Scene.—Widder Doodle and Tirzah Ann sitting at work tufting a bed spread.—Samantha comes in out of the garden.

Sam. I declare them hens makes me more trouble than all the rest of my work, keeps me a scarin’ ’em out of the garden all the time, and that pup hain’t good for anything.

Tirz. A. Father says all it wants is a little encouragement.

Sam. Encouragement! I should think as much. Yes I know your pa says that if he will run a little ahead of it when he is a settin’ it on to things, it will go on to one first rate. And I told him he had better take the pup in his arms and throw it at the hens mebby that would encourage it enough. But there they are; I must go and scare ’em off again.

Tirz. A. I’ll go mother. (She goes out clapping her hands and crying “Shoo; Shoo;” and the hens are heard cackling behind the scenes.)

Wid. D. Oh how much that pup makes me think of Doodle. My Doodle needed encouragement.

Tirz. A. (Coming back) Here comes Betsey Bobbett, mother.

All Say. Good morning, Betsey.

Bet. (Sadly) Good morning, Miss Allen; good morning, Tirzah Ann; good morning, Widder Doodle. (She sits down and takes out her tatting and commences to work)

Sam. Hain’t you well to-day, Betsey?

Bet. I feel deprested to-day; awfully deprested.

Sam. What is the matter?

Bet. I feel lonely; more lonely than I have felt for yeahs.

Sam. What is the matter, Betsey?

Bet. I had a dream last night, Josiah Allen’s wife.

Sam. What was it?

Bet. I dreamed I was married, Josiah Allen’s wife. I tell you it was hard, after dreamin’ that, to wake up to the cold realities and cares of this life; it was hard. I sot up in end of the bed and wept. (she weeps) I tried to get to sleep again and dream it ovah, but I could not.

Sam. Wall, to be sure, husbands are handy on 4th of Julys, and funeral processions. It looks kinder lonesome to see a woman streaming along alone; but they are contrary creeters, Betsey, when they are a mind to be. How do you like my new bed-spread?

Bet. It is beautiful.

Sam. Yes; it looks well enough now, but it most wore my fingers out a tuftin’ it.

Bet. How sweet it must be to wear the fingers out for a deah companion. I would be willing to wear mine clear down to the bone. I made a vow, some yeahs ago, that I would make my deah future companion happy, for I would nevah, nevah fail to meet him with a sweet smile as he came home to me at twilight. I felt that was all he would require to make him happy. Do you think it was a rash vow, Josiah Allen’s wife?

Sam. Oh, I guess it won’t do any hurt. But if a man couldn’t have but one of the two, a smile or a supper, as he came home at night, I believe he would take the supper.

Wid. D. I know Doodle would. He had to have jest what he wanted to eat at jest the time he wanted it, or it would give him the palsy; he never had the palsy, but he always said that all that kept him from it was havin’ meat vittles, or anything else he wanted, jest the minute he wanted it. Oh, what a man that was; what a linement he had on him. It hain’t no ways likely I shall ever marry agin. No, I shan’t never see another man whose linement will look to me like Mr. Doodlese’s linement.

Sam. Yes, Betsey, I believe a man would take the supper instead of the smile.

Bet. Oh, deah! such cold practical ideahs are painful to me.

Sam. Wall, if you ever have the opportunity you try both ways; let your fire go out and you and your house look like fury, and nothing to eat, and you jest stand in the door and smile. And then again you have a nice supper—stewed oysters and cream biscuit and peaches, or something else first rate, and the table all set out as nice as a pink, and the kettle singing, and you dressed up pretty, and goin’ round the house in a sensible way, and you jest watch and see which of the two ways is the most agreeable to him.

Bet. Oh, food! food! what is food to the deathless emotions of the soul? What does the aching young heart care what food it eats? Let my dear futuah companion smile on me, and that is enough.

Sam. A man can’t smile on an empty stomach, Betsey. And a man can’t eat soggy bread with little chunks of saleratus in it, and clammy potatoes, and drink dish-water tea and muddy coffee and smile; or they might give one or two sickly, deathly smiles; but depend upon it, Betsey, they couldn’t keep it up. I have seen bread, Betsey Bobbett, that was enough to break down any man’s affection, unless he had firm principle to back it up, and love’s young dream has been drounded in thick muddy coffee before now. If there hain’t anything pleasant in a man’s home how can he be attached to it? Nobody can’t, man nor women, respect what hain’t respectable, nor love what hain’t lovable. Of course men have to be corrected sometimes. I correct Josiah frequently.

Bet. How any one blessed with a deah companion can speak about correcting them, is a mystery to me.

Sam. Men have to be corrected, Betsey; there wouldn’t be no living with them unless you did.

Bet. Well, you can entertain such views if you will, but as for me, I will be clinging; I will be respected by men. They do so love to have wimmen clinging, that I will, until I die, carry out this belief that is so sweet to them. Until I die, I will neveh let go of this speah.

Thos. J. (Aside) She has been brandishing that speah for fifty years.

Sam. There is them hens agin, Thos. Jefferson. You go and scare ’em out. (Exit Thos. Jefferson)

Bet. There is a gentleman coming.

Tirz. A. A peddler.

Ped. Young lady, can’t I sell you this beautiful lace neck-tie; real old point lace, and only 18 pence.

Tirz. A. Oh, mother, do buy it for me.

Sam. No, Tirzah Ann, no.

Ped. Then let me sell you this beautiful valuable ring. Most diamond dealers would want to make a profit of a hundred dollars or so on it, but I will let you have it for five shillings. It weighs over a hundred and 4 carets.

Sam. A hundred and 4 carrots; that is a likely story. Why, if the carrots was any size at all that would be over a bushel. No, Tirzah Ann, you can’t have the ring.

Ped. Can’t I sell you something, madam.

Wid. D. Oh, no, I am a widder; and it hain’t no ways likely I shall ever marry agin. (She weeps, wipes her eyes on her apron)

Ped. Here, I have got just what you want and need. See this beautiful mourning handkerchief. It is almost worth the agony of bein’ a widder to enjoy the privilege of mournin’ on such a handkerchief as that. It is richly worth 75 cents, but you may have it for 25, and what will you give?

Wid. D. I will give a quarter of a dollar.

Ped. Take it at your own price. Now Madam (turning to Samantha). Let me sell you this beautiful carpet; it is the pure ingrain.

Sam. Ingrain; so be you ingrain.

Ped. I guess I know, for I bought it of old Ingrain himself. I give the old man 12 shillings a yard for it; but seeing it is you, and I like your looks so much, and it seems so much like home to me here, I will let you have it for 75 cents a yard; cheaper than dirt to walk on, or boards.

Sam. I don’t want it; I have got carpets enough.

Ped. Do you want it for 50 cents?

Sam. No!

Ped. Would 25 cents be any inducement to you?

Sam. No!

Ped. Would 18 cents tempt you?

Sam. Say another word to me about your old stair carpet if you dare; jest let me ketch you at it. Be I going to have you a trapsin’ all over the house after me? Am I going to be made crazy as a loon by you?

Bet. Oh, Josiah Allen’s wife, do not be so hasty; of course the gentleman wishes to dispose of his goods, else why should he be in the mercanteel business?

Ped. (Turning to Betsey, takes ear-rings out of his pocket) I carry these in my pocket for fear I will be robbed. I hadn’t ought to carry them round at all; a single man going alone around the country as I do; but I have got a pistol. (he takes a large pistol, the larger the better, from his pocket. Betsey shrieks and falls back terribly frightened) I have got a pistol, and let anybody tackle me for these ear-rings if they dare to.

Bet. Is their intrinsic worth so much?

Ped. It hain’t so much their neat value, although that is enormous, as who owned them informally. Whose ears do you suppose these have had hold of?

Bet. How can I tell, never having seen them before.

Ped. Jest so. You never was acquainted with them, but these very identical creeters used to belong to Miss Shakespeare. Yes, these belonged to Hamlet’s mother. Bill bought ’em at old Stratford.

Bet. Bill?

Ped. Yes, old Shakespeare. I have been with his family so much, that I have got into the habit of calling him Bill, jest as they do.

Bet. Then you have been there?

Ped. Oh, yes; I wintered there and partly summered. But as I was a saying, Bill give ’em to his wife; he give ’em to Ann when he first begun to pay attention to her. Bill bought ’em of a one-eyed man with a wooden leg by the name of Brown. Miss Shakespeare wore ’em as long as she lived, and they was kept in the family till I bought ’em; a sister of one of his brother-in-law’s was obliged to part with ’em to get morphine.

Bet. I suppose you ask a large price for them?

Ped. How much! how much you remind me of a favorite sister who died when she was fifteen. She was considered by good judges to be the handsomest girl in North America. But business before pleasure—I ought to have upwards of 30 dollars a head for ’em; but seeing it is you, and it hain’t no ways likely that I shall ever meet with another wo——young girl that I feel under bonds to sell ’em to, you may have ’em for 13 dollars and a half.

Bet. That is more money than I thought of spending to-day.

Ped. Let me tell you what I will do. I don’t care seeing it’s you, if I do get cheated. I am willing to be cheated by one that looks so much like that angel sister. Give me 13 dollars and a half and I’ll throw in the pin that goes with ’em. I did want to keep that to remind me of them happy days at Stratford. But take ’em, take ’em and put ’em out of my sight right quick, or I shall repent.

Bet. (tenderly) I don’t want to rob you of them, deah man.

Ped. Take ’em, and give me the money quick, before I am completely unmanned. (takes money) Take care of the ear-rings, and Heaven bless you.

Thos. J. What have you got, Betsey?

Bet. Some ear-rings that used to belong to the immortal Shakespeare’s wife informally.

Thos. J. Good gracious! I saw Miss Morten this morning sell them to this peddler. She sold them for a dozen shirt buttons, and a paper of pins.

Bet. I don’t believe it.

Thos. J. It is the truth; he wanted to buy old jewelry. She brought out some broken rings and these were in the box, and she told him he might have them in welcome; but he give her the buttons and pins.

Sam. Thomas Jefferson, you ought to be ashamed. There’s them hens again. I shall have to scare ’em off myself. (Samantha goes out to frighten the hens, Betsey goes out the other door; Thos. J. dances round and sings.)

(Samantha screams; Thos. J., Tirzah Ann and Widder Doodle rush out, and Josiah comes in bringing Samantha in his arms.)

Sam. (groaning) I wonder if you will keep that pup now.

Jos. Maybe you didn’t encourage it enough. Do keep still Samantha, how do you s’pose I am going to carry you if you touse round so?

(He lays her on the lounge; Thos. J. and Tirzah Ann and Widder Doodle comes in, the widder a crying) Oh, Doodle; Doodle; if you was alive, you would tell your relict what to do for Samantha; I know you would.

Jos. You go for Dr. Bombus, Thomas Jefferson.

Miss G. I heard you had an axident. Miss Allen and I came to see if I could do anything. You hain’t been well for some time Miss Allen, and I have mistrusted all along that you had the tizick.

Wid. D. I think it is the very oh lord.

Sam. The pain is in my foot mostly.

Miss G. I can’t help that; there is tizick with it, and I think that was what ailed Josiah when he was sick.

Sam. Why that was the newraligy the doctor said.

Miss G. Doctors are liable to mistakes. I always thought it was the tizick. There are more folks that are tizicky in this world than you think for. I am a master hand for knowing tizick when I see it.

Wid. D. It looks more to me like the very oh lord.

(Enter Thos. J. and Doctor; Doctor very solemn and dignified, examines her foot)

Dr. B. Miss Allen you have strong symptoms of zebra smilen marcellus. You need perfect quiet, and you (to Josiah) must see that she has it; and Mr. Allen you must be cheerful.

Wid. D. Hain’t it more like the very oh lord. My Doodle had that. And oh, Doodle, Doodle, shan’t I never see your linement again? Oh how much sickness puts me in mind of him, and health, and everything. Oh Doodle, would it have been a confort to you to have lived to see how your widder mourned for you. Samantha can’t I help you? I know you have got the very oh lord, and oh, how much that disease makes me think of Doodle.

Miss G. Dr. Bombus, hain’t it the tizick?

Dr. B. No; you can’t fool me on diseases; I have never had my dognoses disputed. The other Dr. in Jonesville was called in the other day to a plain case of ganders; he called it gallopin’ consumption. The minute I sot my eyes on the man I said ganders. And this is a clear case of zebra smilen marcellus. Good landlord, you can’t fool me on the zebra.

Sam. That is a disease I never made no calculations on havin’. Where does the zebra generally tackle folks?

Dr. B. Wall, people generally have it in the posterity part of the brain; but you seem to have it in the foot. Now if I can only keep it in the foot, keep it from the brain, I can help you.

Sam. The disease is a perfect stranger to me; do folks ever get over the zebra?

Dr. B. They do when I doctor them; but you must follow my directions close. Take this decoction of squills, nox vomica, visa versa—excuse dead language—take 40 drops every half hour till relief is felt and experienced. (Doctor bows to Samantha and stalks out)

Miss G. I know it is the tizick. Tirzah Ann, give me a piece of paper and a pencil; this will make a item.

Wid. D. Oh, how much that pencil makes me think of Doodle.

Sam. What is the matter, Josiah?

Jos. I’m bein’ cheerful, Samantha.

Sam. You are bein’ a natural born idiot, and do you stop it.

Jos. I wont stop it, Samantha; I will be cheerful.

Sam. Wont you go out and let me rest awhile, Josiah Allen?

Jos. No; I will stand by you and be cheerful. Doctor Bombus said you must be kept perfectly quiet, and I must be cheerful before you; it is my duty, and I will be.

Sam. It seems to me I should like some lemonade, if the lemons wasn’t all used up.

Jos. I will harness up the old mare and start for Jonesville, and get you some. (He goes out, but comes back and puts his head inside the door and laughs loud)

Bet. I had just got home when I heard of the axident, so I thought I would come back and spend the entiah day. (She takes off her hat.) How do you feel, Josiah Allen’s wife?

Sam. I feel very bad and feverish.

Wid. D. Very oh lord; jest as Doodle felt.

Miss G. Tizick!

Bet. Yes; I know just how you feel. I have had such a fever that the sweat stood in great drops all over me. You need quiet. (Glares at the two women) I meant to ask you when I was in here before you was hurt, which do you like best, a sun-flower bedquilt, or a blazing star? So many young girls are being snatched away lately that I want to be prepared. I am going to line it with otter color: white is prettier, but gets soiled so easily; and if two little children just of an age was a playin’ on it, it would keep clean longer. I think I will have it a blazin’ star.

Wid. D. Oh, how much that blazing star makes me think of Doodle and his liniment.

Editor. Good day, Mrs. Allen; I have heard of the axident that has befallen you, and so as an editor in search of information, I have come. I thought with your permission I would make you the leading article in my next week’s paper.

Bet. She’s a poem, I am composing her now in my own mind.

Miss G. She’s a tragedy; I am putting her down as one.

Sam. (Putting her hand to her head mildly) Am I a tragedy? Yes, I believe I am, I feel like a tragedy, I feel awful.

Ed. Where were you hurt? by whom? And what was the first and primary cause of the hurt?

Sam. I was hurt by a hen; the first cause was the pup; but they will tell you. (Betsey and Miss Gowdy go up close to him, one on each side.)

Miss G. I will gladly spend hours informing you.

Bet. Let me tell you, deah man.

Ed. I must go; there is a man waiting for me at the gate. Widder Doodle can you command you feelings sufficiently to step into the next room with me and give the particulars.

Wid. D. Oh, yes; Doodle always said I could drive ahead of me as big a drove of particulars as any woman of my size and heft. I was Doodleses wife then, and now I am his widder; I was his widder jest as quick as he was dead; and it hain’t no ways suposeable that I shall ever marry agin.

Miss G. I must go too. Little Ben has got the croup, and I must be to home. (She goes out.)

Bet. Croup is only a hollow excuse, it is the editor that is drawing of her home.

Tirz. A. Why she can’t ride, he has got a load.

Bet. Oh, she thinks she can walk along side of his wagon, and talk. But I won’t worry over it no more, nor begrech her her privilages. I see, Josiah Allen’s wife, that you need care; and in order to quiet and soothe you, I will read to you; I will do all I can to keep you quiet to-day; and to-morrow mother, and Aunt Maria, and all her family; and Aunt Jane, and her children, will come down and stay all day with you—stay to dinner and supper. They are all to our house a visiting: and mother had rather bring them with her than not. There is eleven of them in all, and they’ll all put in to keep you quiet; and you needn’t make no fuss for them at all, though they all love boiled dinners dearly. And now I will proceed to read to you the longest and most eloquent editorial that has ever appeared in the Augur, written by its noble and eloquent editor. It is six columns in length, and is concerning our relations with Spain.

Sam. Let the editor and his relations go to Spain; and do you go to Spain with your relations; and do you start this minute! (Betsey looks frightened, gathers up her calico, and moves toward the door, and says):

Bet.