Chapter 4

"I didn't get nothin'. I didn't see nothin' 't I wanted, 'n' I learned long ago 't an auction 's generally a good place f'r buyin' things 't you don't want after you've bought 'em. Now take that parrot o' yours!--I wouldn't have him 'f you was to offer him to me for a gift; not to speak o' his not havin' no head, he looks to me like he had moths in him,--you look at him by daylight to-morrow 'n' see if it don't strike you so too."

Mrs. Lathrop was silent for a long time. Finally she said:

"Did you go to the Orphan Asylum?"

"Well--no--I did n't. I would 'a' gone only I got on the wrong car 'n' ended in a cemetery instead. I had a nice time there, though, walkin' roun' 'n' readin' ages, an' jus' as I was goin' out I met a monument man 't had a place right outside the gate, 'n' he took me to look at his things, 'n' then I remembered father--two years dead 'n' not a stone on him yet!"

Mrs. Lathrop laid the parrot aside with a heavy sigh and concentrated all her attention upon her friend's recital.

"The man was about 's pleasant a man 's ever I met. When I told him about father, he told me he took a interest in every word, whether I bought a monument of him or not. He said he'd show me all he had 'n' welcome 'n' it was no trouble but a joy. Then he took me all through his shop 'n' the shed behind, 'n' really I never had a nicer time. I see a lamb lyin' down first, 'n' I thought 't that would be nice f'r a little, but the further back we went the finer they got. The man wanted me to take a eagle grippin' a pen 'n' writin' father's name on a book 't he's sittin' on to hold open while he writes. I told him 'f I bought any such monument I cert'nly would want the name somewhere else than up where no one but the eagle could read it. He said 't I could have the name below 'n' let the eagle be writin' 'Repose in Peace,' but I told him 't father died of paralysis after bein' in bed for twenty years 'n' that his idea o' Heaven wasn't reposin' in peace,--he always looked forward to walkin' about 'n.' bein' pretty lively there. Then the man said 't maybe suthin' simple would be more to my taste, 'n' he took me to where there was a pillow with a wreath of roses on it, but--my gracious, I'd never be so mean 's to put a pillow anywhere near father after all them years in bed, 'n' as to the roses they'd be jus' 's bad or worse, for you know yourself how they give him hay-fever so 's we had to dig up all the bushes years ago.

"But I'll tell you, Mrs. Lathrop, what I _did_ see that nobody on the wide earth c'd help wishin' was on top o' their grave the minute they laid eyes on it. It's a lion--a weepin' lion--kind o' tryin' to wipe his eyes with one paw. I tell you I never saw nothin' one quarter so handsome over no one yet, 'n' if I wasn't thinkin' o' adoptin' a child I'd never rest until I'd set that lion on top of father. But o' course, as it is, I can't even think how it might look there; the livin' has rights over the dead, 'n' my child can't go without the necessaries of life while my father gets a weepin' lion 't when you come right square down to it he ain't got no more use for 'n' a cat has for two tails. No, I'm a rich woman, but all incomes has their outside fence. 'F a man 's got a million a year, he can't spend two million, 'n' I can't start in child raisin' 'n' tombstone father all in the same year. Father 'll have to wait, 'n' he got so used to it while he was alive 't he ought not to mind it much now he's dead. But I give the man my address, 'n' he give me one o' his cards, 'n' when I go to the Orphan Asylum I may go back 'n' see him, an' maybe if I tell him about the baby he'll reduce the lion some. The lion is awful high--strikes me. He's three hunderd dollars, but the man says that 's because his tail 's out o' the same block. I asked him if he couldn't take the tail off, but he said 't that would hurt his reputation. He said 'f I'd go up the ladder to his second floor 'n' look down on the lion I'd never talk about sawin' off his tail, 'n' he said 't anyhow cuttin' it off would only make it cost more because it was cut on in the first place. I saw the sense o' that, 'n' I remembered, too, 't even 'f folks in the cemetery never can see the tail, father 'll have to look at it from higher up 'n the ladder to the monument man's shed, 'n' I don't want him to think 't I economized on the tail of his tombstone. I tell you what, Mrs. Lathrop, I cert'nly do want that lion, but I can't have it, so I've decided not to think of it again. The man c'd see I wanted it, 'n' I c'd see 't he really wanted me to have it. He felt so kind o' sorry for me 't he said he'd do me a weepin' fox for one hunderd 'n' fifty, if I wanted it, but I didn't want no fox. Father didn't have nothin' like a fox--his nose was broad 'n' kind o' flat. He hadn't nothin' like a lion, neither, but I'd like to have the only lion in the cemetery ours."

Mrs. Lathrop nodded her head sympathetically.

Miss Clegg sighed and looked pensive for a moment, but it was soon over.

"'N' I've decided about my child too," she continued briskly,--"I've decided to have a boy. I decided goin' in on the train to-day. I'd been sorter thinkin' that I'd leave it to chance, but ordinary folks can't do no more 'n' that, 'n' where 's the good o' me bein' so open 'n' above-board 'f I dunno whether it'll be a boy or girl, after all? I might 's well 's married the minister, 'n' Lord knows Mrs. Shores's troubles ought to be warnin' enough to no woman in this community not to marry no man, f'r one while, at any rate. If Mrs. Shores hadn't married Mr. Shores, she c'd easy 'a' married his clerk when she fell in love with him. No woman that 's goin' to fall in love ever ought to begin by marryin' another man first. It mixes everythin' all up. But Mrs. Shores was a fool or she never would 'a' married him to begin with. I told him that the first time 't I see him after she was gone. I thought 't if it was any comfort to him to know that there was one person in the c'mmunity 't looked on his wife as a fool he was welcome to the knowin'. So I told him, 'n' I used those very self-same words too,--'n' I cert'nly did ache to tell him that he was jus' 's big a fool himself to 'a' ever married her, but I didn't think 't that would be jus' polite.

"But all that was right in the first of it--before she took the baby. I'm free to confess 't I think he c'd 'a' stood anythin' 'f she hadn't took the baby. It was the baby as used him all up. 'N' that seems kind o' queer too, for seems to me, 'f my wife run away, I'd be glad to make a clean sweep o' her 'n' hers 'n' begin all afresh; I'd never have no injunctions 'n' detectives drawin' wages for chasin' no wife 'n' baby 't left o' their own accord. But that's jus' like a man, 'n' I must say 't I'm dead glad 't no man ain't goin' to have no right to interfere with my child. I c'n take it 'n' go anywhere 't I please 'n' never be afraid o' any subpenny comin' down on me. 'S far 's I'm concerned, I only wish 't she'd send back 'n' abduct him too, 'n' then the community 'd have some peace on the Shores subjeck. There ain't nothin' left to say, 'n' every one keeps sayin' it over 'n' over from dawn to dark. I must say, Mrs. Lathrop, 't when I c'nsider how much folks still find to say o' Mrs. Shores 'n' it all, I'm more 'n proud that I ain't never been one to say nothin' a _tall_."

Mrs. Lathrop did not speak for some time. Then she took up her parrot again and looked thoughtfully at its feet.

"What made you decide on a b--" she asked at last.

"I didn't decide. I c'u'd n't decide, 'n' so I shook a nickel for heads 'n' tails."

"'N' it came a boy."

"No, it came a girl, 'n' the minute 't I see 't it was a girl I knew 't I'd wanted a boy all along, so, 's the good o' me bein' free to act 's I please is 't I do act 's I please, I decided then 'n' there on a boy."

Mrs. Lathrop turned the parrot over.

'F you was so set on a boy, why did you--"

"What do folks ever toss up for? To decide. Tossin' up always shows you jus' how much you didn't want what you get. Only, as a general thing, there's some one else who does want it, an' they grab it 'n' you go empty-handed. The good o' me tossin' is I c'n always take either side o' the nickel after I've tossed. I ain't nobody's fool--'n' I never was--'n' I never will be. But I guess I've got to ask you to go home now, Mrs. Lathrop. I've had a hard day 'n' I'm 'most too tired to pay attention to what you say any longer. I want to get to bed 'n' to sleep, 'n' then to-morrow maybe I'll feel like talkin' myself."

* * * * *

The third morning after Miss Clegg's trip to town she astonished her neighbor by tapping on the latter's kitchen window at the early hour of seven in the morning. Mrs. Lathrop was getting breakfast, and her surprise caused her to jump unduly.

"Well, _Susan_!" she said, opening the door, "what ever is the--"

"Matter! Nothin' ain't the matter, only I've had a letter from the monument man. It come last night, 'n' the minister took it out o' the post-office 'n' sent it over by little 'Liza Em'ly when she come with the milk this mornin'. I dunno whether to thank the minister for bein' so kind or whether to ask him to mind his own business. It's got 'Important' on the corner, 'n' sometimes I don't go to the post-office for two days at a time, but jus' the same it strikes me 't I ain't altogether in favor o' the minister's carryin' my mail home with him any time he feels so inclined. If I'd 'a' married him, I never 'd 'a' allowed him to interfere with my affairs, 'n' 's long 's I didn't marry him I don't see no good reason for his doin' so now."

Susan paused and looked at the letter which she held in her hand. Mrs. Lathrop slid one of the kitchen chairs up behind her, and she sat down, still looking at the letter.

"It's from the monument man," she said again, "'n' I don't know what ever I shall do about it, I'm sure."

Mrs. Lathrop was all attention.

"It's about the lion. He says 't he's been 'n' took some black chalk 'n' marked around under him 'Sacred to the memory of Blank Clegg,' 'n' he says 't it looks so noble 't he's had an offer for the monument 'n' he wants me to come in 'n' see it afore he sells it to--to some one else."

There was a short silence, broken at last by Mrs. Lathrop.

"Your father's name wa'n't 'Blank,'" she said; "it was 'Henry.'"

Susan knit her brows.

"I know, 'n' that's one thing 't 's been troublin' me. It's written out in good plain letters--'Blank Clegg'--'n' I've been tryin' 'n' tryin' to think what I could 'a' said to 'a' made him suppose 't it could 'a' been 'Blank.' That 'd be the last name in the wide world for anybody to name anybody else, I sh'd suppose, 'n' I can't see for the life o' me why that monument man sh'd 'a' hit on it for father. I'm cert'nly mighty glad that he's only marked it on in black chalk 'n' not chopped it out o' the bottom o' the lion. O' course 'f he 'd chopped it out I'd 'a' had to 'a' taken it an' it'd jus' made me the laughin'-stock o' the whole community. I know lots o' folks 't are plenty mean enough 's to say 't that lion was weepin' because I didn't know my own father's name."

Mrs. Lathrop looked sober.

"So I guess I've got to go to town by to-day's ten o'clock. I ain't no intention o' takin' the lion, but I _shall_ like to stand off a little ways 'n' look at the part o' the name 't 's spelt right. Later maybe I'll visit a few asylums--I ain't sure. But anyway I thought I'd jus' run over 'n' let you know 't I was goin', 'n' ask you if there's anythin' 't I can get f'r you while I'm in town."

"No, there isn't," said Mrs. Lathrop with great firmness.

Susan rose to go.

"I'm thinkin' o' buyin' the Shores baby outfit," she said. "I guess Mr. Shores 'll be glad to sell it cheap. They say 't he can't bear to be reminded o' the baby, 'n' I don't well see what else the crib 'n' the baby carriage can remind him of."

"I wonder if the sewing-machine reminds him o' Mrs. Shores," said Mrs. Lathrop. "I'd be glad to buy it if it did 'n' 'f he was wantin' to sell it cheap."

"I dunno why it sh'd remind him o' Mrs. Shores," said Susan; "she never sewed on it none. She never did nothin' 's far 's I c'd make out except to sit on the front porch 'n' talk to his clerk. My, but I sh'd think he 'd hate the sight o' that front porch. If it c'd be got off, I 'd like to buy that of him too. My front porch 's awful old 'n' shaky 'n' I 'll need a good porch to wheel baby on. He c'd take my porch in part payment. It's bein' so old 'n' shaky wouldn't matter to him I don't suppose, for I 'll bet a dollar he 'll never let no other wife o' his sit out on no porch o' his, not 'ntil after he's dead 'n' buried anyway; 'n' as for sittin' on a porch himself, well, all is I know 't if it was me it 'd scorch my rockers."

"What time do you think 't you '11 get back?" asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"I ain't sure. 'F I should get real interested huntin' orphans, I might stay until it was too dark to see 'em good. I can't tell nothin' about it, though. You 'd better watch for the light in the kitchen, 'n' when you see it burnin' I wish 't you'd come right over."

Mrs. Lathrop agreed to this arrangement, and Miss Clegg went home to get ready for town.

* * * * *

She returned about five o'clock, and the mere general aspect of her approaching figure betokened some doing or doings so well worthy of neighborly interest that Mrs. Lathrop left her bread in the oven and flew to satisfy her curiosity.

She found her friend warming her feet by the kitchen stove, and one look at her radiant countenance sufficed.

"You found a baby!"

Susan upraised supremely joyful eyes.

"No," she replied, "but I've bought the weepin' lion!"

Mrs. Lathrop sat suddenly down.

"You never saw anythin' so grand in all your life! He rubbed the 'Blank' off with a wet cloth 'n' wrote in the 'Henry' with me standin' right there. I never see anythin' that went right through me that way before. Puttin' on 'Henry' seemed to bring the lion right into the family, an'--well, you can believe me or not jus' as you please, Mrs. Lathrop, but I up 'n' begin to cry right then 'n' there. The monument man made me sit down on a uncut block 'n' lean my back up against a No-Cross-no-Crown, 'n' while I sat there he chalked in father's birth 'n' death 'n' 'Erected by his devoted daughter Susan,' 'n' at that I stood right up 'n' said 't I 'd take it, 'n' it wasn't no hasty decision, neither, f'r after I 'd made up my mind I couldn't see no good reason for continuin' to sit there 'n' draw frost out o' granite 'n' into my shoulder-blades jus' for the looks o' the thing."

"But about the ba--" said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh, the baby 'll have to go. I told you all along 't it had to be one or t' other an' in the end it's the lion as has come out on top. I guess I was n't cut out to be a mother like I was a daughter. I know 't I never wanted a baby for myself half like I 've wanted that lion for my dead 'n' gone father. Do you know, Mrs. Lathrop, I do believe 't I had a persentiment the first time I ever see that lion. Suthin' sort o' crep' right up my back, 'n' I 'm jus' sure 't folks 'll come from miles roun' to see it. I guess it's the Finger o' Fate. When you come to think o' it, it 's all for the best jus' the way 't it 's come out. The baby 'd 'a' grown up an' gone off somewhere, an' the lion 'll stay right where you put him, for he 's so heavy that the monument man says we 'll have to drive piles all down aroun' father. Then, too, maybe I could n't 'a' managed a boy an' I can scour that lion all I want to. 'N' I will scour him too,--nobody need n't suppose 't I've paid three hunderd dollars f'r anythin' to let it get mossy. I've invited the monument man 'n' his wife to come 'n' visit me while he's gettin' the lion in place, 'n' he says he's so pleased over me 'n' nobody else gettin' it 't he's goin' to give me a paper sayin' 't when I die he'll chop my date in f'r nothin'. I tell you what, Mrs. Lathrop, I certainly am glad 't I've got the sense to know when I'm well off, 'n' I cert'nly do feel that in this particular case I'm mighty lucky. So all 's well 't ends well."

Mrs. Lathrop nodded.

III

JATHROP LATHROP'S COW

Jathrop Lathrop was just the style and build of young man to be easily persuaded into taking a kicking cow in full payment of a good debt. Jathrop having taken the cow, it naturally fell to the lot of his mother to milk her. The reader can quickly divine what event formed the third of these easily to be foreseen developments of the most eventful day in the life of the cow's new proprietor. The kicking cow kicked Jathrop Lathrop's mother, not out of any especial antipathy towards that most innocuous lady, but just because it was of a kicking nature and Mrs. Lathrop was temptingly kickable. The sad part of the matter was that Mrs. Lathrop was not only kickable but breakable as well. It followed that at twelve o'clock that noon Miss Clegg, returning from a hasty trip to the city, was greeted at the depot by the sad tidings, and it was not until various of the town folk had finished their versions of the disaster that she was at last allowed to hasten to the bedside of her dear friend, whom she found not only in great bodily distress but also already cast in plaster.

Miss Clegg's attitude as she stood in the doorway was one of blended commiseration and disgust.

"Well, I never would 'a' believed it o' Jathrop!" she burst forth at last.

"'T wa'n't Jathrop," Mrs. Lathrop protested feebly; "it was the--"

"I know, but the cow never come of her own free will, 'n' it strikes me 't Jathrop's the one to blame. I never was so done up in my life 's I was when I hear this about you. You kin believe me or not jus' 's you please, Mrs. Lathrop, but I was so nigh to struck dead 't I stopped short with one leg on the station 'n' the other on the train. It was Johnny 's dodged out o' the ticket-office to tell me the minute the train stopped, 'n' I d'n' know but I'd be there yet--f'r I was clean struck all in a heap--only a man jus' behind jammed me with a case o' beer 't he was bringin' home. To think 's I see you goin' to the barn jus' 's I was lookin' f'r a place to hide my keys afore leavin', 'n' then to think 's them was your last legs 'n' you usin' 'em 's innocent 's a grasshopper on a May mornin'!--I tell you I was so used up I thought some o' askin' to be druv up here, but Johnny didn't have no time to give pertickilers 'cause the telegraph begin to work jus' at that very minute 'n' he had to dodge back to see what they wanted to tick him about, so I see 't the wisest thing was to walk up 'n' find out f'r myself. Besides, you c'n understand 't if you was beyond hope I'd be nothin' but foolish to pay a quarter to get to you in a hurry, 'n' I never was one to be foolish nor yet to waste quarters, 'n' so I come along through town, 'n' as a consequence I guess 't I know 's much 's you know yourself now."

Mrs. Lathrop looking duly inquisitive for details of her own accident, Miss Clegg advanced forthwith upon a seat and occupied it before beginning.

"I see Mrs. Macy first, 'n' she told me all as to how it happened. She says you turned two back somersaults 'n' just missed squashin' the cat, 'n' 't young Dr. Brown told her 't if he hadn't been so busy plantin' his garden to-day he certainly would 'a' felt 't it 'd 'a' been nothin' but right to diagnose you all over. Mrs. Macy says she ain't none too over-pleased 't the way he spoke, for, to her order o' thinkin', you had a pretty serious kick 'n' you'd ought to realize it. She wanted me to ask you 'f he had you hang to the head-board while he give your leg a good hard jerk, 'cause she says 't that's the only real safe way to make all the bones come back into place; she says 'f you ain't shattered you're bound to come straight pervided the doctor jerks hard enough. She says they did her lame leg that way over thirty years ago, 'n' she says 't, sittin' down 'n' side by side, she'd bet anything 't the minister 'n' all the deacons couldn't pick out one from t' other. She says all her trouble comes when she walks. Nights 'n' rockin' she'd never know she was lame herself."

Mrs. Lathrop looked slightly distressed.

"Gran'ma Mullins come up while we was talkin', 'n' she's terrible upset over you. She never had no lameness, she says; her trouble 's all in her ribs,--them ribs 't go from under your arms down. But she wants to know if you was put in plaster, 'n' she said f'r me to ask right off."

"Yes; I--" replied Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh!" Susan's face darkened. "I declare, that's too bad. 'N' young Dr. Brown 's gone now too. I see him 'n' Amelia drivin' out towards the Sperrits' while I was in the square. Well, if it's on, it's on, 'n' the Lord be with you, Mrs. Lathrop, f'r 'f Gran'ma Mullins says truth, no one else c'n help you now. You see, she told Mrs. Macy 'n' me what plaster is. It's eatin', that's what it is. Plaster 'll eat anythin' right up, hide, hair, 'n' all. She says don't you know how, when you smell a dead rat in the wall, you throw some plaster in on him, 'n' after a while you don't smell no more rat 'cause there ain't no more rat there to smell; the plaster 's eat him all up. She says you may laugh 'f you feel so inclined, but there ain't no such big difference between your leg 'n' a dead rat but what it'll pay you to mark her words. She says 'f it don't do no more 'n eat the skin off it'll still be pretty hard for you to lay there without no skin 'n' feel the plaster goin' in more 'n' more. She says 't we all wish him well, 'n' yet no one in their right mind c'n deny as young Dr. Brown is n't old Dr. Carter, 'n' no amount o' well wishin' c'n ever make him so. She says 'f she was you she 'd never rest till old Dr. Carter 'd looked into that leg, f'r a leg is a leg, 'n' it says in the Bible 't if you lose your salt what 'll you salt with."

Mrs. Lathrop's distress deepened visibly.

"I tell you I was more 'n a little troubled over her words. Gran'ma Mullins ain't one to make up nothin', 'n' I know myself 't that 's true about the plaster. I 've eat up rats that way time 'n' again,--mice too, f'r that matter. It 'd be an awful thing f'r you to lay there peaceful 'n' happy till it come time f'r him to unwrap your leg 'n' then when he unwrapped have him find no leg in the centre. Nothin' 't he could say would help any--there you 'd be one leg gone forever. 'F it was your foot, it 'd all be different, f'r you could hop around right spry with a false foot, but I d'n' know what good your foot 'll do you with the leg in between gone. I never hear o' no real foot on a false leg, 'n' 'f I was you, I certainly wouldn't want to lay wonderin' 'f I still had two legs f'r six weeks."

"Six weeks!" cried Mrs. Lathrop, with a start that collapsed at once into a groan; "must I lay--"

"Gran'ma Mullins says," pursued Susan, "'t the reason she knows so much about it all is 't she had a cousin with a broken leg once. It wa'n't no cow 's kicked him, jus' he was give to meditatin', 'n' while meditatin' durin' house-cleanin' he stepped down the wrong side o' the step-ladder. She says the doctor didn't so much 's dream o' plasterin' him up, he put splints on him, 'n' he come out fine, but she says he was suthin' jus' awful to take care of. They thought they couldn't stand it the first weeks he was so terrible cross, but then his bones begin to knit, 'n' she says she hopes she may fall dead then 'n' there 'f she ever hear anythin' to equal that leg-knittin'. She said they was livin' so far out 't they could feel to leave him 'n' go to church Sunday, 'n' she says when they was comin' back they could hear him knittin' a good half-mile away."

"Dear, dear--" commented Mrs. Lathrop, giving a heave of unrest.

"Can you feel your leg now?" Susan inquired.

"Yes; I--"