Part 12

Never did the year let a lovlier day slip offen his string (containin’ jest 365) than the day my pardner and me set off on our tower. Never did a brighter light rest upon a more peaceful realm and a serener wave, than that mornin’ sun a shinin’ down on our door-yard, and the crystal waters of the canal. Sweeter winds never blew out of the west, than the fresh mornin’ breeze that sort o’ hung round our bed-room winder where we was a fixin’, and gently waved the table-cloth, as Sister Doodle shook it offen the back steps. And never, sense the Widder had been took in and done for by us, had she been in such spirits. We had hired Betsey Slimpsey _knee_ Bobbet to do all the heaviest of the work, and the Widder seemed glad and light of heart. For though the fried ham which we had for breakfast, and the salt-suller, and the sugar-bowl, had all put her in mind of Doodle—and though reminessinces was brought up, and particulars was abroad, still she didn’t weep a tear, but seemed to think of him and life with peace and resignation.

When I got all ready to start, I looked well, and felt well. I had bought a bran new dress expressly for the occasion, a sort of a Quaker brown, or lead color. It was cotton and worsted, I don’t know really what they do call it, but it was handsome, and very nice. It cost 18 pence per yard. It was made very fashionable; had a overskirt, and a cape all trimmed round the edge with a narrow strip of the same cut on the bias. Settin’ out as I did as a martyr, I sot my foot down firmly on ruffles and puckers. But this straight and narrow strip cut crossways of the cloth and sot on plain, suited both my eyes and my principles. It was stitched on with my new sewin’ machine. Almira Hagidone come to the house and made it for me—took her pay in white beans.

The cape looked noble when it was finished, and I knew it would. I _would_ have it cut to suit me. It didn’t look flighty and frivolous, but it had a sort of a soarin’, deep look to it. It rounded up in the back, and had long, noble tabs in front. Almira said tabs had gone out, and argued warm ag’inst ’em, but I told her I seemed to have a drawin’ towards ’em, and finally I come right out and told her firmly; says I, “tabs I _will_ have.” So she give in and cut it tab fashion.

I had another argument about my bunnet—I had my brown silk one done over. I had a frame made to order, for I was determined to have a bunnet that shaded my face some. I told the millener plainly that one of my night-caps—cut sheep’s-head fashion—was far better to the head as a protector, than bunnets as wore by wimmen; so I give my orders, and stood by her till the frame was done; and it looked well. It was a beautiful shape behind, and had a noble, roomy look to it in front. And when I put it on, and my green veil was tied round it, and hung in long, graceful folds down on one side of it, it suited me to a T. I trimmed off the edges of my veil where it was frayed out, and hemmed it over, and run in a new lutestring-ribbin string, and it looked as good as new. Havin’ a cape like my dress, I didn’t lay out to wear anything else round me on my tower, but I took my black silk mantilla along in case of need.

There was enough left of my dress to make a new sheath for my umberell, and though some of the neighbors thought and said, (it came right straight back to me) that it was awful extravagant in me, I launched out and made it, and wasn’t sorry I did. I am very tasty naturally, and love to see things correspond. I also bought me a new pair of cotton gloves—most the color of my dress, only a little darker so’s not to show dirt—at an outlay of 27 and a ½ cents.

Josiah was dressed up as slick as I was, and looked more trimmed off, and fancy, for he _would_ wear that red, white, and blue, neck-tie, though upheld by duty, I says to him:

“Josiah Allen; bald heads, and red and blue neck-ties don’t correspond worth a cent; it is too dressy for you, Josiah Allen.”

I meant well, but as it is too often the case in this world—as all true Reformers know—my motives wasn’t took as they was meant. And he says in a complainin’ tone:

“You haint willin’ I should look dressy, Samantha, and you never was—that is the dumb of it.”

Says I firmly, “Stop swearin’ at once, and instantly, Josiah Allen.” And then as I see he was so awful sot on it, I said no more, and we started off in 2 excellent spirits—Josiah’s spirits and mine.

It was one good day’s journey to Miss Elder Simmons’es, she that was Serepta Smith, and the top buggy assisted by the old mare bore us on nobly. The colt’s demeanor was like a horse’s for morality and sobriety, and as the shades of night was a descendin’ down, we drew near the place where we wanted to be. They lived about a quarter of a mile from the village of Shackville, and as we drew near the dwellin’—a smallish kind of a house, but comfortable lookin’—we see considerable of a procession a settin’ towards the house.

And says I to my companion, “I am afraid there is trouble ahead, Josiah.”

He said he guessed not; he had heard there was a convention at Elder Simmons’es church in Shackville, and he guessed these was delegates, a goin’ to the minister’s to stay. Says he, “You know they can lodge there without payin’ for their lodge.”

And come to look at ’em again they was peaceable lookin’ men, and most all of ’em had a satchel-bag in their hands. But how all of ’em was a goin’ to stay all night in that house, was one of the mysteries to me, unless they had poles for ’em to roost on, or hung ’em up over nails on the wall, such a sight on ’em.

And I spoke up to Josiah, and says I, “Our room will be better than our company here, Josiah Allen; less go back to Shackville and stay all night.”

“Wall,” says he, “bime-by; we’ll go in and tell Serepta we’ve come.”

Says I, “I guess it wont be much of a treat to her to tell her anybody else has come, if she has got to take care of this drove of men,” says I, “less go back to Shackville, and stay to the tarven.”

“Wall,” says he, “bime-by; but we’ll go in and tell Serepta we’ve come.”

I argued with him that it wouldn’t be no treat to Serepta; but howsumever, she was awful tickled to see us—she always did think a sight of her Aunt Samantha. I s’pose one thing was, because I helped to bring her up on a bottle. Her father and mother both dyin’ and leavin’ her an orphan on both sides, she was brought up by the Smith family, on a bottle. Mother and I brought her part way up, and then other Smiths would take her and bring her up a spell. And so we kep’ on till she was brought up.

We sent her off to school, and done well by her, and she lived with mother and me two years right along jest before she was married. She was married to our house, and was as pretty as a doll. She was a little mite of a thing, but plump and round as a banty pullet. She had a fresh, rosy face, and big blue eyes that had a sort of a timid scareful look to ’em. She was a gentle babyish sort of a girl, but a master hand to do jest what she thought was her duty; and though she knew enough, anybody could make her think the moon was made of green sage cheese, she was that yieldin’, and easy influenced, and innocent-hearted. I thought a sight on her, and I said so to Elder Simmons the day they was married. He was a good man, but dretful deep learnt, and absent-minded. He says to me, says he:

“She is jest as sweet as an apple blossom.”

His eyes was sot kind o’ dreamily on the apple trees out in the orchard which was in full blow.

“Yes,” says I, “and jest as fraguile and tender;” says I, “the sweetest poseys are the easiest nipped by the frost,” says I, “nothin’ looks more pitiful than a pink posy after the frosts have got holt of it,” says I, “keep the frosts of unkindness, and neglect, and hard usage from our little apple blow that you have picked to-day and are a wearin’ off on your heart, and may God bless you Brother Simmons,” says I. (He was of the Methodist perswasion.)

There wasn’t hardly a dry eye in my head, as I said this, nor in hisen. I thought a sight on her, and so did he. He thought enough on her I always said. But he was dretful absent-minded, and deep learnt. They stopped with us a week or two after they was married, and I hadn’t laid eyes on ’em sense, though I had heerd from ’em a number of times by letter; and then Uncle Eliphalet Smith had visited ’em, and he said she had to work awful hard, and the Elder was so absent-minded that it took a sight of her time to get him headed right. He’d go down suller lots of times, and bring up ag’inst the pork barrell, when he thought he was a goin’ up into his study; and get on her stockin’s and things, thinkin’ they was hisen. And then he said she had the care of the meetin’ house on her; had to sort o’ carry the meetin’ house. Shackville bein’ a place where they thought the minister’s wife belonged to ’em, as some other places do think besides Shackville. Howsumever, I didn’t know any of these things only by hearsay, until I arrove at her dwelling; then I knew by sight, and not by ear.

As I first looked on her face, I couldn’t help thinkin’ of what I told Elder Simmons the mornin’ he was married; for never did a apple blow show more signs of frost and chill after an untimely storm, than did the face of she that was Serepta Smith. Her cheeks was as white and pale as a posy blown down on the frosty ground, and her eyes had the old timid, scareful look, and under that, whole loads of care and anxiety, and weariness; and over all her face was the old look I remembered so well—only 100 times stronger—of wantin’ to do jest right, and jest what everybody wanted her to do.

As I said, she was awful tickled to see us. But she was so full of care, and anxiety, and work, she couldn’t hardly speak to us. She hadn’t no girl, and was tryin’ to get supper for that hull drove of men, and hadn’t much to do with, for the Elder after spendin’ his hull life and strength in tryin’ to keep ’em straight in this world and gettin’ ’em headed straight towards the next, couldn’t get his pay from the Shackvillians. Her childern was a follerin’ her round—her husband needin’ headin’ off every moment or two, he was that absent-minded. I declare, I never was sorrier for anybody than I was for Serepta.

And then right on top of her other sufferin’s, every time she would come into the settin’-room, one tall minister with a cadavery look and long yeller whiskers would tackle her on the subject of religion, tryin’ to get her to relate her experience, right there, and tellin’ of her hisen. That seemed to wear on her the most of anything, a wantin’ to use him well, and knowin’ her supper was a spilein’, and her infant babes demandin’ her attention, and her husband a fumblin’ round in the suller way, or buttery, needin’ headin’ off.

Truly, in the words of the Sammist, “there is a time for things, and a place for ’em,” and it seemed as if he might have known better. But he was one of the kind that will talk. And there he sot lookin’ calm and cadavery, a pullin’ his old yeller whiskers, and holdin’ her tight by the reins of her good manners, a urgin’ her to tell her experience, and tellin’ of her hisen. I declare, I’d been glad to have laid holt of his old yeller whiskers myself, I was that out of patience with him, and I’ll bet he’d a felt it if I had. Finally I spoke up and says I:

“Set right down and relate your experience, Serepta.” Says I, “What is vittles compared to instructive and edifyin’ conversation.” Says I, “I wouldn’t try to get a mite of supper to-night.”

Knowin’ what I _do_ know, divin’ deep into the heights and depths of men’s naters as I have doven, I knew that this would break Serepta’s chains. She wasn’t exhorted any more. She had time to get their suppers. And I laid to and helped her all I could. I got two of the infant babes to sleep, and give the two biggest boys some candy, and headed him off once or twice, and eased her burdens all I could.

But she was dretful worried where to put ’em to sleep. The hard and wearisome task of gettin’ 17 men into three beds without layin’ ’em on top of each other, was a wearin’ on her. And she was determined to have Josiah and me stay too. She said she was used to jest such a house full, and she should get along.

Says I, mildly but firmly, “Serepta I haint a goin’ to sleep on the buttery shelves, nor I don’t want you to, it is dangerous. Josiah and me will get a lodgement to the tarven in Shackville, and lodge there. And to-morrow when the crowd gets thinned out, we will come back and make our visit.”

She told us not to go; she said there was a corner of the parlor that wasn’t occupied, and she had blankets enough, she could make us comfortable.

Says I, “Hang on to the corner yourself, Serepta, if you can. Josiah and me have made up our 2 minds. We are goin’ to the tarven.”

Says Josiah—for he seemed to think it would comfort her—“We’ll come back again Serepta, we’ll come back bime-by.”

The next day early in the forenoon, A. M., we arrove again at Serepta’s dwellin’. She had jest got the last man of the drove started off, but she was tusslin’ with two colporters and an agent for a Bible Society. And two wimmen set by ready to grapple her as soon as the men started off. One of ’em had a sort of a mournful look, and the other was as hard a lookin’ woman as I ever see. She was fearfully humbly, but that haint why I call her hard lookin’. I don’t lay up her humbleness ag’inst her, knowin’ well that our faces haint made to order. But she looked _hard_, as if her nater was hard as a rock; and her heart, and her disposition, and everything. She had a large wart on her nose, and that also looked hard as a gravel stun, and some like it. She had a few long whiskers growin’ out under her chin, and I couldn’t help wonderin’ how anything in the line of vegetation could grow out of such a grannyt soil.

After lookin’ at her a half minute it didn’t surprise me a mite to hear that her name was Horn, Miss Horn. I see these two wimmen look round the house examinin’ everything as close as if they was goin’ to be swore about it to a justice to save their lives. Serepta hadn’t had time to wash a dish, nor sweep a single sweep, and her childern wasn’t dressed. And I heerd Miss Horn hunch the other one with her large, bony knuckles, and whisper:

“She lays abed shamefully late, sometimes. The smoke rose out of her chimbly this mornin’ at exactly 17 minutes past 6, jest an hour and two minutes earlier than it was yesterday mornin’, and half an hour and twenty seconds earlier than it was the mornin’ before that.”

“Gettin’ up and burnin’ out the wood the meetin’ house furnishes for ’em, and not a dish washed. It is a shame,” says the other woman.

“A shame!” says Miss Horn. “It is a burnin’ shame, for a minister’s wife, that ort to be a pattern to the meetin’ house. And she can’t find time to go a visitin’ and talk about her neighbors’ affairs. When anybody don’t feel like visitin’, and talkin’ about their neighbors’ doin’s, it is a sign there is sunthin’ wrong about ’em. There haint a thing done in the neighborhood but what I am knowin’ to; not a quarrel for the last twenty years but what I have had my hand in it. I am ready to go a visitin’ every day of my life, and see what is goin’ on. _I_ haint too haughty and proud spirited to go into back doors without knockin’ and see what folks are a doin’ in their kitchens, and what they are a talkin’ about when they think nobody is round. And it shows a haughty, proud spirit, when anybody haint willin’ to go round and see what they can see in folks’es housen, and talk it over with the other neighbors.”

Says the mournful woman, “I heard Bill Danks’es wife say the other day, that she thought it looked queer to her, her visitin’ the poor members of the church jest as often as she did the rich ones. She thought—Bill’s wife did—that it looked shiftless in her.”

“She _is_ shiftless,” says Miss Horn.

“She acts dretful sort o’ pleasant,” says the other woman, “seems willin’ to accomidate her neighbors; stands ready to help ’em in times of trouble; and seems to treat everybody in a lady-like, quiet way; but I persume it is all put on.”

“Put on! I _know_ it is put on,” says Miss Horn, “She has got a proud, haughty soul, or she would be willin’ to do as the rest of us do.” And then she stopped whisperin’ for half a minute and looked round the house again, and hunched the other woman, and whispered—“For a minister’s wife that ort to be a pattern, such housekeepin’ is shameful.”

And the Bible agent spoke up jest then, and says he, “Of course, as a minister’s wife and a helper in Israel, you are willin’ to give your time to us, and bear our burdens.”

And Serepta sithed and said she was—and she meant it too. I declare, it was all I could do to keep my peace. But I am naterally very close-mouthed, so I kep’ still. Serepta couldn’t hear what the wimmen said, for she was a tryin’ with that anxious face of hern to hear every word the Bible agent had to say, and to try to do jest what was right by the colporters. And the mournful lookin’ woman hunched Miss Horn, and says she,—

“Jest see how she listens to them men. She seems to talk to ’em jest as free as if they was wimmen. It may be all right, but it don’t _look_ well. And how earnest they are a talkin’ to her; they seem to sort o’ look up to her, as if she was jest about right. Men don’t have no such a sort of a respectful, reverential look onto their faces when they are a talkin’ to you or me; they don’t look up to _us_ in no such sort of a way. There may be nothin’ wrong in it, but it don’t look well. It would almost seem as if they was after her.”

“After her! I _know_ they are after her, or else they wouldn’t be a talkin’ to her so respectful, and she is after them that is plain to be seen, or else she wouldn’t be a listenin’ to ’em just as quiet and composed as if they was wimmen. A right kind of a woman has a sort of a mistrustin’ look to ’em, when they are a talkin’ to men; they have a sort of a watchful turn to their eye, as if they was a lookin’ out for ’em, lookin’ out for sunthin’ wrong. I always have that look onto me, and you can see that she haint a mite of it. See her set there and talk. If ever a woman was after a man she is after them three men.”

I couldn’t have sot and heerd another word of their envious, spiteful, low-lived gossip, without bustin’ right out on the spot, and speakin’ my mind before ’em all, so I baconed the childern out into Serepta’s room, and washed and dressed ’em, and then I took holt and put on her dish-water and bilt a fire under it, for it had gone out while she was a tusslin’ with them agents. When I went back into the sittin’-room again, I see the colporters had gone, and the wimmen had tackled her. They wanted her to join a new society they had jest got up, “The Cumberin’ Marthas.”

Serepta’s face looked awful troubled, her mind a soarin’ off I knew out into the kitchen, amongst her dishes that wasn’t washed, and her infant babes, and I could see she was a listenin’ to see if she could hear anything of her husband, and whether he needed headin’ off. But she wanted to do jest right, and told ’em so.

“She would join it, if the church thought it was her duty to, though as she belonged to fourteen different societies now, she didn’t know really when she could git time—”

“Time!” says Miss Horn. “I guess there is time enough in the world to do duties. ‘Go to the ant thou sluggard, consider her ways and be wise.’” And as she repeated this line of poetry, she groaned some, and rolled up the whites of her eyes.

Serepta’s face looked red as blood, but she didn’t answer a word back. Serepta Simmons is a Christian. I believe it as much as I believe I am J. Allen’s wife. And I spoke right up and says I:

“Bein’ a searcher after information, and speakin’ as a private investigater, and a woman that has got a vow on her, I ask what are the Marthas expected to do?”

Says Miss Horn, “They are expected to be cumbered all the time with cares; to be ready any time, day or night, to do anything the public demands of ’em; to give all their time, their treasure if they have got any, and all the energies of their mind and body to the public good, to be cumbered by it in any and every way.”

Says I, “Again, I ask you as a private woman with a vow, aint it hard on the Marthas?”

She said it was; but she was proud to be one of ’em, proud to be cumbered. And she said—givin’ Serepta a awful searchin’ look—“That when a certain person that ort to be a pattern, and a burnin’ and a shinin’ light, wouldn’t put their name down, there was weaker vessels that it would be apt to break into—it would make divisions and sisms.”

That skairt Serepta and she was jest about puttin’ her name down, but she couldn’t help murmurin’ sunthin’ about time, “afraid I won’t have time to do jest right by everybody.”

“Time!” says Miss Horn, scornfully and angrily,—“Time! ‘Go to the ant thou sluggard, consider her ways and be wise.’”

But jest as Miss Horn was a finishin’ repeatin’ her poetry, and before Serepta had time to put her name down, all of a sudden the door opened, and another great tall woman marched in. I noticed there didn’t none of ’em knock, but jest opened the door and stalked in, jest as if the minister’s house, as well as he and his wife belonged to ’em and they had a perfect right to stream in every minute. I declare, it madded me, for I say if home means anything it means a place where anybody can find rest, and repose and freedom from unwelcome intrusion. And I say, and I contend for it, that I had jest as lives have anybody steal anything else from me, as to steal my time and my comfort. There probable haint a woman standin’ on feet at the present age of the world, (with or without vows on ’em) that is more horsepitable, and gladder to see her friends than Samantha Allen, late Smith. There are those, whose presence is more restful, and refreshin’ and inspirin’, than the best cup of tea or coffee that ever was drunk. The heart, soul, and mind send out stronger tendrils that cling closer and firmer even than some of the twigs of the family tree. Kindred aims, hopes, and sympathies are a closer tie than 4th cousin.

There is help, inspiration and delight in the presence of those who are more nearly and truly related to us than if they was born on our father’s or mother’s side unbeknown to them. And friends of our soul, it would be a hard world indeed, if we could never meet each other. And I would advise Serepta as a filler of the bottle she was brought up on, and a well-wisher, to visit back and forth occasionally, at proper times and seasons, and neighbor considerable with all who might wish to neighbor, be they aliens or friends, Horns or softer material. Standin’ firm and steadfast, ready to borry and lend salaratus, clothes-pins, allspice, bluein’ bags, and etcetery, and in times of trouble, standin’ by ’em like a rock, and so 4th.

The Bible says, “Iron sharpeneth iron, so does a man the countenance of his friend.” But in the words of the Sammist (slightly changed), there is a time for visitin’ and a time for stayin’ to home. A time to neighbor, and a time to refrain from neighborin’,—a time to talk, and a time to write sermons, wash dishes, and mop out the kitchen. And what I would beware Miss Horn and the rest of ’em is, of sharpenin’ that “iron” so uncommon sharp that it will cut friendship right into in the middle; or keep on sharpenin’ it, till they git such a awful fine pint on it, that before they know it, it will break right off so blunt that they can’t never git an age put on it again.