It was a fair and lovely forenoon, and I thought we would go and spend
the day with the childern. Kitty Smith had gone the day before to visit
a aunt on her mother’s side to Log London. She was a layin’ out to stay
3 or 4 weeks, and I declare, it seemed lonesome as a dog—and lonesomer.
And I told Josiah that I guessed we would go to Jonesville and visit the
childern, for we hadn’t been there to stay all day with ’em for a number
of weeks. He sort o’ hung back, and said he didn’t know how to spend the
time. But I only says, decided like and firm, and in a solemn and
warnin’ way:
“You can do as you are a mind to, Josiah Allen, and as your conscience
will let you. But croup is round, that I know, and I worried last night
a good deal about little Samantha Joe.”
Says he: “I will hitch up the old mare this minute, Samantha, and do you
throw your things on as quick as you can.” And he started for the barn
almost on the run.
My natural nature is very truthful and transparent,—almost like
rain-water,—and little figurative expressions like these are painful to
me—very. But every woman who has a man to deal with for above twenty
years will know that they _have_ to use ’em in order to move men as men
ort to be moved.
[Illustration: MOVING JOSIAH.]
I won’t come right out and lie for nobody—man or beast. Croup _was_
round promiscus in Jonesville, and I _had_ worried about little Samantha
Joe. But my conscience told me, as I tied up my back hair, and hooked up
my dress, that I had talked in a sort of a parable way. And it smote me;
not so hard as it had smote; but hardish.
And if there ever was a old tyrant on the face of the earth, my
conscience is one. It won’t let me do nothin’ the least mite out of the
way without poundin’ me almost to death. Sometimes I get fairly tuckered
out with it.
Wall, I had jest finished hookin’ up my dress, and was a pinnin’ on my
collar at the lookin’-glass, when, happenin’ to throw one of the eyes of
my spectacles out of the window, I see Kellup Cobb a drivin’ up; and he
hitched the hearse to the front gate, and come in.
He looked quite well for him. His hair and whiskers was a good, dark,
tan color, bearin’ a little on the orange. Quite a becomin’ color to
him, he bein’ so saller.
He inquired where Kitty was. And then he wanted to know most the first
thing he said, and his mean looked anxious as he said it, “If her health
was a keepin’ up?”
“Why, yes,” says I, “why shouldn’t it?”
“Wall,” says he, “I was obleeged to go away on business, and couldn’t
get here last week, and I didn’t know how she would take it. I should
have wrote to her,” says he, “but not havin’ quite made up my mind
whether I would marry her or not, I thought it would be cruel to her to
pay her such a close attention as a letter would be. It wuzn’t the
postage that I minded. Three cents wouldn’t have stood in the way of my
writin’ to her, if I had made up my mind full and complete.
“But,” says he, a knittin’ up his forward hard, “them two old reasons
that did stand in the way of my marryin’ stands there now—stands there a
headin’ of me off. It hain’t so much because she is a poor girl that I
hesitate. No, that wouldn’t influence me much, for she is sound and
healthy, good to work, and would pay her way. No, it is them wimmen!
What will be done with the rest of the wimmen that I shall have to
disapinte?
“But,” says he, lookin’ gloomy into the oven, “I have jest about made up
my mind that I will marry her, whether or no, and leave the event to
Providence. If I do, they’ll have to stand it somehow. They hadn’t ort
to expect, and if they used a mite of reason they wouldn’t expect, that
a man would sacrifice himself always, and keep single forever, ruther
than hurt their feelin’s.”
Says he, lookin’ as bitter and gloomy into that oven as a oven was ever
looked into, “Even if ten or a dozen of ’em die off, the law can’t touch
me for it, for if ever a man has been careful, I have been. Look at my
clothes, now,” says he, lookin’ down on himself with a sort of a
self-righteous, admirin’ sort of a look, “I wore these old clothes
to-day jest out of solid principle and goodness towards wimmen. It
wuzn’t to be savin’, and because it looked like rain. No, I knew I had
got to be round amongst wimmen a good deal, to-day, a settlin’ up
accounts, and so I wore this old overcoat of father’s. I have got a
brand new one, but I wouldn’t wear it round amongst ’em.
[Illustration: DRESSED FOR THE OCCASION.]
“I am on my guard, and they can’t come back on me for damages. They have
only got themselves to blame if they are ondone. They might have
realized that they couldn’t all have got me. And I have jest about made
up my mind that I will run the resk and marry her. She is to Log London,
you say. It happens jest right,” says he, a brightenin’ up.
“There is a funeral down that way, to-morrow, not more than thirteen or
fourteen miles from there, and I will go round that way on my way back,
and call and see her.”
I declare his talk sickened me so that I was fairly sick to my stomach.
It was worse than thoroughwort or lobelia, and so I told Josiah
afterwards. But I didn’t say a word back to him, for I knew I might jest
as well try to convince the wind right in a whirlwind that it hadn’t
better blow, as to convince him that he was a fool.
But, as he got up to go, I told him that I had a little mite of business
of my own with him. You see our new minister, Elder Bamber, is a likely
feller as ever drawed the breath of life, and hard-workin’—couldn’t get
a cent of his pay from the meetin’-house. They had got into a kind of a
quarrel, the men had, and wouldn’t pay what they had signed. And I
proposed to the women, the female sisters, that we should try to get him
up a present of 50 dollars to last ’em through the storm—the
meetin’-house storm. For they was fairly sufferin’ for provisions, and
clothes, and stuff. And as Kellup was a member of the same
meetin’-house, and talked and sung powerful in conference meetin’s, I
thought it wouldn’t be no more than right for me to tackle him, and get
him to pay a little sunthin’ towards it. So I tackled him.
“Wall, Sister Allen,” says he, in that hypocritical, sneakin’ way of
hisen (he was always powerful at repeatin’ Scriptural texts), “I can say
with Peter, ‘Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have I will give
unto thee.’”
“Wall, what is it?” says I. “What are you goin’ to give?”
Says he, “I will work for the cause. If religion is worth anything,”
says he, a rollin’ up the whites of his eyes, “it is worth workin’
for—it is worth makin’ sacrifices for.”
“So I think,” says I, in a very dry tone. “And I want a half a dollar
out of you.”
“No!” says he, kinder puttin’ his hand over his pocket, as if he was
afraid a cent would drop out of it. “No! I will do better than that.
To-night is our conference meetin’, and I will talk powerful on the
subject.”
Says I, coldly: “Wind is a powerful element, but it hain’t a goin’ to
blow comfort into the Elder’s household, nor meat and flour into his
empty buttery-shelves, nor fire-wood into his wood-box. Song and oritery
are good in their place, but they hain’t goin’ to feed the starvin’ or
clothe the naked.” Says I, in more reasonable tones: “As I said, wind is
good in its place—I hain’t a word to say aginst it—but jest at the
present time money is goin’ to do the Elder more good than the same
amount of wind can.” And says I, in the same firm but mild tone: “I want
a half a dollar out of you.” Says I: “The Elder is fairly sufferin’ for
things to eat and drink and wear. And you know,” says I, “that if ever
there was a good, earnest, Christian man, it is Elder Bamber. He is a
Christian from the top of his head to the sole of his boots. He don’t
wear his religion on the top of his head for a hat, and take it off
Sunday nights. It goes clear through him, and works out from the
inside.”
“Yes,” says Kellup, a clutchin’ his pocket with a firmer grip, “he is a
worthy man, and I should think the thought of his noble and lofty
mission would be meat and drink to him. It probable is. It would be to
me—and clothin’. Oh!” says he, a rollin’ up his eyes still further in
his head, “oh! the thought of savin’ souls; what a comfort that must be
to the Elder; what a rich food for him.”
Says I, in colder tones than I had used yet, for I was fairly wore out
with him: “The Elder can’t eat souls, and if he could he would starve to
death on such souls as your’n, if he eat one every five minutes.”
He didn’t say nothin’ more, but onhitched his hearse and started off. I
don’t know but he was mad, and don’t care. But though I didn’t get a
cent from him or his father, I raised 50 dollars with my own hands and
the might of my shoulder-blades, and sent it to him in a letter marked,
“From friends of religion and the Elder.”
Wall, jest as Josiah driv up with the old mare, a hull load of company
driv up from the other way—come to spend the day. I was disappinted, but
I didn’t murmur. I took ’em as a dispensation, killed a fat duck, and
made considerable of a fuss; done well by ’em. They come from a
distance, and had to start for home the sun 2 hours high. And I told
Josiah it was so pleasant I guessed we would go to Jonesville then, and
he (havin’ that babe on his mind) consented to at once and immediately.
So we sot off. About half a mile this side of Jonesville we met Thomas
J. and Maggie jest a settin’ off for a ride. We stopped our 2 teams and
visited a spell back and forth. I wouldn’t let ’em go back home, as they
both offered and insisted on, but made an appintment to take dinner with
’em the next day, Providence and the weather permittin’. And then we
drove on to Whitfield’s. And I don’t never want to see a prettier sight
than I see as we driv up.
[Illustration: A ROADSIDE VISIT.]
There Tirzah Ann sot out on the portico, all dressed up in a cool mull
dress. It was one I had bought her before she was married, but it was
washed and done up clean and fresh, and looked as good as new. It was
pure white, with little bunches of blue forget-me-nots on it, and she
had a bunch of the same posys and some pink rose-buds in her hair, and
on the bosom of her frock. There is a hull bed of ’em in the yard. She
is a master hand for dressin’ up and lookin’ pretty, but at the same
time is very equinomical, and a first-rate housekeeper. She looked the
very picture of health and enjoyment—plump and rosy, and happy as a
queen; and she was a queen. Queen of her husband’s heart; and settin’ up
on that pure and lofty throne of constant and deathless love, she looked
first-rate, and felt so.
[Illustration: A HAPPY HOME.]
It had been a very warm day, nearly hot, and Whitfield I s’pose had come
home kinder tired. So he had stretched himself out at full length on the
grass in front of the portico, and there he lay with his hands under his
head, a laughin’, and a lookin’ up into Tirzah Ann’s face as radiant and
lovin’ as if she was the sun and he a sun-flower. But that simely,
though very poetical and figurative, don’t half express the good looks,
and health, and rest, and happiness on both their faces, as they looked
at each other, and then at that _babe_.
That most beautifulest and intelligentest of childern was a toddlin’
round, first up to one of ’em and then the other, with her bright eyes a
dancin’, and her cheeks red as roses. You see their yard is so large and
shady, and the little thing havin’ got so it can run round alone, is out
in the yard a playin’ most all the time, and it is dretful good for her.
And she enjoys it the best that ever was, and Tirzah Ann enjoys it, too,
for after she gets her work done up, all she has to do is to set in the
door and watch the little thing a playin’ round, and bein’ perfectly
happy. The minute she ketched sight of the old mare and me and her
grandpa, she run down to the gate as fast as her little feet could carry
her. She had a little pink dress on, and pink stockin’s, and white
shoes, and a white ruffled apron, with her pretty, shining hair a
hangin’ down in curls over it, and she did, jest as sure as I live and
breathe—she _did_ look almost too beautiful for earth. I guess she got a
pretty good kissin’ from Josiah and me, and then Whitfield and Tirzah
Ann come a hurryin’ down to the gate, glad enough to see us, as they
always be.
[Illustration: LITTLE SAMANTHA JOE.]
Josiah, of course, had to take that beautiful child for a little ride,
and Whitfield said he guessed he would go, too. But I got out and went
in, and as we sot there on the stoop, Tirzah Ann up and told me what she
and Whitfield was a goin’ to do. They was goin’ off for the summer for a
rest and change. And I thought from the first minute she spoke of it
that it was foolish in her. Now rests are as likely things as ever was;
so are changes.
But I have said, and I say still, that I had ruther lay down to home, as
the poet says, “on my own delightful feather-bed,” with a fan and a
newspaper, and take a rest, than dress up and travel off 2 or 300 milds
through the burnin’ sun, with achin’ body, wet with presperation and
sweat, to take it. It seems to me that I would get more rest out of the
former than out of the more latter course and proceedin’. Howsumever,
everybody to their own mind.
Likewise with changes: I have said, and I say still, that changes are
likely and respectable, if you can get holt of ’em; but how can you?
Havin’ such powerful and eloquent emotions as I have, havin’ such hefty
principles a performin’ inside of my mind, enjoyin’ such idees, and
faiths, and aspirations, and longin’s, and hopes, and despairs, and
everything—I s’pose that is what makes me think that what is goin’ on
round me, the outside of me, hain’t of so much consequence. I seem to
live inside of myself (as it were) more than I do on the outside. And so
it don’t seem of so much consequence what the lay of the land round me
may happen to be, whether it is sort o’ hilly and mountainous or more
level-like; or whether steam-cars may be a goin’ by me (on the outside
of me), or boats a sailin’ round me, or milk-wagons.
You see the real change, the real rest, would have to be on the inside,
and not on the outside. Nobody, no matter how much their weight may be
by the steel-yards, can carry round such grand, hefty principles as I
carry round without gettin’ tired; or enjoy the lofty hopes, and
desires, and aspirations that I enjoy, and meditate on all the sad, and
mysterious, and puzzlin’ conundrums of the old world as I meditate on
’em, without gettin’ fairly tuckered out.
Great hearts enjoy greatly and suffer greatly. And so sometimes, when
heart-tired and brain-weary, if I could quell down them soarin’ emotions
and make ’em lay still for a spell, and shet up my heart like a
buro-draw, and hang up the key, and onscrew my head and lay it onto the
manteltry-piece, then I could go off and enjoy a change that would be
refreshin’ and truly delightful. But as it is, from Jonesville clear to
the Antipithies, the puzzlin’ perplexities, the woes, and the cares of
the old world foller right on after us tight as our shadders. Our pure
and soarin’ desires, our blind mistakes, and deep despairs; our
longin’s, strivin’s, memories, heartaches; all the joys and burdens of a
soul, has to be carried by us up the steepest mountains or down into the
lowest vallies. The same emotions that was a performin’ inside of our
minds down in the Yo Semity, will be a performin’ jest the same up on
the Pyramids.
The same questionin’ eyes, sort o’ glad and sort o’ sorrowful, that
looked out over New York Harbor will look out over the Bay of Naples—and
then beyond ’em both, out into a deeper, more mysterious ocean, the
boundless sea that lays beyond everything, and before everything, and
round everything, that great, misty sea of the Unknown, the Hereafter;
tryin’ to see what we hain’t never seen, and wonderin’ when we shall see
it, and how? and where? and wherefore? and if things be so? and why?
Tryin’ to hear the murmur of them waves that we know are a washin’ up
round us on every side, that nobody hain’t never heard, but we know are
there; the mighty Past, the mysterious Future. Tryin’ to ketch a glimpse
of them shadowy sails that are floatin’ in and out forever more, with a
freight of immortal souls, bearin’ them here, and away. We know we have
sailed on ’em once, and have got to again—and can’t ketch no glimpse on
’em—can’t know nothin’ about ’em—sealed baby lips, silent, dead lips,
never tellin’ nothin’ about ’em. Each soul has got to embark and sail
out alone, out into the silence and the shadows—sail out into the
mysterious Beyond.
[Illustration: JOSIAH STILL.]
We can’t get away from ourselves, and get a real change, nohow, unless
we knock our heads in and make idiots and lunys of ourselves. Movin’ our
bodies round here and there is only a shadow of a change, a mockery, as
if I should dress up my Josiah in soldier coats or baby clothes. There
he is inside of ’em, clear Josiah, no change in him, only a little
difference in his outside circumstances.
Standin’ as we do on a narrow belt of land, which is the Present, and
them endless seas a beatin’ round us on every side of us, bottomless,
shoreless, ageless—and we a not seein’ either on ’em; under them awful,
and lofty, and curious circumstances, what difference does it really
make to us whether we are a layin’ down or a standin’ up—whether we are
on a hill, or down in a valley—whether a lot on us get together in
cities and villages, like aunts on a aunt-hill; or whether we are more
alone, like storks or ostridges?
This is a very deep and curious subject. I have talked eloquent on it, I
know, and my readers know. But I could go on and filosifize on it jest
as powerful and deep for hours and hours. But I have already episoded
too far, and to resoom and continue on. I told Tirzah Ann that I thought
it was foolish in her.
And she said, “It was very genteel to go away from home for the summer.”
She said, “Miss Skidmore was goin’.” She is the other lawyer’s wife to
Jonesville, and Tirzah Ann said she was bound to not come in behind her.
She said, “Miss Skidmore said that nobody who made any pretensions to
bein’ genteel stayed to home durin’ the heated term.”
“What do they go away for, mostly?” says I, in a cool tone, for I didn’t
over and above like the plan.
“Oh! for health and—”
“But,” says I, “hain’t you and Whitfield enjoyin’ good health?”
“Never could be better health than we both have got,” says she; “but
folks go for health and pleasure.”
“Hain’t you a takin’ comfort now,” says I, “solid comfort?”
“Yes,” says she, “nobody can be happier than Whitfield and I are every
day of our lives.”
“Wall,” says I coolly, “then you had better let well enough alone.”
“But,” says she, “folks go for a rest.”
“Rest from what?” says I. “It seems to me that I never in my hull life
see nobody look more rested than you and Whitfield do.” Says I, askin’
her right out plain, “Don’t you feel rested, Tirzah Ann?”
“Why yes,” she said, “she did.”
“Wall,” says I, “I knew you did from your looks. Don’t you and Whitfield
feel fresh and vigorous and rested every mornin’, ready to take up the
labor of the day with a willin’ heart? Do you either of you have any
more work to do than is for your health to do? Don’t you find plenty of
time for rest and recreation every day as you go along?” Says I: “It is
with health jest as it is with cleanin’ house. I don’t believe in
lettin’ things get all run down, and nasty, and then once a year tear
everything to pieces, and do up the hull cleanin’ of a year to once, and
then let everything go again for another year. No! I believe in keepin’
everything slick and comfortable day by day, and year by year. In
housens, have a daily mixture of cleanin’ and comfort. In health, have a
daily mixture of labor, recreation, and rest. I mean for folks like you
and Whitfield, who can do so. Of course some have to work beyond their
strength, and stiddy; let them take their rest and comfort when they can
get it; better take it once a year, like a box of pills, than not at
all. But as for you and Whitfield, I say again, in the almost immortal
words of the poet, ‘better let well enough alone.’”
[Illustration: THE ANNUAL TURNOUT.]
“But,” says she, “I want to do as other folks do. I am bound not to let
Miss Skidmore get the upper hands of me. I want to be genteel.”
“Wall,” says I, “if you are determined to foller them paths, Tirzah Ann,
you mustn’t come to your ma for advice. She knows nothin’ about them
pathways; she never walked in ’em.”
I could see jest where it was. I could see that Miss Skidmore was to the
bottom of it all—she and Tirzah Ann’s ambition. I could lay the hull on
it to them 2. The Skidmores hadn’t lived to Jonesville but a little
while, and Miss Skidmore was awful big-feelin’ and was determined to
lead the fashion. She wouldn’t associate with hardly anybody; wouldn’t
speak to only jest a few. And when she wuz to parties, or anywhere, she
would set kind o’ stunny and motionless—some as if her head was stiff
and she couldn’t bend it.
[Illustration: MISS SKIDMORE.]
Why, I s’posed the first time I see her appear—it was to quite a big
party to Elder Bamber’ses—why, I s’posed jest as much as if I had it on
myself, that she had a stiff neck; s’posed she had took cold, and it had
settled there. I never mistrusted it was tryin’ to act genteel that
ailed her. I see when I was introduced to her that she acted sort o’
curious and stunny, and I stood by and watched her (sunthin’ as I would
a small circus), and I see that she acted in jest that way to most
everybody that was introduced to her. And I knew, judgin’ her by myself,
that she would want to move her head more and act more limber if she
could, so I up and told her in a friendly way, that if I was in her
place I would steep up some camfrey roots, and take ’em three times a
day; and at night I would take some burdock leaves, and wilt ’em, and
bind ’em on her neck. Says I:
“Burdock will take that stiffness out of your neck if anything will.”
But Sister Bamber winked me out, and told me what ailed her; told me she
kep’ her head up in that sort of a stiff way, and sot in them stunny,
motionless autitudes and postures, in order to be genteel and
aristocratic. And I felt like a fool to think I had been a recommendin’
burdock for it. For I knew in a minute that when anybody held their neck
craned up in that way in order to act genteel and aristocratic—good
land! I knew burdock couldn’t help ’em any. I knew it was common sense
they wanted, and a true dignity, and the sweet courtesy of gentle
breeding,—burdock couldn’t help ’em. Why, some said she felt above old
Skidmore himself, and thought she was kinder stoopin’ to associate with
him, and talk with him. I don’t know how true that was, but I know she
tried to be dretful genteel, and put on sights of airs. And Tirzah Ann
bein’ ambitious, and knowin’ she looked a good deal better than she did,
and knew as much agin’, and knowin’ that Whitfield was as good agin a
lawyer as her husband was, and 3 times as well off, wasn’t goin’ to
stand none of her airs. She did seem to sort o’ look down on Tirzah Ann,
and feel above her, and it madded Tirzah Ann awfully, for she never felt
as I did on that subject.
Now if anybody wanted to put on airs, and feel above me, I shouldn’t do
a thing to break it up—not a thing. I should filosofize on it in this
way: because they felt as if they was better than I was, that wouldn’t
make ’em so; if it would, why I should probable get up more interest on
the subject. But it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t make ’em a mite better, nor me
a mite worse, so what hurt would it do, anyway? It wouldn’t hender me
from feelin’ as cool and contented and happy as a cluster cowcumber at
sunrise, and it would probable make them feel sort o’ comfortable and
good, so I should be glad they felt.
But not bein’ jealous dispositioned by nater, and and havin’ so many
other things to think of—soarin’ and divin’ so high and deep into
curious and solemn subjects as I have soared and doven, I s’pose folks
might feel milds and milds above me, and I not mistrust what they was a
doin’; never find it out in the world unless I was told of it.
Now when Tirzah Ann was about 14 or 15, she that was Keturah Allen, a
haughty, high-headed sort of a woman, come to our house a visitin’;
stayed most all winter. She was a woman who had seen better days; had
been quite fore-handed; and she kep’ her fore-handed ways when her four
hands (as you may say in a figirative way) was gone and used up. She was
real poor now, hadn’t nothin’ to live on hardly, and I told Josiah that
we would invite her to stay quite a spell, thinkin’ it would be a help
to her. She was a distant cousin of Josiah; probable as fur off as 7th
or 8th.
[Illustration: KETURAH ALLEN.]
She had a very disagreeable, high-headed, patronizin’ way with her; very
proud and domineerin’ and haughty in her demeanier. But I never had it
pass my mind that she was a feelin’ above Josiah and me. But I s’pose
she wuz. I s’pose, from what I found out afterwards, that she did feel
above us, right there in our own house, for as much as 11 weeks, and I
never mistrusted what was goin’ on. And I don’t s’pose I should have
found it out to this day if Tirzah Ann hadn’t see it, and up and told me
of it.
I see she was awful disagreeable, dretful hard on the nerves and the
temper. But I took her as a dispensation, and done, if anything, better
by her than I would if she had been more agreeabler. I felt a feelin’ of
pity and kindness towards her, a kind of a Biblical feelin’ that should
be felt towards the froward—my principles was a performing round her in
a martyr way, and a performin’ first rate.
When Tirzah Ann come here (she had been off on a visit), and before she
had been home a day, she found out what she was up to. She always had a
sort of a jealous, mistrustin’ turn, Tirzah Ann had. And says she that
night, as we was a washin’ the dishes to the sink, I a washin’ and she a
wipin’:
“Cousin Keturah feels above you, mother.”
“Why, how you talk,” says I. “I never mistrusted what she was a doin’.”
And she had kept watch of little things that I hadn’t noticed or thought
of, and says she:
“She did that, mother, because she felt above you.”
“Why, is that so?” says I. “I thought she done it because she thought so
much of me.”
And I kep’ on, serene and calm, a washin’ my tea-plates. And Tirzah Ann
looked keen at me, and says she:
“Don’t you believe I am tellin’ you the truth, mother? Don’t you believe
she does feel above us?”
“Oh, yes,” says I, “I persume you are in the right on’t, though I never
should have mistrusted such a thing in the world.”
“Wall, what makes you look so serene and happy over it?”
“Why, I am thinkin’, Tirzah Ann, whether she gets enough comfort out of
it to pay her for her trouble. I hope she does, poor thing, for she
hain’t got much else to make her happy.”
“You do beat all, mother,” says Tirzah Ann; “you don’t seem to care a
mite whether anybody puts on airs and feels above you or not.”
And says I, “That is jest how it is, Tirzah Ann; I don’t.”
“Wall, it makes me mad!” says she, a rubbin’ the teapot hard.
Says I, “What earthly hurt does it do to us, Tirzah Ann? Can you tell?”
“Why, no!” She couldn’t really tell what particular hurt it done, and
she rubbed the teapot a little slower and more reasonable.
“Wall,” says I, coolly, “then let her feel. It probable does her some
good, or else she wouldn’t tackle the job.”
And jest as I had argued with Tirzah Ann about she that was Keturah
Allen, jest so I had argued, and did argue about Miss Skidmore. But I
couldn’t convince her—she stuck to it.
“It does look so poor, mother, so fairly sickish, to see anybody that
hain’t got nothin’ under the sun to make ’em feel proud, put on such
airs, and try to be so exclusive and haughty.”
And says I, “Such folks _have_ to, Tirzah Ann.” Says I, “You’ll find, as
a general thing, that they are the very ones who do it. They are the
very ones who put on the most airs, and they do it because they _have_
to. Why,” says I, “divin’ so deep into filosify as I have doven, it is
jest as plain to me as anything can be, that if anybody has got uncommon
goodness, or intellect, or beauty, or wealth, and an assured position,
they don’t have to put on the haughtiness and airs that them do that
hain’t got nothin’. They don’t _have_ to; they have got sunthin’ to hold
’em up, they can stand without airs.”
I had talked it all over with Tirzah Ann lots of times, but it hadn’t
done her a mite of good, as I could see, for I hadn’t got through
reveryin’ on the subject, nor begun to, when she up and says agin:
“Miss Skidmore says that all the high aristocracy of Jonesville, if they
are aris_to_krits,” says Tirzah Ann—“that is the way she pronounces it,
they say she can’t read hardly,—if they are aris_to_krits, and not
imposters, they will go away during the summer for a change. And I say,
if a change is necessary for her and old Skidmore, why Whitfield and I
have got to have a change, if we die in the attempt.”
[Illustration: VIEW OF JONESVILLE.]
“A change!” says I, in low axents, a lookin’ round the charmin’, lovely
prospect;—the clean, bright cottage, with its open doors and windows,
and white ruffled curtains wavin’ on the cool breeze; the green velvet
grass, the bright flower beds, the climbing, blossoming vines, the birds
singin’ in the shady branches overhead, and in the orchard; the blue
lake lyin’ so calm and peaceful in the distance, shining over the green
hills and forests; and the wide, cloudless sky bending over all like a
benediction.
“A change!” says I, in low, tremblin’ tones of emotion. “Eve wanted a
change in Paradise, and she got it, too.”
“But,” says Tirzah Ann, for my tone impressed her fearfully, “don’t you
believe in a change for the summer? Don’t you think they are healthy?”
I thought I wouldn’t go into the heights and depths of felosophy in
which I had flew and doven—she had heard me time and agin, and eloquence
is very tuckerin’ especially after you have been doin’ a hard day’s
work—so I merely said:
“When anybody is bakin’ up alive in crowded cities; when the hot sun is
shinin’ back on him from brick walls and stony roads; when all the air
that comes to them comes hot and suffocatin’, like a simon blowin’ over
a desert; to such, a change of body is sweet, and is truly healthy.
But,” says I, lookin’ round again on the cool and entrancin’ beauty and
freshness of the land and other scape, “to you whom Providence has
placed in a Eden of beauty and bloom, to you I again repeat for the 3d
time that line of eloquent and beautiful poetry,—‘Better let well enough
alone.’”
I could see by the looks of her face that I hadn’t convinced her. But at
that very minute Josiah came back, and hollered to me that “he guessed
we had better be goin’ back, for he was afraid the hens would get out,
and get into the turnips.”
He had jest set out a new bed, and the hens was bewitched to eat the
tops off. He had shut ’em up, but felt it was resky to not watch ’em. So
we started off. But not before I had told Whitfield my mind about the
plan. He looked more convinced than Tirzah Ann did, a good deal more.
But I no need to have builded up any hopes on that, onto his mean, for I
might have known that when a man loves a woman devotedly, and they haint
been married—wall, anywheres from 1 to 4 or 5 years, her influence over
him is powerful, and never can be told. She moulds him to her will as
easy as clay is moulded in the hands of Mr. Potter. Sometimes she moulds
honer into him, and then again dishoner; sometimes she moulds him
comfortable, and then again she moulds him hard, and powerful
oncomfortable. These things are curious, but useful and entertainin’ to
study on, and very deep.
[Illustration]