Them verses of Betsey’s kinder worked Josiah up, I know, though he didn’t say much. That line “dreadful roars of awful base” mortified him, I know, because he actually did think that he sung pretty enough for a orkusstry. I didn’t say much to him about it. I don’t believe in twittin’ all the time, about anything, for it makes anybody feel as unpleasant as it does to set down on a paper of carpet tacks. I only said to him—

“I tried to convince you, Josiah, that you couldn’t sing, for 14 years, and now that it has come out in poetry mebby you’ll believe it. I guess you’ll listen to me another time, Josiah Allen.”

He says, “I wish you wouldn’t be so aggravatin’, Samantha.”

That was all that was said on either side. But I noticed that he didn’t sing any more. We went to several conference meetin’s that week, and not one roar did he give. It was an awful relief to me, for I never felt safe for a minute, not knowin’ when he would break out.

The next week Saturday after the poetry come out, Tirzah took it into her head that she wanted to go to Elder Morton’s a visitin’; Maggie Snow was a goin’ to meet her there, and I told her to go—I’d get along with the work somehow.

I had to work pretty hard, but then I got it all out of the way early, and my head combed and my dress changed, and I was jest pinnin’ my linen coller over my clean gingham dress (broun and black plaid) to the lookin’ glass, when lookin’ up, who should I see but Betsey Bobbet comin’ through the gate. She stopped a minute to Tirzah Ann’s posy bed, and then she come along kinder gradually, and stopped and looked at my new tufted bedspread that I have got out a whitenin’ on the grass, and then she come up the steps and come in.

Somehow I was kinder glad to see her that day. I had had first rate luck with all my bakin’, every thing had turned out well, and I felt real reconciled to havin’ a visit from her.

But I see she looket ruther gloomy, and after she sot down and took out her tattin’ and begun to tat, she spoke up and says she—

“Josiah Allen’s wife, I feel awful deprested to-day.”

“What is the matter?” says I in a cheerful tone.

“I feel lonely,” says she, “more lonely than I have felt for yeahs.”

Again says I kindly but firmly—

“What is the matter, Betsey?”

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

“What was it?” says I in a sympathizin’ accent, for she did look meloncholly and sad indeed.

“I dreamed I was married, Josiah Allen’s wife,” says she in a heart-broken tone, and she laid her hand on my arm in her deep emotion. “I tell you it was hard after dreamin’ that, to wake up again to the cold realities and cares of this life; it was hard,” she repeated, and a tear gently flowed down her Roman nose and dropped off onto her overskirt. She knew salt water would spot otter color awfully, and so she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, and spread it in her lap, (it was white trimmed with narrow edgein’) and continued—

“Life seemed so hard and lonesome to me, that I sot up in the end of the bed and wept. I tried to get to sleep again, hopin’ I would dream it ovah, but I could not.”

And again two salt tears fell in about the middle of the handkerchief. I see she needed consolation, and my gratitude made me feel soft to her, and so says I in a reasurin’ tone—

“To be sure husbands are handy on 4th of July’s, and funeral prosessions, it looks kinder lonesome to see a woman streamin’ along alone, but they are contrary creeters, Betsey, when they are a mind to be.”

And then to turn the conversation and get her mind off’en her trouble, says I,

“How did you like my bed spread, Betsey?”

“It is beautiful,” says she sorrowfully.

“Yes,” says I, “it looks well enough now its done, but it most wore my fingers out a tuftin’ it—it’s a sight of work.”

But I saw how hard it was to draw her mind off from broodin’ over her troubles, for she spoke in a mournful tone,

“How sweet it must be to weah the fingers out for a deah companion. I would be willing to weah mine clear down to the bone. I made a vow some yeahs ago,” says she, kinder chirkin’ up a little, and beginnin’ to tat agin. “I made a vow yeahs ago that I would make my deah future companion happy, for I would neveh, neveh fail to meet him with a sweet smile as he came home to me at twilight. I felt that that was all he would requireh to make him happy. Do you think it was a rash vow, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Oh,” says I in a sort of blind way, “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 come home at night, I believe he would take the supper.”

“Oh deah,” says Betsey, “such cold, practical ideahs are painful to me.”

“Wall,” says I cheerfully but firmly, “if you ever have the opportunity, you try both ways. You jest let your fire go out, and your house and you look like fury, and nothin’ to eat, and you stand on the door smilin’ like a first class idiot—and then agin you have a first rate supper on the table, stewed oysters, and warm biscuit and honey, or somethin’ else first rate, and a bright fire shinin’ on a clean hearth, and the tea-kettle a singin’, and the tea-table all set out neat as a pink, and you goin’ round in a cheerful, sensible way gettin’ the supper onto the table, and you jest watch, and see which of the two ways is the most agreable to him.”

Betsey still looked unconvinced, and I proceeded onwards.

“Now I never was any hand to stand and smile at Josiah for two or three hours on a stretch, it would make me feel like a natural born idiot; but I always have a bright fire, and a warm supper a waitin’ for him when he comes home at night.”

“Oh food! food! what is food to the deathless emotions of the soul. What does the aching young heart care for what food it eats—let my deah future companion smile on me, and that is enough.”

Says I in reasonable tones, “A man can’t smile on an empty stomach Betsey, not for any length of time. And no man can’t eat soggy bread, with little chunks of salaratus in it, and clammy potatoes, and beefsteak burnt and raw in spots, and drink dishwatery tea, and muddy coffee, and smile—or they might give one or 2 sickly, deathly smiles, but they wouldn’t keep it up, you depend upon it they wouldn’t, and it haint in the natur’ of a man to, and I say they hadn’t ought to. I have seen bread Betsey Bobbet, that was enough to break down any man’s affection for a woman, unless he had firm principle to back it up—and love’s young dream has been drounded in thick, muddy coffee more’n once. If there haint anything pleasant in a man’s home how can he keep attached to it? Nobody, man nor woman can’t respect what haint respectable, or love what haint lovable. I believe in bein’ cheerful Betsey; a complainin’, fretful woman in the house, is worse than a cold, drizzlin’ rain comin’ right down all the time onto the cook stove. Of course men have to be corrected, I correct Josiah frequently, but I believe in doin’ it all up at one time and then have it over with, jest like a smart dash of a thunder shower that clears up the air.”

“Oh, how a female woman that is blest with a deah companion, can even speak of correcting him, is a mystery to me.”

But again I spoke, and my tone was as firm and lofty as Bunker Hill monument—

“Men have to be corrected, Betsey, there wouldn’t be no livin’ with ’em unless you did.”

“Well,” says she, “you can entertain such views as you will, but for me, I will be clingin’ in my nature, I will be respected by men, they do so love to have wimmin clingin’, that I will, until I die, carry out this belief that is so sweet to them—until I die I will nevah let go of this speah.”

I didn’t say nothin’, for gratitude tied up my tongue, but as I rose and went up stairs to wind me a little more yarn—I thought I wouldn’t bring down the swifts for so little as I wanted to wind—I thought sadly to myself, what a hard, hard time she had had, sense I had known her, a handlin’ that spear. We got to talkin’ about it the other day, how long she had been a handlin’ of it. Says Thomas Jefferson, “She has been brandishin’ it for fifty years.”

Says I, “Shet up, Thomas J., she haint been born longer ago than that.”

Says he—“She was born with that spear in her hand.”

But as I said she has had a hard and mournful time a tryin’ to make a runnin’ vine of herself sense I knew her. And Josiah says she was at it, for years before I ever see her. She has tried to make a vine of herself to all kinds of trees, straight and crooked, sound and rotten, young and old. Her mind is sot the most now, on the Editer of the Augur, but she pays attention to any and every single man that comes in her way. And it seems strange to me that them that preach up this doctrine of woman’s only spear, don’t admire one who carrys it out to its full extent. It seems kinder ungrateful in ’em, to think that when Betsey is so willin’ to be a vine, they will not be a tree; but they won’t, they seem sot against it.

I say if men insist on makin’ runnin’ vines of wimmin, they ought to provide trees for ’em to run up on, it haint nothin’ more’n justice that they should, but they won’t and don’t. Now ten years ago the Methodist minister before Elder Wesley Minkley came, was a widower of some twenty odd years, and he was sorely stricken with years and rheumatiz. But Betsey showed plainly her willin’ness and desire to be a vine, if he would be a tree. But he would not be a tree—he acted real obstinate about it, considerin’ his belief. For he was awful opposed to wimmin’s havin’ any rights only the right to marry. He preached a beautiful sermon about woman’s holy mission, and how awful it was in her, to have any ambition outside of her own home. And how sweet it was to see her in her confidin’ weakness and gentleness clingin’ to man’s manly strength. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house only mine. Betsey wept aloud, she was so affected by it. And it was beautiful, I don’t deny it; I always respected clingers. But I love to see folks use reason. And I say again, how can a woman cling when she haint got nothin’ to cling to? That day I put it fair and square to our old minister, he went home with us to supper, and he begun on me about wimmin’s rights, for he knew I believe in wimmin’s havin a right. Says he, “It is flyin’ in the face of the Bible for a woman not to marry.”

Says I, “Elder how can any lady make brick without straw or sand—how can a woman marry without a man is forthcomin’?” says I, “wimmen’s will may be good, but there is some things she can not do, and this is one of ’em.” Says I, “as our laws are at present no women can marry unless she has a man to marry to. And if the man is obstinate and hangs back what is she to do?”

He begun to look a little sheepish and tried to kinder turn off the subject on to religion.

But no steamboat ever sailed onward under the power of biled water steam, more grandly than did Samantha Allen’s words under the steam of bilein’ principle. I fixed my eyes upon him with seemin’ly an arrow in each one of ’em, and says I—

“Which had you rather do Elder, let Betsey Bobbet vote, or cling to you? She is fairly achin’ to make a runnin’ vine of herself,” and says I, in slow, deep, awful tones, “are you willin’ to be a tree?”

Again he weakly murmured somethin’ on the subject of religion, but I asked him again in slower, awfuler tones.

“Are you willin’ to be a tree?”

He turned to Josiah, and says he, “I guess I will go out to the barn and bring in my saddle bags.” He had come to stay all night. And that man went to the barn smit and conscience struck, and haint opened his head to me sense about wimmin’s not havin’ a right.

I had jest arrived at this crysis in my thoughts, and had also got my yarn wound up—my yarn and my revery endin’ up at jest the same time, when Betsey came to the foot of the stairs and called out—

“Josiah Allen’s wife, a gentleman is below, and craves an audience with you.”

I sot back my swifts, and went down, expectin’ from the reverential tone of her voice to see a United States Governor, or a Deacon at the very least. But it wasn’t either of ’em, it was a peddler. He wanted to know if I could get some dinner for him, and I thinkin’ one more trial wouldn’t kill me said I would. He was a loose jinted sort of a chap, with his hat sot onto one side of his head, but his eyes had a twinkle to ’em, that give the idee that he knew what he was about.

After dinner he kep’ a bringin’ on his goods from his cart, and praisin’ ’em up, the lies that man told was enough to apaul the ablest bodied man, but Betsey swallowed every word. After I had coldly rejected all his other overtures for tradin’, he brought on a strip of stair carpetin’, a thin striped yarn carpet, and says he—

“Can’t I sell you this beautiful carpet? it is the pure Ingrain.”

“Ingrain,” says I, “so be you Ingrain as much.”

“I guess I know,” says he, “for I bought it of old Ingrain himself, I give the old man 12 shillin’s a yard for it, but seein’ 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, cheaper than dirt to walk on, or boards.”

“I don’t want it,” says I, “I have got carpets enough.”

“Do you want it for 50 cents?” says he follerin’ me to the wood-box.

“No!” says I pretty sharp, for I don’t want to say no two times, to anybody.

“Would 25 cents be any indoosement to you?” says he, follerin’ me to the buttery door.

“No!” says I in my most energetic voice, and started for the suller with a plate of nut-cakes.

“Would 18 pence tempt you?” says he, hollerin’ down the suller way.

Then says I, comin’ up out of the suller with the old Smith blood bilin’ up in my veins, “Say another word to me about your old stair carpet if you dare; jest let me ketch you at it,” says I; “be I goin’ to have you traipse all over the house after me? be I goin’ to be made crazy as a loon by you?”

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

I didn’t say nothin’—gratitude still had holt of me—but I inwardly determined that not one word would I say if he cheated her out of her eye teeth.

Addressin’ his attention to Betsey, he took a pair of old fashioned ear rings out of his jacket pocket, and says he—

“I carry these in my pocket for fear I will be robbed of ’em. I hadn’t ought to carry ’em at all, a single man goin’ alone round the country as I do, but I have got a pistol, and let anybody tackle me for these ear rings if they dare to,” says he, lookin’ savage.

“Is thier intrinsick worth so large?” says Betsey,

“It haint so much thier neat value,” says he, “although that is enormous, as who owned ’em informally. Whose ears do you suppose these have had hold of?”

“How can I judge,” says Betsey with a winnin’ smile, “nevah havin’ seen them before.”

“Jest so,” says he, “you never was acquainted with ’em, but these very identical creeters used to belong to Miss Shakespeare. Yes, these belonged to Hamlet’s mother,” says he, lookin’ pensively upon them. “Bill bought ’em at old Stratford.”

“Bill?” says Betsey inquirin’ly.

“Yes,” says he, “old Shakespeare. I have been reared with his folks so much, that I have got into the habit of callin’ him Bill, jest as they do.”

“Then you have been there?” says Betsey with a admirin’ look.

“Oh yes, wintered there and partly summered. But as I was sayin’ William bought ’em and give ’em to his wife, when he first begun to pay attention to her. Bill bought ’em at a auction 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-laws was obleeged to part with ’em to get morpheen.”

“I suppose you ask a large price for them?” says Betsey, examanin’ ’em with a reverential look onto her countenance.

“How much! how much you remind me of a favorite sister of mine, 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 seein’ it is you, and it haint no ways likely 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 ½.”

“That is more money than I thought of expendin’ to-day,” says Betsey in a thoughtful tone.

“Let me tell you what I will do; I don’t care seein’ it is you, if I do get cheated, I am willin’ to be cheated by one that looks so much like that angel sister. Give me 13 dollars and a ½, and I will throw in the pin that goes with ’em. I did want to keep that to remind me of them happy days at old Stratford,” and he took the breastpin out of his pocket, and put it in her hand in a quick kind of a way. “Take ’em,” says he, turnin’ his eyes away, “take ’em and put ’em out of my sight, quick! or I shall repent.”

“I do not want to rob you of them,” says Betsey tenderly.

“Take ’em,” says he in a wild kind of a way, “take ’em, and give me the money quick, before I am completely unmanned.”

She handed him the money, and says he in agitated tones, “Take care of the ear rings, and heaven bless you.” And he ketched up his things, and started off in a awful hurry. Betsey gazed pensively out of the winder, till he disapeared in the distance, and then she begun to brag about her ear rings, as Miss Shakespeare’s relicks. Thomas Jefferson praised ’em awfully to Betsey’s face, when he came home, but when I was in the buttery cuttin’ cake for supper, he come and leaned over me and whispered—

And when I went down suller for the butter, he come and stood in the outside suller door, and says he,

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That is jest the way he kep’ at it, he would kinder happen round where I was, and every chance he would get he would have over a string of them verses, till it did seem as if I should go crazy. Finally I said to him in tones before which he quailed,

“If I hear one word more of poetry from you to-night I will complain to your father,” says I wildly, “I don’t believe there is another woman in the United States that suffers so much from poetry as I do! What have I done,” says I still more wildly, “that I should be so tormented by it?” says I, “I won’t hear another word of poetry to-night,” says I, “I will stand for my rights—I will not be drove into insanity with poetry.”

Betsey started for home in good season, and I told her I would go as fur as Squire Edwards’es with her. Miss Edwards was out by the gate, and of course Betsey had to stop and show the ear rings. She was jest lookin’ at ’em when the minister and Maggie Snow and Tirzah Ann drove up to the gate, and wanted to know what we was lookin’ at so close, and Betsey, castin’ a proud and haughty look onto the girls, told him that—

“It was a paih of ear rings that had belonged to the immortal Mr. Shakespeah’s wife informally.”

The minute Elder Merton set his eyes on ’em, “Why,” says he, “my wife sold these to a peddler to-day.”

“Yes,” says Tirzah Ann, “these are the very ones; she sold them for a dozen shirt buttons and a paper of pins.”

“I do not believe it,” says Betsey wildly.

“It is so,” said the minister. “My wife’s father got them for her, they proved to be brass, and so she never wore them; to-day the peddler wanted to buy old jewelry, and she brought out some broken rings, and these were in the box, and she told him he might have them in welcome, but he threw out the buttons and a paper of pins.”

“I do not believe it—I cannot believe it,” says Betsey gaspin’ for breath.

“Well, it is the truth,” says Maggie Snow (she can’t bear Betsey), “and I heard him say he would get ’em off onto some fool, and make her think—”

“I am in such a hurry I must go,” said Betsey, and she left without sayin’ another word.