PEG MORRISON emulating (through the long summer months) the shining
examples reported in the agricultural papers, found himself half-owner
of a prodigious yield of onions in the early autumn. Day after day
he had toiled amid the long lines of odorous shoots; weeding, when
weeding was a back-breaking task under pitiless summer suns, and early
and late stirring the baked soil—for the onion specialists laid great
stress on intensive cultivation. Viewing the great heaps of shining
bulbs, red, yellow, and silver-hued, spread out in the various barns
to dry, Mr. Morrison felt inclined to break forth into singing, moved
by something of the same exultant spirit which has prompted successful
agriculturists from the days of the first harvests, reaped from the
bosom of the virgin earth.
“Let everlastin’ thanks be thine,
Fer sech a bright displa-a-y [he chanted]
Es makes a world o’ darkness shine
With beams o’ heavenly da-a-y!”
Martha Cottle, her maiden countenance coyly shaded by a ruffled pink
sun-bonnet, and bearing the egg-basket ostentatiously in one hand,
paused on the threshold of the barn.
“Why, Mis-ter Morrison,” she exclaimed, “what a wonderful harvest of
onions! I never saw anything like it.”
“This ain’t all of ’em, either,” quoth Peg, pausing long enough in his
labors to wipe the beaded perspiration from his forehead. “The only
thing that gits me is what to do with ’em, now ’t I’ve got ’em. The’
ain’t a quarter of ’em out the ground yit.”
“You should have thought of that before,” Miss Cottle said wisely. “If
you keep them too long they’ll rot or freeze out here.”
“They sure will,” agreed Peg, with some anxiety. “I’ve got to do
somethin’ with ’em quick. I’ll bet,” he added, “that I’ve got nigh
onto three thousand bushels—two, anyhow. The’d ’a’ b’en more, only
part of ’em didn’t come up, an’ some was spoiled b’ the dry weather.
I didn’t put in more’n half I intended to, neither. I d’clar I don’t
see how that thar John Closner of Hidalgo, Texas, made out to plant
an’ cultivate thirty-two acres of onions; an’ what in creation he done
with twenty-eight thousan’ eight hunderd bushels when he got ’em raised
beats me. The’s an awful lot o’ onions in a hunderd bushels, seems t’
me.”
Miss Cottle reflected, her eyes on Mr. Morrison’s heated countenance.
“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you’d care to take any advice from
_me;_ but I know what _I’d_ do, if I’d raised all those onions.”
“I ain’t proud,” Mr. Morrison confessed handsomely. “I’d take advice
f’om a Leghorn hen, ef it p’intedly hit the nail on the head. Fire
away, ma’am. Ef you’ve got any good idees, it’s reelly wrong t’ keep
’em to yourself, they’re kind o’ scurse these days.”
He looked whimsically at the lady, whose earnest attention appeared to
be divided pretty evenly between the shining heaps of vegetables and
himself.
“I don’t believe I shall ever smell onions again without thinking of
you, Peleg,” Miss Cottle observed sentimentally.
“‘’Tis sweet to be remembered,’” quoted Peg gallantly.
Miss Cottle sighed deeply; then started as if suddenly frightened by
her own thoughts.
“What,” she demanded, dropping her basket, which was fortunately empty,
“did I say?”
“W’y, nothin’ in pertic’lar, ma’am,” replied Peg. “You was speakin’ o’
disposin’ o’ th’ onions, an’——”
“Yes; but I called you by your Christian name. I called you—_Peleg!_
What _must_ you think of me?”
“Ev’rybody mostly calls me Peleg, er Peg. I ain’t pertic’lar es t’
that. But how ’bout them onions? You was sayin’——”
“I was about to inform you that my brother-in-law’s nephew is connected
with the Washington Market in New York City,” said Miss Cottle, with a
long, quivering sigh. “I had thought of writing to him, if you cared to
have me. I should be _glad_ to do _something_—for you, Peleg. There!
I’ve said it again.”
“It’s mighty kind of you to write t’ your relation. I’m bleeged t’ you,
ma’am. Washin’ton Market, Noo York City, soun’s good t’ me. But d’ye
s’pose the’s folks enough thar t’ eat all them onions?”
He shook his head doubtfully.
“The loft t’ the kerridge house is full of ’em, an’ the hay barn
floor’s covered, an’ the’s a lot more in the ground, es I was sayin’.”
Miss Cottle seated herself on an upturned bushel-basket and gazed
earnestly at the successful grower of onions.
“I wish to talk to you _seriously_, Mr. Morrison, on a subject
_very near my heart_,” she said. “Will you not sit down on this
box”—indicating a place at her side—“and listen?”
“I’d ought t’ be gittin’ them onions out th’ groun’,” protested Peg,
with a wary glint in his eye. But he sat down gingerly on the edge of
the box.
“I’ve been thinking _deeply_ on the situation here on the farm,”
pursued Miss Cottle. “I do not feel that I am doing _right_ to remain
here longer, _under the circumstances_.”
Peg fumbled the rampant locks behind his left ear, in a fashion he had
when perplexed.
“Under the circumstances,” he repeated dubiously. “The circumstances is
all right; ain’t they?”
“I appear to have dropped into the position of hired girl to Barbara
Preston,” pursued the spinster acidly. “She did her own work previous
to my coming; now I do most of it. But that isn’t all; I was engaged as
housekeeper and caretaker for that boy. She was to go away and _stay_
for five years.”
“Mebbe she’ll go soon now,” hazarded Peg. He shook his head slowly.
“Kind o’ funny ’bout that business,” he murmured. “I dunno who in
creation bid her in.”
“I shouldn’t mind that so much,” pursued Miss Cottle, “but——”
She paused dramatically to allow the full force of her remark to fall
on the unsuspecting man.
“There’s been considerable talk in the village lately—_about you and
me_. It’s come to me straight.”
“No!” exclaimed Peg, hastily gaining his legs and feeling for his pipe
in his rear breeches pocket with agitated haste.
“Don’t you believe it, ma’am.”
“Can you deny,” intoned Miss Cottle strongly, “that the subject of your
attentions to me was brought up and discussed in Hewett’s grocery store
less than a week ago?”
“I said it wa’n’t so, ma’am; I told ’em the’ wa’n’t nothin’ in it.”
“_You_ told them, Peleg Morrison? _You_ denied that you intended to
marry me? How could you?”
“W’y, ma’am, you know——”
“You should, at least, have afforded _me_ the opportunity of denying
the report—if it was to be denied.”
Miss Cottle buried her face in her hands.
“I supposed,” she went on, in a smothered voice, “that you had more
regard for the sacred feelings of a good woman. I thought, Peleg,
you—cared—a little—for me.”
“Oh, my! Gosh—goll—durn—what—in—thunder——”
Miss Cottle’s strong, determined hand shot out and fastened
tentacle-like upon the unfortunate Peleg’s sleeve.
“I shall leave this very day—_never_ to return,” she said, in a hollow
voice, “unless you and I come to an understanding. I cannot endure it
longer.”
“O Lord!” exclaimed Peg prayerfully.
“I _love_ that _dear_ little boy as if he was my _own_,” pursued Miss
Cottle sentimentally, “and I _feel_ that my _duty_ calls me to remain
and care for him; but——”
“I reelly hope you won’t go on my ’count, ma’am,” faltered Peg, moved
by these protestations and once more mindful of Barbara’s exhortations.
“_Peleg!_” exclaimed Miss Cottle beatifically, and instantly relaxed
upon his shoulder.
“Say, ma’am! You know—reelly, I——”
“I am _so_ happy, Peleg!” gurgled the spinster.
“Wall, I ain’t; I——”
“I knew you would understand my feelings.”
“But I don’t, ma’am. Kindly set down, an’——”
“I shall remain _now_ and do my duty with a _light heart_. I feel that
the arrangement will be _much better_ for _all_ concerned, and I can
make you _so_ comfortable, Peleg. You need half a dozen new shirts,
and shall I confess it? I have them nearly completed already.”
Mr. Morrison, looking wildly about for a means of escape, caught sight
of Jimmy running past the door, a brace of puppies frolicking at his
heels.
“Hello, thar, Cap’n!” he called, “don’t you want t’ step in here an’——”
“The _dear_ child,” murmured Miss Cottle, wiping her eyes on her apron.
“He shall be the first to share our happiness. I am going to be married
to your kind old friend here, James; aren’t you _glad_, my boy?”
Jimmy gazed doubtfully at the pair from under puckered brows.
“Married?” he echoed. “What for?”
“Say, Cap’n, you’ve struck the nail on the head, es usual!” cried
Peg, regaining his composure with an effort. “I guess the lady don’t
altogether know her own mind. She was kind o’ calc’latin’ on bein’
married t’ me. But she’s thought better of it b’ now, an’ I’m bearin’
up es well es I kin under the circumstances. The’ ain’t goin’t’ be no
weddin’. No, sir! She’s changed her mind sence she come in here. D’ye
hear, ma’am? You couldn’t put up with ol’ Peg Morrison. Y’ tried to,
f’om a strict sense o’ duty; but y’ reelly couldn’t do it.”
“_Peleg!_” exclaimed Miss Cottle sharply. “You must have taken leave of
your senses!”
“No, ma’am, I ain’t. The Cap’n here’ll bear witness that I said you’d
give me up. That’ll put a stop t’ the talk—ef the’ is any. You c’n tell
’em that. I won’t deny it. I c’n stan’ it.”
A light as of tardy victory dawned in Miss Cottle’s eyes.
“You won’t deny that we’ve been engaged to be married?” she said slowly.
“No, ma’am; you c’n say anythin’ you’ve a mind to. It’s all the same t’
me, now ’t you’ve give me up. I feel turrible bad—all broke up; but I’m
a-goin’ t’ stan’ it the best I kin. Religion ’ll help some, I guess. It
gene’lly does. I’ll try it, anyhow.”
“I might reconsider,” observed Miss Cottle, “before”—she added
darkly—“the affair becomes public. I fear the notoriety will be very
hard for you to bear, Peleg.”
“It will, ma’am,” replied Peg with alacrity; “but I’m goin’ t’ try an’
endure it.”
Miss Cottle meditatively stirred the onions with one foot clad
substantially in rusty leather.
“I shall hold you to the engagement which you have acknowledged,” she
said firmly, “unless——”
“What? Fer goodness sake don’t keep me on tenter-hooks, ma’am! W’y,
say, you don’t want me! I ain’t fit t’ wipe m’ feet on your door-mat;
you’ve said so lots o’ times; ain’t she, Cap’n? I’m an ornary cuss;
more ornary ’n you hev any idee of; an’ I’m humbly’s a hedge-fence,
’n’—’n’ bad-tempered; m’ disposition’s somethin’ fierce. The Cap’n here
c’n tell you that. W’y, land, I dunno but what I’d be drove to drink,
ef I was t’ git married! I’ll bet I would. An’ what with my t’bacco—y’
know y’ hate that like pison, an’ m’——”
“If my brother-in-law’s nephew should make you an offer for these
onions, I feel that I ought to have a share in the proceeds,” said
Miss Cottle, suddenly abandoning sentiment for business. “If we were
to carry out our engagement of marriage, of course I should reasonably
expect to profit by the arrangement.”
“No, ma’am; you wouldn’t, not whilst I was alive. I’m downright stingy.
That’s another thing I fergot t’ mention. Stingy? W’y, I’m closter
’n the bark t’ a tree. ’Nough sight closter, ’cause the bark’ll give
when the tree grows. But not Peleg Morrison; no, ma’am! I’ll bet you
wouldn’t git ’nough t’ eat, with me fer a pervider. An’ I’ve made up my
mind long ago to leave ev’rythin’ I’ve got t’ the Cap’n here. M’ will’s
all made. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you—a hunderd
dollars cash, ef I sell the onions, ’n ef you——”
“Make it two hundred, and I’ll agree to let you off. You couldn’t do me
out of my widow’s third, anyway you’d fix it.”
Peg stared at the determined spinster in silence for a long minute.
Then with a muttered exclamation, he dashed out of the barn and
disappeared.
Miss Cottle’s eyes sparkled with animosity.
“If I was to sue him for breach of promise, and I could do it, too, I
guess he——”
She paused in her meditations to stare wrathfully at the spectacle of
the recalcitrant Peleg returning at full speed, a small, yellow-leaved
book in his hand.
“Here we be, ma’am!” he exclaimed. “Now we’ll see whar we’re at. I
gene’lly find somethin’ t’ fit the ’casion, an’ I’ll bet I kin this
time.”
He rapidly turned the pages with a moistened thumb and fingers.
“‘Receipt fer horse linament.’ No; that won’t do. ‘Foot an’ mouth
disease,’ ‘How t’ git fat; an’ how not t’ git fat,’ ‘Blind staggers,
‘n’ how t’ pervent,’ ‘Jell-cake—— ’”
“What,” demanded Miss Cottle sharply, “is that book? And what possible
connection does it have with our affairs?”
Mr. Morrison paused, his thumb in his mouth.
“W’y, this,” he explained, “is my book of vallable inf’mation. It’s got
ev’rythin’ to do with ’em, ma’am. I ain’t never be’n exactly in this
’ere fix b’fore; but I’ll bet the’s inf’mation in this ’ere book ’at’ll
fit the case all right. You jus’ set down, ma’am, an’ make yourself
comf’table, while——”
“This is outrageous!” snapped Miss Cottle.
“Maybe I’d better run and get my book, too,” volunteered Jimmy, who had
been an interested but sadly puzzled spectator of the scene. “P’raps
there’ll be somethin’ vallable in mine.”
“All right, Cap’n; run ’long,” said Peg briskly. “Now, listen t’ this,
ma’am. ‘The sleepin’ fox ketches no poultry.’ That’s good; but the
trouble is you ’pear to be wide-awake. Hold on; don’t git ’xcited.
Here’s a little inf’mation on the subjec’ o’ fools. I copied it out the
almanac nigh onto twenty years ago, an’ it can’t be beat. ‘’Xperience
keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.’ An’ this, ’t I
got out o’ a story book, ‘The’ ain’t nothin’ so becomin’ t’ a fool es a
shet mouth.’ An’ mebbe this here has some bearin’s on the case: ‘Don’t
meddle with these three things: a buzz-saw, a kickin’ mule, an’ a
woman’s ’at’s mad clear through.’ They’re all alike in one pertic’lar——”
“I shall certainly sue for breach of promise!” announced Miss Cottle,
treading recklessly among the onions on her way to the door.
“No, ma’am; you won’t,” quoth Peg placidly. “‘Whar the’s be’n no
promise thar c’n be no breach.’ I wrote that down ’bout the year
fifty-nine. I wa’n’t ’s old’s I be now; but I’ve kep’ it in mind pretty
constant. You fix it so ’t I’ll sell them onions at a fair profit ’n’
I’ll give ye a hunderd dollars. ’N’ you c’n tell your lady friends that
ol’ Peg Morrison’s sech a scalawag ’at you couldn’t hear t’ marryin’
him, not ef he was the las’ man on earth. An’ that’s the truth. You
couldn’t hear t’ it, an’ you c’n bet I wouldn’t.”
“I shall leave this house to-day.—_To-day_, Peleg Morrison; do you
_hear_?”
Peg glanced up from his anxious scrutiny of the pages of accumulated
lore with a look of deep thankfulness.
“Sho! you don’t say so?” he exclaimed. “Wall, take this ’long with you
t’ med’tate over: ‘A blue-bottle fly makes a turrible sight of loud
buzzin’, but take notice ’at it don’t git anywhar.’ An’ this: ‘Run your
head into a stone wall, ef you feel like doin’ it; but don’t blame the
wall none fer what happens.”
Jimmy running blithely toward the barn with his book of Vallable
Inf’mation in one hand and his cherished bottle of red ink in the
other, met the irate Miss Cottle on the way.
“I’m a-going to do _once_ what I’ve been simply _achin’_ to do ever
since I set foot onto this place!” she cried shrilly; and seizing the
child by the shoulder she gave him a violent shaking, concluding with a
hard-handed slap or two over the ear.
“Take _that_, you little tyke, you! If I’d ’a’ had you in hand for
five years steady, with her gone, I’d ’a’ taken some of the laugh and
smartness out of you! But now I wash my hands of you and her and him!”
The child, too astonished to cry out, writhed out of the spinster’s
bony grip.
“I ’spise you,” he sputtered, “you ol’—ol’—Cottle woman! ’n’—’n’—I’ll
put it in my Vallable Inf’mation book ’at you—slapped me when I was
good!”
Miss Cottle made another dive at him, and was met by a copious shower
of red ink from the loosely corked bottle, which Jimmy discharged at
his assailant with the practised aim of the small boy. Then he took
to his heels, to be received into asylum by Peg Morrison, who was
watching the proceedings from the barn-door.
“Wall, Cap’n,” he said, “you sure did put that red ink to good use.
Don’t you cry, son; I’ll git ye another bottle twict es big b’fore
sun-down.”
He chuckled deep within his capacious chest as he smoothed the little
boy’s ruffled curls with his big, horny hand.
“You an’ me’ll hev to write out a little vallable inf’mation on the
subjec’ o’ females,” he said slowly. “The’s all kinds an’ varieties of
wimmin-folks; ’n’ t’ git ’em all sorted an’ labelled, so ’t ye won’t
git teetotally fooled ’ll take the better part of a lifetime.”