Sally came into the kitchen just as the clock was striking seven. The
Maltese cat heard the old clock, jumped up, and shook herself, just as
if her dream of a ducking at the hands of the grocer-boy were true.
Three stray cockroaches--cockroaches, like poor relatives, will intrude
into the best-regulated families--scampered before Sally's footsteps to
their hiding-places, and the little thieving brown mouse on the dresser
took temporary refuge in the sugar-bowl.
Sally had been up stairs performing her afternoon toilet by the aid of a
cracked looking-glass, which had a way of multiplying Sally's very
suggestive to her crushed hopes. Sally, I am sorry to say, had been
jilted. Milkmen do not always carry the milk of human kindness in their
flinty bosoms. Time was when Jack Short never came into the kitchen with
his can, without tossing Sally a bunch of caraway, or fennel, a nosegay
of Bouncing Bettys, or a big apple or pear. Time was when his whip-lash
always wanted mending, and it took two to find a string in the closet to
do it, and two pair of hands to tie it on when found.
"Poor old thing!" the faithless John would now say to the rosy little
plumptitude who had won his heart away from the angular Sally; "Poor old
thing! I was only fooling a little, just to keep my hand in, and she
thought I was in love."
Sally had as much spirit as the rest of her sex, and so to show John
that she was quite indifferent about the new turn in their affairs, she
set the milk-pan, into which he was to pour his morning's milk, out into
the porch, and closed the kitchen-door in his false face, that he might
have nothing upon which to hinge an idea that she wanted to see him. And
more; she tied the yellow neck-ribbon he gave her on the last fourth of
July round the pump-handle, and if John Short had not been blind as well
as "short," he must have seen that "when a woman will--she will, you may
depend on't," and "when a woman won't--she won't, and there's an end
on't."
Poor Sally, before she saw John, had lived along contentedly in her
underground habitations, year after year, peeling potatoes, making
puddings, washing, ironing, baking, and brewing; nobody had ever made
love to her; she had not the remotest idea what a Champagne draught love
was. She could have torn her hair out by the roots, when she did find
out, to think she had so misspent her past time. It really _did_ seem to
her, although she was squint-eyed, that there was nothing else in this
world of any account at all. She had thought herself happy when her
bonnet was trimmed to suit her, or her gown a good fit; but a love-fit!
ah, that was a very different matter. Poor Sally! mischievous John!--the
long and short of it was, if Bouncing Bettys have any floral
significance, Sally should have been Mrs. Short.
Of course, she had no motive on the afternoon we speak of, to look long
in the cracked looking-glass; it made no difference now whether she wore
her brown calico with the little white dots, or her plaid delaine with
the bishop sleeves; there was no use in braiding her hair, or in putting
on her three-shilling collar; she had resigned herself to her fate. She
even threw a pitcher of hot water at the innocent organ-grinder, because
he played Love's young Dream.
Still you see, she goes on mechanically with her work, putting the
tea-kettle over the fire, setting the six brass lamps in a regular row
on the mantle, and tucking the ends of some clean towels, out of sight,
in the half-open bureau-drawers. Sally is neat; but John Short's little
Patty is plump and rosy.
Ah! now she has some company--there is Miss Harriet Place, who has the
misfortune to have so stiff a neck that when she turns it, her whole
body must follow. Miss Harriet has black eyes, affects the genteel, and
speaks of "my poor neck" in a little mincing way, as if its stiffness
were only a pretty little affectation on her part. Her cronies wink at
this weakness, for Miss Harriet has a gift at trimming their bonnets,
and putting finishing touches to all sorts of feminine knicknacks; then,
here comes Alvah Kittridge, who is a rabid Free-will Baptist, and who
lives at Mayor Treadwell's! where they have such fine dinners; at which
the Mayor drinks a great deal, and "finds fault very bad," with every
thing the next morning. Miss Alvah pays her way as she goes, both in
stories, and maccaroons; the former her own, the latter Mayor
Treadwell's.
Last, but by no means least, comes Mrs. Becky Saffron, all cap-border
and eyes, the only other noticeable thing about her being her mouth,
which displays, in her facetious moods, two enormous yellow tusks, one
upper and one under, reminding the observer of a hungry catamount; this
resemblance scarce diminishes on acquaintance, as Mrs. Becky, like all
the skinny skeleton-ish tribe, is capable of most inordinate guzzling
and gorging.
"Glad to see you, Miss Place," said Mrs. Becky (giving her cap-border a
twitch), and getting on the right side of that stiff-necked individual,
"I have not set eyes on you these six months."
"No," minced Miss Place; "I called at your boarding-house, and they said
you had gone somewhere, they could not tell where."
"Oh, I'm nobody; of course they wouldn't know; I'm nobody. I'm down in
the world, as one may say. I'm nobody but 'Becky.' I come and go;
nobody cares, especially when I _go_," and Mrs. Becky gave her two
yellow tusks an airing.
"I left my old place some time ago. I'm to _broth_-er's now." Mrs. Becky
always pronounced the first syllable of this word like the liquid
commonly designated by that syllable. "Yes, I'm to _broth_-ers now. His
wife never wanted me in the house. She's dreadful pert and stuck-up, for
all she was nobody; so I have always been boarded out, and been given to
understand that my room was better than my company. But something queer
has happened. I can't find out what, only that _broth_-er has got the
whip-rein of his wife now, and has it all his own way; so he came and
told me that it would cost less for him to keep me at St. John's Square
than to board me out; so there I am.
"It is no use for _broth_-er's wife to teach me about silver forks and
finger-bowls, about not doing this, or that, or t'other thing; can't
teach an old dog new tricks. But I let her fret. I am not afraid of her
now, for whenever she gets on her high horse, _broth_-er fetches her
right off with the word "damages." I can't tell for the life of me what
it means. I've seen her change right round when he whispered it, as
quick as a weather-cock, and it would be all fair weather in one minute.
It's curious. How do you like your new place, Alvah?"
"Places are all about alike," said Alvah, dejectedly. "See one, you see
all. Damask and satin in the parlor; French bedsteads and mirrors in my
lady's chamber, and broken panes of glass up in the attic; lumpy straw
beds, coarse, narrow sheets, torn coverlets, and one broken table and
chair, will do for the servants' room. Always fretting and fault-finding
too, just as if we had heart to work, when we are treated so like dogs;
worse than dogs, for young master's Bruno has a dog-house all to
himself, and a nice soft bed in it; which is more than I can say. I
declare it is discouraging," said Alvah. "It fetches out all the bad in
me, and chokes off all the good. Mistress came down the other day and
scolded because I washed myself at the kitchen sink. Well, where should
I wash? There is neither bowl, pitcher, wash-stand, or towels furnished
in my attic, and, after cooking over the fire all day, it isn't reason
to ask any body not to wash wherever they can get a chance. It don't
follow that I like dirt, because I have to do dirty work. I can't put
clean clothes over a soiled skin. I feel better-natured when I am
clean--better-tempered and more human like. When I first went out to
live, I was conscientious like; but now, I know it is wicked, but I get
ugly and discouraged, and then I don't care. I say if they treat me like
a dog, I shall snatch a bone when I can get it. Mistress, now, wants
breakfast at just such a time. She is too stingy to find me in proper
kindling for my fire, so in course it keeps going out as fast as I
light it, and _henders_ me; and then she gets in a fury 'cause breakfast
don't come up. Well, I stood it as long as I could; now I pour lamp-oil
on the wood to make it kindle; that does the business. I reckon it isn't
no saving to her not to buy kindling. I know it isn't right; but I get
aggravated to think they don't have no bowels for us poor servants."
Mrs. Becky Saffron paid little attention to this narrative. There was
more attractive metal for her on the tea-table, upon which Sally had
just placed some smoking hot cakes, and a fragrant pot of tea. Mrs.
Becky's great yellow black eyes rolled salaciously round in her head,
and her two tusks commenced whetting themselves against each other,
preparatory to a vigorous attack on the edibles.
"Green tea!" exclaimed Mrs. Becky, after the first satisfactory
gulp--"not a bit of black in it--that's something like;" and untying her
cap-strings, she spread her white handkerchief over her lap, and gave
herself up to the gratification of her ruling passion, next to gossip.
"How _did_ you come by green tea in the kitchen?" asked the delighted
Mrs. Becky.
"Oh, I laid in with the housekeeper," answered Sally; "she has dreadful
low wages, and has hard work enough to get even that. I iron all her
muslins, and she finds me in green tea. 'Live, and let live,' you know."
"That reminds me," minced Miss Place, who sometimes set up for a wit,
"that's what I read on the side of a baker's cart the other day, 'Live,
and let live;' but, unfortunately, right under it was written 'Pisin
cakes!'"
About half an hour after this, Mrs. Becky choked over her sixth cup of
tea; Miss Place's pun had just penetrated her obtuse intellect.