Chapter 9

_Sissy._ Mith Peath, if you pleath, if, if--Mith Peath, to home, my mother thed--my mother thed. What did my mother thed? O, my mother thed, if Mith Peath is to home, to give Mith Peath her com--her com--to give Mith Peath her com--

_Jenny._ Her compliments?

_Sissy._ Yith ma'am, I geth tho; and tell Mith Peath, the thent her thome of her pickleth.

_Sadie and Bessie._ Pickles! O, you dear little thing!

_Jenny._ O, isn't she a darling! (_They all crowd round_ SISSY, _take off her bonnet, kiss and hug her._) Isn't she splendid?

_Bessie._ I'll take the pail, little girl.

_Sissy._ (_Putting pail behind her._) Yith marm; I geth not. My mother thed I muthn't give it to nobody but Mith Peath.

_Bessie._ Well, take off the cover, little girl. The pickles will spoil.

_Sissy._ I geth not. _My_ mother's pickleth _never_ thpoil.

_Jenny._ The little plague! Say, Sissy; do you like candy?

_Sissy._ Candy? Merlatheth candy?

_Jenny._ Yes.

_Sissy._ Ith it pulled?

_Jenny._ Yes, indeed; pulled white as snow. Give me the pail, and I'll find you a long stick of it.

_Sissy._ You ain't Mith Peath; and I don't like merlatheth candy white ath thnow. Where ith Mith Peath?

_Sadie._ Little girl, don't you want some red and white peppermints?

_Sissy._ No, I don't. I want Mith Peath.

_Bessie._ Or some splendid gum drops?

_Sissy._ No. I want Mith Peath.

_Enter_ MISS PEASE, L.

_Miss P._ And here she is, Sissy Gabble. What have you for me? (_The girls fall back in confusion, and whisper together._)

_Sissy._ Thome pickleth, Mith Peath, my mother thent you, with her com--her com--her com--

_Miss P._ Her compliments, Sissy. I understand. I'm very much obliged to her for sending them, and to you, Sissy, for bringing them so carefully. Here, Juno!

_Enter_, JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Yes, missis. Why, bress my soul! if dar ain't Sissy Gabble! Come right here, yer dear chile.

_Miss P._ Take her to the kitchen, Juno. Perhaps you can find a cake for her.

_Juno._ Guess I can, missis, sure for sartin. Come, Sissy Gabble, come right along wid Juno.

_Sissy._ Thay, Juno, who ith them? (_Pointing to girls._)

_Juno._ Why, bress yer soul, dem ar's de young ladies from de city, on dar vex--vex--on dar vexation. O, Sissy, dar drefful sweet.

_Sissy._ Thweet, Juno? I thpothe tho; they've got thuch loth of candy. But they didn't git my pail, tho!

_Juno._ Come along to de kitchen. Come.

[_Exeunt_ JUNO _and_ SISSY, L. _The girls gather about_ MISS PEASE.

_Jenny._ O, Miss Pease, I'm so glad Mrs. Gabble sent you those pickles, I'm so fond of them!

_Bessie._ Yes, Miss Pease; they're so nice!

_Sadie._ O, they're splendid! Do give us a taste.

_Miss P._ Stop, stop young ladies. While I cannot but be grateful to Mrs. Gabble for her kindness, I wish it had taken some other shape. I have long been of the opinion that pickles are unwholesome, and have never allowed them to be placed upon my table. And I am sure I should be disobeying the instructions I received from your parents--to provide you only wholesome food--did I permit you to taste them. For the present, I shall leave them here. (_Places pail on the table._) If you believe I have your interest at heart, you will not touch that which I have condemned. I know I can trust you. _Exit_, L.

_Bessie._ Well, I declare! The mean old thing!

_Jenny._ It's too bad! Nothing but blasted hopes in this world!

_Sadie._ Well, I don't care, I'm a going to have one of those pickles, if I die for it.

_Jenny._ Why, Sadie Bean, you don't mean it!

_Sadie._ Yes, I do. I know they _are_ wholesome, and my mother always allows me to eat them.

_Bessie._ I wouldn't touch one for the world. How impolite it would be, after Miss Pease has forbidden it!

_Sadie._ No; she didn't forbid it. She said, if we thought she had our interest at heart, we wouldn't touch the pail. Now I don't believe she has, when she wants to deprive us of such a luxury. I'm determined to have a pickle.

_Jenny._ You are wrong, Sadie, to think of such a thing. A Precious Pickle you'll make. (_Sits on sofa._)

_Bessie._ Nothing would tempt me. (_Sits on sofa._) How can you, Sadie?

_Sadie._ Pooh! Cowards! It's just as easy as croquet, when you make up your mind. (_Lifts cover, and takes out pickle._) A Precious Pickle. I'll taste, Jenny. Ain't they beauties?

_Jenny._ Quick, quick, Sadie; somebody's coming!

_Sadie._ Dear me! (_Claps on cover, runs and sits on sofa between_ JENNY _and_ BESSIE.)

_Enter_ JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! dars Missis Gabble a runnin up de walk like all possessed. Speck her house afire, sure for sartin. _Exit_, R.

_Sadie._ (_Tasting pickle._) O, ain't it nice! Bessie, run and get one.

_Bessie._ No, indeed; I shall do no such thing.

_Jenny._ O, Sadie, I wouldn't believe you could do such a thing.

_Sadie._ O, pshaw! It's all envy; you know it is.

_Enter_ R., JUNO, _followed by_ MRS. GABBLE, _who wears a calico dress, has her sleeves rolled up, her apron thrown over her head, and has altogether the appearance of having just left the wash-tub._

_Mrs. G._ Yes, Juno, poor Mr. Brown has shuffled off this mortal--what's it's name? (_Looks_ _at girls._) O, how do you do? I don't know how much he's worth, but they do say--Why, Juno, you've got a new calico--Fine day, young ladies.--They do say--Well, there, I oughtn't to speak of it. Got your washing out, Juno? I've been all day at that tub; and--Where's Miss Pease? I can't stop a minute; so don't ask me to sit down. (_Sits in rocking-chair and rocks violently._)

_Juno._ Yes, Missy Gabble, Missy Pease to home. Send her right up, sure for sartin. Bress my soul, how that woman do go on, for sartin. _Exit_, L.

_Mrs. G._ Ah, poor Mrs. Brown, with all them young ones. I wonder where my Sis is.

_Jenny._ I think she's in the kitchen, Mrs. Gabble.

_Mrs. G._ You don't say so? Stuffing herself, I'm sure. And poor Mr. Brown lying dead in the next house--and there's my washing waiting for soap--and there's Mrs. Jones hasn't sent my ironing-board home; and mercy knows how I'm to get along without it.

_Enter_ MISS PEASE, L. _During the dialogue between_ MISS PEASE _and_ MRS. G., SADIE _slyly eats her pickle, offering it to_ JENNY _and_ BESSIE, _who at first shake their heads, afterwards taste; the pickle is passed among them, and devoured before the conclusion of the conversation._

_Miss P._ Ah, Mrs. Gabble! I'm glad to see you. (_Takes chair and sits beside her._)

_Mrs. G._ And poor Brown is gone!

_Miss P._ Mr. Brown dead? This is sad news.

_Mrs. G._ I should think it was--and there's Skillet, the butcher, chopped off his thumb--and Miss Pearson fell down stairs and broke her china sugar-bowl--sp'ilt the whole set. As I told my husband, these expensive dishes never can be matched--and speaking of matches, Mrs. Thorpe is going to get a divorce. Jest think of it! I met her going into Carter's shop this morning. She had on that pink muslin he gave her for a birthday present--Jenkins has got a new lot of them, only a shilling a yard--speaking of yards, old Cooper tumbled into that miserable well in his back yard this morning. They pulled him out--speaking of pulling, Miss Tibbet was in to the dentist's this morning for a new set of teeth, and--Have you seen my Sis?

_Miss P._ O, yes. She's in the kitchen with Juno. And, speaking of Sissy, reminds me that I must thank you for sending me--

_Mrs. G._ My pickles? Yes. Well, I'm glad you got 'em. But I didn't have a bit of good luck with 'em. And, speaking of pickles, O, Miss Pease, that villain, Smith, the grocer, has been taken up. He's going to be hung. Nothing can save him.

_Miss P._ Mr. Smith arrested! For what pray?

_Mrs. G._ P'isoning! Jest think of it! And he a deacon in the church, and has such a splendid span of horses, and such an elegant beach wagon. I declare, the last time he took us to the beach I nearly died eating soft-shelled crabs; and my husband tumbled overboard, and Mr. Brown got sunstruck; and now he's gone! Dear me, dear me! And my washing ain't out yet.

_Miss P._ But tell me, Mrs. Gabble, what is it about the poisoning?

_Mrs. G._ Why, he or somebody else has been putting prussic acid in his vinegar, just at the time, too, when everybody's making pickles; and there's no end of the p'isoning he will have to answer for. Mrs. Jewel's just sent for the doctor, and Mrs. Poor's been dreadful all day, and Dr. Baldtop's flying round from house to house; and, O, dear--there's my washing! Who'll be the next victim nobody knows, I'm sure.

_Sadie._ (_Jumping up._) O, dear! O, dear! Send for the doctor, quick! I'm dying, I know I am. (_Runs across stage and sinks into chair_, R.)

_Miss P._ (_Running to her._) Bless me child, what ails you?

_Sadie._ I don't know; I can't tell. The doctor, quick!

_Mrs. G._ Deary me, she's took sudden, just for all the world like Susan Richie.

_Jenny._ (_Jumping up._) Water, water! Give me some water! I shall die if I don't have some water. (_Runs down and sinks into chair_, L.)

_Mrs. G._ (_Jumping up and running to her._) Gracious goodness! here's another! It's something dreadful, depend upon it. When folks is took sudden--

_Bessie._ (_Jumping up._) O, my throat! I'm burning up! Give me some ipecac. Quick, quick, quick! (_Runs round stage, then sinks into chair_, C.)

_Mrs. G._ There goes another! It's something dreadful, depend on it.

_Miss P._ What does this mean? Here, Juno, Juno! Quick!

_Enter_ JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Here I is, Missy Pease.

_Sadie._ Run for the doctor, quick, Juno!

_Juno._ (_Running_, R.) Bress my soul! I'll fetch him.

_Jenny._ No, no! Get me some water--quick!

_Juno._ (_Running_ L.) To be sure, honey; to be sure.

_Bessie._ No, no, Juno! some ipecac, or a stomach pump.

_Juno._ Pump, pump! Want de pump? I'll fetch it, I'll fetch it. Bress my soul, I'll fetch something. _Exit_, L.

_Mrs. G._ Well, if this ain't drefful!--washing-day, too--and the undertaker's jest as busy as he can be--there never was so much _immortality_ in this place, never. Poor critters! poor critters!

_Miss P._ Girls, what does this mean?

_Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, such agony!

_Bessie._ O, dear, what will become of me?

_Jenny._ O, this dreadful parching in the throat!

_Mrs. G._ O, I know it, I know it. I told my husband that something dreadful was a goin' to happen when he sold that colt yesterday.

_Miss P._ Sadie, what is the meaning of this. Your pulse is regular, your head cool, and your tongue clear.

_Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, it's those dreadful pickles.

_Mrs. G._ Yes, indeed, it is a drefful pickle--and so sudden, jest for all the world like poor Mr. Brown's sudden took, and these always seem to end fatally at some time or other--Dear me, dear me, and my wash--

_Miss P._ Pickles! Have you disobeyed me?

_Sadie._ I couldn't help it, Miss Pease; they looked so tempting. But I only took one.

_Bessie._ And I only tasted that.

_Jenny._ I only had one good bite.

_Sadie._ And we are poisoned!

_Bessie._ O, dear! poisoned!

_Jenny._ Yes, poisoned!

_Miss P._ How, poisoned?

_Sadie._ Mrs. Gabble says the vinegar was poisoned by Mr. Smith.

_Mrs. G._ Smith--vinegar--p'isoned! The land sakes! And I a good church member--and my washing--and poor Mr. Brown, tew. Well, I never! I'd have you to know that I bought no vinegar of Mr. Smith, I made my own.

_Sadie._ And your pickles were not poisoned?

_Mrs. G._ No, indeed. Never did such a thing in my life.

_Sadie._ O, dear! I'm so glad! (_Jumping up._)

_Bessie._ I won't have the ipecac. (_Rises._)

_Jenny._ My throat is decidedly better. (_Rises._)

_Enter_ JUNO _with a pail of water and a dipper._

_Juno._ Bress my soul, de pump was fastened down so tight couldn't git it up. Here's a pail of water; if dat won't do I'll git a tub.

_Miss P._ No matter, Juno. I think 'twill not be needed. Young ladies, I am very sorry--

_Sadie._ Please, Miss Pease, do not speak of it. I alone am to blame for transgressing your command, for such we should consider it, as you are for the present our guardian. Forgive me, and in future I will endeavour to control my appetite, and comply with your wishes.

_Mrs. G._ Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as--

_Miss P._ Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm, but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not approve.

_Mrs. G._ And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis.

_Enter_ SISSY GABBLE, L., _with a large slice of bread, covered with molasses._

_Sissy._ Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin, and I like bread, and 'latheth.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness, sure for sartin.

_Mrs. G._ Yes; and the 'lasses running all over the clothes! Come, Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles; and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry, Miss Pease, I left my washing.

_Miss P._ Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson.

_Sadie._ I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch.

_Jenny._ O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it.

_Bessie._ O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice!

_Jenny._ Yes, such a Precious Pickle!

_Mrs. G._ Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in town--precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for 'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing arter sermon.

_Sadie._ O, certainly; I've no doubt of it. But I've found that _stolen_ fruit is not the sweetest, and that mischievous fingers make trouble when they clutch what mine sought, and _made_ a Precious Pickle.

[_Curtain._]

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

MORRIS.

After once reading this sweet little poem, the student will need no prompting to teach him that it is not possible for him to deliver it with too much genuine emotion:

This book is all that's left me now! Tears will unbidden start,-- With faltering lip and throbbing brow, I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree; My mother's hand this Bible clasped; She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those Whose names those records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who learned God's word to hear. Her angel-face--I see it yet! What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried; Where all were false I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy: In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die.

ENLISTING AS ARMY NURSE.

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

"I want something to do."--This remark being addressed to the world in general, no one in particular felt it his duty to reply; so I repeated it to the smaller world about me, received the following suggestions, and settled the matter by answering my own inquiry, as people are apt to do when very much in earnest.

"Write a book," quoth my father.

"Don't know enough, sir. First live, then write."

"Try teaching again," suggested my mother.

"No, thank you, ma'am; ten years of that is enough."

"Take a husband like my Darby, and fulfil your mission," said Sister Jane, home on a visit.

"Can't afford expensive luxuries, Mrs. Coobiddy."

"Turn actress, and immortalize your name," said Sister Vashti, striking an attitude.

"I won't."

"Go nurse the soldiers," said my young neighbor, Tom, panting for "the tented field."

"I will!"

Arriving at this satisfactory conclusion, the meeting adjourned; and the fact that Miss Tribulation was available as army nurse went abroad on the wings of the wind.

In a few days a townswoman heard of my desire, approved of it, and brought about an interview with one of the sisterhood I wished to join, who was at home on a furlough, and able and willing to satisfy inquiries.

A morning chat with Miss General S.--we hear no end of Mrs. Generals, why not a Miss?--produced three results: I felt that I could do the work, was offered a place, and accepted it; promising not to desert, but to stand ready to march on Washington at an hour's notice.

A few days were necessary for the letter containing my request and recommendation to reach head-quarters, and another, containing my commission, to return; therefore no time was to be lost; and, heartily thanking my pair of friends, I hurried home through the December slush, as if the Rebels were after me, and, like many another recruit, burst in upon my family with the announcement,--"I've enlisted!"

An impressive silence followed. Tom, the irrepressible, broke it with a slap on the shoulder and the grateful compliment,--"Old Trib, you're a trump!"

"Thank you; then I'll _take_ something,"--which I did, in the shape of dinner, reeling off my news at the rate of three dozen words to a mouthful; and as every one else talked equally fast, and all together, the scene was most inspiring.

As boys going to sea immediately become nautical in speech, walk as if they already had their sea-legs on, and shiver their timbers on all possible occasions, so I turned military at once, called my dinner my rations, saluted all new-comers, and ordered a dress-parade that very afternoon.

Having reviewed every rag I possessed, I detailed some pieces for picket duty while airing on the fence; some to the sanitary influences of the wash-tub; others to mount guard in the trunk; while the weak and wounded went to the Work-basket Hospital, to be made ready for active service again.

To this squad I devoted myself for a week; but all was done, and I had time to get powerfully impatient before the letter came. It did arrive, however, and brought a disappointment along with its good-will and friendliness; for it told me that the place in the Armory Hospital that I supposed I was to take was already filled, and a much less desirable one at Hurly-burly House was offered instead.

"That's just your luck, Trib. I'll take your trunk up garret for you again; for of course you won't go," Tom remarked, with the disdainful pity which small boys affect when they get into their teens.

I was wavering in my secret soul; but that remark settled the matter, and I crushed him on the spot with martial brevity,--"It is now one; I shall march at six."

I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in pervading the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family swarming after me,--all working, talking, prophesying, and lamenting while I packed such of my things as I was to take with me, tumbled the rest into two big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut, and gave them in charge, with the direction,--"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them."

Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead of sugared by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack,--it was only a travelling-bag, but do let me preserve the unities,--hugged my family three times all round without a vestige of unmanly emotion, till a certain dear old lady broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort of wail,--"O my dear, my dear! how can I let you go?"

"I'll stay, if you say so, mother."

"But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you."

Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee matron's composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would have sent ten sons to the war, had she possessed them, as freely as she sent one daughter, smiling and flapping on the door-step till I vanished, though the eyes that followed me were very dim, and the handkerchief she waved was very wet.

My transit from The Gables to the village depot was a funny mixture of good wishes and good-bys, mud-puddles and shopping. A December twilight is not the most cheering time to enter upon a somewhat perilous enterprise; but I'd no thought of giving out, O, bless you, no!

When the ingine screeched "Here we are!" I clutched my escort in a fervent embrace, and skipped into the car with as blithe a farewell as if going on a bridal tour,--though I believe brides don't usually wear cavernous black bonnets and fuzzy brown coats, with a hair-brush, a pair of rubbers, two books, and a bag of gingerbread distorting the pockets.

If I thought that people would believe it, I'd boldly state that I slept from C. to B., which would simplify matters immensely; but as I know they wouldn't, I'll confess that the head under the funereal coal-hod fermented with all manner of high thoughts and heroic purposes "to do or die,"--perhaps both; and the heart under the fuzzy brown coat felt very tender with the memory of the dear old lady, probably sobbing over her army socks and the loss of her topsy-turvy Trib.

At this juncture I took the veil, and what I did behind it is nobody's business; but I maintain that the soldier who cries when his mother says "Good by" is the boy to fight best, and die bravest, when the time comes, or go back to her better than he went.

ONLY SIXTEEN.

"When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated.... and was found dead in the highway."--_Republican and Democrat of_ May 17.

Only sixteen, so the papers say, Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay; 'Tis the same sad story we hear every day-- He came to his death in the public highway. Full of promise, talent, and pride, Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died. Did not the angels weep over the scene? For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen, Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone: That of all his friends, not even one Was there to list to his last faint moan, Or point the suffering soul to the throne Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son Would say, "Whosoever will may come." But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene, With his God we leave him--only sixteen. Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought: Witness the suffering and pain you have brought To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well, And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned, And left him to die out there all alone. What if 'twere _your_ son instead of another? What if your wife were that poor boy's mother, And he only sixteen?

Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant The license to sell, do you think you will want That record to meet in the last great day, When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away, When the elements, melted with fervent heat, Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete? Will you wish to have his blood on your hands When before the great throne you each shall stand, And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right, To action and duty; into the light Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum." Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come; Strike killing blows; hew to the line; Make it a felony even to sign A petition to license; you would do it, I ween, If that were your son, and "only sixteen," Only sixteen.

THE WATCHWORD.

THE GRIDIRON.

THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FRENCHMAN.

_Patrick._ Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide world _are_ we? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant?

_Captain._ Tut, you fool; it's France.

_Patrick._ Tare and ouns! do you tell me so? and how do you know it's France, Captain dear?