Wit of Women — Chapter VII, part 2

BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.

The pine-knots flamed and glistened under the great wash-kettle.

A

tree-toad was persistently calling for rain in the dry distance.

The girl, gravely impassive, beat the clothes with the heavy paddle.

Her mother shortly ceased to prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and presently took up the thread of her discourse.

"An' 'Vander hev got ter be a mighty suddint man.

I hearn tell, when I war down ter M'ria's house ter the quiltin', ez how in that sorter fight an' scrimmage they hed at the mill las' month, he war powerful ill-conducted.

Nobody hed thought of hevin' much of a fight--thar hed been jes' a few licks passed atwixt the men thar; but the fust finger ez war laid on this boy, he jes' lit out, an' fit like a catamount.

Right an' lef' he lay about him with his fists, an' he drawed his huntin'-knife on some of 'em.

The men at the mill war in no wise pleased with him."

"'Pears like ter me ez 'Vander air a peaceable boy enough, ef he ain't jawed at an' air lef' be," drawled Cynthia.

Her mother was embarrassed for a moment.

Then, with a look both sly and wise, she made an admission--a qualified admission.

"Waal, wimmen--ef--ef--ef they air young an' toler'ble hard-headed _yit_, air likely ter jaw _some_, ennyhow.

An' a gal oughtn't ter marry a man ez hev sot his heart on bein' lef' in peace.

He is apt ter be a mighty sour an' disapp'inted critter."

This sudden turn to the conversation invested all that had been said with new meaning, and revealed a subtle diplomatic intention.

The girl seemed deliberately to review it as she paused in her work.

Then, with a rising flush: "I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' nobody," she asserted staidly.

"I hev laid off ter live single."

Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she retorted, gallantly reckless: "That's what yer Aunt Malviny useter declar' fur gospel sure, when she war a gal.

An' she hev got ten chil'ren, an' hev buried two husbands;

an' ef all they say air true, she's tollin' in the third man now.

She's a mighty spry, good-featured woman, an' a fust-rate manager, yer Aunt Malviny air, an' both her husbands lef' her suthin--cows, or wagons, or land.

An' they war quiet men when they war alive, an' stays whar they air put now that they air dead; not like old Parson Hoodenpyle, what his wife hears stumpin' round the house an' preachin' every night, though she air ez deef ez a post, an' he hev been in glory twenty year--twenty year an' better.

Yer Aunt Malviny hed luck, so mebbe 'tain't no killin' complaint fur a gal ter git ter talking like a fool about marryin' an' sech.

Leastwise I ain't minded ter sorrow."

She looked at her daughter with a gay grin, which, distorted by her toothless gums and the wreathing steam from the kettle, enhanced her witch-like aspect and was spuriously malevolent.

She did not notice the stir of an approach through the brambly tangles of the heights above until it was close at hand; as she turned, she thought only of the mountain cattle and to see the red cow's picturesque head and crumpled horns thrust over the sassafras bushes, or to hear the brindle's clanking bell.

It was certainly less unexpected to Cynthia when a young mountaineer, clad in brown jean trousers and a checked homespun shirt, emerged upon the rocky slope.

He still wore his blacksmith's leather apron, and his powerful corded hammer-arm was bare beneath his tightly-rolled sleeve.

He was tall and heavily built; his sunburned face was square, with a strong lower jaw, and his features were accented by fine lines of charcoal, as if the whole were a clever sketch.

His black eyes held fierce intimations, but there was mobility of expression about them that suggested changing impulses, strong but fleeting.

He was like his forge-fire; though the heat might be intense for a time, it fluctuated with the breath of the bellows.

Just now he was meekly quailing before the old woman, whom he evidently had not thought to find here.

It was as apt an illustration as might be, perhaps, of the inferiority of strength to finesse.

She seemed an inconsiderable adversary, as, haggard, lean, and prematurely aged, she swayed on her prodding-stick about the huge kettle; but she was as a veritable David to this big young Goliath, though she, too, flung hardly more than a pebble at him.

"Laws-a-me!"

she cried, in shrill, toothless glee; "ef hyar ain't 'Vander Price!

What brung ye down hyar along o' we-uns, 'Vander?"

she continued, with simulated anxiety.

"Hev that thar red heifer o' ourn lept over the fence agin, an' got inter Pete's corn?

Waal, sir, ef she ain't the headin'est heifer!"

"I hain't seen none o' yer heifer, ez I knows on," replied the young blacksmith, with gruff, drawling deprecation.

Then he tried to regain his natural manner.

"I kem down hyar," he remarked, in an off-hand way, "ter git a drink o' water."

He glanced furtively at the girl, then looked quickly away at the gallant red-bird, still gayly parading among the leaves.

The old woman grinned with delight.

"Now, ef that ain't s'prisin'," she declared.

"Ef we hed knowed ez Lost Creek war a-goin' dry over yander a-nigh the shop, so ye an' Pete would hev ter kem hyar thirstin' fur water, we-uns would hev brung suthin' down hyar ter drink out'n. We-uns hain't got no gourd hyar, hev we, Cynthy?"

"'Thout it air the little gourd with the saft-soap in it," said Cynthia, confused and blushing.

Her mother broke into a high, loud laugh.

"Ye ain't wantin' ter gin 'Vander the soap-gourd ter drink out'n, Cynthy!

Leastwise, I ain't goin' ter gin it ter Pete.

Fur I s'pose ef ye hev ter kem a haffen mile ter git a drink, 'Vander, ez surely Pete'll hev ter kem, too.

Waal, waal, who would hev b'lieved ez Lost Creek would go dry nigh the shop, an' yit be a-scuttlin' along like that hyarabouts!"

and she pointed with her bony finger at the swift flow of the water.

He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretence of thirst.

"Lost Creek ain't gone dry nowhar, ez I knows on," he admitted, mechanically rolling the sleeve of his hammer-arm up and down as he talked.

* * * * * From Miss Woolson's story of "Anne," I give the pen-portrait of the precise "MISS LOIS."

"Codfish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of course," said Miss Lois, "and fried hasty-pudding.

On Wednesdays, a boiled dinner.

Pies on Tuesdays and Saturdays."

The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion; three times each week every room in the house was swept, and the floors, as well as the furniture, dusted.

Beans were baked in an iron pot on Saturday night, and sweet-cake was made on Thursday.

Winter or summer, through scarcity or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her established routine, thereby setting an example, she said, to the idle and shiftless.

And certainly she was a faithful guide-post, continually pointing out an industrious and systematic way, which, however, to the end of time, no French-blooded, French-hearted person will ever travel, unless dragged by force.

The villagers preferred their lake trout to Miss Lois's salt codfish, their tartines to her corn-meal puddings, and their _eau-de-vie_ to her green tea; they loved their disorder and their comfort; her bar soap and scrubbing-brush were a horror to their eyes.

They washed the household clothes two or three times a year.

Was not that enough?

Of what use the endless labor of this sharp-nosed woman, with glasses over her eyes, at the church-house?

Were not, perhaps, the glasses the consequence of such toil?

And her figure of a long leanness also?

The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss Lois's life in her persistent effort to employ Indian servants.

Through long years had she persisted, through long years would she continue to persist.

A

succession of Chippewa squaws broke, stole, and skirmished their way through her kitchen, with various degrees of success, generally in the end departing suddenly at night with whatever booty they could lay their hands on.

It is but justice to add, however, that this was not much, a rigid system of keys and excellent locks prevailing in the well-watched household.

Miss Lois's conscience would not allow her to employ half-breeds, who were sometimes endurable servants; duty required, she said, that she should have full-blooded natives.

And she had them.

She always began to teach them the alphabet within three days after their arrival, and the spectacle of a tearful, freshly-caught Indian girl, very wretched in her calico dress and white apron, worn out with the ways of the kettles and the brasses, dejected over the fish-balls, and appalled by the pudding, standing confronted by a large alphabet on the well-scoured table, and Miss Lois by her side with a pointer, was frequent and even regular in its occurrence, the only change being in the personality of the learners.

No one of them had ever gone through the letters, but Miss Lois was not discouraged.

THE CIRCUS AT DENBY.

BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT.

I cannot truthfully say that it was a good show; it was somewhat dreary, now that I think of it quietly and without excitement.

The creatures looked tired, and as if they had been on the road for a great many years.

The animals were all old, and there was a shabby great elephant whose look of general discouragement went to my heart, for it seemed as if he were miserably conscious of a misspent life.

He stood dejected and motionless at one side of the tent, and it was hard to believe that there was a spark of vitality left in him.

A great number of the people had never seen an elephant before, and we heard a thin, little old man, who stood near us, say delightedly: "There's the old creatur', and no mistake, Ann 'Liza.

I wanted to see him most of anything.

My sakes alive, ain't he big!"

And Ann 'Liza, who was stout and sleepy-looking, droned out: "Ye-es, there's consider'ble of him; but he looks as if he ain't got no animation."

Kate and I turned away and laughed, while Mrs. Kew said, confidentially, as the couple moved away: "_She_ needn't be a reflectin' on the poor beast.

That's Mis' Seth Tanner, and there isn't a woman in Deep Haven nor East Parish to be named the same day with her for laziness.

I'm glad she didn't catch sight of me; she'd have talked about nothing for a fortnight."

There was a picture of a huge snake in Deep Haven, and I was just wondering where he could be, or if there ever had been one, when we heard a boy ask the same question of the man whose thankless task it was to stir up the lions with a stick to make them roar.

"The snake's dead," he answered, good-naturedly.

"Didn't you have to dig an awful long grave for him?"

asked the boy; but the man said he reckoned they curled him up some, and smiled as he turned to his lions, that looked as if they needed a tonic.

Everybody lingered longest before the monkeys, that seemed to be the only lively creatures in the whole collection....

Coming out of the great tent was disagreeable enough, and we seemed to have chosen the worst time, for the crowd pushed fiercely, though I suppose nobody was in the least hurry, and we were all severely jammed, while from somewhere underneath came the wails of a deserted dog.

We had not meant to see the side shows; but when we came in sight of the picture of the Kentucky giantess, we noticed that Mrs. Kew looked at it wistfully, and we immediately asked if she cared anything about going to see the wonder, whereupon she confessed that she never heard of such a thing as a woman's weighing six hundred and fifty pounds; so we all three went in.

There were only two or three persons inside the tent, beside a little boy who played the hand-organ.

The Kentucky giantess sat in two chairs on a platform, and there was a large cage of monkeys just beyond, toward which Kate and I went at once.

"Why, she isn't more than two thirds as big as the picture," said Mrs. Kew, in a regretful whisper; "but I guess she's big enough; doesn't she look discouraged, poor creatur'?"

Kate and I felt ashamed of ourselves for being there.

No matter if she had consented to be carried round for a show, it must have been horrible to be stared at and joked about day after day; and we gravely looked at the monkeys, and in a few minutes turned to see if Mrs. Kew were not ready to come away, when, to our surprise, we saw that she was talking to the giantess with great interest, and we went nearer.

"I thought your face looked natural the minute I set foot inside the door," said Mrs. Kew; "but you've altered some since I saw you, and I couldn't place you till I heard you speak.

Why, you used to be spare.

I

am amazed, Marilly!

Where are your folks?"

"I don't wonder you are surprised," said the giantess.

"I was a good ways from this when you knew me, wasn't I?

But father, he ran through with every cent he had before he died, and 'he' took to drink, and it killed him after a while; and then I begun to grow worse and worse, till I couldn't do nothing to earn a dollar, and everybody was a-coming to see me, till at last I used to ask 'em ten cents apiece, and I scratched along somehow till this man came round and heard of me; and he offered me my keep and good pay to go along with him.

He had another giantess before me, but she had begun to fall away considerable, so he paid her off and let her go.

This other giantess was an awful expense to him, she was such an eater; now, I don't have no great of an appetite"--this was said plaintively--"and he's raised my pay since I've been with him because we did so well."

"Have you been living in Kentucky long?"

asked Mrs. Kew.

"I saw it on the picture outside."

"No," said the giantess; "that was a picture the man bought cheap from another show that broke up last year.

It says six hundred and fifty pounds, but I don't weigh more than four hundred.

I haven't been weighed for some time past.

Between you and me, I don't weigh as much as that, but you mustn't mention it, for it would spoil my reputation and might hinder my getting another engagement."

Then they shook hands in a way that meant a great deal, and when Kate and I said good-afternoon, the giantess looked at us gratefully, and said: "I'm very much obliged to you for coming in, young ladies."

"Walk in!

Walk in!"

the man was shouting as we came away.

"Walk in and see the wonder of the world, ladies and gentlemen--the largest woman ever seen in America--the great Kentucky giantess!"

NEW YORK TO NEWPORT.

_A Trip of Trials_.

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

The Jane Moseley was a disappointment--most Janes are.

If they had called her Samuel, no doubt she would have behaved better; but they called her Jane, and the natural consequences of our mistakes cannot be averted from ourselves or others.

A band was playing wild strains of welcome as we approached.

Come and sail with us, it said--it is summer, and the days are long.

Care is of the land--here the waves flow, and the winds blow, and captain smiles, and stewardess beguiles, and all is music, music, music.

How the wild, exultant strains rose and fell--but everything rose and fell on that boat, as we found out afterward.

Just here a spirit of justice falls on me, like the gentle dew from heaven, and forces me to admit that it rained like a young deluge; that it had been raining for two days, and the bosom of the deep was heaving with responsive sympathy; as what bosom would not on which so many tears had been shed?

Perhaps responsive sympathy was the secret of the Jane Moseley's behavior; but I would her heart had been less tender.

Then, too, the passengers were few; and of course as we had to divide the roll and tumble between us, there was a great deal for each one.

There was a Pretty Girl, and she had a sister who was not pretty.

It seemed to me that even the sad sea waves were kinder to the Pretty Girl, such is the influence of youth and beauty.

There were various men--heavy swells I should call some of them, only that that would be slang; but heavy swells were the order of the day.

Then there was a benevolent old lady who believed in everything--in the music, and the Jane Moseley, and the long days, and the summer.

There was another old lady of restless mind, who evidently believed in nothing, hoped for nothing, expected nothing.

She tried all the lounges and all the corners, and found each one a separate disappointment.

There was a fat, fair one, of friendly face, and beside her her grim guardian, a man so thin that you at once cast him for the part of Starveling in this Midsummer Day's Dream of Delusion.

We put out from shore--quite out of sight of shore, in short--and then the perfidious music ceased.

To the people on land it had sung, "Come and make merry with us," but from us, trying in vain to make merry, it withheld its deceitful inspiration.

For the exceeding weight of sorrow that presently settled down upon us it had no balm.

When you are on a pleasure trip it is unpleasant to be miserable; so I tried hard to shake off the mild melancholy that began to steal over me.

I said to myself, I will not affront the great deep with my personal woes.

I am but a woman, yet perhaps on this so great occasion magnanimity of soul will be possible even to me.

I will consider my neighbors and be wise.

At one end of the long saloon a banquet-board was spread.

Its hospitality was, like the other attractions of the Jane Moseley, a perfidious pageant.

Nobody sought its soup or claimed its clams.

One or two sad-eyed young men made their way in that direction from time to time--after their sea-legs, perhaps.

From their gait when they came back I inferred they did not find them.

The human nature in the saloon became a weariness to me.

Even the gentle gambols of the dog Thaddeus, a sportive and spotted pointer in whom I had been interested, failed to soothe my perturbed spirits.

De Quincey speaks somewhere of "the awful solitariness of every human soul."

No wonder, then, that I should be solitary among the festive few on board the Jane Moseley--no wonder I felt myself darkly, deeply, desperately blue.

I thought I would go on deck.

I clung to my companion with an ardor which would have been flattering had it been voluntary.

My faltering steps were guided to a seat just within the guards.

I sat there thinking that I had never nursed a dear gazelle, so I could not be quite sure whether it would have died or not, but I thought it would.

I mused on the changing fortunes of this unsteady world, and the ingratitude of man.

I thought it would be easier going to the Promised Land if Jordan did not roll between.

Rolling had long ceased to be a pleasant figure of speech with me.

How frail are all things here below, how false, and yet how fair!

My mind is naturally picturesque.

In the midst of my sadness the force of nature compelled me to grope after an illustration.

I could only think that my own foothold was frail, that the Jane Moseley was false, that the Pretty Girl was fair.

A dizziness of brain resulted from this rhetorical effort.

I

silently confided my sorrows to the sympathizing bosom of the sea.

I was soothed by the kindred melancholy of the sad sea waves.

If the size of the waves were remarkable, other sighs abounded also, and other things waved--many of them.

True to my purpose of studying my fellow-beings, and learning wisdom by observation, I surveyed the Pretty Girl and her sister, who had by that time come on deck.

They were surrounded by a group of audacious male creatures, who surrounded most on the side where the Pretty Girl sat.

She did not look feeble.

She was like the red, red rose.

It was a conundrum to me why so much greater anxiety should be bestowed upon her health than upon her sister's. It needed some moral reflection to make it out; but I concluded that pretty girls were, by some law of nature, more subject to sea-sickness than plain ones; therefore, all these careful cares were quite in order.

I saw the two old ladies--the benevolent one who had believed so implicitly in all things, but over whose benign visage doubt had now begun to settle like a cloud; and the other, who had hoped nothing from the first, and therefore over whom no disappointment could prevail--and, seeing, I mildly wondered whether, indeed, 'twere better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all.

My thoughts grew solemn.

The green shores beyond the swelling flood seemed farther off than ever.

The Jane Moseley had promised to land us at Newport pier at seven o'clock.

It was already half-past seven; oh, perfidious Jane!

Darkness had settled upon the face of the deep.

We went inside.

The sad-eyed young men had evidently been hunting for their sea-legs again, in the neighborhood of the banqueting-table, where nobody banqueted.

Failing to find the secret of correct locomotion, they had laid themselves down to sleep, but in that sleep at sea what dreams did come, and how noisy they were!

The dog Thaddeus walked by dejectedly, sniffing at the ghost of some half-forgotten joy.

At last there rose a cry--Newport!

The sleepers started to their feet.

I started to mine, but I discreetly and quietly sat down again.

Was it Newport, at last?

Not at all.

The harbor lights were gleaming from afar; and the cry was of the bandmaster shouting to his emissaries, arousing fiddle and flute and bassoon to their deceitful duty.

They had played us out of port--they would play us in again.

They had promised us that all should go merry as a marriage-bell, and--I would not be understood to complain, but it had been a sad occasion.

Now the deceitful strains rose and fell again upon the salt sea wind.

The many lights glowed and twinkled from the near shore.

We are all at play, come and play with us, screamed the soft waltz music.

It is summer, and the days are long, and trouble is not, and care is banished.

If the waves sigh, it is with bliss.

Our voyage is ended.

It is sad that you did not sail with us, but we will invite you again to-morrow, and the band shall play, and the crowd be gay, and airs beguile, and blue skies smile, and all shall be music, music, music.

But I have sailed with you, on a summer day, bland master of a faithless band; and I know how soon your pipes are dumb--I know the tricks and manners of the clouds and the wind, and the swelling sea, and Jane Moseley, the perfidious.

I must, after all, have strong local attachments, for when at last the time came to land I left the ship with lingering reluctance.

My feet seemed fastened to the deck where I had made my brief home on the much rolling deep.

I had grown used to pain and resigned to fate.

I walked the plank unsteadily.

I stood on shore amid the rain and the mist.

A

hackman preyed upon me.

I was put into an ancient ark and trundled on through the queer, irresolute, contradictory old streets, beside the lovely bay, all aglow with the lighted yachts, as a Southern swamp is with fire-flies.

A torchlight procession met and escorted me.

To this hour I am at a loss to know whether this attention was a delicate tribute on the part of the city of Newport to a distinguished guest, or a parting attention from the company who sail the Jane Moseley, and advertise in the _Tribune_--a final subterfuge to persuade a tortured passenger, by means of this transitory glory, that the sail upon a summer sea had been a pleasure trip.

--_Letter to New York Tribune.

_ CHAPTER VIII. HUMOROUS POEMS.