_The Supper Table._
AUNT HITTY COMES TO "MAKE OVER," AND SUPPLIES BACK NUMBERS TO ALL THE
VILLAGE HISTORIES.
Aunt Hitty, otherwise Mrs. Silas Tarbox, was as cheery and loquacious a
person as you could find in a Sabbath day's journey. She was armed with
a substantial amount of knowledge at almost every conceivable point; but
if an unexpected emergency ever did arise, her imagination was equal to
the strain put upon it and rose superior to the occasion. Yet of an
evening, or on Sunday, she was no village gossip; it was only when you
put a needle in her hand or a cutting-board in her lap that her memory
started on its interminable journeyings through the fields of the past.
She knew every biography and every "ought-to-be-ography" in the county,
and could tell you the branches of every genealogical tree in the
village.
It was dusk at the White Farm, and a late supper was spread upon the
hospitable board. (Aunt Hitty was always sure of a bountiful repast. If
one were going to economize, one would not choose for that purpose the
day when the village seamstress came to sew; especially when the
aforesaid lady served the community in the stead of a local newspaper.)
The children had eaten their bread and milk, and were out in the barn
with Jabe, watching the milking. Aunt Hitty was in a cheerful mood as
she reflected on her day's achievements. Out of Dr. Jonathan Cummins'
old cape coat she had carved a pair of brief trousers and a vest for
Timothy; out of Mrs. Jonathan Cummins' waterproof a serviceable jacket;
and out of Deacon Abijah Cummins' linen duster an additional coat and
vest for warm days. The owners of these garments had been dead many
years, but nothing was ever thrown away (and, for that matter, very
little given away) at the White Farm, and the ancient habiliments had
finally been diverted to a useful purpose.
"I hope I shall relish my vittles to-night," said Aunt Hitty, as she
poured her tea into her saucer, and set the cup in her little blue
"cup-plate;" "but I've had the neuralgy so in my face that it's be'n
more 'n ten days sence I've be'n able to carry a knife to my mouth....
Your meat vittles is always so tasty, Miss Cummins. I was sayin' to Mis'
Sawyer last week I think she lets her beef hang too long. Its dretful
tender, but I don't b'lieve its hullsome. For my part, as I've many a
time said to Si, I like meat with some chaw to it.... Mis' Sawyer don't
put half enough vittles on her table. She thinks it scares folks; it
don't me a mite,--it makes me 's hungry as a wolf. When I set a table
for comp'ny I pile on a hull lot, 'n' I find it kind o' discourages
'em.... Mis' Southwick's hevin' a reg'lar brash o' house-cleanin'. She's
too p'ison neat for any earthly use, that woman is. She's fixed
clam-shell borders roun' all her garding beds, an' got enough left for a
pile in one corner, where she's goin' to set her oleander kag. Then
she's bought a haircloth chair and got a new three-ply carpet in her
parlor, 'n' put the old one in the spare-room 'n' the back-entry. Her
daughter's down here from New Haven. She's married into one of the first
families o' Connecticut, Lobelia has, 'n' she puts on a good many airs.
She's rigged out her mother's parlor with lace curtains 'n' one thing
'n' 'other, 'n' wants it called the drawin'-room. Did ye ever hear tell
such foolishness? 'Drawin'-room!' s' I to Si; 'what's it goin' to draw?
Nothin' but flies, I guess likely!' ... Mis' Pennell's got a new girl to
help round the house,--one o' them pindlin' light-complected Smith
girls, from the Swamp,--look's if they was nussed on bonny-clabber.
She's so hombly I sh'd think 't would make her back ache to carry her
head round. She ain't very smart, neither. Her mother sent word she'd
pick up 'n' do better when she got her growth. That made Mis' Pennell
hoppin' mad. She said she didn't cal'late to pay a girl three shillin's
a week for growin'. Mis' Pennell's be'n feelin' consid'able slim, or she
wouldn't 'a' hired help; it's just like pullin' teeth for Deacon Pennell
to pay out money for anything like that. He watches every mouthful the
girl puts into her mouth, 'n' it's made him 'bout down sick to see her
fleshin' up on his vittles.... They say he has her put the mornin'
coffee-groun's to dry on the winder-sill, 'n' then has 'em scalt over
for dinner; but, there! I don' know 's there's a mite o' truth in it,
so I won't repeat it. They went to him to git a subscription for the new
hearse the other day. Land sakes! we need one bad enough. I thought for
sure, at the last funeral we had, that they'd never git Mis' Strout to
the graveyard safe and sound. I kep' a-thinkin' all the way how she'd
'a' took on, if she'd be'n alive. She was the most timersome woman 't
ever was. She was a Thomson, 'n' all the Thomsons was scairt at their
own shadders. Ivory Strout rid right behind the hearse, 'n' he says his
heart was in his mouth the hull durin' time for fear 't would break
down. He didn't git much comfort out the occasion, I guess! Wa' n't he
mad he hed to ride in the same buggy with his mother-in-law! The
minister planned it all out, 'n' wrote down the order o' the mourners,
'n' passeled him out with old Mis' Thomson. I was stan'in' close by, 'n'
I heard him say he s'posed he could go that way if he must, but 't would
spile the hull blamed thing for him! ... Well, as I was sayin', the
seleckmen went to Deacon Pennell to get a contribution towards buyin'
the new hearse; an' do you know, he wouldn't give 'em a dollar? He told
'em he gave five dollars towards the other one, twenty years ago, 'n'
hadn't never got a cent's worth o' use out of it. That's Deacon Pennell
all over! As Si says, if the grace o' God wa'n't given to all of us
without money 'n' without price, you wouldn't never hev ketched Deacon
Pennell experiencin' religion! It's got to be a free gospel 't would
convict him o' sin, that's certain! ... They say Seth Thatcher's married
out in Iowy. His mother's tickled 'most to death. She heerd he was
settin' up with a girl out there, 'n' she was scairt to death for fear
he'd get served as Lemuel 'n' Cyrus was. The Thatcher boys never hed any
luck gettin' married, 'n' they always took disappointments in love
turrible hard. You know Cyrus set in that front winder o' Mis'
Thatcher's, 'n' rocked back 'n' forth for ten year, till he wore out
five cane-bottomed cheers, 'n' then rocked clean through, down cellar,
all on account o' Crany Ann Sweat. Well, I hope she got her comeuppance
in another world,--she never did in this; she married well 'n' lived in
Boston.... Mis' Thatcher hopes Seth 'll come home to live. She's dretful
lonesome in that big house, all alone. She'd oughter have somebody for a
company-keeper. She can't see nothin' but trees 'n' cows from her
winders.... Beats all, the places they used to put houses.... Either
they'd get 'em right under foot so 't you'd most tread on 'em when you
walked along the road, or else they'd set 'em clean back in a lane,
where the women folks couldn't see face o' clay week in 'n' week out....
"Joel Whitten's widder's just drawed his pension along o' his bein' in
the war o' 1812. ... It's took 'em all these years to fix it. ... Massy
sakes! don't some folks have their luck buttered in this world?... She
was his fourth wife, 'n' she never lived with him but thirteen days
'fore he up 'n' died. ... It doos seem's if the guv'ment might look
after things a little mite closer.... Talk about Joel Whitten's bein' in
the war o' 1812! Everybody knows Joel Whitten wouldn't have fit a
skeeter! He never got any further 'n Scratch Corner, any way, 'n' there
he clim a tree or hid behind a hen-coop somewheres till the regiment got
out o' sight.... Yes: one, two, three, four,--Huldy was his fourth wife.
His first was a Hogg, from Hoggses Mills. The second was Dorcas
Doolittle, aunt to Jabe Slocum; she didn't know enough to make soap,
Dorcas didn't.... Then there was Delia Weeks, from the lower corner....
She didn't live long.... There was some thin' wrong with Delia.... She
was one o' the thin-blooded, white-livered kind.... You couldn't get her
warm, no matter how hard you tried. ... She'd set over a roarin' fire in
the cook-stove even in the prickliest o' the dog-days. ... The
mill-folks used to say the Whittens burnt more cut-roun's 'n' stickens
'n any three fam'lies in the village. ... Well, after Delia died, then
come Huldy's turn, 'n' it's she, after all, that's drawed the
pension.... Huldy took Joel's death consid'able hard, but I guess she'll
perk up, now she's come int' this money. ... She's awful leaky-minded,
Huldy is, but she's got tender feelin's.... One day she happened in at
noon-time, 'n' set down to the table with Si 'n' I.... All of a suddent
she bust right out cryin' when Si was offerin' her a piece o' tripe, 'n'
then it come out that she couldn't never bear the sight o' tripe, it
reminded her so of Joel! It seems tripe was a favorite dish o' Joel's.
All his wives cooked it firstrate.... Jabe Slocum seems to set
consid'able store by them children, don't he?... I guess he'll never
ketch up with his work, now he's got them hangin' to his heels.... He
doos beat all for slowness! Slocum's a good name for him, that's
certain. An' 's if that wa'n't enough, his mother was a Stillwell, 'n'
her mother was a Doolittle!... The Doolittles was the slowest fam'ly in
Lincoln County. (Thank you, I'm well helped, Samanthy.) Old Cyrus
Doolittle was slower 'n a toad funeral. He was a carpenter by trade, 'n'
he was twenty-five years buildin' his house; 'n' it warn't no great,
either.... The stagin' was up ten or fifteen years, 'n' he shingled it
four or five times before he got roun', for one patch o' shingles used
to wear out 'fore he got the next patch on. He 'n' Mis' Doolittle lived
in two rooms in the L. There was elegant banisters, but no stairs to
'em, 'n' no entry floors. There was a tip-top cellar, but there wa'n't
no way o' gittin' down to it, 'n' there wa'n't no conductors to the
cisterns. There was only one door panel painted in the parlor. Land
sakes! the neighbors used to happen in 'bout every week for years 'n'
years, hopin' he'd get another one finished up, but he never did,--not
to my knowledge.... Why, it's the gospel truth that when Mis' Doolittle
died he had to have her embalmed, so 't he could git the front door
hung for the fun'ral! (No more tea, I thank you; my cup ain't out.) ...
Speakin' o' slow folks, Elder Banks tells an awful good story 'bout Jabe
Slocum.... There's another man down to Edgewood, Aaron Peek by name,
that's 'bout as lazy as Jabe. An' one day, when the loafers roun' the
store was talkin' 'bout 'em, all of a suddent they see the two of 'em
startin' to come down Marm Berry's hill, right in plain sight of the
store.... Well, one o' the Edgewood boys bate one o' the Pleasant River
boys that they could tell which one of 'em was the laziest by the way
they come down that hill.... So they all watched, 'n' bime by, when Jabe
was most down to the bottom of the hill, they was struck all of a heap
to see him break into a kind of a jog trot 'n' run down the balance o'
the way. Well, then, they fell to quarrelin'; for o' course the Pleasant
River folks said Aaron Peek was the laziest, 'n' the Edgewood boys
declared he hedn't got no such record for laziness's Jabe Slocum hed;
an' when they was explainin' of it, one way 'n' 'nother, Elder Banks
come along, 'n' they asked him to be the judge. When he heerd tell how
't was, he said he agreed with the Edgewood folks that Jabe was lazier
'n Aaron. 'Well, I snum, I don't see how you make that out,' says the
Pleasant River boys; 'for Aaron walked down, 'n' Jabe run a piece o' the
way.' 'If Jabe Slocum run,' says the elder, as impressive as if he was
preachin',--'if Jabe Slocum ever run, then 't was because he was _too
doggoned lazy to hold back!_ 'an' that settled it!... (No, I couldn't
eat another mossel, Miss Cummins; I've made out a splendid supper.) ...
You can't git such pie 'n' doughnuts anywhere else in the village, 'n'
what I say I mean.... Do you make your riz doughnuts with emptin's? I
want to know! Si says there's more faculty in cookin' flour food than
there is in meat-victuals, 'n' I guess he's 'bout right."
* * * * *
It was bedtime, and Timothy was in his little room carrying on the most
elaborate and complicated plots for reading the future. It must be known
that Jabe Slocum was as full of signs as a Farmer's Almanac, and he had
given Timothy more than one formula for attaining his secret
desires,--old, well-worn recipes for luck, which had been tried for
generations in Pleasant River, and which were absolutely "certain" in
their results. The favorites were:--
"Star bright, star light,
First star I've seen to-night,
Wish I may, wish I might,
Get the wish I wish to-night;"
and one still more impressive:--
"Four posts upon my bed,
Four corners overhead;
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed I _lay_ upon.
Matthew, John, Luke, and Mark,
Grant my wish and keep it dark."
These rhymes had been chanted with great solemnity, and Timothy sat by
the open window in the sweet darkness of the summer night, wishing that
he and Gay might stay forever in this sheltered spot. "I'll make a sign
of my very own," he thought. "I'll get Gay's ankle-tie, and put it on
the window-sill, with the toe pointing out. Then I'll wish that if we
are going to stay at the White Farm, the angels will turn it around,
'toe in' to the room, for a sign to me; and if we've got to go, I'll
wish they may leave it the other way; and, oh dear, but I'm glad it's so
little and easy to move; and then I'll say Matthew, Mark, Luke, and
John, four times over, without stopping, as Jabe told me to, and then
see how it turns out in the morning." ...
But the incantation was more soothing than the breath of Miss Vilda's
scarlet poppies, and before the magical verse had fallen upon the drowsy
air for the third time, Timothy was fast asleep, with a smile of hope on
his parted lips.
There was a sweet summer shower in the night. The soft breezes, fresh
from shaded dells and nooks of fern, fragrant with the odor of pine and
vine and wet wood-violets, blew over the thirsty meadows and golden
stubble-fields, and brought an hour of gentle rain.
It sounded a merry tintinnabulation on Samantha's milk-pans, wafted the
scent of dripping honeysuckle into the farmhouse windows, and drenched
the night-caps in which prudent farmers had dressed their haycocks.
Next morning, the green world stood on tiptoe to welcome the victorious
sun, and every little leaf shone as a child's eyes might shine at the
remembrance of a joy just past.
A meadow lark perched on a swaying apple-branch above Martha's grave,
and poured out his soul in grateful melody; and Timothy, wakened by
Nature's sweet good-morning, leaped from the too fond embrace of Miss
Vilda's feather-bed.... And lo, a miracle!... The woodbine clung close
to the wall beneath his window. It was tipped with strong young shoots
reaching out their innocent hands to cling to any support that offered;
and one baby tendril that seemed to have grown in a single night, so
delicate it was, had somehow been blown by the sweet night wind from its
drooping place on the parent vine, and, falling on the window-sill, had
curled lovingly round Gay's fairy shoe, and held it fast!