Part 4

And I had to get up, and cook his breakfast, before daylight; feelin’ like a fool, too, for he had kept me awake all night, a-most, a-walkin’ ’round the house, a-lookin’ at the clock, to see what time it wus; and, if he said to me once, he said thirty times durin’ the night:

“It would be jest my luck to have somebody get in ahead of me to the cars, and undermind me at the last minute, and get ’em away from us.”

Says I, in a dry tone (not as dry as I had used sometimes, but dryish):

“I guess there won’t be no danger, Josiah.”

Wal, at about a-quarter to seven he driv’ up with ’em; a tall, waspish-lookin’ woman, and four children; the man they said wouldn’t be there till Saturday night. I thought the woman had a singular look to her: I thought so when I first sot my eyes on her. And the oldest boy, about thirteen years old, he looked awful curious. I thought, to myself, as they walked up to the house, side by side, that I never, in all my hull life, seed a waspisher and more spindliner-lookin’ woman and a curiouser, stranger-lookin’ boy. The three children that come along behind ’em, seemed to be pretty much of a size, and looked healthy, and full of witchcraft, as we found afterward, they indeed was.

Wal, I had a hard tussle of it, through the day, to cook and do for ’em. Their appetites wus tremendous, ’specially the woman and oldest boy. They wuzn’t healthy appetites, I could see that in a minute. Their eyes would look holler and hungry, and they would look voraciously at the empty, deep dishes, and tureens, after they had eat them all empty—eat enough for four men.

Why, it did beat all: Josiah looked at me, in silent wonder and dismay, as he see the vittles disappear before the woman and boy. The other three children eat about as common, healthy children do: about twice what Josiah and me did. But there wuzn’t nothin’ mysterious about ’em. But, the woman and Bill—that was the biggest boy’s name—they made me feel curious; curiouser than I had ever felt. For, truly, I thought to myself, if their legs and arms hain’t holler, how do they hold it?

It wus, to me, a new and interestin’ spectacle, to be studied over, and philosophized upon; but, to Josiah, it was a canker, as I see the very first meal. I could see by the looks of his face, that them two appetites of theirn was sunthin’ he hadn’t reckoned and calculated on; and I could see, plain, havin’ watched the changes of my companion’s face, as close as astronimers watch the moon, I could see them two appetites of theirn wus a-wearin’ on him.

Wal, I thought mebby they was kinder starved out, comin’ right from a city boardin’-house, and a few of my good meals would quell ’em down. But, no; instead of growin’ lighter, them two appetites of theirn seemed, if possible, to grow consuminer and consuminer, though I cooked lavish and profuse, as I always did. They devoured everything before ’em, and looked hungry at the plates and tablecloth.

And Josiah looked on in perfect agony, I knew. (He is very close). But he didn’t say nothin’. And it seemed so awful mysterious to me, that I would get perfectly lost, and by the side of myself, a-reasonin’ and philosophizin’ on it, whether their legs wus holler, or not holler. And, if they wus holler, how they could walk ’round on ’em; and if they wuzn’t holler, where the vittles went to.

“Will they never stop eatin’?” said Josiah, and he got madder every day. He vowed he would charge extra.

It was after we went to bed, that he said this. But I told him to talk low; for her room wus jest over ours, and says I, in a low but firm axent:

“Don’t you do no such thing, Josiah Allen. Do you realize how it would look? What a sound it would have in the community? You agreed to take ’em for four dollars, and they’d call it mean.”

“Wal!” he hollered out. “Do you s’pose I am goin’ to board people for nothin’? I took men and wimmen and children to board. I didn’t agree to board elephants and rhinoceroses and hippopotamuses and whales and sea serpents. And I won’t neither, unless I have my pay for it; it wuzn’t in the bill.”

“Do you keep still, Josiah Allen,” I whispered. “She’ll hear you calling her a sea-serpent.”

“Let her hear me. I say, agin, it wuzn’t in the bill!” He hollered this out louder than ever. I s’pose he meant it wuzn’t in the bargain; but he was nearly delirious. He is close, I can’t deny it; nearly tight.

But, jest that minute, before I could say a word, we heard an awful noise, right over our heads. It sounded as if the hull roof had fallen in.

Says Josiah, leaping out of bed, “The old chimbley has fell in.”

“No!” says I, follerin’ him, “It is the roof.”

And we both started for up stairs, on a run.

I sent him back from the head of the stairs, howsomever; for, in the awful fright he hadn’t realized his condition, and wuzn’t dressed. I waited for him at the top of the stairway; for, to tell you the truth, I dassent go on. He hurried-on his clothes, and he went on ahead, and there she lay; there Miss Danks wus, on the floor, in a historical fit.

Josiah, thinkin’ she was dead, run in and ketched her up, and went to put her on the bed; and she, just as they will in historicks, clawed right into his hair, and tore out almost all he had on the nigh side. Then she struck him a feerful blow on the off eye and made it black and blue for a week. She didn’t know what she was about. She wuzn’t to blame, though the hair was a great loss to him, and I won’t deny it. Wal, we stood over her, most all night, to keep the breath of life in her. And the oldest boy bein’ skairt, it brought on some fits he wus in the habit of havin’, a sort of fallin’ fits. He’d fall anywhere; he fell onto Josiah twice that night, almost knocked him down; he was awful large of his age. Dredful big and fat. It seemed as if there was sunthin’ wrong about his heft, it was so oncommon hefty, for a boy of his age. He looked bloated. His eyes, which was a pale blue, seemed to be kinder sot back into his head, and his cheeks stood out below, some like balloons. And his mouth wus kinder open a good deal of the time, as if it was hard work for him to breathe. He breathed thick and wheezy, dredful oncomfortable. His complexion looked bad, too; sallow, and sort o’ tallery lookin’. He acted dreadful lazy, and heavy at the best of times, and in them fits he seemed to be as heavy as lead.

Wal, that wus the third night after they got there; and, from that night, as long as they staid, she had the historicks, frequent and violent; and Bill had his fallin’ fits; and you wouldn’t believe unless you see it, how many things that boy broke, in fallin’ on ’em in them fits. It beat all, how unfortunate he wus. They always come onto him unexpected, and it seemed as if they always come onto him while he wus in front of sunthin’ to smash all to bits. I can’t begin to tell how many things he destroyed, jest by them fits: finally, I says to Josiah, one day, says I:

“Did you ever see, Josiah Allen, anybody so unlucky as that boy is in his fits: seems as if he’ll break everything in the house, if it goes on.”

Says he: “It’s a pity he don’t break his cussed neck.”

I don’t know as I wus ever more tried with Josiah Allen than I wus then, or ever give him a firmer, eloquenter lecture, against swearin’. But, in my heart I couldn’t help pityin’ him, for I knew Bill had jest fell onto some tomato-plants, of a extra kind, and set out, and broke ’em short off. And it wus only the day before, that he fell, as he was lookin’ at the colt; it was only a week old; but it was a uncommon nice one, and Josiah thought his eyes of it; and Bill wus admirin’ of it; there wuzn’t nothin’ ugly about him; but a fit come on, and he fell right onto the colt, and the colt, not expectin’ of it, and bein’ entirely unprepared, fell flat down, and the boy on it. And the colt jest lived, that is all. Josiah says it never will be worth anythin’; he thinks it broke sunthin’ inside.

As I said, there wuzn’t nothin’ ugly about the boy. He’d be awful sorry, when he broke things, and flatted ’em all out a-fallin’ on ’em. All I blamed him for, wus in prowlin’ ’round so much. I thought then, and I think still, that seein’ he knew he had ’em, and wus liable to have ’em, he’d have done better to have kept still, and not tried to get ’round so much. But, his mother said he felt restless and oneasy. I couldn’t help likin’ the boy. And when he fell right into my bread, that wus a-risin’, and spilt the hull batch—and when he fell unto the parlor table, and broke the big parlor lamp, and everything else that wus on it—and when he fell onto a chicken-coop, and broke it down, and killed a hull brood of chickens—and more than fifty other things, jest about like ’em—why, I didn’t feel like scoldin’ him. I s’pose it wus my lofty principles that boyed me up; them and the thought that would come to me, another time; mebby Josiah Allen will heer to me, another time; mebby he will get sick of summer boarders, and takin’ of ’em in.

THE SUFFERENS OF NATHAN SPOONER.

Says I, “Josiah Allen, if there was a heavy fine to pay for shettin’ up doors, you wouldn’t never lose a cent of your property in that way,” and says I clutchin’ my lap full of carpet rags with a firmer grip, for truly, they wus flutterin’ like banners in the cold breeze, “if you don’t want me to blow away, Josiah Allen, shet up that door.”

“Oh, shaw! Samantha, you won’t blow away, you are too hefty. It would take a Hurrycane, and a Simon, too, to tackle, and lift you.”

“Simon who?” says I, in cold axents, cauzed partly by my frigid emotions and partly by the chilly blast, and partly by his darin’ to say any man could take me up and carry me away.

“Oh! the Simons they had on the desert; I’ve hearn Thomas J. read about ’em. They’ll blow camels away, and everything.”

Says I, dreamily, “Who’d have thought, twenty yeers ago, to heard that man a-courtin’ me, and callin’ me a zephire, and a pink posy, and a angel, that he’d ever live to see the day he’d call me a camel.”

“I hain’t called you a camel. I only meant that you was hefty, and camels wus hefty. And it would take a Simon or two to lift you ’round, either on you.”

“Wall,” says I, in frigid tones, “what I want to know is, are you a-goin’ to shet that door?”

“Yes, I be, jist as quick as I can change my clothes. I don’t want to fodder in these new briches.”

I rose with dignity, or as much dignity as I could lay holt of half bent, tryin’ to keep ten or twelve quarts of carpet rags from spillin’ over the floor—and went and shet the door myself, which I might have known enough to done first place and saved time and breath. For shettin’ of in the doors is truly a accomplishment that Josiah Allen never will master. I have tuched him up in lots of things, sense we wus married, but in that branch of education he has been too much for me; I about gin up.

In the course of ten or fifteen moments, Josiah came out of the bed-room, lookin’ as peaceful and pleasant as you may please, with his hands in his pantaloons pockets searchin’ their remote depths, and says he, in a off-hand, careless way:

“I’ll be hanged, if there hain’t a letter for you, Samantha.”

“How many weeks have you carried it ’round, Josiah Allen?” says I. “It would scare me if you should give me a letter before you had carried it ’round in your pockets a month or so.”

“Oh! I guess I only got this two or three days ago. I meant to handed it to you the first thing when I got home. But I hain’t had on these old breeches sense that day I went to mill.”

“Three weeks ago, to-day,” says I, in almost frosty axents, as I opened my letter.

“Wall,” says Josiah, cheerfully, “I knew it wuzn’t long, anyway!”

I glanced my gray eye down my letter, and says I, in agitated tones:

“She that was Alzina Ann Allen is comin’ here a-visitin’. She wrote me three weeks ahead, so’s to have me prepared. And here she is liable to come in on us any minute, now, and ketch us all unprepared,” says I. “I wouldn’t have had it happen for a ten-cent bill, to had one of the relations, on your side, come and ketch me in such a condition. Then the curtains are all down in the spare room. I washed ’em yesterday, and they hain’t ironed. And the carpet in the settin’-room up to mend; and not a mite of fruit cake in the house, and she a-comin’ here to-day. I am mortified ’most to death, Josiah Allen. And if you’d give me that letter, I should have hired help, and got everything done. I should think your conscience would smart like a burn, if you have got a conscience, Josiah Allen.”

“Wall, less have a little sunthin’ to eat, Samantha, and I’ll help ’round.”

“Help! What’ll you do, Josiah Allen?”

“Oh! I’ll do the barn chores, and help all I can. I guess you’d better cook a little of that canned sammon, I got to Janesville.”

Says I, coldly, “I believe, Josiah Allen, if you wus on your way to the gallus, you make ’em stop and get vittles for you, meat vittels, if you could.”

I didn’t say nothin’ more, for, as the greatest poets has sung, “the least said, the soonest mended.” But I ’rose, and with outward calmness, put on the tea kettle and potatoes, and opened the can of salmon, and jist as I put that over the stove, with some sweet cream and butter, if you’ll believe it, that very minute, she that was Alzina Ann Allen drove right up to the door, and come in.

You could have knocked me down with a hen’s feather (as it were) my feelin’s wus such; but I concealed ’em as well as I could, and advanced to the door, and says I:

“How do you do, Miss Richerson?”—she is married to Jenothen Richerson, old Daniel Richerson’s oldest boy.

She is a tall, “spindlin’ lookin’” women, light complected, sandy-haired, and with big, light blue eyes. I hadn’t see her for nineteen yeers, but she seemed dredful tickled to see me, and says she:

“You look younger, Samantha, than you did the first time I ever seen you.”

“Oh, no!” says I, “that can’t be, Alzina Ann, for that is in the neighborhood of thirty years ago.”

Says she, “It is true as I live and breathe; you look younger and handsomer than I ever see you look.”

I didn’t believe it, but I thought it wouldn’t look well to dispute her any more, so I let it go; and mebby she thought she had convinced me that I did look younger than I did, when I was eighteen or twenty. But I only said, “That I didn’t feel so young anyway. I had spells of feelin’ mauzer.”

She took off her things, she was dressed up awful slick, and Josiah helped bring in her trunk. And I told her just how mortified I wus about Josiah’s forgettin’ her letter, and her ketchin’ me unprepared. But, good Lord! she told me that she never in her hull life see a house in the order mine wus, never, and she had seen thousands and thousands of different houses.

Says I, “I feel worked up, and almost mortified, about my settin’-room carpet bein’ up.”

But she held up both hands (they wus white as snow, and all covered with rings). And says she, “If there is one thing that I love to see, Samantha, more than another, it is to see a settin’-room carpet up, it gives such a sort of a free, noble look to a room.”

Says I, “The curtains are down in the spare bed-room, and I am almost entirely out of cookin’.”

Says she, “If I had my way, I never would have a curtain up to a window. The sky always looks so pure and innocent somehow. And cookin’,” says she, with a look of complete disgust on her face. “Why, I fairly despise cookin’; what’s the use of it?” says she, with a sweet smile.

“Why,” says I, reesonably, “if it wasn’t for cookin’ vittles and eatin’ ’em, guess we shouldn’t stand it a great while, none on us.”

I didn’t really like the way she went on. Never, never, through my hull life, was I praised up by anybody as I wus by her, durin’ the three days that she stayed with us. And one mornin’, when she had been goin’ on dretfully, that way, I took Josiah out one side, and told him; “I couldn’t bear to hear her go on so, and I believed there was sunthin’ wrong about it.”

“Oh, no,” says he. “She means every word she says,” says he. “She is one of the loveliest creeters this earth affords. She is most a angel. Oh!” says he, dreamily, “what a sound mind she has got.”

Says I, “I heard her tellin’ you this mornin’, that you wus one of the handsomest men she ever laid eyes on, and didn’t look a day over twenty-one.”

“Well,” says he, with the doggy firmness of his sect. “She thinks so,” and says he, in firm axents, “I am a good lookin’ feller, Samantha. A crackin’ good-lookin’ chap, but I never could make you own up to it.”

I didn’t say nothin’, but my grey eye wandered up, and lighted on his bald head. It rested there searchinly, and very coldly for a moment or two, and then says I, sternly; “Bald heads and beauty don’t go together worth a cent. But you wus always vain, Josiah Allen.”

Says he, “What if I wus?” and says he, “She thinks different from what you do about my looks. She has got a keen eye on her head for beauty. She is very smart, very. And what she says, she means.”

“Wall,” says I, “I am glad you are so happy in your mind. But, mark my words, you won’t always feel so neat about it, Josiah Allen, as you do now.”

Says he, in a cross, surly way; “I guess I know what I do know.”

I hain’t a yaller hair in the hull of my foretop, but I thought to myself, I’d love to see Josiah Allen’s eyes opened; for I knew as well as I knew my name was Josiah Allen’s wife, that that woman didn’t think Josiah wus so pretty and beautiful. But I didn’t see how I was goin’ to convince him, for he wouldn’t believe me when I told him, she wus a makin’ of it; and I knew she would stick to what she had said, and so there it wus. But I hold firm, and cooked good vittles, and done well by her.

That very afternoon we wus invited to tea, that wus Sylphina Allen’s, Miss Nathen Spooner’s, us and Alzina Ann Allen. Sylphina didn’t use to be the right sort of a girl. She wus a kind of helpless, improvenden thing, and threw herself away on a worthless, drunken feller, that she married for her first husband, though Nathen Spooner wus a dyin’ for her, even then. But when her drunken husband died, and she wus left with that boy of hers, about six years old, she up and jined the Methodist church. I didn’t use to associate with her at all, and Josiah didn’t want me to, though she wus a second cousin on his father’s side. But folks began to make much of her. So I and Josiah did everything for her we could, to help her do well, and be likely. And last fall, she wus married to Nathen Spooner, who hadn’t forgotten her in all this time.

They make a likely couple, and I shouldn’t wonder if they do well. Nathen Spooner is bashful; he looks as if he wanted to sink if any one speaks to him; but Sylphina is proud-spirited and holds him up.

They hain’t got a great deal to do with, and Sylphina bein’ kind o’ afraid of Alzina Ann, sent over and borrowed her mother-in-law’s white-handled knives, and, unbeknown to Alzina Ann, I carried her over some tea-spoons, and other things for her comfort, for if Sylphina means to do better, and try to git along, and be a provider, I want to encourage her all I can, so I carried her the spoons.

Wall, no sooner had we got seated over to Mrs. Spooner’ses, than Alzina Ann begun:

“How much!—how much that beautiful little boy looks like you, Mr. Spooner,” she cried, and she would look first at Nathen, and then at the child, with that enthusiastic look of her’s.

Sylphina’s face wus red as blood, for the child looked as like her first husband as two peas, and she knowed that Nathen almost hated the sight of the boy, and only had him in the house for her sake. And truly, if Nathen Spooner could have sunk down through the floor into the seller, right into the potato bin or pork barrel, it would have been one of the most blessed reliefs to him that he ever enjoyed. I could see that by his countenance.

If she had just said what she had to say, and then left off; but Alzina Ann never’ll do that; she had to enlarge in her idees, and she would ask Sylphina if she didn’t think her boy had the same noble, handsome look to him that Nathen had. And Sylphina would stammer, and look annoyed more’n ever, and get as red in the face as a red woollen shirt. And then Alzina Ann, looking at the child’s pug nose, and then at Nathen’s, which was a sort of Roman one, and the best feetur in his face, as Josiah says, would ask Nathen if folks hadn’t told him before how much his little boy resembled his pa. And Nathen would look this way and that, and kind o’ frown; and it did seem as if we couldn’t keep him out of the seller, to save our lives. And there it wuz.