“Oh!” says Delila Ann, bendin’ over him and liftin’ up some of the long
white hair on his neck; “It seems as if I could give him up better if
we could only have washed his lovely hair white. It got stained by the
medicine we gave him in his last sickness, and we could not wash the
sweet hair white again.”
“No! blessed angel, we couldn’t,” cried four of ’em, bendin’ down and
kissin’ of him.
“Oh, what feelin’ I felt as I stood there a-lookin’ on ’em. To think I
had been a-sympathizin’ and a-comfortin’ and a-pumpin’ the very depths of
my soul to pour religious consolation onto ’em, and a-bewailin’ myself
and sheddin’ my own tears over a whiffet pup. As I thought this over, my
dumbfoundness began to go offen me, and my meun begun to look different
and awful. I thrust my white cotton handkerchief back into my pocket
again, with the right hand, and drew my left arm, haughtily away from
Delila Ann, not carin’ whether she crumpled down and fainted away or not.
I s’pose my meun apauled ’em, for Delila Ann says to me, in tremblin’
tones:
“All genteel wimmen dote on dogs.” And she added, in still more tremblin’
tones, as she see me meun keep a growin’ awfuller and awfuller every
minute. “Nothin’ gives a woman such a genteel air as to lead ’em round
with a ribbon.” And, she added, still a-keepin’ her eye on my meun: “I
always know a woman is genteel, the minute I see her a-leadin’ ’em round,
and I never have been mistaken once. And the more genteel a woman is, the
more poodle dogs they have to dote on.”
I didn’t say a word to Delila Ann, nor the hull set on ’em. But my
emotion riz up so that I spoke up loud to myself, unbeknown to me. I
episoded to myself, almost mechanically, in a low, deep voice:
“Father’s bein’ killed with labor, and a world layin’ in wickedness, and
wimmens dotin’ on dogs. Hundreds of thousands of houseless and homeless
children—little fair souls bein’ blackened by vice and ignorance, with a
black that can’t never be rubbed off this side of heaven, and immortal
wimmen spending their hull energies in keepin’ a pup’s hair white. Little
tender feet bein’ led down into the mire and clay, that might be guided
up to heaven’s door, and wimmen utterly refusin’ to notice ’em, so
rampant and set on leadin’ round a pup by a string. Good land!” says I;
“it makes me angry to think on’t.”
And I pulled out my white linen handkerchief and wiped my ferwerd almost
wildly.
I s’pose my warm emotions had melted down my icy meun a very little, for
Delila spoke up in a chokin’ voice, and says she:
“If you was one of the genteel kind, you would feel different about it,
I mistrust,” says she, a-tryin’ to scorn me. “I mistrust that you haint
genteel.”
Says I, “That don’t scorn me a mite.” Says I, “I hate that word, and
always did.” Says I, still more warmly, “There are two words in the
English language that I feel cold and almost haughty toward, and they
are: Affinity, such as married folks hunt after; and Genteel. I wish,”
says I, almost eloquent, “I wish those words would join hands and elope
the country. I’d love to see their backs as they set out, and bid ’em a
glad farewell.”
She see she hadn’t skeert me. They didn’t say a word. And then the
thought of my mission governed me to that extent, that I rose up my voice
to a high, noble key, and went on, wavin’ my right hand in as eloquent a
wave as I had by me, and I keep awful eloquent waves a purpose to use on
occasions like these.
Says I: “I am a woman that has got a vow on me; I am a Premiscues Adviser
in the cause of Right, and I can’t shirk out when duty is a-pokin’ me in
the side. I must speak my mind, though I hate to like a dog. And I say
unto you, Delila Ann, and the hull eight of you, premiscues, that if you
would take off some of your bebinet lace, empty your laps of pups and
dime novels, and go to work and lift some of the burden from the breakin’
back of Melankton Spicer, you would rise from twenty-five to fifty cents
to my estimation, and I don’t know but more.”
“Oh!” says Delila Ann; “I want my girls to marry. It hain’t genteel for
wimmen to work; they won’t never ketch a bo if they work.”
“Well,” says I, very coldly, “I had rather keep a clear conscience, and
a single bedstead, than twenty husbands and the knowledge that I was
a father killer. But,” says I, in reasonable tones, for I wanted to
convince ’em: “it haint necessary to read dime novels and lead round
pups, in order to marry; if it was, I should be a single woman to-day.”
“Oh, I love to read dime novelth,” says the lispin’ one: “I love to be
thad and weep; it theemeth tho thweet, tho thingularly thweet.”
Says I, “Instead of sheddin’ your tears over imaginary sorrows, there is
a tragedy bein’ lived before your eyes, day after day, that you ort to
weep over. A father killin’ himself for his children, bearin’ burdens
enough to break down a leather man, and they a-leadin’ round whiffet pups
by a string.”
“Whiffet pup!” says Delila Ann, almost angrily; “they are poodles.”
“Well,” says I, calmly; “whiffet poodle pups, it makes no particular
difference to me, if it suits you any better.”
Says she, “I paid seven dollars fer ’em, and they pay their way in
comfortin’ the girls when they feel sad. Of course, my girls have their
dark hours and get low-spirited, when they bore their pa for things he
won’t buy for ’em. When they all want a gold butterfly to wear in their
hair, are fairly sufferin’ for ’em and then pa won’t get ’em, in such
dark hours, they find the dear dogs such a comfort to ’em.
“Why don’t they go to work and earn their own butterflies, if they have
got to have ’em?” says I, very coldly.
“Because they won’t never marry if they work,” says Delila Ann.
Says I, “It haint no such thing. Any man worth marryin’ would think as
much again of a girl who had independence and common sense enough to earn
her living, when her father was a poor man. Good land! how simple it is
to try to deceive folks! Gauze veils, and bobinet lace, and cotton velvet
cloaks haint a-goin’ to cover up the feet of poverty, if we be poor. Not
a mite of disgrace in it. Poverty is the dark mine, where diamonds are
found lots of times; by their glittering so bright against the blackness.
The darkness of poverty can’t put out the light of a pure diamond. It
will shine anywhere, as bright in the dark dirt as on a queen’s finger,
for its light comes from within. And rare pearls are formed frequent,
by the grindin’ touch of poverty, tears of pain, and privation, and
patience crystalized into great white drops of light that will shine
forever. Honest hard-working poverty is respectable as anything can be
respectable, and should be honored, if for no other reason, for the sake
of Him, who, eighteen hundred years ago, made it illustrious forever. But
poverty tryin’ to hide itself behind the aperiences; poverty concealin’
itself under a sham gentility, pretentious, deceitful poverty, trying to
cover an empty stomach with a tinsel breastpin, is a sight sad enough to
make angels weep and sinners too. Let your girls learn some honest trade,
Delila Ann.”
“Oh, my! I wouldn’t let ’em lose their chance of bein’ married for
nothin’ in the world.”
“Good land!” says I, “is marryin’ the only theme that anybody can lay
holt of?” Says I, “it seems to me it would be the best way to lay holt
of duty now, and then, if a bo come, lay holt on him. If they ketch a
bo with such a hook as they are a-fishing with now, what kind of a bo
will it be? Nobody but a fool would lay holt of a hook baited with dime
novels and pups. Learn your girls to be industrious, and to respect
themselves. They can’t now, Delila Ann, I know they can’t. No woman can
feel honorable and reverential toward themselves, when they are foldin’
their useless hands over their empty souls, waitin’ for some man, no
matter who, to marry ’em and support ’em. When in the agony of suspense
and fear, they have narrowed down to this one theme, all their hopes and
prayers, ‘Good Lord; _anybody_!’
“But when a woman lays holt of life in a noble, earnest way, when she is
dutiful, and cheerful, and industrious, God-fearin’, and self-respectin’,
though the world sinks, there is a rock under her feet that won’t let
her down far enough to hurt her any. If love comes to her to brighten her
pathway, so much the better. She will be ready to receive him royally,
and keep him when she gets him. Some folks don’t know how to use love
worth a cent. But no matter whether she be single or double, I am not
afraid of her future.”
“Oh, my!” says Delila Ann, again, “I wouldn’t have my girls miss of
marryin’ for nothin.’ Nothin’ in the world looks so lonesome as a woman
that haint married.”
Says I, reasonably, “They do have a sort of a one-sided look, I’ll admit,
and sort o’ curious at certain times, such as processions and et cetery.
But,” I added, almost coldly, for I was about wore out with ’em; “in my
opinion, there haint no lonesomeness to be compared to the lonesomeness
of the empty-headed and aimless, and no amount of husbands can make up to
any woman for the loss of her self-respect. That is my idea, howsumever,
everybody to their own mind.”
Whether I did her any good or not, I know not, for my companion arrived
almost at that moment, and we departed onto our tower. But whether marks
are hit or not, it is sort a-comfortin’ and happyfyin’ to think that
there is a pile of arrows somewhere, to bear witness that you have took
aim, and fired nobly in the cause of right.