Part 7

It shocked Elder Minkley dreadfully--but it sot me to thinkin’. He was always an odd child, always askin’ the curiousest questions, and I brought him up to think that the Lord was with him all the time, and see what he was doin’, and mebby he was in the right of it, mebby he felt as if he hadn’t never lost Him. He was always the greatest case to be out in the woods and lots, findin’ everything--and sometimes I have almost thought the trash he thinks so much of, such as shells and pieces of rock and stun, and flowers and moss, are a kind of means of grace to him, and then agin I don’t know. If I really thought they was I don’t suppose I should have pitched ’em out of the winder so many times as I have, clutterin’ up the house so.

I worry about him awfully sometimes, and then agin I lay holt of the promises. Now last Saturday night to have heard him go on, about the Jonesville quire, you’d a thought he never had a sober, solemn thought in his head. They meet to practice Saturday nights, and he had been to hear ’em. I stood his light talk as long as I could, and finally I told him to stop it, for I would not hear him go on so.

“Wall,” says he, “you go yourself mother sometime, and see thier carryin’s on. Why,” says he, “if fightin’ entitles anybody to a pension, they ought to draw 96 dollars a year, every one of ’em--you go yourself, and hear ’em rehearse if you don’t believe me--” and then he begun to sing,

‘Just before the battle, mother, I am thinkin’ now of you.’

“I’ll be hanged if I would rehearse,” says Josiah, “what makes ’em?”

“Let ’em rehearse,” says I sternly, “I should think there was need enough of it.”

It happened that very next night, Elder Merton preached to the red school house, and Josiah hitched up the old mare, and we went over. It was the first time I had been out sense the axident. Thomas J. and Tirzah Ann walked.

Josiah and I sot right behind the quire, and we could hear every word they said, and while Elder Merton was readin’ the hymn, “How sweet for brethren to agree,” old Gowdey whispered to Mr. Peedick in wrathful accents,

“I wonder if you will put us all to open shame to-night by screechin’ two or three notes above us all?”

He caught my keen grey eye fixed sternly upon him, and his tone changed in a minute to a mild, sheepish one, and he added smilin’ “as it were, deah brother Peedick.”

Mr. Peedick designed not to reply to him, for he was shakin’ his fist at one of the younger brethrin’ in the quire, and says he,

“Let me catch you pressin’ the key agin to-night, you young villain, if you think it is best.”

“I shall press as many keys as I am a minter for all you. You’re always findin’ fault with sunthin’ or other,” muttered he.

Betsey Bobbet and Sophronia Gowdey was lookin’ at each other all this time with looks that made one’s blood run cold in thier vains.

Mr. Peedick commenced the tune, but unfortunately struck into short metre. They all commenced loud and strong, but couldn’t get any further than “How sweet for bretherin.” As they all come to a sudden halt there in front of that word--Mr. Gowdey--lookin’ daggers at Mr. Peedick--took out his pitch fork, as if it was a pistol, and he was goin’ to shoot him with it, but applyin’ it to his own ear, he started off on the longest metre that had ever been in our neighborhood. After addin’ the tune to the words, there was so much tune to carry, that the best calculator in tunes couldn’t do it.

At that very minute when it looked dark, and gloomy indeed for the quire, an old lady, the best behaved in the quire, who had minded her own business, and chawed caraway peacefully, come out and started it to the tune of “Oh that will be joyful.”

They all joined in at the top of their voice, and though they each one put in flats and sharps to suit thier own taste, they kinder hung together till they got to the chorus, and then Mr. Gowdey looked round and frowned fiercely at Shakespeare Bobbet who seemed to be flattin’ most of any of ’em, and Betsey Bobbet punched Sophronia Gowdey in the side with her parasol, and told her she was “disgracin’ the quire--and to sing slower,” and then they all yelled

How sweet is unitee--e How sweet is unitee, How sweet for bretheren to agree, How sweet is unitee.

It seemed as if the very feather on my bunnet stood up straight, to hear ’em, it was so awful. Then they collected their strength, and drawin’ long breaths, they yelled out the next verses like wild Indians round sufferin’ whites they was murderin’. If any one had iron ears, it would have went off well, all but for one thing--there was an old man who insisted on bein’ in the quire, who was too blind to see the words, and always sung by ear, and bein’ a little deaf he got the words wrong, but he sung out loud and clear like a trembone,

How sweet is onion tee--e, How sweet is onion tea.

Elder Merton made a awful good prayer, about trials purifyin’ folks and makin’ ’em better, and the same heroic patient look was on his face, when he give out the next him.

This piece begun with a long duett between the tenor and the alto, and Betsey Bobbet by open war and strategim had carried the day, and was to sing this part alone with the tenor. She knew the Editer of the Augur was the only tenor singer in the quire. She was so proud and happy thinkin’ she was goin’ to sing alone with him, that not rightly sensin’ where she was, and what she was about, she pitched her part too low, and here was where I had my trial with Josiah.

There is no more sing to Josiah Allen than there is to a one horse wagon, and I have tried to convince him of it, but I can’t, and he will probably go down to the grave thinkin’ he can sing base. But thier is no sing to it, that, I will contend for with my last breath, it is nothin’ more nor less than a roar. But one thing I will give him the praise of, he is a dreadful willin’ man in the time of trouble, and if he takes it into his head that it is his duty to sing, you can’t stop him no more than you can stop a clap of thunder, and when he does let his voice out, he lets it out strong, I can tell you. As Betsey finished the first line, I heard him say to himself.

“It is a shame for one woman to sing base alone, in a room full of men.” And before I could stop him, he struck in with his awful energy, you couldn’t hear Betsey’s voice, nor the Editer’s, no more than you could hear two flies buzzin’ in a car whistle. It was dreadful. And as he finished the first verse, I ketched hold of his vest, I didn’t stand up, by reason of bein’ lame yet from the axident--and says I,

“If you sing another verse in that way, I’ll part with you,” says I, “what do you mean Josiah Allen?”

Says he, lookin’ doun on me with the persperation a pourin’ down his face,

“I am a singin’ base.”

Says I, “Do you set down and behave yourself, she has pitched it too low, it hain’t base, Josiah.”

Says he, “I know better Samantha, it _is_ base, I guess I know base when I hear it.”

But I still held him by the vest, determined that he shouldn’t start off again, if I could hender it, and jest at that minute the duett begun agin, and Sophronia Gowdey took advantage of Betsey’s indignation and suprise, and took the part right out of her mouth, and struck in with the Editer of the Augur--she is kinder after him too, and she broke out with the curiousest variations you ever heard. The warblin’s and quaverin’s and shakin’s, she put in was the curiousest of any thing I ever heard. And thankful was I that it took up Josiah’s attention so, that he sunk down on his seat, and listened to ’em with breathless awe, and never offered to put in his note at all.

I waited till they got through singin’ and then I whispered to him, and says I,

“Now do you keep still for the rest of this meetin’ Josiah Allen.”

Says he, “As long as I call myself a man, I will have the privilege of singin’ base.”

“_Sing_,” says I in a tone almost cold enough to make his whiskers frosty, “I’d call it _singin’_ if I was you.” It worried me all through meetin’ time, and thankful was I when he dropped off into a sweet sleep jest before meetin’ was out. He never heard ’em sing the last time, and I had to hunch him for the benediction.

In the next week’s Augur came out a lot of verses, among which were the following: they were headed

SORROWS OF THE HEART.

Written on bein’ broken into, while singin’ a duett with a deah friend.

BY BETSY BOBBET.

And sweetness neveh seems so sweet, As when his voice and mine doth meet, I rise, I soah, earth’s sorrows leaving, I almost seem to be in heaveng.

But when we are sweetly going on, ’Tis hard to be broke in upon; To drounded be, oh foul disgrace, In awful roars of dreadful base.

And when another female in her vain endeavors, To fascinate a certain noble man, puts in such quavers, And trills and warbles with such sickish variation, It don’t raise her at all in that man’s estimation.

There was 13 verses and Josiah read them all, but I wouldn’t read but 7 of ’em. I don’t like poetry.

MISS SHAKESPEARE’S EARRINGS.

Them verses of Betsey’s kinder worked Josiah up, I know, though he didn’t say much. That line “dreadful roars of awful base” mortified him, I know, because he actually did think that he sung pretty enough for a orkusstry. I didn’t say much to him about it. I don’t believe in twittin’ all the time, about anything, for it makes anybody feel as unpleasant as it does to set down on a paper of carpet tacks. I only said to him--

“I tried to convince you, Josiah, that you _couldn’t_ sing, for 14 years, and now that it has come out in poetry mebby you’ll believe it. I guess you’ll listen to me another time, Josiah Allen.”

He says, “I wish you wouldn’t be so aggravatin’, Samantha.”

That was all that was said on either side. But I noticed that he didn’t sing any more. We went to several conference meetin’s that week, and not one roar did he give. It was an awful relief to me, for I never felt safe for a minute, not knowin’ when he would break out.

The next week Saturday after the poetry come out, Tirzah took it into her head that she wanted to go to Elder Morton’s a visitin’; Maggie Snow was a goin’ to meet her there, and I told her to go--I’d get along with the work somehow.

I had to work pretty hard, but then I got it all out of the way early, and my head combed and my dress changed, and I was jest pinnin’ my linen coller over my clean gingham dress (broun and black plaid) to the lookin’ glass, when lookin’ up, who should I see but Betsey Bobbet comin’ through the gate. She stopped a minute to Tirzah Ann’s posy bed, and then she come along kinder gradually, and stopped and looked at my new tufted bedspread that I have got out a whitenin’ on the grass, and then she come up the steps and come in.

Somehow I was kinder glad to see her that day. I had had first rate luck with all my bakin’, every thing had turned out well, and I felt real reconciled to havin’ a visit from her.

But I see she looket ruther gloomy, and after she sot down and took out her tattin’ and begun to tat, she spoke up and says she--

“Josiah Allen’s wife, I feel awful deprested to-day.”

“What is the matter?” says I in a cheerful tone.

“I feel lonely,” says she, “more lonely than I have felt for yeahs.”

Again says I kindly but firmly--

“What is the matter, Betsey?”

“I had a dream last night, Josiah Allen’s wife.”

“What was it?” says I in a sympathizin’ accent, for she did look meloncholly and sad indeed.

“I dreamed I was married, Josiah Allen’s wife,” says she in a heart-broken tone, and she laid her hand on my arm in her deep emotion. “I tell you it was hard after dreamin’ that, to wake up again to the cold realities and cares of this life; it was _hard_,” she repeated, and a tear gently flowed down her Roman nose and dropped off onto her overskirt. She knew salt water would spot otter color awfully, and so she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, and spread it in her lap, (it was white trimmed with narrow edgein’) and continued--

“Life seemed so hard and lonesome to me, that I sot up in the end of the bed and wept. I tried to get to sleep again, hopin’ I would dream it ovah, but I could not.”

And again two salt tears fell in about the middle of the handkerchief. I see she needed consolation, and my gratitude made me feel soft to her, and so says I in a reasurin’ tone--

“To be sure husbands are handy on 4th of July’s, and funeral prosessions, it looks kinder lonesome to see a woman streamin’ along alone, but they are contrary creeters, Betsey, when they are a mind to be.”

And then to turn the conversation and get her mind off’en her trouble, says I,

“How did you like my bed spread, Betsey?”

“It is beautiful,” says she sorrowfully.

“Yes,” says I, “it looks well enough now its done, but it most wore my fingers out a tuftin’ it--it’s a sight of work.”

But I saw how hard it was to draw her mind off from broodin’ over her troubles, for she spoke in a mournful tone,

“How sweet it must be to weah the fingers out for a deah companion. I would be willing to weah mine clear down to the bone. I made a vow some yeahs ago,” says she, kinder chirkin’ up a little, and beginnin’ to tat agin. “I made a vow yeahs ago that I would make my deah future companion happy, for I would neveh, neveh fail to meet him with a sweet smile as he came home to me at twilight. I felt that that was all he would requireh to make him happy. Do you think it was a rash vow, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Oh,” says I in a sort of blind way, “I guess it won’t do any hurt. But, if a man couldn’t have but one of the two, a smile or a supper, as he come home at night, I believe he would take the supper.”

“Oh deah,” says Betsey, “such cold, practical ideahs are painful to me.”

“Wall,” says I cheerfully but firmly, “if you ever have the opportunity, you try both ways. You jest let your fire go out, and your house and you look like fury, and nothin’ to eat, and you stand on the door smilin’ like a first class idiot--and then agin you have a first rate supper on the table, stewed oysters, and warm biscuit and honey, or somethin’ else first rate, and a bright fire shinin’ on a clean hearth, and the tea-kettle a singin’, and the tea-table all set out neat as a pink, and you goin’ round in a cheerful, sensible way gettin’ the supper onto the table, and you jest watch, and see which of the two ways is the most agreable to him.”

Betsey still looked unconvinced, and I proceeded onwards.

“Now I never was any hand to stand and smile at Josiah for two or three hours on a stretch, it would make me feel like a natural born idiot; but I always have a bright fire, and a warm supper a waitin’ for him when he comes home at night.”

“Oh food! food! what is food to the deathless emotions of the soul. What does the aching young heart care for what food it eats--let my deah future companion smile on me, and that is enough.”

Says I in reasonable tones, “A man _can’t_ smile on an empty stomach Betsey, not for any length of time. And no man can’t eat soggy bread, with little chunks of salaratus in it, and clammy potatoes, and beefsteak burnt and raw in spots, and drink dishwatery tea, and muddy coffee, and smile--or they might give one or 2 sickly, deathly smiles, but they wouldn’t keep it up, you depend upon it they wouldn’t, and it haint in the natur’ of a man to, and I say they hadn’t ought to. I have seen bread Betsey Bobbet, that was enough to break down any man’s affection for a woman, unless he had firm principle to back it up--and love’s young dream has been drounded in thick, muddy coffee more’n once. If there haint anything pleasant in a man’s home how can he keep attached to it? Nobody, man nor woman can’t respect what haint respectable, or love what haint lovable. I believe in bein’ cheerful Betsey; a complainin’, fretful woman in the house, is worse than a cold, drizzlin’ rain comin’ right down all the time onto the cook stove. Of course men have to be corrected, I correct Josiah frequently, but I believe in doin’ it all up at one time and then have it over with, jest like a smart dash of a thunder shower that clears up the air.”

“Oh, how a female woman that is blest with a deah companion, can even speak of correcting him, is a mystery to me.”

But again I spoke, and my tone was as firm and lofty as Bunker Hill monument--

“Men _have_ to be corrected, Betsey, there wouldn’t be no livin’ with ’em unless you did.”

“Well,” says she, “you can entertain such views as you will, but for me, I _will_ be clingin’ in my nature, I _will_ be respected by men, they do so love to have wimmin clingin’, that I will, until I die, carry out this belief that is so sweet to them--until I die I will nevah let go of this speah.”

I didn’t say nothin’, for gratitude tied up my tongue, but as I rose and went up stairs to wind me a little more yarn--I thought I wouldn’t bring down the swifts for so little as I wanted to wind--I thought sadly to myself, what a hard, hard time she had had, sense I had known her, a handlin’ that spear. We got to talkin’ about it the other day, how long she had been a handlin’ of it. Says Thomas Jefferson, “She has been brandishin’ it for fifty years.”

Says I, “Shet up, Thomas J., she haint been born longer ago than that.”

Says he--“She was born with that spear in her hand.”

But as I said she has had a hard and mournful time a tryin’ to make a runnin’ vine of herself sense I knew her. And Josiah says she was at it, for years before I ever see her. She has tried to make a vine of herself to all kinds of trees, straight and crooked, sound and rotten, young and old. Her mind is sot the most now, on the Editer of the Augur, but she pays attention to any and every single man that comes in her way. And it seems strange to me that them that preach up this doctrine of woman’s only spear, don’t admire one who carrys it out to its full extent. It seems kinder ungrateful in ’em, to think that when Betsey is so willin’ to be a vine, they will not be a tree; but they won’t, they seem sot against it.

I say if men insist on makin’ runnin’ vines of wimmin, they ought to provide trees for ’em to run up on, it haint nothin’ more’n justice that they should, but they won’t and don’t. Now ten years ago the Methodist minister before Elder Wesley Minkley came, was a widower of some twenty odd years, and he was sorely stricken with years and rheumatiz. But Betsey showed plainly her willin’ness and desire to be a vine, if he would be a tree. But he would not be a tree--he acted real obstinate about it, considerin’ his belief. For he was awful opposed to wimmin’s havin’ any rights only the right to marry. He preached a beautiful sermon about woman’s holy mission, and how awful it was in her, to have any ambition outside of her own home. And how sweet it was to see her in her confidin’ weakness and gentleness clingin’ to man’s manly strength. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house only mine. Betsey wept aloud, she was so affected by it. And it was beautiful, I don’t deny it; I always respected clingers. But I love to see folks use reason. And I say again, how can a woman cling when she haint got nothin’ to cling to? That day I put it fair and square to our old minister, he went home with us to supper, and he begun on me about wimmin’s rights, for he knew I believe in wimmin’s havin a right. Says he, “It is flyin’ in the face of the Bible for a woman not to marry.”

Says I, “Elder how can any lady make brick without straw or sand--_how_ can a woman marry without a man is forthcomin’?” says I, “wimmen’s will may be good, but there is some things she can not do, and this is one of ’em.” Says I, “as our laws are at present no women can marry unless she has a man to marry to. And if the man is obstinate and hangs back what is she to do?”

He begun to look a little sheepish and tried to kinder turn off the subject on to religion.

But no steamboat ever sailed onward under the power of biled water steam, more grandly than did Samantha Allen’s words under the steam of bilein’ principle. I fixed my eyes upon him with seemin’ly an arrow in each one of ’em, and says I--

“Which had you rather do Elder, let Betsey Bobbet vote, or cling to you? She is fairly achin’ to make a runnin’ vine of herself,” and says I, in slow, deep, awful tones, “are you willin’ to be a tree?”

Again he weakly murmured somethin’ on the subject of religion, but I asked him again in slower, awfuler tones.

“_Are you willin’ to be a tree?_”

He turned to Josiah, and says he, “I guess I will go out to the barn and bring in my saddle bags.” He had come to stay all night. And that man went to the barn smit and conscience struck, and haint opened his head to me sense about wimmin’s not havin’ a right.

I had jest arrived at this crysis in my thoughts, and had also got my yarn wound up--my yarn and my revery endin’ up at jest the same time, when Betsey came to the foot of the stairs and called out--

“Josiah Allen’s wife, a gentleman is below, and craves an audience with you.”

I sot back my swifts, and went down, expectin’ from the reverential tone of her voice to see a United States Governor, or a Deacon at the very least. But it wasn’t either of ’em, it was a peddler. He wanted to know if I could get some dinner for him, and I thinkin’ one more trial wouldn’t kill me said I would. He was a loose jinted sort of a chap, with his hat sot onto one side of his head, but his eyes had a twinkle to ’em, that give the idee that he knew what he was about.

After dinner he kep’ a bringin’ on his goods from his cart, and praisin’ ’em up, the lies that man told was enough to apaul the ablest bodied man, but Betsey swallowed every word. After I had coldly rejected all his other overtures for tradin’, he brought on a strip of stair carpetin’, a thin striped yarn carpet, and says he--

“Can’t I sell you this beautiful carpet? it is the pure Ingrain.”

“Ingrain,” says I, “so be you Ingrain as much.”

“I guess I know,” says he, “for I bought it of old Ingrain himself, I give the old man 12 shillin’s a yard for it, but seein’ it is you, and I like your looks so much, and it seems so much like home to me here, I will let you have it for 75 cents, cheaper than dirt to walk on, or boards.”

“I don’t want it,” says I, “I have got carpets enough.”

“Do you want it for 50 cents?” says he follerin’ me to the wood-box.

“No!” says I pretty sharp, for I don’t want to say no two times, to anybody.

“Would 25 cents be any indoosement to you?” says he, follerin’ me to the buttery door.

“No!” says I in my most energetic voice, and started for the suller with a plate of nut-cakes.

“Would 18 pence tempt you?” says he, hollerin’ down the suller way.

Then says I, comin’ up out of the suller with the old Smith blood bilin’ up in my veins, “Say another word to me about your old stair carpet if you dare; jest let me ketch you at it,” says I; “be I goin’ to have you traipse all over the house after me? be I goin’ to be made crazy as a loon by you?”

“Oh, Josiah Allen’s wife,” says Betsey, “do not be so hasty; of course the gentleman wishes to dispose of his goods, else why should he be in the mercanteel business?”

I didn’t say nothin’--gratitude still had holt of me--but I inwardly determined that not one word would I say if he cheated her out of her eye teeth.

Addressin’ his attention to Betsey, he took a pair of old fashioned ear rings out of his jacket pocket, and says he--

“I carry these in my pocket for fear I will be robbed of ’em. I hadn’t ought to carry ’em at all, a single man goin’ alone round the country as I do, but I have got a pistol, and let anybody tackle me for these ear rings if they dare to,” says he, lookin’ savage.

“Is thier intrinsick worth so large?” says Betsey,

“It haint so much thier neat value,” says he, “although that is enormous, as who owned ’em informally. Whose ears do you suppose these have had hold of?”