The very next day after I gin the Elder such a talkin to, Cassandra and Nathan Spooner come to our house a visitin, or that is, Nathan brought Cassandra up as far as there for a drive, in the mornin’, and I made ’em come in and stay to dinner, Cassandra not bein’ very strong. They have got a young babe, a boy, five weeks old that very day. Wall, while they was there, while I was a gettin’ dinner, I had a letter from Kitty. Kitty had gone home two weeks before, unexpected. A letter bein’ had by her from her mother, to that effect.

I never shall forget the day Kitty went. Never. Josiah had hitched up to take her to say good bye to the children, and they hadn’t been gone more’n several moments, when Kellup Cobb come. He had heerd the news of her goin’ home, and he looked anxious and careworn. And his hair and whiskers and eyebrows bein’ a sort of a dark mournful color that day, made him look worse. He had been foolin’ with logwood and alum, and a lot of such stuff.

He said, “he was fairly beat out a layin’ awake the night before.”

“What ails you?” says I. “What is the matter?”

“Wimmen is what ails me!” says he with a bitter look. “Wimmen is what is the matter! Why,” says he, “wimmen make such fools of themselves about me, that it is a wonder that I get any sleep at all; I shouldn’t,” says he firmly, “I know I shouldn’t, if I didn’t get so sleepy and sort o’ drowse off.”

“Well,” says I reasonably, “I don’t s’pose we should any of us get much sleep, if it wasn’t for that.”

Says he, speakin’ out firm and decided, “I want to do right. I want to do the fair thing by wimmen. But there it is. How can I? Now here is Kitty Smith goin off droopin’ and low-sperited, I s’pose, jest on my account. And situated as I be, how be I goin’ to help myself, or chirk her up before she goes?

“I think my eyes of that girl. And I jest about made up my mind, last night, in the dead of night (for I don’t believe I slept a wink before ten o’clock), I jest about made up my mind that marry her I would, and let the rest of the wimmen live or die, jist as they was a mind to.

“Why, I think so much of that girl, that it jest about kills me to think of her goin off home, as them without hope. But what can I do? I dassent say right out that I will marry her, till I look round and see what would foller. I want to see the doctor! I want to see what he thinks, if he thinks the effects of such a terrible blow onto the fair sect would be worse at this time of the year. It is a sickly time. Mebby they would stand it better some other time of the year.

“But,” says he, “this I think I may safely promise you; this, I think, will chirk her up a good deal: I will write to her. I will kinder watch things, and enquire ’round, and see what I can do—see how they would seem likely to stand it, and if I see it haint likely to kill ten or fifteen, I will try to get round and marry her. You tell her so from me. And tell her I will write to her, anyway. My very heart-strings seemed wrapped round that girl,” says he, sithin’ hard, “and how I am a goin’ to stand it is more than I can tell, to think of her bein’ way off there alone, a sufferin’ and droopin’ round, on my account.

“But this letter will probable be the greatest comfort she can have next to havin’ me myself. You will be apt to write to her?” says he anxiously.

“Yes,” says I, “most probable I shall.”

“Wall,” says he, “I will put in a letter with you when you write. It haint the postage that is the stick with me, it haint the 3 cents I mind. But if I can’t, after all my efforts, see my way clear to marry her, it would seem more cruel and cold-blooded in me, to have gin her the encouragement of sendin her a letter by myself, all stamped and paid for by me, than it would to send it in with somebody else.” Says he, “Don’t you think so?”

Says ISays I in a sort of a blind way, “I think of a great many things that it wouldn’t do to tell of.”

“Yes,” says he, “you probable pity me, and realize the situation I am placed in, more than you feel free to tell. You probable think that sympathy would break me down—make me feel worse.”

“Yes,” says I firmly, “I don’t feel free to tell my opinion of you. It would be apt to make you feel worse.”

“You are a woman of principle, Josiah Allen’s wife, and a woman of strong sense. You realize my situation—you feel for the condition of my heart.”

“Yes, and your head too,” says I; “I realize jist what has ailed you, ever sense you was born. But,” says I, wantin’ to turn the subject, for I was sick of it, sick as a dog. Says I “you wuzn’t to meetin’ last night wuz you?” Says I, “We wimmen talked it over after the meetin’, and we are goin to take up a collection to make Miss Bamber a present of a new black dress. We are goin’ to ask each church-member to give jest one sixpence, and one sixpence apiece from the 250 members will get her a good bumbazeen dress, or a very nice alpacka. And so,” says I, “I thought I would ask you for your sixpence.”

Knowin’ it is Kellup’s duty to be tackled for the good of the meetin-house, I will, no matter whether he will give anything or not, I will insist on tacklin’ him.

Says I, “You know Miss Bamber has lost her mother-in-law and wants to mourn for her—wants to the worst kind, and can’t.”

“Why can’t she mourn?” says Kellup.

“Why,” says I, “She can’t mourn, because she haint got no dress suitable to mourn in, thats why Miss Bamber feels like death about it. She knows it is her duty to mourn, and she wants to, like a dog, but can’t.”

Says Kellup, lookin stingy, awful unwillin’ to give anything, “She can mourn jest as bad in one dress as another, or without any.”

“Wall,” says I reasonably, “So I think. But everybody has their little different ways and excentricities, and it don’t look well for us to meddle with ’em. Now that feller by the name of Procrustes, at Attica village. Now, I always thought he went too far. He had a iron bedstead, and he used to make everybody that traveled his way lay down on it, and if their legs was too short, he would stretch ’em out to fit that bedstead, and if they was too long, he would saw ’em off.”

Now Mr. Procrustes wuzn’t doin’ exactly the fair thing. What earthly business was it of his, if other folks’es legs was too long to be convenient, or too short? It wuzn’t his place to trim ’em off, or stretch ’em.

And I always thought that if I had had business in his neighborhood, and been travelin’ that way, and he had tried to fit me or Josiah to that bedstead, why, I always thought he would have seen trouble. I should have gin him a awful talkin’ to, and kicked.

Mr. Procrustes is dead. Yes, I believe old Thesius, a neighber of his’en, killed him upon some mountain or other. I presume he got to stretchin’ old Thesius’es legs out, or begun to saw ’em off, and got the old man mad, and he jest laid to and killed him.

Yes, I believe old Mr. Procrustes hain’t livin’ at the present time, but he left a large, a very large family. And every one of ’em inherits the old gentleman’s traits and disposition. I have seen lots of ’em that, if they dast, would have every leg in the world jest the length of their’n. If they dast, they would tackle you in a minute with a saw or a broad-axe.

“But I never felt that way. Now, as fur as my own feelin’s are concerned, I think memories can haunt anybody, and hearts can ache jest as severe under a white dress as a black one, and visey versey. Hearts can beat gay and triumphant aginst bumbuzeen bodist waists and crape trimmin’s. But Miss Bamber feels different. She feels that she can’t mourn without certain conveniences. And feelin’ in that way, and feelin’ that it would be a duty and a privilege for her to mourn for her mother-in-law, I say that woman shall have the wherewith to do it with. I say she shall mourn if she wants to; she shall be helped to a black dress. There hain’t a member of the meetin’-house but what can give a six-pence without feelin’ it. We want to keep it all still from Miss Bamber, and get it, and get it all made for her before she knows a thing about it. And,” says I, “mebby you had better give me the six-pence to-day, as we have got it about all collected, and want to get the dress right away.”

Says he, “Hain’t there nobody else whose duty it is to get the dress? Her relations? I should think it was their duty to help.”

Never did I ask a stingy human creeter for help for the poor, or help for the meetin’-house, but what this argument was dragged up by ’em. Tryin’ to shirk off their own duty onto somebody else.

“No,” says I, “her family is all dead. She hain’t got but one relation in the world, and that is an aunt of her grandmother’s; and she is supported by the town.”

“Wall,” says he, cheerfully, “mebby the town would feel like gettin’ this dress.”

I jest give him a look, and never said another word,—only jest that look. But I s’pose that look spoke louder and awfuler than words, for he hastened to say, in a apologizin’ way:

“I didn’t know but the town would want to—would feel it a privilege to—”

I still didn’t say nothin’, only jest that awful look. And agin he says, in a apologizin’ way:

“I would advance the six-pence to you, I would try to raise it some way for you, but the hard times we have had, and are havin’, have depressed all sorts of business so, we have suffered terribly financially as well as the other public. We have got a great deal of money to make out this fall—over 10 dollars. Father hain’t a bit well; my health hain’t what it once was; our expenses are enormious—taxes, household expenses, clothin’; and takin’ all these things into consideration, together with the public debt, the withdrawal of funds by foreign capitalists, the almost total stagnation of public enterprize, the total lack of public confidence, the total—”

Says I, “Put in total selfishness and total meanness, and keep your six-pence.”

I don’t believe I have been more wore out in over seven months,—and mad.

“Wall,” says he, lookin’ relieved, “if you will excuse me, I won’t make no move towards raisin’ the money for you. It would probable cramp me considerable to raise the sum jest at this present time.”

And then he begun about Kitty agin. Says he, knittin’ up his eyebrow hard, and lookin’ gloomy:

“I never calculated to fall in love with a poor girl. It never used to pass my mind that I ever should select such a one out of the hundreds that stand round me, hankerin’ to marry me. But I have done it. Why, sometimes I think I couldn’t love that girl any more if she was worth two hundred and 50 dollars. I think so much of her that it is as hard for me as loosin’ a limb, almost like loosin’ my pocket-book, to think of her bein’ way off there a pinin’ for me, and bein’ on a perfect rack, not knowin’ whether she will get me or not.

“When I think of that side of the question, Josiah Allen’s wife, I feel jest like leavin’ word here with you for her, that I will marry her, whether or no. But then, jest like a blow aginst the side of my head, comes the thought of them other wimmen, that had hopes before she come to Jonesville that they would get me. I believe, anyway, it will be safe to leave word here for her to keep up good courage, and try not to get too cast down and melancholy; to hope for the best; and I’ll do everything I can. I’ll enquire round about the wimmen, see the doctor, and try to arrange things for her good and happiness; try to get round and marry her. At the same time,” says he, with a cautious look, “I would feel it my duty to warn her to not get so bound up in me that the disappointment would kill her, if she should lose me.”

“Wall,” says I, bein’ wore almost completely out, “I must go and skim the milk for the calves.”

And he took the hint and started off, and glad enough was I to see him go. But jest as he went down the steps, and I turned to go into the buttery, I see a paper of indigo that Marier Burpey had left here that very day. She had forgot it, and I knew she was in a hurry a colorin’; so I jest carried it to the door, and asked Kellup if he would carry it to her, knowin’ he had to go right by her door.

“No,” says he, firmly, “I dassent do it.” And he looked anxious and skairt as he said it. “I’d be glad to, but I dassent,” says he. “I have to make my demeanor perfectly stunny towards that girl, in order to keep her affection anywhere within bounds. She don’t show it any by her looks or actions—she has got almost marble self-control; but I see right through it. I see that she almost worships me. I see that I am makin’ her perfectly unhappy; and when I think of Sofier’s fate, I tremble for Marier. I am careful; I am a careful feller; I am on my guard. And at the present time, situated as I be in regard to Kitty, I feel that I ort to be doubly careful. But at any and every time a young man like me can’t be too careful when they are round amongst wimmen.”

“Nobody wouldn’t mistrust you was makin’ such havock,” says I, mechanically, for I really didn’t know what to say.

“Yes, if a young man like me is unprincipled enough to go headlong into wimmen’s company without lookin’ where he is goin’, without actin’ offish and cold to ’em, why, before that man knows it, he is a wadin’ through goar. Bleedin’ hearts lay round him on every side a bleedin’. Why don’t other young men think of these things? Why hain’t they more careful, more offish?”

Says I, with feelin’, “That’s so, why hain’t they? The offisher some men be, the more I think on ’em.” And I looked longin’ly at the path down to the gate, and the road to Jonesville.

“Yes, you know what actin’ on principle means. That is why I respect you, confide in you.”

“Then you don’t think you can carry the indigo?” says I, turnin’ to go in.

“No,” says he, firm as marble, and as sot as that stun. “I’d love to accommodate you, but I dassent. When I think of the fate of Sofier, when I think of the deadly blows my conscience dealt to me every minute, as I drove her hearse to the buryin’-ground—then I feel as if I had almost ruther lose ten cents than go through it agin with Marier. I feel that I must not be resky, and do anything to ensnare her affections.”

“Good land!” says I, “indigo won’t be likely to ensnare ’em, will it?”

“Other men might handle it safe, men with less attractions than I have got, but I can’t, I dassent.”

And I wouldn’t demean myself by urgin’ him another word. And I went into the house, and he started off.

Wall, as I was a sayin’, Kitty had been gone two weeks, the day Nathan and Cassandra visited me, and this letter from her, brought in to me while I was a gettin’ the dinner onto the table, brought news that was startlin’ and agitatin’ in the extreme. I was jest a stirrin’ some sweet cream and butter together over the stove, havin’ a fresh salmon trout for dinner, and Josiah bein’ fond of that kind of gravy to eat with it, and Nathan bein’ such a clever creeter, offered to stir it for me, while I read the letter. And I was so anxious to git the news, that I let him do it, though, the stove bein’ so hot, take it with that and his burnin’ blushes, it made a pretty hot time for him.

But the news was this: Kitty was married. But the curiousest and most agitatin’ part of the news was, the old gentleman, Mark’s father, had got after Kitty’s mother. He went to give her a scoldin’, and fell in love with her on the spot. Like Hamen, he got hung on his own gallowses—went to smite her, and got smit himself, awful. So he courted her up violent and powerful, and they all got married the same day.

It was very pleasant and agreeable news to me, and to Josiah. And Cassandra and Nathan acted well about it. They said they was glad it all turned out so well, but their minds didn’t seem to be on the news so much as they was on their babe. And it is a very good-lookin’ child, and appears middlin’ well for a child of its age. Takes after its father some—sort o’ sandy, with red hair. It don’t look much, as little Samantha Jo did, nor it don’t have that noble, beautiful appearance she had at that age. But then you can’t expect that any other child is ever goin’ to look and act like her. I do despise people bein’ so bound up in their own childern and grandchildern that they can’t see no good qualities in any other childern. Thank fortune that hain’t my way, nor never was. And I say, and I always shall say, that Cassandra’s babe hain’t a babe to be ashamed of, and feel above, not by any means.

Bein’ so awful bashful, Nathan don’t probable associate with it so much, and act on such intimate terms with it as he would if it wuzn’t for that. But in a mild, sheepish way, he seems to think the world of it, and seems to want to do everything he can to make it feel to home with ’em, and happy. But he don’t come out openly and express his admiration and affection, as he would if it wuzn’t for that drawback.

Now, he dassent hold it much, or that is, he don’t seem to dast. But Cassandra bein’ proud-spirited, and wantin’ Nathan to show off some, would once in a while put the babe in his lap.

He never would make any move to stop her. He never would refuse to take it. He would set and hold it jest as long as she felt disposed to leave it there. But he would look down on it in a skairt, wonderin’, breathless way, as if the child got there in his lap through some mysterious and inscrutable decree of Providence, and it wuzn’t for him to resist. But he suffered intensely at such times, I could see.

And every little while Cassandra (bein’ determined to make Nathan show off) would tell him to say sunthin’ to the babe, talk baby-talk to it. And he would always try to. He would always do jest as Cassandra told him to (a cleverer critter never walked). His face would be as red as a red handkerchief, but he would ask the babe, up in a little, high, fine voice:

“Do you want a pair of boots?”

He never made any other remark to the child that I heard, only jest that. I heard him say that to it more’n 20 times, I dare persume to say. For Cassandra, bein’ so anxious to have him show off, kep’ tellin’ him to talk to it. And it seemed as if that remark was all he could think of that would be agreeable to the child. But Josiah said, as we was talkin’ it over afterwards, that he heard him say two or three times to it:

“Yes, it shall have a pair of boots.”

But it must have been when I was out a gettin’ dinner. For if I was under oath I would say that I didn’t hear him say a single thing to it, only jest this:

“Do you want a pair of boots?”

They started for home jest after dinner, Nathan havin’ left some work that must be done. And Josiah hitched up and went to Jonesville to mill. And I s’pose he told the news about Kitty there. But it wuzn’t till the next afternoon that I heard what the effects of that news wuz in a certain place and to a certain feller.

And though it hain’t always best to mention names, and come right out plain and talk, yet it probable won’t do no hurt to mention that you might expect Kellup Cobb, under any circumstances, would act like a fool.

I was down to the creek lot, pickin’ a few berries for supper, when Josiah told me on’t. It had got a little later than I thought for, and Josiah had come down after me, bein’ worried about me. It was only a little ways from the house. I had put the tea-kettle on, and sot the table, before I had come out, and the tea-kettle was a bilin’, so Josiah said, after he told me the news. The news was thrillin’ and agitatin’ in the extreme. He said Kellup Cobb had disappeared the night before, after the news of Kitty’s marriage had got abroad in Jonesville. They said that he felt so that he disappeared, he and the hearse and Elder Judas Wart—the hull three on ’em. Kellup had been on intimate terms with Judas Wart for some time; and some think that Kellup bein’ so cut down by Kitty’s marriage, and the Elder bein’ so cut down by my witherin’ eloquence and Josiah’s broom-handle, that they both got into the hearse, and drove off in it to Utah to jine the Mormons. And some think that they sold the hearse, and took the money, and went to Salt Lake by rail. Which last way, I told my Josiah, when he mentioned it, was the proper way to go there, if it wuz the right kind of a rail. But anyway, they had gone, the hull three on ’em, and there hain’t been a word heard from ’em sense in Jonesville.

Josiah said old Cobb felt awfully.

Says I, “To lose Kellup?”

“No,” says he, “to lose the hearse.”

But I jest repeated this line of poetry to my pardner. Says I:

“Poetry, Josiah, will somehow express the feelin’s of the soul better than you can express them yourself.” And says I, “Josiah, as for Elder Judas Wart and Kellup, I say with the poet, good riddance to bad rubbidge.”

“Wall,” says Josiah, with a sort of a dreamy look,—that man loves poetry, though he seldom quotes it—“don’t you s’pose, Samantha, that you have got about enough berries for supper, for I am gettin’ hungry as a bear.”

“Yes,” says I, “because I have got stewed peaches and cold chicken and everything else good for supper besides them. But,” says I, lookin’ sort o’ longin’ly at some berries that was a hangin’ over the water, “there is a few extra big and ripe ones that do look too good to leave.”

“Wall,” says he, sweetly (for his mean sense I told him what we was goin’ to have for supper had looked perfectly beautiful), “you set down and rest, Samantha, and I will pick ’em for you.”

And so he took my little tin pail, and with a happy frame bent down to pick ’em. And I, bein’ tired, sot down, and looked into the water. And I see that everything was reflected in it. The trees, the nodding red sumac feathers, my Josiah and me, gay golden-rod and wild blue china-oysters, the berry bushes, the thorny stalks and the ripe fruit, fresh posys, and withered leaves; all imaged there in the water; and the water was a runnin’ swift.

And out on the end of a slender bush that hung over the water, a bird swayed and swung to and fro, and sung out a dretful sort of a sweet song, yet sad like. Some as if it was practicin’ over a farewell song to its home, its happy nest, before it sailed away south in search of a balmier climate.

So the bird sailed back and forth on that slender twig, over the deep waters, a singin’ about a happier country, sweet and sad, sweet and low. And my pardner picked the ripe berries, and I sot there peaceful and serene (though some sweaty), a thinkin’ how, over all that was pictured on the changing face of the waters, the changeless blue heavens was reflected, shining down over all, the old and the new, the mournful and the sorrowful; over all, and beneath all. That thought was perfectly beautiful to me, and dretful comfortin’. And I sot there a thinkin’ of that, and a thinkin’ how swift the water was a runnin’ towards the sea.

This book is one of those indescribable ones, of which little can be said except that it is rich and spicy throughout, readable and fascinating, brimfull of humor and sharp things—yet not a line in it, that does not point a moral, and teach a lesson. It will create a sensation whenever read, and no one will enjoy it better than the ladies, although it deals with them in a plain way. The men will like it, the children will like it, all will like and laugh over it, and remember its teachings long afterwards.

The Public will make no mistake in purchasing this book, as it is full of good things, which will at once arrest and rivet the attention of the reader.

Never was a character’s lines drawn more distinctly than that of Josiah’s wife, and her originals will be found among the acquaintances of many. Cute, wise, shrewd and observing, with a vein of strong common sense, yet simple and innocent as a child, she will keep the reader crammed with sharp hits and funny observations.

Betsey Bobbet’s opinions act upon Josiah’s wife’s, as settings do upon diamonds: adding to their brightness and resplendency.

The book contains 432 Pages, and is filled with Pictures, put in, as the author says, to explain the text.

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This book the writer sends forth to the world, expecting it will (as did other martyrs: John Rogers and etcetery) tread on the hot coals of public opinion; be briled on the gridiron old bigotry keeps to brile her enemies on; be scalded by the melted lead of old custom; and be burnt up on the stake of opposition; yet still, upheld by firm principle and lofty emotions, she is able to say: “I am happy in the thought.”

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