OLD MRS. SKINFLINT IN TROUBLE.--LOST IN THE WOODS.
There is no man so bad as he might be--a fact that everybody knows,
but that most are apt to forget in their estimate of those who have
offended their sense of right.
Mr. Smith had his virtues as well as faults; perhaps more of the
latter than the former; but there were some mollifying circumstances
to be taken into the account in the summing up of his character. His
natural love of money had been stimulated and intensified by the
malign influence of his wife. She was miserly when he married her. To
keep what she had, and get what she could, was her ruling passion;
besides which she had a passion _for_ ruling. And often, when her
husband's gentler heart would be touched by a tale of suffering, and
his hand be opened to relieve the distressed, would she interfere to
prevent the indulgence of the benevolent impulse; and now, after some
thirty years' matrimonial moulding, he had become so assimilated to
her grasping spirit, and so accustomed to yield to her stronger will,
that his dealings in business made him appear worse than he really
was. In the sale of the "eighty-acre lot" to the missionary, about
which much indignation was felt in the settlement, Mrs. Smith was the
chief actor. Mr. Smith was the monkey employed to pull the chestnuts
out of the fire, although, it must be confessed, he relished the
chestnuts. She was a crafty woman, and kept out of sight in the
transaction while she urged him on, so that people saw only Mr. Smith
in the wrong-doing, when, if they could have peeped behind the
curtain, they would have seen that his "better half" was the more
guilty.
The thirty dollars which Mr. Smith finally consented to take for the
"improvements on the claim," Mr. Payson was unable to pay all at once;
he was, therefore, subjected to many vexatious duns for the balance.
Fearing that, at last, her husband would relent, and the debt might
not all be realized, Mrs. Smith resolved to turn collector herself.
So, putting on her best cap, and her faded black alpaca, she made her
way through the woods to the missionary's cabin.
When she reached it, she found no one but Tom and Bub within; for Mr.
Lincoln had called with his team, and taken the family to dine at his
house.
"Is the minister to home?" she asked.
"No," replied Tom.
"When will he be back?"
"I don't know," said Tom; "but he expects to attend a wedding this
evening, and, as it's now 'most four, I expect him every minute."
"Then," said she, "I guess I'll take a chair and wait. My husband has
a small bill agin him, and I thought maybe he'd just as lief pay it
now as any time."
She was garrulous and inquisitive, plying Tom with all sorts of
questions about the minister's family, much to the annoyance of the
lad, who, remembering that there were certain errands yet to be done
that afternoon,--for Tom was now often at the cabin assisting the
minister,--he asked her if she would look after Bub while he went to
the village, saying he thought it likely the family would return
before he did. The old lady rather liked the arrangement, as it would
give her a chance to inspect the housekeeping of the minister's wife;
and, watching Tom till he was well into town, she commenced her
examinations. First she opened the closet door to see how the dishes
were arranged, for she had heard that once on a time the good man's
lady had committed the great crime of writing a book; and she had
often remarked that "anybody that could waste their time in sich a way
must be a master slack housekeeper." To her disappointment, however,
she found that quite as good order, and rather more taste, reigned
there than in her own pantry, but was relieved again a moment at
finding an unwashed plate.
"Just as I thought," she muttered, with a grunt of satisfaction.
Having finished her leisurely inspection of the cupboard, during which
she smelled of the bread to see if it was sour, broke off a bit of the
cake to see if it was extravagant, and sucked some plum sauce from the
ends of her fingers, she started to peer under the bed to ascertain if
there was any dust there, when, hearing a noise, supposing that the
minister had come, she turned and closed the closet door, and reseated
herself, wiping her mouth with her apron as she did so. This change of
posture brought her into full view of the stairs leading to the loft
above, which humble place, under the roof, the clergyman used for a
study when he wished to be _very much_ retired. On the stairs,
descending with solemn step and slow, was Bub, with the minister's old
hat on, which he kept above his eyes by one chubby hand, and the
minister's steel-bowed glasses resting on his nose, and the good man's
dressing-gown trailing magnificently behind. Bub's manner showed that
he felt his consequence much increased by his clerical outfit, and
the benignant gravity of his face was edifying to behold.
"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed the old lady; "what on airth you up to,
you imp o' Satan? Can't you berhave in the minister's house?" and,
seizing the urchin as he landed, she only ceased shaking him as the
spectacles dropped to the floor.
This reception was wholly unexpected to poor Bub, and, as she relieved
him of his ministerial vestments, he sobbed indignantly,--
"Now Bub go wite away, and never come back no more!" and, opening the
door, he marched resolutely out.
The elderly caller had now the congenial duty to do of restoring the
minister's apparel to its proper place overhead; and, glancing out of
the window, to be sure nobody was coming, she ascended to the
missionary's _sanctum sanctorum_.
Now, Rev. Mr. Payson, in his varied pursuits of preacher, pastor,
house-carpenter, stone-mason, farmer, and doctor,--for, having skill
in medicine, the sick depended somewhat on his medical care,--he was
quite apt to leave his uninviting study in disorder, especially when
suddenly called from home. Moreover, like the other cabins in a new
country, the house was overrun with field mice, making it, as Mr.
Payson sometimes said, "dangerous to sleep with one's mouth open, lest
a mouse might mistake it for his hole, and pop in." Whether, however,
such a suffocating casualty would occur or not, the wee animals chased
each other along the logs, ransacked the closet, scampered across the
beds, nibbling at everything that tempted their sharp little teeth;
even the clergyman's books and papers were mutilated by them most
irreverently.
The sight of the sheets and bits of writing paper, the news journals,
and old reviews,--for the missionary, unable to take the current
publications, read and re-read the old ones with a mournful
satisfaction,--and the other signs of confusion which prevailed, and
which so annoyed his wife, were as refreshing to Mrs. Smith's eyes as
the first glimpse of land to Columbus.
"Zactly as I expected," she ejaculated, lifting her hands in horror.
"I alluz hearn tell that these ere lit'ry women are a shiftless set. I
should think it would worry a man's life out of his body to be jined
to sich a hussy. Why, there's my Betsy Ann; she ken go a visitin' more
'n half the time, and her husband never said boo agin her house-work;
an' I've known lots o' women what could embroider, an' play the piana,
an' make heaps o' calls, an' attind balls an' sich till enymost
mornin', an' they'd no more think o' wastin' their time in writin' a
book than cuttin' their heads off! But duzzn't them books look pooty
on them shelves? I should think it would make the minister's head
split if he knows all that's in them volums; an' they do say he's
ter'ble larned. Well, I mustn't stay here no longer, though it's jist
as I expected." And, returning to the room below, she lifted her hands
again in astonishment as she saw by the clock that it was five. "I
guess John'll have to git his own fodder to-night, or go without. He's
used to it, though. I brings my man up not to expect a woman to
drudge, drudge, about house. But, mercy me!" she exclaimed, "where's
that child gone to? I warrant he's in some mischief;" and, opening the
door, she called,--
"Bub, Bub! come inter the huss!"
But Bub did not answer. So she went around the cabin, but could see
nothing of him, and, thinking that he would not come because it was
she that called him, she added,--
"Come right in now; Tom wants yer."
There was only a slight clearing around the cabin, and then came a
thick growth of bushes, and beyond, the woods on either hand, save the
path in the direction of the town. It was but a few rods to the
nearest house in the village, and she hurried there to make inquiries,
for she was becoming anxious for the child. But the children, playing
near by, said that Bub had not passed that way, so, running back, she
instituted a new search in the vicinity of the cabin, calling him as
before, and receiving no answer; and, as there was a wide cart track
leading into the woods from the cabin door, thinking it natural for
the child to stray that way, she hastened in that direction.
We have said that Mr. Smith had his virtues as well as weaknesses;
and, of course, his wife was not "_totally_ depraved," in the sense in
which that much-controverted term is _not_ intended by those who hold
that man is naturally sinful. And, as she had borne children, a
motherly solicitude was now awakened in her heart for Bub, and she
pressed anxiously down the path, while the deepening twilight steadily
increased the gloom that lingered in the shadows of the lofty trees.
The cart track grew less distinct as she advanced; and, as she had not
found Bub, she concluded to return and alarm the neighbors, but found
her course impeded on every side by the thick underbrush, for she had
lost the main path. With desperate efforts she pushed aside the
strong-armed boughs, and struck once more the cart track, as she
supposed; but, alas for her, she was mistaken. Her head had become
bewildered, and she was penetrating into the depths of the forest. On,
on she urged her steps, wondering that she did not come in sight of
the minister's cabin, when, to her delight, she heard a sound like the
crying of a child. Now a heavy load was lifted from her mind.
"I must be nearing the cabin," thought she; "and that's Bub;" and she
called with unusual tenderness, "Bub, Bub! Where are you?"
She listened intently, expecting a response, and heard again the same
sound, but, strangely, farther off. So she quickened her speed,
calling the boy with renewed vigor. Wearied at last in her fruitless
endeavors, she stopped to rest a moment, and collect her scattered
faculties. She was an apt calculator in money matters, and that
faculty, summoned into exercise now, convinced her that she had passed
over many times the distance needed, had she been going in the right
direction; and the horrible conclusion that she was lost in the woods
thrilled her with terror. She recollected also that there had been
stories told of late of a panther's voice being heard in those woods,
and that it sounded like the crying of a child. This increased her
fear.
While she was considering what to do in her extremity, a short, quick
bark, far in the forest behind her, succeeded by a prolonged howl, the
bloodthirsty cry of the "timber wolf,"--which, when once heard, can
never be forgotten,--broke on her ear. She had lived too long in the
wilderness not to know what that meant, and she fled with wondrous
swiftness down the path, on, on, she knew not whither. Her trembling
limbs began to fail; but again the fiendish wolf-cry resounded,
succeeded by that of another, and yet another,--showing that the call
of the first had brought others to the chase,--made her forget her
weakness, and, like a spirit, away she sped, once more, on the race
for life. The race, however, was an unequal one, and its fearful
termination was soon staring her in the face, as she heard the
ferocious creatures drawing near; when, to her relief, she saw ahead a
small, untenanted cabin. It was a shanty used by the woodsmen in the
winter while felling trees. The door was off its hinges; and, passing
swiftly in, in the agony of despair, she glanced around for a
hiding-place. But the room was equally open to the wolves as to
herself. Instantly, in a manner that seemed almost superhuman, she
passed up the side of the cabin to a beam laid for an upper floor, and
stood there, clinging, with her bony fingers to the wall, as
motionless as a marble statue, while the wolves, disappointed of their
prey, sat on the floor below, lapping their hungry jaws, and watching
her till dawn, where she was found by a party who had been searching
for her all night. She was speechless when rescued, and utterly
unable for a time to give any account of herself. Her first inquiry,
however, when she could remember what had happened, was for little
Bub.
"I guess," said one of the men, soothingly, "he has turned up all
right afore now."
But as she insisted on going to the minister's to ascertain if Bub was
safe, they assisted her there, where were assembled a number of women,
among whom was Mrs. Jones, anxious about the lost child, for no trace
of him had been discovered.
When Bub was so unceremoniously disrobed of his priestly garments by
Mrs. Smith's skinny hand, highly offended at so gross an invasion of
his rights and dignities, to console himself he determined to run home
and tell his mother of the outrage.
Now the "make of the land," back of the missionary's cabin, was much
like that near his father's, and therefore he took his way in that
direction, instead of the one Mrs. Smith had surmised. He had taken
quite a walk when he saw the stream that divided the minister's lot.
Remembering that there was a river back of his mother's cabin, he
concluded that his home was on the other side of the stream before
him. The cornstalks, too, left standing in the cleared ground
opposite, were in sight, and they resembled the corn that Tom had cut
and stacked. So he trudged up and down the bank to find a way to
cross, till he came to a tree which had been felled for that purpose,
and constituted the only bridge, the topmost boughs of which rested on
the other side, just as the stream was bridged below his father's
cabin, but upon which he had often been charged not to venture. Bub
had been so often charged on this point, and impressed with the
danger, that he did not forget it now; and, while he amused himself
with dropping sticks into the water, and watching to see them carried
along by the current, he called,--
"Mother, come, get Bub, if you don't want him drownded up."
And, as his mother did not make her appearance, he shouted for Sarah,
till, as it was getting dusk, he felt afraid to linger longer, and
mounted the tree. It was a dizzy height above the water, and Bub's
curly pate would whirl whenever he glanced below; so, as he could not
walk steadily, he sat down, and tried to hitch along as he had seen
Sarah do. This was not much better for him, and he began creeping on
all fours; and, with many an admonitory slip, which served to make him
the more careful, he had got nearly across, when he fell, holding his
breath from fright. Fortunately, however, he had reached the lower
limbs, and the friendly branches held him until he was able to regain
the trunk of the tree; and ere long his little feet pressed _terra
firma_.
The cultivated ground was not fenced next the river, the bank being
sufficiently steep to keep out stray cattle, and Bub found some
difficulty in scaling it; but as he was hungry for supper, and had
something of a will of his own, despite his short legs and frequent
tumbles, at last he succeeded. And, wandering around in the cornfield,
vainly seeking his mother's cabin, baffled in his efforts, and finding
that crying was of no avail, tired, frightened, and dispirited, he
leaned his head against a clump of cornstalks, and, falling gently
from the support to the soft soil, he dropped asleep as the darkness
came on.
But where was Tom? When he returned from doing the errands, he was
surprised at not finding either Mrs. Smith or Bub at the minister's,
and was standing undecided what to do, when the clergyman drove up.
Tom immediately stated his perplexity.
"You don't suppose the woman went home, leaving Bub here alone, and
the child has strayed away?" suggested Mrs. Payson, apprehensively.
"I scarcely think a woman of her age would be so imprudent," replied
her husband. "She may, however, have gone to the village, and taken
the child with her for safe keeping. It would be well, Tom, to go down
and see."
Tom was hurrying along, when a lad called out,--
"Did the old woman find Bub?" and he related how she came there in
search of him. This startled Tom, and, hastening back, he told Mr.
Payson what he had heard.
"Perhaps, then," said the minister, "the old lady got tired of waiting
for me, and took Bub home with her. You may take the team and ride
over there."
Finding that Mr. Smith had not seen his wife, Tom at once concluded
that there must be something seriously wrong; and he said,--
"I was told at the village that your wife was there, trying to find
Bub. It may be they are both lost in the woods. Now, if you will get
the settlers about here together, I will rouse the villagers, and we
will make a search."
We have already described the finding of the lost woman.
The ground on the side of the river next to the minister's cabin had
been looked over repeatedly, and no one seemed to think it possible
that the child had crossed the river, and the conclusion came to be
general that he had either been carried off by a wild beast, or fallen
into the water, and been drowned; and preparations were made for
dragging the stream for the body, when one of the party saw a bit of
cloth, which Tom recognized as torn from Bub's dress, flaunting from a
twig on the tree-bridge.
"He must be on the other side!" cried Tom; and, with new hope, the
party rushed to explore the field, shouting his name.
"Here I be!" answered a childish voice; and they found him seated on
the ground, composedly picking the kernels from an ear of corn, the
channels which the tears had ploughed on his unwashed cheeks being the
only evidence of the sorrows through which he had passed; and he said,
with the air of one whose feelings had been wounded by undeserved
neglect,--
"I hasn't had any dinner."
Some theologians tell us that the sinful should never be addressed
through their fears; that love can only reform the erring. Perhaps
Mrs. Smith was unlike the rest of the race; but the terrors of that
night wrought a change in her; and Mr. Payson was surprised one day by
Mr. Smith's calling at his cabin with a fine quarter of beef, saying,
as he lugged it in,--
"I've been killing an ox, elder; and wife thought, if you wouldn't be
offended, that I'd better bring you down a piece;" adding, as he rose
to go, "Here's that due-bill that you gave me for the improvements on
the ten acres. Wife says you've paid enough on it; so I've receipted
it, and will call it square, if you will. And, by the way, when you
are out of butter, just send over to our house; we can spare you a few
pounds, now and then, just as well as not."