TIME: Same morning.
PLACE: Store in Washington.
_Second Monologue, by Mrs. Trimble_:
“Why, howdy, Mis’ Blakes—howdy, Mis’ Phemie—howdy, all. Good-mornin’,
Mr. Lawson. I see yo’ sto’e is fillin’ up early. Great minds run in
the same channel, partic’larly on Christmus Eve.
“My old man started off this mornin’ befo’ day, an’ soon ez he got out
o’ sight down the Simpkinsville road, I struck out for Washin’ton, an’
here I am. He thinks I’m home seedin’ raisins. He was out by starlight
this mornin’ with the big wagon, an’, of co’se, I know what that
means. He’s gone for my Christmus gif’, an’ I’m put to it to know what
tremenjus thing he’s a-layin’ out to fetch me—thet takes a cotton-wagon
to haul it. Of co’se I imagine everything, from a guyaskutus down. I
always did like to git things too big to go in my stockin’. What you
say, Mis’ Blakes? Do I hang up my stockin’? Well, I reckon. I hadn’t
quit when I got married, an’ I think that’s a poor time to stop, don’t
you? Partic’larly when you marry a man twice-t yo’ age, an’ can’t
convince him thet you’re grown, noways. Yes, indeedy, that stockin’
goes up to-night—not mine, neither, but one I borry from Aunt Jane
Peters. I don’t wonder y’all laugh. Aunt Jane’s foot is a yard long ef
it’s a’ inch, but I’ll find it stuffed to-morrer mornin’, even ef the
guyaskutus has to be chained to the mantel. An’ it’ll take me a good
hour to empty it, for he always puts a lot o’ devilment in it, an’ I
give him a beatin’ over the head every nonsensical thing I find in it.
We have a heap o’ fun over it, though.
“He don’t seem to know I’m grown, an’ I know I don’t know he’s old.
“Listen to me runnin’ on, an’ you all nearly done yo’ shoppin’. Which
do you think would be the nicest to give him, Mr. Lawson—this silver
card-basket, or that Cupid vase, or——?
“Y’all needn’t to wink. I seen you, Mis’ Blakes. Ef I was to pick out
a half dozen socks for him like them you’re a-buyin’ for Mr. Blakes,
how much fun do you suppose we’d have out of it? Not much. I’d jest ez
lief ’twasn’t Christmus—an’ so would he—though they do say his first
wife give him a bolt o’ domestic once-t for Christmus, an’ made it up
into nightshirts an’ things for him du’in the year. Think of it. No,
I’m a-goin’ to git him somethin’ thet’s got some git-up to it, an’—an’
it’ll be either—that Cupid vase—or—lordy, Mr. Lawson, don’t fetch out
that swingin’ ice-pitcher. I glimpsed it quick ez I come in the door,
an’, says I, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ an’ turned my back on it
immejiate.
“But of co’se I ca-culated to git you to fetch it out jest for me to
look at, after I’d selected his present. Ain’t it a beauty? Seems to
me they couldn’t be a more suitable present for a man—ef he didn’t
hate ’em so. No, Mis’ Blakes, it ain’t only thet he don’t never drink
ice-water. I wouldn’t mind a little thing like that.
“You ricollec’ ol’ Mis’ Meredy, she used to preside over one thet they
had, an’ somehow he taken a distaste to her an’ to ice-pitchers along
with her, an’ he don’t never lose a chance to express his disgust. When
them new folks was in town last year projec’in’ about the railroad, he
says to me, ‘I hope they won’t stay, they’d never suit Simpkinsville on
earth. They’re the regular swingin’ ice-pitcher sort. Git folks like
that in town an’ it wouldn’t be no time befo’ they’d start a-chargin’
pew rent in our churches.’ We was both glad when they give out thet
they wasn’t a-goin’ to build the road. They say railroads is mighty
corruptin’, an’ me, with my sick headaches, an’ a’ ingine whistle in
town, no indeed! Besides, ef it was to come I know I’d be the first one
run over. It’s bad enough to have bulls in our fields without turnin’
steam-ingines loose on us. Jest one look at them cow-ketchers is enough
to frustrate a person till he’d stand stock still an’ wait to be run
over—jest like poor crazy Mary done down here to Cedar Springs.
“They say crazy Mary looked that headlight full in the face, jes’ the
same ez a bird looks at a snake, till the thing caught her, an’ when
the long freight train had passed over her she didn’t have a single
remain, not a one, though I always thought they might’ve gethered up
enough to give her a funeral. When I die I intend to have a funeral,
even if I’m drownded at sea. They can stand on the sho’e, an’ I’ll be
jest ez likely to know it ez them thet lay in view lookin’ so ca’m.
I’ve done give him my orders, though they ain’t much danger o’ me dyin’
at sea, not ef we stay in Simpkinsville.
“How much are them willer rockers, Mr. Lawson? I declare that one
favors my old man ez it sets there, even without him in it. Nine
dollars? That’s a good deal for a pants-tearin’ chair, seems to
me, which them willers are, the last one of ’em, an’ I’m a mighty
poor hand to darn. Jest let me lay my stitches in colors, in the
shape of a flower, an’ I can darn ez well ez the next one, but I do
despise to fill up holes jest to be a-fillin’. Yes, ez you say, them
silver-mounted brier-wood pipes is mighty purty, but he smokes so much
ez it is, I don’t know ez I want to encourage him. Besides, it seems a
waste o’ money to buy a Christmus gif’ thet a person has to lay aside
when company comes in, an’ a silver-mounted pipe ain’t no politer to
smoke in the presence o’ ladies than a corncob is. An’ ez for when
we’re by ourselves—shucks.
“Ef you don’t mind, Mr. Lawson, I’ll stroll around through the sto’e
an’ see what you’ve got while you wait on some o’ them thet know their
own minds. I know mine well enough. _What I want is that swingin’
ice-pitcher_, an’ my judgment tells me thet they ain’t a more suitable
present in yo’ sto’e for a settled man thet has built hisself a
residence an’ furnished it complete the way _he_ has, but of co’se
’twouldn’t never do. I always think how I’d enjoy it when the minister
called. I wonder what Mr. Lawson thinks o’ me back here a-talkin’ to
myself. I always like to talk about the things I’m buyin’. That’s a
mighty fine saddle-blanket, indeed it is. He was talkin’ about a new
saddle-blanket the other day. But that’s a thing a person could pick up
almost any day, a saddle-blanket is. A’ ice-pitcher now——
“Say, Mr. Lawson, lemme look at that tiltin’-pitcher again, please,
sir. I jest want to see ef the spout is gold-lined. Yes, so it is—an’
little holes down in the throat of it, too. It cert’n’y is well made,
it cert’n’y is. I s’pose them holes is to strain out grasshoppers or
anything thet might fall into it. That musician thet choked to death at
the barbecue down at Pump Springs last summer might ’a’ been livin’ yet
ef they’d had sech ez this to pass water in, instid o’ that open pail.
_He’s_ got a mighty keerless way o’ drinkin’ out open dippers, too. No
tellin’ what he’ll scoop up some day. They’d be great safety for him
in a pitcher like this—ef I could only make him see it. It would seem
a sort o’ awkward thing to pack out to the well every single time, an’
he won’t drink no water but what he draws fresh. An’ I s’pose it would
look sort o’ silly to put it in here jest to drink it out again.
“Sir? Oh, yes, I saw them saddle-bags hangin’ up back there, an’ they
are fine, mighty fine, ez you say, an’ his are purty near wo’e out,
but lordy, I don’t want to buy a Christmus gif’ thet’s hung up in the
harness room half the time. What’s that you say? Won’t you all never
git done a-runnin’ me about that side-saddle? You can’t pleg me about
that. I got it for his pleasure, ef it was for my use, an’, come to
think about it, I’d be jest reversin’ the thing on the pitcher. It
would be for his use an’ my pleasure. I wish I could see my way to buy
it for him. Both goblets go with it, you say—an’ the slop bowl? It
cert’n’y is handsome—it cert’n’y is. An’ it’s expensive—nobody could
accuse me o’ stintin’ ’im. Wonder why they didn’t put some polar bears
on the goblets, too. They’d ’a’ had to be purty small bears, but they
could ’a’ been cubs, easy.
“I don’t reely believe, Mr. Lawson, indeed I don’t, thet I could find
a mo’ suitable present for him ef I took a month, an’ I don’t keer
what he’s a-pickin’ out for me this minute, it can’t be no handsomer’n
this. Th’ ain’t no use—I’ll haf to have it—for ’im. Jest charge
it, please, an’ now I want it marked. I’ll pay cash for the markin’,
out of my egg money. An’ I want his full name. Have it stamped on the
iceberg right beside the bear. ‘Ephraim N. Trimble.’ No, you needn’t to
spell out the middle name. I should say not. Ef you knew what it was
you wouldn’t ask me. Why, it’s Nebuchadnezzar. It’d use up the whole
iceberg. Besides, I couldn’t never think o’ Nebuchadnezzar there an’
not a spear o’ grass on the whole lan’scape. You needn’t to laugh. I
know it’s silly, but I always think o’ sech ez that. No, jest write
it, ‘Ephraim N. Trimble, from his wife, Kitty.’ Be sure to put in the
Kitty, so in after years it’ll show which wife give it to him. Of
co’se, them thet knew us both would know which one. Mis’ Mary Jane
wouldn’t never have approved of it in the world. Why, she used to rip
up her old crocheted tidies an’ things an’ use ’em over in bastin’
thread, so they tell me. She little dremp’ who she was a-savin’ for,
poor thing. She was buyin’ this pitcher then, but she didn’t know
it. But I keep a-runnin’ on. Go on with the inscription, Mr. Lawson.
What have you got? ‘From his wife, Kitty’—what’s the matter with
‘affectionate wife’? You say affectionate is a purty expensive word?
But ‘lovin’’ ’ll do jest ez well, an’ it comes cheaper, you say? An’
plain ‘wife’ comes cheapest of all? An’ I don’t know but what it’s
mo’ suitable, anyhow—at his age. Of co’se, you must put in the date,
an’ make the ‘Kitty’ nice an’ fancy, please. Lordy, well, the deed’s
done—an’ I reckon he’ll threaten to divo’ce me when he sees it—till
he reads the inscription. Better put in the ‘lovin’,’ I reckon, an’
put it in capitals—they don’t cost no more, do they? Well, good-bye,
Mr. Lawson, I reckon you’ll be glad to see me go. I’ve outstayed every
last one thet was here when I come. Well, good-bye! Have it marked
immejiate, please, an’ I’ll call back in an hour. Good-bye, again!”