Chapter III: Part 3

But sometimes, I get almost discouraged with that boy. I can’t solemnize him down, and get him to take a realizin’ sense of things. His morals are as sound as brass. But he has, a good deal of the time, a light and triflin’ demeanor, and his mind don’t seem so sound and stabled as I could wish it to be.

I don’t s’pose anybody would believe me, but the very day after that boy told me of Nancy Cypher’s death, that boy began to poke his aunt Doodle about the relict.

I told him I never see nothin’, in my hull life, so wicked and awful, and I asked him, where he s’posed “he’d go to?”

He was fixin’ on a paper collar, to the lookin’-glass, and he says, in a kind of cherk, genteel way, and with a polite tone.

“I s’pose I shall go to the weddin’.”

You might jist as well exhort the winds to stop blowin’ when it is out on a regular spree, as to stop him when he gets to behavin’. But I guess he got the worst of it in this affair. I guess his aunt Doodle skeert him, she took on so, when he segested the idea of her marryin’ to another man.

She bust right out a cryin’, took her handkerchief out, and rubbed both her eyes with both hands, her elbows standin’ out most straight. She took on awful.

“Oh, Doodle! Doodle!” says she. “What if you had lived to hear your relict laughed at about marryin’ to another man. Oh! what agony it would have brought to your dear linements. Oh! I can’t bear it, I can’t. Oh! when I think of that dear man, how he worshipped the ground I walked on, and the neighbors said he did, they said he thought more of the ground, than he did of me; but he didn’t, he worshipped us both; and what his feelings be, if he had lived, to hear his widder laughed at about another man?”

She sobbed like an infant babe, and I came to the buttery door, I was a makin’ some cherry pies and fruit-cake, and I came to the door, with my nutmeg-grater in my hand, and winked at Thomas, not to say another word to hurt her feelin’s. I winked twice or three times at him, real, severe winks. And he took up one of his law books, and went to readin’, and I went back to my cake. But I kep’ one eye out at her, not knowin’ what trouble of mind might lead her into. She kep’ her handkerchief over her eyes and groaned badly for nearly nine minutes, I should judge. And then she spoke out from under it:

“Do you call Solomon Cypher good lookin’, Tommy?”

“Oh! from fair to middlin’,” says Thomas J.

And then she bust out again. “Oh! when I think what a linement Mr. Doodle had on him, how can I think of any other man? I can’t! I can’t!”

And she groaned out the loudest she had yet. And Thomas J., feelin’ sorry, I guess, for what he had done, got up, and said, “He guessed he’d go out to the barn, and help his father a spell.” Josiah was puttin’ some new stanchils on the stable.

Thomas J. hadn’t more’n got to the barn, and I had finished my cake, and had got my hands into the pie crust, a mixin’ it up, when there came a knock at the door, and my hands bein’ in the condition they was, the widder wipes up, and went to the door, and opened it. It was Solemen Cypher, came to borry my bembazine dress and crape veil for some of the mourners. I made a practice of lendin’ ’em. The veil was one I had mourned for father Allen in, and the dress was one I had mourned for grandmother Smith in. They was as good as new. I thought, seein’ the widder and he was some acquainted with each other, I wouldn’t go out till I had got my pies done.

And so I kep’ on a mixin’ up my crust, and pretty soon, I heard him say to her after she had set him a chair, and they had set down, and he had told his errant, says he,

“This is a dreadful blow to me, widder.”

“Yes,” says she, “I can feel to sympathize with you. I know well what feelin’s I felt, when I lost my Doodle.”

Not one word does she say about brother Timothy. But I hold firm, and so does Josiah. We do well by the widder.

“I believe you never wus acquainted with the corpse, was you, widder?” says Solemen.

“No,” says she. “But I have heard her well spoke of. Sister Samantha wus jest a sayin’ that she was a likely wemen.”

“She wus, widder! she wus. My heart-strings was completely wrapped round that wemen. Not a pair of pantaloons have I hired made, sense we wus married, nor a vest. I tell you it is hard to give her up. It is the hardest day’s work, I ever done in my life. Nobody but jest me knows what, for a wemen, she wus. She was healthy, savin’, hard workin’, pious, equinomical. And I never knew how dear she was to me—how I loved her, as I did my own soul, till I see I had got to give her up, and hired a girl at two dollars a week; and they waste more’n their necks are worth.”

And he sithed so loud, that it sounded considerable like a groan. Solemen takes her death hard. He sithed two or three times right along; and the widder sithed too. It was dretful affectin’ to hear ’em go on; and if I hadn’t been so busy, I don’t know but it would have drawed tears from me. But I was jest puttin’ in my sweetnin’ into my cherry pies, and I felt it my duty to be calm. So I composed myself, and kep’ on with my work, and heard ’em a talkin’ and a sympathizin’ with each other.

“Oh!” Solemen, in a mournful voice, “I can tell you, widder Doodle, there are tender memories in my heart for that wemen. When I think how good dispositioned she was, how she would get up and build fires in the winter, without saying a word, it seemed as if my heart must break.”

“I love to build fires,” says sister Doodle. “I always used to build the fire, when I was a livin’ with my Doodle.”

“Did you, widder? I wished you had known the corpse. I believe you would have loved each other like sisters.”

His tone sounded considerable chirker than it had sounded, and he went on. “I believe you look like her, widder. You look out of your eyes as she looked out of her’n; you put me in mind of her.”

The widder’s voice seemed something chirker, too, and, says she, “You must chirk up, Mr. Cypher, you must look forward to happier days.”

“I know it,” and he put on the tone he used to evenin’ meetin’s. “I know there is another spear, and I try to keep my mind on it; a happy spear, where hired girls are unknown, and partin’s are no more.”

“I hate hired girls,” says sister Doodle, almost warmly.

“Do you, widder? Do you hate ’em?” says he, in almost glad tones, and then says he, in real convinced axents, “You do look like her, I know you do; I can see it plainer and plainer every minute. Oh! what a wemen she was! So afraid of infringin’ on men. She new her place so well. I couldn’t have made that wemen think she was my equal; not if I had knocked her down. How many times she had said to me that no wemen was strong enough to go to the poles, and she had rather dig potatoes any time, than to vote. She was as good as a man at that. Many a time, when I would get backward with my fall’s work, she would go out on the lot, and dig as fast as I could.”

“I love to dig potatoes,” says sister Doodle, “and no money would have me to vote.”

“You do look like her, widder. If my own father disputed me on it, I’d stand my ground. You look like her, you make me think on her.”

“Well, then, you must think on me all you can; don’t be delicate about it at all. I’d love to think I could chirk you up, and be a comfort to you, in that way, or any other.”

“You do chirk me up, widder. I feel better than I did feel, when I came here to-day.”

“Well, then, you must come and be chirked up, oftener.”

“I will, widder.”

“Come Sunday night, or any time.”

“I will, widder, I will.”

I must say, that, as I heard her go on, I couldn’t help askin’ myself this mathematical question, and doin’ in my mind, this little sum in figures:

“Samantha, ort from ort, leaves how many? And how many to carry?”

And though I answered myself, calmly and firmly, “ort,” still I realized that figures wus made to differ from each other in value and glory, from figure one, clear up to figure nine, and “orts,” unbeknown to them. And if sister Doodle wouldn’t never be killed for knowin’ too much, still she was a clever critter, and what little sense she had run to goodness, and that is more than could be said of some folks’ essense; some runs to meanness every mite of it.

I was jest a thinkin’ this over, as I finished up my last pie; and I washed my hands at the sink, and went and carried ’em out, and put ’em into the oven. And, as I did so, I said, “Good-mornin’, Mr. Cypher,” in jest as friendly and sympathizin’ a way as them words wus ever said. I then went and done up the dress and veil ready for him and laid them on the table. And, thinkin’ that I must say sumthin’ to comfort him up, I says to him, in consolin’ axents, “That she was a likely wemen, and I dared presume to say, was better off than she was here.”

But though my words wus said with such a good motive, he didn’t seem to like ’em, and he spoke right up, and says he:

“I don’t know about that, I don’t know about her bein’ better off. It was only a year ago, last winter, that I bought her a new calico dress, and carried it home to her unexpected. And on her last sickness, she took it into her head that she could eat some chicken, and, though we had half a barrel of pork in the house, I went right out that same day and killed a hen. I done well by her, and I don’t know about her bein’ better off, I don’t know about it.”

I heerd my pies a sizzlin’ over in the oven, and I hastened to their relief. And while I wus a turnin’ ’em round, Solemen took the bundle offer the table and started off. The widder, that clever criter, went to the door with him. She said sumthin’ to him, I couldn’t really hear what it wus, as I wus turnin’ my last pie, as she said it, but I heard his last words, as he went down the stept. They wus:

“I feel better, widder, I feel better than I did feel.”

THE WIDDER DOODLE’S COURTSHIP.

It was about six weeks after Nancy Cyphers’es death. It was a lovely September mernin’, in the fall of the year when I waked up, and opened my eyes at about 5 o’clock, A. M., in the forenoon. The bedroom bein’ on the back of the house, and secure from intruders, we wusn’t never particular to lower and put down the curtains. And I could see a levely picture between the fold of snowy white cotten cloth, edged with a deep, beautiful net and fringe of my own makin’, that wus tied gracefully back on each side of the winder with a cord and tassel (also of my own makin’).

It was a picture handsomer than any of ’em, framed by Thomas J., that hung up in our parlor. Close by the winder, and right in front of it, was a rose-bush and a wax bull, full of bright scarlet, and snow-white berries. And over ’em flamed out a maple, dressed up in more colors than Joseph’s coat, and each color perfectly beautiful. The birds wus a-singin’ to the branches, sweet, and strong, and earnest, and though I couldn’t understand a word they said, still it was a very happyfyin’ song to me. Through some of the maple branches I could see the blue sky a-shinin’ down; but lower down, through the boughs of the rose and wax bulls, I could see the east, a-lookin’ handsomer than I ever remembered seein’ the east look. It seemed as if it had fairly outdone itself, a-tryin’ to make a levely and beautiful startin’ place for the sun, to set out from on his daily tower. The sun seemed to enjoy it dretfully, havin’ such a levely home to set out from. It seemed to look so extremely attractive to him, that I knew, unless somethin’ uncommon happened, he would be punctual to be back there to the very minute, the next mornin’. And thinks’es I to myself, (for moral eppisodin’ has become almost a 2d or 3d nater to me), if home was always made so bright and attractive there would be other sons and heads of families that would be more punctual and delighted to get back to their startin’ places and homes at the exact minute. But I probably didn’t eppisode on this theme more’n a moment or a moment and a ½, though it is as noble and elevatin’ a theme as ever was eppisoded on, for another thought came to me, almost overpowerin’ly, as I see the sun a settin’ out so grand, and noble, and happy on his tower. The thought that come to me wus this; I wished that I too could set on a short tower. I had staid to home for quite a spell. And though home is the best spot in the hull world for a stiddy diet, still the appetite calls fur spices, and different sorts of food. Human nater, and especially wemen human nater likes a change and variety. And it does come kinder natural to a wemen to want to go a-visutin’, now and then, and sometimes oftner. I had been a-wonderin’ it over in my mind for a number of days, though as yet I had not tackled Josiah upon the subject, not knowin’ how he would take it, but knowin’ well that men do not feel as wimmen do about visatin’.

The county fair wus to be held the next week, at Dover town, sixteen miles from Janesville. And I had two aunts there, Sophrenia Cypher, she that was Sophrenia Burpy, my mother’s own sister, and married to Solomon Cypher’s only brother, and then she that wus, and now is, Samantha Ann Burpy, my mother’s youngest sister. A maiden lady, livin’ on a independent property of her own, with a hired girl, and sound and excellent principles. I wus named after her, and set a sight of store by her. She hain’t an old maid from necessity, far from it, she had chances. I hadn’t visited them for over five years, and never wus to a county fair in my life; and as I lay there on my goose-feather pillow, a seein’ the sun set out and travel gloriously on his tower, I thought to myself how sweet it would be if I and my Josiah could go and do likewise. Could go to Dover town, visit our aunts and attend to the fair. But studyin’ as deep as I had studied on the subject of men’s dispositions, I felt that I must be as wise as a serpent, and harmless as a dove. And so I gently and almost tenderly punched my companion with my elbow, and seys, in awful, affectionate axents:

“Josiah!”

“What is the matter?” says he, a wakin’ up sudden. “What are you goarin me with your elbow for?”

His tone and his demeaner would have strick dismay to the heart of a weaker wemen, but I kep’ right on, and said to him, in still more tender and affectionate axents:

“Josiah, you seem to me to be a runnin’ down, I am alarmed about you, Josiah Allen.”

“Oh, shaw!” says he, and it was as fractious and worrysome a “shaw,” as I ever heard shawed in my hull life.

But I continued on and continued, knowin’ that perseverance was requisit’ and necessary.

Says I, “You cannot conceal it from your pardner, Josiah; you are not in one-half so good order as you wus in.”

“Wall! what of it? What if I hain’t?” he snapped out awful snappish.

Says I, in still more tender tones, “You need a change, Josiah; you ort to go off on a short tower, you and your pardner, Samantha.”

“A tower!”

Oh! never, never did I, durin’ my life, ever see a tower snapped out as that tower wus. He acted scornful, and overbearin’, and almost haughty about the idee. And some wimmen would have been completely skirt out by his mean, it wus so cold, and threatenin’, and offish. Not so Samantha. No! though his demeaner wus such that I almost despaired of success, still I felt that I would do all that wemen could do, and then if I must give it up, I could have a clear conscience. So inspired, and held up by this resolve, I laid to, and got a breakfast, that exceeded anything that had been seen for months in Jenesville, in the line of breakfes’ses. It affected the widder Doodle dreadfully; she shed tears, she said it was “so beautiful, and reminded her so of Doodle.”

And it was perfectly delicious, and I could see as Josiah partook of it, that his mean wus a gradually mellerin’ down, and growin’ softer, and more yieldin’ and sweet. And finally when he had got about half through his meal, and he could see that as good as the vittles had been precedin’, better was to come, then I tackled him, and then I got the victory. He consented.

The widder Doodle seemed more’n willin’ to stay and keep house for us, and suffice it to say, that the next afternoon saw us a settin’ out on our tower. Aunt Samantha Ann was perfectly delighted to see us, and we spent the most of the time with her, though we made aunt Sophrenia a good, honorable visit; she, too, was glad to see us, very. We staid to Dover town just a week to a day, attended to the fair, which was very interestin’ and aggreable, both to myself and to Josiah.

The last day of the fair, we laid out to attend only half a day, and start for home about noon, so as to reach home in good season. We had told widder Doodle we would be there certainly that day before nightfall.

It was, probably, about half-past ten A. M., in the forenoon. I was a standin’ in the Hall devoted to picters, and flowers, and piller cases, and tatten and embroidery, and so forth, and I wus just examinin’ a lamp mat, which was perfectly beautiful, when a good lookin’ wemen came up to me, and says she, a lookin’ up above my head:

“Have you seen the phantom leave?” or sunthin to that effect.

And I says to her, firmly but kindly:

“There hain’t been no phantom here appearin’ to me, and how could I see it leave?”

And thinkin’ she wus in the dark on this matter, and it was my duty to enlighten her, says I:

“Somebody has been a-trying to impose on you, mam. There ’haint no such things as ghosts or phantoms.”

She said sunthin’ about “their bein’ a case,” or sunthin’; she talked dretful low, and the noise around was fearful, so I couldn’t heer her over and above well. But from what I did heer, I see she was on the wrong track, and says I firmly:

“I defy you, mam, to bring forward a case of ghost, or phantom, that will bear the daylight,” says I, “they are made up of fear, and fancy, and moonshine.”

She took up her parasol, and pinted right up to a glass case, and says she:

“I ment them phantom leaves there, up in that case.”

“Oh!” says I, in a relieved tone. “I thought you ment a ghost!”

They looked handsome, some like the frost-work on our windows in the winter.

Wall, it probably wusn’t a ½ an hour after that, my pride had a fall. Truly, when we are a-standin’ up the straightest, tottlin’ may come on to us, and sudden crumplin’ of the knees. There I had been a-boastin’, in my proud, philosophical spirit, that there wus no such things as phantoms, and lo, and behold! within 31 moments time, I thought I see a ghost appearin’ to me. I was skeert, and awe-struck. The way on’t wus, I stood there not thinkin’ of no trouble, when all of a sudden, I heerd these words;

“Oh, Doodle! Doodle! If you was alive, I shouldn’t be in this predickerment.”

If I had some hen’s feathers by me, I should have burnt a few, to keep me from given up, and fainting away. And then these words came to me:

“Oh, Doodle! Doodle! You never would have stood by, and seen your relict smashed to pieces before your linement.”

And as I heerd these words, I seen her appearin’ to me. I see the Widder Doodle emergin’ from the crushin’ crowd, and advancin’ onto me like a phantom.

Says I, in a low voice, “Be you a ghost, or be you a phantom? or are you a forerunner, Widder?” Says I, “You be a forerunner, I know you be.”

For even as I looked, I see behind her the form of Solomon Cypher, advancin’ slowly, and appearin’ to me. I felt strange, and feerfully curious.

But within ½ to ⅔ of a moment, my senses came back, for on givin’ her a closer look, I see that no respectable ghost, that thought anything of itself, would be ketched out in company, a-lookin’ so like fungation. I felt better, and says I:

“Widder Doodle, how under the sun did you come here to Dover town?”

Says she, “Samantha, I am married; I am on my tower.”

I thought again, almost wildly, of burnt feathers, but I controlled myself, pretty well, and says:

“Who to?”

“Solemen Cypher,” says she. “We are goin’ to his brother’s on our tower.”

As she said this, it all came back to me—Solemen’s talk the day he came to borry my cloze for the mourners: her visits to his housekeeper sense; and his strange and foolish errents to our house from day to day. Why, he had made such strange and mysterious errents to our house since his wife died, that I had told Josiah “I believed Solemen Cypher wus a-loosin’ his faculties,” and I shouldn’t have been a mite surprised to have had him beset us to lend him a meetin’ house, or try to get the loan of an Egyptian mummy. Now I see through them strange and mysterious errents of his’n. But I didn’t speak my thoughts; I only said, almost mechanically:

“Widder Doodle, what under the sun hus put it into your head to marry?”

“Wall,” she said, she “had kinder got into the habit of marryin’, and it seemed some like 2nd nater to her, and she thought Solemen had some of Mr. Doodle’s liniment, and she thought she’d kinder marry to him, and——”

She tried to excuse it off, but she didn’t give any firm reason that carried conviction to my soul. But I says to myself, in reasonable axents:

“Samantha, can you—can you ever obtain anything to carry from an ort?”

I see, on lookin’ closer at her, what made her look so oncommon curius. She had tried to dress sort o’ bridy, and at the same time was a-mournin’ for Doodle. (She never will get that man out of her head, I don’t believe.)

She said she “didn’t want to hurt Solemen’s feelin’s. She put on the white bobbinet lace to please Cypher. But,” says she, “though Solemen don’t mistrust it, my black bead collar and jest half of my weddin’ dress means Doodle.”

It was a black and white lawn, with big, even checks. The skirt was gathered in full all round, and it was made plain waist. It sot pretty well, only it drawed in acrost the chest. (She made it herself and cut it too narrer.) She had a shawl with a palm-leaf border, that she had when she married Doodle; and a Leghorn bonnet that she wore on the same occasion. It came over her face considerable, and had a bunch of artifishel flowers on each side of her face. Her veil was made out of an old white lace cape of her’n, but the edgin’ round it was new—four cents a yard, for she told me so. And she had a pair of new white gloves, No. 7, purchased with a view to their shrinkin’ in the future, and a white cotton handkerchief. But she told me (in strict confidence,) that she had got a black pocket to her dress, and she had on a new pair of black elastic garters. Says she, “I cannot forget Doodle. I never can forget that dear man.” I knew she couldn’t.

Solemen seemed to use her pretty middlin’ well, only I could see that he felt above her feerfully. He acted dretful domineerin’, and seemed to feel very, very haughty toward wimmin. He looked down on us awfully as a race, and said we should both probably get hurt before we left the ground.

He and Josiah went out to look at some cattle for a few moments, and the widder, bein’ very talkative, told me all about her courtships. I says to her:

“Widder, I believe you mean well, but how under the sun could you marry a man six weeks after his wife died?”

“Wall,” says she, “Solemen said that the corpse wouldn’t be no deader than it was then, if he waited three or four months, as some men did.”

“And,” says she, “he asked me to have him in a dretful handsome way,” says she. “‘The Children of the Abbey,’ or ‘Thadeus of Warsaw,’ nor none of ’em, couldn’t have done it up in any more romantic and foamin’ way.” Says she, “The way on’t wus, I had been to see his housekeeper, and he was bringin’ me home, and I wus a praisin’ up his wagon and horses—a new double wagon with a spring seat,—and all of a suddent he spoke out, in a real ardent and lover like tone:

“‘Widder Doodle! if you will be my bride, the wagon is your’n, and the mares,’ says he. ‘Widder, I throw myself onto your feet, and I throw the wagon, and the mares, and with them I throw eighty-five acres of good land, fourteen cows, five calves, four three-year-olds and a yearlin’; a dwellin’-house, a new horse-barn, and myself. I throw ’em all onto your feet, and there we lay on ’em.’

“He waited for me to answer. And it flustrated me so, that I says, ‘O, Doodle! Doodle! if you wus alive you would tell me what to do to do right!’

“And that,” she said, “seemed to mad him; his forehead all wrinkled up, and he looked as black and hard as a stove-pipe. And he yelled out that he ‘didn’t want to hear nothin’ about no Doodle, and he wouldn’t, nuther.’

“And I took out my handkerchief and cried on it, and he said he’d ‘overlook Doodle for once.’ And then he said agin, in a kind of a solemn and warnin’ way:

“‘Widder, I am a layin’ on your feet, and my property is there, my land, my live stock, my housen and my housen stuff, and I, are all a layin’ on your feet. Make up your mind and make it up at once, for if you don’t consent, I have got other views ahead on me, which must be seen to instantly and at once. Time is hastenin’, and the world is full of willin’ wimmen. Widder, what do you say?”

“And then,” says she, “I kinder consented and he said we’d be married the first of the week, and he turn off the hired girl and I could come right there and do the housework, and tend to the milk of fourteen cows, and be almost perfectly happy. He thought as he was hurried with his fall’s work, we’d better be married Sunday, so’s not to break into the week’s work; so we wuz,” says she, “we wuz married last Sunday, and we kep’ it still from you, so’s to surprise you.”

“Truly you have,” says I. But I didn’t have no time to add or multiply any more words, for my Josiah came jest then and we started off homewards.

After we had well got started, Josiah spoke up, and begun to grumble and find fault about their marriage so soon after Nancy Cypher’ses decease. He took on for as much as a mile, or a mile and a-half. Says he, “If Solomon Cypher didn’t have no decency, nor know nothin’, I should have thought the widder would have told him better.”

But I looked him calmly in the face and says I, “Josiah, when you are doin’ a sum in arithmetic, how much do you usually get to carry from an ort?” And then I came out still more plainer, and says I, “Ort from ort leaves how many, Josiah Allen?”

“Ort,” says he. “But what under the sun are you a-prancin’ off into ’rithmetic for?”

“Wall,” says I, calmly, “When you obtain anything to carry from an ort, then I will obtain sense from the widder, I mean the bride. But who would think of blaming the ort?”

BETSEY BOBBIT: HER POEM.

Josiah came in, t’other day, from the postoffice; and he says, says he, throwin’ down the “Weekly Gimlet:”

“Here’s old Betsey Bobbit been a makin’ a fool of herself agin. Just read this stuff that she calls a pome.”

I took the newspaper, and sot down by the winder, to get more light, for my eyes ain’t as good as when I was a gal, and this is what I read:

I WISH I WAS A WIDDER,
BY BETSEY BOBBIT.

Oh, “Gimlet,” back again I float
With broken wings, a weary bard;
I cannot write as once I wrote,
I have to work so very hard.
So hard my lot, so tossed about,
My muse is fairly tuckered out.

My muse aforesaid, once hath flown,
But now her back is broke, and breast;
And yet she fain would crumple down
On “Gimlet” pages she would rest;
And sing plain words as there she’s sot
Haply they’ll rhyme, and haply not

I spake plain words in former days,
No guile I showed, clear was my plan;
My gole it matrimony was.
My earthly aim it was a man.
I gained my man. I won my gole.
Alas, I feel not as I fole.

Yes, ringing through my maiden thought
This clear voice rose, “oh come up higher”
To speak plain truth with cander fraught,
To married be, was my desire.
Now sweeter still this lot doth seem
To be a widder is my theme.

For toil hath claimed me for her own,
In wedlock I have found no ease;
I’ve cleaned and washed for neighbors round
And took my pay in beans and pease;
In boiling sap no rest I took
Or husking corn in barn or stook.

Or picking wool from house to house,
White-washing, painting, papering,
In stretching carpets, boiling souse,
E’en picking hops it hath a sting
For spiders there assembled be,
Mosqueetoes, bugs, and et ceteree.

I have to work, oh! very hard;
Old Toil, I know your breadth, and length.
I’m tired to death; and in one word
I have to work beyond my strength,
And mortal men are very tough
To get along with—nasty, rough.

Yes, tribulation’s doomed to her
Who weds a man, without no doubt
In peace a man is singuler
His ways, they are past finding out,
And oh! the wrath of mortal males
To paint their ire, earth’s language fails.

And thirteen children in our home
Their buttons rend, their clothes they burst,
Much bread and such do they consume,
Of children they do seem the worst;
And Simon and I do disagree,
He’s prone to sin continualee.

He horrors has, he oft doth kick,
He prances, yells, he will not work,
Sometimes I think he is too sick;
Sometimes I think he tries to shirk,
But ’tis hard for her in either case
Who B Bobbit was in happier days.

Happier? Away! Such things I spurn,
I count it true from spring to fall
’Tis “better to be wed and groan
Than never to be wed at all.”
I’d work my hands down to the bone
Rather than rest, a maiden lone.

This truth I cannot, will not shirk,
I feel it when I sorrow most,
I’d rather break my back with work
And haggard look as any ghost—
Rather than lonely vigils keep
I’d wed, and sigh, and groan, and weep.

Yes, I can say, though tears fall quick,
Can say while briny tear-drops start,
I’d rather wed a crooked stick
Than never wed no stick at all.
Rather than laughed at be as of yore
I’d rather laugh myself no more.

I’d rather go half-clad and starved
And mops and dish-cloths madly wave
Than have the words B Bobbit carved
On headstone rising o’er my grave
Proud thought, now when that stun is risen,
’Twill bear two names, mine and hisen.

Methinks ’twould colder make the stun
If but one name, the name of she
Should linger there alone, alone,
How different when the name of he
Does also deck the funeral urn
Two wedded names, his name and hurn.

And sweeter yet, oh! blessed lot
Oh! state most dignified and blest
To be a widder calmly sot
And have both dignity and rest.
Oh, Simon, strangely sweet ’twould be
To be a widder unto thee.

The warfare past, the horrors done,
With maiden ease and pride of wife,
The dignity of wedded one,
The calm and peace of single life;
Oh strangely sweet this lot doth seem,
A female widder is my theme.

I would not hurt a hair of he,
Yet did he from earth’s toils escape
I could most reconciled be
Could sweetly mourn e’en without crape
Could say without a pang of pain
That Simon’s loss was Betsey’s gain.

I’ve told the plain tale of my woes,
With no deceit or language vain,
Have told whereon my hopes are rose
Have sung my mournful song of pain.
And now e’en I will end my tale
I’ve sung my song, I’ve wailed my wail.

“Wall, I call it foolish stuff,” I said, when I had finished. “Though, if I was to measure ’em with a yardstick, the lines might come out pretty nigh an equal length, and so I s’pose it would be called poetry.”

At any rate, I have made a practice, ever since, of callin’ it so; for I am one that despises envy and jealousy amongst sister authoresses. No, you never ketch me at it; I would sooner help ’em up the ladder than upset ’em, and it is ever my practice so to do. But truth must be spoke if subjects are brung up. Uronious views must be condemned by Warriors of the Right, whether ladders be upset, or stand firm, poetesses also.

I felt that this poetry attacked a tender subject, a subject dearer to me than all the world besides, the subject of Josiah. Josiah is a man.

And I say it, and I say it plain that men hain’t no such creeters as he tries to make out they be. Men are first-rate creeters in lots of things, and as good as wimmen any day of the week.

Of course, I agree with Betsy that husbands are tryin’ in lots of things; they need a firm hand to the hellum to guide ’em along through the tempestuous wave of married life, and get along with ’em. They are lots of trouble, and then I think they pay after all. Why, I wouldn’t swap my Josiah for the best house and lot in Janesville, or the crown of the Widder Albert. I love Josiah Allen. And I don’t know but the very trouble he has caused me makes me cling closer to him; you know the harder a horse’s head beats and thrashes against burdock burs, the tighter the burdocks will cling to its mane. Josiah makes me sights of trouble, but I cling to him closely.

I admit that men are curious creeters and tegus creeters, a good deal of the time. But then agin, so be wimmen, just as tegus, and I don’t know but teguser! I believe my soul, if I had got to be born again, I had almost as lives be born a man as a woman.

No, I don’t think one sect ort to boast much over the other one. They are both about equally foolish and disagreeable, and both have their goodness and nobilities. And both ort to have their rights. Now I haint one to set up and say men hadn’t ort to vote, that they don’t know enough, and hain’t good enough, and so forth, and so on. No, you don’t ketch me at it. I am one that stands up for justice and reason.

Now, the other day a wild-eyed woman with short hair, who goes round lecturin’ on wimmen’s rights, came to see me, a tryin’ to inviggle me into a plot to keep men from votin’. Says she, “The time is drawin’ near, when wimmen are a goin’ to vote, without no doubt.”

“Amen!” says I, “I can say amen to that with my hull heart and soul.”

“And then,” says she, “when we get the staff in our own hands less we wimmen all put in together and try to keep men from votin’.”

“Never!” says I. “Never! will you get me into such a scrape as that.” Says I, “men have jest exactly as good a right to vote as wimmen have. They are condemned, and protected, and controlled by the same laws that wimmen are, and so of course are equally interested in makin’ ’em. You needn’t try to inviggle me into no plot to keep men from votin’, for justice is ever my theme, and also Josiah.”

Says she, bitterly, “I’d love to make these miserable sneaks try it once and see how they would like it, to have to spend their property and be hauled round, and hung by laws they hadn’t no hand in makin’.”

But I still say with marble firmness, “men has jest as good a right to vote as wimmen have. And you needn’t try to inviggle me into no such plans, for I won’t be inviggled.”

And so she stopped invigglin, and went off.

And then agin in Betsy’s poetry (though as a neighbor, and a female authoress, I never would speak a word against it, and what I say, I say as a Warrior, and would wish to be so took) I would say in kindness that Betsy sot out in married life expectin’ too much. Now, she didn’t marry in the right way, and so she ought to have expected tougher times than the usual run of married females ort to expect, more than the ordinary tribulations of matrimony.

And it won’t do to expect too much in this world anyway. If you can only bring your lives down to it, it is a sight better to expect nothing, and then you won’t be disappointed if you get it, as you most probably will. And if you get something, it will be a joyful surprise to you. But there are few indeed who has ever sot down on this calm hite of filosify.

Folks expect too much. As many, and many times as their hopes has proved to be uronious, they think, well now, if I only had that certain thing, or was in that certain place, I should be happy. But they haint. They find when they reach that certain gole and have climbed up and sot down on it, they’ll find that somebody has got onto the gole before ’em, and is there a settin’ on it. No matter how spry anybody may be, they’ll find that Sorrow can climb faster than they can, and can set down on goles quicker.

It haint no matter how easy a seat anybody sets down in, they’ll find that they’ll have to hunch along, and let Disappointment set down with ’em, and Anxiety, and Weariness, and et ceteree, et ceteree.

Now, the scholar, or the literatoor, or writer, thinks if he can only stand up on that certain hite of scientific discovery, or Akkropolis of literatoor, he will be happy; for he will know all that he cares about, and will have all the fame he wants to. But when he gets up there, he’ll see plain, for the higher he riz above the mists of ignorance that floats ’round the lower lands, the clearer his vision, and he will see another peek right ahead of him steeper and loftier and icier than the last, and so on ad infinitum, ad infinity. And if it is literatoor, he’ll see somebody that’s got higher, or thinks he has, or he’ll find some critick that says he hasn’t done much, and Shakespeare did better.

Just as it was with old Mrs. Peedick, our present Mrs. Peedick’s mother-in-law, she said, she told me with her own lips, that she knew she should be happy when she got a glass butter-dish, but she said she wasn’t; she told me with her own lips, that jest as quick as she got that she wanted a sugar-bowl, for the Druffels had sugar-bowls, and why shouldn’t she?

The lover thinks, when he can once claim his sweetheart, call her his own, he will be blessed and content; but he hain’t. No matter how well he loves her, no matter how fond she is of him, and how blessed they are in each other’s love, the haunting fear must always rack his soul, the horrible fear be there, of seeing her slip away from him altogether. That in place of her warm, beating heart, whose every throb is full of love for him, will be only her vacant place, and instead of the tender sweetness of her voice, the everlasting silence of Eternity.

The little ones that cling to our knees, that pray beside us at bed-time, and the patter of whose feet is such music to us—they go, too, and we no more feel their kisses, or hear their tiny voices. Every day, every hour, we are losing something, that we called our own.

You see we don’t own much of anything in this world. It’s curious, but so it is. And what we call our own, don’t belong to us; not at all. That is one of the things that makes this such an extremely curious world to live in. Yes, we are situated extremely curious, as much so as the robins and swallows who build their nests on the swaying forest boughs.

We smile at the robin, with our wise, amused pity, who builds her tiny nest, with such laborious care, high up, out on the waving tree-top, only to be blown away by the chilly autumn winds. But are not our homes, the sweetest homes of our tenderest love, built upon just as insecure foundations, hanging over more mysterious depths? Rocked to and fro, swept to their ruin by a breath of the Unknown? Our dreams, and hopes, and ambitions, what are they all but the sticks and straws that we weave about our frail nests, only to be blown away forever?

And when our December comes, are not we too swept away, poor voyagers, over pathless wastes? Yet HE, who has provided a balmy South, as a refuge for the summer birds, to which they fly, intuitively, with blind hope and trust—has not HE prepared likewise a shelter for us, one where we may fulfil our deathless longings, meet the “loved and lost,” and realize our soul’s dearest dreams? Yes, over the lonely way, over the untried fields of the future, ay, even over the Unknown Sea, which they call DEATH, even over that, HE will guide us safely, to a haven, a home, immortal, “not made with hands, eternal in the Heavens”.

But I am eppisodin!

DEACON SLIMPSEY’S MOURNFUL FOREBODINGS.

Thomas Jefferson went to the school-house to meetin’ last night, and he broke out to the breakfast-table:

“Betsey Bobbet spoke in meetin’ last night, father.” He addressed the words to his father, for he knows I won’t uphold no kind of light talking about serious things.

“She said she knew she was religious, because she felt she loved the bretheren.” Then they both laughed in an idiotic manner. But I said, in a tone of cool dignity, as I passed him his 3d cup of coffee, “She meant it in a Scriptural sense, no doubt.”

“I guess you’d think she meant it in a earthly sense, if you had seen her hang on to old Slimpsey last night; she’ll marry that old man yet, if he don’t look out.”

“Oh, shaw!” says I, coolly. “She’s payin’ attention to the editor of the _Gimlet_.”

“She’ll never get him,” says he. “She means to be on the safe side, and get one or the other of ’em; how steady she has been to meetin’ sence Deacon Slimpsey moved into the place.”

“You shall not make light of her religeen, Thomas Jefferson,” says I, in a severe voice.

“I won’t, mother. I shouldn’t feel right to, for it is light enough now; it don’t all consist in talkin’ in meetin’, mother. I don’t believe in folks’es usin’ up all their religeen Sunday nights, and then goin’ without any all the rest of the week; it looks as shiftless in ’em as a 3-year-old hat on a female.”

Says I, in a tone of deep rebuke, “Instead of tendin’ other folks’s motes, Thomas Jefferson, you had better take care of your own beams; you’ll have plenty work enough to last you one spell.”

“And if you are through with your breakfast,” says his father, “you had better go and give the cows something to eat.”

“Can’t they come here, father?” says he, leanin’ kinder lazy over the table.

Says I, “That is pretty talk to your father, Thomas J. How do you suppose your days will be long in the land if you don’t honor your father and mother?”

“I do honor you, mother. I never see such long, wet, tedious days as they have been ever sence I have been home from school, and I lay it to honorin’ you and father so.”

Says I, “I won’t hear another light word this mornin’, Thomas Jefferson—not one.” He read earnestness in my tone; and he rose with alackrity and went to the barn, and his farther soon drew on his boots and followed him, and with a pensive brow I turned out my dish water. I hadn’t got my dishes more than half done, when, with no warnin’ of no kind, the door burst open, and in tottered Deacon Slimpsey, pale as a piece of white cotton shirt. I wildly wrung out my dish-cloth, and offered him a chair, sayin’, in a agitated tone, “What is the matter, Deacon Slimpsey?”

“Am I pursued?” says he, in a voice of low frenzy, as he sank into a wooden-bottomed chair. I cast one or two eagle glances out of the window, both ways, and replied in a voice of choked-down emotion:

“There haint nobody in sight. Has your life been attacked by burglers and incendiarys? Speak, Deacon Slimpsey, speak!”

He struggled nobly for calmness, but in vain. And then he put his hand wildly to his brow and murmured, in low and hollow accents:

“Betsey Bobbet!”

I see he was overcome by as many as seven different emotions of different anguishes, and I give him pretty near a minute to recover himself; and then, says I, as I sadly resumed my dish-cloth, “What of her, Deacon Slimpsey?”

“She’ll be the death on me,” says he, “and that haint the worst on it. My soul is jeopardied on account of her. Oh!” says he, groanin’ in an anguish, “Can you believe it, Miss Allen, that I, a deacon in an autherdox church, could be tempted to swear? Behold that wretch! I confess it, as I came through your gate, just now, I said to myself, ‘By Jupiter, I can’t stand it so much longer’; and only last night I wished I was a ghost; for I thought if I were an apperition, I could have escaped from her view. Oh!” says he, groanin’ agin, “I have got so low as to wish I was a ghost!” He paused, and in a deep and brooding silence I finished my dishes, and hung up my dish-pan. “She was rushing out of Deacon Gowdey’s, as I came by, just now, to talk to me. She don’t give me no peace—last night she would walk tight to my side all the way home, and she looked hungry at the gate as I went through, and fastened it on the inside.” Agin he paused overcome by his emotions, and I looked pityin’ly on him. He was a small boned man of about seventy summers and winters. Age, who had ploughed the wrinkles into his face, had turned the furrows deep. The cruel fingers of time, or some other female, had plucked nearly every hair from his head, and the ruthless hand of fate had also seen fit to deprive him of his eye-winkers, not one solitary winker bein’ left for a shade tree (as it were) to protect the pale pupils below, and they bein’ a light watery blue, and the lids bein’ inflamed, they looked sad indeed. Owing to afflictive providences, he was dressed up more than men generally be, for his neck bein’ badly swelled, he wore a string of yellow amber beads, and in behalf of his sore eyes he wore ear-rings. But truly outside splender and glitter won’t satisfy the mind, or bring happiness; I looked upon his mournful face, and my heart melted inside of me, almost as soft as it could, almost as soft as butter in the month of August, and I said to him in a soothin’ and encouragin’ tone:

“Mebby she’ll marry the editor of the _Gimlet_. She is payin’ attention to him.”

“No, she won’t,” says he, in a solemn and affectin’ tone that brought tears to my eyes, as I sat peelin’ my onions for dinner. “No, she won’t. I shall be the one, I feel it. I was always the victim; I was always down-trodden. When I was a baby, my mother had two twins both of ’em a little older than me, and they almost tore me to pieces before I got into trowsers. Mebby it would have been better for me if they had,” said he in a musin’ and mournful tone—and then heavin’ a deep sigh, he resumed; “When I went to school and we played leap-frog if there was a frog to be squashed down under all the rest, I was that frog; it has always been so, if ever there was a victim wanted, I was the victim, and Betsey Bobbet will get round me yet, and see if she don’t; women are awful perseverin’ in such things.”

“Cheer up, Deacon Slimpsey, you haint obleeged to marry her—it is a free country; folks haint obleeged to marry unless they are a mind to; it don’t take a brass band to make that legal.” I quoted these words in a light and joyous tone, hopin’ to rouse him from his despondancy—but in vain, for he only repeated in a gloomy tone:

“She’ll get around me yet, Miss Allen, I feel it,” and as the shade deepened on his eyebrow, he said, “Have you seen her verses in the last week’s _Gimlet_?”

“No,” says I, “I haint.”

In a silent and hopeless way he took the paper out of his pocket, and handed it to me and I read as follows:

A SONG

Composed not for the strong-minded females, who madly and
indecently insist on rights, but for the retiring and
delicate-minded of the sect who modestly murmur “we wont have
no rights—we scorn ’em;” will some modest and bashful sister
set it to music, that we may timidly, but loudly warble it, and
oblige hers till death in this glorious cause.

BETSEY BOBBET.