The author of “Peaceful Repose” sez to me, and she looked pale and
skairt; she had heard every word Josiah had said, and she wuz dretful
skairt and shocked (not knowin' the ways of men, and not understandin',
as I said prior and before, that in two hours' time he would be jest as
good as the very best kind of pie, affectionate, and even spoony, if I
would allow spoons, which I will not the most of the time). Wall, she
proposed, Miss Fogg did, that she should ride back with the livery man.
And though I urged her to stay till night, I couldn't urge her as hard
as I would otherwise, for by that time the head of the procession of
visitors had reached the door-step, and I had to meet 'em with smiles.
[Illustration: “SHE PROPOSED THAT SHE SHOULD RIDE BACK WITH THE LIVERY
MAN.”]
I smiled some, I thought I must. But they wuz curius smiles, very,
strange-lookin' smiles, sort o' gloomy ones, and mournful lookin'. I
have got lots of different smiles that I keep by me for different
occasions, every woman has, and this wuz one of my most mournfulest and
curiusest ones.
Wall, the author of “Wedlock's Peaceful and Perfect Repose” insisted on
goin', and she went. And I sez to her as she went down the steps, “That
if she would come up some other day when I didn't have quite so much
work round, I would be as good as my word to her about hearin' her
rehearse the lecture.”
But she said, as she hurried out to the gate, lookin' pale an' wan (as
wan agin as she did when she came, if not wanner): “That she should make
_changes_ in it before she ever rehearsed it agin--_deep changes_!”
And I should dare to persume to say that she did. Though, as I say, she
went off most awful sudden, and I hadn't seen nor heard from her sence
till I got this letter.
Wall, jest as I got through with the authoresses letter, and Lodema
Trumble's, Josiah Allen came. And I hurried up the supper. I got it all
on the table while I wuz a steepin' my tea (it wuz good tea). And we sot
down to the table happy as a king and his queen. I don't s'pose queens
make a practice of steepin' tea, but mebby they would be better off if
they did--and have better appetites and better tea. Any way we felt
well, and the supper tasted good. And though Josiah squirmed some when I
told him Lodema wuz approachin' and would be there that very night or
the next day--still the cloud wore away and melted off in the glowin'
mellowness of the hot tea and cream, the delicious oysters and other
good things.
[Illustration: “MY PARDNER ENJOYS GOOD VITTLES.”]
My pardner, though, as he often says, is not a epicack, still he duz
enjoy good vittles dretful well and appreciates 'em. And I make a stiddy
practice of doin' the best I can by him in this direction.
And if more females would foller on and cipher out this simple rule, and
get the correct answer to it, the cramp in the right hands of divorce
lawyers would almost entirely disappear.
For truly it seems that _no_ human man _could be_ more worrysome, and
curius, and hard to get along with than Josiah Allen is at times; still,
by stiddy keepin' of my table set out with good vittles from day to day,
and year to year, the golden cord of affection has bound him to me by
ties that can't never be broken into.
He worships me! And the better vittles I get, the more he thinks on me.
For love, however true and deep it is, is still a tumultous sea; it has
its high tides, and its low ones, its whirlpools, and its calms.
He loves me a good deal better some days than he does others; I see it
in his mean. And mark you! mark it well, female reader, these days are
the ones that I cook up sights and sights of good food, and with a
cheerful countenance and clean apron, set it before him in a bright
room, on a snowy table-cloth!
Great--great is the mystery of men's love.
I have often and often repeated this simple fact and truth that
underlies married life, and believe me, dear married sisters, too much
cannot be said about it, by those whose hearts beat for the good of
female and male humanity--and it _cannot_ be too closely followed up and
practised by female pardners.
But I am a-eppisodin'; and to resoom.
Wall, Lodema Trumble arrove the next mornin' bright and early--I mean
the mornin' wuz bright, not Lodema--oh no, fur from it; Lodema is never
bright and cheerful--she is the opposite and reverse always.
She is a old maiden. I do think it sounds so much more respectful to
call 'em so rather than “old maid” (but I had to tutor Josiah dretful
sharp before I could get him into it).
I guess Lodema is one of the regular sort. There is different kinds of
old maidens, some that could marry if they would, and some that
would but couldn't. And I ruther mistrust she is one of the
“would-but-couldn't's,” though I wouldn't dast to let her know I said
so, not for the world.
Josiah never could bear the sight of her, and he sort o' blamed her for
bein' a old maiden. But I put a stop to that sudden, for sez I:
“She hain't to blame, Josiah.”
And she wuzn't. I hain't a doubt of it.
Wall, how long she calculated to stay this time we didn't know. But we
had our fears and forebodin's about it; for she wuz in the habit of
makin' awful long visits. Why, sometimes she would descend right down
onto us sudden and onexpected, and stay fourteen weeks right along--jest
like a famine or a pestilence, or any other simely that you are a mind
to bring up that is tuckerin' and stiddy.
And she wuz disagreeable, I'll confess, and she wuz tuckerin', but I
done well by her, and stood between her and Josiah all I could. He loved
to put on her, and she loved to impose on him. I don't stand up for
either on 'em, but they wuz at regular swords' pints all the time
a'most. And it come fearful tuff on me, fearful tuff, for I had to stand
the brunt on it.
But she is a disagreeable creeter, and no mistake. She is one of them
that can't find one solitary thing or one solitary person in this wide
world to suit 'em. If the weather is cold she is pinin' for hot weather,
and if the weather is hot she is pantin' for zero.
[Illustration: “BUT SHE IS A DISAGREEABLE CREETER.”]
If it is a pleasant day the sun hurts her eyes, and if it is cloudy she
groans aloud and says “she can't see.”
And no human bein' wuz ever known to suit her. She gets up early in the
mornin' and puts on her specs, and goes out (as it were) a-huntin' up
faults in folks. And she finds 'em, finds lots of 'em. And then she
spends the rest of the day a-drivin' 'em ahead of her, and groanin' at
'em.
You know this world bein' such a big place and so many different sort o'
things in it that you can generally find in it the perticuler sort of
game you set out to hunt in the mornin'.
If you set out to hunt beauty and goodness, if you take good aim and are
perseverin'--if you jest track 'em and foller 'em stiddy from mornin'
till night, and don't get led away a-follerin' up some other game,
such as meanness and selfishness and other such worthless head o'
cattle--why, at night you will come in with a sight of good game. You
will be a noble and happy hunter.
[Illustration: “BUT FIT WITH THEIR TONGUES, FEARFUL.”]
At the same time, if you hunt all day for faults you will come in at
night with sights of pelts. You will find what you hunt for, track 'em
right along and chase 'em down. Wall, Lodema never got led away from
her perticuler chase. She just hunted faults from mornin' till night,
and done well at it. She brought in sights of skins.
But oh! wuzn't it disagreeable in the extreme to Samantha, who had
always tried to bend her bow and bring down Beauty, to have her familiar
huntin' grounds turned into so different a warpath. It wuz disagreeable!
It wuz! It wuz!
And then, havin' to stand between her and Josiah too, wuz fearful
wearin' on me. I had always stood there in the past, and now in this
visit it wuz jest the same; all the hull time, till about the middle of
the fifth week, I had to stand between their two tongues--they didn't
fight with their hands, but fit with their tongues, fearful.