Ann's experience and pore
'Lizabeth. And Miss Laura says, 'But there's one right still that a
married woman hasn't got, and that is the right to her own children.'
And she told how the law give the father a right to take a child away
from its mother and carry it off whenever he pleased, and bring it up
as he pleased and app'int its guardians. And she told how many times
they'd been to the legislature to git the law changed, and said they'd
have to keep on goin' till they got this right for mothers, jest like
they'd got property rights for wives. And I thought of Uncle Billy's
grandmother, and says I to myself: 'Don't you reckon a legislature's
jest as terrifyin' to a woman as wildcats and Indians? Ain't these
women got jest as much courage as their grandmothers?'
"One lady got up and told what they was doin to keep the fine trees
from bein' all cut down, jest like Uncle Billy said, and that reminded
me of Abram. A tree was like a brother to Abram. He was always
plantin' trees, but I never knew him to cut one down unless it was
dyin' or dead. You see that big sugar-maple out yonder by the fence,
child? Well, right beside it there used to be a big silver poplar.
There ain't a prettier tree in the world than the silver poplar. It's
pretty in the sunshine and it's still prettier by night, if the moon's
shinin'; and when the wind's blowin', why, I can sit and look at that
tree by the hour. But it's got a bad way o' sproutin' from the root,
and the young trees come up everywhere and crowd out everything else,
jest like people that ain't content with their own land and always
covetin' other folks' farms. Well, I got so tired o' choppin' down the
young sprouts every spring and summer that I told Abram that tree had
to go, and, besides, it was sp'ilin' the shape o' the young
sugar-maple right by it. I reckon Abram had got tired, too, hearin'
me quarrel about the sprouts comin' up in my flower-beds, so he went
out to the wood-shed and got his ax. He stopped a minute on the front
porch and looked up at the tree, and jest then a little breeze sprung
up and every leaf blew wrong side out. And Abram laid down his ax and
says he: 'Jane, I can't do it. I'll cut the sprouts down, but don't
ask me to cut down a tree that looks that way when the wind blows.'
And the old poplar stood, honey, till it was struck by lightnin' one
summer, and died at the top. Then Abram was willin' to have it cut
down.
"What was I talkin' about, honey? Oh, yes; them women's clubs. Well, I
set there listenin' to 'em tellin' how their clubs had worked for this
thing and that, and how hard it was to git men to see things the way
they saw 'em, and it come over me all at once that they was contendin'
with the same sort o' troubles us women down in Goshen had when we got
our organ and our cyarpet for the church. I ricollect when we was
talkin' about the cyarpet Silas Petty says: 'What's the use o' havin'
that cyarpet? Hasn't this church got along fifteen years with jest
these good pine boards underfoot?' And Sally Ann says: 'Yes; you men
folks think that because things has always been thus and so, they've
always got to be. But,' says she, 'I've noticed that when a thing
always has been, most likely it's a thing that ought never to 'a'
been.' And from what I could gether, listenin' to the ladies read
their papers, there was the same old trouble betwixt the clubs and the
legislatures that there used to be down in Goshen church, the women
wantin' to go on, and the men pullin' back and standin' still.
"And one lady told about Emperor William over yonder in Germany
sayin' that women oughtn't to do anything but cook and go to church
and nurse the children, and says I, 'That's Silas Petty over again.'
And then she went on to tell how some o' the men was findin' fault
with women because families wasn't as large as they was in their
great-grandmothers' day. And thinks I to myself, 'That's jest like
old man Bob Crawford.'
"Well, one after another they'd stand up and tell about all the good
works their clubs had done, sendin' books to the mountain people,
tryin' to make better schools for the children, and havin' laws made
to keep women and little children from bein' worked to death in
factories and mills, and I declare, child, it reminded me more of an
old-fashioned experience meetin' than anything I could think of, and
says I to myself: 'Why, Uncle Billy's all wrong. This ain't Sodom and
Gomorrah; it's the comin' of the kingdom of God on earth.' And when
the meetin' was about to break, Henrietta got up and says, 'Grandma,
the ladies want you to make them a speech'; and I jest laughed right
out and says I: 'Why, honey, I can't make a speech. Whoever heard of a
old woman like me makin' a speech?'
"And Henrietta says, 'Well, tell us, grandma, what you've been
thinkin' about us and about our work while you've been sittin' here
listenin' to us talk.' And I says, 'Well, if that's makin' a speech,
I can make one, for I'm always thinkin' somethin', and thinkin' and
talkin' is mighty near kin with me.' Says I, 'One thing I've been
thinkin' is, that I'm like the old timber in the woods--long past my
prime and ready to be cut down, and you all are the young trees
strikin' your roots down and spreadin' your branches and askin' for
room to grow in.' And says I, 'What I think about you ain't likely to
be of much importance. I'm jest a plain, old-fashioned woman. The
only sort o' club I ever belonged to was the Mite Society o' Goshen
church, and the only service I ever did the State was raisin' a
family o' sons and daughters, five sons and four daughters.' Says I,
'There's some folks that thinks women ought to do jest what their
mothers and grandmothers did, but,' says I, 'every generation has its
work. I've done mine and you're doin' yours. And,' says I, 'I look at
you ladies sittin' here in your pretty parlors and your fine clothes,
and back of every one of you I can see your grandmothers and your
great-grandmothers, jest plain hard-workin' women like me. But,' says
I, 'there ain't much difference between you, after all, except the
difference in the clothes and the manners. Your grandmothers traveled
their Wilderness Road, and you're travelin' yours, and one's as hard
as the other. And,' says I, 'if I was in your place, I wouldn't pay a
bit of attention to what the men folks said about me. Suppose you
don't have as many children as your grandmothers had; I can tell by
lookin' at your faces that you're good wives and good mothers; you
love the three or four children you've got as well as your
grandmothers loved their twelve or fifteen, and that's the main
p'int--the way you love your children, not how many children you
have. And further than that,' says I, 'there's such a thing nowadays
as a woman havin' so many children that she hasn't got time to be a
mother, but that's a p'int that men don't consider. And,' says I,
'when I think of all the good work you've done and all you're goin'
to do, I feel like praisin' God. For I know you're helpin' this old
world and this old State to go on like the apostle said we ought to
go, "from glory to glory."'
"And bless your life," laughed Aunt Jane, "if they didn't clap their
hands like they never would stop, and one lady come over and kissed
me, and says, 'That's the best speech I ever heard at a woman's club.'
"And I reckon," concluded Aunt Jane with a gay laugh, "that if Uncle
Billy happened to hear about me speakin' at a woman's club, he'd think
that Sodom and Gomorrah was spreadin' clear down into the Goshen
neighborhood."
"How would you like to live with Henrietta, Aunt Jane?" I asked.
"Child, child," said Aunt Jane with a reproving shake of her head,
"you know better than to ask such a question. That visit to
Henrietta's was like climbin' a hill that you've lived on the other
side of all your life. I've been to the top o' the hill and seen
what's on the other side, and I've come back to my own place. Solomon
says there's a time for everything, and I don't need any Solomon to
tell me that there's a place for everybody; and this old house and
this old farm is the only place that could ever be home to me, and I'm
here to stay till they carry me out through that gate yonder and lay
my bones over in the old buryin'-ground alongside of Abram's and the
children's and the rest of them that's gone before me."
V
THE MARRIAGE PROBLEM IN GOSHEN
[Illustration]
V
THE MARRIAGE PROBLEM IN GOSHEN
Aunt Jane folded the country newspaper that she had been reading and
laid it on the family Bible at her elbow. Her face was grave, and she
sighed as she took up her knitting.
"I sometimes think, honey," she said, in answer to my look of inquiry,
"that if I want to keep my faith in God and man I'll have to quit
readin' the newspapers. I try to believe that everything's goin' on
all right with the world and that whatever happens is for the best,
but I can't open a paper without readin' about some husband and wife
that's parted from each other, and that looks like there's somethin'
mighty wrong with this day and time. Me and Uncle Billy Bascom was
talkin' about it last week, and Uncle Billy says, 'If folks'd only
forsake their sins as easy as they forsake their husbands and their
wives nowadays, this'd be a sanctified world.'
"No, child, the partin' of husbands and wives is one new-fangled way I
can't git used to. Why, as far back as I can ricollect there never was
but one woman in the Goshen neighborhood that left her husband, and
that was Emmeline Amos, that married Henry Sanford. Emmeline was a
first cousin to Sam Amos. Sam's father was Jeremiah Amos, and
Emmeline's father was Middleton Amos. Emmeline was a pretty little
thing, and sweet-tempered and smart about work, but her mother used to
say that Emmeline had a mind like a piece o' changeable silk. She'd
want a thing, and she wouldn't rest till she got it, and the minute
she got it she'd fall out with it and want somethin' else. If she went
to town and bought a blue dress, before she got to the toll-gate
she'd want to turn back and buy a pink one, and about the only thing
she was constant in wantin' was Henry.
"They'd been sweethearts more or less all their lives, and it was a
settled thing that they expected to be married as soon as Henry got
his farm paid for. But before the day was set, the war broke out and
Henry enlisted. It went mighty hard with him to leave Emmeline, but a
man that stayed out o' the army for the sake of a gyirl didn't stand
much chance with the gyirl or anybody else them days. Him and Emmeline
wanted to be married before he went, but the old folks said no.
Emmeline's mother says, 'This'll give Emmeline a chance to know her
own mind and change it--if she's goin' to change it--before it's too
late. If Henry comes back, well and good; and if he don't come back,
it'll be all the better for Emmeline that she didn't marry him, for,'
says she, 'a young gyirl's chances o' gittin' married are better than
a widder's.'
"So Henry went, and Emmeline stayed and waited for him good and
faithful. Towards the end of the war--I don't ricollect what battle it
was--Henry got shot in the shoulder, and after stayin' some time in
the hospittle he managed to come back home more dead than alive, and
it was many a week before he was strong enough to be married. As soon
as he was able to be up and walk around a little he begun to talk
about marryin', and they said old lady Sanford took a lookin'-glass
down from the wall and held it up before him and says she, 'Son, look
at yourself. Do you think you can make a bridegroom out of a
skeleton?' And says she, 'Son, there's jest two people in the world
that wouldn't run from you if they saw you now, and one of 'em's your
mother and the other's the undertaker.' Says she, 'Wait till you look
like a human bein', and then it'll be time to set the weddin' day and
bake the weddin' cake.'
[Illustration: "'ONE MORNING SHE CONCLUDED SHE'D STRAIGHTEN OUT
HENRY'S TRUNK.'"
_Page 148._]
"Well, finally, along in the fall, they got married, and settled down
to housekeepin' as happy as you please. Emmeline was a mighty neat,
orderly sort of a gyirl, and she went to work puttin' things to rights
and makin' the house look homelike, and one mornin' she concluded
she'd straighten out Henry's trunk. I've heard her tell about it many
a time. She said Henry had his outside clothes all mixed up and his
neckties and his socks scattered around all through the trunk, and she
was foldin' things and stackin' 'em up together and singin' 'Flow
Gently, Sweet Afton,' and all at once she come across a little silk
shirt. She said for a minute or so she couldn't take it in, and when
she did, she dropped the shirt like it had been a rattlesnake, and she
got so weak and faint she had to sit down on the side o' the bed. She
said she didn't know how long she set there lookin' at the shirt and
thinkin' terrible things about Henry and makin' up her mind what she'd
say and do, when Henry come in from the field. She said she knew she
ought to be cookin' dinner, and she went down in the kitchen and tried
to, but to save her life she couldn't, her hands trembled so, and she
couldn't keep her mind on what she was tryin' to do. So she went back
up-stairs and set down by the trunk and waited. And when Henry come in
and didn't see her in the kitchen and no signs of dinner anywhere, he
come runnin' up-stairs to find her and started to put his arms around
her and kiss her, but she pushed him off with both hands. And says he,
'Why, Emmeline, what on earth's the matter?' And she said she tried to
answer him, but her voice wouldn't come, and she jest p'inted to the
shirt lyin' on the floor.
"At first Henry didn't understand; but he looked at the shirt and he
looked at her face, and then he burst out laughin', and says he,
'Well, that does look pretty bad, sure enough; but I know you've got
too much confidence in me to let a little thing like that worry you';
and he tried to take hold of her hand, but she jerked it away, and by
that time she was so mad at him for laughin' at her that she didn't
find any trouble about talkin', and the madder she got and the more
she talked, the harder Henry laughed, and says he: 'Oh! come now,
Emmeline. You mustn't be so hard on a man. I never loved that woman
like I love you. I never was married to her, and I never wanted to
marry her. Ain't that enough to satisfy you?'
"Emmeline said she didn't know she could feel so wicked; but when
Henry said that, she felt as if she wanted to kill somebody--she
didn't know whether it was Henry or the other woman--and she jumped up
and run out o' the room, slammin' the door behind her as hard as she
could, and locked herself in the spare bedroom. She said Henry went
down-stairs, and she could hear him goin' around in the kitchen and
pantry lookin' for cold meat and bread, and she looked out o' the
window and watched till she saw him go back to the field. And the
minute he was out o' sight, she packed her trunk and went to the
stable and saddled the mare her father had made her a present of when
she married, and then she dressed herself and wrote a note sayin'
she'd gone back to her father's house and she'd send over for her
trunk the next day. She pinned the note to Henry's piller, and then
she got on her horse and started for home.
"Old man Middleton was sittin' on the front porch smokin' his pipe
when Emmeline rode up, and he hollered out to his wife that here was
Emmeline, and they both come runnin' out to meet her. You know how it
is with the old folks, when a gyirl comes home to make 'em a visit
after gittin' married. They're proud of her for marryin' well, but
they've been missin' her and they're mighty glad to have her back in
her old place. But as soon as they'd hugged her and kissed her they
both said, 'Where's Henry?' and, 'Why didn't he come with you?'
Emmeline said for a minute she wished she was back at home, for she
knew how bad they'd feel when she told 'em what she had to tell. But
she thought she might as well have it over and be done with it, and
says she, 'Henry's at home, and I'm at home, too. I've left him, and
I'm never goin' back to him.'
"Well, Emmeline said they both fell back on the porch steps like
they'd been shot, and as soon as they could speak they both said:
'Left him! What for?' Emmeline said she felt so ashamed of Henry she'd
made up her mind from the first that nobody ever should know about
that little silk shirt. So she says, 'I've found out that Henry's not
the man I thought he was. I've left him for good and all.' And old man
Middleton says, 'Why, daughter, what's he done amiss? I've known Henry
from a boy up, and there ain't a man in the county I'd rather have for
a son-in-law.' And Emmeline says, 'Yes, I used to think that way
myself, but I've found out different.' And the old man says, 'Has he
struck you or mistreated you in any way? He's been too well brought up
for that. He ain't close-fisted about money matters, I know, for I've
had dealin's with him myself, and, besides, you ain't been married to
him long enough to have to call on him for anything.' And Emmeline
says, 'No, he's as freehanded as he can be, and I've got nothin' to
complain about except that I didn't know him as well as I do now, and
since I know him, why, I don't want to live with him.'
"And then her mother begun questionin', and all she could git out of
Emmeline was that Henry wasn't the man she thought he was; and at last
the old lady lost her patience and says she, 'In the name o' peace!
Have I got a child with so little sense as to think that that's any
reason for leavin' a man? Of course he ain't the man you thought he
was, and you ain't the woman he thought you was. But what o' that? If
husbands and wives took to partin' on that account, the world would be
full o' grass-widders and grass-widderers.' Says she, 'You're welcome
to stay here till Henry comes for you, and I'll give out to the
neighbors that you're makin' us a visit, but back to Henry you've got
to go. Gittin' married,' says she, 'is like buyin' a piece o'
dress-goods at the store. As long as you haven't had it cut off the
bolt, you can change your mind, but if it's once cut off, you've got
to pay for it and take it home and make the best o' your bargain.'
Says she, 'You had plenty o' time to find out what sort o' man Henry
was, and you turned your back on two good chances whilst you waited
for him, and now there's no slippin' out o' the trade. I don't propose
to have any widders in my family,' says she, 'except the sort that can
put up a tombstone and wear a black veil.' Says she, 'Take off your
bonnet and make yourself at home till Henry comes for you.'
"And, bless your life, Henry wasn't long comin', either. Before they
got the supper dishes washed up, here he come as fast as his horse
could bring him. Old man Amos went out to meet him and took him around
to the side o' the house and says he, 'Son, I want you to tell me what
all this to-do is, anyhow. I can't git head nor tail of it from
Emmeline.' And Henry says, 'Well, Father Amos, it's this way.
Emmeline's been goin' through my trunk, and she found a little
somethin' or other that belonged to another woman that I used to know
long before I knew her, and that's what upset her.' And the old man
shook his head and says he, 'You ought to 'a' destroyed all such
things before you married; and that was a mighty keerless trick,
leavin' your trunk unlocked, though two to one Emmeline would 'a' got
into it anyway. It's my belief,' says he, 'that women carry skeleton
keys to keep the run o' their husband's private affairs.' And Henry
says, 'I've done all I could to pacify her; I've told her I never
loved that woman like I love her and never was married to the woman
and never wanted to marry her, and what more can a man say?' And the
old man says, 'Well, that ought to satisfy any reasonable woman, but
in matters like this women don't seem to be able to use their reason.'
Says he, 'It looks like they expect a man to be jest like Adam before
Eve was made for him,' and says he, 'You'll have to hoe your own row
with Emmeline in this affair, and her mother and me'll help you all we
can.'
"Well, all three of 'em argued with Emmeline, tryin' to persuade her
to go back home, but nothin' they could say had any effect on her. And
finally Henry says, 'Well, Emmeline, if you will leave me, I reckon
I'll have to put up with it, but I've got jest one favor to ask of
you.' Says he, 'You know how my mother and father have set their
hearts on havin' you for a daughter-in-law and how anxious they are to
see you. Now, all I ask of you is to let me take you to see my folks,
and you make 'em a visit. If I was to write to my mother,' says he,
'that my wife had left me, I believe it would be the death of her.
She's subject to spells anyway, and the doctor says any little
shock'll carry her off. So you let me take you up to mother's, and you
make her and father a little visit, and then I'll bring you home and
try to break it to mother the best I can.'
"Emmeline thought a minute, and finally she says, 'Well, I'll go for
your mother's sake, but not for yours.' So Henry, he went back home to
git somebody to look after his stock while he was gone, and the next
day he come for Emmeline, and they started to his mother's. It was
pretty near a day's journey, and there couldn't 'a' been a nicer trip
for a bride and groom, ridin' through the woods and over the hills
about the middle of October, the leaves jest turnin' and the weather
neither hot nor cold. I reckon, child, you don't know what it is to
make a journey that way. That's one o' the things folks miss by bein'
born nowadays instead of in the old times before there was any
railroads. I ricollect when they begun puttin' down the track for the
first railroad in this county. Uncle Jimmy Judson went to town on
purpose to see what it was like, and some o' the town folks explained
all about layin' the ties and the rails and showed him a picture o'
the cyars and the locomotive, and Uncle Jimmy looked at it a minute or
two, and then he shook his head and says he, 'None o' that sort o'
travelin' for me--shut up in a wooden box with a steam-engine in front
liable to blow up any minute, and nothin' but the mercy o' God to keep
them wheels from runnin' off this here narrer railin'.' Says he, 'Give
me a clear sky overhead, a good road underfoot, good company by my
side, and my old buggy and my old mare, and I can travel from sunup
to sundown and ask no odds o' the railroad.' And I reckon most old
people feel pretty much like Uncle Jimmy.
"I ricollect Parson Page sayin' once that the Christian's life was a
journey to heaven, and Sam Amos says, 'Yes, and generally when I start
out to go to a place, I want to get there as soon as possible; but
here's one time,' says he, 'when I wouldn't care if I never got to my
journey's end.' And that's the way it was with me when me and Abram'd
start out in our old rockaway for a day's travel through the country,
goin' to see his mother or mine. No matter how much I wanted to see
the folks I was goin' to, I'd feel as if I could keep on forever
ridin' through the thick woods or along the open road, the wind
blowin' in my face and the sun gittin' higher and higher towards noon
and then night comin' on before we'd be at our journey's end.
"I've heard Emmeline laugh many a time about that ride. Her mother
come out to the gate and put a basket o' lunch under the seat, and
says she, 'Now, Emmeline, you be a good gyirl and don't give Henry any
more trouble, and, Henry, when you two come back you take Emmeline
right home with you; don't you bring her here.' And old man Amos give
a big laugh and says he, 'Come back home if you want to, Emmeline. My
door's always open to my own children; but if you come, Henry's got to
come, too, so either way you fix it there won't be any partin'.'
Emmeline said she wouldn't let Henry help her in the buggy. She got in
on one side, and he got in on the other, and she set as far off from
him as she could, and they started off, old lady Amos callin' after
'em: 'You jest remember, Emmeline, as long as Henry's above the sod
you're Henry's wife. There's only one thing that can part you, and
that's death.'