the stomach so you could hear it all over the house—for he has got so
used to public life and its duties, that he makes gestures right along
every day, good enough for anybody, and this was; it would have knocked
anybody down that wasn’t in the practice.
“A _hard_ blow,” says he peltin’ himself again right in his breast.
“Yes,” says sister Doodle, puttin’ her snuff handkerchief to her eyes.
“I can feel to sympathize with you, I know what feelin’s I felt when I
lost Doodle.”
Not a word does she say about brother Timothy, but I hold firm and so
does Josiah; we do well by the Widder.
Says he, “I believe you never see the corpse.”
“No,” says she, “but I have heerd her well spoke of; sister Samantha was
a sayin’ jest before you come in, that she was a likely woman.”
“She was!” says he a smitin’ himself hard, “she was; my heart strings
was completely wrapped round that woman; not a pair of pantaloons have I
hired made sense we was both on us married to each other; nor a vest. I
tell you it is hard to give her up Widder; dretful hard; she was
healthy, savin’, equinomical, hard workin’, pious; I never realized how
much I loved that woman;” says he in a heart broken tone, “I never did
till I see I must give her up and hire a girl at 2 dollars a week; and
they waste more’n their necks are worth.” Here he stopped a minute and
sithed, and she sithed, so loud that I could hear ’em plain into the
buttery; and then he went on in still more melancholly and despairin’
tones.
[Illustration: “I LOVED THAT WOMAN.”]
“I tell you I have seen trouble for the last month Widder. It’s only
four weeks ago yesterday, that I lost the best cow I had, and now my
wife is dead; I tell you it cuts me right down Widder, it makes me feel
dretful poor.”
I could tell by his voice that he was jest ready to bust out cryin’;
Solomon takes her death hard, dretful. Here they both sithed again so
powerful that they seemed more like groans than common sithes; and then
he continued on:
“It seems Widder as if my heart will bust,” and I could see as I went
acrost the buttery for the rollin’ pin, that he had laid his left hand
over his heart, as if he was holdin’ it inside of his vest by main
strength; “it seems as if it _must_ bust, it is so full of tender
memories for that woman. When I think how she would git up and build
fires in the winter—”
“That is jest what I love to do,” says sister Doodle, “I always built
fires for my Doodle.”
“Did you Widder?” says he, and his tone seemed to be some chirker than
it was. “I wish you had been acquainted with the corpse, I believe you
would have loved each other like sisters.”
Sister Doodle took her snuff handkerchief down from her face and says
she in a more cheerful tone:
“You must chirk up, Mr. Cypher; you must look forred to happier days.”
“Yes,” says he, “I know there is another spear, and I try to keep it in
view, and hang my hopes upon it; a spear where hired girls are unknown,
and partin’s are no more.”
“I can’t _bear_ hired girls,” says sister Doodle. “I wouldn’t have one
round when _I_ was a keepin’ house.”
“Can’t you bear hired girls?” says Solomon. “You make me feel better,
Widder, than I did feel when I come in here! You chirk me up Widder! I
believe you look like the corpse; you look out of your eyes as she
looked out of hern. Oh what a woman that was; she knew her place so
well; you couldn’t have _hired_ her to vote; she said she’d drather dig
potatoes any time—she was as good as a man at that, when I’d git kinder
belated with my work; she’d dig as fast as I could any day.”
“I _love_ to dig potatoes,” says the Widder.
“I _do_ feel better,” says Solomon. “I know I don’t feel nigh so cast
down as I did.”
“And no money wouldn’t hire _me_ to vote.”
“You _do_ look like her,” says he bustin’ out in a real convinced tone,
“I _know_ you do; I can see it plainer and plainer. You make me think on
her.”
“Well,” says she “then you must think on me all you can. Think on me
anytime it’s agreeable to you; it don’t make no difference when; any
time, day or night; don’t be delicate about it at all. I’ll be glad if I
can chirk you up that way, or any other.”
“You have; you have chirked me up Widder; I feel better than I did when
I come in here.”
“Well then you must come real often and be chirked up. I haint nothin’
to do hardly, and I may jest as well be a chirkin’ you up as not, and
better.”
“I will come,” says he.
“Well, so do; come Sunday nights or any time when it is the handiest to
you.”
“I will, Widder, I will;” says he.
I can’t say but what my mind put out this deep question to myself as I
stood there a hearin’ sister Doodle go on;
“Samantha, ort times ort is how many?” And though I answered back to
myself calmly and firmly, “ort;” still, thinks’es I to myself, she is a
clever critter, and what little sense she has got runs to goodness—and
that is more than you can say of some folks’es sense—some folks’es runs
to meanness every mite of it; I went out and got my dress and veil. I
felt sorry for Solomon, very; and as I handed ’em to him, I says, tryin’
to comfort him:
“She was a likely woman, and I haint a doubt but what she is better off
now.”
But he didn’t seem to like it, though I spoke with such good motives. He
spoke up real crank:
“I don’t know about that; I don’t know about her bein’ better off, I did
well by her.”
I heerd my pies a sozzlin over in the oven bottom, and I hastened to
their rescue, and Solomon started off. The Widder, that clever critter,
went to the door, and as he went down the door step, I didn’t hear jest
what she said to him—bein’ a turnin’ my pies at the time—but I heerd his
answer; it was this:
“I feel better than I did feel.”
I thought considerable that afternoon (to myself) what clever streaks
the Widder Doodle did have in her, (considerin’ her sense) when all of a
sudden she give me another sample of it. We got to talkin’ about the
Sentinal and though my demeanor was calm, and my mean considerable cool,
the old question would come up in my mind: “What shall I do with the
Widder Doodle; what _can_ I do with a Widder that don’t want to go, and
don’t want to stay?”
The question was a goarin’ me (inwardly) the very minute when she spoke
up, and says to me that she would stay to home and keep house for me;
she wanted to.
But says I, “I hate to have you stay here sister Doodle; I am afraid
you’ll git lonesome; you haint seemed to think you could, and I hate to
put it on you. You know Thomas J. will be to Jonesville more’n half his
time, and our tower will be a long one.” Says I, “visitin’, as we shall
all along the way to the Sentinal, it will be the longest tower ever
gone off on by us; and I am afraid you’ll be lonesome, sister Doodle; I
am awful ’fraid you will.” Says she:
“Sister Samantha I want to be lonesome if it is a goin’ to be any
accomodation to you; it will be a real treat to me to be lonesome. I
never seemed to feel so willin’ to be lonesome in my hull life before.”
And as she wouldn’t take no for an answer, it was settled that she
should stay and keep house. A cleverer critter (considerin’ her sense)
never walked the earth than sister Doodle, and so I told Josiah.
[Illustration]
HOW SEREPTA CARRIED THE MEETIN’ HOUSE.
Never did the year let a lovlier day slip offen his string (containin’
jest 365) than the day my pardner and me set off on our tower. Never did
a brighter light rest upon a more peaceful realm and a serener wave,
than that mornin’ sun a shinin’ down on our door-yard, and the crystal
waters of the canal. Sweeter winds never blew out of the west, than the
fresh mornin’ breeze that sort o’ hung round our bed-room winder where
we was a fixin’, and gently waved the table-cloth, as Sister Doodle
shook it offen the back steps. And never, sense the Widder had been took
in and done for by us, had she been in such spirits. We had hired Betsey
Slimpsey _knee_ Bobbet to do all the heaviest of the work, and the
Widder seemed glad and light of heart. For though the fried ham which we
had for breakfast, and the salt-suller, and the sugar-bowl, had all put
her in mind of Doodle—and though reminessinces was brought up, and
particulars was abroad, still she didn’t weep a tear, but seemed to
think of him and life with peace and resignation.
When I got all ready to start, I looked well, and felt well. I had
bought a bran new dress expressly for the occasion, a sort of a Quaker
brown, or lead color. It was cotton and worsted, I don’t know really
what they do call it, but it was handsome, and very nice. It cost 18
pence per yard. It was made very fashionable; had a overskirt, and a
cape all trimmed round the edge with a narrow strip of the same cut on
the bias. Settin’ out as I did as a martyr, I sot my foot down firmly on
ruffles and puckers. But this straight and narrow strip cut crossways of
the cloth and sot on plain, suited both my eyes and my principles. It
was stitched on with my new sewin’ machine. Almira Hagidone come to the
house and made it for me—took her pay in white beans.
The cape looked noble when it was finished, and I knew it would. I
_would_ have it cut to suit me. It didn’t look flighty and frivolous,
but it had a sort of a soarin’, deep look to it. It rounded up in the
back, and had long, noble tabs in front. Almira said tabs had gone out,
and argued warm ag’inst ’em, but I told her I seemed to have a drawin’
towards ’em, and finally I come right out and told her firmly; says I,
“tabs I _will_ have.” So she give in and cut it tab fashion.
I had another argument about my bunnet—I had my brown silk one done
over. I had a frame made to order, for I was determined to have a bunnet
that shaded my face some. I told the millener plainly that one of my
night-caps—cut sheep’s-head fashion—was far better to the head as a
protector, than bunnets as wore by wimmen; so I give my orders, and
stood by her till the frame was done; and it looked well. It was a
beautiful shape behind, and had a noble, roomy look to it in front. And
when I put it on, and my green veil was tied round it, and hung in long,
graceful folds down on one side of it, it suited me to a T. I trimmed
off the edges of my veil where it was frayed out, and hemmed it over,
and run in a new lutestring-ribbin string, and it looked as good as new.
Havin’ a cape like my dress, I didn’t lay out to wear anything else
round me on my tower, but I took my black silk mantilla along in case of
need.
There was enough left of my dress to make a new sheath for my umberell,
and though some of the neighbors thought and said, (it came right
straight back to me) that it was awful extravagant in me, I launched out
and made it, and wasn’t sorry I did. I am very tasty naturally, and love
to see things correspond. I also bought me a new pair of cotton
gloves—most the color of my dress, only a little darker so’s not to show
dirt—at an outlay of 27 and a ½ cents.
Josiah was dressed up as slick as I was, and looked more trimmed off,
and fancy, for he _would_ wear that red, white, and blue, neck-tie,
though upheld by duty, I says to him:
“Josiah Allen; bald heads, and red and blue neck-ties don’t correspond
worth a cent; it is too dressy for you, Josiah Allen.”
I meant well, but as it is too often the case in this world—as all true
Reformers know—my motives wasn’t took as they was meant. And he says in
a complainin’ tone:
“You haint willin’ I should look dressy, Samantha, and you never
was—that is the dumb of it.”
Says I firmly, “Stop swearin’ at once, and instantly, Josiah Allen.” And
then as I see he was so awful sot on it, I said no more, and we started
off in 2 excellent spirits—Josiah’s spirits and mine.
It was one good day’s journey to Miss Elder Simmons’es, she that was
Serepta Smith, and the top buggy assisted by the old mare bore us on
nobly. The colt’s demeanor was like a horse’s for morality and sobriety,
and as the shades of night was a descendin’ down, we drew near the place
where we wanted to be. They lived about a quarter of a mile from the
village of Shackville, and as we drew near the dwellin’—a smallish kind
of a house, but comfortable lookin’—we see considerable of a procession
a settin’ towards the house.
And says I to my companion, “I am afraid there is trouble ahead,
Josiah.”
[Illustration: AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY.]
He said he guessed not; he had heard there was a convention at Elder
Simmons’es church in Shackville, and he guessed these was delegates, a
goin’ to the minister’s to stay. Says he, “You know they can lodge there
without payin’ for their lodge.”
And come to look at ’em again they was peaceable lookin’ men, and most
all of ’em had a satchel-bag in their hands. But how all of ’em was a
goin’ to stay all night in that house, was one of the mysteries to me,
unless they had poles for ’em to roost on, or hung ’em up over nails on
the wall, such a sight on ’em.
And I spoke up to Josiah, and says I, “Our room will be better than our
company here, Josiah Allen; less go back to Shackville and stay all
night.”
“Wall,” says he, “bime-by; we’ll go in and tell Serepta we’ve come.”
Says I, “I guess it wont be much of a treat to her to tell her anybody
else has come, if she has got to take care of this drove of men,” says
I, “less go back to Shackville, and stay to the tarven.”
“Wall,” says he, “bime-by; but we’ll go in and tell Serepta we’ve come.”
I argued with him that it wouldn’t be no treat to Serepta; but
howsumever, she was awful tickled to see us—she always did think a sight
of her Aunt Samantha. I s’pose one thing was, because I helped to bring
her up on a bottle. Her father and mother both dyin’ and leavin’ her an
orphan on both sides, she was brought up by the Smith family, on a
bottle. Mother and I brought her part way up, and then other Smiths
would take her and bring her up a spell. And so we kep’ on till she was
brought up.
We sent her off to school, and done well by her, and she lived with
mother and me two years right along jest before she was married. She was
married to our house, and was as pretty as a doll. She was a little mite
of a thing, but plump and round as a banty pullet. She had a fresh, rosy
face, and big blue eyes that had a sort of a timid scareful look to ’em.
She was a gentle babyish sort of a girl, but a master hand to do jest
what she thought was her duty; and though she knew enough, anybody could
make her think the moon was made of green sage cheese, she was that
yieldin’, and easy influenced, and innocent-hearted. I thought a sight
on her, and I said so to Elder Simmons the day they was married. He was
a good man, but dretful deep learnt, and absent-minded. He says to me,
says he:
[Illustration: SEREPTA SMITH.]
“She is jest as sweet as an apple blossom.”
His eyes was sot kind o’ dreamily on the apple trees out in the orchard
which was in full blow.
“Yes,” says I, “and jest as fraguile and tender;” says I, “the sweetest
poseys are the easiest nipped by the frost,” says I, “nothin’ looks more
pitiful than a pink posy after the frosts have got holt of it,” says I,
“keep the frosts of unkindness, and neglect, and hard usage from our
little apple blow that you have picked to-day and are a wearin’ off on
your heart, and may God bless you Brother Simmons,” says I. (He was of
the Methodist perswasion.)
There wasn’t hardly a dry eye in my head, as I said this, nor in hisen.
I thought a sight on her, and so did he. He thought enough on her I
always said. But he was dretful absent-minded, and deep learnt. They
stopped with us a week or two after they was married, and I hadn’t laid
eyes on ’em sense, though I had heerd from ’em a number of times by
letter; and then Uncle Eliphalet Smith had visited ’em, and he said she
had to work awful hard, and the Elder was so absent-minded that it took
a sight of her time to get him headed right. He’d go down suller lots of
times, and bring up ag’inst the pork barrell, when he thought he was a
goin’ up into his study; and get on her stockin’s and things, thinkin’
they was hisen. And then he said she had the care of the meetin’ house
on her; had to sort o’ carry the meetin’ house. Shackville bein’ a place
where they thought the minister’s wife belonged to ’em, as some other
places do think besides Shackville. Howsumever, I didn’t know any of
these things only by hearsay, until I arrove at her dwelling; then I
knew by sight, and not by ear.
[Illustration: “NEEDS HEADIN’ OFF.”]
As I first looked on her face, I couldn’t help thinkin’ of what I told
Elder Simmons the mornin’ he was married; for never did a apple blow
show more signs of frost and chill after an untimely storm, than did the
face of she that was Serepta Smith. Her cheeks was as white and pale as
a posy blown down on the frosty ground, and her eyes had the old timid,
scareful look, and under that, whole loads of care and anxiety, and
weariness; and over all her face was the old look I remembered so
well—only 100 times stronger—of wantin’ to do jest right, and jest what
everybody wanted her to do.
As I said, she was awful tickled to see us. But she was so full of care,
and anxiety, and work, she couldn’t hardly speak to us. She hadn’t no
girl, and was tryin’ to get supper for that hull drove of men, and
hadn’t much to do with, for the Elder after spendin’ his hull life and
strength in tryin’ to keep ’em straight in this world and gettin’ ’em
headed straight towards the next, couldn’t get his pay from the
Shackvillians. Her childern was a follerin’ her round—her husband
needin’ headin’ off every moment or two, he was that absent-minded. I
declare, I never was sorrier for anybody than I was for Serepta.
And then right on top of her other sufferin’s, every time she would come
into the settin’-room, one tall minister with a cadavery look and long
yeller whiskers would tackle her on the subject of religion, tryin’ to
get her to relate her experience, right there, and tellin’ of her hisen.
That seemed to wear on her the most of anything, a wantin’ to use him
well, and knowin’ her supper was a spilein’, and her infant babes
demandin’ her attention, and her husband a fumblin’ round in the suller
way, or buttery, needin’ headin’ off.
Truly, in the words of the Sammist, “there is a time for things, and a
place for ’em,” and it seemed as if he might have known better. But he
was one of the kind that will talk. And there he sot lookin’ calm and
cadavery, a pullin’ his old yeller whiskers, and holdin’ her tight by
the reins of her good manners, a urgin’ her to tell her experience, and
tellin’ of her hisen. I declare, I’d been glad to have laid holt of his
old yeller whiskers myself, I was that out of patience with him, and
I’ll bet he’d a felt it if I had. Finally I spoke up and says I:
“Set right down and relate your experience, Serepta.” Says I, “What is
vittles compared to instructive and edifyin’ conversation.” Says I, “I
wouldn’t try to get a mite of supper to-night.”
Knowin’ what I _do_ know, divin’ deep into the heights and depths of
men’s naters as I have doven, I knew that this would break Serepta’s
chains. She wasn’t exhorted any more. She had time to get their suppers.
And I laid to and helped her all I could. I got two of the infant babes
to sleep, and give the two biggest boys some candy, and headed him off
once or twice, and eased her burdens all I could.
But she was dretful worried where to put ’em to sleep. The hard and
wearisome task of gettin’ 17 men into three beds without layin’ ’em on
top of each other, was a wearin’ on her. And she was determined to have
Josiah and me stay too. She said she was used to jest such a house full,
and she should get along.
Says I, mildly but firmly, “Serepta I haint a goin’ to sleep on the
buttery shelves, nor I don’t want you to, it is dangerous. Josiah and me
will get a lodgement to the tarven in Shackville, and lodge there. And
to-morrow when the crowd gets thinned out, we will come back and make
our visit.”
She told us not to go; she said there was a corner of the parlor that
wasn’t occupied, and she had blankets enough, she could make us
comfortable.
Says I, “Hang on to the corner yourself, Serepta, if you can. Josiah and
me have made up our 2 minds. We are goin’ to the tarven.”
Says Josiah—for he seemed to think it would comfort her—“We’ll come back
again Serepta, we’ll come back bime-by.”
The next day early in the forenoon, A. M., we arrove again at Serepta’s
dwellin’. She had jest got the last man of the drove started off, but
she was tusslin’ with two colporters and an agent for a Bible Society.
And two wimmen set by ready to grapple her as soon as the men started
off. One of ’em had a sort of a mournful look, and the other was as hard
a lookin’ woman as I ever see. She was fearfully humbly, but that haint
why I call her hard lookin’. I don’t lay up her humbleness ag’inst her,
knowin’ well that our faces haint made to order. But she looked _hard_,
as if her nater was hard as a rock; and her heart, and her disposition,
and everything. She had a large wart on her nose, and that also looked
hard as a gravel stun, and some like it. She had a few long whiskers
growin’ out under her chin, and I couldn’t help wonderin’ how anything
in the line of vegetation could grow out of such a grannyt soil.
After lookin’ at her a half minute it didn’t surprise me a mite to hear
that her name was Horn, Miss Horn. I see these two wimmen look round the
house examinin’ everything as close as if they was goin’ to be swore
about it to a justice to save their lives. Serepta hadn’t had time to
wash a dish, nor sweep a single sweep, and her childern wasn’t dressed.
And I heerd Miss Horn hunch the other one with her large, bony knuckles,
and whisper:
“She lays abed shamefully late, sometimes. The smoke rose out of her
chimbly this mornin’ at exactly 17 minutes past 6, jest an hour and two
minutes earlier than it was yesterday mornin’, and half an hour and
twenty seconds earlier than it was the mornin’ before that.”
“Gettin’ up and burnin’ out the wood the meetin’ house furnishes for
’em, and not a dish washed. It is a shame,” says the other woman.
[Illustration: MISS HORN.]
“A shame!” says Miss Horn. “It is a burnin’ shame, for a minister’s
wife, that ort to be a pattern to the meetin’ house. And she can’t find
time to go a visitin’ and talk about her neighbors’ affairs. When
anybody don’t feel like visitin’, and talkin’ about their neighbors’
doin’s, it is a sign there is sunthin’ wrong about ’em. There haint a
thing done in the neighborhood but what I am knowin’ to; not a quarrel
for the last twenty years but what I have had my hand in it. I am ready
to go a visitin’ every day of my life, and see what is goin’ on. _I_
haint too haughty and proud spirited to go into back doors without
knockin’ and see what folks are a doin’ in their kitchens, and what they
are a talkin’ about when they think nobody is round. And it shows a
haughty, proud spirit, when anybody haint willin’ to go round and see
what they can see in folks’es housen, and talk it over with the other
neighbors.”
Says the mournful woman, “I heard Bill Danks’es wife say the other day,
that she thought it looked queer to her, her visitin’ the poor members
of the church jest as often as she did the rich ones. She thought—Bill’s
wife did—that it looked shiftless in her.”
“She _is_ shiftless,” says Miss Horn.
“She acts dretful sort o’ pleasant,” says the other woman, “seems
willin’ to accomidate her neighbors; stands ready to help ’em in times
of trouble; and seems to treat everybody in a lady-like, quiet way; but
I persume it is all put on.”
“Put on! I _know_ it is put on,” says Miss Horn, “She has got a proud,
haughty soul, or she would be willin’ to do as the rest of us do.” And
then she stopped whisperin’ for half a minute and looked round the house
again, and hunched the other woman, and whispered—“For a minister’s wife
that ort to be a pattern, such housekeepin’ is shameful.”
And the Bible agent spoke up jest then, and says he, “Of course, as a
minister’s wife and a helper in Israel, you are willin’ to give your
time to us, and bear our burdens.”
And Serepta sithed and said she was—and she meant it too. I declare, it
was all I could do to keep my peace. But I am naterally very
close-mouthed, so I kep’ still. Serepta couldn’t hear what the wimmen
said, for she was a tryin’ with that anxious face of hern to hear every
word the Bible agent had to say, and to try to do jest what was right by
the colporters. And the mournful lookin’ woman hunched Miss Horn, and
says she,—
“Jest see how she listens to them men. She seems to talk to ’em jest as
free as if they was wimmen. It may be all right, but it don’t _look_
well. And how earnest they are a talkin’ to her; they seem to sort o’
look up to her, as if she was jest about right. Men don’t have no such a
sort of a respectful, reverential look onto their faces when they are a
talkin’ to you or me; they don’t look up to _us_ in no such sort of a
way. There may be nothin’ wrong in it, but it don’t look well. It would
almost seem as if they was after her.”