ONE SWALLOW DOES NOT MAKE A SUMMER.— TRIBULATIONS OF A FAT MAN.
"I SHALL ask him, as sure as he sets foot inside this cabin again." And
aunt Esther's cheeks glowed.
"Do you suppose," said the dwarf, "that if he intends to jump our
claim, he'd be fool enough to tell you beforehand?"
"I shall never believe that Mr. Simmons is tricky and dishonest,"
affirmed the charitable Mrs. Willard. "Why, I have been much
instructed, and benefited,—I hope I have a right to say,—by his
excellent sentiments. If I am not deceived, he's a truly godly person.
And I still think that he sent that breaking team here as a generous
kindness to us. It was a surprise—he's so delicate about intruding
himself. You are unreasonable towards him, Esther, while he worships
the ground you tread on; and he is doing these kindnesses in order to
overcome your prejudice, and get you to look with more favor on his
suit."
Aunt Esther grew pale with anger, but kept her firmly-set mouth closed.
"And 'you,' Frankie, are much to blame for your aunt's coolness. You'd
be suspicious of an angel; and you talked so hard against Mr. Simmons,
that she has drank into your spirit. It is ungrateful, after all he's
done to help us. I'm sure we 'need' help out here on the prairie."
"Well, you'll find out," hotly piped the Hunchback, "after he's got our
splendid claim! But, mother," he added, after a moment's pause, "it
isn't best for me, or aunt Esther, or any of us, to let him know we
suspect him, for that would put him on his guard. And if he 'does' wish
for the land, he would hurry and preëmpt it. We must treat him well,
but 'watch'—'watch'—keeping our eyes open when he supposes they are
shut."
"That's it, Frankie," joined in aunt Esther; "we must conceal our
suspicions, and unravel his schemes, if we can. But there he is, now!"
And flustered Mrs. Willard became over-busy in her housework, and
self-poised aunt Esther returned to her sewing.
"How do you all do?" he inquired, in an accent of sincere interest, and
not in the careless tone of a commonplace.
"Quite well, I thank you," responded Mrs. Willard, intent on her baking.
"Pleased to hear it. By the way, did some men call here to do a little
breaking?"
"Yes," she answered, ceasing to mould the dough, and, regarding him
with transparent anxiety, instantly added, "they said 'you' sent them."
"Happy to learn that they were so prompt. You see, by turning over
the sod that it may lay exposed to the weather and the frost, it will
be nicely rotted by spring. Fortunately, I ran across that team while
I was away; and as it is almost impossible to hire one for love or
money,—especially for a small job,—there is so much prairie to be
broken up. I persuaded the fellows to put in their plough for a little
strip—only three acres. The boys will want a garden next season."
Good Mrs. Willard's expressive countenance displayed the pleasure she
felt at his vindication of himself; and to help him out, she said,
notwithstanding the dwarf's admonitory frown,—
"The boys thought it strange you told those men that this claim is
yours."
"So I did," he explained, lightly laughing. "You'll set that down as
a fib, I'm afraid, and mark me out of your books. But they were full
of work, and I was obliged to make out a strong plea to get them here
at all, and of course I had to become personally responsible for the
contract. Men don't care to do business with women, and these chaps
knew nothing about Mrs. Willard and sister,—estimable ladies as they
are, and abundantly able to pay."
"How much is their bill?" tartly inquired aunt Esther, taking out her
purse.
"A mere trifle," replied Mr. Simmons "only twelve dollars. Another time
will answer just as well. Ferdie and Willie, I wish to show you about
the breaking."
"There," said he, as they reached the three acres, "this spot lies low,
and I chose it partly because, being moist, it will stand a drought,
should there be one next summer. It's no harm to be sure of 'one' crop,
at least. This will be your garden. You will have to fence it, to shut
out stray cattle. And, by the by, I might spend a day or two helping in
this, better than not, just now. Suppose we go at it this afternoon."
"Agreed!" cried the lads, as enthusiastic now as condemnatory before.
"If, now, Frankie was as smart and bright as his brothers," continued
the bachelor, "it wouldn't take us long to get out the rails and lay
them up. Pity he's so helpless and odd."
"I guess dinner is about ready," said Ferdie; "Georgie, you run and
see."
The lad quickly reappeared to call them. And as the little family
surrounded the rude table, Mrs. Willard hesitatingly said,—
"Mr. Simmons, perhaps you would say grace before we eat."
"If you desire, ma'am," he replied, and repeated a brief form of
petition and thanksgiving, which so mellowed Mrs. Willard's sensitive
heart that she fairly loaded her guest's plate with the choicest of the
food, and was concerned that his vigorous "appetite was so poor."
Their guest ate rapidly, and precipitately rising, excused himself,
saying,—
"Boys, I'll get things ready, and when you are through eating, we'll go
to work."
Mrs. Willard looked from the window after him till assured he was out
of hearing, then gesticulating impressively with a fork, she said,—
"Now, Frankie and Esther, I trust you are satisfied. You have doubted
and slandered a pious and true man."
"Frankie," she interrupted herself to scream, "come back and finish
your dinner!"
But the dwarf disappeared behind a corner of the log stable.
"MR. SWALLER!"
That fat worthy was venturing very carefully to "work his passage"
from the immigrant wagon to "terra firma." And at the inopportune
instant when the shrew's shrill and imperative summons pierced his
ear, was mentally and physically contriving how to descend safely with
a strapping girl of five under one arm, and elsewise, a nurse bottle,
a basket of eggs, a flask of wine, a bandbox containing his wife's
bonnet, and last, but not least, himself.
"'Mr. Swaller!'"
The rotund and encumbered gentleman alluded to was peculiarly situated.
The horses were uneasy, the flies pertinacious, the ponderous wagon
starting, just as he essayed, with one foot on the wheel, to make land.
There was an awful and untimely lurch of the vehicle. The eggs slid in
succession "to smash," and, stooping to catch them, his unwieldy legs
became entangled, and, by a remarkable feat, considering his weight, he
found himself on the ground, bandbox beneath him, child sitting on his
nose, and milk running into his eyes.
The spectators to this extremely unique and striking "tableau" were the
Willard household, and—Mrs. Swallow.
The flustered and perspiring "Mr." Swallow gathered together his lower
extremities, sat up, and gazed around, as well as cherub and milk would
permit. The former, its unusually large mouth stretched miraculously,
yelled "particular murder."
"Mr. 'Swaller!' When 'are' you going to bring that poor lamb into the
cabin? There! You've stuck your thumb in its eye—put it out, of course,
and no doctor to run for. On my Paris hat, too. I shall be a fright
now. After all the pains I've taken to bring it all the way from the
east, that's what I get for it. Don't put your foot into the rest of
the eggs. You know I can't 'exist' without egg and wine. Broke the
bottle, eh! Here, darling,—" to the child,—"come to me. What would
you do if your poor sick mother was to die? Who'd care for you then,
darling? To think that the 'last' born of my 'first' husband should
be 'pitched' out of a wagon at the risk of its innocent life! There,
'h-u-s-h,' sweet. Here's some more candy for you."
And the stout, elderly lady tightly clasped the sugar-sucking angel,
alternately lavishing kisses on its bedaubed mouth, and darting sharp
sentences at her unfortunate "lord."
"Mr. Swaller, I 'can't' go immigrating any more, and I 'won't.' Came
to save my life? So you did. But I'd rather 'die' east than 'live'
west. 'Creeping' along, like a sick snail, in a nasty emigrant wagon!
Jolt, jolt; rumble, rumble; drag, drag. You're welcome to cure my
lungs, but you 'shan't' do it on the prairies! Nothing but grass,
grass, 'everlasting' grass, as if we were hosses, and not folks. I'm no
better, and you can see it if you're a mind to."
Mr. Swallow listened to this sententious but rapidly-delivered harangue
with a meekness and long-suffering worthy of commendation. It was
evident he realized his position and responsibilities as a "'family'
man." And though it was plain he was not indifferent to the speeches of
his "better half," he bore the inflictions as if he comprehended that
such was his duty. He was used, but not wholly hardened, to it.
Mrs. Swallow, as she has already informed us, was an invalid—a martyr
to real, or fancied, pulmonary difficulties. And the doctors, having
long been harassed with her "complaints," and exhausted the Materia
Medica in endeavoring to effect a cure, had rid themselves of their
patient by recommending a change of climate. And Mr. Swallow, in
accordance with medical suggestions and his wife's appeals, was
journeying with her in Prairie-land.
Recovering from his mishap, the dutiful husband hurried at once to load
his arms with domestic goods, and to soothe the partner of his joys.
When, as overburdened and panting he approached the cabin door where
sat his afflicted spouse, "darling" suddenly sprang from her mother's
embrace, and laying hold of his coat-tail, violently jerked upon it,
spitefully kicking his shins the while with her patent copper toes.
"Mr. Swaller, see how you've hurt that poor lamb's feelings—that's why
she acts so. And no wonder—'pitching' her out of the wagon at the risk
of breaking her innocent neck. Darling, come to your mother."
But darling pulled the more desperately at the coat, Mr. Swallow
straining to press ahead, when, lo, the garment parted, and "darling"
was precipitated backward upon the ground, and Mr. Swallow forward into
the cabin, a storm of toilet utensils, wearing apparel, food, a dish
of molasses, and an umbrella and parasol, showering upon his loving
helpmeet.
"You've done it now, Mr. Swaller! Do you think my head is made of
iron, that a stone pot won't crack it? I do believe you'll be the
death of me, and 'that child,' yet. What would my 'first' husband
say, if he knew how his 'last' born was treated! But I shan't and I
won't go emigrating an inch further, lungs or no lungs. I'll die in
a 'galloping' consumption before I'll 'creep' all over the earth in
a frightful emigrant wagon. There are snakes here, too. You needn't
tell me there ain't. 'You' saw one; and 'I' saw one. A nasty big
'rattlesnake.' What if he'd stung that child with his horrid-sounding
rattles.
"Ma'am," addressing Mrs. Willard, "'can't' we stay here to-night?
Yes, we can," answering her own question; "and to-morrer them hosses
will turn tail about, and we'll jolt, jolt, creep, creep, drag, drag,
back to the east—lungs or no lungs. They said 'twas a 'climate' here.
Climate! It's blowed like a harricane for more'n a week. And it's
thundered for a whole hour; and it'll keep on thundering for a month
without stopping to breathe, for what I know. 'Climate!'"
Mr. Swallow, assisted by Ferdie and Willie, unharnessed and put up his
span in the little stable, Ferdie hitching one of his outside, Mr.
Simmons being, for a wonder, away.
"O, you've put up the horses—have you, Mr. Swaller? Well, I hope you've
'locked' them up, too. To think, such a valuable horse as you lost, all
through your own carelessness, Mr. Swaller. Nothing else—don't tell me.
That beast was stole 'right under' your 'nose,' and likely's not these
will be. Then where shall we be. Have to trot around on foot. Pretty
figure you'd cut—wouldn't you? Setting out to walk east, heavy as you
are."
The Willards welcomed the arrival of bed-time, in the hope that sleep
would fetter the tongue of the 'twit'tering Swallow. She retired early,
occupying Mrs. Willard's bed in the room below, while the Willards
disposed themselves as best they could in the attic.
But Mrs. Willard was startled from a refreshing nap by a distressed cry
from the apartment beneath.
"Mr. Swaller!" faintly.
"'Mr. Swaller!'" louder.
"MR. SWALLER!" angrily. Then desperately, "Mrs. Log-cabin-woman! 'Mrs.
Log-cabin-woman!'"
Mrs. Willard thrust her head through the opening in the attic floor, at
the ladder-way, and asked,—
"What's wanted?"
"Mrs. Log-cabin-woman, won't you 'wake' up Mr. Swaller. I'm sick!"
Mrs. Willard was amused and vexed. Comfortably in her hostess's bed lay
the vixen visitress and offspring, while stretched on the trunk-table
was the obese husband in shirt and pants, his head topped off with a
yellow handkerchief, his abortive endeavors at snoring—consisting of a
snort and a puff—attesting how happily oblivious he was to the agonies
of his Eve.
"Madam," said Mrs. Willard, "your husband must be very much fatigued;
hadn't you better let him rest?"
"Rest, when my head aches as if 'twould split? Wake him up, I say. I
shall die if I don't have some ice-cold water to bathe it in."
"If you would be quiet, perhaps the ache would cease," mildly suggested
Mrs. Willard.
"My poor lungs are so pressed—and he a trying to snore! And I so
weak!—Mr. Swaller?" tenderly and inquiringly. "You 'won't' wake up,
'hey?' We'll see, then," she vociferated, bounding to his side and
smartly shaking him.
"Wh-what's to pay?" he stuttered.
"Pay? Its 'spring water' to pay, Mr. Swaller. There's the pail. Quick!
I'm most gone!" and she retreated, gasping, to her couch.
The model husband repaired to the spring, and, returning, bathed her
forehead, till, tired of that service, she bade him stop, saying,—
"But you're not going to lie down again, Mr. Swaller; not a bit of
it, after neglecting me so brutally. You shall 'watch' by me, and if
I survive this horrible night, you shall take me east in the morning.
Live among these western savages? That woman wouldn't lift her littlest
finger to rouse you, though I was most dead—and you a snoring there!
No; you 'can't' snore like a man; you're too fat. It's puff, snort;
puff, snort; and that horrid 'western' female standing, sniggering,
viewing the scene!"
"Mr. Swaller," patiently preserved the perpendicular till daybreak, his
wife in timely interpositions saluting his drooping lids with,—
"Not going to sleep—are you? You won't puff, snort, when I'm sick."
As the swallows were migrating next day, Frankie, addressing the man,
said,—
"Didn't your wife say you had a horse stolen from you?"
"She did."
"What sort of a looking beast was it?"
"A splendid large black horse, with a white spot in the forehead, and
the scar of a flesh wound inside of the left hind leg, on the ham. I
shall get posters printed describing the beast, and offering a liberal
reward for its recovery."