Part 3

“Graces!” says I scornfully, “what do I care for their graces. Sister Gansey had graces enough when he married her,” says I. “That is jest the way, a man will marry a woman jest as pretty as a new blown rose, and then when she fades herself out, till she looks more like a dead dandyline than a livin’ creeter, cookin’ _his_ vittles, washin’ _his_ dishes, and takin’ care of _his_ children; then he’ll go to havin’ other girls hauntin’ him, there haint no gospel in it,” says I.

I looked him keenly in the face all the time I spoke, for I thought he was kinder’ upholdin’ Sister Gansey’s husband, and I wanted my words to apaul him, but I suppose he made a mistake, and thought I was admirin’ of him I looked so earnest at him, for he spoke up and says he,

“I see by your stiddy glance that you have discovered who I be. Yes Madam, you see before you the Editor of the Augur, but don’t be nervous, don’t let it affect you more than you can help, I am a mortal like yourself.”

I looked at him with my most majestic look, and he continued.

“The masses who devoured my great work ‘Logical Reveries on the Beauties of Slavery,’ are naturally anxious to see me. I don’t wonder at it, not at all.”

I was austerely silent and withdrawed to a winder and set down. But he followed me and continued on.

“That tract as you are doubtless aware, was written just before the war, and a weaker minded man might have been appalled by the bloodshed that followed its publication. But no! I said calmly, it was written on principle, and if it did bring ruin and bloodshed on the country, principle would in the end prevail. The war turned out different from what I hoped, chains broke that I could have wept to see break--but still I hung on to principle. Might I ask you Madam, exactly what your emotions were when you read ‘Logical Reveries’ for the first time? I suppose no President’s message was ever devoured as that was.”

“I never see nor heard of your ‘Logical Reveries,’” says I coldly. “And thank fortune nobody can accuse me of ever touchin’ a President’s message--unless they belie me.”

He rolled up his eyes toward the cielin’ and sithed hevily, and then says he, “Is it possible that in this enlightened community there is still such ignorance amongst the masses. I have got a copy in my pocket, I never go without one. And I will read it to you and it may be pleasant for you to tell your children and grandchildren in the future, that the author of “Logical Reveries on the Beauties of Slavery” told you with his own lips, how the great work came to be written. A poem was sent me intended as a satire on the beautiful and time hallowed system of slavery, it was a weak senseless mass of twaddle, but if the author could have foreseen the mighty consequences that flowed from it, he might well have trembled, for senseless as it was it roused the lion in me, and I replied. I divided my great work into two parts, first, that slavery was right, because the constitution didn’t say it was wrong, and then I viewed the subject in a Bible and moral light, but the last bein’ of less importance, of course I didn’t enlarge on it, but on the first I come out strong, there I shone. I will read you a little of the poem that was sent me, that you may understand the witherin’ allusions I make concernin’ it. I won’t read more than is necessary for that purpose, for you may get sleepy listenin’ to it, but you will wake up enough when I begin to read the “Logical Reveries,” I guess there couldn’t anybody sleep on them. The poem I speak of commenced in the following weak illogical way.

SLAVERY.

So held my eyes I could not see The righteousness of slavery, So blind was I, I could not see The ripe fruit hang on wisdom’s tree; But groping round its roots did range, Murmuring ever, strange, oh strange

That one handful of dust should dare Enslave another God had made, From his own home and kindred tear, And scourge, and fetter, steal and trade. If ’twas because they were less wise Than our wise race, why not arise, And with pretext of buying teas, Lay in full cargoes of Chinese. Let Fee Fo Fum, and Eng, and Chen, Grow wise by contact with wise men; If weakness made the traffic right, Why not arise in manhood’s might, And bind old grandmothers with gyves, And weakly children, and sick wives.

If ’twas the dark hue of their face, Then why not free our noble race Forever from all homely men? With manly zeal, and outstretched hand, Pass like a whirlwind o’er the land. Let squint eyed, pug-nosed women be Only a thing of memory. Though some mistakes would happen then, For many bond servants there are, Fair faced, blue eyed, with silken hair. How sweet, how pleasant to be sold For notes in hand, or solid gold, To benefit a brother Both children of one father, With each a different mother. One mother fair and richly clothed, One worn with toil and vain despair Down sunken to a life she loathed; Both children with proud saxon blood, In one breast mixed with tropic flame, One, heir to rank and broad estates And one, without even a name.

Jest as he arrived to this crysis in the poem, Mr. Gansey came out into the aunty room, and told me he was ready to take my picture. The Editer seein’ he was obleeged to stop readin’ told me, he would come down to our house a visitin’ in sugarin’ time, and finish readin’ the poetry to me. I ketched holt of my principles to stiddy ’em, for I see they was a totterin’ and says to him with outward calmness,

“If you come fetch the twins.”

He said he would. I then told Mr. Gansey I was ready for the picture. I believe there haint nothin’ that will take the expression out of anybody’s eyes, like havin’ poetry read for a hour and a half, unless it is to have your head screwed back into a pair of tongs, and be told to look at nothin’ and wink at it as much as you are a mind to. Under both of these circumstances, it didn’t suprise me a mite that one of my eyes was took blind. But as Mr. Gansey said as he looked admirin’ly on it, with the exception of that one blind eye, it was a perfect and strikin’ picture. I paid him his dollar and started off home, and I hope now that Josiah and the children will be satisfied.

OUR SURPRIZE PARTIES.

About one week after this picture eppysode, there was a surprise party appointed. They had been havin’ ’em all winter, and the children had been crazy to have me go to ’em--everybody went, old and young, but I held back. Says I: “I don’t approve of ’em, and I won’t go.”

But finally they got their father on their side; says he: “It won’t hurt you Samantha, to go for once.”

Says I: “Josiah, the place for old folks is to home; and I don’t believe in surprise parties anyway, I think they are perfect nuisances. It stands to reason if you want to see your friends, you can invite ’em, and if anybody is too poor to bake a cake or two, and a pan of cookies, they are too poor to go into company at all.” Says I: “I haint proud, nor never was called so, but I don’t want Tom, Dick and Harry, that I never spoke to in my life, feel as if they was free to break into my house at any time they please.” Says I: “it would make me feel perfectly wild, to think there was a whole drove of people, liable to rush in here at any minute, and I won’t rush into other people’s housen.”

“It would be fun, mother,” says Thomas J.; “I should love to see you and Deecon Gowdey or old Bobbet, playin’ wink ’em slyly.”

“Let ’em wink at me if they dare to,” says I sternly; “let me catch ’em at it. I don’t believe in surprise parties,” and I went on in about as cold a tone as they make. “Have you forgot how Mrs. Gowdey had her parlor lamp smashed to bits, and a set of stun china? Have you forgot how four or five stranger men got drunk to Peedicks’es, and had to be carried up stairs and laid out on her spare bed? Have you forgot how Celestine Wilkins fell with her baby in her arms, as she was catchin’ old Gowdey, and cracked the little innocent creeter’s nose? Have you forgot how Betsey Bobbet lost out her teeth a runnin’ after the editor of the Augur, and he stepped on ’em and smashed ’em all to bits? Have you forgot these coincidences?” Says I: “I don’t believe in surprise parties.”

“No more do I,” says Josiah; “but the children feel so about our goin’, sposen’ we go, for once! No livin’ woman could do better for children than you have by mine, Samantha, but I don’t suppose you feel exactly as I do about pleasin’ ’em, it haint natteral you should.”

Here he knew he had got me. If ever a woman wanted to do her duty by another woman’s children, it is Samantha Allen, whose maiden name was Smith. Josiah knew jest how to start me; men are deep. I went to the very next party, which was to be held two miles beyond Jonesville; they had had ’em so fast, they had used up all the nearer places. They had heard of this family, who had a big house, and the women had been to the same meetin’ house with Betsey Bobbet two or three times, and she had met her in a store a year before, and had been introduced to her, so she said she felt perfectly free to go. And as she was the leader it was decided on. They went in two big loads, but Josiah and I went in a cutter alone.

We got started ahead of the loads, and when we got to the house we see it was lit up real pleasant, and a little single cutter stood by the gate. We went up to the door and knocked, and a motherly lookin’ woman with a bunch of catnip in her hand, came to the door.

“Good evenin’,” says I, but she seemed to be a little deaf, and didn’t answer, and I see, as we stepped in, through a door partly open, a room full of women.

“Good many have got here,” says I a little louder.

“Yes, a very good doctor,” says she.

“What in the world!”--I begun to say in wild amaze.

“No, it is a boy.”

I turned right round, and laid holt of Josiah; says I, “Start this minute, Josiah Allen, for the door.” I laid holt of him, and got him to the door, and we never spoke another word till we was in the sleigh, and turned round towards home; then says I,

“Mebby you’ll hear to _me_, another time, Josiah.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so agravatin’,” says he.

Jest then we met the first load, where Tirzah Ann and Thomas Jefferson was, and we told ’em to “turn round, for they couldn’t have us, they had other company.” So they turned round. We had got most back to Jonesville, when we met the other load; they had tipped over in the snow, and as we drove out most to the fence to get by ’em, Josiah told ’em the same we had the other load.

Says Betsey Bobbet, risin’ up out of the snow with a buffalo skin on her back, which made her look wild,

“Did they say we _must not_ come?”

“No, they didn’t say jest that,” says Josiah. “But they don’t want you.”

“Wall then, my deah boys and girls,” says she, scramblin’ into the sleigh. “Let us proceed onwards, if they did not say we _should not_ come.”

Her load went on, for her brother, Shakespeare Bobbet, was the driver. How they got along I haint never enquired, and they don’t seem over free to talk about it. But they kep’ on havin’ ’em, most every night. Betsey Bobbet as I said was the leader, and she led ’em once into a house where they had the small pox, and once where they was makin’ preparations for a funeral. Somehow Tirzah and Thomas Jefferson seemed to be sick of ’em, and as for Josiah, though he didn’t say much, I knew he felt the more.

This coinsidense took place on Tuesday night, and the next week a Monday I had had a awful day’s work a washin’, and we had been up all night the night before with Josiah, who had the new ralegy in his back. We hadn’t one of us slept a wink the night before, and Thomas Jefferson and Tirzah Ann had gone to bed early. It had been a lowery day, and I couldn’t hang out my calico clothes, and so many of ’em was hung round the kitchen on lines and clothes bars, and nails, that Josiah and I looked as if we was a settin’ in a wet calico tent. And what made it look still more melancholy and sad, I found when I went to light the lamp, that the kerosene was all gone, and bein’ out of candles, I made for the first time what they call a “slut,” which is a button tied up in a rag, and put in a saucer of lard; you set fire to the rag, and it makes a light that is better than no light at all, jest as a slut is better than no woman at all; I suppose in that way it derived its name. But it haint a dazzlin’ light, nothin’ like so gay and festive as gas.

I, beat out with work and watchin’, thought I would soak my feet before I went to bed, and so I put some water into the mop pail, and sot by the stove with my feet in it. The thought had come to me after I got my night-cap on. Josiah sot behind the stove, rubbin’ some linament onto his back; he had jest spoke to me, and says he,

“I believe this linament makes, my back feel easier, Samantha, I hope I shall get a little rest to-night.”

Says I, “I hope so too, Josiah.” And jest as I said the words, without any warning the door opened, and in come what seemed to me at the time to be a hundred and 50 men, wimmen, and children, headed by Betsey Bobbet.

Josiah, so wild with horror and amazement that he forgot for the time bein’ his lameness, leaped from his chair, and tore so wildly at his shirt that he tore two pieces right out of the red flannel, and they shone on each shoulder of his white shirt like red stars; he then backed up against the wall between the back door and the wood box. I rose up and stood in the mop pail, too wild with amaze to get out of it, for the same reason heedin’ not my night-cap.

“We have come to suprize you,” says Betsey Bobbet, sweetly.

I looked at ’em in speechless horror, and my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; no word did I speak, but I glared at ’em with looks which I suppose filled ’em with awe and dread, for Betsey Bobbet spoke again in plaintive accents,

“Will you not let us suprize you?”

Then I found voice, and “No! no!” says I wildly. “I won’t be suprized! you sha’n’t suprize us to-night! We won’t be suprized! Speak, Josiah,” says I, appealin’ to him in my extremity. “Speak! tell her! will we be suprized to-night?”

“No! no!” says he in firm, decided, warlike tones, as he stood backed up against the wall, holdin’ his clothes on--with his red flannel epaulettes on his shoulders like a officer, “no, we won’t be suprized!”

“You see, deah friends,” says she to the crowd, “she will not let us suprize her, we will go.” But she turned at the door, and says she in reproachful accents, “May be it is right and propah to serve a old friend and neighbah in this way--I have known you a long time, Josiah Allen’s wife.”

“I have known you plenty long enough,” says I, steppin’ out of the pail, and shettin’ the door pretty hard after ’em.

Josiah came from behind the stove pushin’ a chair in front of him, and says he,

“Darn suprize parties, and darn--”

“Don’t swear, Josiah, I should think you was bad enough off without swearin’--”

“I _will_ darn Betsey Bobbet, Samantha. Oh, my back!” he groaned, settin’ down slowly, “I can’t set down nor stand up.”

“You jumped up lively enough, when they come in,” says I.

“Throw that in my face, will you? What could I du? And there is a pin stickin’ into my shoulder, do get it out, Samantha, it has been there all the time, only I haint sensed it till now.”

“Wall,” says I in a kinder, soothin tone, drawin’ it out of his shoulder, where it must have hurt awfully, only he hadn’t felt it in his greater troubles--“Less be thankful that we are as well off as we be. Betsey might have insisted on stopin’. I will rub your shoulders with the linament, and I guess you will feel better; do you suppose they will be mad?”

“I don’t know, nor I don’t care, but I hope so,” says he.

And truly his wish come to pass, for Betsey was real mad; the rest didn’t seem to mind it. But she was real short to me for three days. Which shows it makes a difference with her who does the same thing, for they went that night right from here to the Editor of the Augur’s. And it come straight to me from Celestine Wilkins, who was there, that he turned ’em out doors, and shet the door in their faces.

The way it was, his hired girl had left him that very day, and one of the twins was took sick with wind colic. He had jest got the sick baby to sleep, and laid it in the cradle, and had gin the little well one some playthings, and set her down on the carpet, and he was washin’ the supper dishes, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and a pink bib-apron on that belonged to his late wife. They said he had jest finished, and was wringin’ out his dishcloth, when he heard a awful screamin’ from the well twin, and he rushed out with his dishcloth hangin’ over his arm, and found that she had swallowed a side-thimble; he ketched her up, and spatted her back, and the thimble flew out half way across the floor. She screamed, and held her breath, and the sick one waked up, and sot up in the cradle and screamed fearfully, and jest then the door bust open, and in come the suprize party headed by Betsey Bobbet. They said that he, half crazy as he was, told Betsey that “if she didn’t head ’em off that minute, he would prosecute the whole of ’em.” Some of ’em was mad about it, he acted so threat’nin’, but Betsey wasn’t, for in the next week’s Augur these verses came out:

IT IS SWEET TO FORGIVE.

It is sweet to be--it is sweet to live, But sweeteh the sweet word “forgive;” If harsh, loud words should spoken be, Say “Soul be calm they come from he-- When he was wild with toil and grief, When colic could not find relief; Such woe and cares should have sufficed, Then, he should not have been surprized.”

When twins are well, and the world looks bright, To be surprized, is sweet and right, But when twins are sick, and the world looks sad, To be surprized is hard and bad, And when side thimbles swallowed be, How can the world look sweet to he-- Who owns the twin--faih babe, heaven bless it, Who hath no own motheh to caress it.

Its own motheh hath sweetly gone above, Oh how much it needs a motheh’s love. My own heart runs o’er with tenderness, But its deah father tries to do his best, But house-work, men can’t perfectly understand, Oh! how he needs a helping hand. Ah! when twins are sick and hired girls have flown, It is sad for a deah man to be alone.

A DAY OF TROUBLE.

Sugerin’ time come pretty late this year, and I told Josiah, that I didn’t believe I should have a better time through the whole year, to visit his folks, and mother Smith, than I should now before we begun to make sugar, for I knew no sooner had I got that out of the way, than it would be time to clean house, and make soap. And then when the dairy work come on, I knew I never should get off. So I went. But never shall I forget the day I got back. I had been gone a week, and the childern bein’ both off to school, Josiah got along alone. I have always said, and I say still, that I had jest as lives have a roarin’ lion do my house-work, as a man. Every thing that could be bottom side up in the house, was.

I had a fortnight’s washin’ to do, the house to clean up, churnin’ to do, and bakin’; for Josiah had eat up everything slick and clean, the buttery shelves looked like the dessert of Sarah. Then I had a batch of maple sugar to do off, for the trees begun to run after I went away and Josiah had syruped off--and some preserves to make, for his folks had gin me some pound sweets, and they was a spilein’. So it seemed as if everything come that day, besides my common house-work--and well doth the poet say--“That a woman never gets her work done up,” for she don’t.

Now when a man ploughs a field, or runs up a line of figgers, or writes a serming, or kills a beef critter, there it is done--no more to be done over. But sposen’ a woman washes up her dishes clean as a fiddle, no sooner does she wash ’em up once, than she has to, right over and over agin, three times three hundred and 65 times every year. And the same with the rest of her work, blackin’ stoves, and fillin’ lamps, and washin’ and moppin’ floors, and the same with cookin’. Why jest the idee of paradin’ out the table and tea-kettle 3 times 3 hundred and 65 times every year is enough to make a woman sweat. And then to think of all the cookin’ utensils and ingredients--why if it wuzzn’t for principle, no woman could stand the idee, let alone the labor, for it haint so much the mussle she has to lay out, as the strain on her mind.

Now last Monday, no sooner did I get my hands into the suds holt of one of Josiah’s dirty shirts, than the sugar would mount up in the kettle and sozzle over on the top of the furnace in the summer kitchen--or else the preserves would swell up and drizzle over the side of the pan on to the stove--or else the puddin’ I was a bakin’ for dinner would show signs of scorchin’, and jest as I was in the heat of the warfare, as you may say, who should drive up but the Editor of the Agur. He was a goin’ on further, to engage a hired girl he had hearn of, and on his way back, he was goin’ to stop and read that poetry, and eat some maple sugar; and he wanted to leave the twins till he come back.

Says he, “They won’t be any trouble to you, will they?” I thought of the martyrs, and with a appearance of outward composure, I answered him in a sort of blind way; but I won’t deny that I had to keep a sayin’, ‘John Rogers! John Rogers’ over to myself all the time I was ondoin’ of ’em, or I should have said somethin’ I was sorry for afterwards. The poetry woried me the most, I won’t deny.

After the father drove off, the first dive the biggest twin made was at the clock, he crep’ up to that, and broke off the pendulum, so it haint been since, while I was a hangin’ thier cloaks in the bedroom. And while I was a puttin’ thier little oversocks under the stove to dry, the littlest one clim’ up and sot down in a pail of maple syrup, and while I was a wringin’ him out, the biggest one dove under the bed, at Josiah’s tin trunk where he keeps a lot of old papers, and come a creepin’ out, drawin’ it after him like a hand-sled. There was a gography in it, and a Fox’es book of martyrs, and a lot of other such light reading, and I let the twins have ’em to recreate themselves on, and it kep’ ’em still most a minute.

I hadn’t much more’n got my eye off’en that Fox’es book of Martyrs--when there appeared before ’em a still more mournful sight, it was Betsey Bobbet come to spend the day.

I murmured dreamily to myself “John Rogers”--But that didn’t do, I had to say to myself with firmness--“Josiah Allen’s wife, haint you ashamed of yourself, what are your sufferin’s to John Rogers’es? Think of the agony of that man--think of his 9 children follerin’ him, and the one at the breast, what are your sufferin’s compared to his’en?” Then with a brow of calm I advanced to meet her. I see she had got over bein’ mad about the surprise party, for she smiled on me once or twice, and as she looked at the twins, she smiled 2 times on each of ’em, which made 4 and says she in tender tones,

“You deah little motherless things.” Then she tried to kiss ’em. But the biggest one gripped her by her false hair, which was flax, and I should think by a careless estimate, that he pulled out about enough to make half a knot of thread. The little one didn’t do much harm, only I think he loosened her teeth a little, he hit her pretty near the mouth, and I thought as she arose she slipped ’em back in thier place. But she only said,

“Sweet! sweet little things, how ardent and impulsive they are, so like thier deah Pa.”