Scene.—Monday at the Allen’s.—Mrs. Allen kneading bread. Tirzah Ann washing at the washtub.—Widder Doodle picking over beans.—Elder Peedick sitting in the corner arranging a book of manuscript sermons.

Wid. D. Oh how much these beans makes me think of Doodle. He died, Doodle did, and was a corpse just as quick as he died; but I never can forget that dear man, nor his linement never. And it hain’t no ways likely that I shall ever marry agin’.

Sam. Cheer up, Widder Doodle, cheer up. You’ll disturb the Elder, and he wants to get his sermons all pinned together before he starts; and Josiah is out after the horse now. I am glad you stayed over Sunday with us Elder.

Elder. I thank you, Madam. (He goes on with his work, speaking to himself): Let me see, where is the 20thly?

Wid. D. Could you forget your Josiah, if you lived to be his relict?

Sam. No; I loved Josiah Allen, though why I loved him, I know not. But in the immortal words of the poet, “Love will go where it is sent.” Yes, Tirzah Ann, I married your pa in mother’s parlor, on the 14th day of June, in a brown silk dress with a long boddist waist, from pure love. And that love has been like a beacon in our pathway ever since. Its pure light, though it has sputtered some, and in trying times, such as washing days and cleaning house, has burnt down pretty low—has never gone out. Tirzah Ann, look at your father’s wristbands and collar, and see if you can see any streaks of white on ’em. Now Tirzah Ann, you are inclined to be sentimental. You took it from your pa. Josiah Allen, if he was encouraged, would act spoony. I remember when we were first engaged he called me a little angel. I just looked at him and says I, I weigh 204 pounds by the stillyards; and he didn’t call me so agin. I guess he tho’t 204 pounds would make a pretty hefty angel. No, Tirzah Ann, sentiment hain’t my style; reason and common sense are my themes. Now there is Betsey Bobbett: she is one of the sentimentolest creeters that ever I did see. She is awful opposed to women’s rights. She says it looks so sweet and genteel, somehow, for wimmin to not have any rights. She says it is wimmen’s only spear to marry. But as yet she hain’t found any man willin’ to lay hold of that spear with her. But she is always a talking about how sweet it is for wimmin to be like runnin’ vines, a clingin’ to man like ivy to a tree.

Elder. (in a stately way) Them are my sentiments, Mrs. Allen. As I remarked yesterday in my tenthly, “Marriage is wimmen’s only spear.” And as I remarked in my fourteenthly, “How sweet, how heavenly the sight, to see a lovely woman clinging like a sweet, twining, creeping vine to a man’s manly strength.”

Wid. D. It is pretty to see it; I love to cling; I used to cling to Doodle.

Elder. I wish I had known Doodle; he must have been a happy man.

Sam. But, Elder, how is a woman to cling if she hain’t nothin’ to cling to. What are the wimmen to do whose faces are as humbly as a plate of cold greens? Is such a woman to go out into the street and collar a man and order him to marry her? Now I say a woman hadn’t ort to marry unless she has a man to marry to—a man whose love satisfies her head and her heart; some men’s love hain’t worth nothin’. I wouldn’t give a cent a bushel for it by the car load. But I mean a man that suits her; a man she seems to belong to, just like North and South America jined by nater, unbeknown to them ever since creation. She’ll know him if she ever sees him, jest as I knew my Josiah, for their two hearts will suit each other jest like the two halves of a pair of shears. These are the marriages heaven signs the certificuts of; and this marryin’ for a home, or for fear of bein’ called a old maid is no more marriage in the sight of God, no more true marriage than the blush of a fashionable woman that is bought for ten cents an ounce and carried home in her pocket, is true modesty.

Elder. I can only repeat what I said yesterday in my 21stly. That it is flyin’ in the face of the Bible for a woman not to marry. It is heaven’s design that women should be a vine, and man a tree.

Wid. D. I always thought my Doodle was a tree. I knew he was.

Sam. Well Elder, your wife is jest dead with the tyfus, and I ask you this queston. Are you willing to let Betsey Bobbett cling to you? She believes jest as you do, and she is fairly dying to make a runnin’ vine of herself; and are you willing to be a tree?

Elder. Wall—as it were—Mrs. Allen—I—that is—the religious state of the country at present is—as it were—

Sam. Are you willing to be a tree?

Elder. I believe Mrs. Allen you are a strong Grant woman. Now I favor Blaine.

Sam. Are you willing to be a tree?

Elder. I guess I’ll go to the barn and get my saddle bags.

Sam. I knew jest how it would be; I knew he wouldn’t be a tree.

Tirz. A. Wall; I don’t blame him mother. You ought to have seen Betsey last night to meetin’. She got up to talk, and she would look right at Elder Peedick, and then at the editor of the Augur, and at Simon Slimpsey, and says she: I know I am religious because I feel that I love the bretheren. I don’t blame him.

Sam. No, nor I nuther. I don’t want a man to be a tree, unless they want to, and I want them to use reason and not insist on every woman makin’ a vine of herself. But the Elder means middlin’ well, and he’d make a tolerable good husband for some woman.

Wid. D. It haint no ways likely I shall ever marry again. No other man’s linement can ever look to me like my Doodle’s linement.

Sam. But the Elder has belated us dreadfully with our Monday’s work. Here it is most night and we have only fairly got to work. But we can finish it in the morning. Yes, as I was a saying Tirzah Ann, Betsey hain’t handsome, her cheek bones are too high, and she, being not much more than skin and bone, they show more than if she was in good order. Time has seen fit to deprive her of her hair and teeth, but her large nose he has kindly suffered her to keep. I have seen a good many that was sentimental that had it bad; but Betsey has got it the worst of anybody I ever did see, unless it is her brother Shakespeare, and he acts as spoony round you, Tirzah Ann, as any spoon on my buttery shelves. It worrys me.

Wid D. My Doodle used to act spoony, as spoony as—as a teaspoon.

Sam. Wall if I thought there was any danger, Tirzah Ann, of you falling in love with Shakespeare Bobbett, I’d give you a good thoroughwort puke. That will cure most anybody if you take it in time.

Tirz. A. Wall, I guess there hain’t no chance, mother.

Sam. Wall, mabby not. Now you wring the clothes out, Tirzah Ann, and hang ’em right up here on the line.

Tirz. A. They will look awfully, mother, hangin’ up here. We shall look as if we was settin’ in a wet calico tent.

Sam. I don’t care, Tirzah Ann, we are so beat out we shall go to bed as soon as it is dark.

Tirz. A. We shall have to any way, for father forgot to take the kerosine can, and there hain’t a lamp in the house that we can light. But oh, dear, how it does look here, mother. I never in my hull life see our house look as it does to-night. It would mortify me most to death if any body should come in.

Sam. Wall, there hain’t no danger of anybody comin’ Monday; and we will slick up the first thing in the morning. But bein’ up all night with Thomas Jefferson, and then havin’ to wait on the Elder, and doin’ our Monday’s work in the atternoon, has about used me up, and if you think you can finish up Tirzah Ann, I will soak my feet and go to bed. I am afraid I am goin’ to be awful sick. I feel sick to my stomach all of a sudden, and every bit of noise goes through my head like a sword.

Wid. D. Let me get you some warm water, Samantha. Here, put your feet right into it; and here, put your night-cap on. Oh dear me, how much that sickness to the stomach makes me think of Doodle. Do you feel better, Samantha?

Sam. I shan’t feel any better till I get to bed.

Tirz. A. Why, what is the matter father?

Josiah (groaning). Oh! I have been took with a dumb creek in my back. Give me some of that linement quick, and rub it onto my shoulders, Tirzah Ann. What is the matter with your mother? Is she sick?

Wid. D. Oh yes; Samantha is awful sick—took sudden—and there is Thomas J. up stairs sick abed. If there was ever a distressed house, this is the house.

Tirz. A. It looks distressed, anyway.

Wid. D. Josiah, won’t you try some of the Green Mounting salve?

Josiah. Oh! I don’t know; I can’t set down, or stand up; I am awful bad off. I want to get to bed as soon as I can.

Wid. D. Try the Green Mounting salve, brother Josiah; and oh how much that salve makes me think——(looking out the window)

Tirz. A. Why, for mercy’s sake! Who is coming? There is a whole house-full of folks on the door-step. (Tirzah Ann and the Widder Doodle runs out of the room, as the door opens, and ten or fifteen people come in, headed by Betsey Bobbett. Josiah tries to fix his shirt and vest round his shoulders before they get in but he can’t, so he dives under the table. Samantha stands her ground. She stands up and confronts them.)

Betsey B. We have come to surprise you! And in order to more sweetly surprise you, we have come Monday night, and come early. Will you not let us surprise you?

Sam. No! no! We will not be surprised! You shan’t surprise us to-night! We won’t be surprised! Speak, Josiah; tell her; will we be surprised to-night?

Josiah. (Looking out from under the table spread) No; No; we will not be surprised.

Bet. B. You see dear friends she will not let us surprise her; we will go. (They all go out. Betsey goes last, and she turns around at the door and says) Maybe it is right and propah to serve a young girl, who has always been your friend, in this way. I have known you a long time Josiah Allen’s wife.

Sam. (Stepping out of the foot bath and shutting up the door) I have known you plenty long enough.

Josiah. (Coming out from under the table) Darn surprise parties, and darn——

Sam. Stop swearin’, Josiah Allen; I should think we was bad enough off without swearing. But I hate surprise parties as bad as you do. Betsey Bobbett has led ’em into one house where they had the small-pox, and one where they was makin’ preparations for a funeral. They are perfect nusances. It stands to reason so long as anybody has got a tongue, if they want to see their friends to their house, they can invite ’em, and if anybody is too poor to bake a cake or two, and a pan of cookies, they are too poor to go into company at all. I hain’t proud, and never was called so, but I don’t want Tom, Dick, and Harry, that I never spoke to in my life, feel free to break into my house any time they please. I perfectly detest surprise parties; but you don’t ketch me swearin’ about it.

Jos. Wall; I will say darn Betsey Bobbett; there now, darn her; oh! my back; (slowly sitting down) I can’t sit down, nor stand down.

Sam. You went under the table quick enough when they come in.

Jos. Throw that in my face, will you? What could I do? My clothes all fallin’ of me.

Sam. Wall, Josiah, less be thankful that we are as well off as we be. Betsey might have insisted on surprisin’ us. Do you s’pose they will be mad?

Jos. I don’t know, nor care, but I hope they will.