THERE were two grand places for gossip in the community; the old tavern
on the Edgewood side of the bridge and the brick store in Riverboro. The
company at the Edgewood Tavern would be a trifle different in character,
more picturesque, imposing, and eclectic because of the transient guests
that gave it change and variety. Here might be found a judge or lawyer
on his way to court; a sheriff with a handcuffed prisoner; a farmer or
two, stopping on the road to market with a cartful of produce; and
an occasional teamster, peddler, and stage-driver. On winter nights
champion story-tellers like Jed Morrill and Rish Bixby would drop in
there and hang their woollen neck-comforters on the pegs along the
wall-side, where there were already hats, topcoats, and fur mufflers,
as well as stacks of whips, canes, and ox-goads standing in the corners.
They would then enter the room, rubbing their hands genially, and,
nodding to Companion Pike, Cephas Cole, Phil Perry and others, ensconce
themselves snugly in the group by the great open fireplace. The landlord
was always glad to see them enter, for their stories, though old to him,
were new to many of the assembled company and had a remarkable greet on
the consumption of liquid refreshment.
On summer evenings gossip was languid in the village, and if any
occurred at all it would be on the loafer's bench at one or the other
side of the bridge. When cooler weather came the group of local wits
gathered in Riverboro, either at Uncle Bart's joiner's shop or at
the brick store, according to fancy. The latter place was perhaps the
favorite for Riverboro talkers. It was a large, two-story, square, brick
building with a big-mouthed chimney and an open fire. When every house
in the two villages had six feet of snow around it, roads would always
be broken to the brick store, and a crowd of ten or fifteen men would be
gathered there talking, listening, betting, smoking, chewing, bragging,
playing checkers, singing, and “swapping stories.”
Some of the men had been through the War of 1812 and could display
wounds received on the field of valor; others were still prouder of
scars won in encounters with the Indians, and there was one old codger,
a Revolutionary veteran, Bill Dunham by name, who would add bloody
tales of his encounters with the “Husshons.” His courage had been so
extraordinary and his slaughter so colossal that his hearers marvelled
that there was a Hessian left to tell his side of the story, and Bill
himself doubted if such were the case.
“'T is an awful sin to have on your soul,” Bill would say from his place
in a dark corner, where he would sit with his hat pulled down over his
eyes till the psychological moment came for the “Husshons” to be trotted
out. “'T is an awful sin to have on your soul,--the extummination of
a race o' men; even if they wa'n't nothin' more 'n so many ignorant
cockroaches. Them was the great days for fightin'! The Husshons was
the biggest men I ever seen on the field, most of 'em standin' six feet
eight in their stockin's,--but Lord! how we walloped 'em! Once we had a
cannon mounted an' loaded for 'em that was so large we had to draw the
ball into it with a yoke of oxen!”
Bill paused from force of habit, just as he had paused for the last
twenty years. There had been times when roars of incredulous laughter
had greeted this boast, but most of this particular group had heard the
yarn more than once and let it pass with a smile and a wink, remembering
the night that Abel Day had asked old Bill how they got the oxen out of
the cannon on that most memorable occasion.
“Oh!” said Bill, “that was easy enough; we jest unyoked 'em an' turned
'em out o' the primin'-hole!”
It was only early October, but there had been a killing frost, and Ezra
Simms, who kept the brick store, flung some shavings and small wood on
the hearth and lighted a blaze, just to induce a little trade and start
conversation on what threatened to be a dull evening. Peter Morrill,
Jed's eldest brother, had lately returned from a long trip through the
state and into New Hampshire, and his adventures by field and flood were
always worth listening to. He went about the country mending clocks, and
many an old time-piece still bears his name, with the date of repairing,
written in pencil on the inside of its door.
There was never any lack of subjects at the brick store, the
idiosyncrasies of the neighbors being the most prolific source of
anecdote and comment. Of scandal about women there was little, though
there would be occasional harmless pleasantries concerning village love
affairs; prophecies of what couple would be next “published” in the
black-walnut frame up at the meeting-house; a genial comment on the
number and chances of Patience Baxter's various beaux; and whenever all
else failed, the latest story of Deacon Baxter's parsimony, in which the
village traced the influence of heredity.
“He can't hardly help it, inheritin' it on both sides,” was Abel Day's
opinion. “The Baxters was allers snug, from time 'memorial, and Foxy's
the snuggest of 'em. When I look at his ugly mug an' hear his snarlin'
voice, I thinks to myself, he's goin' the same way his father did. When
old Levi Baxter was left a widder-man in that house o' his'n up river,
he grew wuss an' wuss, if you remember, till he wa'n't hardly human
at the last; and I don't believe Foxy even went up to his own father's
funeral.”
“'T would 'a' served old Levi right if nobody else had gone,” said Rish
Bixby. “When his wife died he refused to come into the house till the
last minute. He stayed to work in the barn until all the folks had
assembled, and even the men were all settin' down on benches in the
kitchen. The parson sent me out for him, and I'm blest if the old skunk
didn't come in through the crowd with his sleeves rolled up,--went to
the sink and washed, and then set down in the room where the coffin was,
as cool as a cowcumber.”
“I remember that funeral well,” corroborated Abel Day. “An' Mis' Day
heerd Levi say to his daughter, as soon as they'd put poor old Mrs.
Baxter int' the grave: 'Come on, Marthy; there 's no use cryin' over
spilt milk; we'd better go home an' husk out the rest o' that corn.'
Old Foxy could have inherited plenty o' meanness from his father, that's
certain, an' he's added to his inheritance right along, like the thrifty
man he is. I hate to think o' them two fine girls wearin' their fingers
to the bone for his benefit.”
“Oh, well! 't won't last forever,” said Rish Bixby. “They're the
handsomest couple o' girls on the river an' they'll get husbands afore
many years. Patience'll have one pretty soon, by the looks. She never
budges an inch but Mark Wilson or Phil Perry are follerin' behind, with
Cephas Cole watchin' his chance right along, too. Waitstill don't seem
to have no beaux; what with flyin' around to keep up with the Deacon,
an' bein' a mother to Patience, her hands is full, I guess.”
“If things was a little mite dif'rent all round, I could prognosticate
who Waitstill could keep house for,” was Peter Morrill's opinion.
“You mean Ivory Boynton? Well, if the Deacon was asked he'd never give
his consent, that's certain; an' Ivory ain't in no position to keep
a wife anyways. What was it you heerd 'bout Aaron Boynton up to New
Hampshire, Peter?” asked Abel Day.
“Consid'able, one way an' another; an' none of it would 'a' been any
comfort to Ivory. I guess Aaron 'n' Jake Cochrane was both of 'em more
interested in savin' the sisters' souls than the brothers'! Aaron was a
fine-appearin' man, and so was Jake for that matter, 'n' they both had
the gift o' gab. There's nothin' like a limber tongue if you want to
please the women-folks! If report says true, Aaron died of a fever out
in Ohio somewheres; Cortland's the place, I b'lieve. Seems's if he hid
his trail all the way from New Hampshire somehow, for as a usual thing,
a man o' book-larnin' like him would be remembered wherever he went.
Wouldn't you call Aaron Boynton a turrible larned man, Timothy?”
Timothy Grant, the parish clerk, had just entered the store on an
errand, but being directly addressed, and judging that the subject under
discussion was a discreet one, and that it was too early in the evening
for drinking to begin, he joined the group by the fireside. He had
preached in Vermont for several years as an itinerant Methodist
minister before settling down to farming in Edgewood, only giving up
his profession because his quiver was so full of little Grants that a
wandering life was difficult and undesirable. When Uncle Bart Cole
had remarked that Mis' Grant had a little of everything in the way
of baby-stock now,--black, red, an' yaller-haired, dark and light
complected, fat an' lean, tall an' short, twins an' singles,--Jed
Morrill had observed dryly: “Yes, Mis' Grant kind o' reminds me of
charity.”
“How's that?” inquired Uncle Bart.
“She beareth all things,” chuckled Jed.
“Aaron Boynton was, indeed, a man of most adhesive larnin',” agreed
Timothy, who had the reputation of the largest and most unusual
vocabulary in Edgewood. “Next to Jacob Cochrane I should say Aaron had
more grandeloquence as an orator than any man we've ever had in these
parts. It don't seem's if Ivory was goin' to take after his father that
way. The little feller, now, is smart's a whip, an' could talk the tail
off a brass monkey.”
“Yes, but Rodman ain't no kin to the Boyntons,” Abel reminded him. “He
inhails from the other side o' the house.”
“That's so; well, Ivory does, for certain, an' takes after his mother,
right enough, for she hain't spoken a dozen words in as many years, I
guess. Ivory's got a sight o' book-knowledge, though, an' they do say he
could talk Greek an' Latin both, if we had any of 'em in the community
to converse with. I've never paid no intention to the dead languages,
bein' so ocker-pied with other studies.”
“Why do they call 'em the dead languages, Tim?” asked Rish Bixby.
“Because all them that ever spoke 'em has perished off the face o' the
land,” Timothy answered oracularly. “Dead an' gone they be, lock, stock,
an' barrel; yet there was a time when Latins an' Crustaceans an' Hebrews
an' Prooshians an' Australians an' Simesians was chatterin' away in
their own tongues, an' so pow'ful that they was wallopin' the whole
earth, you might say.”
“I bet yer they never tried to wallop these here United States,”
interpolated Bill Dunham from the dark corner by the molasses hogs-head.
“Is Ivory in here?” The door opened and Rodman Boynton appeared on the
threshold.
“No, sonny, Ivory ain't been in this evening,” replied Ezra Simms. “I hope
there ain't nothin' the matter over to your house?”
“No, nothing particular,” the boy answered hesitatingly; “only Aunt
Boynton don't seem so well as common and I can't find Ivory anywhere.”
“Come along with me; I'll help you look for him an' then I'll go as fur
as the lane with yer if we don't find him.” And kindly Rish Bixby took
the boy's hand and left the store.
“Mis' Boynton had a spell, I guess!” suggested the storekeeper, peering
through the door into the darkness. “'T ain't like Ivory to be out
nights and leave her to Rod.”
“She don't have no spells,” said Abel Day. “Uncle Bart sees consid'able
of Ivory an' he says his mother is as quiet as a lamb.--Couldn't you git
no kind of a certif'cate of Aaron's death out o' that Enfield feller,
Peter? Seems's if that poor woman'd oughter be stopped watchin' for a
dead man; tuckerin' herself all out, an' keepin' Ivory an' the boy all
nerved up.”
“I've told Ivory everything I could gether up in the way of information,
and give him the names of the folks in Ohio that had writ back to
New Hampshire. I didn't dialate on Aaron's goin's-on in Effingham an'
Portsmouth, cause I dassay 't was nothin' but scandal. Them as hates
the Cochranites'll never allow there's any good in 'em, whereas I've met
some as is servin' the Lord good an' constant, an' indulgin' in no kind
of foolishness an' deviltry whatsoever.”
“Speakin' o' Husshons,” said Bill Dunham from his corner, “I remember--”
“We wa'n't alludin' to no Husshons,” retorted Timothy Grant. “We was
dealin' with the misfortunes of Aaron Boynton, who never fit valoriously
on the field o' battle, but perished out in Ohio of scarlit fever, if
what they say in Enfield is true.”
“Tis an easy death,” remarked Bill argumentatively. “Scarlit fever don't
seem like nothin' to me! Many's the time I've been close enough to
fire at the eyeball of a Husshon, an' run the resk o' bein' blown to
smithereens!--calm and cool I alters was, too! Scarlit fever is an easy
death from a warrior's p'int o' view!”
“Speakin' of easy death,” continued Timothy, “you know I'm a great one
for words, bein' something of a scholard in my small way. Mebbe you
noticed that Elder Boone used a strange word in his sermon last Sunday?
Now an' then, when there's too many yawnin' to once in the congregation,
Parson'll out with a reg'lar jaw-breaker to wake 'em up. The word as
near as I could ketch it was 'youthinasia.' I kep' holt of it till
noontime an' then I run home an' looked through all the y's in the
dictionary without findin' it. Mebbe it's Hebrew, I thinks, for Hebrew's
like his mother's tongue to Parson, so I went right up to him at
afternoon meetin' an' says to him: 'What's the exact meanin' of
“youthinasia”? There ain't no sech word in the Y's in my Webster,' says
I. 'Look in the E's, Timothy; “euthanasia”' says he, 'means easy death';
an' now, don't it beat all that Bill Dunham should have brought that
expression of 'easy death' into this evenin's talk?”
“I know youth an' I know Ashy,” said Abel Day, “but blessed if I know
why they should mean easy death when they yoke 'em together.” “That's
because you ain't never paid no 'tention to entomology,” said Timothy.
“Aaron Boynton was master o' more 'ologies than you could shake a stick
at, but he used to say I beat him on entomology. Words air cur'ous
things sometimes, as I know, hevin' had consid'able leisure time to read
when I was joggin' 'bout the country an' bein' brought into contack with
men o' learnin'. The way I worked it out, not wishin' to ask Parson any
more questions, bein' something of a scholard myself, is this: The youth
in Ashy is a peculiar kind o' youth, 'n' their religion disposes 'em to
lay no kind o' stress on huming life. When anything goes wrong with
'em an' they get a set-back in war, or business, or affairs with
women-folks, they want to die right off; so they take a sword an' stan'
it straight up wherever they happen to be, in the shed or the barn, or
the henhouse, an' they p'int the sharp end right to their waist-line,
where the bowels an' other vital organisms is lowcated; an' then they
fall on to it. It runs 'em right through to the back an' kills 'em like
a shot, and that's the way I cal'late the youth in Ashy dies, if my
entomology is correct, as it gen'ally is.”
“Don't seem an easy death to me,” argued Okra, “but I ain't no scholard.
What college did thou attend to, Tim?”
“I don't hold no diaploma,” responded Timothy, “though I attended to
Wareham Academy quite a spell, the same time as your sister was goin' to
Wareham Seminary where eddication is still bein' disseminated though of
an awful poor kind, compared to the old times.”
“It's live an' larn,” said the storekeeper respectfully. “I never
thought of a Seminary bein' a place of dissemination before, but you can
see the two words is near kin.”
“You can't alters tell by the sound,” said Timothy instructively.
“Sometimes two words'll start from the same root, an' branch out
diff'rent, like 'critter' an' 'hypocritter.' A 'hypocritter' must
natcherally start by bein' a 'critter,' but a critter ain't obliged to
be a 'hypocritter' 'thout he wants to.”
“I should hope not,” interpolated Abel Day, piously. “Entomology must be
an awful interest-in' study, though I never thought of observin' words
myself, kept to avoid vulgar language an' profanity.”
“Husshon's a cur'ous word for a man,” inter-jected Bill Dunham with a
last despairing effort. “I remember seein' a Husshon once that--”
“Perhaps you ain't one to observe closely, Abel,” said Timothy, not
taking note of any interruption, simply using the time to direct a
stream of tobacco juice to an incredible distance, but landing it neatly
in the exact spot he had intended. “It's a trade by itself, you might
say, observin' is, an' there's another sing'lar corraption! The Whigs
in foreign parts, so they say, build stone towers to observe the evil
machinations of the Tories, an' so the word 'observatory' come into
general use! All entomology; nothin' but entomology.”
“I don't see where in thunder you picked up so much larnin', Timothy!”
It was Abel Day's exclamation, but every one agreed with him.