ain't Peter Floome. No more, either, does this pretty little creetur.
The Ballous, you see (Ephryam Ballou's _my_ name), was allers stuck on
theirselves, an' when it come to prison, I says to myself, anyhow, _I_
won't spile the fambly-tree, so I got put down anonermous-like on
them prison books, an' Ephe Ballou ain't never been heerd on to the
'palace,' you bet. Its twenty-three years, come next fall, marm, sence
I sot Hiram Hall's barn afire. I was mighty peppery in them days, an'
Hiram an' me, we had a fallin' out. He served me darned mean, Hiram
did, an' my dander was up an' so was his'n, an' we had it hot an'
heavy, an' (savin' your presence, marm, an' hern) I told Hiram I'd
give him h--l some day. After that, I cooled off some, and went home.
I was pretty riley yit, though, an' all suppertime I sot thinkin' to
myself how I'd come up with that d--d blasted sneak. That's what I
called him then, marm, fur I'd had a leetle too much old cider, an'
didn't feel like pickin' out my words. 'By jiminy!' says I to myself,
'I've got it now! I'll hide in Hiram's barn, an', when folks is turned
in, I'll jest let the critters out, and set fire to the old shebang!
That'll plague him fust-rate.' Well, arter supper, I sez to mother,
sez I, 'I'm goin' to be out middlin' late to-night, mother, an' you
better not set up for me. Put the key under the door-mat, an' I'll be
all right,' sez I.
"Poor old mother!" continued Peter, reflectively, and lowering his
voice. "Arter that I _was_ out; and a long while, too, an' she sot up
fur me, mother did. Bless her patient old soul! Yes, yes, she sot up
fur her bad boy jest five year an' six months, an' then her old heart
broke, an' she turned in for good an' all, mother did, an' I couldn't
so much as see her kivered up!"
Here Peter is fain to take breath and heart, and Miss Paulina (herself
in tears) comforts May-blossom, who is sobbing aloud. After this
pathetic interruption, Peter, apparently composed by a prolonged fit
of sneezing, regains the thread of his narrative.
"'Scuse me, marm," he apologizes, "I b'leeve thinkin' o' mother I got
a leetle grain ahead o' my story, but, as I sed, I'd made up my mind
how to come up with Hiram, an' that night I got ahead on him sure
afore he locked up, for there I was, stowed away in his haymow, as
slick as grease! Well, jest as the Presberteren meetin'-house time
struck 'leven, I crep' down to the stalls, turned out the cow an' the
horse, an' druv 'em down to the medder lot; then I walked back, put a
match er two under the mow, an' made tracks fer hum. Well," sighed
Peter, "the rest on it's an ugly story, marm, an' p'r'aps you druther
this innocent little creetur shouldn't hear it." May-blossom is now
"all ears," and Miss Parker, signifying her assent, Peter goes on.
"Well, 'bout 'leven the wind riz, an' afore that barn got well agoin'
it blowed a perfect harrycane, an' them sparks was a flyin' like the
mischief! 'Lord help us,' sez I, looking out my bedroom winder,
's'pos'n' it kerries 'em as fur's Hiram's house!' An' sure 'nuff, it
_did_; an' it bein' a dry spell, the ruff blazed up like tinder! I was
there in a jiffy, helpin' on' em git out the truck. I'd got all over
my huff now. I was sober as a jedge, an' I'd' a' gin my head for a
football to had that night's work undid! Well, there was lots o'
furnitoor in the house, an' Hiram he was a graspin' man, an' bound to
git the hull on it out, an' arter it got too hot fur the rest on us,
he hung on, an'--well--the last time he went in, he _stayed_. Poor
Hiram! I could e'en a'most have changed places with him; for arter
_that_, I wa'n't no ways sot on livin'. I knowed I wa'n't nothin' less
than a murderer, an' I wa'n't easy nowhere, 'specially to hum, where
mother was round, settin' as much store by me as ever. Well, by'm by,
when folks got wind o' my havin' a spat with Hiram, an' his owin' on
me, they put this an' that together, an' I was took up for arson; an'
I can't say as I was sorry, neither.
"Well, to make short on't, I was nigh about hung; but the governor, he
stepped in at the last minnit, an' sent me to State Prison for life.
When it come to that pass, 'I won't disgrace the fam'ly,' sez I. 'The
Ballous figgered pooty well in the revelooshing,' sez I, 'an' that
name sha'n't never be writ in the prison 'count book, ef I kin hinder
it.' So, es I've told you, marm, I had myself writ down as Peter
Floome. I hadn't no nigh relations 'cept mother and sister Betsy.
Uncle George's family'd settled in Illi_noise_, an' we didn't hear
from 'em once in a dog's age. Betsy was a young gal then an' had a
beau. She was allus pooty toppin', an' sez I, 'it don't stan' to
reason she'll be comin' to the State Prison to see her _own_ brother;
but there's mother,' sez I, '_she'll_ come reg'lar, I reckon; same's
she did to the _jail_;' so I writ her a letter, an' gin her word how I
was, an' who she must ask arter in case she come. Bless her dear old
soul!
"The very next Friday, there she was on the spot! Arter that, reg'lar
as clock work, once in three months, rain or shine, there was mother!
"Mothers, you see, marm, never misses. Wives, an' sisters, an'
children, now an' then do keep up to the mark, but mothers, on the
hull, is about the only reg'lar prison stan'bys. Well, mother sot a
good deal o' store by me, an' when I see her gittin' thin, I knowed
what fretted her, an' sez I to myself, 'she won't hold out forever,
an' when she's gone, the Lord help _me_!'
"Well," continued Peter, huskily, "by'm by she _went_, mother did; but
(dropping his voice to a confidential whisper) mothers is master hands
to hang on, an' no mistake! An' sure's you're 'live, ef she didn't
keep right on with them visits! jest as reg'lar as ef nothin' hed
turned up! Ev'ry time the quarter come round, on a Friday night, jest
as the clock struck one, there stood mother, large as life, at the
gratin' o' my cell. She never once opened her head; but, when I see
her stan' there so smilin' an' pleasant, I sez to myself, 'she's done
frettin', anyhow;' an', though I warn't never no great hand at
prayin', I _did_ thank God for _that_. I never let on 'bout them
visits, for 'bout that time things got pesky upside down with me, an'
the boys they used to say, 'Peter's cranky.' 'So,' sez I, 'ef I was to
tell 'um, they wouldn't none on 'em b'leeve me.' An' I jest kep' dark,
an' year arter year mother come reg'lar, an' we had it all to
ourselves. By'm by Hiram, _he_ come. Not reg'lar, like mother did, but
off an' on. Well, ghosts is poor company, marm; an' arter a while I
got clean upsot, and wa'n't wurth an old shoe.
"But I'm gittin' kinder ahead o' my story. Arter mother died, Betsy
she thawed out some, an' come to see me twice, an' then she got
married an' went to Californy. She writ one or two letters to me an' I
answered 'em punctooal, but by'm by she left off writin', an' I knew
_she'd_ gin me up. An' then I got sorter cross-grained an' callous;
an' sez I to myself, 'what's the odds anyhow, it can't last to all
etarnity; an' by'm by I'll go out o' this, feet fust, an' I hope 't
'ill be the last o' me.'"
"But Peter, my poor fellow," piously interposes Miss Parker, "you read
the Bible sometimes, I trust, and found some comfort there; you
couldn't have doubted God's providence, all His blessed promises to
the penitent and believing soul?"
"Why, yes'm," responds Peter; "I read my Bible _some_, purty reg'lar,
too, 'long at fust; an' mother bein' a church-member, I was brung up
to set on providence 'en sich like; but them promises you tell on
works best outside o' prisons; an' 'long 'bout the time I got upsot,
I'd gin up readin' even in the Bible; for 't wa'n't no use; the
letters all stood wrong eend up. I _did_ hang on to providence a
spell, but by 'm by, I see _that_ wa'n't no use, nuther. 'Providence,'
sez I, 'don't take no 'count o' _me_, an' I may as well try to jog
along on my own hook.'
"Well, finally, I was took down with roomatic fever, an' went into the
hospital a spell; an' arter I got round agin, I wa'n't strong enough
to go back to the shoe shop, an' the doctor said a change would set me
up agin. Twelve year I'd ben a workin' there at the same bench, an'
one day exactly like t'other, till it 'peared to me as ef I was a
sewin' one 'tarnal everlastin' shoe, over an' over, an' back an'
forth, an' no mortal hope o' comin' to the eend on't in this world or
next. An' when they sot me to runnin' arrants in the prison, an'
doin' chores fur the warden's folks, I was mighty glad, I tell you!
An' things kinder got right eend up agin. 'T wa'n't long arter that,
afore this dear little creetur come to town. Children _air_ strange
now, ain't they, marm? Would you b'leeve that, afore that child could
set alone, she took a reg'lar shine to _me_! I _was_ beat, I tell you!
An' when I felt them two little arms 'round my old neck, things
somehow lifted up like; an' though I didn't go to prayer-meetin', and
didn't ezackly git religin, as some on 'em do, I took a reg'lar hitch
on to the Almighty; 'fur,' sez I, 'it's right down handsome in Him to
send a blessed little angel to sich a place as this.' Fur she was a
reg'lar angel to us, a growin' up there, so innocent, purty an'
lovin'; an' she did our souls a heap more good than all the chaplain's
Sunday sermons; an' when the boss got killed, an' you took her off, it
seemed as ef there wa'n't nothin' left. I s'pose I took on, to myself,
a leetle too hard, fur arter I'd had one or two poor spells, the
doctor he overhauled me, an' I heered him say there was trouble with
the heart; an' sez I to myself, 'you're right there _is_!' Next day as
I was cleanin' up his office, the warden asked me 'bout my folks; an'
how long I'd ben to the prison, an' how long I'd got to stay, an' so I
told him, nigh as I could, the hull story, 'cept 'at I didn't let on
'bout mother, an' them reg'lar visits. He wouldn't 'a' b'leeved me,
you see, an' besides, I never did like to let on much about _her_.
"Well, that was long in the neighbourhood o' Fast Day; an' now an'
then on holidays, marm, as p'r'aps you know, the gov'nor makes a p'int
to pardon a prisoner; an' when the warden gits up them days in chapel,
with a paper in his hand, we know what's comin', an' some hearts there
gives awful thumps, I tell you! There's lots of 'em, you see, has
hopes, havin' folks a tryin' fur 'em outside, or bein' took up by the
prayer-meetin' or the inspectors; but I hadn't eny hopes; so that day
when the warden riz, with his pardon, an' begun to make a speech, I
sot there as unconcerned as ever.
"'Twenty-two years ago,' sez he, 'one of your number in a state of
intoxication committed a great crime, an' was sentenced for life to
this prison. Durin' these twenty-two years,' sez he, 'he hain't sot
foot outside these walls; an' durin' the hull o' that time,' sez he,
'he hain't once ben reported for bad conduct. In his sober moments
he's allers ben sorry fur his crime,' sez he, 'an' now he's a worn-out
old man, an' I have spoken in favour of his pardon. His name,' sez he,
'is Peter Floome.'
"By the Moses, marm! when I heerd _my_ name called, ef I wa'n't beat!
Well, I riz up to go forrard. My knees was mighty shaky, an' the
chapel was spinnin' round like sixty. I heerd 'em clappin' on me, an'
then, well, that pardon was a leetle too much for me; an' I jest up
an' fainted dead away. Arter a spell they brung me to; an' arter
riggin' me out in a bran-new coat an' weskitt an' trowsis, they brung
me into the guard-room. Well, there was the warden, the chaplain, an'
the deputy, an' lots o' folks, an' all as smilin' as a basket o'
chips. Lots on 'em shook hands with me, an' wished me joy. A tall man
in a long, black coat, an' green specs, was a stannin' along side o'
the warden. He was powfell glad to see me, an' gin me lots o' good
advice (out o' the Scriptures, I should say), though I didn't ezackly
sense, bein' cumflustered like. Arter that, I got leave to say good-by
to some o' the boys; an' then the warden he sent fur me to come into
his office, an' there was two of the inspectors, an' the chaplain,
an' the State agent, an' the chap in the long coat an' the goggles, as
big as life.
"Well, each on 'em talked a spell to me, an' treated me, on the hull,
I should say, considerable han'some. An' the tall man he gin some more
d'rections 'bout my behaviour. Some on it, I took it, was his own
words, an' some on 't was Bible, an' sounded mighty han'some. The
State agent he gin me the four dollars a comin' to me from the State;
an' sez he, 'when you've made up your mind what you're goin' to do,
come to my office, Peter, en I'll do what I kin fer ye.' An' arter
he'd gin me a card with the street an' number o' his place on 't, I
shook hands all round agin, an' off I goes. Lord bless you! Marm, when
I gits outside that prison ef I ain't e'en a'most as helpless as a
baby! an' where to go to, or how to go at all, is more'n _I_ knowed!
Howsumdever, I kinder scooted off, best way I could; for thinks I,
I'll git over to Boston and put up to a tavern there, where folks
don't know me, an' 't won't leak out 'bout my havin' ben in prison. So
I goes on, an' arter I turned the corner, an' got into another street,
an' walked on a piece, somebody steps up behind me, an' teches me on
the shoulder. 'Lord,' thinks I, 'what _is_ comin' now!' but I jest
turned round square ter face the music; an' who should I see but Mr.
Holt, my old instructor in the shoe shop! An' sez he, 'Peter,' sez he,
'I want you to go 'long o' me. You'll make a poor fist on 't jest now,
goin' round streets alone. You come to my house a spell,' sez he. I
_was_ glad, I tell you, marm. Well, I staid to his house three weeks
in all, an' durin' that time got sorter steady in my head, an' used
ter goin' round loose.
"Well, arter goin' to his office five times, I ketched the State agent
in, one day. He knew me right off, like a book; but he was awful busy,
an' couldn't talk to me but a minute. I told him I had a own uncle an'
some fust cousins out to Illi_noise_, an' I reckoned I'd go out there
an' stay a spell, ef he'd a mind to put me through. Sez he, 'I can
send you as fur as Buffalo, Peter, an' arter you git there, you'll
mebbe git a job an' make enough to carry you on to your folks. The
West'll be the makin' on you. It's the very place for you convicts,'
sez he. So he gin me a ticket, an' hustled me off.
"Well, I went home to Mr. Holt's, an' we talked it over, that night,
an' next day he went to Boston with me an' clean over to the deep_ott_
to put me into the right keer, an', arter thankin' on him a thousand
times, I set out for Buffalo. But, Lord a massy, marm! how them keers
does scoot! It's 'nuff to take away your breath--to say nothin' o' yer
senses. Arter a while we come to a stop an' I wa'n't a bit sorry.
'I'll git off a spell,' sez I, 'an' kinder stiddy my head, an' stretch
my legs, while the ingine's restin'.' The railroad hedn't come our way
till arter I was shet up, so I was middlin' clumsy round keers, an'
goin' down them pesky high steps, I gin my left ankle a turn, an' out
it goes! I sot down a minnit; folks was goin' an' comin', but nobody
twigged me. Arter a spell, I riz up, an' hobbled inside the deep_ott_
buildin', an' jest as I was takin' off my shoe an' stockin' to look at
the damage, that plaggy keer-man blowed his whistle, an' afore you
could say Jack Robinson, off went them divilish keers, an' me left in
the lurch, with a ticket that sez '_good for this trip only_!' 'O
Lord,' sez I, 'what _shall_ I do! Fust thing,' sez I, 'I'll count my
cash;' so I took out my little wallet, an' there was the four dollars
'at the State agent 'lowed me, an' ten dollars 'at Mr. Holt gin me
the day I cum off.
"Well, arter I thought it over, I put on my shoe and stockin', an'
sung out to a feller who 'peared to be hangin' 'round for a job, an',
sez I, 'Mister, this here ankle's awful; an' I'll be obleeged to you,
ef you'll take me to the tarvern; an' mebbe, as we go 'long, you
wouldn't mind stoppin' at the 'poth'cary shop to let me git a bottle
o' Opedildock?'
"Well, to git to the eend o' my long story, that ankle, marm, laid me
up a hull week; an', by the time I got round agin, my cash was 'bout
gone. My ticket wa'n't no arthly valloo, nuther. So I gin up
Illinoise, paid the damages to the tarvern, bought a lot o' crackers
an' cheese, an' sot out on my travels, dead broke. I guess 't wa'n't
more'n ten miles from Boston where I bust my ankle; but I made up my
mind not to ask no questions, fur, sez I, 'Peter, 't won't do to show
your ignorance, ef you do 't may leak out 'bout the prison.'
"Fust, I thought I'd look 'round for a job; but I _dursn't_, fur folks
would naterly want to know where I come from, an' ef the boys got wind
o' my bein' a convict, they'd prob'ly holler arter me, an' p'rhaps
set the dogs on me. So I jest shet my head tight, an' sot out.
"I'd ben travellin' 'bout two days when my grub gin out, an', long in
the arternoon o' the third day, I come in sight o' this here buildin'.
Thinks I ter myself, 'I can't drag on much furder, anyhow, an' it does
look mighty pooty there in that green lot with the yallar buttercups a
bloomin' all round. I reckon I better tumble over them bars,' sez I,
'an' lay down a spell under that big warnut tree. Mebbe,' sez I, 'I
sha'n't git up in a hurry (fur I was clean beat out), but 't ain't no
matter,' sez I, 'there's folks close by, an' when my troubles is over,
they'll find me layin' a top o' the buttercups, an' they can't do no
less'n put me _under_ 'em.' You see, marm, livin' behind the bars, a
feller gits shaky on Providence, and I didn't once suspicion 'at
Providence was bringin' me to the right shop; 'at I was makin' a
bee-line fur the only creetur in the hull world 'at wouldn't turn the
cold shoulder on me. So, when I clim over them bars, I couldn't
(beggin' the Almighty's pardon) ha' flipped a cent fer my miserable
old life. When I laid down under the warnut tree, I felt kinder
drowsy-like, an' so I shet my eyes; but the birds, they was singin'
like all possessed, an' the grass smelt sweet as new butter, an' I
hadn't seen a mowin' lot risin' o' twenty year. So I riz up on my
elbow, to take a squint 'round, an' there, not more'n ten rods off, I
seed this blessed little angel a pickin' buttercups. She'd grown,
marm, but I knowed her, fur all that, the minnit I sot eyes on her. 'T
ain't nateral I _shouldn't_, when there ain't another like her in
God's world. Yes, I knowed her, an' she knowed me, she did, though
when I sot straight up, an' kinder coughed, she gin a leetle start.
An' then I sez to myself, 'O Lord! she's goin' to run away! As sure as
the world, she's afeared of her poor old Peter, 'at used to tote her
in his arms!' But she didn't _run_. She jest turned round an' gin me a
good look, an' then she claps her two hands, she does, an' sez she,
'Peter! Peter! it _is_ Peter!' an' runs straight up to me, with her
cheeks as pink as roses, an' puts her two arms 'round my miser'ble old
neck. An' then, marm, I broke right down, an' cried like a baby. But I
didn't want to make her pooty little heart ache, so I wiped up, an'
told her all 'bout the pardon, an' 'bout the folks over to the
'palace' (that's _our_ name, marm, for the prison), an' it 'peared to
me she'd never git through askin' questions 'bout one or 'nother, for
bein' brung up in the prison, she kinder took to us, though we do seem
poor shucks to _you_, I reckon. Use is everything, an' no matter how
bad convicts is, they all sot the world by _her_. Well, arter we'd
talked a spell, an' I'd et a hunk o' gingerbread she gin me, I perked
up, an' told her I'd go along home with her; 'fur,' sez I, 'I _can't_
leave her now, nohow. I've ben starvin' too long for the sight on
her,' sez I. So here I am, marm, an' you know the rest.
"Mebbe you'd know some place 'round here where I could do chores for
my vittels, or p'r'aps you'd giv' me a job yourself, an then I'd git a
look at this little creetur every day, sartin sure. 'Scuse me, marm,
ef I make too free ('Titania' had crept close to Bottom and was
fondly stroking his hand); but I kerried her in my arms a long spell,
an' habit's second natur."
Peter's long story concluded, Miss Paulina kindly assured him that he
should not yet be sent far away from his pretty nursling. Already, she
had determined where to bestow him for the night. In the rambling old
garden stood a small, nondescript erection, supposed to have served,
in remote times, as a summer-house, and though now appropriated to the
safe-keeping of garden tools, still weather-tight and easily
convertible into a sleeping-place, for an unambitious guest. With this
energetic lady, to will was to do. And, with the help of Reuben's
strong arm, and the half-reluctant aid of Mandy Ann, who had consented
to leave for a time the sheltering four walls of her attic bedroom,
the tool-house was cleared up and made clean. A light cot-bed was
conveyed hither, and duly furnished for Peter's occupancy, and, with
his last lingering look devouring May-blossom, he was escorted by
Reuben to his new quarters. There, a cup of hot coffee, a generous
plate of biscuits, and a clean nightcap awaited him. And, installed in
these comparatively elegant lodgings, we leave him to sound sleep, and
happy dreams.
Harmy's pet bantam had long since crowed in a new day, and Harmy
herself had been two full hours astir, when Peter Floome, rubbing his
old eyes, awoke from untroubled slumber. Essaying to rise, and with
one foot already planted on the floor, he becomes painfully aware of
his inability to do so. A small, round table, the summer-house settee,
and chairs reel tipsily in their places. The diamond-paned window
wavers before his eyes, the very walls of the apartment seem like--
"The ancient House of Usher,
Tottering to their fall,"
and, catching the general impulse, he, too, lets go his centre of
gravity, and falls fainting across the bed. Half an hour later, Peter
awakes to conscious life, and an overwhelming smell of camphor. Harmy
Patterson, not without evidence of strong repulsion, bends desperately
over him. Her expression, in the main, is that of solemn
determination. She is "bringing him to." This accomplished, she
stiffly beckons to Reuben (who stands "watching afar off"), and,
signifying her desire to wash her hands of this disreputable patient,
commits Peter to his care, and grimly retires.
Miss Paulina is hastily interviewed, and informed of the convict's
"faint spell," and his subsequent "bringin' to." And Harmy, forthwith,
expresses her decided conviction that "it's ketchin', an' she
shouldn't a bit wonder if the hull family was took down with it," and,
furtively suggesting the "poorhouse," she withdraws to the more
momentous concerns of her kitchen. There she sends cold shivers down
Mandy Ann's back, by a recountal of the late occurrence. "I hain't,"
she declares, "had a wink of sleep the whole blessed night, a thinkin'
of that horrid convict, an' not knowin' what might happen, with sich
creeturs 'round. At four o'clock I come down and went into the garden
to settle my mind, an' pull a few cherry reddishes for breakfast. I
jest stepped down to the summer-house a minute, to take a good look
'round, and there was the door wide open!"
Feelin' (as she averred) in her bones that the creetur might ha' gone
off in the night with the pillow-case and towels in his trowsers'
pocket, she had (to make assurance doubly sure) stepped over the
threshold, with them cherry reddishes in her apron, an' her heart a
beatin' like a mill-clapper. And, raisin' her two hands, she had let
go her apron, an' them reddishes had gone rollin' every which way,
while she gin such a screech that Reuben heered it, way off in the
cow-yard, and nigh about jumped out of his skin. The hired man
arriving on the scene, she had said, "Reuben, is he gone?" and,
loosing his shirt collar, Reuben had made answer, "Gone? no, he's
alive an' kickin', you bet. Run git the camfire, Harmy, an' don't
disturb the folks. _You'll_ fetch him 'round ef ennybody kin." How her
camfire, strong enough to bear up an egg, had at length brung the
miser'ble creetur round, to give 'em all some dretful sickness he'd
ketched, etc., etc.
Mandy Ann's fascinated attention, and her lively alternations of
horror and surprise during the above recital, this feeble pen may not
describe. Miss Paulina, meantime, visiting the summer-house, detects
no evidence of fever in Peter's system, and is convinced that the poor
body's ailment is not, as Harmy opines, "ketchin'." Kindly looking
after his comfort, she relieves Reuben's watch, and forthwith
despatches him for Doctor Foster, who in due time looks in upon the
strange patient, and pronounces his sudden illness an attack of heart
disease. "Twenty-two years of hopeless toil," declares the good
doctor, "short commons, and vitiated air, have damaged the poor human
machine beyond repair; and, though it may run a while longer, don't
be surprised if it stops any day, and without notice." The doctor
rides away on his morning round; Miss Paulina gives May-blossom her
late breakfast, and, with many careful admonitions, allows her to go
to Peter, who now--tolerably recovered--"is receiving" in an old
Boston rocker, hunted up for his special use; and in which, sitting
bolt upright, he rocks with indescribable relish, assuring May-blossom
that "it's the very spawn o' mother's own rockin'-cheer, an' makes him
feel as ef he was right in the old chimbly corner, to hum."