Chapter V: Order, Symmetry, and Proportion (2)

The cause of the turbulent spirit exhibited in a large class of our population is, principally, the sense of pecuniary insecurity in which they live; the fear lest by an overabundance in the supply of labor, or by the disability of the laborer, they should be unable to get the means of living for themselves and their families. The writer of this article was impelled, by the duties of his profession, to spend his entire time, save the hours of sleep, during the days of the riot and the two weeks subsequent, among the active insurgents, in the neighborhood of the conflicts, and in other situations, which gave him peculiar advantages for knowing the nature of the mob and the causes of its actions. The prevailing complaint among the first active insurgents, and their sympathizers among the poor, was that they were about to be forced away from home to fight for the freedom of the blacks, who when free would become their competitors for the little they now earn. In listening to the knots gathered at the corners, to the conversation among the inhabitants of the most violently riotous districts, the words which fell oftenest upon the ear were those of bitter, burning, blasting denunciation against the apathy of the rich, who, while enjoying the comforts of a competency, are forgetful of the continuous, persistent, hopeless, never-to-be-relieved, and crushing poverty of the poor, with its inevitable accompaniments. The writer does not hesitate to affirm, that but for this sense of the insecurity of their means of living, and the mistaken notions which had been instilled into them in regard to the negroes and the object of this war, as increasing still further this insecurity--a deception to which their ignorance, the necessary result of their present pecuniary conditions, even were there no other causes for it, renders them at all times liable--they could not have been incited to the recent sedition.

It is not easy for men who do not feel the daily and hourly pressure of poverty, to comprehend the constant solicitude which weighs upon the indigent. It is still less easy for them to understand the intensely practical point of view from which the poor must regard every question submitted to them, and the equally practical and speedy solution which they must find to problems of social interest presented for their consideration. The citizen who is comfortably situated in relation to money matters, can afford to look at the result which any social, economical, or mechanical change will introduce in his affairs with reference to a period of time more or less extended into the future. The man who has no capital, who literally earns his _daily_ bread, and whose ability to gain a livelihood for himself and his family depends upon his constant, unintermitted labor, is in no condition to look at any aspect of any question but in the one, vital, all-important view of his personal necessities. Anything which stops his work, for a week even, is destructive to him, no matter how beneficial its after results may promise to be. The binding force of dire necessity coerces him into this position; and even were he intelligent enough to see that all progress, no matter how destructive to particular departments of industry at first, eventually benefits _all_ classes and _all_ individuals, he cannot afford to consider the question from this stand-point, if it affects his immediate occupation. The benefits of progress must be of secondary importance to an individual, when the present issue which the case presents to him is starvation or work. If the proposed improvement is liable to throw him out of employment for even a brief period, he must look upon it as a hostile invader and resist its introduction. It is this insecurity of social condition, therefore, which has always arrayed a portion of the masses against the introduction of new inventions, improvements in machinery, and labor-saving appliances of all descriptions, and which has caused the riots and violent demonstrations which, at times, have accompanied the first use of new mechanical contrivances. One of the _first_ results of the introduction of labor-saving machinery is to throw a large number of people temporarily out of employment. This is forcibly felt by the ignorant masses. They are not educated enough to see that this first result is more than counterbalanced by subsequent benefits;--indeed, it is still a debated question with many people of ordinary intelligence whether, on account of the large number of people primarily deprived of occupation, labor-saving machinery be a benefit to society;--and if they were so educated, their immediate necessities cannot be satisfied with this solution. The same is true in regard to the abolition of slavery. One of the first fruits of this measure will be, as they believe, to cause a large number of negroes to emigrate North. This is the practical point of the question which the poor and ignorant see. The results of this immigration have been magnified to them; a statement of the counteracting tendencies has been withheld by those interested in fomenting discord, or if not withheld, they do not see these as operating immediately on their condition, and hence regard them as practically not existing.

It is, therefore, the wretched material condition of the poorer masses and the ignorance, stupidity, brutality, and degradation accompanying these, together with the apathy of the rich and intelligent classes to their situation, which are the latent causes of our social broils, the recent riot included. In speaking of the pecuniary conditions and the sufferings of the lowest masses, let it be understood that no reference is intended to the present economical relations of labor and price, as compared with those of other times. I refer to the _status_ of the poorest classes in society; to the miserable method of their lives, always wretched, ever burdensome, with but one source of temporary relief within their means, the grogshop, which deepens their misery; to their hopeless degradation and perpetual ignorance, under present social arrangements, whether labor be a little higher for a time or not. On the other hand, in referring to the apathy of the rich and intelligent classes, I do not charge them with a want of large benevolence on the ordinary charitable plane, but to something far different, as will appear in the sequel.

It is time, then, that the intelligent and opulent classes began to reflect upon the nature of the community in which they live, and upon the conditions of their neighbors; not, as heretofore, in a casual way, and without any intention of thoroughly considering the question, or doing anything to remedy radically the defects which they may discover, but in the spirit of desire and determination to relieve the masses permanently of burdens which press heavily upon them, to rescue them from the persistent deception of the intriguing demagogues whose snares are winding closer and closer around them, and to unite in bonds of respect and mutual assistance the physical substratum of society with the moral, intellectual, and substantial. The scenes of the New York riot are a solemn warning that the time has come when society must begin in earnest the work of lifting the masses out of their degradation, their squalor, their ignorance, and their poverty, or the lowest classes, driven to desperation, will make the attempt, at least, to drag society down to their level. The doctrine of equality has been pushed to its utmost in the hands of political cajolers, until the practical logic of the crude multitude, spurred to its intellectual conclusions by physical necessity, asks, What sort of equality is that which keeps the largest portion of the people in want, while the smaller rolls in plenty? So long as the estrangement of the lower classes from their natural directors and advisers continues, so long will these dangerous distortions of truth be powerful weapons in the hands of unfeeling men, whose interests and purposes are subserved by deception. And this estrangement will never cease until the intelligence and wealth of the community withdraw the allegiance of the masses from tricksters and schemers, and transfer it to themselves by the inauguration of such methods of social amelioration as shall convince the multitude of the falsity of the demagogue's teaching, and satisfy them of the fact that the higher classes have really their welfare at heart, and are anxious for their comfort and happiness. When this is done, the ignorant population will no longer be leagued on the side of falsehood, no longer stand the steady opponents of that progress which is so beneficial to themselves. The argument of practical help will have convinced them who their true friends are, and neither the rebel emissary, the dishonest politician, nor the thief will be able to stir them to insurrection, nor control them to the opposition of salutary and judicious laws.

The kind of relationship which must exist between the rich and benevolent classes and the ignorant poor, must be a closer one in the future than has ever been in the past, and of a different character. In earlier times the isolation and separation which are common between the various orders of society in America, were unknown. There are many countries in which the powerful and opulent feel an obligation resting upon them to be the guardians and social providence of the weak and the humble. Hence the two classes are united to each other by ties of respect and order on the part of the indigent, and of care and protection on the part of the wealthy. The sense of pecuniary insecurity is there little felt, and the ignorant poor are not left to the machinations of any trickster whose interest it may be to deceive them. It is for this reason that even in societies where the oppression of the poor and weak is, in other ways, infinitely greater than in this country, riots and seditions are difficult to create. It is because of the social providence which, theoretically, and, in an appreciable degree, practically, the Southern master extends over his slaves, that it is so difficult to arouse them to insurrection. True, in the case of the slave and the landed peasant, the security from physical want is purchased by the sacrifice of other and higher advantages, but to a large proportion of the ignorant and the weak the means of life are more important than any other blessings.

In accordance with the spirit of our institutions, we enter as equals into the competitive struggle of life, where all cannot be gainers, and where it is inevitable that the strong and the intelligent should succeed, while the feeble and the ignorant must fail. But as both classes have been admitted freely into the race, there is no feeling on the part of the winners of duty or obligation toward the losers. If one chooses to be charitable, he may; if not, society has no claim upon him, no right to _expect_ that he will make the care of others a part of his duty or his business. Thus the community is arrayed in two great classes: the intelligent, the strong in mind, and those of larger capacities, who, as a class, are rich, on the one side; and the ignorant, the weak-minded, the crude, who, as a body, are poor, on the other. A great gulf separates these two classes, who have nothing in common, and society rests on a social basis composed of forlorn, dissatisfied, ignorant people, developing day by day still more the accompaniments of ignorance and poverty--brutality, viciousness, drunkenness, and ferocity. This separation has too long continued, has too long left the country a prey to political demagogues, who have plunged it into repeated turmoils, and finally into civil war, by being able to operate upon the fears and feelings of the ignorant, deprived of all natural and proper guidance. It is a question, not only of duty, but of safety, for the rich and intelligent, whether they will suffer the lower orders to remain in their wretchedness and sullen dissatisfaction, sinking daily into still deeper degradation, and engendering still more bitter hatred; or whether they will accept their proper position as the organized guides and permanent social providence of the weak, and faithfully perform its functions.

In pressing upon the higher classes the obligation which they owe to the lower orders of society, and in urging them to assume the guardianship of the latter, the writer is not referring to vague and diffuse measures of ordinary philanthropy, but to definite and practical ones, of vast importance to the welfare of the wealthiest as well as to that of the poorest member of society. The individuals who have been most actively engaged in the stirring scenes of commercial life, are little aware, for the most part, of the rapid advances made in social science during the last twenty years, and especially within the last ten of these. Extensive as the new principles evolved in the department of mechanical discovery, during this period, have been, those in that of commercial and social activity have fully equalled them. The true method of organizing the workshop, the farm, and the manufactory, the right adjustment of capital and labor so as to secure larger advantages than heretofore to both capitalist and laborer, the just adaptation of supply and demand in community, the mutually beneficial coöperation of employer and employé, these and other questions of deep significance to the whole community have reached a theoretical, and, to a limited extent, a practical solution, which the students of social science patiently wait to communicate to the active workers in commercial or industrial affairs. For the want of this knowledge, now ready at their call, the capitalists and the employers are suffering, no less than the laborers and the employed. There is not a single department of human labor in which principles are not now known to the industrial scientist, which would enhance many fold the value of the means employed in such business, to the equal advantage of the owner of the capital and his assistants. The merchants, the bankers, the manufacturers, and the master mechanics are making a wasteful and inferior use of their material, while at the same time they are inadvertently keeping the lower classes in poverty by the want of a knowledge of these modern discoveries. It is from this lack of information only that the poor of New York, who to-day are steeped in their filth, their squalor, and their penury, are not each and all of them enjoying the comforts of a moderate competence and a decent home, the securing of which for them would have, at the same time, enhanced the wealth of the employers. The way to gain the allegiance, devotion, and fidelity of the poorer orders, is easy and simple. The problem of the harmonization of the interests of classes in community with mutual benefit to all, is scientifically solved. It only remains for the intelligent and benevolent to give due attention to the teachings of science in order to secure the most beneficial results.

Already these modern industrial principles are being adopted in some considerable degree into active practice by eminent citizens. In New York city the methods of recent discoveries are being introduced into large manufactories with the most satisfactory and beneficial results to all concerned. But these attempts, as yet, have been undertaken without any thorough examination of the whole scope of principles relating to the operations in hand, and hence without the largest achievable results. These will come when the intelligent and moneyed classes awake to the importance of the subject; to the understanding that the knowledge of methods for securing immense social improvements is in existence; and to a determination to possess that knowledge and to apply it to its legitimate ends--the organization of a social providence for the ignorant and weak, and the binding of all classes of society into relations of mutual sympathy and assistance.

All this, however, looks to a period of time, more or less, though it is to be hoped not far, distant. In the meantime, while society remains with its present constitution, riots are liable, and a practical question still remains, of the method which should be pursued in dealing with them. There is a time for all things, said a man of reputed wisdom. And the time for considering the sufferings of a people or for being in anywise tender hearted, is not when a madman or a cohort of madmen are howling about your houses or your city, with knives and torches, blood in their eyes, fiery rum in their veins, demoniac rage in their hearts, and the instincts of hell in their natures. A mob has no mind, only passions. It were as idle to attempt to make it listen to reason, as to argue with a lunatic in the height of his frenzy. A mob is not only a creature of passions, but of the worst passions. Every man has in him more or less of the demoniac element, which, commonly, he is constrained by the requirements of the society in which he lives to keep within decent limits. A mob can never have an existence until the parties which compose its nucleus, at least, have toppled from their customary self-control, and passion has assumed the guidance. Then the devil, long restrained and compressed, takes a holiday. As a high-mettled steed, after being kept a long time within the narrow limits of his stable, and being obliged to conduct himself in a staid manner, on being released, runs, whisks his tail, kicks up his heels, lays back his ears, opens his mouth, and rushes with mock vicious-looking eyes at whomsoever he meets, and all this from mere wantonness, to enjoy his freedom; so the devil in the man, not perchance the theological one, but still the devil no less actually, as seen every day in the activity of the baser passions, on being released, by the abdication of reason and the substitution of feeling, begins to exercise his ingenuity in the play of his faculties, compensating himself for his long confinement. From hour to hour, and from day to day, this devil gets fuller possession of the individual, who becomes more and more an unreasoning creature, until a blind, furious, brutal, bloodthirsty demon is all that remains of what might have once been merely a not well balanced human being.

It is notorious that a mob will commit atrocities which a single individual could scarcely be tempted to perpetrate. The reason is partially evident from the statement just made. A more philosophical explanation may be given. It is a law of social intercourse that there is always among companies of individuals a more or less effective contagion of whatever sentiment is most powerful among them. Still further, this contagion or magnetic battery of sympathy, while pervading the whole assembly, likewise increases the individual potency of the sentiment in the mind of each person. It is for this reason, that an orator thrills more deeply each hearer in a vast sympathetic assembly, than he would the same individual in a less crowded company; that music is more inspiring in a great crowd of people than elsewhere, etc. In an assemblage where the finer sentiments are predominant, this contagion is of the finer sort, and serves to elevate the whole company: in a gathering where the lower passions preponderate, the contagion is of the debasing kind, and serves to excite still further the worst elements of brutality, and to sink the individuals which compose the company still lower in the scale of humanity. To the educators of the young and to the governors of the people, this law is of immense importance.

A mob is, therefore, not only under the influence of its worst passions, but every hour of its existence these are growing more potent, in the mob as an entity, and in the persons which compose it. The only true mercy which can be shown to such an assembly, aside from any question of the safety of community, is to suppress it; to suppress it at once; and to use every means necessary to that end. Relentless rigor is the only measure adequate to the occasion. It is the weakness of civilization that it hesitates to be cruelly kind. The mistake of the military authorities in regard to the New York riot, was lenity. The prompt and vigorous bombardment, in the beginning of the rising, of a block of the houses in which the rioters were safely ensconced, while covertly firing on the soldiers and policemen, would have done more to quell the mob than all subsequent proceedings, and would have saved life in the end. It would have forced the inhabitants of these houses who, as things were conducted, could safely give all possible aid to the insurgents, to compel these to lay down their arms, in order to insure the safety of the sympathizers. Had the first, and the second, and the third house from which the assassins were permitted to fire been battered to the ground with cannon shot, the last two days of fighting would have been unnecessary. The police cowed the mob wherever they met them, because they showed no quarter. They hit hard and they hit often. They felt that the way to knock the riot in the head, was to knock the rioters in the head. And they did it, as Inspector Carpenter says, 'beautifully.' New York feels as proud of these Metropolitan policemen as he does; and that is saying a great deal.

We discover, then, by this brief analysis of the great riot, that social outbreaks of this kind have their _immediate_ and _tangible_ causes, which are superficial in their character, and vary with the occasion; that these causes depend for their disturbing power upon others which are more _fundamental_, and which inhere in the nature of our present social relations; that so long as the wealthy and intelligent classes shall decline the permanent guardianship and organized care of the poor and ignorant masses, the liability to such recurrences will remain; that when they break forth, the safety of community and mercy to the rioters alike demand that the mob be scattered on the instant by an iron and relentless hand; and, finally, that the only method by which society will be permanently and effectually freed from a liability to the terrors of mob-rule, is the reorganization of its economical arrangements in such a manner that the miseries of poverty and ignorance shall be forever removed from the community, and a social providence be firmly established which shall secure physical comfort and kindly sympathy to all classes of citizens.

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

A PRE-RAPHAELITE PICTURE FROM NATURE.

It was left long ago,
And the rank weeds grow
Where the lily once bent her head;
Thick and tall they grow,
And some lying low,
Beaten down by a human tread.

And the laughing sun,
When the day's nearly done,
Looks in on the cheerless floor;
And falleth the rain
Through the broken pane--
Shrill whistles the wind at the door.

And the thistles stand
At the gate where no hand
Ever lifts the latch, now nailed fast:
One gate low doth lie
Which the passer by
Treads o'er as he hurries past.

On the fence close by
Where the sunbeams lie
Doth the kingly Nightshade blow;
But the Asters tall
That grew by the wall
Have vanished long ago.

Not now, as of old,
Blooms the gay Marigold,
Looking in at the kitchen door;
And the Cypress red
Is long since dead,
And the Monkhood blossoms no more.

But the Hopvine still
By the window sill
Is as full as in days of yore;
And the Currants grow
As thickly now
And as ripe as e'er before.

But the hearth is bare--
Not a log blazes there
To light up the empty room:
Not a soft shadow falls
On the whitewashed walls:
All is silent--all wrapt in gloom!

Not a chair on the floor,
Not a rug at the door,
Where the cat once lay in the sun;
And no grandame sits
At the door and knits,
Telling tales of days bygone!

All is silent now,
And the long weeds bow
Their heads in the wind and rain;--
But the dwellers of yore
Will ne'er enter the door
Of that dreary old House again!

E. W. C.

SPRING MOUNTAIN.

'Race Miller, indeed! why don't you say Jim Burt at once? I think I'd better go live in Rocky Hollow, and weave baskets for a living; hadn't I?'

'Well, Dimpey, the race is not _always_ to the swift, you know; so you'd better look out in time;' and Polly Jane took up her pan of peas, and went laughing into the kitchen. I suppose she thought she had said something smart, as our name is _Swift_; and perhaps she had; but it made me as mad as hops, I won't deny it, though I _am_ a minister's niece! So I pulled my sunbonnet over my face, and went to weeding the flowerbeds, to get cool. It was going on to noon, and the sun was baking hot, but I didn't mind that; I could _not_ shell peas in the same pan with Polly Jane while I felt so provoked.

I _do_ think that Race Miller is one of the homeliest young men I ever set my eyes on: if I say so _now_, you may be sure it's true. His skin is almost as dark as an Indian's, and his hair curls up as tight as wool--you couldn't straighten it if you brushed his head off. Then his eyes are blue and twinkly, and he has a short nose, and a great, broad mouth, that, whenever he laughs, opens wide enough to swallow you; to be sure, it is filled with nice, white teeth, and has a good-natured expression; but his teeth are so strong they look as if they could bite through a tenpenny nail; and when he answers out in Bible class, and comes to the long words, such as 'righteousness' and 'Jerusalem,' it really seems as if they were something good to eat, he crunches them so with those great teeth of his!

You'll wonder how he came to have such a ridiculous name as _Race_. His mother named him Horace, after somebody in a book, but as none of her connection owned the name, nor anybody else in this part of the country, it didn't come natural to call him by it, so they shortened it down to Race, to make it handy. I suppose _I_ oughtn't to say much about names, however, for _Dimpey_ don't amount to much; but that isn't _my_ fault; I was christened with a right pretty name--Phebe Ann! but Cousin Phebe lived with us when I was little, and it made a sort o' confusion to have two of us, and my cheeks were so full of dimples that Calanthy--she's the oldest of us children, and has kept house ever since mother died--well, she called me Dimpey, and the rest took it up, and so I suppose I shall be Dimpey Swift to the end of the chapter--that is, not Dimpey _Swift_ exactly; but I forgot, I was telling about Race Miller.

I was so vexed with Polly Jane for even hinting that he was a match for _me_, that I jerked out the weeds with all my might, and I do believe our Persian pink border never was so clean before or since; when I came in, there wasn't a weed left in it, big or little!

Now the fact was, I couldn't help knowing I was _tolerable_ good-looking by the way the boys manoeuvred 'round to walk home from singing school with me, and by their staring at me in meeting when they ought to have been looking at the minister. I used to try and keep my eyes fast on my hymn book, but it seemed as if I could see right through the lids; and I knew well enough that when Ned Hassel bent down his head and pretended to be picking out his notes in 'Sacred Psalmody,' he was peeping at _me_ all the time. I suppose I was a little spoiled by having so many beaux, for Calanthy was a regular old maid: you mustn't ever mention it, but she'd been disappointed once, and wouldn't keep company with anyone after that; and Polly Jane had only one sweetheart, and I didn't think much of him, though he _was_ the schoolmaster, and knew more than all of us put together. He was kind-a slow in his speech, and a good deal bald; his hair never came in right well after he had the typhus fever; but John Morgan was a real good fellow for all that, and I was a little fool not to know it.

Well, I stooped over the flower beds till I was tired and 'most melted, and I was just thinking of giving up, when Calanthy called to me from the kitchen door, 'Don't stay out in the sun any longer, Dimpey; you'll have time to cool before dinner, for father hasn't come in yet.' Calanthy always petted me considerable, for I was only a year old when mother was taken away, and Calanthy had to bring me up, and teach me everything about the house.

So I went through the garden out into the orchard, and sat down under the big Baldwin apple tree, to rest; it was a nice, shady spot, and there came up a breeze off the river t'other side the meadow, where father and the boys were mowing. The air smelt as sweet as could be of the new hay, and I took off my bonnet and sat down on the grass, and leaned my head against the tree; the bees were humming in the clover, and the sound made me sleepy, and I believe I must have dozed while I was sitting there. I don't know how it was, but all at once I saw a picture in my mind: I couldn't get rid of it, try my best. It happened long ago, when I was a little bit of a thing, but it all came back to me under that apple tree. It was when our old mare Peggy took fright at a tin peddler's wagon just as she was crossing the bridge at the foot of Smith's hill; what ailed the creature I can't tell, for she's as steady as clockwork generally. Dear me! I've ridden her ever since I was _so_ high! But perhaps it was the sun shining on one of the tins hanging outside the wagon, that reflected into her eyes and scared her out of her wits; at any rate, she gave a sudden spring, and pitched father right over her head; then she ran home as fast as she could go, and jumped over the fence into the dooryard. Calanthy wasn't well, and when she saw old Peggy come tearing along the road without father, she fainted away, and Polly Jane caught her as she was falling, and helped her on the bed in the spare room. I was sitting on a little chair in the hall, stringing beads; I thought Calanthy was dead, and commenced screaming like a catbird; and poor Polly Jane was almost distracted, and didn't know which way to turn. Race Miller was a boy about fourteen at that time, and as strong as a lion; he happened to be driving down the hill just as the accident happened, and he and the peddler lifted father into his wagon, and Race brought him home and then drove off for the doctor as quick as he could; he had two miles to go, but he did it in no time, and had the doctor there just as Calanthy fairly came to and was able to walk about.

Well, father wasn't hurt as bad as we thought--only stunned by the fall; he had a bad bruise on his cheek, though, and Dr. Basset said he must keep still on the bed all day, and have his face bathed with laudanum and vinegar. They were all so busy that no one thought about _me_, till Race came out of father's room and found me sitting on the low chair, rocking my doll in my arms, and crying as if my heart would break; I had felt so lonesome and miserable that I was holding the doll for company; and when Race saw me he said, 'Why, what's the matter with little Dimpey?' 'Is father dead?' said I; 'can't I go and see him?' Then Race told me father was better, and that I must not cry, and this made me cry more; so he took me up in his arms, doll and all--I well remember how strong his arms felt--and sat down in the big rocking chair in the parlor; and when the house was quiet, and Calanthy came to look for me, there she found us, I with my arms round Race's neck, and the dolly hugged up tight, and all three of us fast asleep!

But this was long ago, and I was a woman now, and a good deal sought after, as I said before, and some of my beaux were well off and good looking; and, if the truth must be spoken, Race had not paid me much attention lately, and did not seem to think as much of me as Ned Hassel did, and the other young men of our place. To be sure he worked very hard, for his father was sick a good while and died in debt, and their farm was mortgaged to 'Squire Stevens; and as Race was the only child, everything came upon _him_, and he was in the field early and late, trying to pay off the mortgage, and keep the old homestead for his mother. He _was_ a good son--that everybody said; but he didn't visit 'round as much as some.

I sat so long under the apple tree thinking of all this, that I got quite cool and comfortable, and when Polly Jane called me in to dinner I felt good-natured again.

While we were eating dinner, brother Joe said, 'Dimpey, as soon as we get through haying the boys are going to have a drive to Spring Mountain, and take the girls up, for a picnic. Ned Hassel started it; I guess he wants to show off his sorrel horses; but that near horse of his is as skittish a creetur as ever I see--I wouldn't ride after it, if I was you.' 'No, no,' said father; 'Dimpey isn't going to have her neck broken by _them_ beasts; Ned always drives 2.40, as he calls it, and he'll be sure to race with the other teams if they give him a chance.'

Now, if there is anything I _do_ like, it is riding behind fast horses! Father and Joe drive so slow I'd almost as soon walk, but whenever Biel and I went off by ourselves we made the dust fly a little; it didn't hurt our horses a bit, for they were in good pasture all summer, and got as fat as pigs. I thought in a minute how much I'd like to go with Ned; but I knew Polly Jane was watching me, go I said, sort o' careless like, 'I guess Ned could keep his horses from running if he wanted to; but he hasn't asked me to ride yet; it will be time enough to say no when he does.' Biel looked up and gave me a wink, and Calanthy said, 'You must let me know a day or two before you are ready, Joe, so that I can get some nice things made for you; our biscuits weren't quite light last picnic, and I felt really ashamed of 'em.'

Calanthy is so _thoughtful_--I wish I was more like her.

After dinner was cleared away, I concluded I'd walk down to Preston--we live about a mile out of the village--and get a new ribbon for my round hat. I'm so glad the old pokey bonnets are gone but o' fashion--the round ones are much more becoming to young people. I thought perhaps I would meet some of the girls at the store, and hear more about the picnic--and my hat was getting shabby for want of new strings, whether or no. Just by the hay scales I met Jim Burt, the lame basketmaker, shuffling along as usual with his baskets slung on his back. Poor Jim was real simple, and couldn't do anything but weave baskets; he and his mother lived alone in Rocky Hollow, away t'other side of Preston; they were as poor as poverty, but Mrs. Burt managed to scramble along somehow, and keep a home for herself and Jim; he hadn't wit enough to take care of himself, but was very fond of his mother, and would do as she told him.

I said good day to Jim, and was passing on, for I felt in a hurry to get to the store, when he called after me, 'I say, Miss Dimpey! don't your folks want any baskets? Mother's deown sick, and can't drink milk, and I want to get her some tea, and I hain't got a cent o' money; she paid eout the last for sugar abeout a week ago.' Poor Jim always speaks as if his nose had been pinched together when he was a baby, and had never come apart since; but when I turned around he looked so sorrowful, my heart ached for him.

'What ails your mother, Jim?' said I.

'She's got some kind o' fever, and her head aches awful; she wants to drink all the time, but she won't eat nothin'. I fried a slice of pork real good for her, but she didn't eat a mite!'

'Well, Jim,' said I, 'go up to our house, and tell Miss Calanthy about your mother, and I guess she'll buy a basket; we want a new clothes-basket, come to think.'

I walked on, but somehow I did not feel so much like buying ribbons as before I met Jim. I couldn't help thinking of poor Mrs. Burt, without any comforts for sickness, and no one to take care of her but this half-witted son; however, I comforted myself by supposing the neighbors would not let her suffer, and that Calanthy would likely give Jim something good to take to her.

When I got to the store, who should be there but Abby Matilda Stevens and Rhody Mills! Abby is generally thought _a beauty_, because she has great black eyes that are always so bright and shiny I wonder the hens don't try and peck at them; then she is tall and slim waisted, and her hair is as black as a coal, and longer than common; but I never liked such dreadful _sparkly_ eyes, do you? I think the kind that have a sort o' hazy look come into them--like the pond when a little summer cloud passes over the sun--are a great deal handsomer. However, I never dared to say so, for fear people might think I was jealous of Abby Matilda.

Rhody Mills is a very good-natured girl, and always ready for a frolic, and the moment she saw me she said, 'Here comes Dimpey Swift now;'--they had been talking about me, I guess;--'oh, Dimpey, are you going to the picnic on Spring Mountain?'

'Our boys were talking about it at noon,' said I; 'I suppose some of us will go--Polly Jane or I; I don't much think Calanthy will.'

'I wish we could go on horseback,' said Rhody; 'that would be real fun; but our Will says we must have a wagon to carry the baskets, so we had better all drive.'

'Who are you going with, Dimpey?' said Abby Matilda.

I knew well enough _who_ would be likely to ask me, but as I had no invitation yet, I answered, 'Oh, Joe or Biel, I suppose; father won't trust me with anyone else!'

'Well, thank goodness, _I_ can ride with whoever I please,' said Abby; 'I should think you were old enough to take care of yourself, Dimpey, if you're _ever_ going to be;' and Abby Matilda tossed her head, and rolled up her shiny eyes in that hateful way she has.

'_I_ wouldn't ride with some of the boys if they were to ask me, said Rhody; 'Will is a real good hand with horses, and he says that the tricks some people play with their animals are enough to ruin the finest horse ever was raised.'

'Who do you mean by _some_ people?' said Abby, and she looked right scornful.

Rhody laughed: 'I didn't mention any names,' said she; 'but I know good driving from harum-scarum, wherever I see it.'

'_I'm_ not afraid to ride behind any horses in _this_ part of the country,' said Abby; 'and I think all cowards had better keep off Spring Mountain!'

I felt my face turn red; but I wouldn't please the spiteful thing by saying a word; so I bought my ribbon and started for home. I had to pass Mrs. Miller's farm on my way, and as I came along by the stone fence, I heard a great gee-hawing; they had just finished loading up the hay cart, I suppose, for Hiram--the hired man--turned the oxen toward the barn as I came up, and Race stood leaning his arms on the fence, and looking up the road; it's likely he was tired and hot, for he seemed to me uncommonly homely, and I was such a goose then, I thought _looks_ was everything. He seemed to be thinking mighty hard of something, for he didn't see me till I got close to him, and then he gave _such_ a start, and his face grew redder than ever!

'Good day, Dimpey!' said he; 'how are all your folks?'

'Very well, thank you, Race.'

'Ain't you going to stop and see mother a minute?'

'I can't, to-day; I've got some sewing to do before dark.'

This was nothing but an excuse--I'll own it now; for I knew I could easily trim my hat next day; but I was so afraid that Race might ask me to go to the picnic with him, I felt in a hurry to get away; so I said good-by pretty quick and went on before Race had time to say anything more.

When I got home, the first thing I saw was a new clothes-basket standing on the ironing table; and Calanthy called to me from the hall, 'Run up stairs and take a rest, Dimpey, for I want you to go to the Hollow after tea, and see Widow Burt. I guess she's very sick, from what Jim says; and Polly Jane and you had better go and find out what help she needs.'

Now I had been thinking all the way from Preston, that Ned Hassel would certainly call in the evening, to ask me to the picnic, before the other boys got a chance. So I expect I answered a little cross, 'Dear me! Calanthy! 'way down there to-night; won't to-morrow be time enough?'

'Why, yes, dear,' said Calanthy, 'if you are too tired; but I was afraid the poor soul might be suffering, for Jim's nobody in sickness, you know; and I don't like to have Polly Jane go alone. Besides, there's such a big ironing to do to-morrow, I can't well spare you in the morning.'

Calanthy spoke so kind, I felt ashamed of my bad temper; so I answered, 'Very well, Calanthy, I'll go to-night; I'm not much tired.'

After tea Polly Jane and I set out; we had a little basket with camphor and mustard, and other useful things Calanthy had put up for Mrs. Burt: it is a beautiful walk through the Hollow, and I should have liked it very much if my head had not been so full of the picnic that I couldn't think of anything else. We didn't go through the village, but turned off the main road into a lane that cut off a part of the distance. I was a little ahead of Polly Jane, for she _would_ carry the basket, and we had just got into the lane when she said to me, 'Look back, Dimpey; here comes one of your beaux!' I turned around, and saw Ned Hassel on one of his fast horses. He pulled up at the corner and called out--his voice was a little too _loud_ and confident like, I must confess--'Good evening, Polly Jane; good evening, Dimpey; are you going to take a walk in the woods, so near sundown?'

It provoked Polly, I suppose, to hear him speak so bold, for she answered, very short, 'No, we're going on an errand.'

He didn't seem to notice, but looked at me, and said, 'I was just on my way to your house, Dimpey, to ask your company to the picnic next week; I suppose Joe told you about it? We're going to set out early, and have a real good time; I mean to take my fast team and the light wagon, and we can get up the mountain before the others have fairly started.'

Polly Jane spoke up again--she never could bear the Hassels, and always said they were the greatest braggarts in our county: 'That would be great fun, for you and Dimpey to get ahead of all the company! I thought picnickers always kept together.'

Ned colored up and looked angry, but he only said, 'Will you engage to ride with me, Dimpey?'

If Polly Jane had not been there, I should have told Ned to ask father if I might go; but I couldn't bear to have her think I wanted Ned for a beau; so I answered, 'I don't know yet whether I can go or not; I'll see what our folks say.'

'Well, Dimpey, I'll come over to your house to-morrow night; I guess you'll go; good evening,' and away he galloped.

'_Guess_ you'll go, indeed!' said Polly Jane, as soon as he was out of hearing. 'I guess she won't go with _you_, Mr. Impudence! You're not going to make a fool of our Dimpey, and break her neck besides, not if her father knows it, _I_ can tell you.'

It isn't often that Polly Jane speaks out so spunky, but I expect she was vexed because he didn't answer her; as for me, I could have cried to think that things happened so, and I felt almost angry with poor Widow Burt for being sick, and taking me away from home that evening. It was awful wicked, but I was well punished for it afterward.

'It's _too_ bad in you to talk so, Polly,' said I, 'as if I was a child six years old! I wonder _why_ it's impudent in Ned to ask me to ride with him; you wouldn't say so if it was any one else; but you hate poor Ned--you know you do,' and here I broke down and really cried; but they were spiteful tears, after all.

'There, now, Dimpey,' said Polly Jane--she was over _her_ pet in a minute--'don't feel bad; I didn't mean to be cross to Ned; but he has such a bold way of talking, as if he thought nobody could refuse _him_, that he always makes me angry, and I can't help it. But you _shall_ go to the picnic, dear, whether he takes you or not; there will be plenty glad to ask you; so kiss me, Dimpey, and I won't tease you again.'

I let her kiss me, and then walked on sullen enough till we came to Mrs. Burt's. The house was a forlorn old place, with only one room and a bedroom, and a garret next the roof, where Jim slept. The door of the living room opened out into a shed, where Mrs. Burt did her work in summer time. The trees grew close up to the shed, and the well was under it; and as we came up, who should I see but Race Miller, drawing a bucket of water to fill the teakettle, while Jim kindled a fire in the stove. There _did_ seem to be no end of vexations that day, and I wished myself a hundred miles off.

'Why, Polly Jane! is that you? I didn't think of seeing you down here to-night--and Dimpey, too! We heard that Mrs. Burt was very sick, and mother had tea early, and we came over to see how the poor soul was.'

'Is your mother in the bedroom?' said Polly.

'Yes; we've fixed Mrs. Burt up in the rocking chair, and mother is making her bed. I want to get a cup of tea made for her as quick as I can, for she has a good deal of fever, and is thirsty all the time. Come, Jim! set on the kettle, and we'll have it boiling in no time.' And Race stooped down and blew the fire with his mouth till it blazed up nicely.

'I'll go help your mother, Race,' said Polly Jane. 'You sit down, and rest, Dimpey; you've had walking enough to-day;' and she went into the bedroom, and left me alone with Race. Jim didn't count for anybody.

Race stepped in the room, and brought out a chair; he put it just outside the shed door, and said:

'Sit down there, Dimpey, that's a nice cool place.' I sat down, and he took a seat in the doorway, close by me. 'Dimpey!' said he, 'if mother hadn't wanted me, I meant to go up to your house to ask you if you'd give me your company to the picnic on Spring Mountain. You know we talk of having one next Wednesday, don't you?'

'_There!_' thought I; 'what am I to do now? I daren't say I'm engaged, for fear father won't let me go with Ned Hassel; and besides, I didn't promise Ned; so it would be telling a lie.' Then I thought how pleasant it would be to ride with the fast horses, and--I may as well own it--to pass Abby Matilda on the road, and let her see I could do as I pleased, and that I wasn't a coward, I didn't speak for a minute, and then I said:

'I believe I'm engaged already!'

The words seemed to come out before I knew it. Race didn't speak, and I felt so guilty I never raised my eyes, but made believe I was sorting some wild flowers I'd picked in the Hollow. Jim came out just then with the teapot in his hand, and drawled out:

'That pesky kettle deont bile yet. 'Pears to me it's tarnal long abeout it; it ollers acts contrairy when mother's in a hurry for her tea!'

I couldn't help laughing, and as I raised my head, I caught Race looking at me as if he'd look me through and through. His eyes seemed twice as big as common! He got up, however, without saying anything, and went to making the tea, and at that minute Polly Jane came out of the bedroom, and told us Mrs. Miller thought that Widow Burt ought to be watched, and said she would stay all night if Polly would stay too. 'So,' said Polly, 'if Race will take you home, Dimpey, I'll watch with Mrs. Miller. Race spoke up quick, and said, 'Certainly; he'd see me home,' and it was growing so late I couldn't say anything against it. As soon as he found he could do no more to help them--(he _is_ one of the handiest men about the house I ever saw, I must say _that_)--Polly said we'd better go, for Calanthy might feel uneasy. Before we started, she drew me to one side, and whispered:

'Dimpey! I wish you'd tell John Morgan how sorry I am to break my promise to walk with him to-night; but Mrs. Burt is very sick, and Mrs. Miller couldn't get along without me.'

I thought to myself--'What a wicked little thing I am ever to get angry with Polly Jane, when she isn't a bit selfish, and always ready to do good. It's real hard to give up her walk, for John teaches three evenings in the week, and can't always get a chance to go with her!' So I spoke as pleasant as I could, and kissed her for good night, and then set out to walk home with Race Miller.

I have been through Rocky Hollow a great many times, but I shall never forget that walk! The evening was clear and bright, but it was pretty dark in among the willows. Race put out his hand once or twice to help me over a big stone or log, and said:

'Take care, Dimpey! don't go so fast, or you'll hurt your little feet against the stones.'

My feet are not so very little, but I expect he thought so because his own are so big. I suppose it was foolish, but he seemed such a stout, strong fellow, I felt as if he wanted to take me up, and carry me like a baby; but may be he never thought of such a thing.