Uncle Jaw's spare time, lay in a dispute between him and 'Squire Jones,
the father of Susan and Silence; for it so happened that his lands and
those of Uncle Jaw were contiguous. Now, the matter of dispute was on
this wise: On 'Squire Jones's land there was a mill, which mill Uncle
Jaw averred was "always a-flooding his medder land." As Uncle Jaw's
"medder land" was by nature half bog and bulrushes, and therefore liable
to be found in a wet condition, there was always a happy obscurity as to
where the water came from, and whether there was at any time more there
than belonged to his share. So, when all other subject matters of
dispute failed, Uncle Jaw recreated himself with getting up a lawsuit
about his "medder land;" and one of these cases was in pendency when, by
the death of the squire, the estate was left to Susan and Silence, his
daughters. When, therefore, the report reached him that Deacon Enos had
been cheated out of his dues, Uncle Jaw prepared forthwith to go and
compare notes. Therefore, one evening, as Deacon Enos was sitting
quietly by the fire, musing and reading with his big Bible open before
him, he heard the premonitory symptoms of a visitation from Uncle Jaw on
his door scraper; and soon the man made his appearance. After seating
himself directly in front of the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and
his hands spread out over the coals, he looked up in Deacon Enos's mild
face with his little inquisitive gray eyes, and remarked, by way of
opening the subject, "Well, deacon, old 'Squire Jones is gone at last. I
wonder how much good all his land will do him now?"
"Yes," replied Deacon Enos, "it just shows how all these things are not
worth striving after. We brought nothing into the world, and it is
certain we can carry nothing out."
"Why, yes," replied Uncle Jaw, "that's all very right, deacon; but it
was strange how that old 'Squire Jones did hang on to things. Now, that
mill of his, that was always soaking off water into these medders of
mine--I took and tell'd 'Squire Jones just how it was, pretty nigh
twenty times, and yet he would keep it just so; and now he's dead and
gone, there is that old gal Silence is full as bad, and makes more
noise; and she and Suke have got the land; but, you see, I mean to work
it yet."
Here Uncle Jaw paused to see whether he had produced any sympathetic
excitement in Deacon Enos; but the old man sat without the least
emotion, quietly contemplating the top of the long kitchen shovel. Uncle
Jaw fidgeted in his chair, and changed his mode of attack for one more
direct. "I heard 'em tell, Deacon Enos, that the squire served you
something of an unhandy sort of trick about that 'ere lot of land."
Still Deacon Enos made no reply; but Uncle Jaw's perseverance was not so
to be put off, and he recommenced. "'Squire Abel, you see, he tell'd me
how the matter was, and he said he did not see as it could be mended;
but I took and tell'd him, ''Squire Abel,' says I, 'I'd bet pretty nigh
'most any thing, if Deacon Enos would tell the matter to me, that I
could find a hole for him to creep out at; for,' says I, 'I've seen
daylight through more twistical cases than that afore now.'"
Still Deacon Enos remained mute; and Uncle Jaw, after waiting a while,
recommenced with, "But, railly, deacon, I should like to hear the
particulars."
"I have made up my mind not to say any thing more about that business,"
said Deacon Enos, in a tone which, though mild, was so exceedingly
definite, that Uncle Jaw felt that the case was hopeless in that
quarter; he therefore betook himself to the statement of his own
grievances.
"Why, you see, deacon," he began, at the same time taking the tongs, and
picking up all the little brands, and disposing them in the middle of
the fire,--"you see, two days arter the funeral, (for I didn't railly
like to go any sooner,) I stepped up to hash over the matter with old
Silence; for as to Sukey, she ha'n't no more to do with such things than
our white kitten. Now, you see, 'Squire Jones, just afore he died, he
took away an old rail fence of his'n that lay between his land and mine,
and began to build a new stone wall; and when I come to measure, I found
he had took and put a'most the whole width of the stone wall on to my
land, when there ought not to have been more than half of it come there.
Now, you see, I could not say a word to 'Squire Jones, because, jest
before I found it out, he took and died; and so I thought I'd speak to
old Silence, and see if she meant to do any thing about it, 'cause I
knew pretty well she wouldn't; and I tell you, if she didn't put it on
to me! We had a regular pitched battle--the old gal, I thought she would
'a screamed herself to death! I don't know but she would, but just then
poor Sukey came in, and looked so frightened and scarey--Sukey is a
pretty gal, and looks so trembling and delicate, that it's kinder a
shame to plague her, and so I took and come away for that time."
Here Uncle Jaw perceived a brightening in the face of the good deacon,
and felt exceedingly comforted that at last he was about to interest him
in his story.
But all this while the deacon had been in a profound meditation
concerning the ways and means of putting a stop to a quarrel that had
been his torment from time immemorial, and just at this moment a plan
had struck his mind which our story will proceed to unfold.
The mode of settling differences which had occurred to the good man was
one which has been considered a specific in reconciling contending
sovereigns and states from early antiquity, and the deacon hoped it
might have a pacifying influence even in so unpromising a case as that
of Miss Silence and Uncle Jaw.
In former days, Deacon Enos had kept the district school for several
successive winters, and among his scholars was the gentle Susan Jones,
then a plump, rosy little girl, with blue eyes, curly hair, and the
sweetest disposition in the world. There was also little Joseph Adams,
the only son of Uncle Jaw, a fine, healthy, robust boy, who used to
spell the longest words, make the best snowballs and poplar whistles,
and read the loudest and fastest in the Columbian Orator of any boy at
school.
Little Joe inherited all his father's sharpness, with a double share of
good humor; so that, though he was forever effervescing in the way of
one funny trick or another, he was a universal favorite, not only with
the deacon, but with the whole school.
Master Joseph always took little Susan Jones under his especial
protection, drew her to school on his sled, helped her out with all the
long sums in her arithmetic, saw to it that nobody pillaged her dinner
basket, or knocked down her bonnet, and resolutely whipped or snowballed
any other boy who attempted the same gallantries. Years passed on, and
Uncle Jaw had sent his son to college. He sent him because, as he said,
he had "_a right_ to send him; just as good a right as 'Squire Abel or
Deacon Abrams to send their boys, and so he _would_ send him." It was
the remembrance of his old favorite Joseph, and his little pet Susan,
that came across the mind of Deacon Enos, and which seemed to open a
gleam of light in regard to the future. So, when Uncle Jaw had finished
his prelection, the deacon, after some meditation, came out with,
"Railly, they say that your son is going to have the valedictory in
college."
Though somewhat startled at the abrupt transition, Uncle Jaw found the
suggestion too flattering to his pride to be dropped; so, with a
countenance grimly expressive of his satisfaction, he replied, "Why,
yes--yes--I don't see no reason why a poor man's son ha'n't as much
right as any one to be at the top, if he can get there."
"Just so," replied Deacon Enos.
"He was always the boy for larning, and for nothing else," continued
Uncle Jaw; "put him to farming, couldn't make nothing of him. If I set
him to hoeing corn or hilling potatoes, I'd always find him stopping to
chase hop-toads, or off after chip-squirrels. But set him down to a
book, and there he was! That boy larnt reading the quickest of any boy
that ever I saw: it wasn't a month after he began his _a b, abs_,
before he could read in the 'Fox and the Brambles,' and in a month more
he could clatter off his chapter in the Testament as fast as any of
them; and you see, in college, it's jest so--he has ris right up to be
first."
"And he is coming home week after next," said the deacon, meditatively.
The next morning, as Deacon Enos was eating his breakfast, he quietly
remarked to his wife, "Sally, I believe it was week after next you were
meaning to have your quilting?"
"Why, I never told you so: what alive makes you think that, Deacon
Dudley?"
"I thought that was your calculation," said the good man, quietly.
"Why, no; to be sure, I _can_ have it, and may be it's the best of any
time, if we can get Black Dinah to come and help about the cakes and
pies. I guess we will, finally."
"I think it's likely you had better," replied the deacon, "and we will
have all the young folks here."
And now let us pass over all the intermediate pounding, and grinding,
and chopping, which for the next week foretold approaching festivity in
the kitchen of the deacon. Let us forbear to provoke the appetite of a
hungry reader by setting in order before him the minced pies, the
cranberry tarts, the pumpkin pies, the doughnuts, the cookies, and other
sweet cakes of every description, that sprang into being at the magic
touch of Black Dinah, the village priestess on all these solemnities.
Suffice it to say that the day had arrived, and the auspicious quilt was
spread.
The invitation had not failed to include the Misses Silence and Susan
Jones--nay, the good deacon had pressed gallantry into the matter so far
as to be the bearer of the message himself; for which he was duly
rewarded by a broadside from Miss Silence, giving him what she termed a
piece of her mind in the matter of the rights of widows and orphans; to
all which the good old man listened with great benignity from the
beginning to the end, and replied with,--
"Well, well, Miss Silence, I expect you will think better of this before
long; there had best not be any hard words about it." So saying, he took
up his hat and walked off, while Miss Silence, who felt extremely
relieved by having blown off steam, declared that "it was of no more use
to hector old Deacon Enos than to fire a gun at a bag of cotton wool.
For all that, though, she shouldn't go to the quilting; nor, more,
should Susan."
"But, sister, why not?" said the little maiden; "I think I _shall_ go."
And Susan said this in a tone so mildly positive that Silence was
amazed.
"What upon 'arth ails you, Susan?" said she, opening her eyes with
astonishment; "haven't you any more spirit than to go to Deacon Enos's
when he is doing all he can to ruin us?"
"I like Deacon Enos," replied Susan; "he was always kind to me when I
was a little girl, and I am not going to believe that he is a bad man
now."
When a young lady states that she is not going to believe a thing, good
judges of human nature generally give up the case; but Miss Silence, to
whom the language of opposition and argument was entirely new, could
scarcely give her ears credit for veracity in the case; she therefore
repeated over exactly what she said before, only in a much louder tone
of voice, and with much more vehement forms of asseveration--a mode of
reasoning which, if not strictly logical, has at least the sanction of
very respectable authorities among the enlightened and learned.
"Silence," replied Susan, when the storm had spent itself, "if it did
not look like being angry with Deacon Enos, I would stay away to oblige
you; but it would seem to every one to be taking sides in a quarrel, and
I never did, and never will, have any part or lot in such things."
"Then you'll just be trod and trampled on all your days, Susan," replied
Silence; "but, however, if _you_ choose to make a fool of yourself, _I_
don't;" and so saying, she flounced out of the room in great wrath. It
so happened, however, that Miss Silence was one of those who have so
little economy in disposing of a fit of anger, that it was all used up
before the time of execution arrived. It followed of consequence, that,
having unburdened her mind freely both to Deacon Enos and to Susan, she
began to feel very much more comfortable and good-natured; and
consequent upon that came divers reflections upon the many gossiping
opportunities and comforts of a quilting; and then the intrusive little
reflection, "What if she should go, after all; what harm would be done?"
and then the inquiry, "Whether it was not her _duty_ to go and look
after Susan, poor child, who had no mother to watch over her?" In short,
before the time of preparation arrived, Miss Silence had fully worked
herself up to the magnanimous determination of going to the quilting.
Accordingly, the next day, while Susan was standing before her mirror,
braiding up her pretty hair, she was startled by the apparition of Miss
Silence coming into the room as stiff as a changeable silk and a high
horn comb could make her; and "grimly determined was her look."
"Well, Susan," said she, "if you _will_ go to the quilting this
afternoon, I think it is _my duty_ to go and see to you."
What would people do if this convenient shelter of _duty_ did not afford
them a retreat in cases when they are disposed to change their minds?
Susan suppressed the arch smile that, in spite of herself, laughed out
at the corners of her eyes, and told her sister that she was much
obliged to her for her care. So off they went together.
Silence in the mean time held forth largely on the importance of
standing up for one's rights, and not letting one's self be trampled on.
The afternoon passed on, the elderly ladies quilted and talked scandal,
and the younger ones discussed the merits of the various beaux who were
expected to give vivacity to the evening entertainment. Among these the
newly-arrived Joseph Adams, just from college, with all his literary
honors thick about him, became a prominent subject of conversation.
It was duly canvassed whether the young gentleman might be called
handsome, and the affirmative was carried by a large majority, although
there were some variations and exceptions; one of the party declaring
his whiskers to be in too high a state of cultivation, another
maintaining that they were in the exact line of beauty, while a third
vigorously disputed the point whether he wore whiskers at all. It was
allowed by all, however, that he had been a great beau in the town where
he had passed his college days. It was also inquired into whether he
were matrimonially engaged; and the negative being understood, they
diverted themselves with predicting to one another the capture of such a
prize; each prophecy being received with such disclaimers as "Come now!"
"Do be still!" "Hush your nonsense!" and the like.
At length the long-wished-for hour arrived, and one by one the lords of
the creation began to make their appearance; and one of the last was
this much admired youth.
"That is Joe Adams!" "That is he!" was the busy whisper, as a tall,
well-looking young man came into the room, with the easy air of one who
had seen several things before, and was not to be abashed by the
combined blaze of all the village beauties.
In truth, our friend Joseph had made the most of his residence in N.,
paying his court no less to the Graces than the Muses. His fine person,
his frank, manly air, his ready conversation, and his faculty of
universal adaptation had made his society much coveted among the _beau
monde_ of N.; and though the place was small, he had become familiar
with much good society.
We hardly know whether we may venture to tell our fair readers the whole
truth in regard to our hero. We will merely hint, in the gentlest manner
in the world, that Mr. Joseph Adams, being undeniably first in the
classics and first in the drawing room, having been gravely commended in
his class by his venerable president, and gayly flattered in the drawing
room by the elegant Miss This and Miss That, was rather inclining to the
opinion that he was an uncommonly fine fellow, and even had the
assurance to think that, under present circumstances, he could please
without making any great effort--a thing which, however true it were in
point of fact, is obviously improper to be thought of by a young man. Be
that as it may, he moved about from one to another, shaking hands with
all the old ladies, and listening with the greatest affability to the
various comments on his growth and personal appearance, his points of
resemblance to his father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother, which
are always detected by the superior acumen of elderly females.
Among the younger ones, he at once, and with full frankness, recognized
old schoolmates, and partners in various whortleberry, chestnut, and
strawberry excursions, and thus called out an abundant flow of
conversation. Nevertheless, his eye wandered occasionally around the
room, as if in search of something not there. What could it be? It
kindled, however, with an expression of sudden brightness as he
perceived the tall and spare figure of Miss Silence; whether owing to
the personal fascinations of that lady, or to other causes, we leave the
reader to determine.
Miss Silence had predetermined never to speak a word again to Uncle Jaw
or any of his race; but she was taken by surprise at the frank, extended
hand and friendly "how d'ye do?" It was not in woman to resist so
cordial an address from a handsome young man, and Miss Silence gave her
hand, and replied with a graciousness that amazed herself. At this
moment, also, certain soft blue eyes peeped forth from a corner, just
"to see if he looked as he used to." Yes, there he was! the same dark,
mirthful eyes that used to peer on her from behind the corners of the
spelling book at the district school; and Susan Jones gave a deep sigh
to those times, and then wondered why she happened to think of such
nonsense.
"How is your sister, little Miss Susan?" said Joseph.
"Why, she is here--have you not seen her?" said Silence; "there she is,
in that corner."
Joseph looked, but could scarcely recognize her. There stood a tall,
slender, blooming girl, that might have been selected as a specimen of
that union of perfect health with delicate fairness so characteristic of
the young New England beauty.
She was engaged in telling some merry story to a knot of young girls,
and the rich color that, like a bright spirit, constantly went and came
in her cheeks; the dimples, quick and varying as those of a little
brook; the clear, mild eye; the clustering curls, and, above all, the
happy, rejoicing smile, and the transparent frankness and simplicity of
expression which beamed like sunshine about her, all formed a
combination of charms that took our hero quite by surprise; and when
Silence, who had a remarkable degree of directness in all her dealings,
called out, "Here, Susan, is Joe Adams, inquiring after you!" our
practised young gentleman felt himself color to the roots of his hair,
and for a moment he could scarce recollect that first rudiment of
manners, "to make his bow like a good boy." Susan colored also; but,
perceiving the confusion of our hero, her countenance assumed an
expression of mischievous drollery, which, helped on by the titter of
her companions, added not a little to his confusion.
"Dense take it!" thought he, "what's the matter with me?" and, calling
up his courage, he dashed into the formidable circle of fair ones, and
began chattering with one and another, calling by name with or without
introduction, remembering things that never happened, with a freedom
that was perfectly fascinating.
"Really, how handsome he has grown!" thought Susan; and she colored
deeply when once or twice the dark eyes of our hero made the same
observation with regard to herself, in that quick, intelligible dialect
which eyes alone can speak. And when the little party dispersed, as they
did very punctually at nine o'clock, our hero requested of Miss Silence
the honor of attending her home--an evidence of discriminating taste
which materially raised him in the estimation of that lady. It was true,
to be sure, that Susan walked on the other side of him, her little white
hand just within his arm; and there was something in that light touch
that puzzled him unaccountably, as might be inferred from the frequency
with which Miss Silence was obliged to bring up the ends of conversation
with, "What did you say?" "What were you going to say?" and other
persevering forms of inquiry, with which a regular-trained
matter-of-fact talker will hunt down a poor fellow-mortal who is in
danger of sinking into a comfortable revery.
When they parted at the gate, however, Silence gave our hero a hearty
invitation to "come and see them any time," which he mentally regarded
as more to the point than any thing else that had been said.
As Joseph soberly retraced his way homeward, his thoughts, by some
unaccountable association, began to revert to such topics as the
loneliness of man by himself, the need of kindred spirits, the solaces
of sympathy, and other like matters.
That night Joseph dreamed of trotting along with his dinner basket to
the old brown school house, and vainly endeavoring to overtake Susan
Jones, whom he saw with her little pasteboard sun bonnet a few yards in
front of him; then he was _teetering_ with her on a long board, her
bright little face glancing up and down, while every curl around it
seemed to be living with delight; and then he was snowballing Tom
Williams for knocking down Susan's doll's house, or he sat by her on a
bench, helping her out with a long sum in arithmetic; but, with the
mischievous fatality of dreams, the more he ciphered and expounded, the
longer and more hopeless grew the sum; and he awoke in the morning
pshawing at his ill luck, after having done a sum over half a dozen
times, while Susan seemed to be looking on with the same air of arch
drollery that he saw on her face the evening before.
"Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, the next morning at breakfast, "I s'pose
'Squire Jones's daughters were not at the quilting."
"Yes, sir, they were," said our hero; "they were both there."
"Why, you don't say so!"
"They certainly were," persisted the son.
"Well, I thought the old gal had too much spunk for that: you see there
is a quarrel between the deacon and them gals."
"Indeed!" said Joseph. "I thought the deacon never quarrelled with any
body."
"But, you see, old Silence there, she will quarrel with _him_: railly,
that cretur is a tough one;" and Uncle Jaw leaned back in his chair, and
contemplated the quarrelsome propensities of Miss Silence with the
satisfaction of a kindred spirit. "But I'll fix her yet," he continued;
"I see how to work it."
"Indeed, father, I did not know that you had any thing to do with their
affairs."
"Hain't I? I should like to know if I hain't!" replied Uncle Jaw,
triumphantly. "Now, see here, Joseph: you see, I mean you shall be a
lawyer: I'm pretty considerable of a lawyer myself--that is, for one not
college larnt; and I'll tell you how it is"--and thereupon Uncle Jaw
launched forth into the case of the _medder_ land and the mill, and
concluded with, "Now, Joseph, this 'ere is a kinder whetstone for you to
hone up your wits on."
In pursuance, therefore, of this plan of sharpening his wits in the
manner aforesaid, our hero, after breakfast, went like a dutiful son,
directly towards 'Squire Jones's, doubtless for the purpose of taking
ocular survey of the meadow land, mill, and stone wall; but, by some
unaccountable mistake, lost his way, and found himself standing before
the door of 'Squire Jones's house.