Part 14

And truly, it was awful big and nice; big enough for half a dozen families, but it was shet up fearfully close and tight, as tight as if air and sunshine and Josiah and me was deadly pisen. And as we meandered on round the house by winder after winder and door after door, shet up as tight as glass and blinders could make ’em, I’ll be hanged if it didn’t seem some as if it was war time, and Josiah and me was two Hessian troopers, a tryin’ to break in and couldn’t.

At last, way on the back side of the house, we come to a little wood-house built on, and there we see the first sign of life. The door was open and three little childern sot out in a row by the side of the house, on a clean board. They looked lonesome; they was ruffled off dretful nice, and their shoes shone like glass bottles, but they looked awful old and care-worn in their faces.

“Does Mahala Spicer, she that was Mahala Allen live here?” says I to the oldest one. She looked in her face as if she might be a hundred years of age, but from her size she wasn’t probable more’n nine or nine and a half.

“Yes mom,” says she, sort o’ turnin’ her eyes at me, but she never moved a mite.

Says I, “Is she to home?”

“Yes mom.”

Says I, “Speakin’ as a investigator, what are you settin’ there all in a row for? Why haint you out a playin’ in the yard this nice day?”

As I mentioned the idee of playin’, their faces, as long as they was before, lengthened out awfully, and the two youngest ones kicked right out.

“Mother wont let us play;” says the oldest one in bitter axents. “She says we should muss up our ruffles, and rip off the knife pleatin’s.”

“Get our shoes dusty,” says the next one in vicious tones.

“Tear our overskirts,” says the four year old in loud angry axents, and again she kicked right out, and every one of ’em looked bitterly mad, and morbid; a morbider lot of faces I never laid eyes on. I didn’t say nothin’ more, but I looked at Josiah, and Josiah looked at me; we felt curious. But anon, or pretty near that time, I found and recovered myself and so did Josiah, and we walked up to the door and knocked.

“Come in,” says a voice in a kind of a sharp tone, as if the owner of the voice was awful busy and care-worn. So I and my companion walked in. It was as comfortable a room as wood-houses generally be, but of course there wasn’t much grandeur to it. There was about a dozen clean boards laid along one side for a floor and on it a cook stove was sot, and right by it was a sewin’ machine, and Mahala set by it a sewin’. But I’ll be hanged if I could see in that minute, one of Mahala Spicer’ses old looks; she looked so thin and care-worn and haggard. And if she is one of the relations on Josiah side, I’ll say, and I’ll stick to it that she looked as cross as a bear. I shouldn’t have had no idee who she was, if I hadn’t seen her there. She knew Josiah and me in a minute for—though I do say it that shouldn’t—folks say that my companion Josiah, and myself do hold our looks wonderful. And bein’ (sometimes) so affectionate towards each other in our demeanor, we have several times been took for a young married couple.

I should judge there was from half a bushel to three pecks of ruffles and knife pleatin’s that lay round her sewin’ machine and in her lap; but she got up and shook hands with us and invited us to take our things off. And then she said, bein’ as we was such near relations, (all in the family as it were,) she would ask us to set right down where we was; it bein’ fly time, she had got the rest of the house all shet up tight; had jest got it cleaned out from top to bottom, and she wanted to keep it clean.

I didn’t say nothin’, bein’ one that is pretty close mouthed naturally; but I kep’ up considerable of a thinkin’ in my mind. After we sot down, she give a kind of a anxious look onto the floor, and she see a little speck of dirt that had fell off of Josiah’s boots, and first we knew she was a wipin’ it up with a mop. Josiah felt as cheap as the dirt, I know he did, and cheaper; but he didn’t say nothin’, nor I nuther.

She said then, if we’d excuse her she’d keep right on with her work, because she had got dretful behindhand in ruffles. She said it kep’ her every minute of her spare time to work a makin’ ruffles in order to keep herself decent, and make the childern keep up with other folks’es childern. So she nipped to and worked away dretfully, and every time the door opened she would look up with such a wild anxious gaze, horrified seeminly, for fear a fly would git in; and every time Josiah or her husband (that man at the barn _did_ prove to be her husband) would move, she would run after ’em, and wipe ’em up with a mop. It was a curious time as I ever see in my life. She didn’t seem to sense anything only ruffles and such like. Her mind all seemed to be narrowed down and puckered up, jest like trimmin’, nothin’ free and soarin’ about it at all—though she would talk some about fly time, and how hard it was to keep ’em out of the house, and once she asked me which I preferred for mops, rags or tow.

I tried to make talk with her; and says I, in a real friendly way:

“You have got three good lookin’ childern Mahala.”

“Yes,” says she, “three and three is six, and three is nine, and three is twelve, and three is fifteen; fifteen ruffles at the least calculation, to make ’em look decent, and like other folks’es childern; and the biggest one ought to have six.”

Says I, “Your husband looks as if he might be a good man, and a good provider.”

“Yes,” says she, “he means well, but he is a awful hand to let in flies. Two years ago this summer he let in four at one time into my best room, I counted them as I drove ’em out. I got so wore out, a chasin’ ’em, and a tryin’ to keep decent, that I made up my mind that we would live out here.”

“You don’t keep a girl, it seems?”

“No,” said she, “I cannot get one to suit me. When I do my work myself I know how it is done.”

Then I atted her on other subjects; says I, “Do you see the Atlantic, and Scribner’s, and Peterson’s and Harper’s, this summer? they are awful interestin’.”

Says she, “I haint seen the ocean sense I was married; and the other families you speak of don’t live any where near us.”

Says I, “Have you read Ruskin, Mahala?”

I was all engaged in it at that time for Thomas J. was a readin’ it out loud evenin’s—dretful interestin’ readin’, made you feel as if you never got acquainted with the world till he introduced you.

“Red Ruskin,” says she with a dreamy mean, “it seems as if we have got some winter apples by that name, though I can’t tell for certain.”

Then truly I thought to myself, I had got to the end of my chain. I said no more, but sot silently knittin’, and let her foller her own bent.

And there was truly as curious doin’s as I ever see. The little childern couldn’t move for fear they would soil their clothes or muss their ruffles. Her husband couldn’t take a step hardly without bein’ follered round by a mop, and exhorted about lettin’ in flies, though he didn’t realize his sufferin’s so much as he would, for he was to the barn the most of the time; he had a chair out there, Josiah said, and kinder made it his home in the manger.

When she got supper, we had enough, and that that was good; but we eat on a oil-cloth because it was easier to keep clean than a table cloth, and we eat on some awful old poor lookin’ dishes, she said she had washed up her best ones, and put ’em away so’s to keep the dust out of ’em, and she didn’t want to open the cupboard, for fear of lettin’ in a fly. And when we went up stairs to our room that night, way up in the front bed-room, it was carpeted all the way, the hall and stairs, and our room, with shinin’ oil cloth. You could see your faces in it, but it seemed awful sort o’ slippery and uncomfortable. There wasn’t a picture nor a bracket nor a statute on any of the walls; she said her husband wanted some, but she wouldn’t have ’em they catched dust so. The sheets and piller cases was starched stiff to keep clean longer, and ironed and pressed till they shone like glass. My companion almost slipped up on the oil cloth when he went to git into bed, and as he lay down between the stiff shinin’ sheets, he says to me in sad tones:

“This is a slippery time, Samantha.”

I was a takin’ off my head-dress, and didn’t reply to him, and he says to me in still more pitiful and lonesome tones:

“Samantha, this is a slippery time.”

His tone was very affectin’, very; and I says to him soothinly, as I undid my breast-pin, and took off my collar:

“Less make the best of what we can’t help Josiah.”

But though my tone was soothin’, it didn’t seem to soothe him worth a cent, for says he in tremblin’ tones:

“I am a sufferer Samantha, a great sufferer.”

Truly as Josiah said, it _was_ a slippery time, and then not bein’ used to be follered round and wiped up by a mop, it all wore on him. Says he, speakin’ out in a louder, sort o’ fiercer tone:

“Have we got to stay in this house Samantha, one minute longer than to-morrow mornin’ at sunrise?”

Says I, “We will set sail from here some time in the course of the day.” For truly I thought myself I couldn’t stand the doin’s much longer; and then Josiah went on and told me what Philander had told him; he said Philander said he was completely wore out. He was a good lookin’ sort of a man, and one that would, I thought, under other and happier circumstances, love a joke; but his spirit was all broke down now. He told Josiah it was done by a mop, by bein’ run after with a mop; he said it would break down a leather man in a year; he said he drather set out doors all winter then go into the house; he said he made it his home to the barn the most of the time—lived in the manger. He said when he first commenced life, he had a young man’s glowin’ hopes in the future; he had loftier, higher aims in life; but now his highest ambition was to keep house by himself in the barn, live alone there from year to year, go jest as nasty as he could, live on flies, and eat dirt; he talked reckless and wild.

“But” says he, “if I should try it, she would be out there a scourin’ the rafters; before I had been there half an hour, she would be out there with her mop. I hope,” says he, “that I am a Christian; but,” says he, “I dassant express the feelin’ I have towards mops. Ministers of the Gospel would call it a wicked feelin’, and so I shant never try to tell any one how I feel towards ’em; mops is what I bury deep in my breast.”

Josiah said he spoke to him about how anxious and haggard his wife looked, and how wild and keen her eyes was.

“Yes,” say she, “she got that look a chasin’ flies; she wont let one come within half a mile of the house if she can help it; and,” says he, “she would be glad to keep me a horseback a helpin’ her chase ’em off; but I wont”, says he, with a gloomy look, “I never will take a horse to it; I’ll run ’em down myself when she sets me at it, but I wont chase ’em a horseback as long as my name is Philander Spicer.”

The doin’s there wore on Josiah dretfully, I could see. Two or three times after he got into a nap, he started up a shoutin’:

“There is one! catch it! take holt of ’em Nance.” Oh, how I pitied my pardner, for I knew’ he was on the back of a Nite-Mare (as it were) a chasin’ flies; and then he’d kinder shy off one side of the bed, and I’d hunch him, and he’d say there was a hull regiment of wimmen after him with mops.

But towards mornin’ I got a little good sleep, and so did he.

The next mornin’ Mahala kinder atted me about my house; said she s’posed it wasn’t half as nice, nor furnished near so well as hern. Her mean was proud, and I could see she felt hauty with her nice things, though I couldn’t see half on ’em when she led me through the rooms they was so shet up and dark, dark as a dark pocket, a most; and the air was musty and tight, tight as a drum; she said she didn’t air it only in the night for fear of flies.

Says she again, “I s’pose your house haint furnished near so nice as mine.”

Says I, “I have got two elegant things in my house that you haint got in yourn, Mahala.”

“What are they?” says she.

Says I, “Sunshine and air;” says I, “our house haint a big one, but it is comfortable and clean, and big enough to hold Josiah and me, and comfort, and the childern.” Says I, “My parlor looks well, everybody says it does. The carpet has got a green ground work that looks jest like moss, with clusters of leaves all scattered over it, crimson and gold colored and russet brown, that look for all the world as if they might have fell offen the maple trees out in the yard in the fall of the year. I have got a good honorable set of chairs; two or three rockin’ chairs, and a settee covered with handsome copper-plate; lots of nice pictures and books, for Thomas J. _will_ have ’em, and I am perfectly willin’ and agreeable in that respect.” Says I, “Everybody says it is as pleasant and cozy a room as they ever laid eyes on; and that room, Mahala, is open every day to my companion Josiah, fresh air, sunshine, myself and the childern;” says I, “when we have got our work done up and want to rest, there is the place we go to rest in; it makes anybody feel as chirk again as a poor dull lookin’ room; and what under the sun do I want of a pleasant bright lookin’ room if it haint to take some comfort with it?”

Says she, with a horrified look, “the idee of lettin’ the sunshine in on a nice carpet; it fades ’em, it fades green awfully.”

Says I, “My carpet haint fadin’ colors, and if it was, there is more where that come from. But,” says I, “there is other things that fade besides carpets;” says I, “there is such a thing as fadin’ all the greenness and brightness of life out;” says I, “I had ruther have my carpet fade, than to have my childern’s fresh gayety, and my companion’s happiness and comfort fade out as grey as a rat;” says I, “the only way to git any comfort and happiness out of this old world, is to take it as you travel on, day by day, and hour by hour.”

Says I, “In my opinion it is awful simple to stent yourselves, and scrimp yourselves along all your lives lookin’ for some future time, fur ahead, when you are goin’ to enjoy things and live agreeable;” says I, “if such folks don’t look out, the street of By and By they are travellin’ on, will narrow down to that road that is only broad enough for one to travel on it at a time, and the house they are expectin’ to take so much comfort in, will have a marble door to it, and be covered over with the grasses of the valley.”

My tone was as solemn as solemn could be a most, but good land! she didn’t sense it a mite; it seemed as if she follered us round with a mop closer than ever, and the minute she got her work done up she went right to her ruffles again; she didn’t take time to change her dress or comb her hair or anything. Her dress was clean enough, but it was faded and considerable ragged, and not a sign of a collar or cuff; and her hair, which was wavy and crinkly naturally, and would have been glad to curl, was tucked up tight in a little wad at the back side of her head, to save work a combin’ it. I didn’t see much of Philander, for he stayed to the barn the most of the time, though he seemed to have a desire to use us well, and every little while he would come in and visit a few words with us; but he acted awful uneasy, and low spirited, and meachin’, and I was most glad every time when he’d git started for the barn, and she’d set her mop down, for she’d scold him about flies and exhort him about dust, and foller him round with a mop most every moment. She had in the neighborhood of a bushel of ruffles a layin’ by her, and she said she must stitch ’em, and pucker ’em all that day, and her face looked so care-worn and haggard as she said it, that I almost pitted her; and I says to her in tones about half pity, and half rebuke:

“What makes you lay so to ruffles Mahala, it is a wearin’ on you and I can see it is.”

“Oh,” says she, and she nipped-to, harder than ever as she said it: “I do it because other folks do. They wear ruffles a sight now.”

But I says in calm tones: “Have you got to be a fool Mahala, because _they_ be?”

She didn’t answer me a word, only kep’ right on her ruffles as if they was cases of life and death, and I continued on in reasonable axents.

“I am considerable dressy myself, and in the name of principle I believe it is every woman’s duty to look as well and agreeable as she can, especially if she has got a companion to show off before.”

As I said this, she give as scornful and humiliatin’ a look onto my overskirt as I ever see looked. It was my new grey dress, all trimmed off on the age of the overskirt with a plain piece cut ketrin’ ways of the cloth, and stitched on. It looked well, but I see she despised it, because it wasn’t ruffled; she showed it plain in her face, how fearfully she felt above the biasin’ piece and me; she despised us both, and acted so hauty towards us, that I was determined to give her a piece of my mind, and says I again firmly:

“I believe it is every woman’s duty especially if she has got a pardner, to put her best foot forred and look pleasant and agreeable from day to day, and from hour to hour. But in my mind a woman don’t add to her good looks by settin’ down lookin’ like fury for nineteen days, a workin’ too hard to speak a pleasant word to her family, or give ’em a pleasant look, for the sake of flauntin’ out on the twentieth for a few hours, to show off before a lot of folks she don’t care a cent for, nor they for her.” Says I, “A middlin’ plain dress for instance, one made with a plain strip set on the bias round the overskirt, or sunthin’ of that sort,” says I, “such a dress with a bright healthy, happy face, looks better to me than the height of fashion wore with a face that is almost completely worn out with the work a makin’ of it, drawn down by care, and crossness, and hard work into more puckers than there is on the ruffles;” says I, “if a woman is able and willin’ to hire her clothes made, that’s a different thing; in them cases let wimmen ruffle themselves off to their heart’s content, and the more work the better for the sewin’ wimmen.”

I don’t think Mahala sensed my talk much of any, for she was nippin’-to, sewin’ on her ruffles, and I heerd her say seeminly to herself:

“Lemme see; nine yards for the bottom ruffle, and a little over. Three times nine is twenty-seven, and that leaves fourteen yards of trimmin’ for the poleynay, and up and down the back will be seventeen more—lemme see!” And she was a measurin’ it off with her hands. Finally she seemed to sense where she was for a minute, and turned to me with a still more haggard look onto her face.

Says she: “Mebby you have heerd about it; is it so, or not? I _must_ know,” says she.

Says I, in anxious axents, for she looked fearfully bad: “Is it your childern’s future you are a worryin’ about? Is your companion’s morals a totterin? Is the Human Race on your mind, a tirin’ you, Mahala?”

“No!” says she. “It haint none of them triflin’ things, but I heerd a rumor that they wasn’t a goin’ to wear poleynays trimmed up the back. Do you know? Can you tell me what they are a goin’ to do?”

Oh! what a wild gloomy glarin’ look settled down onto her face as she asked me this question:

“_They_” says I, a bustin’ right out almost wildly, “who is old _They_ that is leadin’ my sect into chains and slavery?” Says I, almost by the side of myself with emotion, “Bring him up to me, and lemme wrastle with him, and destroy him.” Says I, “I hear of that old tyrant on all sides. If he gives the word, wimmen will drop their dresses right down a yard into the mud, or tack ’em up to their knees; they will puff ’em out like baloons, or pin ’em back, a bandegin’ themselves like mummies; they will wear their bunnets on the back of their necks leavin’ their faces all out in the sun, or they will wear ’em over their forwards, makin’ ’em as blind as a bat—leavin’ the backside of their heads all out to the weather; they will wear low slips as thin as paper, or be mounted up on high heels like a ostridge; they will frizzle their hair all up on top of their heads like a rooster’s comb, or let it string down their backs like a maniac’s; and if I ask ’em wildly why these things are so; they say they do it because _They_ do it. I find old _They_ at the bottom of it.

“And where does all the slander, and gossip, and lies come from? You find a lie that there wont anybody father, and jest as sure as you live and breathe, every time, you can track it back to old _They_. _They_ said it was so. And,” says I, growin’ almost wild again, “who ever see him come up in a manly way and own up to anything? Who ever sot eyes on him? A hidin’ himself, and a lyin’, is his strong pint. I _hate_ old They! I perfectly _despise_ the old critter.”

I see my emotions was a renderin’ me nearly wild for the time bein’, and with a fearful effort, I collected myself together, some, and continued on in a more milder tone, but awful earnest, and convincing: “Fashion is king and _They_ is his prime minister and factorum; and between ’em both, wimmen is bound hand and foot, body and soul. And,” says I in a sort of a prophecyin’ tone, “would that some female Patrick Henry or George Washington would rise up and set ’em free from them tyrants.” Says I, “It would be a greater victory for female wimmen, than the one the male sect, mostly, are a celebratin’ to the Sentinal this summer.”

“Sentinal!” says she. “Celebrate!” she murmured in enquirin’ axents.

“Yes,” says I, “haint you heerd on it Mahala—the big Sentinal that is to Filadelfy;” says I, in considerable dry axents, “I didn’t know as there was a dog on the American continent but what had heerd of it, and talked it over—with other dogs.” Says I, “They talked about it to Jonesville more’n they did the weather, or their neighbors, or anything.”

“Well,” says she, “it seems as if I heerd the word once, when I was a scrapin’ out the suller, or was it when I was a whitewashin’ the wood-house. I can’t tell,” says she; “but anyway I know I was a cleanin’ sunthin’ or other, or makin’ ruffles, and a workin’ so hard that it slipped completely out of my mind.”

I told her what the Sentinal was, and says I, “I want you to go Mahala. Josiah and I are a goin’, and it will do you good to git away from home a spell; you can git some good girl to keep house for you. S’posen you go?”

She looked at me as if she thought I was as crazy as a loon.

“Go!” says she. “Go! why it will be right in fly time and spider time. Do you s’pose that anybody that haint a perfect slouch of a housekeeper would leave their house in fly time or spider web time? Thank fortin nobody can find a spider web in my house nor my wood-house. I haint one to let things go as _some_ will, and go off on pleasure towers right in dog days.”

I see she was a twittin’ me of lettin’ things go, and bein’ off on a tower, and my high mission goared me, and principle nerved me up to give her a piece of my mind; and says I to her: