“Wal, Huldy she worked and worked, and finally she fished piggy out in
the bucket, but he was dead as a door-nail; and she got him out o’ the
way quietly, and didn’t say much; and the parson, he took to a
great Hebrew book in his study; and says he, ‘Huldy, I ain’t much in
temporals,’ says he. Huldy says she kind o’ felt her heart go out to
him, he was so sort o’ meek and helpless and lamed; and says she, ‘Wal,
Parson Carryl, don’t trouble your head no more about it; I’ll see
to things;’ and sure enough, a week arter there was a nice pen, all
ship-shape, and two little white pigs that Huldy bought with the money
for the butter she sold at the store.
“‘Wal, Huldy,’ said the parson, ‘you are a most amazin’ child: you don’t
say nothin’ but you do more than most folks.’
“Arter that the parson set sich store by Huldy that he come to her and
asked her about every thing, and it was amazin’ how every thing she put
her hand to prospered. Huldy planted marigolds and larkspurs, pinks and
carnations, all up and down the path to the front door, and trained
up mornin’ glories and scarlet-runners round the windows. And she
was always a gettin’ a root here, and a sprig there, and a seed from
somebody else: for Huldy was one o’ them that has the gift, so that ef
you jist give ’em the leastest sprig of any thing they make a great
bush out of it right away; so that in six months Huldy had roses and
geraniums and lilies, sich as it would a took a gardener to raise. The
parson, he took no notice at fust; but when the yard was all ablaze with
flowers he used to come and stand in a kind o’ maze at the front door,
and say, ‘Beautiful, beautiful: why, Huldy, I never see any thing like
it.’ And then when her work was done arternoons, Huldy would sit with
her sewin’ in the porch, and sing and trill away till she’d draw the
meadow-larks and the bobolinks, and the orioles to answer her, and the
great big elm-tree overhead would get perfectly rackety with the
birds; and the parson, settin’ there in his study, would git to kind o’
dreamin’ about the angels, and golden harps, and the New Jerusalem;
but he wouldn’t speak a word, ’cause Huldy she was jist like them
wood-thrushes, she never could sing so well when she thought folks was
hearin’. Folks noticed, about this time, that the parson’s sermons got
to be like Aaron’s rod, that budded and blossomed: there was things
in ’em about flowers and birds, and more ’special about the music o’
heaven. And Huldy she noticed, that ef there was a hymn run in her head
while she was ’round a workin’ the minister was sure to give it out next
Sunday. You see, Huldy was jist like a bee: she always sung when she was
workin’, and you could hear her trillin’, now down in the corn-patch,
while she was pickin’ the corn; and now in the buttery, while she was
workin’ the butter; and now she’d go singin’ down cellar, and then she’d
be singin’ up over head, so that she seemed to fill a house chock full
o’ music.
“Huldy was so sort o’ chipper and fair spoken, that she got the hired
men all under her thumb: they come to her and took her orders jist
as meek as so many calves; and she traded at the store, and kep’ the
accounts, and she hed her eyes everywhere, and tied up all the ends so
tight that there want no gettin’ ’round her. She wouldn’t let nobody put
nothin’ off on Parson Carryl, ’cause he was a minister. Huldy was allers
up to anybody that wanted to make a hard bargain; and, afore he knew
jist what he was about, she’d got the best end of it, and everybody said
that Huldy was the most capable gal that they’d ever traded with.
“Wal, come to the meetin’ of the Association, Mis’ Deakin Blodgett and
Mis’ Pipperidge come callin’ up to the parson’s, all in a stew, and
offerin’ their services to get the house ready; but the doctor, he jist
thanked ’em quite quiet, and turned ’em over to Huldy; and Huldy she
told ’em that she’d got every thing ready, and showed ’em her pantries,
and her cakes and her pies and her puddin’s, and took ’em all over the
house; and they went peekin’ and pokin’, openin’ cupboard-doors, and
lookin’ into drawers; and they couldn’t find so much as a thread out o’
the way, from garret to cellar, and so they went off quite discontented.
Arter that the women set a new trouble a brewin’. Then they begun to
talk that it was a year now since Mis’ Carryl died; and it r’ally wasn’t
proper such a young gal to be stayin’ there, who everybody could see was
a settin’ her cap for the minister.
“Mis’ Pipperidge said, that, so long as she looked on Huldy as the hired
gal, she hadn’t thought much about it; but Huldy was railly takin’ on
airs as an equal, and appearin’ as mistress o’ the house in a way that
would make talk if it went on. And Mis’ Pipperidge she driv ’round up to
Deakin Abner Snow’s, and down to Mis’ ’Lijah Perry’s, and asked them
if they wasn’t afraid that the way the parson and Huldy was a goin’ on
might make talk. And they said they hadn’t thought on’t before, but now,
come to think on’t, they was sure it would; and they all went and talked
with somebody else, and asked them if they didn’t think it would make
talk. So come Sunday, between meetin’s there warn’t nothin’ else talked
about; and Huldy saw folks a noddin’ and a winkin’, and a lookin’ arter
her, and she begun to feel drefful sort o’ disagreeable. Finally Mis’
Sawin she says to her, ’My dear, didn’t you, never think folk would talk
about you and the minister?’
“‘No: why should they?’ says Huldy, quite innocent.
“Wal, dear,’ says she, ‘I think it’s a shame; but they say you’re tryin’
to catch him, and that it’s so bold and improper for you to be courtin’
of him right in his own house,--you know folks will talk,--I thought I’d
tell you ’cause I think so much of you,’ says she.
“Huldy was a gal of spirit, and she despised the talk, but it made her
drefful uncomfortable; and when she got home at night she sat down in
the mor-nin’-glory porch, quite quiet, and didn’t sing a word.
“The minister he had heard the same thing from one of his deakins that
day; and, when he saw Huldy so kind o’ silent, he says to her, ’Why
don’t you sing, my child?’
“He hed a pleasant sort o’ way with him, the minister had, and Huldy had
got to likin’ to be with him; and it all come over her that perhaps
she ought to go away; and her throat kind o’ filled up so she couldn’t
hardly speak; and, says she, ’I can’t sing to-night.’
“Says he, ’You don’t know how much good you’re singin’ has done me, nor
how much good _you_ have done me in all ways, Huldy. I wish I knew how
to show my gratitude.’
“‘O sir!’ says Huldy, ’_is_ it improper for me to be here?’
“‘No, dear,’ says the minister, ‘but ill-natured folks will talk; but
there is one way we can stop it, Huldy--if you will marry me. You’ll
make me very happy, and I’ll do all I can to make you happy. Will you?’
“Wal, Huldy never told me jist what she said to the minister,--gals
never does give you the particulars of them ’are things jist as you’d
like ’em,--only I know the upshot and the hull on’t was, that Huldy she
did a consid’able lot o’ clear starchin’ and ironin’ the next two days;
and the Friday o’ next week the minister and she rode over together
to Dr. Lothrop’s in Old Town; and the doctor, he jist made ’em man and
wife, ‘spite of envy of the Jews,’ as the hymn says. Wal, you’d better
believe there was a starin’ and a wonderin’ next Sunday mornin’ when the
second bell was a tollin’, and the minister walked up the broad aisle
with Huldy, all in white, arm in arm with him, and he opened the
minister’s pew, and handed her in as if she was a princess; for, you
see, Parson Carryl come of a good family, and was a born gentleman, and
had a sort o’ grand way o’ bein’ polite to women-folks. Wal, I guess
there was a rus’lin’ among the bunnets. Mis’ Pipperidge gin a great
bounce, like corn poppin’ on a shovel, and her eyes glared through her
glasses at Huldy as if they’d a sot her afire; and everybody in the
meetin’ house was a starin’, I tell _yew_. But they couldn’t none of
’em say nothin’ agin Huldy’s looks; for there wa’n’t a crimp nor a frill
about her that wa’n’t jis’ _so_; and her frock was white as the driven
snow, and she had her bunnet all trimmed up with white ribbins; and
all the fellows said the old doctor had stole a march, and got the
handsomest gal in the parish.
“Wal, arter meetin’ they all come ’round the parson and Huldy at the
door, shakin’ hands and laugh-in’; for by that time they was about
agreed that they’d got to let putty well alone.
“‘Why, Parson Carryl,’ says Mis’ Deakin Blodgett, ‘how you’ve come it
over us.’
“‘Yes,’ says the parson, with a kind o’ twinkle in his eye. ‘I thought,’
says he, ‘as folks wanted to talk about Huldy and me, I’d give ’em
somethin’ wuth talkin’ about.’”
[Illustration: Tailpiece, Page 078]
[Illustration: The Widow’s Bandbox, Page 079]
THE WIDOW’S BANDBOX.
“Lordy massy! Stick yer hat into the nor’east, Horace, and see ’f ye
can’t stop out this ’ere wind. I’m e’eny most used up with it.” So spake
Sam Lawson, contemplating mournfully a new broad-brimmed straw hat in
which my soul was rejoicing. It was the dripping end of a sour November
afternoon, which closed up a “spell o’ weather” that had been steadily
driving wind and rain for a week past; and we boys sought the shelter
and solace of his shop, and, opening the door, let in the wind
aforesaid.
Sam had been all day in one of his periodical fits of desperate
industry. The smoke and sparks had been seen flying out of his
shop-chimney in a frantic manner; and the blows of his hammer had
resounded with a sort of feverish persistence, intermingled with a
doleful wailing of psalm-tunes of the most lugubrious description.
These fits of industry on Sam’s part were an affliction to us boys,
especially when they happened to come on Saturday: for Sam was as much a
part of our Saturday-afternoon calculations as if we had a regular deed
of property in him; and we had been all day hanging round his shop,
looking in from time to time, in the vague hope that he would propose
something to brighten up the dreary monotony of a holiday in which it
had been impossible to go anywhere or do any thing.
“Sam, ain’t you coming over to tell us some stories to-night?”
“Bless your soul and body, boys! life ain’t made to be spent tellin’
stories. Why, I shall hev to be up here workin’ till arter twelve
o’clock,” said Sam, who was suddenly possessed with a spirit of the most
austere diligence. “Here I be up to my neck in work,--things kind o’
comin’ in a heap together. There’s Mis’ Cap’n Broad’s andirons, she sent
word she must have ’em to-night; and there’s Lady Lothrop, she wants her
warmin’-pan right off; they can’t non’ on ’em wait a minit longer. I’ve
ben a drivin’ and workin’ all day like a nigger-slave. Then there was
Jeduth Pettybone, he brought down them colts to-day, and I worked the
biggest part o’ the mornin’ shoein’ on ’em; and then Jeduth he said he
couldn’t make change to pay me, so there wa’n’t nothin’ comin’ in for
’t; and then Hepsy she kep’ a jawin’ at me all dinner-time ’bout that.
Why, I warn’t to blame now, was I? I can’t make everybody do jest right
and pay regular, can I? So ye see it goes, boys, gettin’ yer bread by
the sweat o’ your brow; and sometimes sweatin’ and not gettin’ yer
bread. That ’ere’s what I call the _cuss_, the ’riginal cuss, that come
on man for hearkenin’ to the voice o’ his wife,--that ’ere was what did
it. It allers kind o’ riles me up with Mother Eve when I think on’t. The
women hain’t no bisness to fret as they do, ’cause they sot this ’ere
state o’ things goin’ in the fust place.”
“But, Sam, Aunt Lois and Aunt Nabby are both going over to Mis’.
Mehitabel’s to tea. Now, you just come over and eat supper with us and
tell us a story, do.”
“Gone out to tea, be they?” said Sam, relaxing his hammering, with a
brightening gleam stealing gradually across his lanky visage. “Wal, that
’ere looks like a providential openin’, to be sure. Wal, I guess I’ll
come. What’s the use o’ never havin’ a good time? Ef you work yourself
up into shoestrings you don’t get no thanks for it, and things in this
world’s ’bout as broad as they is long: the women ’ll scold, turn ’em
which way ye will. A good mug o’ cider and some cold victuals over to
the Dea-kin’s ’ll kind o’ comfort a feller up; and your granny she’s
sort o’ merciful, she don’t rub it into a fellow all the time like Miss
Lois.”
“Now, let’s see, boys,” said Sam, when a comfortable meal of pork and
beans had been disposed of, and a mug of cider was set down before the
fire to warm. “I s’pect ye’ll like to hear a Down-East story to-night.”
Of course we did, and tumbled over each other in our eagerness to get
the nearest place to the narrator.
Sam’s method of telling a story was as leisurely as that of some modern
novel-writers. He would take his time for it, and proceed by easy
stages. It was like the course of a dreamy, slow-moving river through a
tangled meadow-flat,--not a rush nor a bush but was reflected in it; in
short, Sam gave his philosophy of matters and things in general as he
went along, and was especially careful to impress an edifying moral.
“Wal, ye see, boys, ye know I was born down to Newport,--there where
it’s all ships and shipping, and sich. My old mother she kep’ a
boardin’-house for sailors down there. Wal, ye see, I rolled and tumbled
round the world pretty consid’able afore I got settled down here in
Oldtown.
“Ye see, my mother she wanted to bind me out to a blacksmith, but I kind
o’ sort o’ didn’t seem to take to it. It was kind o’ hard work, and
boys is apt to want to take life easy. Wal, I used to run off to the
sea-shore, and lie stretched out on them rocks there, and look off on to
the water; and it did use to look so sort o’ blue and peaceful, and the
ships come a sailin’ in and out so sort o’ easy and natural, that I felt
as if that are’d be jest the easiest kind o’ life a fellow could have.
All he had to do was to get aboard one o’ them ships, and be off seekin’
his fortin at t’other end o’ the rainbow, where gold grows on bushes and
there’s valleys o’ diamonds.
“So, nothin’ would do but I gin my old mother the slip; and away I went
to sea, with my duds tied up in a han’kercher.
“I tell ye what, boys, ef ye want to find an easy life, don’t ye never
go to sea. I tell ye, life on shipboard ain’t what it looks to be on
shore. I hadn’t been aboard more’n three hours afore I was the sickest
critter that ever ye did see; and I tell you, I didn’t get no kind o’
compassion. Cap’ns and mates they allers thinks boys hain’t no kind o’
business to have no bowels nor nothin’, and they put it on ’em sick or
well. It’s jest a kick here, and a cuff there, and a twitch by the ear
in t’other place; one a shovin’ on ’em this way, and another hittin’ on
’em a clip, and all growlin’ from mornin’ to night. I believe the way my
ears got so long was bein’ hauled out o’ my berth by ’em: that ’are’s a
sailor’s regular way o’ wakin’ up a boy.
“Wal, by time I got to the Penobscot country, all I wanted to know was
how to get back agin. That ’are’s jest the way folks go all their lives,
boys. It’s all fuss, fuss, and stew, stew, till ye get somewhere; and
then it’s fuss, fuss, and stew, stew, to get back agin; jump here and
scratch yer eyes out, and jump there and scratch ’em in agin,--that
’are’s life.
“Wal, I kind o’ poked round in Penobscot country till I got a berth on
’The Brilliant’ that was lyin’ at Camden, goin’ to sail to Boston.
“Ye see, ‘The Brilliant’ she was a tight little sloop in the government
service: ’twas in the war-times, ye see, and Commodore Tucker that is
now (he was Cap’n Tucker then), he had the command on her,--used to
run up and down all the coast takin’ observations o’ the British, and
keepin’ his eye out on ’em, and givin’ on ’em a nip here and a clip
there,’ cordin’ as he got a good chance. Why, your grand’ther knew old
Commodore Tucker. It was he that took Dr. Franklin over Minister, to
France, and dodged all the British vessels, right in the middle o’
the war. I tell you that ’are was like runnin’ through the drops in a
thunder-shower. He got chased by the British ships pretty consid’able,
but he was too spry for ’em. Arter the war was over, Commodore Tucker
took over John Adams, our fust Minister to England. A drefful smart man
the Commodore was, but he most like to ’a’ ben took in this ’ere time
I’m a tellin’ ye about, and all ’cause he was sort o’ softhearted to the
women. Tom Toothacre told me the story. Tom he was the one that got me
the berth on the ship. Ye see, I used to know Tom at Newport; and once
when he took sick there my mother nussed him up, and that was why Tom
was friends with me and got me the berth, and kep’ me warm in it too.
Tom he was one of your rael Maine boys, that’s hatched out, so to speak,
in water like ducks. He was born away down there on Harpswell P’int; and
they say, if ye throw one o’ them Harpswell babies into the sea, he’ll
take to it nateral, and swim like a cork: ef they hit their heads agin a
rock it only dents the rock, but don’t hurt the baby. Tom he was a great
character on the ship. He could see farther, and knew more ’bout wind
and water, than most folks: the officers took Tom’s judgment, and the
men all went by his say. My mother she chalked a streak o’ good luck for
me when she nussed up Tom.
“Wal, we wus a lyin’ at Camden there, one arternoon, goin’ to sail for
Boston that night. It was a sort o’ soft, pleasant arternoon, kind
o’ still, and there wa’n’t nothin’ a goin’ on but jest the hens a
craw-crawin’, and a histin’ up one foot, and holdin’ it a spell ’cause
they didn’t know when to set it down, and the geese a sissin’ and a
pickin’ at the grass. Ye see, Camden wasn’t nothin’ of a place,--‘twas
jest as if somebody had emptied out a pocketful o’ houses and forgot
’em. There wer’n’t nothin’ a stirrin’ or goin’ on; and so we was all
took aback, when ’bout four o’clock in the arternoon there come a
boat alongside, with a tall, elegant lady in it, all dressed in deep
mournin’. She rared up sort o’ princess-like, and come aboard our ship,
and wanted to speak to Cap’n Tucker. Where she come from, or what she
wanted, or where she was goin’ to, we none on us knew: she kep’ her veil
down so we couldn’t get sight o’ her face. All was, she must see Cap’n
Tucker alone right away.
“Wal, Cap’n Tucker he was like the generality o’ cap’ns. He was up to
’bout every thing that any _man_ could do, but it was pretty easy for a
woman to come it over him. Ye see, cap’ns, they don’t see women as men
do ashore. They don’t have enough of ’em to get tired on ’em; and every
woman’s an angel to a sea-cap’n. Anyway, the cap’n he took her into his
cabin, and he sot her a chair, and was her humble servant to command,
and what would she have of him? And we was all a winkin’, and a nudgin’
each other, and a peekin’ to see what was to come o’ it. And she see
it; and so she asks, in a sort o’ princess’ way, to speak to the cap’n
alone; and so the doors was shut, and we was left to our own ideas, and
a wonderin’ what it was all to be about.
“Wal, you see, it come out arterwards all about what went on; and things
went this way. Jest as soon as the doors was shut, and she was left
alone with the cap’n, she busted out a cryin’ and a sobbin’ fit to break
her heart.
“Wal, the cap’n he tried to comfort her up: but no, she wouldn’t be
comforted, but went on a weepin’ and a wailin’, and a wringin’ on her
hands, till the poor cap’n’s heart was a’most broke; for the cap’n was
the tenderest-hearted critter that could be, and couldn’t bear to see a
child or a woman in trouble noways.
“‘O cap’n!’ said she, ‘I’m the most unfortunate woman. I’m all alone
in the world,’ says she, ‘and I don’t know what’ll become of me ef you
don’t keep me,’ says she.
“Wal, the cap’n thought it was time to run up his colors; and so says
he, ‘Ma’am, I’m a married man, and love my wife,’ says he, ‘and so I can
feel for all women in distress,’ says he.
“‘Oh, well, then!’ says she, ‘you can feel for me, and know how to pity
me. My dear husband’s just died suddenly when he was up the river. He
was took with the fever in the woods. I nussed him day and night,’
says she; ‘but he died there in a mis’able little hut far from home
and friends,’ says she; ‘and I’ve brought his body down with me, hopin’
Providence would open some way to get it back to our home in Boston. And
now, cap’n, you must help me.’
“Then the cap’n see what she was up to: and he hated to do it, and tried
to cut her off o’ askin’; but she wa’n’t to be put off.
“‘Now, cap’n,’ says she, ‘’ef you’ll take me and the body o’ my husband
on board to-night, I’d be willin’ to reward you to any amount. Money
would be no object to me,’ says she.
“Wal, you see, the cap’n he kind o’ hated to do it; and he hemmed and
hawed, and he tried to ’pologize. He said ’twas a government vessel, and
he didn’t know as he had a right to use it. He said sailors was apt to
be superstitious; and he didn’t want ’em to know as there was a corpse
on board.
“‘Wal,’ says she, ‘why need they know? ’For, you see, she was up to
every dodge; and she said she’d come along with it at dusk, in a box,
and have it just carried to a state-room, and he needn’t tell nobody
what it was.
“Wal, Cap’n Tucker he hung off; and he tried his best to persuade her
to have a funeral, all quiet, there at Camden. He promised to get a
minister, and ’tend to it, and wait a day till it was all over, and then
take her on to Boston free gratis. But ’twas all no go. She wouldn’t
hear a word to ’t. And she reeled off the talk to him by the yard. And,
when talk failed, she took to her water-works again, till finally the
cap’n said his resolution was clean washed away, and he jest give up
hook and line; and so ’twas all settled and arranged, that, when evening
come, she was to be alongside with her boat, and took aboard.
“When she come out o’ the cap’n’s room to go off, I see Tom Toothacre a
watchin’ on her. He stood there by the railin’s a shavin’ up a plug o’
baccy to put in his pipe. He didn’t say a word; but he sort o’ took the
measure o’ that ’are woman with his eye, and kept a follerin’ on her.
“She had a fine sort o’ lively look, carried her head up and shoulders
back, and stepped as if she had steel springs in her heels.
“‘Wal, Tom, what do ye say to her?’ says Ben Bowdin.
“‘I don’t _say_ nothin’,’ says Tom, and he lit his pipe; ‘’tain’t _my_
busness,’ says he.
“‘Wal, what do you _think?_’ says Ben. Tom gin a hist to his trousers.
“‘My thoughts is my own,’ says he; ‘and I calculate to keep ’em to
myself,’ says he. And then he jest walked to the side of the vessel, and
watched the woman a gettin’ ashore. There was a queer kind o’ look in
Tom’s eye.
“Wal, the cap’n he was drefful sort o’ oneasy arter she was gone. He had
a long talk in the cabin with Mr. More, the fust officer; and there was
a sort o’ stir aboard as if somethin’ was a goin’ to happen, we couldn’t
jest say what it was.
“Sometimes it seems as if, when things is goin’ to happen, a body kind
o’ feels ’em comin’ in the air. We boys was all that way: o’ course we
didn’t know nothin’ ’bout what the woman wanted, or what she come for,
or whether she was comin’ agin; ’n fact, we didn’t know nothin’ about
it, and yet we sort o’ expected suthin’ to come o’ it; and suthin’ did
come, sure enough.
“Come on night, jest at dusk, we see a boat comin’ alongside; and there,
sure enough, was the lady in it.
“‘There, she’s comin’ agin,’ says I to Tom Tooth-acre.
“‘Yes, and brought her baggage with her,’ says Tom; and he p’inted down
to a long, narrow pine box that was in the boat beside her.
“Jest then the cap’n called on Mr. More, and he called on Tom Toothacre;
and among ’em they lowered a tackle, and swung the box aboard, and put
it in the state-room right alongside the cap’n’s cabin.
“The lady she thanked the cap’n and Mr. More, and her voice was jest as
sweet as any nightingale; and she went into the state-room arter they
put the body in, and was gone ever so long with it. The cap’n and Mr.
More they stood a whisperin’ to each other, and every once in a while
they’d kind o’ nod at the door where the lady was.
“Wal, by and by she come out with her han’ker-chief to her eyes, and
come on deck, and begun talk-in’ to the cap’n and Mr. More, and a
wishin’ all kinds o’ blessin’s on their heads.
“Wal, Tom Toothacre didn’t say a word, good or bad; but he jest kep’
a lookin’ at her, watchin’ her as a cat watches a mouse. Finally we up
sail, and started with a fair breeze. The lady she kep’ a walkin’ up and
down, up and down, and every time she turned on her heel, I saw Tom a
lookin’ arter her and kind o’ noddin’ to himself.
“‘What makes you look arter her so, Tom?’ says I to him.