Part 6

Somebody, too—I don’t say who—there was a certain Squire Darling, living in a certain town, about ten miles off, that did business, and asked no questions. Well, in the said town, just after sundown, a young man, named Joseph Morey, was walking near the meeten-house, with a sort of cream-coloured book under his arm; and he heard something in the woods, this side, that, if it wasn’t a hurricane, he’d give up guessing. Such a cracking, and squeaking, and rattling!—such a thrashing, and grunting, and snorting!—you never! He stopped, and looked back, and all soon came to light. There was an old white-faced horse came scrabbling along out of the woods, reeling and foaming, with an old wooded top shay at his tail, and a chap about my size flourishing a small beach-pole, pretty well boomed up at the end. And, says I, “Mister, can you tell me where one Squire Darling lives?”

“Which Squire Darling?” says he; “there’s two of the name.”

“His name is John,” says I.

“Faith,” says he, “they are both Johns too; but one is a lawyer, and the other a cooper.”

“O, it must be the lawyer that I want,” says I.

With this, the young man gave a squint at Hannah, and a wink at me; and “Come along,” says he, “I am going right there now, and I’ll show you the Squire, and fix things for ye.”

“Hannah,” says I, “that’s lucky.”

Well, he carried us into a small, one-story house, a little further on, full of books and dust, and smelling of strong, old dead tobacco-smoke. Here we sat down, while he went out about our business. We waited and waited, till long after dark, and were glad enough to see him come back at last with a candle. “The Squire is very sick,” says he, “but I have over-persuaded him.” And the next minute, Squire came grunting along in, all muffled by in a great-coat, and spectacles on, and a great tall woman, as witness for the bride.

Well, he went to work, and married us, and followed up with a right down sensible sermon, about multiplying and increasing on the earth; and I never felt so solemn and serious. Then followed kissing the bride all round, the certificate; and then I gave him two silver dollars, and we got into the shay again, and off.

After this, nothing happened, to speak of, for about a month. Everything was kept snug, and Captain Peabody had no suspicion; but one morning, at break of day, as I was creeping softly down Captain Peabody’s back-stairs, with my shoes in my hand, as usual, I trod into a tub of water, standing on the third step from the bottom, and down I came, slam bang. The Captain was going to kill his hogs, and had got up betimes; put his water to heat, and was whetting his butcher-knife in the kitchen.

The first thing I saw, when I looked up, there stood Captain Peabody, with a great butcher-knife in his hand, looking down upon me like a thundercloud! I want to know if I didn’t feel streaked! He clinched me by the collar, and stood me up; and then raised his knife over me, as far as he could reach. I thought my last moment was come. Blood would have been shed, as sure as rats, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Peabody. She stepped up behind, and laid hold of his arm; and says she, “It’s no matter, Mr. Peabody; they are married.”

“Married to that puppy?” roared the Captain.

“Yes, Sir,” said I; “and here’s the certificate.”

And I pulled it out of my jacket-pocket, and gave it to him; but I didn’t stay for any more ceremony. As soon as I felt his gripe loosen a little, I slid off like an eel, and backed out-doors, and made track home, about as fast as I could leg it. I was in a constant worry and stew all the forenoon, for fear the Captain would do anything rash; and I could neither sit still, nor stand still, eat, drink, or think.

About the middle of the afternoon, Dr. Dingley came bouncing in, out of breath, and says he, “John, you have been cheated and bamboozled. Your marriage ain’t worth that. It was all a contrivance of Jack Darling, the lawyer, and his two imps, Joe Morey and Peter Scamp.” This was all he could say, till he had wiped his face, and taken a swig of cider, to recover his wind; and then he gave me all the particulars.

When Captain Peabody had read my certificate, he could not rest, but tackled up, and drove right down, to let off his fury upon his old friend, Squire Darling. The moment he got sight of the Squire, he turned to and called him all the foul names he could lay his tongue to, for half an hour.

The Squire denied everything. The Captain downed the certificate, and says he, “There’s black and white against ye, you bloody old sculpen.”

The Squire knew the hand-writing was his nephew’s, as soon as he saw it, and the truth was brought to light; but as the storm fell in one quarter, it rose from the other. Squire Darling had smelt tar in his day, and hadn’t forgot how to box the compass; and as soon as the saddle was on the right horse, he set in and gave the Captain his own back again, and let him have it about nor-nor-west, right in his teeth, till he was fairly blown out. They shook hands then, and seeing Hannah and I had got under-weigh together, they said we must go to the Vice, and no time must be lost in making all fast in the lashings, with a good, fine square knot, before a change in the weather. So the Squire slicked up a little, got into the shay, and came home with the Captain, to hold the wedding that very night.

How Dr. Dingley happened to be in town, just at the time, I don’t know. It was his luck; and as soon as he saw which way the wind was, he licked up and cantered home in a hurry. After he had got through with the particulars, says he, “Now, Mr. Beedle, it’s none of my business; but if I had such a hitch upon Captain Peabody, I would hang back like a stone dray, till he agreed to back my note for two hundred dollars, in the Portland Bank, to buy goods with, enough to set you up in the store.”

I thought strong on this idea, as I was going over to Captain Peabody’s; but the moment I show the least symptoms of packing, such a storm was raised as never was seen. Father, and mother-in-law, and Squire Darling, set up such a yell altogether; and, poor Hannah, she sat down and cried. My heart failed me, and I made haste to give in and plead sorry, as quick as possible; and somehow, in my hurry, I let out that Dr. Dingley had set me on; and so was the innocent cause of his getting a most righteous licking, the first time Captain Peabody caught him. It wasn’t settled short of thirty dollars.

Well, Squire Darling stood us up, and married us about right, and here was an end of trouble. Mother-in-law would not part with Hannah, and she made father-in-law give us a settling out in the north end of his house. He could not stomach me very well for a while, but I have managed to get on the blind side of him. I turned right in to work on his farm, as steady and industrious as a cart-horse. And I kept on pleasing him in one way and another, more and more, till he has taken such a liking to me, that he wouldn’t part with me for a cow. He owns that I save him the hire of a help—out and out—the year round.

There—now I have done. I can’t patronise the newspapers any more. I have enough to do that is more profitable about home. Betwixt hard work in the fields, and chores about house and barn, and hog pens, I can’t call a minute my own, summer nor winter. And just so sartain as my wife sees me come in and set down to take a little comfort, just so sartain is she to come right up and give me a baby to hold.

Noty Binny. The stories that are going the rounds, from mouth to mouth, about my fust marriage, are all packs of lies, invented by Joe Morey and Peter Scamp, jest to make folk laugh at my expense.

[9] By W. J. McClintoch.

VII. JOHNNY BEEDLE’S THANKSGIVING.[10]

“I says,” says I, “Hannah, sposin we keep thanksgivin’ to home this year,” says I, “and invite all our hull grist o’ cousins, and aunts and things—go the hull figure, and do the thing genteel.”

“Well, agreed,” says she, “it’s just what I was a thinkin’, only I consate we’d better not cackliate too fur ahead, for I didn’t never no it to miss somethin’ happenin’ so sure as I laid out for the leastest thing. Though it’s as good a time now, far’s I know, as any—for I’ve just weanen Moses, and tend to take comfort a spell, ’cause a troublesomer cryiner critter niver come into life.”

“Exactly so,” says I, “and if I’d a known everything afore I was married that I do now,” says I—

“Hold your tongue for a goney, Johnny Beedle,” says she, “and mind your thanksgivin’.”

“Poh!” says I, “Hannah, don’t be miffy; I was only jeestin’—and you jist go and put on a kittle of water, and I’ll go out and stick a pig for you; two if you like.” So away I went and murdered the pigs out o’ love and good-will to Hannah. I rather guess the critters wished I warn’t so good-natured.

Well, things went on swimmingly, and what was best of all, we had the luck to invite the minister and deacon afore anybody got a chance; for the very moment the proklimation was read, I watched for em comin’ out of meeting, and nailed ’em both. But as I was a tellin’, Hannah, she went at it—she got some of her galls to help her, and they made all smoke. In the first place she went to work reg’lar, and turned the house inside out, and then t’other side in again, all the same as darnin’ a stocking. Hannah is a smart willin’ gall, and a rael worker, and a prime cook into the bargain; let her alone in the doughnut line, and for pumpkin pies—lick! So the day afore the thanksgivin’ she called me into the t’other room, that Marm Peabody christened the parlour, to see what a lot o’ pies and cakes, and sausage-meat and doughnuts she’d got made up, and charged me not to lay the weight of my finger upon one on ’em. I telled her I guessed she cackelated to call in the whole parish, paupers and all, to eat up sich a sight of vittles; so I grabbed a handful of doughnuts, and went out to feed the hogs, and to see to things in the field. I was gone all the fore part o’ the day, and when I went home I found Hannah all hoity toity, in a livin’ pucker cryin’, and taken on to kill, and poor little Moses tottling arter her and cryin’ too. I declare if I didn’t feel streaked.

“What in the name o’ natur,” says I, “is the matter? who’s dead, and what’s to pay now?”

With that she fetched a new screech, and down she whopped into a cheer.

“Johnny Beedle, Johnny,” says she, and with that she boohood agin.

“What ails the woman?” says I, “are you possest, or what?”

“The child is ruined!” says she, “Moses Beedle is ruined.”

I kitched up the child, and turned him eend for eend, every which way, but I couldn’t see nothin’ extraordinary. I began to think that the woman was bewitched, and by this time was a good mind to feel mad. I don’t know of nothin’ that’ll raise a feller’s dander quicker than to skeer him out of his seven senses. So I giv Hannah a reg’lar breezin’, for actin’ so like a raven distracted bed bug; and what with jarrin’ a spell and coaxin’ a spell, at last I got the whole on’t out of her.

It appears that about an hour or thereabouts arter I’d gone out, there was a man rid up to the door a horseback, got down, and come in and asked for a drink o’ water or beer, I ain’t sartain which—but anyhow he was a raal dandified chap, and dreadful civel spoken withal. So my wife and he soon got into a chat about the weather and sich things. Well, while he set, the young one squalled in the room; he’d been asleep, you know, with his mornin’s nap; my wife went and fetched him into the room, and she obsarved that the man looked considerable hard at him, as if he see’d somethin’ queer; tho’ she didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time, but recollected arterwards.

She was quite tickled to see the man take him and set him on his knee; but while he was a playin’ with him—for Moses is a raal peeler, he ain’t afeered of the biggest stranger that ever was—directly he fell to pawin’ about his head in sich a comical style, and talking to himself, and withal acted so curious, that Hannah got skeery, and went to take him away, but he wouldn’t let her take him just then; he said, “he wanted to examine his head.”

“His head!” says Hannah, “nothin’ ails his head.”

“Nothin’ ails it?” says he, “why it’s the most remarkable head that I’ve ever seen.” And then he went on with sich a string of long words, there was no memberin’ or understandin’ half—then he clapped his hand on the side of the little fellow’s sconce-box, “there,” says he, “do you see that _divilupment_;” or some sich word that sounded awful.

“That’s what?” says Hannah.

“Vulgarly called a bump,” continued he.

“It ain’t a bump too, nyther,” says his mother. “It’s his nat’rul shape.”

“No doubt of that,” said the villin.

“Well now, if ever I heard the beat o’ that,” says she, “that bump’s come nat’rul.”

So he told her they was only called bumps, ’cause they looked like ’em; and the bigger they were, and the more there was on ’em, the more different sorts of capacities and idees folks had—and so on.

At first she thought the man was stark mad; but he seemed entirely harmless, and so she let him go on with his stuff, and somehow he e’en a most persuaded her it was all gospel. He said little Moses had got the bump of destruction to an all-fired degree, tho’ it was in the mother’s power to help it considerable. But when Hannah asked him if she must swathe up his head he snortered right out; and then went on to say, that Moses had jist got sich a shaped head as the man had that was hung down to Boston last September. He finally talked her into a livin’ fidgit—polite as a stage-driver, all the time too, and so larnt, besides, that Hannah couldn’t do nothin’ but paraphrase. So arter he’d drinked a quart o’ beer, and Hannah cut a mince-pie for him, he cleared, leaving Hannah in such a stew, that kept workin’ up and workin’ up till she heered me comin’ into the house, and then it all burst out to once. A tempestical time there was, I tell you.

Now, by the time Hannah had finished her lockrum, you may depend I was in an almighty passion; and it was amazin’ lucky for the feller that he was out of arm’s length that minit. But then I understood it all better than she, for I’d seen, in the prints, pieces about Franology or Cranology, or some such stuff that seemed to explain to my mind what the feller meant. But poor Hannah don’t get much time to read newspapers, so that she hadn’t hearn a word. No wonder she took the man for a crazy critter.

Yet, somehow, when I looked at Moses, I couldn’t help consatin’ that his head looked sort o’ queer, tho’ I wouldn’t say nothin’ nyther; but, says I, “Hannah, look here, that feller that’s been treatin’ you to sich a rigmarole of nonsense is a rotten fool, and you’re another. If iver I should light ’pon him, I gess I would give his head a bump that would save him from the gallows. All is, if you think anything is the matter with the young one, why I’ll go arter the docter, and that’ll settle it.”

“Do, John,” says she.

So off I starts for Doctor Eldrich; but by the time I got to the house, I begun to think what a tarnation goose I was to go on such a tomfool’s arrent. By good luck, howsomever, the doctor was out; so I jist left word for him to come to our house in the course iv the day, if he had nothin’ else to do.

Thinks I, as I trudged back, here’s an end to thanksgiving. Well, to rights, Doctor Hosannah Eldrich, he’s a deacon of our church, and sings thro’ his nose a few. I declare, when I see him ridin’ up the lane I couldn’t help feelin’ like a thunderin’ calf; so I jist made excuse to split up some kindlin’, and left Hannah to give him the chapter and the varse. Our wood-house is short of a mile from the house; but I could hear the doctor’s haw-haw clear out there. So I dropped axe, and in I went. S’niver the Doctor see me he giv’ me a hunch.

“Ain’t yew a pretty considerable queer chap,” sez he, “to send for me on such a beautiful bizness as this?” With that he haw-haw’d agin; and my wife she laughed till she cried, jist to see the figer the Doctor cut, for he’s as long as the moral law, and couldn’t stand up for laughin’.

Then I laughed tu, till the house rung; luckily our nearest neighbour lives a half a mile off, and is stone deaf into the bargain. So I tipt the wink to Hannah, and tell’d Hosannah ’twas all a joke of our’n to send for him; (for I thought I should look corner ways and skwywoniky if he should tell the company about us nixt day. Besides, I know’d the Deacon liked a joke pretty well, even if he got rubbed sometimes). So, says I, “How did Hannah carry it out?” Consarn it, if he didn’t jump right into the trap.

“Capital! capital!” said he. “Botheration, if I didn’t think she was in raal arnest!”

[10] By W. L. McClintoch.

VIII. AUNT NABBY’S STEWED GOOSE.

It was my Aunt Nabby’s birthday, and she was bent upon having a stewed goose, stewed in onions, and with cabbage and salt pork to match.

“Pollijah,” said she to me, “ain’t we got a goose ’bout the farm?”

“No,” said I, “we eat the old gander at Christmas, and he was the last of the patriarchs.”

Aunt Nabby went down to Sue, who was getting breakfast.

“Susanna,” said she, “the boy tells how we ain’t got a goose in creation. Now what shall we do?”

“Go without,” replied Susanna, with that amiable tone which father said had worn off her teeth to the gums.

But Aunt Nabby was bent upon a goose, and when such a stiff and straight person gets bent upon anything, you may consider the matter settled, and I saw that a goose of some kind would be had at some rate or other.

“Here, you crittur,” cried Aunt Nabby to the little black specimen of the human family which was digging potatoes in the garden, “here, I want you to go along to the neighbours, and borra a goose.” Cato laid down his hoe, got over the fence, and shovelled off on his broad pedestals to get a goose.

The first house that Cato came to was that of Sam Soap, the tailor, commonly called Soft Soap. Into the shop went the Yankeefied negro, and making a leg to Mr. Soap, who sat like a Hindoo idol, busily employed in patching an old blue coat with still older brown rags, and humming most mournfully the air of “Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,” giving it a nasal twang that came direct from Jedediah Soap, who was a member of the Long Parliament.

“Soap,” says Cato, “you haan’t got no goose, nor nothin’, haan’t ye, for Aunt Nabby?”

Soap was a literal (not literary) man, who as he called his daughter Propriety, and having but one eye, was likewise called Justice, that is by some that were classical. “Priety,” says he, “gin Cato the largest goose.”

Priety, like a good girl, went into the other room, and arter some time returned with one, well enveloped and carefully wrapped up in paper, telling Cato to be as careful as everlasting not to get it wet; and away went the web-footed mortal to deliver his charge to Susanna.

“My gracious!” said Sue, “if that are niggar ain’t brought me a tough feller to stew!”

But nevertheless, as her business was to stew the goose and ask no questions, at it she went, and pretty soon the tailor’s treasure was simmering among onions, and carrots, and cabbages, and turnips, and spices, all as nice as need be. After breakfast, Aunt Nabby had gone abroad to ask in the neighbours, and when she came home, she went of course directly into the kitchen to see how the goose came on.

“Is it tender, Susanna?” said she.

Susanna smiled so sweetly, that the old house-clock in the corner next the cupboard stopped and held up its hand. “Oh, Ma’am,” replied Susanna, “it’s so tender, that I guess it won’t be the more tender arter being biled.”

“And fat?”

“Oh, bless you! it’s so broad across the back.”

My Aunt’s mouth watered so, that she was forced to look at Susanna, to correct the agreeable impression.

Well, noon came and the neighbours began to drop in. First came the parson, who being a man of vast punctuality, took out his watch as soon as he came in, and for the purpose of seeing how it chimed, as he said, with the old clock, walked into the kitchen, bade Miss Susanna good day, hoped she continued well in body, and snuffed up the sweet flavours of the preparing sacrifice with expanded nostrils. Next to the Minister came the Squire, he opened the front door, and seeing no one but me.

“Pollijah,” he said, “when ’ill that are goose be done? ’cause I’m everlastin’ busy, settlin’ that hay-mow case, and I’d like to know—”

“Ready now, Squire,” answered the Parson, opening the kitchen-door; “and I guess it’s an uncommon fine one too, so walk in and let’s have a chat.”

The Squire entered, and he and the Minister had a considerable spell of conversation about the hay-mow case. The case was this: Abijah Biggs got leave to carry his hay across Widow Stokes’s field to the road; well, this hay-mow had dropped off the poles, and Widow Stokes claimed it as a waif and stray.

“Now,” says the Squire, “I conceit the chief pint in the case is this here; has Widow Stokes a right to this hay? Now this ’ill depend, ye see, ’pon t’other point, to wit, _videlicet_, does the hay belong to Bijah? Now the Widow says, says she, ‘every man in this country’s free, and therefore every man in this country is a king, jist as far as his farm goes. Now the king, all allow, has a right to waifs and strays; and so,’ says Widow Stokes, ‘that are hay is mine.’ ‘But,’ says Bijah—and by jinks, it’s a cute argument; ‘but,’ says he, ‘tho’ every man in this land of liberty is a free man, yet that doesn’t prove that every woman is, and _per contra_, we know that women don’t vote, and of course ain’t free; so,’ says he, ‘the Widow Stokes ain’t a king; so,’ says he, ‘the hay ain’t hern.’ But’s a puzzlin’ case, ain’t it?”

“Well, now,” answered the minister, “it strikes me that hay ain’t astray.”

“Well,” said the Squire, “there’s a pint I never thinked of.”

Just then in came the Deacon, and after him the sexton, and so on till pretty much all the aristocratic democracy of the village had assembled. And then in bustled Aunt Nabby, awful fine I tell you; and then Susanna and Cato began to bring in dinner. And while they were doing that, the company all took a stiff glass of grog by way of appetite, and then stroked down their faces and looked at the table, and there was a pig roast and stuffed, and a line of veal, and two old hens, and an everlastin’ sight of all kinds of sarce, and pies, and puddins, and doughnuts, and cider, and above all, at the head of the table, the dish in which lay the hero of the day—that are goose, smothered in onions, and utterly hid beneath the load of carrots and cabbages. The seat next the goose was assigned to the Minister, and all sat down.

The Squire flourished his fork, and pounced upon the pig; the Deacon he tackeled to at the veal, while the sexton went seriously to work to exhume a piece of pork from amid an avalanche of beans. The Minister, with a spoon, gently stirred away a few carrots and onions, in hopes of thus coming at the goose.

“It smells remarkably fine,” says he, to Aunt Nabby.

“It’s particularly fine and tender,” says she; “I picked it myself from a whole heap.”

And still the Minister poked, till at last his spoon grated upon a hard surface.

“A skewer, I guess!” and plunging his fork into the onion mass, he struggled to raise the iron handle with which he had joined issue.

“Bless me!” cried Aunt Nabby, “what’s that are?”

“I should judge,” said the Squire, “that are was an old goose.”

“Gracious me!” exclaimed the Deacon.