"Here's something Gus Lewis would like to send by you, mother," said my
hasty boy John, plunging into the room at nine in the evening, and
stumbling over two trunks, three valises, and bandboxes countless.
The floor was strewn with bundles, and the mantel-piece adorned with
letters, directed to Springfield, Hartford, New Haven, and New York.
"Oh! ah! yes. Any packages, if not too large," said I, wistfully eying
the box, (a foot square,) full of fresh maple-sugar, with its card of
direction to "_Mrs. Lulu L., by the politeness of Mrs. Prince_."
Boy-like.
"First of all, my John, go you to bed, where Charley has been this
half-hour, and say good-bye, for we shall be off before you are up."
"See, then, father, if you are!" retorted the wide-awake youth, going
out of the room in ground and lofty tumbling, and up-stairs in
somersets.
"I don't see," said I, pettishly, "how I _am_ to get this bundle into my
trunk, nor where in the world this great box of sugar is to go. See! not
a direction! but I suppose she is in New York somewhere."
"We shall see her at all events, which is something. I should like to
know what she is like,--not to look after her boy for two mortal years,"
said the Dominie.
"I hope not like Gus. He'd make an ugly woman, with his black hair and
heavy eyebrows, and his big, black eyes always staring. He don't look
like an American child."
"If we could only say what an American type is. At present, it is a
little of everything."
"I mean a New-Englander,--an original American."
"Well, he don't.--What do you say to these trunks? Shall we try again to
compress the gigantic genie into the copper vessel? I thought it was a
dangerous move, that last one of yours, taking out Tirzah White's
quilted coat. And what's to be done with these three packages?"
"Well! we can't sit here!" said I, briskly; "half-past nine already, and
only one trunk packed! Never mind. You can put these three bundles in
with your clothes."
"Bursting the lock, now."
"How easy 'tis to pack other people's things! But what, then, have you
in there,--I mean, besides your shirts, etc.?"
"_Imprimis_. Eight volumes of Scott's Commentaries, brought by Deacon
Boardman. I am to exchange them. They are imperfect. _Item_. A dozen of
'Sinbad the Sailor,' sent by mistake to the Association, instead of
Doddridge. These books won't press nor give, more than sound doctrine;
and I must have room for my gown, without which I am nothing."
The clock struck ten, and we were still struggling with unabated ardor
to compress Lorana Briggs's shawl, and the flat packages from Burt's,
into the largest carpet-bag, that there might be room for the seventeen
letters on top of the minister's luggage, inside the sanctuary of his
silk gown.
"We can carry a good deal in your coat-pocket, my dear," said I,
cheerfully; for really we seemed to be coming to daylight, a little.
"Full."
The knocker sounded.
"My galoches at last! Deacon, I can't ask you to come in, we are so
untidy; but I couldn't pack as I meant to, this afternoon."
How we dreaded his coming in,--half deacon, half shoemaker, and
two-thirds missionary, with his "Panoplist" sticking out of his
coat-pocket, and his ears evermore pricked up for the latest news from
Bombay! and how angry I had been for three weeks because I couldn't get
those indispensable galoches!
It seemed as if he never would go from the half-open door. He reckoned
the York folks would stare to see so many patches; he expected ministers
down to York warn't quite so carfle and troubled about many things, as
they be to Weston; but he added, with a grim joyfulness,--
"We took up a good collection, though, last Sabbath! eight dollars and
fifteen cents, clear!"
"Yes, Deacon," responded the minister, with as much heartiness as he
could muster, between the pushings, puffings, and pressings at the
carpet-bag; "a cup of cold water shall in no wise lose its reward, we're
told.--These carpet-bags stretch well!"
"Them poor, dear heathen!" groaned the Deacon.
"Oh, dreadful!" chimed I; "give me that biggest shawl, will you?--no,
the other,--Ursula Drury's! Shall we ever finish packing?"
"S'pose ye'll see th' A.B.C.F.M.!--Lucina Rand's put in 'the avails of a
hen,'--and Semela Briggs sold the silver thimble her aunt gin her. 'T
all helps the good work. I told the Widow Rand she'd ough' to do
somethin' for the heathen, so she's gone to raisin' mustard. She said
she hadn't more 'n a grain o' that to spare, she was so poor; but I told
her 't would be blest, I guessed. Widow Rand's rather worldly-minded,
I'm afraid."
A minute more and we should have had Hindostan, Harriet Newell, and
Juggernaut. Happily, somebody came for the Deacon, and we were left to
our packing again.