Chapter I: SUPPOSE we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was (1)

sayin’ a few days ago to Betsey Bobbet, a neighbourin’ female of ours—“Every station-house in life has its various skeletons. But we ort to try to be contented with that spear of life we are called on to handle.” Betsey hain’t married, and she don’t seem to be contented. She is awful opposed to wimmin’s rights—she thinks it is wimmin’s only spear to marry, but as yet she can’t find any man willin’ to lay holt of that spear with her. But you can read in her daily life, and on her eager, willin’ countenance, that she fully realises the sweet words of the poet, “While there is life there is hope.”

Betsey hain’t handsome. Her cheek-bones are high, and she bein’ not much more than skin and bone they show plainer than they would if she was in good order. Her complexion (not that I blame her for it) hain’t good, and her eyes are little and sot way back in her head. Time has seen fit to deprive her of her hair and teeth, but her large nose he has kindly suffered her to keep, but she has got the best white ivory teeth money will buy; and two long curls fastened behind each ear, besides frizzles on the top of her head; and if she wasn’t naturally bald, and if the curls was the colour of her hair, they would look well. She is awful sentimental; I have seen a good many that had it bad, but of all the sentimental creeters I ever did see, Betsey Bobbet is the sentimentalest; you couldn’t squeeze a laugh out of her with a cheeze press.

As I said, she is awful opposed to wimmin’s havin’ any right, only the right to get married. She holds on to that right as tight as any single woman I ever see, which makes it hard and wearyin’ on the single men round here.

For take the men that are the most opposed to wimmin’s havin’ a right, and talk the most about its bein’ her duty to cling to man like a vine to a tree, they don’t want Betsey to cling to them, they _won’t let_ her cling to ’em. For when they would be a-goin’ on about how wicked it was for wimmin to vote—and it was her only spear to marry, says I to ’em, “Which had you ruther do, let Betsey Bobbet cling to you or let her vote?” and they would every one of ’em quail before that question. They would drop their heads before my keen grey eyes—and move off the subject.

But Betsey don’t get discourajed. Every time I see her she says in a hopeful, wishful tone, “That the deepest men of minds in the country agree with her in thinkin’ that it is wimmin’s duty to marry and not to vote.” And then she talks a sight about the retirin’ modesty and dignity of the fair sect, and how shameful and revoltin’ it would be to see wimmin throwin’ ’em away, and boldly and unblushin’ly talkin’ about law and justice.

Why, to hear Betsey Bobbet talk about wimmin’s throwin’ their modesty away, you would think if they ever went to the political pole, they would have to take their dignity and modesty and throw ’em against the pole, and go without any all the rest of their lives.

Now I don’t believe in no such stuff as that. I think a woman can be bold and unwomanly in other things besides goin’ with a thick veil over her face, and a brass-mounted parasol, once a year, and gently and quietly dropping a vote for a Christian President, or a religious and noble-minded pathmaster.

She thinks she talks dreadful polite and proper. She says, “I was cameing,” instead of “I was coming;” and “I have saw,” instead of “I have seen;” and “papah” for paper, and “deah” for dear. I don’t know much about grammer, but common sense goes a good ways. She writes the poetry for the _Jonesville Augur_, or “_Augah_,” as she calls it. She used to write for the opposition paper, the _Jonesville Gimlet_, but the editer of the _Augur_, a long-haired chap, who moved into Jonesville a few months ago, lost his wife soon after he come there, and sence that she has turned Dimocrat, and writes for his paper stiddy. They say that he is a dreadful big feelin’ man, and I have heard—it came right straight to me—his cousin’s wife’s sister told it to the mother-in-law of one of my neighbour’s brother’s wife, that he didn’t like Betsey’s poetry at all, and all he printed it for was to plague the editer of the _Gimlet_, because she used to write for him. I myself wouldn’t give a cent a bushel for all the poetry she can write. And it seems to me, that if I was Betsey, I wouldn’t try to write so much. Howsumever, I don’t know what turn I should take if I was Betsey Bobbet; that is a solemn subject, and one I don’t love to think on.

I never shall forget the first piece of her poetry I ever see. Josiah Allen and I had both on us been married goin’ on a year, and I had occasion to go to his trunk one day, where he kept a lot of old papers, and the first thing I laid my hand on was these verses. Josiah went with her a few times after his wife died, on 4th of July or so, and two or three camp meetin’s, and the poetry seemed to be wrote about the time _we_ was married. It was directed over the top of it, “Owed to Josiah,” just as if she were in debt to him. This was the way it read—

“OWED TO JOSIAH.

“Josiah, I the tale have hurn,
With rigid ear, and streaming eye,
I saw from me that you did turn,
I never knew the reason why.
Oh, Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.

Why did you,—oh, why did you blow
Upon my life of snowy sleet,
The fiah of love to fiercest glow,
Then turn a damphar on the heat?
Oh, Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.

I saw thee coming down the street,
_She_ by your side in bonnet bloo;
The stuns that grated ’neath thy feet,
Seemed crunching on my vitals too.
Oh, Josiah,
It seemed as if I must expiah.

I saw thee washing sheep last night,
On the bridge I stood with marble brow,
The waters raged, thou clasped it tight,
I sighed, ‘should both be drownded now’—
I thought, Josiah,
Oh happy sheep to thus expiah.”

I showed the poetry to Josiah that night after he came home, and told him I had read it. He looked awful ashamed to think I had seen it, and, says he, with a dreadful sheepish look, “The persecution I underwent from that female can never be told; she fairly hunted me down. I hadn’t no rest for the soles of my feet. I thought one spell she would marry me in spite of all I could do, without givin’ me the benefit of law or gospel.” He see I looked stern, and he added, with a sick lookin’ smile, “I thought one spell,” to use Betsey’s language, “I was a gonah.”

I didn’t smile. Oh no, for the deep principle of my sect was reared up. I says to him, in a tone cold enough to almost freeze his ears, “Josiah Allen, shet up; of all the cowardly things a man ever done, it is goin’ round braggin’ about wimmin likin’ ’em, and follerin’ ’em up. Enny man that’ll do that is little enough to crawl through a knot hole without rubbing his clothes.” Says I, “I suppose you made her think the moon rose in your head and set in your heels. I daresay you acted foolish enough round her to sicken a snipe, and if you makes fun of her now to please me, I let you know you have got holt of the wrong individual.

“Now,” says I, “go to bed;” and I added, in still more freezing accents, “for I want to mend your pantaloons.” We gathered up his shoes and stockin’s and started off to bed, and we hain’t never passed a word on the subject sence. I believe when you disagree with your pardner, in freein’ your _mind_ in the first on’t, and then not to be a-twittin’ about it afterwards. And as for bein’ jealous, I should jest as soon think of bein’ jealous of a meetin’-house as I should of Josiah. He is a well principled man. And I guess he wasn’t fur out o’ the way about Betsey Bobbet, though I wouldn’t encourage him by lettin’ him say a word on the subject, for I always make it a rule to stand up for my own sect; but when I hear her go on about the editer of the _Augur_, I can believe anything about Betsey Bobbet.

She came in here one day last week. It was about ten o’clock in the mornin’. I had got my house slick as a pin, and my dinner under way (I was goin’ to have a biled dinner, and a cherry puddin’ biled, with sweet sass to eat on it), and I sot down to finish sewin’ up the breadth of my new rag carpet. I thought I would get it done while I hadn’t so much to do, for it bein’ the 1st of March I knew sugarin’ would be comin’ on, and then cleanin’-house time, and I wanted it to put down jest as soon as the stove was carried out in the summer kitchin. The fire was sparklin’ away, and the painted floor a-shinin’ and the dinner a-bilin’, and I sot there sewin’ jest as calm as a clock, not dreamin’ of no trouble, when in came Betsey Bobbet.

I met her with outward calm, and asked her set down and lay off her things. She sot down, but she said she couldn’t lay off her things. Says she, “I was comin’ down past, and I thought I would call and let you see the last numbah of the _Augah_. There is a piece in it concernin’ the tariff that stirs men’s souls. I like it evah so much.”

She handed me the paper, folded so I couldn’t see nothin’ but a piece of poetry by Betsey Bobbet. I see what she wanted of me, and so I dropped my breadths of carpetin’ and took hold of it, and began to read it.

“Read it audible, if you please,” says she. “Especially the precious remahks ovah it; it is such a feast for me to be a sittin’ and heah it reheahsed by a musical vorce.”

Says I, “I spose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good,” so I began as follows:—

“It is seldom that we present to the readers of the _Augur_ (the
best paper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem
like the following. It may be, by the assistance of the _Augur_
(only twelve shillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in
exchange), the name of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty
pinnacle of fame’s towering pillow. We think, however, that she
could study such writers as Sylvanus Cobb, and Tupper, with profit
both to herself and to them.

“EDITOR OF THE AUGUR.”

Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the _Augah_ has no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favourite authar. You have devorhed him, haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.

“Mahten, Fahqueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.

“No, mom,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper, nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.”

“Oh! you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet, tender lines.”

“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and so I read—

“GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL.

“Oh let who will,
Oh let who can,
Be tied onto
A horrid male man.

Thus said I ’ere
My tendah heart was touched,
Thus said I ’ere
My tendah feelings gushed.

But oh a change
Hath swept ore me,
As billows sweep
The ‘deep blue sea.’

A voice, a noble form,
One day I saw;
An arrow flew,
My heart is nearly raw.

His first pardner lies
Beneath the turf,
He is wandering now,
In sorrow’s briny surf.

Two twins, the little
Deah cherub creechahs,
Now wipe the teahs
From off his classic feachahs.

Oh sweet lot, worthy
Angel arisen,
To wipe teahs
From eyes like hisen.”

“What think you of it?” says she, as I finished readin’.

I looked right at her most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of her false curls, and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter. I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yellow bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain’t the editer of the _Augur_ a widower with a pair of twins?”

“Yes,” says she with a happy look.

Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one.”

“Oh!” says she, and she dropped her bunnet-strings, and clasped her long bony hands together in her brown cotton gloves, “Oh, we ahdent soles of genious have feelin’s, you cold, practical natures know nuthing of, and if they did not gush out in poetry we should expiah. You may as well try to tie up the gushing catarack of Niagara with a piece of welting cord, as to tie up the feelin’s of an ahdent sole.”

“Ardent sole!” says I coldly. “Which makes the most noise, Betsey Bobbet, a three-inch brook, or a ten-footer? which is the tearer? which is the roarer? deep waters run stillest. I have no faith in feelin’s that stalk round in public in mournin’ weeds. I have no faith in such mourners,” says I.

“Oh, Josiah’s wife, cold, practical female being, you know me not; we, are sundered as fah apart as if you was sitting on the North Pole, and I was sitting on the South Pole. Uncongenial being, you know me not.”

“I may not know you, Betsey Bobbet, but I do know decency, and I know that no munny would tempt me to write such stuff as that poetry and send it to a widower with twins.”

“Oh!” says she, “what appeals to the tendah feelin’ heart of a single female woman more than to see a lonely man who has lost his relict? And pity never seems so much like pity as when it is given to the deah little children of widowehs. And,” says she, “I think moah than as likely as not, this soaring sole of genious did not wed his affinity, but was united to a mere woman of clay.”

“Mere woman of clay!” says I, fixin’ my spektacles upon her in a most searchin’ manner. “Where will you find a woman, Betsey Bobbet, that hain’t more or less clay? And affinity, that is the meanest word I ever heard; no married woman has any right to hear it. I’ll excuse you, bein’ a female; but if a man had said it to me, I’d holler to Josiah. There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly.

“We kindred soles soah above such petty feelings, we soah far above them.”

“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and to tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.”

“The Editah of the _Augah_,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen the stand, and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the Editah of this paper is a kindred sole, he appreciates me, he undahstands me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah go down to posterety togathah?”

Then says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you was both of you in posterity now.”

_Marietta Holley._

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_THE COURTIN’._

GOD makes sech nights, all white an’ still
Fur’z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All silence an’ all glisten.

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder;
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
’Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room’s one side
With half a cord o’ wood in—
There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.

The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
An’ leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

Again the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,
An’ she looked full ez rosy again
Ez the apples she was peelin’.

’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom come to look
On sech a blessed cretur;
A dogrose blushin’ to a brook
Ain’t modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o’ man, A1,
Clean grit an’ human natur’;
None couldn’t quiker pitch a ton,
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,
He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
All is, he couldn’t love ’em.

But long o’ her his veins ’ould run
All crinkly like curled maple;
The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.

She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir:
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring
She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An’ she’d blush scarlet, right in prayer,
When her new meetin’-bunnet
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
O’ blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_!
She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartain-sure he’d come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, and knowed it tu,
A-rasping on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelin’s flew,
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle;
His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.

“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”
“Wall ... no ... I come dasignin’”—
“To see my Ma? she is sprinklin’ clo’es
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”

To say why gals act so or so,
Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;
Mebbe to mean _yes_ an’ say _no_
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot first,
Then stood a spell on t’other,
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

Says he, “I’d better call agin;”
Says she, “Think likely, Mister;”
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An’.... Wal, he up an’ kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips,
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.

For she was jes’ the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snow-hid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how metters stood,
And gin ’em both her blessin’.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy;
An’ all I know is they was cried
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.

_James Russell Lowell._

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_THE WONDERFUL TAR-BABY STORY._

“DIDN’T the fox never catch the rabbit, uncle Remus?” asked the little boy the next evening.

“He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho’s you bawn—brer fox did. One day after brer rabbit fool him wid dat calamus root, brer fox went ter wuk en got ’im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun what he call a tar-baby, en he tuck dish yere tar-baby en he sot ’er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see wat de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn’t hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come brer rabbit pacin’ down de road—lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity—dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer fox, he lay low. Brer rabbit come prancin’ ’long twel he spy de tar-baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he wuz ’stonished. De tar-baby, she sot dar, she did, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘Mawnin’!’ sez brer rabbit, sezee; ‘nice wedder dis mawnin’,’ sezee.

“Tar-baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘How duz zo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez brer rabbit, sezee.

“Brer fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.

‘How you come on, den? Is you deaf?’ sez brer rabbit, sezee; ’kaze if you is, I kin holler louder,’ sezee.

“Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘Youer stuck up, dat’s w’at you is,’ says brer rabbit, sezee, ’en I’m gwineter kyore you, dat’s w’at I’m a gwineter do,’ sezee.

“Brer fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but tar-baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.

“‘I’m gwineter larn you howter talk ter ’specttubble fokes ef hit’s de las’ ack,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’t take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I’m gwineter bus’ you wide open,’ sezee.

“Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.

“Brer rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de tar-baby, she keep on sayin’ nuthin’ twel presently brer rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en blip he tuck ’er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his merlasses jug. His fis’ struck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt ’im.

“But tar-baby, she stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you agin,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid de udder han’, en dat stuck. Tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en brer fox, he lay low.

‘Tu’n me loose, fo’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee, but de tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt on, en den brer rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way.

“Brer fox, he lay low. Den brer rabbit squall out dat ef de tar-baby don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den brer fox, he santered fort’, lookin’ des ez innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds.

“‘Howdy, brer rabbit,’ sez brer fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin’,’ sezee, en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft twel he couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I ’speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, brer rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain’t gwineter take no skuse,’ sez brer fox, sezee.”

Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

“Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.

“Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, en den agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B’ar come along en loosed ’im—some say he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”

_Joel Chandler Harris._

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_POMONA’S NOVEL._

IT was in the latter part of August of that year that it became necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St. Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far into the regulation sleeping hours.

There were very good reasons why we should go (for of course I would not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first place it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We had never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we would see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how could we do that?

This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicated belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory condition—altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables—for which I had laboured so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful anticipations. As to Euphemia’s chicken-yard,—with Euphemia away,—the subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not run itself for three weeks.

We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends; but there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea of handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else; but then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in regard to the disqualifications. So when I went to the office the next morning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one to take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the office in the afternoon I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time I had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere very much with my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that time we could get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomona must assume the charge. We were not able to get any one, and Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactly what we wanted, and now that there was no help for it, our consciences were easy.

We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night. Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.

We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of directions for her guidance in household, garden, and farm matters, and directed her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy that might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life, and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona. She was very proud of it. Our journey was ten times more delightful than we had expected it would be, and successful in every way; and yet although we enjoyed every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there that we reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we would be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walked up from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express-waggon. As we approached our dear home we wanted to run, we were so eager to see it.

There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then I noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read—

TO BE SOLD
FOR TAXES.

We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.

“What does this mean?” said I. “Has our landlord——?”

I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place might pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. This was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much about its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions. I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windows were shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than anything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had _he_ been sold?

Before we reached the back part of the house Euphemia said she felt faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I had made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass, and I ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a travelling-cup in my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was an air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, but I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and began to pump.

At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lord Edward.

Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water. He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running from the barn. Her face was radiant too. We felt relieved. Here were two friends who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.

Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put a question to her she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.

“You know,” said she, “you said you wasn’t comin’ till to-morrow. If you only _had_ come then—I was goin’ to have everything just exactly right—an’ now you had to climb in——”

And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been a wonderful thing for Pomona to do.

“Tell me one thing,” said I. “What about—those taxes?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she cried. “Don’t think another minute about that. I’ll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I’ll get you some lunch in a minute.”

We were somewhat relieved by Pomona’s statement that it was “all right” in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any questions.

As soon as she had made ready our lunch she asked us, as a particular favour, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, said she, “I’ll have everything looking just as if it was to-morrow.”

We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.

“Would you rather,” said she, “hear it altogether, when you come in, or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?”

I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait and hear it altogether. We found everything in perfect order,—the garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid the taxes—however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.

When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she was in a hurry to hear Pomona’s account of things. So I went in, and we sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.

“I wrote down the things of any account what happened,” said she, “as you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I’d make it like a novel. It would be jus’ as true, and p’r’aps more amusin’. I suppose you don’t mind?”

No, we didn’t mind. So she went on.

“I haven’t got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don’t read the first chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parent-age, and my early adventures. I’ll just come down to what happened to me while you was away, because you’ll be more anxious to hear about that. All that’s written here is true, jus’ the same as if I told it to you, but I’ve put it into novel language because it seems to come easier to me.”

And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as if the “novel language” demanded it, she began to read—

“‘Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal repast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past and also foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. I slept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpired which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-o-sene oil and a half a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the in-sid-i-ous foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent him home with a empty can. For two long days I wan-der-ed amid the ver-dant pathways of the garden and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o’er-spread this happy peri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon, although I saw it not.

“‘It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do with the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was green corn and limabeans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use. And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for as my employer had advis-ed and order-ed, I had put the steed to grass. And here was a waggon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or even the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-sed vendor. With the truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load the waggon——’”

“Oh, Pomona,” interrupted Euphemia, “you don’t mean to say that you were thinking of doing anything like that?”

“Well, I was just beginning to think of it,” said Pomona. “But, of course, I couldn’t have gone away and left the house. And you’ll see I didn’t do it.” And then she continued her novel. “‘But while my thoughts were thus employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter——’”

At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona did not seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.

“‘I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a waggon at the gate. Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, “Wilt open the gate?” I had fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every stealable ar-ticle from the yard.’”

Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of the rustic seat and the dipper.

“‘Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the dog, for he it was, roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-erce bull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold unto him, “No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now from home. What do you want?” Then says he, as bold as brass, “I’ve come to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate.” “What rods?” says I. “The rods as was order-ed,” says he. “Open the gate.” I stood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. I knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods, and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-able trash that would attract the light-en-ing, instead of keep-ing it off. Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be kept, and pay demand-ed. “No, sir,” says I. “No light-en-ing rods upon this house whilst I stand here,” and with that I walk-ed away, and let Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-ed fire. He would e’en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the dog he did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed the fowls; but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the blood with-in my veins——’”

“The dog didn’t kill him?” cried Euphemia.

“Oh, no, ma’am!” said Pomona. “You’ll see that that wasn’t it. At one cor-ner of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this man was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ing to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a light-en-ing rodder had brought a lad-der to the other side of the house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What horrors fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This,” continued Pomona, “is the end of the novel,” and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.

Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had just reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yet about that affair of the taxes.

“You see, sir,” said Pomona, “it took me so long to write out the chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that I hadn’t time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happened after that jus’ as well as if I had writ it out.” And so she went on, much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the lightning-rod man.

“There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin’ his old rods and hammerin’ away for dear life. He’d brought his ladder over the side fence, where the dog, a-barkin’ and plungin’ at the boy outside, couldn’t see him. I stood dumb for a minute, and then I know’d I had him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to the bull-dog’s collar, an’ dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with Lord Edward’s chain, for I knew that if he got at that bull-dog there’d be times, for they’d never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I to the boy, ‘I’m goin’ to tie up the dog, so you needn’t be afraid of his jumpin’ over the fence,’—which he couldn’t do, or the boy would have been a corpse for twenty minutes, or maybe half-an-hour. The boy kinder laughed, and said I needn’t mind, which I didn’t. Then I went to the gate and I clicked to the horse which was standin’ there, an’ off he starts, as good as gold, an’ trots down the road. The boy, he said somethin’ or other pretty bad an’ away he goes after him; but the horse was a-trottin’ real fast, an’ had a good start.”

“How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?” said Euphemia. “That horse might have upset the waggon and broken all the lightning-rods, besides running over I don’t know how many people.”

“But you see, ma’am, that wasn’t my look-out,” said Pomona. “I was a-defendin’ the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happen to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the man just coming down the ladder. He’d heard the horse go off, and when he got about half-way down an’ caught a sight of the bull-dog, he was madder than ever you seed a lightnin’-rodder in all your born days. ‘Take that dog off of there!’ he yelled at me. ‘No, I won’t,’ says I. ‘I never see a girl like you since I was born,’ he screams at me. ‘I guess it would ’a’ been better fur you if you had,’ says I; an’ then he was so mad he couldn’t stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as he could, and when he saw just how long the rope was—which was pretty short—he made a jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on dreadful because he couldn’t get at his ladder to take it away; and I wouldn’t untie the dog, because if I had he’d ’a’ torn the tendons out of that fellow’s legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boiling passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdlin’ grunts. An’ I don’t see how the rodder would ’a’ got his ladder at all if the dog hadn’t made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. It just missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other end of it, and began pulling it away, dog and all. ‘Look-a-here,’ says I, ‘we can fix him now;’ and so he cooled down enough to help me, and I unlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder in, dog and all; an’ then I shut the door as tight as it would go an’ untied the end of the rope, an’ the rodder pulled the ladder out while I held the door to keep the dog from follerin’, which he came pretty near doin’, anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin’ again about his waggon; but when he looked out an’ see the boy comin’ back with it—for somebody must ’a’ stopped the horse—he stopped stormin’ and went to put up his ladder ag’in. ‘No, you don’t,’ says I; ‘I’ll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot of your ladder, you’ll never come down.’ ‘But I want to go and take down what I put up,’ he says; ‘I ain’t a-goin’ on with this job.’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘you ain’t; and you can’t go up there to wrench off them rods and make rain-holes in the roof, neither.’ He couldn’t get no madder than he was then, an’ fur a minute or two he couldn’t speak, an’ then he says, ‘I’ll have satisfaction for this.’ An’ says I, ‘How?’ An’ says he, ‘You’ll see what it is to interfere with a ordered job.’ An’ says I, ‘There wasn’t no order about it;’ an’ says he, ‘I’ll show you better than that;’ an’ he goes to his waggon an’ gits a book, ‘There,’ says he, ‘read that.’ ‘What of it?’ says I; ‘there’s nobody of the name of Ball lives here.’ That took the man kinder back, and he said he was told it was the only house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane he oughter ’a’ gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder in his waggon and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He left a trail of his baleful presence behind him.

“That horrid bull-dog wouldn’t let me come into the house! No matter what door I tried, there he was, just foamin’ mad. I let him stay till nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good. He’d got an awful spite ag’in me. I found something to eat down cellar, an’ I made a fire outside an’ roasted some corn and potatoes. That night I slep’ in the barn. I wasn’t afraid to be away from the house, for I knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it, and Lord Edward outside. For three days, Sunday an’ all, I was kep’ out of this here house. I got along pretty well with the sleepin’ and the eatin’, but the drinkin’ was the worst. I couldn’t get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty of milk.”

“Why didn’t you get some man to come and attend to the dog?” I asked. “It was dreadful to live in that way.”

“Well, I didn’t know no man that could do it,” said Pomona. “The dog would ’a’ been too much for old John, and besides, he was mad about the kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and their little girl in a push-waggon, come here, and I told ’em you was gone away; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them a drink; an’ I had nothin’ to give it them but an old chicken-bowl that I had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an’ I told ’em everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must ’a’ thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it. So as soon as they’d gone, I went down into the cellar,—and it’s lucky that I had the key for the outside cellar door,—and I got a piece of fat corn-beef and the meat axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in, with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might take his choice. I know’d he must be pretty nigh famished, for there was nothin’ that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he came runnin’ to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked a sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all right then.”

“Oh, my!” said Euphemia, “I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid you never got in. But we saw the dog—is he as savage yet?”

“Oh, no!” said Pomona; “nothin’ like it.”

“Look here, Pomona,” said I, “I want to know about those taxes. When do they come into your story?”

“Pretty soon, sir,” said she, and she went on—

“After that, I know’d it wouldn’t do to have them two dogs so that they’d have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as not I’d want them both at once, and then they’d go to fightin’, and leave me to settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin’-rodder. So, as I know’d if they once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they’d be good friends afterwards, I thought the best thing to do would be to let ’em fight it out, when there was nothin’ else for ’em to do. So I fixed up things for the combat.”

“Why, Pomona!” cried Euphemia, “I didn’t think you were capable of such a cruel thing.”

“It looks that way, ma’am, but really it ain’t,” replied the girl. “It seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of ’em to have the thing settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed and unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called the bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin’, and his blood-shot eyes, and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin’ from the mount’in blast, he made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there was! They rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips a-flyin’ all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minute or two; but he didn’t, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and they was havin’ it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me, and turnin’ quick, there was the ’piscopalian minister. ‘My! my! my!’ he hollers, ‘what an awful spectacle! Ain’t there no way of stoppin’ it?’ ‘No, sir,’ says I, and I told him how I didn’t want to stop it and the reason why. ‘Then,’ says he, ‘where’s your master?’ and I told him how you was away. ‘Isn’t there any man at all about?’ says he. ‘No,’ says I. ‘Then,’ says he, ‘if there’s nobody else to stop it, I must do it myself.’ An’ he took off his coat. ‘No,’ says I, ‘you keep back, sir. If there’s anybody to plunge into that erena, the blood be mine;’ an’ I put my hand, without thinkin’, ag’in his black shirt-bosom, to hold him back; but he didn’t notice, bein’ so excited. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘jist wait one minute, and you’ll see that bull’s tail go between his legs. He’s weakenin’.’ An’ sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and was a-shakin’ the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edward by the collar. ‘Drop it!’ says I; an’ he dropped it, for he know’d he’d whipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog, he trotted off with his tail a-hangin’ down. ‘Now then,’ says I, ‘them dogs will be bosom friends for ever after this.’ ‘Ah me!’ says he, ‘I’m sorry indeed that your employer, for who I’ve always had a great respect, should allow you to get into such bad habits.’

“That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty quick, that you was the last man in the world to let me do anything like that, and that if you’d ’a’ been here, you’d ’a’ separated them dogs, if they’d a-chawed your arms off; that you was very particular about such things, and that it would be a pity if he was to think you was a dog-fightin’ gentleman, when I’d often heard you say that, now you was fixed and settled, the one thing you would like most would be to be made a vestryman.”

I sat up straight in my chair.

“Pomona!” I exclaimed. “You didn’t tell him that?”

“That’s what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was; an’ he says, ‘Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very good thing. I’ll speak to some of the members about it. There’s two vacancies now in our vestry.’”

I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightest light.

“Perhaps it may all turn out for the best,” she said, “and you may be elected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funny thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestryman.”

I could not talk on this subject. “Go on, Pomona,” I said, trying to feel resigned to my shame, “and tell us about that poster on the fence.”

“I’ll be to that almost right away,” she said.