and my head combed and my dress changed, and I was jest pinnin’ my linen
coller over my clean gingham dress (broun and black plaid) to the lookin’
glass, when lookin’ up, who should I see but Betsey Bobbet comin’ through
the gate. She stopped a minute to Tirzah Ann’s posy bed, and then she
come along kinder gradually, and stopped and looked at my new tufted
bedspread that I have got out a whitenin’ on the grass, and then she come
up the steps and come in.
Somehow I was kinder glad to see her that day. I had had first rate luck
with all my bakin’, every thing had turned out well, and I felt real
reconciled to havin’ a visit from her.
But I see she looket ruther gloomy, and after she sot down and took out
her tattin’ and begun to tat, she spoke up and says she--
“Josiah Allen’s wife, I feel awful deprested to-day.”
“What is the matter?” says I in a cheerful tone.
“I feel lonely,” says she, “more lonely than I have felt for yeahs.”
Again says I kindly but firmly--
“What is the matter, Betsey?”
“I had a dream last night, Josiah Allen’s wife.”
“What was it?” says I in a sympathizin’ accent, for she did look
meloncholly and sad indeed.
“I dreamed I was married, Josiah Allen’s wife,” says she in a
heart-broken tone, and she laid her hand on my arm in her deep emotion.
“I tell you it was hard after dreamin’ that, to wake up again to the
cold realities and cares of this life; it was _hard_,” she repeated,
and a tear gently flowed down her Roman nose and dropped off onto her
overskirt. She knew salt water would spot otter color awfully, and so she
drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, and spread it in her lap, (it
was white trimmed with narrow edgein’) and continued--
“Life seemed so hard and lonesome to me, that I sot up in the end of the
bed and wept. I tried to get to sleep again, hopin’ I would dream it
ovah, but I could not.”
And again two salt tears fell in about the middle of the handkerchief. I
see she needed consolation, and my gratitude made me feel soft to her,
and so says I in a reasurin’ tone--
“To be sure husbands are handy on 4th of July’s, and funeral prosessions,
it looks kinder lonesome to see a woman streamin’ along alone, but they
are contrary creeters, Betsey, when they are a mind to be.”
And then to turn the conversation and get her mind off’en her trouble,
says I,
“How did you like my bed spread, Betsey?”
“It is beautiful,” says she sorrowfully.
“Yes,” says I, “it looks well enough now its done, but it most wore my
fingers out a tuftin’ it--it’s a sight of work.”
But I saw how hard it was to draw her mind off from broodin’ over her
troubles, for she spoke in a mournful tone,
“How sweet it must be to weah the fingers out for a deah companion. I
would be willing to weah mine clear down to the bone. I made a vow some
yeahs ago,” says she, kinder chirkin’ up a little, and beginnin’ to tat
agin. “I made a vow yeahs ago that I would make my deah future companion
happy, for I would neveh, neveh fail to meet him with a sweet smile as he
came home to me at twilight. I felt that that was all he would requireh
to make him happy. Do you think it was a rash vow, Josiah Allen’s wife?”
“Oh,” says I in a sort of blind way, “I guess it won’t do any hurt. But,
if a man couldn’t have but one of the two, a smile or a supper, as he
come home at night, I believe he would take the supper.”
“Oh deah,” says Betsey, “such cold, practical ideahs are painful to me.”
“Wall,” says I cheerfully but firmly, “if you ever have the opportunity,
you try both ways. You jest let your fire go out, and your house and you
look like fury, and nothin’ to eat, and you stand on the door smilin’
like a first class idiot--and then agin you have a first rate supper
on the table, stewed oysters, and warm biscuit and honey, or somethin’
else first rate, and a bright fire shinin’ on a clean hearth, and the
tea-kettle a singin’, and the tea-table all set out neat as a pink, and
you goin’ round in a cheerful, sensible way gettin’ the supper onto the
table, and you jest watch, and see which of the two ways is the most
agreable to him.”
Betsey still looked unconvinced, and I proceeded onwards.
“Now I never was any hand to stand and smile at Josiah for two or three
hours on a stretch, it would make me feel like a natural born idiot; but
I always have a bright fire, and a warm supper a waitin’ for him when he
comes home at night.”
“Oh food! food! what is food to the deathless emotions of the soul. What
does the aching young heart care for what food it eats--let my deah
future companion smile on me, and that is enough.”
Says I in reasonable tones, “A man _can’t_ smile on an empty stomach
Betsey, not for any length of time. And no man can’t eat soggy bread,
with little chunks of salaratus in it, and clammy potatoes, and beefsteak
burnt and raw in spots, and drink dishwatery tea, and muddy coffee,
and smile--or they might give one or 2 sickly, deathly smiles, but they
wouldn’t keep it up, you depend upon it they wouldn’t, and it haint in
the natur’ of a man to, and I say they hadn’t ought to. I have seen bread
Betsey Bobbet, that was enough to break down any man’s affection for a
woman, unless he had firm principle to back it up--and love’s young dream
has been drounded in thick, muddy coffee more’n once. If there haint
anything pleasant in a man’s home how can he keep attached to it? Nobody,
man nor woman can’t respect what haint respectable, or love what haint
lovable. I believe in bein’ cheerful Betsey; a complainin’, fretful woman
in the house, is worse than a cold, drizzlin’ rain comin’ right down
all the time onto the cook stove. Of course men have to be corrected, I
correct Josiah frequently, but I believe in doin’ it all up at one time
and then have it over with, jest like a smart dash of a thunder shower
that clears up the air.”
“Oh, how a female woman that is blest with a deah companion, can even
speak of correcting him, is a mystery to me.”
But again I spoke, and my tone was as firm and lofty as Bunker Hill
monument--
“Men _have_ to be corrected, Betsey, there wouldn’t be no livin’ with ’em
unless you did.”
“Well,” says she, “you can entertain such views as you will, but for me,
I _will_ be clingin’ in my nature, I _will_ be respected by men, they do
so love to have wimmin clingin’, that I will, until I die, carry out this
belief that is so sweet to them--until I die I will nevah let go of this
speah.”
I didn’t say nothin’, for gratitude tied up my tongue, but as I rose
and went up stairs to wind me a little more yarn--I thought I wouldn’t
bring down the swifts for so little as I wanted to wind--I thought sadly
to myself, what a hard, hard time she had had, sense I had known her,
a handlin’ that spear. We got to talkin’ about it the other day, how
long she had been a handlin’ of it. Says Thomas Jefferson, “She has been
brandishin’ it for fifty years.”
Says I, “Shet up, Thomas J., she haint been born longer ago than that.”
Says he--“She was born with that spear in her hand.”
But as I said she has had a hard and mournful time a tryin’ to make a
runnin’ vine of herself sense I knew her. And Josiah says she was at it,
for years before I ever see her. She has tried to make a vine of herself
to all kinds of trees, straight and crooked, sound and rotten, young and
old. Her mind is sot the most now, on the Editer of the Augur, but she
pays attention to any and every single man that comes in her way. And it
seems strange to me that them that preach up this doctrine of woman’s
only spear, don’t admire one who carrys it out to its full extent. It
seems kinder ungrateful in ’em, to think that when Betsey is so willin’
to be a vine, they will not be a tree; but they won’t, they seem sot
against it.
I say if men insist on makin’ runnin’ vines of wimmin, they ought to
provide trees for ’em to run up on, it haint nothin’ more’n justice that
they should, but they won’t and don’t. Now ten years ago the Methodist
minister before Elder Wesley Minkley came, was a widower of some twenty
odd years, and he was sorely stricken with years and rheumatiz. But
Betsey showed plainly her willin’ness and desire to be a vine, if he
would be a tree. But he would not be a tree--he acted real obstinate
about it, considerin’ his belief. For he was awful opposed to wimmin’s
havin’ any rights only the right to marry. He preached a beautiful sermon
about woman’s holy mission, and how awful it was in her, to have any
ambition outside of her own home. And how sweet it was to see her in her
confidin’ weakness and gentleness clingin’ to man’s manly strength. There
wasn’t a dry eye in the house only mine. Betsey wept aloud, she was so
affected by it. And it was beautiful, I don’t deny it; I always respected
clingers. But I love to see folks use reason. And I say again, how can
a woman cling when she haint got nothin’ to cling to? That day I put it
fair and square to our old minister, he went home with us to supper, and
he begun on me about wimmin’s rights, for he knew I believe in wimmin’s
havin a right. Says he, “It is flyin’ in the face of the Bible for a
woman not to marry.”
Says I, “Elder how can any lady make brick without straw or sand--_how_
can a woman marry without a man is forthcomin’?” says I, “wimmen’s will
may be good, but there is some things she can not do, and this is one of
’em.” Says I, “as our laws are at present no women can marry unless she
has a man to marry to. And if the man is obstinate and hangs back what is
she to do?”
He begun to look a little sheepish and tried to kinder turn off the
subject on to religion.
But no steamboat ever sailed onward under the power of biled water steam,
more grandly than did Samantha Allen’s words under the steam of bilein’
principle. I fixed my eyes upon him with seemin’ly an arrow in each one
of ’em, and says I--
“Which had you rather do Elder, let Betsey Bobbet vote, or cling to you?
She is fairly achin’ to make a runnin’ vine of herself,” and says I, in
slow, deep, awful tones, “are you willin’ to be a tree?”
Again he weakly murmured somethin’ on the subject of religion, but I
asked him again in slower, awfuler tones.
“_Are you willin’ to be a tree?_”
He turned to Josiah, and says he, “I guess I will go out to the barn and
bring in my saddle bags.” He had come to stay all night. And that man
went to the barn smit and conscience struck, and haint opened his head
to me sense about wimmin’s not havin’ a right.
I had jest arrived at this crysis in my thoughts, and had also got my
yarn wound up--my yarn and my revery endin’ up at jest the same time,
when Betsey came to the foot of the stairs and called out--
“Josiah Allen’s wife, a gentleman is below, and craves an audience with
you.”
I sot back my swifts, and went down, expectin’ from the reverential
tone of her voice to see a United States Governor, or a Deacon at the
very least. But it wasn’t either of ’em, it was a peddler. He wanted to
know if I could get some dinner for him, and I thinkin’ one more trial
wouldn’t kill me said I would. He was a loose jinted sort of a chap, with
his hat sot onto one side of his head, but his eyes had a twinkle to ’em,
that give the idee that he knew what he was about.
After dinner he kep’ a bringin’ on his goods from his cart, and praisin’
’em up, the lies that man told was enough to apaul the ablest bodied man,
but Betsey swallowed every word. After I had coldly rejected all his
other overtures for tradin’, he brought on a strip of stair carpetin’, a
thin striped yarn carpet, and says he--
“Can’t I sell you this beautiful carpet? it is the pure Ingrain.”
“Ingrain,” says I, “so be you Ingrain as much.”
“I guess I know,” says he, “for I bought it of old Ingrain himself, I
give the old man 12 shillin’s a yard for it, but seein’ it is you, and
I like your looks so much, and it seems so much like home to me here,
I will let you have it for 75 cents, cheaper than dirt to walk on, or
boards.”
“I don’t want it,” says I, “I have got carpets enough.”
“Do you want it for 50 cents?” says he follerin’ me to the wood-box.
“No!” says I pretty sharp, for I don’t want to say no two times, to
anybody.
“Would 25 cents be any indoosement to you?” says he, follerin’ me to the
buttery door.
“No!” says I in my most energetic voice, and started for the suller with
a plate of nut-cakes.
“Would 18 pence tempt you?” says he, hollerin’ down the suller way.
Then says I, comin’ up out of the suller with the old Smith blood bilin’
up in my veins, “Say another word to me about your old stair carpet if
you dare; jest let me ketch you at it,” says I; “be I goin’ to have you
traipse all over the house after me? be I goin’ to be made crazy as a
loon by you?”
“Oh, Josiah Allen’s wife,” says Betsey, “do not be so hasty; of course
the gentleman wishes to dispose of his goods, else why should he be in
the mercanteel business?”
I didn’t say nothin’--gratitude still had holt of me--but I inwardly
determined that not one word would I say if he cheated her out of her eye
teeth.
Addressin’ his attention to Betsey, he took a pair of old fashioned ear
rings out of his jacket pocket, and says he--
“I carry these in my pocket for fear I will be robbed of ’em. I hadn’t
ought to carry ’em at all, a single man goin’ alone round the country as
I do, but I have got a pistol, and let anybody tackle me for these ear
rings if they dare to,” says he, lookin’ savage.
“Is thier intrinsick worth so large?” says Betsey,
“It haint so much thier neat value,” says he, “although that is enormous,
as who owned ’em informally. Whose ears do you suppose these have had
hold of?”
“How can I judge,” says Betsey with a winnin’ smile, “nevah havin’ seen
them before.”
“Jest so,” says he, “you never was acquainted with ’em, but these very
identical creeters used to belong to Miss Shakespeare. Yes, these
belonged to Hamlet’s mother,” says he, lookin’ pensively upon them. “Bill
bought ’em at old Stratford.”
“Bill?” says Betsey inquirin’ly.
“Yes,” says he, “old Shakespeare. I have been reared with his folks so
much, that I have got into the habit of callin’ him Bill, jest as they
do.”
“Then you have been there?” says Betsey with a admirin’ look.
“Oh yes, wintered there and partly summered. But as I was sayin’ William
bought ’em and give ’em to his wife, when he first begun to pay attention
to her. Bill bought ’em at a auction of a one-eyed man with a wooden leg,
by the name of Brown. Miss Shakespeare wore ’em as long as she lived, and
they was kept in the family till I bought ’em. A sister of one of his
brother-in-laws was obleeged to part with ’em to get morpheen.”
“I suppose you ask a large price for them?” says Betsey, examanin’ ’em
with a reverential look onto her countenance.
“How much! how much you remind me of a favorite sister of mine, who
died when she was fifteen. She was considered by good judges to be the
handsomest girl in North America. But business before pleasure. I ought
to have upwards of 30 dollars a head for ’em, but seein’ it is you, and
it haint no ways likely I shall ever meet with another wo--young girl
that I feel under bonds to sell ’em to, you may have ’em for 13 dollars
and a ½.”
“That is more money than I thought of expendin’ to-day,” says Betsey in a
thoughtful tone.
“Let me tell you what I will do; I don’t care seein’ it is you, if I do
get cheated, I am willin’ to be cheated by one that looks so much like
that angel sister. Give me 13 dollars and a ½, and I will throw in the
pin that goes with ’em. I did want to keep that to remind me of them
happy days at old Stratford,” and he took the breastpin out of his
pocket, and put it in her hand in a quick kind of a way. “Take ’em,” says
he, turnin’ his eyes away, “take ’em and put ’em out of my sight, quick!
or I shall repent.”
“I do not want to rob you of them,” says Betsey tenderly.
“Take ’em,” says he in a wild kind of a way, “take ’em, and give me the
money quick, before I am completely unmanned.”
She handed him the money, and says he in agitated tones, “Take care of
the ear rings, and heaven bless you.” And he ketched up his things,
and started off in a awful hurry. Betsey gazed pensively out of the
winder, till he disapeared in the distance, and then she begun to brag
about her ear rings, as Miss Shakespeare’s relicks. Thomas Jefferson
praised ’em awfully to Betsey’s face, when he came home, but when I was
in the buttery cuttin’ cake for supper, he come and leaned over me and
whispered--
“Who bought for gold the purest brass?
Mother, who brought this grief to pass?
What is this maiden’s name? Alas!
Betsey Bobbet.”
And when I went down suller for the butter, he come and stood in the
outside suller door, and says he,
“How was she fooled, this lovely dame?
How was her reason overcame?
What was this lovely creature’s name?
Betsey Bobbet.”
[Illustration: THE EAR RING PEDLER.]
That is jest the way he kep’ at it, he would kinder happen round where I
was, and every chance he would get he would have over a string of them
verses, till it did seem as if I should go crazy. Finally I said to him
in tones before which he quailed,
“If I hear one word more of poetry from you to-night I will complain to
your father,” says I wildly, “I don’t believe there is another woman in
the United States that suffers so much from poetry as I do! What have I
done,” says I still more wildly, “that I should be so tormented by it?”
says I, “I won’t hear another word of poetry to-night,” says I, “I will
stand for my rights--I will not be drove into insanity with poetry.”
Betsey started for home in good season, and I told her I would go as fur
as Squire Edwards’es with her. Miss Edwards was out by the gate, and of
course Betsey had to stop and show the ear rings. She was jest lookin’
at ’em when the minister and Maggie Snow and Tirzah Ann drove up to the
gate, and wanted to know what we was lookin’ at so close, and Betsey,
castin’ a proud and haughty look onto the girls, told him that--
“It was a paih of ear rings that had belonged to the immortal Mr.
Shakespeah’s wife informally.”
The minute Elder Merton set his eyes on ’em, “Why,” says he, “my wife
sold these to a peddler to-day.”
“Yes,” says Tirzah Ann, “these are the very ones; she sold them for a
dozen shirt buttons and a paper of pins.”
“I do not believe it,” says Betsey wildly.
“It is so,” said the minister. “My wife’s father got them for her, they
proved to be brass, and so she never wore them; to-day the peddler wanted
to buy old jewelry, and she brought out some broken rings, and these were
in the box, and she told him he might have them in welcome, but he threw
out the buttons and a paper of pins.”
“I do not believe it--I cannot believe it,” says Betsey gaspin’ for
breath.
“Well, it is the truth,” says Maggie Snow (she can’t bear Betsey), “and I
heard him say he would get ’em off onto some fool, and make her think--”
“I am in such a hurry I must go,” said Betsey, and she left without
sayin’ another word.
[Illustration]
A NIGHT OF TROUBLES.
Truly last night was a night of troubles to us. We was kept awake all
the forepart of the night with cats fightin’. It does beat all how they
went on, how many there was of ’em I don’t know; Josiah thought there was
upwards of 50. I myself made a calm estimate of between 3 and 4. But I
tell you they went in strong what there was of ’em. What under heavens
they found to talk about so long, and in such unearthly voices, is a
mystery to me. You couldn’t sleep no more than if you was in Pandemonium.
And about 11, I guess it was, I heard Thomas Jefferson holler out of his
chamber winder, (it was Friday night and the children was both to home,)
says he--
“You have preached long enough brothers on that text, I’ll put in a
seventhly for you.” And then I heard a brick fall. “You’ve protracted
your meetin’ here plenty long enough. You may adjourn now to somebody
else’s window and exhort them a spell.” And then I heard another brick
fall. “Now I wonder if you’ll come round on this circuit right away.”
Thomas Jefferson’s room is right over ourn, and I raised up in the end of
the bed and hollered to him to “stop his noise.” But Josiah said, “do let
him be, do let him kill the old creeters, I am wore out.”
Says I “Josiah I don’t mind his killin’ the cats, but I won’t have him
talkin about thier holdin’ a protracted meetin’ and preachin’, I won’t
have it,” says I.
“Wall,” says he “do lay down, the most I care for is to get rid of the
cats.”
Says I, “you do have wicked streaks Josiah, and the way you let that boy
go on is awful,” says I, “where do you think you will go to Josiah Allen?”
Says he, “I shall go into another bed if you can’t stop talkin’. I have
been kept awake till midnight by them creeters, and now you want to
finish the night.”
Josiah is a real even tempered man, but nothin’ makes him so kinder
fretful as to be kept awake by cats. And it is awful, awfully mysterious
too. For sometimes as you listen, you say mildly to yourself, how can a
animal so small give utterance to a noise so large, large enough for a
eliphant? Then sometimes agin as you listen, you will get encouraged,
thinkin’ that last yawl has really finished ’em and you think they are at
rest, and better off than they can be here in this world, utterin’ such
deathly and terrific shrieks, and you know _you_ are happier. So you
will be real encouraged, and begin to be sleepy, when they break out agin
all of a sudden, seemin’ to say up in a small fine voice, “We won’t go
home till mornin’” drawin’ out the “mornin’” in the most threatenin’ and
insultin’ manner. And then a great hoarse grum voice will take it up “_We
won’t Go Home till Mornin’_” and then they will spit fiercely, and shriek
out the appaulin’ words both together. It is discouragin’, and I couldn’t
deny it, so I lay down, and we both went to sleep.
I hadn’t more’n got into a nap, when Josiah waked me up groanin’, and
says he, “them darned cats are at it agin.”
“Well,” says I coolly, “you needn’t swear so, if they be.” I listened a
minute, and says I, “it haint cats.”
Says he, “it is.”
Says I, “Josiah Allen, I know better, it haint cats.”
“Wall what is it,” says he “if it haint?”
I sot up in the end of bed, and pushed back my night cap from my left ear
and listened, and says I,
“It is a akordeun.”
“How come a akordeun under our winder?” says he.
Says I, “It is Shakespeare Bobbet seranadin’ Tirzah Ann, and he has got
under the wrong winder.”
He leaped out of bed, and started for the door.
Says I, “Josiah Allen come back here this minute,” says I, “do you
realize your condition? you haint dressed.”
He siezed his hat from the bureau, and put it on his head, and went on.
Says I, “Josiah Allen if you go to the door in that condition, I’ll
prosicute you; what do you mean actin’ so to-night?” says I, “you was
young once yourself.”
“I wuzzn’t a confounded fool if I was young,” says he.
Says I, “come back to bed Josiah Allen, do you want to get the Bobbets’es
and the Dobbs’es mad at you?”
“Yes I _do_,” he snapped out.
“I should think you would be ashamed Josiah swearin’ and actin’ as you
have to-night,” and says I, “you will get your death cold standin’ there
without any clothes on, come back to bed this minute Josiah Allen.”
[Illustration: THOMAS J. ADDRESSES THE SERENADER.]
[Illustration: JOSIAH’S PROPOSED RAID.]
It haint often I set up, but when I do, I will be minded; so finally he
took off his hat and come to bed, and there we had to lay and listen.
Not one word could Tirzah Ann hear, for her room was clear to the other
end of the house, and such a time as I had to keep Josiah in the bed.
The first he played was what they call an involuntary, and I confess it
did sound like a cat, before they get to spittin’, and tearin’ out fur,
you know they will go on kinder meloncholy. He went on in that way for a
length of time which I can’t set down with any kind of accuracy, Josiah
thinks it was about 2 hours and a half, I myself don’t believe it was
more than a quarter of an hour. Finally he broke out singin’ a tune the
chorus of which was,
“Oh think of me--oh think of me.”
“No danger of our not thinkin’ on you,” says Josiah, “no danger on it.”
It was a long piece and he played and sung it in a slow, and affectin’
manner. He then played and sung the follerin’:
“Come! oh come with me Miss Allen,
The moon is beaming;
Oh Tirzah; come with me,
The stars are gleaming;
All around is bright, with beauty teeming,
Moonlight hours--in my opinion--
Is the time for love.
My skiff is by the shore,
She’s light, she’s free,
To ply the feathered oar Miss Allen,
Would be joy to me.
And as we glide along,
My song shall be,
(If you’ll excuse the liberty Tirzah)
I love but thee, I love but thee.
Chorus--Tra la la Miss Tirzah,
Tra la la Miss Allen,
Tra la la, tra la la,
My dear young maid.”
He then broke out into another piece, the chorus of which was,
“Curb oh curb thy bosom’s pain
I’ll come again, I’ll come again.”
“No you won’t,” says Josiah, “you won’t never get away, I _will_ get up
Samantha.”