up. It is such a good day to air 'em for fall--and, then,--I jest hate
to tell you!--the moths has got into the skirt of your shroud. I sunned
it good, but the holes is there yet."
"Moths!" screamed the thin voice, sharpened by much calling to people in
distant rooms. "Then they've got all over the house, I presume to say,
if they've got into that. Why don't you keep it in the cedar chist?"
"Because it's full of your laid-by clothes now, and I keep my black suit
that you had me git for the funeral in there, too. There ain't room. You
told me allus to keep your buryin' clothes in a box in the spare room
closet, so's they'd be handy to git if they was wanted in the night. You
told me that four or five years ago, Marthy."
"So I did. And I presume to say that my good three-ply carpet that
mother gave me when we was married is jest reddled with moths--if
they're in that closet. If it wasn't for keepin' that spare room ready
for the cousins in Maine when they come to the buryin', I'd have you
take up that carpet and beat it good and store it in the garret. My, oh,
my, what worries a body has when they can't git around to do for
themselves! Now it's moths, right on top of Mr. Oldshaw's death after
he'd got my discourse all prepared on the text I picked out for him. He
had as good as preached it to me, and it was a powerful one, a warnin'
to the ungodly not to be took unawares. I advised him to p'int it that
way. Then, Jim Woodworth's Mary is leavin' the choir to marry and go
west, and I jest won't have Palmyra Stockly sing 'Cool Siloam' over me.
I can settle that right now, for I couldn't abide the way she acted
about that church fair--and she sings through her nose anyway.
An-ndrew!"
"Yes, Marthy."
"You oughtn't to go walkin' off when a body is talkin' to you. You allus
do that."
"I c'n hear you, Marthy. I'm jest in the kitchen. I thought the dinner
had b'iled dry."
"Are you gittin' a b'iled dinner? It smells wonderful good. What you got
in it?"
"Corned beef and cabbage and onions and potatoes and turnips. I've het
up a squash pie and put out some of the cider apple sauce that will
spile if it isn't et pretty soon. I'll put the tea a-drawin' soon's the
kittle b'iles."
Andrew's voice came into the sick room in a mechanical recitative, as if
accustomed to recount every particular of the day's doings.
"Well, I guess you can bring me some of it. You bring me a piece of the
corned beef and consid'able of the cabbage and potaters and an onion or
two. And if that cider apple sauce is likely to spile, I might eat a
little of it; bring me a cooky to eat with it. And a piece of the squash
pie. What else did you say you had?"
"That's all."
"Don't forgit to put on consid'able of bread. It's a good while till
supper, and I don't dast to eat between meals."
Andrew brought the tray to the bedside and propped up the invalid before
he ate his own dinner. He had finished it and cleared up the table
before the high voice called again: "An-ndrew!"
"Yes, Marthy."
"Is there any more of the corned beef? You brought me such a little
mite of a piece."
"Yes, there's plenty more, but I knew you'd object if I brought it
first. Like it, did you?"
"Yes, it was tol'able. Them vegetables was a little rich, but maybe they
won't hurt me. You might bring me another cooky when you come.--Now, you
set down a minute while you're waitin' for my dishes. I've ben worryin'
'bout them moths every minute since you told me, and somethin' has got
to be done."
"I know it. I hated to tell you, but I thought you ought to know. I
guess I c'n clean 'em out the next rainy spell when I have to stay in."
"No, you can't wait for that. And you can't do it anyway. There's things
a man can do, and then again there's things he can't. You're uncommon
handy, Andrew, but you're a man."
Andrew's deprecatory gesture implied that he couldn't help it.
"I've thought of that ever so much in the years that I've ben layin'
here, and I've worried about what you're goin' to do when I ain't here
to plan and direct for you. Those moths are jest an instance. Now, what
you goin' to do when you have to think for yourself?"
"I do' know, but you ain't goin' to git up a new worry 'bout that, I
hope?"
"No, it is not a new worry. It's an old one, but it's such a delicate
subject, even between man and wife, that I've hesitated to speak of it.
Andrew, I don't want you to stay single but jest six months--jest six
months to the very day after I'm laid away. I've spoken to Hannah
Brewster to come in and do for you twice a week, same as she does now,
and to mend your socks and underclothes for six months, and then I want
you to--git married."
"Why, Marthy!"
"You needn't gasp like you was struck. I presume to say you'd do it
anyway without thinkin' it over well beforehand. I've allus planned and
thought things over for you till I don't know whether you'd be capable
of attendin' to that or not. And I'd go off a sight easier if I knew
'twas all settled satisfactory. I'd like to know who's goin' to keep my
house and wear my clothes and sun my bed quilts, and I could have her
come and learn my ways beforehand."
"Good gracious, Marthy! There's a limit to plannin'--and directin'--even
for as smart a woman as you be. You're not goin' to know whether
she'll--consent or not, not while--while you're here, yet. And you're
gittin' no worse; it does seem like you're gittin' better all the time.
Last time Aunt Lyddy was here she said you was lookin' better'n she ever
see you before. I told her you'd picked up in your appetite consid'able.
You'll git up yet and be my second wife yourself."
"Yes, Aunt Lyddy allus thinks great things 'bout me; she never would
believe how low I've ben, but I guess I know how I be. No, you can't
head me off that way, with the moths in my best things and one of my
grandmother's silver spoons missin'. If there's one thing a
forethoughtful woman ought to plan beforehand, it's to pick out the
woman who's to have her house and her things and her husband."
Andrew wriggled uncomfortably. "I shouldn't wonder if the dish water was
a-b'ilin', Marthy."
"No, it isn't. You haven't got fire enough. And we'd better settle this
matter while we're at it."
"Settle it! Why, Marthy, you talk 's if you wanted me to go 'n' git
married on the spot and bring my second wife home to you before--while
you're still here. I'm no Mormon. Like's not you've got her selected;
you're such a wonderful hand to settle things."
"I can't say 's I've got her selected--not the exact one--but I've ben
runnin' over several in my mind. We'd better have several to pick from,
and then if some refused you, we'd still have a chance."
"But how would you git any of 'em to consent?" asked Andrew with a show
of interest.
"How else but ask 'em? They would understand how I feel about you. The
hull town knows how I've laid here expectin' every day to be to-morrow,
and if I want that thing settled before I go, I don't see how it could
make talk."
"Now, who had you sorted out to pick from?" and Andrew leaned back
comfortably in his chair. His wife punched up her pillow to lift her
head higher.
"Well, there's the widows first. I've sorted them over and over till
I've got 'em down to four that ain't wasteful cooks nor got too many
relations. There's Widow Jackson--"
"She's weakly," promptly decided Andrew.
"And Mary Josephine Wilson--"
"She don't go to our church. What about the old maids?"
"I don't take much stock in old maids. The likeliest person I know, and
I wouldn't call her an old maid, either, is Abilonia Supe. Her mother
was counted the best breadmaker in North Sudbury, and Abby was the
neatest darner in her class at sewing school."
"But, why, Marthy, isn't Abby promised to Willy Parks?"
"No; I asked Mis' Parks about that yisterday. She said Willy had been
waitin' on Abby for four or five years, but they'd had a
misunderstandin' this summer, and it was broke off for good."
"He ought to be horsewhipped!" said Andrew warmly. "Abilonia Supe is the
finest girl in North Sudbury."
"Ye-es," admitted Marthy reluctantly. "You're sure she wouldn't be too
young for you, are you?"
"Too young? For me? I don't want to marry my grandmother, I guess. And
I'm not Methusalem myself," and he shook the stoop out of his back and
spread the thin hair across his bald spot. His wife looked at him in
wondering surprise.
"Abby has had rather a hard time since her mother died," she said
weakly.
"Indeed she has, and she deserves to have it easy now. She needs
somebody to take care of her if that scamp--and she isn't bad lookin',
either--Abby isn't. I tell you, Marthy, there isn't your beat in the
hull town for managin' forethoughtedness. Sick or well, you've allus ben
a captain at managin'. Now, come to think it over, this isn't a bad
idee. But, how'll we git her consent? Maybe I'd better step over
and--well--ruther lead up to the subject. I might--"
"That dish water's a-b'ilin', Andrew. It's a-b'ilin' hard. I c'n hear
it."
Andrew started briskly for the kitchen, and the dishes clattered
merrily. An hour later he framed himself in the doorway in his Sunday
clothes.
"I have to go down to the store this afternoon to git that baggin' for
the hops, and I can jest as well 's not go round by Supes' and--sort
of--talk that over with Abby--and tell her your wishes. I never deny you
nothin', Marthy; you know that. If it'll be any comfort to you, I'll
jest brace up and do it, no matter how hard it is."
"Well--say, Andrew, wait a minute. Maybe you'd better wait till we talk
it over a little more. I might consult with Abby, myself, on the
subject--An-ndrew! An-ndrew! That man is gittin' a good deal deafer'n
he'll own to."
It was quite supper time when Andrew returned; it was too late to cook
anything, so he brought Marthy some of the Sunday baked beans and brown
bread, with the cider apple sauce.
"Well, you must 'a' had a time of it with her," suggested his wife as he
placed the tray. "I hope you didn't do more'n make a suppositious case
and find out what her sentiments was."
"That was what I set out to do, but she was so surprised an' asked so
many questions that I jest had to up and tell her what I was drivin' at.
I told her that it was your last wish, and that you'd set your heart on
it till you felt like you couldn't die easy unless you knew who was
goin' to have your house and your beddin' and--me, and after I'd
reasoned with her quite a spell and she'd ruther got used to the idee,
she saw how 'twas. I thought you'd like to have it settled, because you
allus do, and, as you say, there's no tellin' what day'll be to-morrow.
Then, that Willy Parks is likely to come back and spile the hull plan."
"Settle it all? Why, what did she say to it?"
"I guess you may call it settled. I asked her if she'd consider herself
engaged to me--"
"What? What's that? Engaged to you?"
"Yes; isn't that what you wanted?"
"What did she say to that?"
"She said yes, she guessed that she would, though she would like to
think it over a little."
"I didn't presume to think you'd go and get it all settled without
talkin' it over with me, and I calc'lated to--to do the arrangin'
myself. What did she say when she consented to it, Andrew?"
Andrew squirmed on the edge of his chair. "I guess my tea is coolin' out
there. I'd better go and eat, now."
"A minute more won't make no difference. What did she say?"
"She said--why, she said--a whole lot of things. She said she never
expected to marry; that she wanted to give her life to makin' folks
happy and doin' for them, folks that had a sorrow--but the Lord hadn't
given her any sorrowful folks to do for. It's my opinion that she
thought consid'able of that fickle Willy Parks. Then I reasoned with her
some, and she come to see that maybe this was the app'inted work for her
to do--considerin' you'd set your heart on it so. She said she didn't
know but I needed lookin' after and doin' for as much as any one she
knew, and it would be a pleasure to--now, Marthy, let me go and have my
tea."
"What else did she say?"
"Well, she said I certainly had--that I had--a hard trial this trip, and
I'd served my time so faithfully it would be a comfort and a pleasure
to--now, Marthy, I know my tea's cold."
It took him so long to have his tea and wash the dishes and bring in the
squashes for fear of frost that Marthy had no further opportunity to
consider the new position of her husband as an engaged man that night.
She resumed the subject early the next morning.
"Andrew, I want you should go and bring Abilonia over here as soon as
you git the work done up. There's so much I want to arrange with her,
and you never know what day'll be to-morrow. And them moths ought to be
seen to right off--
"What be you goin' up stairs for? You needn't put on your Sunday clothes
jest for that. She'll have to see you in your old clothes many a year
after you're--ah--when she comes to live here."
"Yes, but that's not now. I'm only engaged to her; I'm only sort of
courtin' now, as you might say."
He came back in a little while, bringing a gentle, brown-eyed young
woman, who laid away her things and took an apron from her bag with the
air of one accustomed to do for others.
"Did you want to see me particularly, Mis' Dobson? I hope you're not
feelin' worse?"
"I do' know's I slep' much las' night, and I have an awful funny feelin'
round my heart this mornin'. I'm preparin' for the worst. You know 'Two
men shall be grindin' at the mill and'--"
"Oh, now, you aren't so bad as all that. You look as smart as a spring
robin--you do look wonderful well, Mis' Dobson. Now, what can I do for
you?"
"There's a lot of things to look after, Abilonia, now that you--that
you--that--"
"Yes, I know there are, and I'll just delight to take hold and do them.
I told Mr. Dobson that I wanted to begin to do for you both right away.
I'm real glad you thought--of it, Mis' Dobson, for I've nobody else,
now, to care for, and I should love to take care of poor Mr. Dobson and
try to make him happy--just real happy--the best of anybody in the
world. He looked so pleased when I told him so."
"Did he? He did!"
"Yes, his face just lighted up when I told him that we all knew how
faithful he'd been to his trust through such a long, hard siege, how
kind and patient, and that it would be a privilege to try to make it up
to him a little."
"Oh--ah--well, what did he say to that?"
"He just said the hand of the Lord had fallen rather heavy on him, but
he'd tried to bear the burden the best he could, and if he held out to
the end the Lord would reward him. And he said it was the Lord's mercy
to give him such a good, clever wife to take care of--since she was
sickly. Now, would you like me to bake you some cookies this morning, or
do the mending?"
"I don't know. Did Andrew say that? Well, he has been faithful. You're
goin' to git an awful good man, Abilonia. Say, don't you tell him, or
it'll scare him, but I'm goin' to do a terrible resky thing. I'm goin'
to set up here in the bed a little spell. Go you up to the top bureau
drawer in the spare room and git my black shawl. I know I might fall
over dead, but I'm goin' to take the resk."
"Why, Mis' Dobson, it isn't safe!"
"Safe or not, I'm goin' to do it. I'm goin' to set up a spell. I never
stop for consequences to myself when I set out to do a thing."
The perilous feat was accomplished without tragedy. After she had had a
nap, propped up in the bed, Mrs. Dobson's soul rose to greater heights
of daring, when Abilonia remarked that Mrs. Dobson's plum-colored silk
was the very thing for a lining to her own silk quilt, and as it would
not be worn again she might as well take it over and make it up. She was
adding that she would like to have a crayon portrait made of Mr. Dobson
to hang beside that of his wife which adorned the parlor in ante-mortem
state, when Marthy interrupted: "Abilonia, go you and git me a dress.
There ought to be a brown poplin hangin' in the little room closet,
unless somebody moved it last spring in housecleanin' time. You bring
that down. I want to git my feet onto the floor."
When Andrew came home to get dinner he stopped in the kitchen door, dumb
with amazement. Marthy sat by the table in the big wooden chair peeling
apples, while Abilonia rolled out the pie crust and told about the
church quilting bee.
The next Sunday Andrew did not change his best suit, as usual, after
church, and his wife remarked the fact as she sat in a blanketed chair
by the living room fire in the evening, with her "Christian Register" in
her hand.
"Well, you know--I've ben thinkin'--Abby's settin' over there by
herself, and it must be lonesome for the girl. And--if I'm--sort
of--engaged to her--don't you see, Marthy? I don't want to leave
you--but it's my duty to keep company with her. I want to carry out your
wishes exact--every one. You can't ask a thing too hard for me to do."
"Yes, I know that, Andrew. If ever a man done his duty, it's you. And
you've had little reward for it, too. I'm tryin' to git you a second
wife that'll have her health and--and--yes, I presume to say that
Abilonia'll ruther look for you to set a while, now that she is bespoke
to you."
"Yes, that's what I guess I ought to do," and he rose briskly.
"Say, Andrew! Don't be in such a hurry. Come back a minute. You gear up
ole Jule to the buggy and git down a comforter for me. I c'n walk some,
to-day, and if you help me I c'n git into the buggy. I feel like the
air would do me good.--Yes, I presume to say it'll be the death of me,
but you never knew me to stop for that, did you? Git my circular cloak
and the white cloud for my head. Yes, I'm goin', Andrew. When I git my
mind made up, you know what it means."
There was a light in Abilonia's parlor when they drove up, and a man's
figure showed through the glass panel of the door as he opened it.
"Willy Parks!" cried Mrs. Dobson in a queer voice.
"Yes, walk right in, Mr. Dobson. That isn't Mrs. Dobson with you--is it
possible!--after so many years. Let me help you steady her. Well, this
is a surprise! Just walk into the parlor and sit down. Abby's down
cellar putting away the milk, but she'll be up in a minute."
"It's consid'able of a surprise to see you here, Willy; it's consid'able
of a disapp'intment--to Mis' Dobson. She had set her mind on--on--"
ventured Andrew mildly.
"Yes, so I heard--and I thought I'd come home. Abby tells me that she is
engaged to you--that she has given her solemn promise."
"That's what she has," said Andrew firmly. "That's what she has, and
Mis' Dobson has set her mind on it--and I never refuse her nothin'. I
don't want nothin' to reproach myself for. You went off and left that
girl--the finest girl in town--and near about broke her heart. You ought
to be ashamed to show yourself now."
"I am, Mr. Dobson," said the young man gravely, "and I deserve to lose
her. But when I heard that she was engaged to you--as it were--it
brought me to my senses, and, since you are my rival, I am going to ask
you to be magnanimous. She is so good and true that I believe she will
forgive me and take me back if you will release her--you and Mrs.
Dobson. You wouldn't hold her while Mrs. Dobson looks so smart as she
does to-night--"
"No, Andrew, we won't hold her. It wouldn't be right. She's
young--and--and real good lookin', and it would be a pity to spile a
good match for her. We oughtn't to hold her--here she is. We will
release you from your engagement to--to us, Abilonia--and may you be
happy! I'm feelin' a sight better lately; that last bitters you got for
me is a wonderful medicine, Andrew. I presume to say I'll be round on my
feet yet, before long, and be able to take as good care of you as you
have took of me all these years. It's a powerful medicine, that root
bitters. We better be goin', Andrew. They've got things to talk about.
Good night, Abilonia. Good night, Willy."
THE KAISER'S FAREWELL TO PRINCE HENRY
BY BERT LESTON TAYLOR
Auf wiedersehen, brother mine!
Farewells will soon be kissed;
And, ere you leave to breast the brine,
Give me once more your fist;
That mailed fist, clenched high in air
On many a foreign shore,
Enforcing coaling stations where
No stations were before;
That fist, which weaker nations view
As if 'twere Michael's own.
And which appals the heathen who
Bow down to wood and stone.
But this trip no brass knuckles. Glove
That heavy mailed hand;
Your mission now is one of Love
And Peace--you understand.
All that's American you'll praise;
The Yank can do no wrong.
To use his own expressive phrase,
Just "jolly him along."
Express surprise to find, the more
Of Roosevelt you see,
How much I am like Theodore,
And Theodore like me.
I am, in fact, (this might not be
A bad thing to suggest,)
The Theodore of the East, and he
The William of the West.
And, should you get a chance, find out--
If anybody knows--
Exactly what it's all about,
That Doctrine of Monroe's.
That's _entre nous_. My present plan
You know as well as I;
Be just as Yankee as you can;
If needs be, eat some pie.
Cut out the kraut, cut out Rhine wine,
Cut out the Schützenfest,
The Sängerbund, the Turnverein,
The Kommers, and the rest.
And if some fool society
"Die Wacht am Rhein" should sing,
You sing "My Country 'tis of Thee"--
The tune's "God Save the King."
To our own kindred in that land
There's not much you need tell.
Just tell them that you saw me, and
That I was looking well.
JOHNNY'S LESSONS[9]
BY CARROLL WATSON RANKIN
'Tis very, very late; poor mamma and Cousin Kate,
Papa and Aunty Jane, all know it to their sorrow.
Struggling with the mystery of Latin, Greek, and history,
They're learning Johnny's lessons for the morrow.
His relatives are bright; still, it takes them half the night
With only four of them--ofttimes a friend they borrow--
To grapple with hard sums, and to fill young John with crumbs
Of wisdom 'gainst the coming of the morrow.
They bitterly complain; still, with only _one_ small brain,
The boy needs all his kin can give him, for oh!
These lessons, if they slight 'em, how _can_ poor John recite 'em
To a dozen wiser teachers on the morrow.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Lippincott's Magazine.
GRANDFATHER SQUEERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
"My grandfather Squeers," said the Raggedy Man,
As he solemnly lighted his pipe and began--
"The most indestructible man, for his years,
And the grandest on earth, was my grandfather Squeers!
"He said, when he rounded his three-score-and-ten,
'I've the hang of it now and can do it again!'
"He had frozen his heels so repeatedly, he
Could tell by them just what the weather would be;
"And would laugh and declare, 'while _the Almanac_ would
Most falsely prognosticate, _he_ never could!'
"Such a hale constitution had grandfather Squeers
That, though he'd used '_navy_' for sixty odd years,
"He still chewed a dime's-worth six days of the week,
While the seventh he passed with a chew in each cheek:
"Then my grandfather Squeers had a singular knack
Of sitting around on the small of his back,
"With his legs like a letter Y stretched o'er the grate
Wherein 'twas his custom to ex-pec-tor-ate.
"He was fond of tobacco in _manifold_ ways,
And would sit on the door-step, of sunshiny days,
"And smoke leaf-tobacco he'd raised strictly for
The pipe he'd used all through The Mexican War."
And The Raggedy Man said, refilling the bowl
Of his _own_ pipe and leisurely picking a coal
From the stove with his finger and thumb, "You can see
What a tee-nacious habit he's fastened on me!
"And my grandfather Squeers took a special delight
In pruning his corns every Saturday night
"With a horn-handled razor, whose edge he excused
By saying 'twas one that his grandfather used;
"And, though deeply etched in the haft of the same
Was the ever-euphonious Wostenholm's name,
"'Twas my grandfather's custom to boast of the blade
As 'A Seth Thomas razor--the best ever made!'
"No Old Settlers' Meeting, or Pioneers' Fair,
Was complete without grandfather Squeers in the chair,
"To lead off the programme by telling folks how
'He used to shoot deer where the Court-House stands now'--
"How 'he felt, of a truth, to live over the past,
When the country was wild and unbroken and vast,
"'That the little log cabin was just plenty fine
For himself, his companion, and fambly of nine!--
"'When they didn't have even a pump, or a tin,
But drunk surface-water, year out and year in,
"'From the old-fashioned gourd that was sweeter, by odds,
Than the goblets of gold at the lips of the gods!'"
Then The Raggedy Man paused to plaintively say
It was clockin' along to'rds the close of the day--
And he'd _ought_ to get back to his work on the lawn,--
Then dreamily blubbered his pipe and went on:
"His teeth were imperfect--my grandfather owned
That he couldn't eat oysters unless they were 'boned';