and talk the most about its bein’ her duty to cling to man like a vine
to a tree, they don’t want Betsey to cling to them, they _won’t let_ her
cling to ’em. For when they would be a-goin’ on about how wicked it was
for wimmin to vote—and it was her only spear to marry, says I to ’em,
“Which had you ruther do, let Betsey Bobbet cling to you or let her
vote?” and they would every one of ’em quail before that question. They
would drop their heads before my keen grey eyes—and move off the
subject.
But Betsey don’t get discourajed. Every time I see her she says in a
hopeful, wishful tone, “That the deepest men of minds in the country
agree with her in thinkin’ that it is wimmin’s duty to marry and not to
vote.” And then she talks a sight about the retirin’ modesty and dignity
of the fair sect, and how shameful and revoltin’ it would be to see
wimmin throwin’ ’em away, and boldly and unblushin’ly talkin’ about law
and justice.
Why, to hear Betsey Bobbet talk about wimmin’s throwin’ their modesty
away, you would think if they ever went to the political pole, they
would have to take their dignity and modesty and throw ’em against the
pole, and go without any all the rest of their lives.
Now I don’t believe in no such stuff as that. I think a woman can be
bold and unwomanly in other things besides goin’ with a thick veil over
her face, and a brass-mounted parasol, once a year, and gently and
quietly dropping a vote for a Christian President, or a religious and
noble-minded pathmaster.
She thinks she talks dreadful polite and proper. She says, “I was
cameing,” instead of “I was coming;” and “I have saw,” instead of “I
have seen;” and “papah” for paper, and “deah” for dear. I don’t know
much about grammer, but common sense goes a good ways. She writes the
poetry for the _Jonesville Augur_, or “_Augah_,” as she calls it. She
used to write for the opposition paper, the _Jonesville Gimlet_, but the
editer of the _Augur_, a long-haired chap, who moved into Jonesville a
few months ago, lost his wife soon after he come there, and sence that
she has turned Dimocrat, and writes for his paper stiddy. They say that
he is a dreadful big feelin’ man, and I have heard—it came right
straight to me—his cousin’s wife’s sister told it to the mother-in-law
of one of my neighbour’s brother’s wife, that he didn’t like Betsey’s
poetry at all, and all he printed it for was to plague the editer of the
_Gimlet_, because she used to write for him. I myself wouldn’t give a
cent a bushel for all the poetry she can write. And it seems to me, that
if I was Betsey, I wouldn’t try to write so much. Howsumever, I don’t
know what turn I should take if I was Betsey Bobbet; that is a solemn
subject, and one I don’t love to think on.
I never shall forget the first piece of her poetry I ever see. Josiah
Allen and I had both on us been married goin’ on a year, and I had
occasion to go to his trunk one day, where he kept a lot of old papers,
and the first thing I laid my hand on was these verses. Josiah went with
her a few times after his wife died, on 4th of July or so, and two or
three camp meetin’s, and the poetry seemed to be wrote about the time
_we_ was married. It was directed over the top of it, “Owed to Josiah,”
just as if she were in debt to him. This was the way it read—
“OWED TO JOSIAH.
“Josiah, I the tale have hurn,
With rigid ear, and streaming eye,
I saw from me that you did turn,
I never knew the reason why.
Oh, Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.
Why did you,—oh, why did you blow
Upon my life of snowy sleet,
The fiah of love to fiercest glow,
Then turn a damphar on the heat?
Oh, Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.
I saw thee coming down the street,
_She_ by your side in bonnet bloo;
The stuns that grated ’neath thy feet,
Seemed crunching on my vitals too.
Oh, Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.
I saw thee washing sheep last night,
On the bridge I stood with marble brow,
The waters raged, thou clasped it tight,
I sighed, ‘should both be drownded now’—
I thought, Josiah,
Oh happy sheep to thus expiah.”
I showed the poetry to Josiah that night after he came home, and told
him I had read it. He looked awful ashamed to think I had seen it, and,
says he, with a dreadful sheepish look, “The persecution I underwent
from that female can never be told; she fairly hunted me down. I hadn’t
no rest for the soles of my feet. I thought one spell she would marry me
in spite of all I could do, without givin’ me the benefit of law or
gospel.” He see I looked stern, and he added, with a sick lookin’ smile,
“I thought one spell,” to use Betsey’s language, “I was a gonah.”
I didn’t smile. Oh no, for the deep principle of my sect was reared up.
I says to him, in a tone cold enough to almost freeze his ears, “Josiah
Allen, shet up; of all the cowardly things a man ever done, it is goin’
round braggin’ about wimmin likin’ ’em, and follerin’ ’em up. Enny man
that’ll do that is little enough to crawl through a knot hole without
rubbing his clothes.” Says I, “I suppose you made her think the moon
rose in your head and set in your heels. I daresay you acted foolish
enough round her to sicken a snipe, and if you makes fun of her now to
please me, I let you know you have got holt of the wrong individual.
[Illustration: “I SHOWED THE POETRY TO JOSIAH THAT NIGHT.”]
“Now,” says I, “go to bed;” and I added, in still more freezing accents,
“for I want to mend your pantaloons.” We gathered up his shoes and
stockin’s and started off to bed, and we hain’t never passed a word on
the subject sence. I believe when you disagree with your pardner, in
freein’ your _mind_ in the first on’t, and then not to be a-twittin’
about it afterwards. And as for bein’ jealous, I should jest as soon
think of bein’ jealous of a meetin’-house as I should of Josiah. He is a
well principled man. And I guess he wasn’t fur out o’ the way about
Betsey Bobbet, though I wouldn’t encourage him by lettin’ him say a word
on the subject, for I always make it a rule to stand up for my own sect;
but when I hear her go on about the editer of the _Augur_, I can believe
anything about Betsey Bobbet.
She came in here one day last week. It was about ten o’clock in the
mornin’. I had got my house slick as a pin, and my dinner under way (I
was goin’ to have a biled dinner, and a cherry puddin’ biled, with sweet
sass to eat on it), and I sot down to finish sewin’ up the breadth of my
new rag carpet. I thought I would get it done while I hadn’t so much to
do, for it bein’ the 1st of March I knew sugarin’ would be comin’ on,
and then cleanin’-house time, and I wanted it to put down jest as soon
as the stove was carried out in the summer kitchin. The fire was
sparklin’ away, and the painted floor a-shinin’ and the dinner a-bilin’,
and I sot there sewin’ jest as calm as a clock, not dreamin’ of no
trouble, when in came Betsey Bobbet.
I met her with outward calm, and asked her set down and lay off her
things. She sot down, but she said she couldn’t lay off her things. Says
she, “I was comin’ down past, and I thought I would call and let you see
the last numbah of the _Augah_. There is a piece in it concernin’ the
tariff that stirs men’s souls. I like it evah so much.”
She handed me the paper, folded so I couldn’t see nothin’ but a piece of
poetry by Betsey Bobbet. I see what she wanted of me, and so I dropped
my breadths of carpetin’ and took hold of it, and began to read it.
“Read it audible, if you please,” says she. “Especially the precious
remahks ovah it; it is such a feast for me to be a sittin’ and heah it
reheahsed by a musical vorce.”
Says I, “I spose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good,” so I
began as follows:—
“It is seldom that we present to the readers of the _Augur_ (the
best paper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem
like the following. It may be, by the assistance of the _Augur_
(only twelve shillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in
exchange), the name of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty
pinnacle of fame’s towering pillow. We think, however, that she
could study such writers as Sylvanus Cobb, and Tupper, with profit
both to herself and to them.
“EDITOR OF THE AUGUR.”
Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the _Augah_ has no need
to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favourite authar.
You have devorhed him, haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?”
“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.
“Mahten, Fahqueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.
“No, mom,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper,
nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.”
“Oh! you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet, tender lines.”
“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I
made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and
so I read—
“GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL.
“Oh let who will,
Oh let who can,
Be tied onto
A horrid male man.
Thus said I ’ere
My tendah heart was touched,
Thus said I ’ere
My tendah feelings gushed.
But oh a change
Hath swept ore me,
As billows sweep
The ‘deep blue sea.’
A voice, a noble form,
One day I saw;
An arrow flew,
My heart is nearly raw.
His first pardner lies
Beneath the turf,
He is wandering now,
In sorrow’s briny surf.
Two twins, the little
Deah cherub creechahs,
Now wipe the teahs
From off his classic feachahs.
Oh sweet lot, worthy
Angel arisen,
To wipe teahs
From eyes like hisen.”
“What think you of it?” says she, as I finished readin’.
I looked right at her most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of
her false curls, and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter.
I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yellow
bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain’t the editer of the _Augur_
a widower with a pair of twins?”
“Yes,” says she with a happy look.
Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one.”
“Oh!” says she, and she dropped her bunnet-strings, and clasped her long
bony hands together in her brown cotton gloves, “Oh, we ahdent soles of
genious have feelin’s, you cold, practical natures know nuthing of, and
if they did not gush out in poetry we should expiah. You may as well try
to tie up the gushing catarack of Niagara with a piece of welting cord,
as to tie up the feelin’s of an ahdent sole.”
“Ardent sole!” says I coldly. “Which makes the most noise, Betsey
Bobbet, a three-inch brook, or a ten-footer? which is the tearer? which
is the roarer? deep waters run stillest. I have no faith in feelin’s
that stalk round in public in mournin’ weeds. I have no faith in such
mourners,” says I.
“Oh, Josiah’s wife, cold, practical female being, you know me not; we,
are sundered as fah apart as if you was sitting on the North Pole, and I
was sitting on the South Pole. Uncongenial being, you know me not.”
“I may not know you, Betsey Bobbet, but I do know decency, and I know
that no munny would tempt me to write such stuff as that poetry and send
it to a widower with twins.”
“Oh!” says she, “what appeals to the tendah feelin’ heart of a single
female woman more than to see a lonely man who has lost his relict? And
pity never seems so much like pity as when it is given to the deah
little children of widowehs. And,” says she, “I think moah than as
likely as not, this soaring sole of genious did not wed his affinity,
but was united to a mere woman of clay.”
“Mere woman of clay!” says I, fixin’ my spektacles upon her in a most
searchin’ manner. “Where will you find a woman, Betsey Bobbet, that
hain’t more or less clay? And affinity, that is the meanest word I ever
heard; no married woman has any right to hear it. I’ll excuse you, bein’
a female; but if a man had said it to me, I’d holler to Josiah. There is
a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are
married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly.
“We kindred soles soah above such petty feelings, we soah far above
them.”
“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and to
tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.”
“The Editah of the _Augah_,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen
the stand, and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the
Editah of this paper is a kindred sole, he appreciates me, he
undahstands me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah
go down to posterety togathah?”
Then says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there
now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you
was both of you in posterity now.”
_Marietta Holley._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_THE COURTIN’._
[Illustration: “AN’ ON HER APPLES KEP’ TO WORK, PARIN’ AWAY LIKE
MURDER.”]
GOD makes sech nights, all white an’ still
Fur’z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All silence an’ all glisten.
Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder;
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
’Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room’s one side
With half a cord o’ wood in—
There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.
The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
An’ leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Again the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,
An’ she looked full ez rosy again
Ez the apples she was peelin’.
’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom come to look
On sech a blessed cretur;
A dogrose blushin’ to a brook
Ain’t modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o’ man, A1,
Clean grit an’ human natur’;
None couldn’t quiker pitch a ton,
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,
He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
All is, he couldn’t love ’em.
But long o’ her his veins ’ould run
All crinkly like curled maple;
The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.
She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir:
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring
She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.
An’ she’d blush scarlet, right in prayer,
When her new meetin’-bunnet
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
O’ blue eyes sot upon it.
Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_!
She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartain-sure he’d come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, and knowed it tu,
A-rasping on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelin’s flew,
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle;
His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.
“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”
“Wall ... no ... I come dasignin’”—
“To see my Ma? she is sprinklin’ clo’es
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”
To say why gals act so or so,
Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;
Mebbe to mean _yes_ an’ say _no_
Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot first,
Then stood a spell on t’other,
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.
Says he, “I’d better call agin;”
Says she, “Think likely, Mister;”
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An’.... Wal, he up an’ kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips,
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.
For she was jes’ the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snow-hid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how metters stood,
And gin ’em both her blessin’.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy;
An’ all I know is they was cried
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.
_James Russell Lowell._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_THE WONDERFUL TAR-BABY STORY._
[Illustration: “‘MAWNIN’!’ SEZ BRER RABBIT, SEZEE.”]
“DIDN’T the fox never catch the rabbit, uncle Remus?” asked the little
boy the next evening.
“He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho’s you bawn—brer fox did. One day
after brer rabbit fool him wid dat calamus root, brer fox went ter wuk
en got ’im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a
contrapshun what he call a tar-baby, en he tuck dish yere tar-baby en he
sot ’er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see wat
de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn’t hatter wait long, nudder, kaze
bimeby here come brer rabbit pacin’ down de road—lippity-clippity,
clippity-lippity—dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer fox, he lay low. Brer
rabbit come prancin’ ’long twel he spy de tar-baby, en den he fotch up
on his behime legs like he wuz ’stonished. De tar-baby, she sot dar, she
did, en brer fox, he lay low.
“‘Mawnin’!’ sez brer rabbit, sezee; ‘nice wedder dis mawnin’,’ sezee.
“Tar-baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en brer fox, he lay low.
“‘How duz zo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez brer rabbit, sezee.
“Brer fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de tar-baby, she ain’t
sayin’ nuthin’.
‘How you come on, den? Is you deaf?’ sez brer rabbit, sezee; ’kaze if
you is, I kin holler louder,’ sezee.
“Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.
“‘Youer stuck up, dat’s w’at you is,’ says brer rabbit, sezee, ’en I’m
gwineter kyore you, dat’s w’at I’m a gwineter do,’ sezee.
“Brer fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but tar-baby ain’t
sayin’ nuthin’.
“‘I’m gwineter larn you howter talk ter ’specttubble fokes ef hit’s de
las’ ack,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’t take off dat hat en
tell me howdy, I’m gwineter bus’ you wide open,’ sezee.
“Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.
“Brer rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de tar-baby, she keep on sayin’
nuthin’ twel presently brer rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en
blip he tuck ’er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his
merlasses jug. His fis’ struck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt ’im.
“But tar-baby, she stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.
“‘Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you agin,’ sez brer rabbit,
sezee, en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid de udder han’, en dat stuck.
Tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en brer fox, he lay low.
‘Tu’n me loose, fo’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez brer
rabbit, sezee, but de tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt
on, en den brer rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way.
“Brer fox, he lay low. Den brer rabbit squall out dat ef de tar-baby
don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er cranksided. En den he butted, en his
head got stuck. Den brer fox, he santered fort’, lookin’ des ez
innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds.
“‘Howdy, brer rabbit,’ sez brer fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up
dis mawnin’,’ sezee, en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft twel he
couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I ’speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, brer
rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain’t gwineter take no
skuse,’ sez brer fox, sezee.”
Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.
“Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had
been told.
“Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, en den
agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B’ar come along en loosed ’im—some say
he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”
_Joel Chandler Harris._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_POMONA’S NOVEL._
[Illustration]
IT was in the latter part of August of that year that it became
necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St.
Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me
as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than
any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like
to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far
into the regulation sleeping hours.
There were very good reasons why we should go (for of course I would not
think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first place it
would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to take the
trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We had never
been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we would see
would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes and Niagara,
and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then we would have to
leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how could we do that?
This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of
our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicated
belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables were
coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory
condition—altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables—for which I
had laboured so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful
anticipations. As to Euphemia’s chicken-yard,—with Euphemia away,—the
subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would
give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most
desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come
and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not
run itself for three weeks.
We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not
feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends; but
there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea of
handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my
part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;
but then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she
would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in regard
to the disqualifications. So when I went to the office the next morning,
we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one to
take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the
office in the afternoon I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time I
had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere very much with
my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that time we could
get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomona must assume
the charge. We were not able to get any one, and Pomona did assume the
charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt when we were
obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactly what we
wanted, and now that there was no help for it, our consciences were
easy.
We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would
be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well
able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she
needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night.
Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of
directions for her guidance in household, garden, and farm matters, and
directed her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy that
might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life,
and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a
responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.
She was very proud of it. Our journey was ten times more delightful than
we had expected it would be, and successful in every way; and yet
although we enjoyed every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on
our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there that we
reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we would
be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walked up
from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express-waggon.
As we approached our dear home we wanted to run, we were so eager to see
it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was
locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then I
noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering
was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read—
TO BE SOLD
FOR TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
“What does this mean?” said I. “Has our landlord——?”