SAL FURBUSH.
The next morning between nine and ten, as Mary sat by Alice's cradle
rocking her to sleep, she was sensible of an unusual commotion in and
around the house. First there was the sound as of some one dancing in
the dark passage. Then there was the same noise in the kitchen below,
and a merry voice was heard singing snatches of wild songs, while
occasionally peals of laughter were heard mingled with Mrs. Grundy's
harsher tones. Mary's curiosity was roused, and as soon as Alice was
fairly asleep, she resolved to go down and ascertain the cause of the
disturbance, which had now subsided.
As she opened her door, she saw advancing towards her from the
farthest extremity of the hall, a little, shrivelled up woman, with
wild flashing eyes, and hair hanging loosely over her shoulders. She
was shaking her fist in a very threatening manner, and as she drew
nearer Mary saw that her face was going through a great variety of
changes, being at first perfectly hideous in its expression, and then
instantly changing into something equally ridiculous, though not quite
so frightful. Quickly divining that this must be Sal Furbush, Mary
sprang back, but had not time to fasten her door ere the wild woman
was there. In a tremor of terror Mary ran under the bed as the only
hiding-place the room afforded, but her heart almost ceased beating as
she saw her pursuer about to follow her. Springing out with a bound
she would perhaps have made her egress through the open window, had
not Sally prevented her by seizing her arm, at the same time saying,
"Don't be alarmed, duckey, I shan't hurt you; I'm Sal. Don't you know
Sal?"
The voice was low and musical, and there was something in its tones
which in a measure quieted Mary's fears, but she took good care to
keep at a respectful distance. After a while Sally asked, "Have you
come here to board?"
"I have come here to live," answered Mary, "I have no other home."
"Well, for your sake I hope there'll be an improvement in the fare,
for if there isn't I declare _I_ won't stay much longer, though to be
sure you don't look as if you'd been used to any thing better than
skim-milk. What ails your teeth, child?"
Involuntarily Mary's hand went up to her mouth, and Sally, who if she
expected an answer, forgot to wait for it, continued. "Do you know
grammar, child?"
Mary replied that she had studied it a few months in Worcester, and a
few weeks in Chicopee.
"Oh, I am so glad," said Sal, "for now I shall have an associate. Why,
the greatest objection I have to the kind of people one meets with
here, is that they are so horribly vulgar in their conversation and
murder the Queen's English so dreadfully. But won't you and I have
good times saying the rules in concert?"
Unfortunately Mary's knowledge of grammar was rather limited, and as
she did not exactly fancy Sal's proposition, she answered that she
had nearly forgotten all she ever knew of grammar.
"Oh, that's nothing, child that's nothing," said Sal. "It will return
to you gradually. Why, things that happened forty years ago and were
forgotten twenty years ago come back to me every day, but then I
always did forget more in one night than some people, Miss Grundy, for
instance, ever knew in all their life."
"Have you lived here long?" asked Mary.
"Yes, a great while," and the expression of Sally's face grew graver,
as she added, "Perhaps you don't know that I lost little Willie, and
then Willie's father died too, and left me all alone. Their graves are
away on the great western prairies, beneath the buckeye trees, and one
night when the winter wind was howling fearfully, I fancied I heard
little Willie's voice calling to me from out the raging storm. So I
lay down on the turf above my lost darling, and slept so long, that
when I awoke my hair had all turned gray and I was in Chicopee, where
Willie's father used to live. After a while they brought me here and
said I was crazy, but I wasn't. My head was clear as a bell, and I
knew as much as I ever did, only I couldn't tell it, because, you see,
the right words wouldn't come. But I don't care now I've found some
one who knows grammar. How many _genders_ are there, child?"
"Four," answered Mary, who had been studying Smith.
Instantly Sal seized Mary's hands, and nearly wrenching them off in
her joy, capered and danced about the room, leaping over the cradle,
and finally exclaiming, "Capital! You think just as I do, don't you?
And have the same opinion of her? What are the genders, dear? Repeat
them"
"Masculine, Feminine, Neuter and Common," said Mary
"O, get out with your _common_ gender," screamed Sal. "_My_ grammar
don't read so. It says Masculine, Feminine Neuter and _Grundy_ gender,
to which last but one thing in the world belongs, and that is the lady
below with the cast iron back and India-rubber tongue."
"Do you mean Mrs. Grundy?" asked Mary, and Sal replied, "_Mrs.
Grundy_? and who may Mrs. Grundy be? Oh, I understand, she's been
stuffing you."
"Been what?" said Mary.
"Excuse me," answered Sal. "That's a slang term I've picked up since
I've been here. It's so easy to get contaminated, when one is
constantly associated with such low people. I mean that during my
temporary seclusion Miss Grundy has probably given you erroneous
impressions which I take pleasure in correcting. She has no more right
to order us boarders around, and say when we shall breathe and when we
shan't, than I have. She's nothing more nor less than a town pauper
herself, and has to work at that."
"So do we all," interrupted Mary, and Sal continued. "On that point
you are slightly mistaken, my dear. I don't have to. I didn't come
here to work. They tried it once."
Here pushing her tangled hair back from her brow, she pointed to a
long scar, saying, "Do you see that?" Mary nodded, and Sal continued:
"When I first came here, the overseer was a bad man, not at all like
Mr. Parker. One day he told me to wash the dinner dishes, and to use
more than a pint of water, too, so I gathered them up and threw them
into the well; but this method of washing did not suit the overseer's
ideas of housekeeping, so he took a raw hide, and said he would either
'break my will,' or 'break my neck,' and because he could not break my
will, and dared not break my neck, he contented himself with breaking
my head. Every blow that he struck me was like melted lead poured
into my brains, which puffed out like sausages, and have never
recovered their wonted dimensions. The town took the matter up, but I
don't remember much about it, for I went to sleep again, and when I
woke the overseer was gone, and Mr. Parker was here in his place. I
was chained like a wild beast under the garret stairs, and Miss
Grundy's broad, stiff back was hung there for a door. Nobody asks me
to work now, but occasionally, just for pastime, I go into Mrs.
Parker's room and read to her, and tell her about my Willie, who went
away."
"How long has Mrs. Parker been sick?" asked Mary.
"I'm no judge of time," answered Sal, "but it seems a great while, for
since her illness Miss Grundy has been at the helm in the kitchen, and
perhaps it is all right that she should be, for somebody must manage,
and, as I had declared I would not work, 'twould hardly have been
consistent to change my mind. And then, too, Miss Grundy seems
admirably suited for the place. Her _forte_ is among pots and kettles,
and she will get the most work out of the boarders, keep them on the
least fare, and put more money into Mr. Parker's pocket at the end of
a year, than any one he could hire, and this is the secret of his
bearing so much from her."
"But why does she want to fill his pockets with money?"
Sal gave a knowing wink and replied, "You are not old enough to see
into every thing, so I dare say you wouldn't understand me if I should
hint that Mrs. Parker has the consumption, and can't live always."
Mary's looks plainly told that this remark had given her no idea
whatever, and Sal continued, "I knew you wouldn't understand, for you
haven't my discernment to begin with, and then you were never sent
away to school, were you?"
"No, ma'am, was you?" asked Mary.
"Say '_were you_,' if you please, it is more euphonious Yes, I was at
school in Leicester two years, and was called the best grammarian
there, but since I've sojourned with this kind of people, I've nearly
lost my refinement. To be sure I aim at exclusiveness, and now you've
come I shall cut them all, with the exception of Uncle Peter, who
would be rather genteel if he knew more of grammar."
Just then Alice awoke, and Sally, who had not observed her before,
sprang forward with a scream of joy, and seizing the child in her
arms, threw her up towards the ceiling, catching her as she came down
as easily as she would a feather. Strange to say Alice neither
manifested any fear of the woman, nor dislike of the play, but laid
her head on Sally's shoulder as naturally as if it had been her
mother.
"Dear little fellow," said Sal, "he looks like Willie, only not half
so handsome."
"She isn't a boy," quickly interrupted Mary. "Her name is Alice."
"No consequence," said Sally, "he's Willie to me;" and ever after, in
spite of Mary's remonstrance, she persisted in speaking of Alice as
"he," and "the little boy."
Mary soon found that the poor-house with Sal Furbush shut up, and the
poor-house with Sal at liberty, were quite different affairs. Now it
was no longer lonely, for Sal's fertile imagination was constantly
suggesting something new, either by way of pastime or mischief.
Towards Miss Grundy, she and the other paupers evinced a strong
dislike, owing, in a great measure, to the air of superiority which
that lady thought proper to assume, and which was hardly more than
natural considering the position which she occupied. She was a capital
housekeeper, and to one unacquainted with the circumstances it seemed
strange, why a person, apparently so strong and healthy, should be in
the Alms-House. Unfortunately, however, she was subject to fits,
which made her presence so unpleasant to the people with whom she
lived that at last, no one was willing to hire her. About that time,
too, she was taken very ill, and as she had no relatives, she was
removed to the poor-house, where she had remained ever since.
When Mrs. Parker became too feeble to work, Miss Grundy immediately
stepped into her place, filling it so well, that as Sal had said, Mr.
Parker bore a great deal from her, knowing that no one whom he could
hire would do as well, or save as much as she did. Sal Furbush she
could neither manage nor make work, and she vented her spite towards
her by getting her shut up on the slightest pretexts. Sal knew very
well to whom she was indebted for her "temporary seclusions," as she
called them, and she exerted herself to repay the debt with interest.
Sometimes on a sultry summer morning, when the perspiration stood
thickly on Miss Grundy's face as she bent over a red-hot cook-stove in
the kitchen, Sal with her, feet in the brook, which ran through the
back yard, and a big palm-leaf fan in her hand, would call out from
some shady spot, "Hallo, Miss Grundy, don't you wish you were a lady
boarder, and could be as cool and as comfortable as I am?"
Occasionally, too, when safely fastened in the pantry enjoying her
green tea and Boston crackers, she would be startled with the words,
"That must have an excellent relish!" and looking up, she would spy
Sal, cosily seated on the top shelf, eyeing her movements
complacently, and offering, perhaps, to assist her if she found the
tea too strong!
Miss Grundy wore a wig, and as she seemed disturbed whenever the fact
was mentioned, the walls of the house both inside and out were
frequently ornamented with ludicrous pictures of herself, in which she
was sometimes represented as entirely bald-headed, while with
spectacles on the end of her nose, she appeared to be peering hither
and thither in quest of her wig. On these occasions Miss Grundy's
wrath knew no bounds, and going to Mr. Parker she would lay the case
before him in so aggravated a form, that at last to get rid of her, he
would promise that, for the next offence, Sal should be shut up. In
this way the poor woman, to use her own words, "was secluded from the
visible world nearly half the time."
With the other inmates of the house, however, she was a special
favorite, and many were the kind turns which she had done for the lame
woman, whom Miss Grundy took delight in reminding that "she didn't
half earn the salt to her porridge."
Next to the wig, nothing more annoyed Miss Grundy than to see Sal,
with grammar in hand, perched upon the window sill or table, and
repeating at the top of her voice the "rules," of which every fourth
one seemed to have been made with direct reference to herself. But it
was of no use for Miss Grundy to complain of this, for as Sal said,
"Mr. Parker merely winked at it as the vagaries of a disordered mind,"
and she was free to quote her grammar from morning till night.
Whenever she was crazier than usual, her command of language was
proportionately greater, and her references to her grammar more
frequent, while no one in the house could venture a remark without
being immediately corrected for some impropriety of speech.
Uncle Peter, who had a high opinion of Sally's abilities, always did
his best to converse as she directed, but in her "inspired days" even
he became utterly confounded, and once when in one of her lofty
strains, she had labored hard to impress upon him the all-important
fact that _adjectives_ are frequently changed into _adverbs_ by the
suffix "ly," the old man, quite out of his wits with his efforts to
understand and profit by her teachings, was guilty of a laughable
blunder.
"Uncle Peter," said she, "did you notice how unusually funnily Miss
Grundy's wig was arranged at dinner to-day?"
Thinking that he fully understood the reply which he was expected to
make, and anxious to make amends for his former stupidity, Uncle Peter
promptly replied, "No, madam I did not-_ly_.'"
The look of horror which Sally's face assumed, convinced Uncle Peter
that he had failed in his attempts at speaking grammatically, and with
a sudden determination never again to try, he precipitately left the
house, and for the next two hours amused himself by playing "Bruce's
Address" upon his old cracked fiddle. From that time Sal gave up all
hopes of educating Uncle Peter, and confined herself mostly to
literary efforts, of which we shall speak hereafter.
The night following Sal's first acquaintance with Mary, Alice cried
until nearly day dawn. The milk which Miss Grundy's stinginess allowed
her, was not particularly conducive to her health, and besides that,
she missed the invigorating bath to which she had been accustomed
during her mother's lifetime. Mary had spoken of it two or three
times, but Miss Grundy only jerked her shoulders, saying, "she guessed
she wasn't going to have such a slush around the house. You can bring
her down," said she, "to the sink, and pump as much water on her as
you like;" so Mary said no more about it until the night of which we
have spoken, and then she determined on making one more effort. But
her heart almost failed her, when, on entering the kitchen, she saw
how the chairs and Miss Grundy's shoulders danced round. She well knew
that something was wrong, and attributing it to Alice's crying, she
awaited in silence for the storm to burst.
"Rind," said Miss Grundy to the girl with crooked feet, who was
washing the milk-pail, "ain't there nary spare room in the dark
passage?"
"None but the wool room, as I know on," was Rind's sullen response.
"Well, wool room 'tis then,--for, as for my being kep' awake night
after night, by a good for nothin' young one, that hain't no business
here, any way, I shan't do it. So (speaking to Mary) you may just pick
up your duds and move this very morning."
"Going to put 'em in with the wool?" asked Rind, suspending
operations, and holding up the pail so that the water ran out of the
spout.
"You shet up," said Miss Grundy, "and wait until you're invited to
speak. Goodness alive, look at that slop! Tip up the pail, quick."
By this time Mary had found courage to say she thought Alice would be
better if she could have her usual bath every morning. This only
increased Miss Grundy's wrath, and she whirled round so swiftly, that
her forehead came in contact with the sharp edge of the cellar door,
which chanced to be open.
"Good," softly whispered Rind, while the shuffling motion of her club
feet showed how pleased she was.
Mary, on the contrary, was really distressed, for she knew the bumped
head would be charged to her, and felt sure that she was further than
ever from the attainment of her object. Still, after Miss Grundy's
forehead was duly bathed in cold water, and bound up in a blue cotton
handkerchief (the lady's favorite color), she again ventured to say,
"Miss Grundy, if you will only let me wash Alice in my room, I'll
promise she shan't disturb you again."
After a great deal of scolding and fretting about whims stuck-up
notions, and paupers trying to be somebody, Miss Grundy, who really
did not care a copper where Alice was washed, consented, and Mary ran
joyfully up stairs with the bucket of clear, cold water, which was so
soothing in its effects upon the feeble child, that in a short time
she fell into a deep slumber. Mary gently laid her down, and then
smoothing back the few silken curls which grew around her forehead,
and kissing her white cheek, she returned to the kitchen, determined
to please Miss Grundy that day, if possible.
But Miss Grundy was in the worst of humors, and the moment Mary
appeared she called out, "Go straight back, and fetch that young one
down here. Nobody's a goin' to have you racin' up stairs every ten
minutes to see whether or no she sleeps with her eyes open or shet.
She can stay here as well as not, and if she begins to stir, Patsy can
jog the cradle."
Mary cast a fearful glance at Patsy, who nodded and smiled as if in
approbation of Miss Grundy's command. She dared not disobey, so Alice
and her cradle were transferred to the kitchen, which was all day long
kept at nearly boiling heat from the stove room adjoining. Twice Mary
attempted to shut the door between, but Miss Grundy bade her open it
so she could "keep an eye on all that was going on." The new sights
and faces round her, and more than all, Patsy's strange appearance,
frightened Alice, who set up such loud screams that Miss Grundy shook
her lustily, and then cuffed Patsy, who cried because the baby did,
and pulling Mary's hair because she "most knew she felt gritty," she
went back to the cheese-tub, muttering something about "Cain's being
raised the hull time."
At last, wholly exhausted and overcome with the heat Alice ceased
screaming, and with her eyes partly closed, she lay panting for
breath, while Mary, half out of her senses tipped over the dishwater,
broke the yellow pitcher, and spilled a pan of morning's milk.
"If there's a stick on the premises, I'll use it, or my name isn't
Grundy," said the enraged woman, at the same time starting for a clump
of alders which grew near the brook.
At this stage of affairs, Sal Furbush came dancing in curtseying,
making faces, and asking Mary if she thought "the temperature of the
kitchen conducive to health."
Mary instinctively drew nearer to her, as to a friend, and grasping
her dress, whispered, "Oh, Sally, Aunt Sally, don't let her whip me
for nothing," at the same time pointing towards Miss Grundy, who was
returning with an alder switch, stripping off its leaves as she came.
"Whip you? I guess she won't," said Sal, and planting herself in the
doorway as Miss Grundy came up, she asked, "Come you with hostile
intentions?"
"Out of my way," said Miss Grundy. "I'll teach, that upstart to break
things when she's mad." Pushing Sal aside, she entered the kitchen.
Mary retreated behind the cupboard door, and Miss Grundy was about to
follow her, when Sal, with a nimble bound, sprang upon her back, and
pulling her almost to the floor, snatched the whip from her hand, and
broke it in twenty pieces. How the matter would have ended is
uncertain, for at that moment Mr. Parker himself appeared, and to him
Miss Grundy and Sal detailed their grievances, both in the same
breath.
"I can't get at a word," said he, and turning to the pleasant-looking
woman, who was quietly paring apples, he asked what it meant.
In a plain, straightforward manner, she told all, beginning from the
time when Alice was first brought into the kitchen, and adding, as an
opinion of her own, that the child was suffering from heat. Mr Parker
was a good-natured, though rather weak man, and in reality slightly
feared Miss Grundy. On this occasion, however, he did not take sides
with her but said, "It was ridiculous to have such works, and that if
Mary wanted whipping, he would do it himself."
"But Sal Furbush," said Miss Grundy, as she adjusted her head-gear,
which was slightly displaced, "can't she be shut up? There's bedlam to
pay the whole durin' time when she's loose."
Mr. Parker knew this very well, but before he had time to answer, Mary
looked pleadingly in his face, and said, "if you please, don't shut
her up. She was not to blame, for I asked her to help me."
"Wall, wall, we'll let her off this time, I guess," said he; and as
Uncle Peter just then put his head into the window, saying that "the
lord of the manor was wanted without," Mr. Parker left, glad to get
out of the muss so easily. No sooner was he gone, than Sal, catching
up the cradle, sorted for the stairs, saying, "I won't work, but I
can, and will take care of little Willie, and I choose to do it in a
more congenial atmosphere." Then, as Mary looked a little startled,
she added, "Never you fear, dearie, Sal knows what she's about, and
she won't make the little boy the least bit of a face."
From that time there was no more trouble with Alice during the day,
for she seemed to cling naturally to Sally, who hour after hour rocked
and took care of her, while Mary, in the kitchen below, was busy with
the thousand things which Miss Grundy found for her to do.