After I left Horace, I hastened on, for I was afraid I was behind time. Bein’ a large hefty woman, (my weight is 200 and 10 pounds by the steelyards now) I could not hasten as in former days when I weighed 100 pounds less. I was also encumbered with my umberell, my satchel bag, my cap box and “What I know about Farming.” But I hastened on with what speed I might. But alas! my apprehensions was too true, the cars had gone. What was to be done? Betsey sat on her portmanty at the depott, lookin’ so gloomy and depressted, that I knew that I could not depend on her for sukker, I must rely onto myself. There are minutes that try the sole, and show what timber it is built of. Not one trace of the wild storm of emotions that was ragin’ inside of me, could be traced on my firm brow, as Betsey looked up in a gloomy way and says,

“What are we going to do now?”

No, I rose nobly to meet the occasion, and said in a voice of marbel calm, “I don’t know Betsey.” Then I sot down, for I was beat out. Betsey looked wild, says she, “Josiah Allen’s wife I am sick of earth, the cold heartless ground looks hollow to me. I feel jest reckless enough to dare the briny deep.” Says she, in a bold darin’ way,

“Less go home on the canal.”

The canal boat run right by our house, and though at first I hung back in my mind, thinkin’ that Josiah would never consent to have me face the danger of the deep in the dead of the night, still the thought of stayin’ in New York village another night made me waver. And I thought to myself, if Josiah knew jest how it was—the circumstances environin’ us all round, and if he considered that my board bill would cost 3 dollars more if I staid another night, I felt that he would consent, though it seemed perilous, and almost hazardous in us. So I wavered, and wavered, Betsey see me waver, and took advantage of it, and urged me almost warmly.

But I didn’t give my consent in a minute. I am one that calmly weighs any great subject or undertakin’ in the ballances.

Says I, “Betsey have you considered the danger?” Says I, “The shore we was born on, may sometimes seem tame to us, but safety is there.” Says I, “more freedom may be upon the deep waters, but it is a treacherous element. Says I, “I never, tempted its perils in my life, only on a bridge.”

“Nor I neither,” says she. But she added in still more despairin’ tones, “What do I care for danger? What if it is a treacherous element? What have I got to live for in this desert life? And then,” says she, “the captain of a boat here, is mother’s cousin, he would let us go cheap.”

Says I in awful deep tones of principle. “I have got Josiah to live for—and the great cause of Right, and the children. And I feel for their sakes that I ought not to rush into danger.” But agin I thought of my board bill, and agin I felt that Josiah would give his consent for me to take the voyage.

Betsey had been to the village with her father on the canal, and she knew the way, and suffice it to say, as the sun descended into his gory bed in the west, its last light shone onto Betsey and me, a settin’ in the contracted cabin of the canal boat.

We were the only females on board, and if it hadn’t been for Betsey’s bein’ his relation, we couldn’t have embarked, for the bark was heavily laden. The evening after we embarked, the boat sailin’ at the time under the pressure of 2 miles an hour, a storm began to come up, I didn’t say nothin’, but I wished I was a shore. The rain come down—the thunder roared in the distance—the wind howled at us, I felt sad. I thought of Josiah.

As the storm increased Betsey looked out of the window, and says she,

“Josiah Allen’s wife we are surrounded by dangers, one of the horses has got the heaves, can you not heah him above the wild roah of the tempest? And one of them is balky, I know it.” And liftin’ her gloomy eyes to the ceilin’ so I couldn’t see much of ’em but the whites, says she, “Look at the stove-pipe! see it sway in the storm, a little heavieh blast will unhinge it. And what a night it would be for pirates to be abroad, and give chase to us. But,” she continued, “my soul is in unison with the wild fury of the elements. I feel like warbling one of the wild sea odes of old,” and she begun to sing,

She sung it right through; I should say by my feelin’s, it took her nigh on to an hour, though my sufferin’s I know blinded me, and made my calculations of time less to be depended on than a clock. She sang it through once, and then she began it agin, she got as far the second time as this,

The cabin was dark, only lit by one kerosene lamp, with a chimbly dark with the smoke of years. Her voice was awful; the tune was awful; I stood it as long as I could seemin’ly, and says I, in agitated tones,

“I wouldn’t sing any more Betsey, if I was in your place.”

Alas! better would it have been for my piece of mind, had I let her sing. For although she stopped the piece with a wild quaver that made me tremble, she spoke right up, and says she,

“My soul seems mountin’ up and in sympathy with the scene. My spirit is soarin’, and must have vent. Josiah Allen’s wife have you any objections to my writin’ a poem. I have got seven sheets of paper in my portmanty.”

The spirit of my 4 fathers rose up in me and says I, firmly,

“When I come onto the deep, I come expectin’ to face trouble—I am prepared for it,” says I, “a few verses more or less haint a goin’ to overthrow my principles.”

She sot down by the table and began to take off her tow curls and frizzles, I should think by a careless estimate that there was a six quart pan full. And then she went to untwistin’ her own hair, which was done up at the back side of her head in a little nubbin about as big as ½ a sweet walnut. Says she,

“I always let down my haih, and take out my teeth when I write poetry, I feel moah free and soahing in my mind.” Says she in a sort of a apoligy way, “Genious is full of excentricities, that seem strange to the world’s people.”

Says I, calmly “You can let down, and take out, all you want to, I can stand it.”

But it was a fearful scene. It was a night never to be forgot while memory sets up on her high chair in my mind. Outside, the rain poured down, overhead on deck, the wind shrieked at the bags and boxes, threatenin’ ’em with almost an instant destruction. The stove pipe that run up through the floor shook as if every blast would unjinte it, and then the thought would rise up, though I tried to put it out of my head, who would put it up again. One of the horses was balky, I knew, for I could hear the driver swear at him. And every time he swore, I thought of Josiah, and it kep’ him in my mind most all the time. Yes, the storm almost raved outside, and inside, a still more depressin’ and fearful sight to me—Betsey Bobbet sot with her few locks streamin’ down over her pale and holler cheeks, for her teeth was out, and she wrote rapidly, and I knew, jest as well as I know my name is Josiah Allen’s wife, that I had got to hear ’em read. Oh! the anguish of that night! I thought of the happy people on shore, in thier safe and peaceful feather beds, and then on the treacherous element I was a ridin’ on, and then I thought of Josiah. Sometimes mockin’ fancy would so mock at me that I could almost fancy that I heard him snore. But no! cold reality told me that it was only the heavey horse, or the wind a blowin’ through the stove pipe, and then I would rouse up to the agonizin’ thought that I was at sea, far, far from home and Josiah. And then a solemn voice would sometimes make itself heard in my sole, “Mebby you never will hear him snore agin.” And then I would sithe heavily.

And the driver on the tow path would loudly curse that dangerous animal and the wind would howl ’round the boxes, and the stove pipe would rattle, and Betsey would write poetry rapidly, and I knew I had got to hear it. And so the tegus night wore away. Finally at ½ past 2, wore out as I was with fateegue and wakefullness, Betsey ceased writin’ and says she.

“It is done! I will read them to you.”

I sithed so deeply that even Betsey almost trembled, and says she,

“Are you in pain, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

Says I, “only in my mind.”

“Wall,” says she, “It is indeed a fearful time. But somehow my soul exults strangely in the perils environing us. I feel like courtin’ and keepin’ company with danger to-night. I feel as if I could almost dare to mount that steed wildly careering along the tow path, if I only had a side saddle. I feel like rushin’ into dangeh, I feel reckless to-night.”

Here the driver swore fearfully, and still more apaulin’ sight to me, Betsey opened her paper and commenced readin’:

There was between 20 and 30 verses of ’em, but truly it is always the darkest jest before daylight, for as she was a readin’ of ’em, I—a leanin’ back in my chair—dropped off to sleep, and forgot my trouble. Betsey also went to sleep before she read the last of ’em. And when I waked up, the boat had stopped in front of our house, the wind had gone down, the sun was a shinin’, and Josiah was comin’ down to the bank. The danger was all past—Home and Josiah was mine agin. I grasped holt of his hand as he helped me get off, and in a voice tremulous with feelin’s I could not control I said,

“I have got home Josiah! is breakfast ready?”

There was a tenderness in his tone, and a happy smile on his face that reminded me of the sweet days of our courtship, as he answered me in a tone almost husky with emotion,

“Yes Samantha, all but settin’ the table.”

Says I, “I’m glad of it, for I’m dreadful hungry.”