Chapter IV: Part 4

Not for strong minded wimmen
Do I now tune my liar;
Oh not for them would I kin-
dle up the sacred fire;
Oh modest bashful female
For you I tune my lay;
Although strong-minded wimmin sneer
We’ll conquer in the fray.
CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters,
Press onward, do not fear,
Remember womens spear, sisters,
Remember womens spear.

Twould cause some fun if poor Miss Wade,
Should say of her boy Harry,
“I shall not give him any trade,
But bring him up to marry;”
Twould cause some fun of course, dear maids,
If Mrs. Wade’ses Harry,
Should lose his end and aim in life,
And find no chance to marry.
CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, etc.

Yes, wedlock is our only hope,
All o’er this mighty nation;
Men are brought up to other trades,
But this is our vocation.
Oh not for sense or love ask we,
We ask not to be courted;—
Our watch-word is to married be,
That we may be supported.
CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, etc.

Say not you’r strong, and love to work,
Are healthier than your brother,
Who for a blacksmith is designed,
Such feelings you must smother;
Your restless hands fold up or gripe
Your waist unto a span,
And spend your strength in looking out
To hail the coming man.
CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters, etc.

Oh do not be discouraged, when
You find your hopes brought down;
And find sad and unwilling men,
Heed not their gloomy frown;
Heed not their wild despaier
We will not give no quarter;
In battle all is fair
We’ll win, for we had orter.
CHORUS—Press onward, do not fear, sisters,
Press onward, do not fear,
Remember womens spear, sisters,
Remember womens spear.

“Wall,” says I in an encouragin’ tone, as I handed him the paper agin—“that haint much different from the piece she had in the _Gimlet_ a spell ago, that was about womens spear.”

“It is that spear that is goin’ to destroy me,” says he, mournfully.

“Don’t give up so, Deacon Slimpsey. I hate to see you lookin’ so gloomy and deprested.”

“It is the awful determination these lines breathe forth that appauls me,” says he. “I have seen it in another.

“Betsey Bobbet reminds me dreadfully of another. And I don’t want to marry agin, Miss Allen. I don’t want to,” says he, lookin’ me pitifully in the face, “I didn’t want to marry the first time; I wanted to be a bachelder. I think they have the easiest time of it by half. Now there is a friend of mine that never was married, he is jest my age, or that is, he is only half an hour younger, and that haint enough difference to make any account of, is it Miss Allen?” says he in a pensive and enquirin’ tone.

“No,” says I in a reasonable accent. “No, Deacon Slimpsey, it haint.”

“Wall, that man has always been a bachelder, and you ought to see what a head of hair he has got, sound at the roots now, not a lock missing. I wanted to be one, and meant to be, but jest as I got my plans all laid, she, my late wife, come and kept house for me, and married me. I lived with her for twenty 5 years, and when she left me,” he murmured with a contented look, “I was reconciled to it. I was reconciled before it took place. I don’t want to say anything against nobody that haint here, but I lost some hair by my late wife,” says he, putting his hand to his bald head in an abstracted way. “I lost a good deal of hair by her, and I haint much left as you can see,” says he in a melancholy tone. “I don’t want to be married agin. I did want to save a lock or two, for my children to keep as a relict of me.” And again he paused overcome by his feelin’s. I knew not what to say to comfort him, and I poured onto him a few comforting adjectives, sich as,

“Mebby you are borrowin’ trouble without a cause, Deacon. With life there is hope, Deacon Slimpsey. It is always the darkest before daylight.” But in vain. He only sighed mournfully.

“She’ll get round me yet, Miss Allen—mark my words, and when the time comes you will think of what I told you.” His face was most black with gloomy apprehensions, as he repeated again—“You see if she don’t get round me,” and a tear began to flow; I turned away with instinctive delicacy, and set my pan of onions in the sink, but when I glanced at him again it was still flowing, and I said to him in a tone of two-thirds pity and one comfort. “Chirk up, Deacon Slimpsey, be a man.”

“That is the trouble,” says he, “if I wasnt a man she would give me some peace,” and he wept into his red silk handkerchief (with a yellow border) bitterly.

BORROWING THE MAGAZINE.

Josiah had been to Jonesville, to the post-office and got the last number of my magazine, and I was just lookin’ at the pictures, which are always as pretty a pink, when happenin’ to cast my eyes out of the window, I saw Miss Gowdey and her little boy comin’ up the road.

Now, some children I am attached to, and some I ain’t; and, when I ain’t, I don’t want to touch ’em with a 40-foot pole. Or—I don’t know—sometimes I would like to touch ’em with one. I have seen children that was so sweet-looking and innocent, that it seemed as if they wouldn’t want much fixin’-over to make angels of ’em; but Johnny Gowdey would want an awful sight done to him, to make an angel of him. Thomas Jefferson says he had as leave have a young tornado let loose on the farm as to have him come here a-visitin’—and his mother always brings him.

Wal, as I said, I see ’em comin’ up the road; and, jest as I expected, they came up to the door and knocked. I got up and opened the door, and set ’em some chairs, and sez I: “Lay off your things, won’t you?”

Sez she: “I can’t stop long.” But she sot about half an hour; and, jest before she went, she took up the magazine, the Christmas number it was, that lay on the stand, and sez she: “I should be dreadful glad to borrer this for a day or 2.”

“I hain’t read a word in it,” sez I, “fer I jest got it.”

“Should you be likely to read any in it to-night?” sez she. I told her I didn’t know as I should. “Wall,” sez she, “if you’ll let me take it, I’ll send it home by to-morrow noon at the outside, and I’ll try not to let you come after it, as you have your other ones.”

“I suppose you can take it,” sez I, in a cold tone; “but I wish you would be careful of it, for I want to get ’em bound.”

She said she would lay it right on to the parlor-table, and, when she read in it, she would hold a paper around it. Sez I: “You needn’t do that,” and I must confess, from that very minute I had my mind. I always mistrust folks that are 2 good; there is a mejum course that I rather see folks pursue. I always love to see folks begin as they can hold out, and folks that are 2 good hardly ever hold out. When I see such folks, I always think of the poor sick woman that lay sufferin’ in total darkness for a week, vainly urgin’ her husband to buy some candles, till finally he went, one night, when she was asleep, and bought 12 candles, and lit ’em all and sot ’em in a row in front of her bed. She, dreamin’ of conflegrations, widly started up to see what was the matter, and sunk back, sayin’ in low and faint axents: “Daddy, when you are good, you are 2 good.”

When Miss Gowdey said she would keep it on the parlor table, I had my doubts, and when she said she would hold a paper round it when she read it, I thought more’n as likely as not the book was lost; but I didn’t say nothin’, I kep’ in, and done up the book and handed it to her. She took a large clean handkercher out of her pocket, and folded it round it and started up to go.

If you will believe it, it run along as much as 2 or 3 weeks and no book sent home; and one night, when Josiah and I was a-settin’ there alone—the children was out to one of the neighbors’—I jest broke out, and sez I:

“It is a shameful piece of business, and I won’t stan’ it.”

“What is the matter?” sez Josiah, layin’ down his new paper.

“Miss Gowdey is the matter! My magazine is the matter,” sez I. “There she has kep’ it ’most 3 weeks, and she knew I hadn’t read a word in it,” sez I. “It is a burnin’ shame.”

“Wal, what made you let it go?” sez he. “Deacon Gowdey is worth 3 times as much as I be. Why don’t they take their own magazines? What made you let ’em have it?”

The next day, after I done up my mornin’s work, I went down to Deacon Gowdey’s; I wanted to know about my magazine. There wasn’t anybody in the settin’-room, when I went in, but Johnny; he was settin’ on the floor, playin’ with some pictures.

Sez I: “Where is your ma, Johnny?”

Sez he: “She’s in the kitchen, huskin’ some beans fer dinner; but see what I’ve got, Aunt Allen,” and he come up in front of me, with the picture of a woman cut out of a book. As he come up close to me, and held it up in front of me by the head, I knew it in a minute; it come out of my magazine—it was the very handsomest figger in the fashion plate. For a minute, I was speechless; but these thoughts raged tumultuously through my brain: “If the child is father to the man, as I heard Thomas Jefferson readin’ about, here is a parent that I would like to have the care of fer a short time.” At this crisis in my thoughts, he spoke up agin:

“I am goin’ to cut her petticoats down into pantaloons, and paint some whiskers on her face and make a pirate of her.”

Then the feelin’s I had long curbed broke forth, and I said to him in awful tones: “You will be a pirate yourself, young man, if you keep on—a bloody pirate on the high seas,” sez I. “What do you mean by tearin’ folks’es books to pieces in this way?”

Just at this minute, Miss Gowdey came in, and heerd my last words. She jest said: “How d’ye do?” to me, and then she went at Johnny:

“You awful child, you! How dare you touch that book? How dare you unlock the parlor-door, and climb up on the best table, and take the clean paper off of it, or handle it? How dare you, John Wesley?”

“You give it to me yourself, ma; you know you did, last night, when the minister was here. You said, if I wouldn’t tease fer any more honey, you’d lem’me take it. And can’t I have some honey now? Say, ma, can’t you gim’me some?”

“I’ll give you honey that you won’t like,” sez she: “takin’ the advantage of your ma, and tearin’ folks’es books to pieces in this way—books that you know your ma is so careful of.” And she took him by the collar of his little gray roundabout, and led him into the kitchen, and, by the screamin’ that I heerd from there shortly, I thought he didn’t like his honey. She come back into the room in a few minutes and sez she; “I am so mortified, I don’t know what to do; I never did see such a child. He see me settin’ down shellin’ beans, and he took the advantage of me and got the book. That’s jest the way with him: if I don’t keep my eyes on him every minute, he’ll get the advantage of me. I am mortified ’most to death,” sez she, gatherin’ up the pieces and puttin’ ’em into the book. As she handed it to me, the leaves kinder fell apart, and I see, on one of the patterns, a grease-spot as big as one of my hands. She see it and broke out ag’n: “I declare, I am so mortified; I was goin’ to take that all out with some powder I have got. My Sophrenie wanted to take a pattern off, the night before she went away, and she hadn’t any thin paper, and so she greased a piece of writin’-paper and laid on to it and took it off. But I was going to take it all out, every speck of it. I will give you some of the powder to take home with you.”

“I don’t care about any powder,” sez I, calmly; and I jest held on to my tongue with all the strength I had; and, with that, I up and started home’ards.

I never got over the ground and sensed it any less than I did then. When I am mad, I tell you I always step pretty lively. Josiah was jest startin’ fer Jonesville, when I got home. I jest walked right through the kitchen and went straight to the buro-draw in my bed-room, and took out 2 shillin’s and sez I: “Go to the book-store and get me the last number of that magazine.”

“Why, where is your’n?” sez he.

“There is where it is!” sez I, showin’ him the danglin’ leaves. “There is where it is!” sez I, displayin’ the mutylated picture. “There is where it is!” sez I, p’intin’ out the grease-spot.

“Wal,” sez he, “I wish you would button up my shirtsleeves.”

“You take it pretty cool,” sez I, as I threw off my shawl and complied with his request.

“I knew just how it would be when you let her have it. You might ha’ known better than to let it go.” He spoke with aggravatin’ coolness.

“Wal, you might ha’ known better than to let old Peedick have your horse-rake, and tear it all to bits,” sez I, aggravatin’ in turn.

“Throw that old rake in my face agin, will you?” sez he.

“How do you expect, Josiah Allen, that I am goin’ to button your shirt-sleeves, if you don’t stand still,” sez I.

“Wal, then, don’t be so aggravatin’; you keep bringin’ up that old rake every time I say anything,” sez he.

Josiah is a pretty even-tempered man, but he had a dreadful habit when we was first married, if any of my plans come out unfortunit, of sayin’, “I told you so,” “I knew jest how it would be,” “You might ha’ known better.” I am breakin’ him of it, fer I will not stand it. But, before I had time to pursue my remarks any further, there came a knock at the door. I went and opened it, and there stood Betsey Bobbet. I see in a minute somethin’ was the matter of her; she looked as if she had been cryin’, but I didn’t say anything about it till Josiah had started off.

Now, I always notice, Mr. Editor, that when one thing happens, ’most always something more like it happens right away; good-luck generally comes in batches and swarms, likewise sorrers; when company gets to comin’, they will come in droves, and when I break a dish, I am pretty certain to break more. Havin’ noticed this fer years, what follers didn’t surprise me so much. Betsey looked so cast down, that, to kinder take her mind off, I told her what a tower I had had with Miss Gowdey about my magazine.

“Truly, this is a coinsidance,” sez she; “that is jest my trouble.” And she took out of her pocket a magazine which was worse off than mine, fer, whereas mine was cut clean with shears, hers seemed to be chawed up.

“See,” sez she. “It looks nice now, don’t it? Look at that cover; only a few days ago, there was a lady on it, with a guitar in her hand. Who could make out a lady now, with her head cut off, and her hands chawed to bits? And, as fer the guitar, where is it?” sez she, wildly.

“It ain’t there,” sez I, in a tone of sympathy; her story struck a vibratin’ cord in my sole.

“And look there,” sez she, turnin’ over the mangled leaves and holdin’ up the tattered remains of the most danglin’ one. “Look there! If it was any other leaf but the one my poetry was on, I wouldn’t care so much; but there it is, tore right into the middle, and the baby has chawed up half the page. I hope it will lay on its stomach like a flatiron,” sez she, vindictively.

“The baby ain’t to blame; it is his mother,” sez I.

“I hope she’ll have to walk the house with him every night for a week, barefoot, on the cold floor! I should be glad of it. Mebby she’d feed him on borrered magazines agin. It does seem to me,” sez she, relapsin’ into her usual manner, “that fate is cruel to me; it seems to me that I am marked out for one of her victims that she aims her fatal arrers at, in the novels of the poet:

‘I never tamed a dear gazelle,
But ’twas the first to run away.’

“This is the first piece of poetry I ever had printed in a magazine. I thought I was happy when I had my first poetry printed in the _Gimlet_. But my feelin’s wasn’t any more to be compared to what they are now—than a small-sized cook stove to a roarin’ volcano. To have a piece of poetry printed in a magazine was a pinakel I always thought would make me happy to set on; and, when I got up there, I was happy—I was too happy,” sez she, claspin’ her hands together. “Fate loves a shinin’ mark; he aimed another arrer at me and it has struck me here,” sez she, layin’ her bony hand upon the left breast of her brown alpaka bask.

“I was jest as careful of this book as if it was so much gold,” she continued. “I have refused to lend it to as much as two dozen persons; but Miss Briggs, she that was Celestine Peedick, wanted to take it. She said a cousin of hers, a young man, was comin’ there a-visitin’, and she wanted him to read it; he was a great case fer poetry, and was real romantick and wanted to get a romantick wife. And she urged me so to let her have it, I consented. And now look at it,” sez she; “and he didn’t come, and Celestine had a letter from him that he was married and couldn’t come.” She looked as if she would burst out cryin’ agin; and so, to kinder get her mind off her trouble—not that I care a straw for poetry—I spoke up and sez I:

“What is the poetry? I suppose you can read it out of the fragments.”

“Yes,” sez she, in a plaintive axent, “I could rehearse it without anything to look at.” When anybody has had considerable trouble, they don’t mind so much havin’ a little more.

So sez I: “Rehearse it.” And she rehearsed, as follows:

STANZAS ON DUTY.
BY BETSEY BOBBET.

Unless they do their duty see,
Oh! who would spread their sail
On matrimony’s cruel sea,
And face its angry gale?
Oh! Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

Shall horses calmly brook a halter,
Who over fenceless pastures stray?
Shall females be dragged to the altar
And down their freedom lay?
No! no! B. Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

Beware! beware! oh, rabid lover,
Who pines for intellect and beauty;
My heart is ice to all your over-
tures, unless I see my duty.
For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

Come not with keys of rank and splendor,
My heart’s cold portals to unlock;
’Tis vain to search for feelin’s tender—
Too late you’ll find you’ve struck a rock.
For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

’Tis vain for you to pine and languish;
I cannot soothe your bosom’s pain.
In vain are all your groans: your blandish-
ments, I warn you, are in vain;
For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

I cannot stanch your bosom’s bleedin’,
Sometimes I am a yieldin’ one,
Sometimes I’m turned by tears and pleadin’;
But here you’ll find that I am stun.
Ah, yes! B. Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

You needn’t lay no underhanded
Plots to ketch me—men, desist,
Or in the dust you will be landed,
For to the last I will resist;
For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

Fond men, their ain’t no use in kickin’
Against the pricks; you’ll only tear
Your feet, for I am bound on stickin’
To what I’ve said. Beware! beware!
For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain,
Unless I see my duty plain.

“You see I have come out in my right name,” sez she, as she concluded. “When a person gets famous, there ain’t no use in concealin’ their name any longer; it looks affected.”

“You be a nateral,” says I to myself; “a nateral fool.” But I didn’t speak it audible—outwardly, I was calm; fer there was still a gloomy shadder broodin’ over her eyebrow, and I didn’t want to bruise her lacerated feelin’s any further. Pretty soon she spoke up ag’in.

“What do you think of the poetry?” sez she.

That was a tryin’ time fer me. As a general thing, I don’t mince matters. I won’t; but now, fer reasons named, I didn’t come right out, as I should on more festive occasions. I kinder turned it off by sayin’ in a mild, yet impressive tone: “Betsey, I believe you want to do your duty; and I believe you will, if it is ever made known to you by anybody’s askin’ you.”

Sez she: “Josiah Allen’s wife, duty has always been my aim.”

Any further remarks was cut short by old Mr. Bobbet’s goin’ past, and Betsey’s hollerin’ to him to ride home with him. And she went in such a hurry, she left her magazine behind.

When Josiah got home, which was ’most night, he threw a magazine into my lap, as I sot knittin’, and sez he: “I’ll bet forty-five cents against nothin’ that you’ll lend it to some woman in less than a fortnit.” I looked at him with my most collected and stiddy gaze, and sez I; “Josiah Allen, do you consider me any of a lunytick?” He didn’t say nothin’, and agin I inquired firmly, with my eyes bent on his: “Josiah Allen, do you see any marks of luny in my glance?”

Sez he: “You are in your right mind; no trouble about that.”

“Wal, then,” sez I, “know all men”—there wasn’t any other man or woman around but Josiah, but I began jest as solemn as if I was writin’ my will—“know all men, that I, Josiah Allen’s wife, have stood it jest as long as I will, and, as fer havin’ my books ravaged to pieces, as they’ve been, I won’t. I, who set such a store by my magazines and was jest as careful to keep ’em whole and clean as I was of my Sunday bonnet, now, after all my pains, have got a lot of books on my hands so dirty that, to discern the readin’, the strongest spectacles are powerless in spots; and I have had to trapze all over the neighborhood to get their mangled remains together, to mourn over, rememberin’ what they was. Thank fortune, when I borrer anything, I know enough to take care of it. But my books!” sez I, as the memory of my wrongs flooded my sole. “My books! Old men have burnt ’em by holdin of ’em too near the light, old women have peppered ’em with Scotch snuff, young men have sowed ’em with tobacco and watered ’em with tobacco-juice, young women have greased ’em for patterns, children have stuck the leaves together with molasses and pried ’em open with their tongues; they have been cut with shears, gnawed by babies and worried by pups; they have been blackened with candle-snuff and whitened with taller; and I have had to spend money for new ones, to pay for their ravagin’ my other ones to pieces. And now,” sez I, layin’ my hand on the magazine in as impressive a manner as if I was takin’ my oath on it, “now, anybody that gets my magazines will get ’em over my prostrate form. If they want my magazine, they must subscribe for it.”

“Wal,” sez Josiah, who was standing with his back to the fire, warmin’ him, “I wish you’d get me a little somethin’ to eat; I should think it was about supper-time.”

I rose and walked with an even and majestic step into my bed-room, put the magazine into the under buro-draw, locked the draw and hung the key over my bed, and then, with a resolute face, I calmly turned and hung on the tea-kettle.

MELANKTON SPICER’SES WIFE.

When Josiah and me was to Ebenezer Spicer’s a-visitin’, Ebenezer told us he did wish that we would stop and see his brother Lank, seein’ we had to pass right by his house. Melankton Spicer, Ebenezer’s twin brother, married Ebenezer’s wife’s sister, makin’ ’em double and twisted relations, as you may say.

And we told him that seein’ it was right on our way, we would stop a few minutes. I told him I guessed we wouldn’t stay long, for I wuzn’t much acquainted with ’em, though they had visited me years ago, and I had seen her to Mother Smith’s once or twice.

Ebenezer told us mebbe we hadn’t better stay long, for they had hard work to get along. He said Delilah Ann wasn’t a mite like his wife, Malinda, only in one way—they both despised a mejum course and follored their own way blindly and to the end of the chain. But their chains was fur different. For whereas, Malinda, havin’ a husband that was well off, would scrub and work every minute, with no need on’t; Delilah Ann, havin’ married a poor man that needed help, wouldn’t work a mite. Hadn’t been no help to him at all since they was married, only in talkin’ on appearances, and havin’ seven girls. And they bein’ growed up, and their ma not allowin’ ’em to do a spec of work, only to dress up to ketch a bo. Lank had to work from mornin’ till night in the store where he was a clerk, and then set up half of the night to copy papers for a lawyer, to try to pay their milliner’s bills and the hired girls. But he couldn’t; he was in debt to everybody. And he didn’t get no rest to home, for the girls and their mother was teazin’ him every minute for gold bracelets, and diamond rings and silk dresses. He said they lived poor and their morals was all run down, Lank not havin’ been able to get enough ahead to buy a Bible. He hadn’t nothin’ but the Pokraphy and a part of the Old Testament, that had fell to him from his father. Fell so fur, that all the old prophets had got tore to pieces, except Malachi, and he was battered awfully.

Ebenezer said that Lank told him that he had hard work to bring up children right and nothin’ but Pokraphy to go by. He said Lank told him when he got his last month’s wages, he did mean to get enough ahead to buy a Bible and a sack of flour; but when he got his pay, his wife said she was sufferin’ for a new gauze head-dress and the seven girls had got to have some bebinet neckties and new ear-rings. He said Delila Ann said, after they had got these necessarys, then, if there was anything left they would get a sack of flour and a Bible. But there wasn’t and so they had to get along with the Pokraphy, and the second sort of flour. And he said that workin’ so hard and farin’ so hard, Lank was most used up.

He said he wasn’t more’n two or three minutes older than he was, but he looked as if he was seventy-nine years of age. And he was afraid he wouldn’t stand it more’n several months longer, if things went on so.

I felt bad when Ebenezer was a-tellin’ us this. I felt sorry for Lank, as sorry as could be. And I was awful indignant at Delila. These wus my first two thoughts, and then it wusn’t probably more’n half a moment before I thought to myself, mebbe here is a chance for me to shoot another shot at old Emer, and win another victory in that cause of right. I felt a feeling that I could advise Delila Ann for her good. And so I spoke up, mildly, but with a firm and noble mean, on me, that we would stop there for an hour or two.

This conversation took place the evenin’ previous to our departure from Ebenezer’ses, but I did not forget it. And when we arrived at the village where Lank lived, it being after ten o’clock, Josiah said he guessed he would go right down to the store where he worked, so’s to see him and I might go in and call on Delila Ann. A small white-headed boy, with two breeches held up by one gallus, told me where they lived, the same boy offerin’ to hitch my horse fer me.

It had been a number of years since I had seen Delila Ann and I didn’t s’pose I should know her, Ebenezer said she had changed so. He said she had that sort of anxious, haggard, dissatisfied, kinder sheepish, kinder bold look, that folks always get by puttin’ on aperiences. I’ve hearn and I believe it is as wearin’ a job as you can get into, to foller from year to year. And Delila Ann havin’ been puttin’ ’em on (the aperiences) for upwards of twenty years, was wore down, as Ebenezer said, to skin and bone.

The hull house and furniture had the look it always wears when anybody is engaged in the aperience business. A sort of gaudy and flashy cut, dreadful thin and hazy look. The front door had it bad. The knob was broke off; the latch was gone; two of the panels was ready to fall out, besides a place to the bottom big enough for a cat to crawl under. It rode back on one hinge and that was as shaky as shaky could be. There didn’t seem to be anything whole and secure about the door, except the key-hole. But they had a bran new bell on it and a new brass plate, bearin’ Lank’s name in bold, noble letters, which, I s’pose, was a comfort to the family and lifted ’em above the small afflictions of the snow and rain that entered at will, and when it was a mind to.

The white-haired boy, with the solitary and lonesome gallus, says to me, as he stood waitin’ for the ten-cent bill I wuz a-gettin’ for him out of my pork-money: “That door needs mendin’ bad.”

I gave him his bill, and he started off and I was just a-musin’ over his last words, and thinkin’ dreamily, that Lank’s best way would be to take the key-hole and get a new door made to it, when the hired girl came to the door. I could see, that by livin’ in a house devoted to the aperiences, she, too, had ketched the same look. She had the same sort of thin, hazy look onto her, besides bein’ in poor order as to flesh, real bony and haggard. Her face was done up in an old green baize veil, for the toothache.

I told her who I was and she seemed to be kinder frustrated and said she’d go in and tell the family. Left me right there a-standin’ on my feet; and I, not knowin’ how long she would be gone, thought I would set down, for it always tires me to stand any length of time on my feet.

There was an elegant, imposin’ lookin’ chair set there, by the side of a noble lookin’ table. But to my surprise, and almost mortification, when I went to set down, I set right down through it the first thing. I ketched, almost wildly, at the massive table to try to save myself, and that gave way and split on my hands, as you may say, and fell right over onto me. And then, I see it was made of rough, shackly boards, but upholstered with a gorgeous red and yellow cotton spread, like the chair. They both looked noble.

I gathered myself up and righted up the table as well as I could, murmuring almost mechanically to myself:

“Put not your trust in princes, nor turkey red calico, Josiah Allen’s wife. Set yourself not down upon them blindly, lest you be wearied and faint in your mind and lame in your body.”

I was just a-rehearsin’ this to myself, when the hired girl came back, and says I:

“I am glad you have come, for I don’t know but I should have brought the hull house down in ruins onto me, if you hadn’t come jest as you did.”

And then she up and told me that that chair and table wasn’t made for use, but jest for looks. She said they wanted a table and a reception chair in the hall, and not bein’ able to buy a sound one, they had made ’em out of boards they had by ’em.

“Well,” says I, mildly, “I went right down through the chair, the first thing; it skint me.” I got along through the hall first-rate after this, only I most fell twice. For the floor being carpeted with wall-paper, varnished to be oil cloth aperiently, and the water and snow comin’ in so free at the front door, it had soaked it all up in spots, and bein’ tore up in places, and the varnish makin’ it kinder stiff, it was as bad as a man-trap to ketch folks’ feet in and throw ’em.

Jest before we got to the parlor door, I see that, in the agitation of body and mind I had experienced since I came in, I had dropped one of my cuff buttons, nice, black ones, that I had purchased jest before we started, at an outlay of thirty-seven and a half cents. And the hired girl said she would go back and look for it.

And while she was a-lookin’, the plasterin’ bein’ off considerable, and the partition jest papered over, I heard ’em a-sayin’, and they seemed to be a-cryin’ as they said it:

“What did she want to come here for? I should think she would know enough to stay away!”

“To think we have got to be tormented by seein’ her!” says another voice.

“I hate to have her come as bad as you do, children,” says another voice that I knew was Delila’s. “But we must try to bear up under it. She won’t probably stay more than two or three hours.”

“I thay, I hope she won’t sthay two minith,” says a lispin’ voice.

“We won’t let her stay,” says a little fine voice.

I declare for’t, if it hadn’t been for my principles and my vow, I would have turned right round in my tracks. But I remembered that it wusn’t the most pious folks that needed the most preachin’, and if ever premiscues advisin’ seemed to be called for, it was now. And jest as I was a-rememberin’ this, the hired girl came back.

The minute she opened that parlor door, I see that I had got into the house of mournin’. The room, which resembled the hall and front door, as if they was three twins, seemed to be full of baraze delaine and bebinet lace, and thin ribbon, all bathed in tears and sobs. When I took a closer look, I see there was eight or nine wimmen under the gauzes, and frizzles, and folderols and et cetery. Some of ’em had dime novels in their hands and one of ’em held a white pup.

The moment I entered, every one of ’em jumped up and kissed me, and throwed their arms right round me. Some of the time I had as many as six or seven arms at a time round me in different places. And every one was a-tellin’ me in awful, warm tones, how too glad, how highly tickled they was to see me. They never was so carried away with enjoyment before in their hull lives, they said.

And says four of ’em, speakin’ up, tenderly, bendin’ their eight eyes, beseechingly, upon my specks, “You will stay a week with us, won’t you?”

“One week!” says the little fine voice. “That hain’t nothin’; you must stay a month.”

“We won’t let you off a day sooner,” says six warm voices, awful warm.

“Sthay all thummer, do,” says the lispin’ voice.

“Yes, do!” says the hull eight.

And then Delila Ann throwed both her arms round my neck; and says she, “Oh, if you could only stay with us always, how happy, happy, we should be.”

And then she laid her head right down on my shoulder, and began to sob, and weep, and cry. I was a’most sickened to the death by their behavior and actin’, but the voice of sorrow always appeals to my heart. And I see in half a minute what the matter was—Lank had gin out, had killed himself a-workin’. And though I knew she was jest as much to blame as if she was made of arsenic, and Lank had swallowed her, still, pity and sympathy makes the handsomest, shinyest kind of varnish to cover up folks’ faults with, and Delila Ann shone with it from head to foot, as she lay there on my neck, wettin’ my best collar with her tears, and almost tearin’ the lace offen it with her deep windy sithes. I pitied Delila Ann from pretty near the bottom of my heart. I forgot, for the time bein’, her actin’ and behavin’. I felt bad, and says I:

“Then he is gone, Delila Ann, I feel to sympathize with you, though I never seen him. I am sorry for you as I can be sorry.”

“Yes!” says she, pretty near choked up with emotion; “He is gone; we have lost him. You don’t know how we loved him. It seems as if our hearts will break.”

I sithed; I thought of my Josiah; and I says, in tremblin’ tones: “When love is lost out of a heart that has held it, oh, what a soreness there must be in that heart; what an emptiness; what a lonesomeness. But,” says I, tryin’ to comfort her, “He who made our hearts, knows all about ’em. His love can fill all the deep lonesome places in ’em, and hearts that he dwells in will never break. He keeps ’em; they are safe with an eternal safety.”

But all the while I was pourin’ these religious consolations onto her, this thought kept a-governin’ me, “What if it was my Josiah?” And while I held Delila Ann up with my left arm (for she seemed dreadful withy, and I expected nothin’ less than she would crumple right down on my hands), I held my white cotton handkerchief in my right hand and cried onto it for pretty nigh half a minute. I felt bad. Dretful. I thought of Josiah; and I well knew that, though the world held many a man that weighed more by the steelyards, and was far more hefty in mind, still, life without him would be like a lamp without a wick, or the world without a sun.

All the seven girls was a sobbin’, and a number of ’em sithed out, “Oh, it does seem as if our hearts must break right in two.”

Then I spoke up in tremblin’ tones: “If you are willin’, Delila Ann, it would be a melancholy satisfaction to me to see the corpse.”

The seven girls led the way, sobbin’ as if their hearts would break right in two, and I followed on, kinder holdin’ up Delila Ann, expectin’ every minute she would faint away on my hands. We was a mournful lookin’ procession. They led the way into the next room, and led me up to a sofy, upholstered with gorgeous pillar cotton, and there, on a cushion, lay a dead pup.

I was too dumbfounded to speak for nearly half a moment.

“Oh!” says Delila Ann, bendin’ over him and liftin’ up some of the long white hair on his neck; “It seems as if I could give him up better if we could only have washed his lovely hair white. It got stained by the medicine we gave him in his last sickness, and we could not wash the sweet hair white again.”

“No! blessed angel, we couldn’t,” cried four of ’em, bendin’ down and kissin’ of him.

“Oh, what feelin’ I felt as I stood there a-lookin’ on ’em. To think I had been a-sympathizin’ and a-comfortin’ and a-pumpin’ the very depths of my soul to pour religious consolation onto ’em, and a-bewailin’ myself and sheddin’ my own tears over a whiffet pup. As I thought this over, my dumbfoundness began to go offen me, and my meun begun to look different and awful. I thrust my white cotton handkerchief back into my pocket again, with the right hand, and drew my left arm, haughtily away from Delila Ann, not carin’ whether she crumpled down and fainted away or not. I s’pose my meun apauled ’em, for Delila Ann says to me, in tremblin’ tones:

“All genteel wimmen dote on dogs.” And she added, in still more tremblin’ tones, as she see me meun keep a growin’ awfuller and awfuller every minute. “Nothin’ gives a woman such a genteel air as to lead ’em round with a ribbon.” And, she added, still a-keepin’ her eye on my meun: “I always know a woman is genteel, the minute I see her a-leadin’ ’em round, and I never have been mistaken once. And the more genteel a woman is, the more poodle dogs they have to dote on.”

I didn’t say a word to Delila Ann, nor the hull set on ’em. But my emotion riz up so that I spoke up loud to myself, unbeknown to me. I episoded to myself, almost mechanically, in a low, deep voice:

“Father’s bein’ killed with labor, and a world layin’ in wickedness, and wimmens dotin’ on dogs. Hundreds of thousands of houseless and homeless children—little fair souls bein’ blackened by vice and ignorance, with a black that can’t never be rubbed off this side of heaven, and immortal wimmen spending their hull energies in keepin’ a pup’s hair white. Little tender feet bein’ led down into the mire and clay, that might be guided up to heaven’s door, and wimmen utterly refusin’ to notice ’em, so rampant and set on leadin’ round a pup by a string. Good land!” says I; “it makes me angry to think on’t.”

And I pulled out my white linen handkerchief and wiped my ferwerd almost wildly.

I s’pose my warm emotions had melted down my icy meun a very little, for Delila spoke up in a chokin’ voice, and says she:

“If you was one of the genteel kind, you would feel different about it, I mistrust,” says she, a-tryin’ to scorn me. “I mistrust that you haint genteel.”

Says I, “That don’t scorn me a mite.” Says I, “I hate that word, and always did.” Says I, still more warmly, “There are two words in the English language that I feel cold and almost haughty toward, and they are: Affinity, such as married folks hunt after; and Genteel. I wish,” says I, almost eloquent, “I wish those words would join hands and elope the country. I’d love to see their backs as they set out, and bid ’em a glad farewell.”

She see she hadn’t skeert me. They didn’t say a word. And then the thought of my mission governed me to that extent, that I rose up my voice to a high, noble key, and went on, wavin’ my right hand in as eloquent a wave as I had by me, and I keep awful eloquent waves a purpose to use on occasions like these.

Says I: “I am a woman that has got a vow on me; I am a Premiscues Adviser in the cause of Right, and I can’t shirk out when duty is a-pokin’ me in the side. I must speak my mind, though I hate to like a dog. And I say unto you, Delila Ann, and the hull eight of you, premiscues, that if you would take off some of your bebinet lace, empty your laps of pups and dime novels, and go to work and lift some of the burden from the breakin’ back of Melankton Spicer, you would rise from twenty-five to fifty cents to my estimation, and I don’t know but more.”

“Oh!” says Delila Ann; “I want my girls to marry. It hain’t genteel for wimmen to work; they won’t never ketch a bo if they work.”

“Well,” says I, very coldly, “I had rather keep a clear conscience, and a single bedstead, than twenty husbands and the knowledge that I was a father killer. But,” says I, in reasonable tones, for I wanted to convince ’em: “it haint necessary to read dime novels and lead round pups, in order to marry; if it was, I should be a single woman to-day.”

“Oh, I love to read dime novelth,” says the lispin’ one: “I love to be thad and weep; it theemeth tho thweet, tho thingularly thweet.”

Says I, “Instead of sheddin’ your tears over imaginary sorrows, there is a tragedy bein’ lived before your eyes, day after day, that you ort to weep over. A father killin’ himself for his children, bearin’ burdens enough to break down a leather man, and they a-leadin’ round whiffet pups by a string.”

“Whiffet pup!” says Delila Ann, almost angrily; “they are poodles.”

“Well,” says I, calmly; “whiffet poodle pups, it makes no particular difference to me, if it suits you any better.”

Says she, “I paid seven dollars fer ’em, and they pay their way in comfortin’ the girls when they feel sad. Of course, my girls have their dark hours and get low-spirited, when they bore their pa for things he won’t buy for ’em. When they all want a gold butterfly to wear in their hair, are fairly sufferin’ for ’em and then pa won’t get ’em, in such dark hours, they find the dear dogs such a comfort to ’em.

“Why don’t they go to work and earn their own butterflies, if they have got to have ’em?” says I, very coldly.

“Because they won’t never marry if they work,” says Delila Ann.

Says I, “It haint no such thing. Any man worth marryin’ would think as much again of a girl who had independence and common sense enough to earn her living, when her father was a poor man. Good land! how simple it is to try to deceive folks! Gauze veils, and bobinet lace, and cotton velvet cloaks haint a-goin’ to cover up the feet of poverty, if we be poor. Not a mite of disgrace in it. Poverty is the dark mine, where diamonds are found lots of times; by their glittering so bright against the blackness. The darkness of poverty can’t put out the light of a pure diamond. It will shine anywhere, as bright in the dark dirt as on a queen’s finger, for its light comes from within. And rare pearls are formed frequent, by the grindin’ touch of poverty, tears of pain, and privation, and patience crystalized into great white drops of light that will shine forever. Honest hard-working poverty is respectable as anything can be respectable, and should be honored, if for no other reason, for the sake of Him, who, eighteen hundred years ago, made it illustrious forever. But poverty tryin’ to hide itself behind the aperiences; poverty concealin’ itself under a sham gentility, pretentious, deceitful poverty, trying to cover an empty stomach with a tinsel breastpin, is a sight sad enough to make angels weep and sinners too. Let your girls learn some honest trade, Delila Ann.”

“Oh, my! I wouldn’t let ’em lose their chance of bein’ married for nothin’ in the world.”

“Good land!” says I, “is marryin’ the only theme that anybody can lay holt of?” Says I, “it seems to me it would be the best way to lay holt of duty now, and then, if a bo come, lay holt on him. If they ketch a bo with such a hook as they are a-fishing with now, what kind of a bo will it be? Nobody but a fool would lay holt of a hook baited with dime novels and pups. Learn your girls to be industrious, and to respect themselves. They can’t now, Delila Ann, I know they can’t. No woman can feel honorable and reverential toward themselves, when they are foldin’ their useless hands over their empty souls, waitin’ for some man, no matter who, to marry ’em and support ’em. When in the agony of suspense and fear, they have narrowed down to this one theme, all their hopes and prayers, ‘Good Lord; _anybody_!’

“But when a woman lays holt of life in a noble, earnest way, when she is dutiful, and cheerful, and industrious, God-fearin’, and self-respectin’, though the world sinks, there is a rock under her feet that won’t let her down far enough to hurt her any. If love comes to her to brighten her pathway, so much the better. She will be ready to receive him royally, and keep him when she gets him. Some folks don’t know how to use love worth a cent. But no matter whether she be single or double, I am not afraid of her future.”

“Oh, my!” says Delila Ann, again, “I wouldn’t have my girls miss of marryin’ for nothin.’ Nothin’ in the world looks so lonesome as a woman that haint married.”

Says I, reasonably, “They do have a sort of a one-sided look, I’ll admit, and sort o’ curious at certain times, such as processions and et cetery. But,” I added, almost coldly, for I was about wore out with ’em; “in my opinion, there haint no lonesomeness to be compared to the lonesomeness of the empty-headed and aimless, and no amount of husbands can make up to any woman for the loss of her self-respect. That is my idea, howsumever, everybody to their own mind.”

Whether I did her any good or not, I know not, for my companion arrived almost at that moment, and we departed onto our tower. But whether marks are hit or not, it is sort a-comfortin’ and happyfyin’ to think that there is a pile of arrows somewhere, to bear witness that you have took aim, and fired nobly in the cause of right.

HOW THE BAMBERSES BORROWED JOSIAH.

When we bought our farm there wus a house on it, jist acrost the road from our’n; it wus middlin’ small, and dretful kinder run down and shakey, and I had entirely gin up the idee of enybody’s livin’ there.

But all of a sudden, Josiah started up, and said he was goin’ to fix up that house, and rent it. “He believed he could make piles of money out of it, a-rentin’ it, and he wanted some neighbors.”

Says I, “Josiah Allen, you’d better let well enough alone. You’d better let the whole house stay as it is,” says I, “There is werse neighbors than them that is stayin’ in the old house now.”

“What do you mean, Samantha?” And his eyes showed the whites all round ’em, he was that surprised.

But I says, “There are werse neighbors, and more troublesome creeters in this world, Josiah Allen, than peace, and quiet, and repose.”