THE NEXT DAY
I was up to me eers in work—it being wash day. As I carried the clothes
out to be hung I noted the following: Mr. John was walking up and down
taking triminjus long stips back and forth over the back lon. Wid the
tales of his coat flying out behind him and his spickticles hanging by a
string from his eer he looked so like a loonytick that I drapped me
baskit of clothes.
“My God, Mr. John” I exclaimed involuntarararily “Are you sun struck.
Whats the trubble” ses I, and I stopped him in his mad careerer as Mr.
James wud call it by grabbing him by his cote tales. He turned about,
looks at me wid wild eyes and ses horsely:
“Twinty-two and a harf—twinty-two and a—Bother the girl!” ses he
interrupting himsilf, “Are you crazy? Let go me cote tales.” I releesed
him. Ses he irrytibly:
“Can’t you see I’m bizzy? I’m meshuring off me vigitible garden” and wid
that he starts marching over the same line agin.
“My God, Mr. John!” ses I “are you using yur legs for a meshure?”
But he herd me not. I toar me horryfied eyes away frum the madman, and
just then I seen Mr. James. He was standing also on the lon, neerer the
frunt of the house. He’s leening on the lon mower, and if ever I seen
dispare in human eyes it was in those orbs of Mr. James. I wint to him
wid me hart full of sympathy for the lad.
“Whats ailing you Mr. James?” I arsks.
[Illustration:
“‘Mr. John,’ I exclamed involuntarararily, ‘are you sun struck? What’s
the trubble?’ ses I.”
]
“The lons!” ses he. “You will obsarve Delia, that I’m commincing me tax
at the beginning of the week, for I am firmly convinsed no human arm
cood cut those lons in less than sivin days.”
“Why don’t you get a dago, Mr. James” ses I.
“Sh!” ses Mr. James, guving me arm a shuv. “Spake lowly Delia. Ob-sarve”
and he poynted acrost the lons.
There aginst the finse which divides our place from a grate estate was
Miss Claire hersilf _digging_. She had a little red gingum aprun over
her dress and the slaves was rolled oop to the ilbos. On her hed was the
strangest looking site of a hat. I reckynised it wid horrer. It wuz a
Spanish monsterosity Mr. James brot back wid him that time he wint to
Pannyma to expose the Prissydint. Until this day Miss Claire had yused
it for a waste paper barsket in her room, tying it in a boonch wid
ribbon and hanging it artisticully upon the wall. Now she woar it on her
hed! Joost thin she looked up from her digging and seen me.
“Now Delia” ses she “don’t be bothering Jimmy. Hes got lots to do. We
_all_ have” she adds swately.
“What be you doing Miss Claire?” arsks I, going over to her, and looking
wid suspisshon at the hole she’s after diggin. “My God Miss” ses I “it
looks like a grave.”
“Delia! Why” ses she “I’m sitting out a flouring hidge. I’m follring the
rules of the bist orthorities on hortyculcheer. See:” and she poynted to
her pockets which were boolging out wid books. “All are agreed” ses she
“that a gardin shud be begun wid a flouring hidge. My gardin will be one
glow of luvliness from spring till frorst and maybe later. Its
possible.”
“But miss” ses I “ye’ll nade a gardiner for the tax”
“Never! Why I’ve been setting up nites studying me subjeck. I expect to
devoat——” just thin she guv a little joomp and her cheeks turned pink
wid excitemint.
“My goodness Delia!” ses she wispering, “th-theres _a_ man” ses she.
“Whare?” ses I, glaring about me, riddy for war upon anny dirty tramps
trispessing upon our place.
“The other side the fince” ses she, wispering. I looked over, but seen
no wan.
“Are you quite _sure_?” asks she, trimbling a bit.
“I am” ses I. She turned pale, and siesed hold of me arm.
“Delia!” ses she whispering “d-d-d-do you remimber that—that—young man
who——”
“Is it your future hoosband ye’re maning?”
“Nonsinse” ses she blushing, “but—but I meen him anyhow. Well—well—do
you know—I—I—I’m afrade he’s _honting_ me” ses she.
“My God miss” ses I “do you think he’s a banshee?”
“No, no Delia—but—but well” ses she, “the fack is I’m always _thinking_
about him, and now—now ackshully I thort I saw him—over there” ses she.
“Suppose” ses I “you tak a look again Miss Claire.”
“I cant” ses she, shinking aginst me, “and beside the finse is so high.
Its—its—much taller than I am” ses she.
“Ah come on” ses I, and pulled her to the finse. “Here miss, I’ll lift
you up,” and wid that I grabbed her by the waste and hawled her up. She
screemed. I dropped her wid a boomp, for there looking over, rubbing his
hed where Miss Claire has boomped aginst it, is the Madison Avenoo dood.
Miss Claire tuk to her feet and wint flying tord the house, her books
drapping out of her pockits as she run.
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