OMEBODY S
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS.
 
 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS 
 
 ROSE TERRY COOKE 
 
 FOURTH EDITION 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 
 i8? 4
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1881, 
 Bv JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Stereotyped and Printed by Rand, Avery, &> Co., 
 Boston.
 
 fS 
 
 I OFFER 
 
 THIS BOOK OF NEW-ENGLAND PROSE 
 
 &o fftg jFn'enU 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 
 
 MASTER AND MAKER 
 OF NEW-ENGLAND POETRY.
 
 PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 OF the pieces contained in this volume, Squire Paine'a 
 Conversion, Miss Beulah's Bonnet, Cal Culver "and the 
 Devil, Amandar, Poll Jennings's Hair, and Mrs. Flint's 
 Experience, are reprinted from "Harpers' Magazine." 
 
 The remainder are reprinted from " The Atlantic 
 Monthly," " The Galaxy," and " Putnam's Monthly.''
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 EBEN JACKSON 1 
 
 1 Miss LUCINI>A 30 
 
 DELY'S Cow 74 
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION <& 
 
 jMiss BEULAH'S BONNET 126 
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL 153 
 
 AMANDAR 193 
 
 > POLLY MAKINEK, TAILOKESS 229 
 
 UNCLE JOSH 203 
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR 286 
 
 j FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY WITH PROVIDENCE . 320 
 
 ,MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE 368
 
 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 
 
 " Fear no more the heat o* the sun, 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 Thou thine earthly task hast done." 
 
 THE large tropical moon rose in full majesty over the 
 Gulf of Mexico, that beneath it rolled a weltering 
 surge of silver, which broke upon the level sand of the 
 beach with a low, sullen roar, prophetic of storms to 
 come. To-night a south wind was heavily blowing 
 over gulf and prairie, laden with salt odors of weed 
 and grass, now and then crossed by a strain of such 
 perfume as only tropic breezes know, a breath of 
 heavy, passionate sweetness from orange-groves and 
 rose-gardens, mixed with the miasmatic sighs of rank 
 forests, and mile on mile of tangled cane-brake, where 
 jewel-tinted snakes glitter, and emit their own sickly- 
 sweet odor, and the deep blue bells of luxuriant vines 
 wave from their dusky censers steams of poisonous 
 incense. 
 
 I endured the influence of all this as long as I dared, 
 and then turned my pony's head from the beach, and, 
 loitering through the city's hot streets, touched him 
 into a gallop as the prairie opened before us, and fol- 
 
 1
 
 2 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 lowed the preternatural, colossal shadow of horse and 
 man cast by the moon across the dry dull grass and 
 bitter yellow chamomile growth of the sand, till I 
 stopped at the office-door of the hospital, when, con- 
 signing my horse to a servant, I commenced my night- 
 ly round of the wards. 
 
 There were but few patients just now ; for the fever 
 had not yet made its appearance, and until within a 
 week the unwontedly clear and cool atmosphere had 
 done the work of the physician. Most of the sick 
 were doing well enough without me : some few needed 
 and received attention ; and, these disposed of, I be- 
 took myself to the last bed in one of the long wards, 
 quite apart from the others, which was occupied by a 
 sailor, a man originally from New England, whose 
 hard life, and continual exposure to all climates and 
 weathers, had at length resulted in slow tubercular 
 consumption. 
 
 It was one of the rare cases of this disease not su- 
 pervening upon an original strumous diathesis, and, 
 had it been properly cared for in the beginning, might 
 have been cured. Now there was no hope ; but, the 
 case being a peculiar and interesting one, I kept a 
 faithful record of its symptoms and progress for publi- 
 cation. Besides, I liked the man. Rugged and hardy 
 ^,y nature, it was curious to see what strange effects a 
 long, wasting, and painful disease produced upon him. 
 At first he could not be persuaded to be quiet. The 
 muscular energies were still unaffected ; and, with con- 
 tinual hemorrhage from the lungs, he could not under- 
 stand that work or exercise could hurt him. But, as 
 the disease gained ground, its characteristic languor 
 unstrung his force ; the hard and sinewy limbs became
 
 EP,EN JACKSON. 3 
 
 attenuated and relaxed ; his breath labored ; a hectic 
 fever burnt in his veins, like light flame, every after- 
 noon, and subsided into chilly languor toward morning ; 
 profuse night-sweats increased the weakness, and aa 
 he grew feebler, offering of course less resistance to 
 the febrile symptoms, they were exacerbated, till at 
 times a slight delirium showed itself : and so, without 
 haste or delay, he " made for port," as he said. 
 
 His name was Eben Jackson, and the homely appel- 
 lation was no way belied by his aspect. He never 
 could have been handsome : and now fifteen years of 
 rough-and-tumble life had left their stains and scars on 
 his weather-beaten visage, whose only notable features 
 were the deep-set eyes, retreating under shaggy brows, 
 that looked one through and through with the keen 
 glance of honest instinct ; while a light tattooing of red 
 and blue on either cheek-bone added an element of 
 the grotesque to his homeliness. He was a natural 
 and simple man, with whom conventionalities and the 
 world's scale .went for nothing, without vanity, as 
 without guile. But it is best to let him speak for him- 
 self. I found him that night very feverish, yet not 
 wild at all. 
 
 "Hullo, doctor!" said he, "I'm all afire! I've 
 ben thinkin' about my old mother's humstead up to. 
 Simsbury, and the great big well to the back-door ; 
 how I used to tilt that 'are sweep up, of a hot day, till 
 the bucket went 'way down to the bottom, and come up 
 drippin' over, such cold, clear water ! I swear I'd 
 give all Madagascar for a drink on't ! " 
 
 I called the nurse to bring me a small basket of 
 oranges I had sent out in the morning expressly for 
 this patient : and, squeezing the juice from one of them
 
 4 SOMEBODY S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 on a little bit of ice, I held it to his lips, and he drank 
 eagerly. 
 
 " That's better for you than water, Jackson," said I. 
 
 "I dunno but 'tis, doctor; I dunno but us ; but 
 there a'n't nothin' goes to the spot like that Simsbury 
 water. You ha'n't never v'yaged to them parts, have 
 ye?" 
 
 " Bless you, yes, man ! I was born and brought up 
 in Hartford, just over the mountain ; and I've been to 
 Simsbury, fishing, many a time." 
 
 " Good Lord ! You don't never desert a feller, ef 
 the ship is a-going down ! " fervently ejaculated Eben, 
 looking up, as he did sometimes hi his brief delirium, 
 when he said the Lord's Prayer, and thought his 
 mother held his folded hands. But this was no deliri- 
 ous aspiration. He went on, 
 
 " You see, doctor, I've had somethin' hi the hold a 
 good spell 't I wanted to break bulk on, but I didn't 
 know as I ever was goin' to see a shipmet agin. And 
 now you've jined convoy jist in tune, for Davy Jones's 
 a'n't fur off. Are you calculatin' to go North afore 
 
 " Yes, I mean to go next spring," said I. 
 
 Jackson began to fumble with weak and trembling 
 hands about his throat to undo his shirt-collar, he 
 would not let me help him, and presently, flushed 
 and panting from the effort, he drew out a length of 
 delicate Panama chain fastened rudely together by a 
 link of copper wire, and suspended on it a little, old- 
 fashioned ring of reddish gold, twisted of two wires, 
 and holding a very small dark garnet. Jackson looked 
 at it as I have seen many a Catholic look at his reli- 
 quary in mortal sickness.
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 5 
 
 "Well," said he, "I've carried that 'are gimcrack 
 nigh twenty long year round my old scrag ; and, when 
 I'm sunk, I want you to take it off, doctor. Keep it 
 safe till you go to Connecticut, and then some day take 
 a tack over to Simsbury. Don't ye go through the 
 gap, but go 'long out on the turnpike over the moun- 
 tain, and down t'other side to Avon, and so nor'ard 
 till jist arter you git into Simsbury town you see an 
 old red house 'longside o' the mountain, with a big 
 ellum-tree afore the door, and a stone well to the side 
 on't. Go 'long in, and ask for Hetty Buel, and give 
 her that 'are thing, and tell her where you got it, and 
 that I ha'n't never forgot to wish her well allus, though 
 I couldn't write to her." 
 
 There was Eben Jackson's romance. It piqued my 
 curiosity. The poor fellow was wakeful and restless : 
 I knew he would not sleep if I left him, and I encour- 
 aged him to go on talking. 
 
 " I will, Jackson, I promise you. But wouldn't it 
 be better for you to tell me something about where you 
 have been all these long years ? Your friends will like 
 to know." 
 
 His eye brightened : he was, like all the rest of us, 
 pleased with any interest taken in him and his. He 
 turned over on his pillow, and I lifted htm into a half- 
 sitting position. 
 
 "That's ship-shape, doctor! I don't know but 
 what I had oughter spin a yarn for you : I'm kinder on 
 a watch to-night ; and Hetty won't never know what 
 I did do, if I don't send home the log 'long T the 
 cargo. 
 
 " Well, you see, I was born in them parts, down to 
 Canton, where father belonged ; but mother was a
 
 6 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Simsbury woman ; and afore I was long- togged, father 
 he moved onter the old humstead up to Simsbury, 
 when gran'ther Peck died. Our farm was right 'long- 
 side o' Miss Buel's. You'll see't when you go 'here, 
 but there a'n't nobody there now. Mother died afore 
 I come away, and lies safe to the leeward o' Simsbury 
 meetin'-house. Father he got a stroke a spell back, 
 and he couldn't farm it : so he sold out, and went 
 "West, to Parmely Larkum's, my sister's, to live. But 
 I guess the house is there, and that old well. How 
 etarnal hot it's growin' ! Doctor, give me a drink. 
 
 "Well, as I was tellin', I lived there next to Miss 
 Bud's ; and Hetty 'n' I went to deestrict school to- 
 gether, up to the cross-roads. "We used to hev' ovens 
 in the sand together, and roast apples an' ears of corn 
 in 'em ; and we used to build cubby-houses, and fix- 'em 
 out with broken chiny and posies. I swan 't makes 
 me feel curus when I think what children du contrive 
 to get pleased, and likewise riled about. One day I 
 rec'lect Hetty'd stepped onto my biggest clam-shell and 
 broke it, and I up and hit her a switch right across her 
 pretty lips. Now, you'd 'a' thought she would cry and 
 run, for she wasn't bigger than a baby, much ; but she 
 jest come up and put her little fat arms round my neck, 
 and says, 
 
 " ' I'm so sorry, Eben ! ' 
 
 " And that's Hetty Buel ! I declare I was beat, and 
 I hav'n't never got over bein' beat about that. So we 
 growed up together, always out in the ^ oods between 
 schools, huntin' checkerberries, and young winter- 
 greens, and prince's-piney, and huckleberries, and 
 saxifrax, and birch, and all them woodsy things that 
 children hanker arter ; and by-m-by we got to goin' to
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 7 
 
 the 'cademy. And when Hetty was seventeen she went 
 in to Hartford to her aunt Smith's for a spell, to do 
 chores, and get a little seminary larnin', and I went to 
 work on the farm ; and when she come home, two year 
 arter, she was growed to be a young woman, and, 
 though I was five year older'n her, I was as sheepish 
 a land-lubber as ever got stuck a-goin' to the mast- 
 head, whenever I sighted her. 
 
 " She wasn't very much for looks, neither. She 
 had black eyes, and she was pretty behaved ; but she 
 wasn't no gret for beauty, anyhow, only I thought the 
 world of her, and so did her old grandmother ; for 
 her mother died when she wa'n't but two year old, and 
 she lived to old Miss Bud's 'cause her father had mar- 
 ried agin away down to Jersey. 
 
 "Arter a spell I got over bein' so mighty sheepish 
 about Hetty : her ways was too kindly for me to keep 
 on that tack. We took to goin' to singin' -school to- 
 gether ; then I always come home from quiltin' -parties 
 and confereuce-meetin's with her, because 'twas handy, 
 bein' right next door : and so it come about that I 
 begun to think of settlin' down for life, and that was 
 the start of all my troubles. I couldn't take the home 
 farm ; for 'twas such poor land, father could only jest 
 make a live out on't for him and me. Most of it was 
 pastur', gravelly land, full of mulleins and stones : 
 the rest was principally woodsy, not hickory, nor oak 
 neither, but hemlock and white-birches, that a'n't of 
 no account for timber nor firing 'lougside of the other 
 trees. There was a little strip of a medder-lot, and 
 an orchard up on the mountain, where we used to make 
 redstreak cider that beat the Dutch ; but we hadn't 
 pastur' land enough to keep more'n two cows, and
 
 8 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 altogether I knew 'twasn't any use to think of bringin* 
 a family on to't. So I wrote to Parmely's husband, 
 out West, to know about government lands, and what 
 I could do ef I was to move out there and take an 
 allotment ; and, gettin' an answer every way favorable, 
 I posted over to Miss Buel's, one night arter milkin', 
 to tell Hetty. She was settin' on the south door-step, 
 braidin' palm-leaf ; and her grandmother was knittin' 
 in her old chair, a little back by the window. Some- 
 times, a-lyin' here on my back, with my head full o' 
 sounds, and the hot wind and the salt sea-smell 
 a-comin' in through the winders, and the poor fellers 
 groanin' overhead, I get clear away back to that night, 
 so cool and sweet, the air full of treely smells, dead 
 leaves like, and white- blows in the ma'sh below, and 
 wood-robins singin' clear fine whistles in the woods, 
 and the big sweet-brier by the winder all a-flowered 
 out, and the drippin' little beads of dew on the clover- 
 heads, and the tinklin' sound of the mill-dam down 
 to Squire Turner's mill. 
 
 " I set down by Hetty ; and, the old woman bein' as 
 deaf as a post, it was as good as if I'd been there 
 alone. So I mustered up my courage, that was sinkin' 
 down to my boots, and told Hetty my plans, and asked 
 her to go along. She never said nothm' for a minute. 
 She flushed all up as red as a. rose, and I see her little 
 fingers was shakin', and her eye- winkers shiny and 
 wet ; but she spoke presently, and said, 
 
 "'I can't, Eben.' 
 
 " I was shot betwixt wind and water then, I tell you, 
 doctor ! 'Twa'n't much to be said. But I've allers 
 noticed afloat that real dangersome squalls comes on 
 still : there's a dumb kind of a time in the air ; the
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 9 
 
 storm seems to be waitin', and holdin' its breath, and 
 then a little low whisper of wind, a cat's-paw we 
 call't, and then you get it real 'arnest. I'd rather 
 she'd have taken on, and cried, and scolded, than have 
 said so still, ' I can't, Eben.' 
 
 " ' Why not, Hetty? ' says I. 
 
 " ' I ought not to leave grandmother,' said she. 
 
 " I declare, I hadn't thought o' that ! Miss Buel 
 was a real infirm woman, without kith nor kin, ex- 
 ceptin' Hetty ; for Jason Buel he'd died down to Jer- 
 sey long before : and she hadn't means. Hetty nigh 
 about kept 'em both since- Miss Buel had grown too 
 rheumatic to make cheese, and see to the hens and 
 cows, as she used to. They didn't keep any men-folks 
 now, nor but one cow : Hetty milked her, and drove 
 her to pastur', and fed the chickens, and braided hats, 
 and did chores. The farm was all sold off. 'Twas 
 poor land, and didn't fetch much ; but what there was 
 went to keep 'em in vittles and firm'. I guess Hetty 
 'arut most of what they lived on, arter all. 
 
 " 'Well,' says I, after a spell of thinkin', ' can't she 
 go along too, Hetty ? ' 
 
 " 'Oh, no, Eben ! she's too old. She never could 
 get there, and she never could live there. She saya 
 very often she wouldn't leave Simsbury for gold un- 
 told. She was born here, and she's bound to die here. 
 I know she wouldn't go.' 
 
 "'Ask her, Hetty.' 
 
 " ' No, it wouldn't be any use. It would only fret her 
 always to think I staid at home for her ; and you know 
 she can't do without me.' 
 
 " ' No more can't I,' says I. ' Do you love her the 
 best, Hetty?'
 
 10 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "I was kinder sorry I'd said that ; for she grew real 
 white, and I could see by her throat she was chokin' to 
 keep down somethin'. Finally she said, 
 
 " ' That isn't for me to say, Eben. If it was right 
 for me to go with you, I should be glad to ; but you 
 know I can't leave grandmother.' 
 
 " Well, doctor, I couldn't say no more. I got up to 
 go. Hetty put down her work, and walked to the big 
 ellum by the gate with me. I was most too full to 
 peak ; but I catched her up, and kissed her soft little 
 remblin' lips, and her pretty eyes ; and then I set off 
 cr home as if I was goin' to be hanged. 
 
 " Young folks is obstreperous, doctor. I've been a 
 long spell away from Hetty, and I don't know as I 
 should take on so now. That night I never slept. I 
 lay kickin' and tumblin' all night ; and before mornin' 
 I'd resolved to quit Simsbury, and go seek my fortin' 
 beyond seas, hopin' to come back to Hetty, arter all, 
 with riches to take care on her right there in the old 
 place. You'd 'a' thought I might have had some kind 
 of feelin' for my old father, after seein' Hetty's faith- 
 ful ways. But I was a man, and she was a woman ; 
 and I take it them is two different kind o' craft. Men 
 is allers for themselves first, an' devil take the hind- 
 most ; but women lives in other folks's lives, and ache, 
 and work, and endure all sorts of stress o' weather 
 afore they'll quit the ship that's got crew and pas- 
 sengers aboard. 
 
 " I never said nothin' to father, I couldn't 'a' 
 stood no jawin', but I made up my kil, an' next 
 night slung it over my shoulder, and tramped off. I 
 couldn't have gone without biddin' Hetty good-by : so 
 I stopped there, and told her what I was up to, and 
 charged her to tell father.
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 11 
 
 " She tried her best to keep me to home ; but I was 
 sot in my way : so, when she found that out, she run 
 up stairs an' got a little Bible, and made me promise 
 I'd read it sometimes ; and then she pulled that 'are 
 little ring off her finger and give it to me to keep. 
 
 " 'Eben,' says she, 'I wish you wH always, and 1 
 sha'n't never forget you.' 
 
 "And then she put up her face to me, as innocent 
 as a baby, to kiss me good-by. I see she choked up 
 when I said the word, though, and I said, kinder 
 laughin', 
 
 " ' I hope you'lf get a better husband than me, 
 Hetty.' 
 
 " I swear, she give me a look like the judgment- 
 day, and, stoopin' down, she pressed her lips onto that 
 ring, and says she, 'That is my weddin'-ring, Eben,' 
 and goes into the house as still and white as a ghost ; 
 and I never see her again, nor never shall. O doc- 
 tor, give me a drink ! ' ' 
 
 I lifted the poor fellow, fevered and gasping, to an 
 easier position, and wet his hot lips with fresh orange- 
 juice. 
 
 " Stop now, Jackson," said I : " you are tired." 
 
 "No, I a'n't, doctor; no, I a'n't. I'm bound to 
 finish now. But, Lord deliver us ! look there ! one 
 of the Devil's own imps, I b'lieve 1 " 
 
 I looked on the little deal stand where I had set the 
 candle, and there stood one of the quaint, evil-look- 
 ing insects that infest the island, a praying Mantis. 
 Raised up against the candle, with its fore-legs in the 
 attitude of supplication that gives it the name, its long 
 green body relieved on the white stearine, it was eying 
 Jackson, with its head turned first on one side, and
 
 12 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 then on the other, in the most elfish and preternatural 
 way. Presently it moved upward, stuck one of its 
 fore-legs cautiously into the flame, burnt it of course, 
 and drew it back, eyed it, first from one angle, then 
 from another, with deliberate investigation, and at 
 length conveyed the injured member to its mouth, and 
 sucked it steadily, resuming its stare of blank scrutiny 
 at my patient, who did not at all fancy the interest 
 taken in him. 
 
 I could not help laughing at the strange manoeuvres 
 of the creature, familiar as I was with them. 
 
 " It is only one of our Texan bugs, Jackson," said 
 I : " it is harmless enough." 
 
 "It's got a pesky look, though, doctor. I thought 
 I'd seen enough curus creturs in the Marquesas, but 
 that beats all." 
 
 Seeing the insect really irritated and annoyed him, 
 I put it out of the window, and turned the blinds 
 closely, to prevent its re-entrance ; and he went on 
 with his story : 
 
 "So I tramped it to Hartford that night, got a 
 lodgin' with a first-cousin I had there, worked my pass- 
 age to Boston in a coaster, and, after hangin' about 
 Long Wharf day in and day out for a week, I was 
 driv' to ship myself aboard of a whaler, ' The Lowisy 
 Miles,' Twist, cap'en ; and I writ from there to Hetty, 
 so't she could know my bearin's so fur, and tell my 
 tether. 
 
 "It would take a week, doctor, to tell you what a 
 rough-an'-tumble tune I had on that 'are whaler. 
 There's a feller's writ a book about v'yagin' afore the 
 mast that'll give ye an idee on't. He had an eddication 
 eo't he could set it off, and I fell foul of his book down
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 13 
 
 to Valparaiso more'n a year back, and I swear I wanted 
 to shake hands with him. I heerd he was gone ashore 
 somewheres down to Boston, and he'd cast anchor for 
 good. But I tell you he's a brick, and what he said's 
 gospel truth. I thought I'd got to hell afore my time 
 when we see blue water. I didn't have no peace, ex- 
 ceptin' tunes when I was to the top, lookin' out for 
 spouters ; then I'd get nigh about into the clouds that 
 was allers a-hangin' down close to the sea mornin' and 
 night, all kinds of colors, red an' purple an' white ; 
 and, 'stead of thinkin' o' whales, I'd get my head full 
 o' Simsbury, and get a precious knock with the butt- 
 end of a handspike when I come down, 'cause I'd 
 never sighted a whale till arter they see'd it on deck. 
 
 " We was bound to the South Seas after sperm 
 whales ; but we was eight months gettin' there, and we 
 took sech as we could find on the way. The cap'en 
 he scooted round into one port an' another arter his 
 own business, down to Caraccas, into Rio; and 
 when we'd rounded the Horn, and was nigh about dead 
 of cold an' short rations, and hadn't killed but three 
 whales, we put into Valparaiso to get vittled, and there 
 I laid hold o' this little trinket of a chain, and spliced 
 Hetty's ring on to't, lest I should be stranded some- 
 wheres, and get rid of it onawares. 
 
 "We cruised about in them seas a good year or 
 more, with poor luck, and the cap'en growin' more and 
 more outrageous continually. Them waters aren't 
 like the Gulf, doctor, nor like the Northern Ocean, 
 nohow. There a'n't no choppin' seas there, but a great, 
 long, everlastin', lazy swell, that goes rollin' and fallin* 
 away, like the toll of a big bell, in endless blue rollers. 
 And the trades blow through the sails like singin', as
 
 14 SOMEBODY'S KEIGHBOES. 
 
 warm and soft as if they Mowed right out o' sunshiny 
 gardens ; and the sky's as blue as summer all the time, 
 only jest round the dip on't there's allers a hull fleet o' 
 hazy, round- topped clouds, so thin you can see the 
 moon rise through 'em ; and the waves go ripplin' off 
 the cut-water as peaceful as a mill-pond, day and 
 night. Squalls is sca'ce some times o' the year ; but, 
 when there is one, I tell you a feller hears thunder. 
 The clouds settle right down onto the masthead, black 
 and thick, like the settlin's of an ink-bottle ; the light- 
 nin' hisses, an' cuts fore and aft ; and corposants come 
 flightin' down onto the boom or the top, gret balls o' 
 light ; and the wind roars louder than the seas ; and 
 the rain comes down in spouts (it don't fall fur 
 enough to drop), you'd think heaven and earth was 
 come together, with hell betwixt 'em : and then it'll 
 all clear up as quiet and calm as a Simsbury Sunday, 
 and you wouldn't know it could be squally, if 'twan't 
 for the sail that you hadn't had a chance to furl was 
 drove to ribbons, and here an' there a stout spar 
 snapped like a cornstalk, or the bulwarks stove by a 
 heavy sea. There's queer things to be heerd, too, in 
 them parts, cries to wind'ard like a drowndin' man, 
 and you can't never find him ; noises right under the 
 keel; bells ringin' off the land, like, when you a'n't 
 within five hundred miles of shore ; and curus hails out 
 o' ghost-ships that sails agin' wind an' tide. Strange, 
 strange, I declare for't ! seems as though I heerd my 
 old mother a-singin' Mear now." 
 
 I saw Jackson was getting excited : so I gave him a 
 little soothing draught, and walked away to give the 
 nurse some orders. But he made me promise to return, 
 and hear the story out : so, after half an hour's inves-
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 15 
 
 tigation of the wards, I came back, and found him 
 composed enough to permit his resuming where he had 
 left off. 
 
 " Howsomever, doctor, there wa'n't no smooth 
 sailin' nor fair weather with the cap'en : 'twas always 
 squally in his latitude, and I begun to get mutinous, 
 and think of desartin'. About eighteen months arter 
 we sot sail from Valparaiso, I hadn't done somethin' 
 I'd been ordered, or I'd done it wrong, and Cap'en 
 Twist come on deck, ragin' and roarin', with a hand- 
 spike in his fist, and let fly at my head. I see what 
 was comin', and put my arm up to fend it off; and, 
 gettin' the blow on my fore-arm, it got broke acrost as 
 quick as a wink, and I dropped. So they picked me up, 
 and, havin' a mate aboard who knew some doctorin', 
 I was spliced and bound up, and put under hatches, on 
 the sick-list. I tell you I was dog-tired them days, 
 lyin' in my berth hearin' the rats and mice scuttle 
 round the bulkheads, and skitter over the floor. I 
 couldn't do nothin' ; and finally I bethought myself of 
 Hetty's Bible, and contrived to get it out o' my chist, 
 and when I could get a bit of a glim I'd read it. I'm a 
 master-hand to remember things ; and what I read,. over 
 and over in that 'are dog-hole of a cabin never got 
 clean out of my head, no, nor never will ; and, when 
 the Lord above calls all hands on deck to pass muster, 
 ef I'm ship-shape afore him, it'll be because I follered 
 his signals, and 1'aru't 'em out of that 'are log. But 
 I didn't foller 'em then, nor not for a plaguy long 
 cruise yet. 
 
 " One day, as I laid there, readin' by the light of a 
 bit of tallow-dip- the mate gave me, who should stick 
 his head into the hole he called a cabin, but old Twist !
 
 16 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 He'd got an idee I was shammin' ; and, when he saw 
 me with a book, he cussed and swore and raved, and 
 finally hauled it out o' my hand, and flung it up through 
 the hatchway clean and clear overboard. 
 
 "I tell ye, doctor, if I'd 'a' had a sound arm, he'd 
 'a' gone after it ; but I had to take it out in ratin' at 
 him, and that night my mind was made up : I was 
 bound to desart at the first land. And it come about 
 that a fortnight after my arm had jined, and I could 
 haul shrouds agin, we sighted the Marquesas ; and, bein' 
 near about out o' water, the cap'en laid his course for 
 the nearest land, and by daybreak of the second day 
 we lay to hi a small harbor on the south side of an 
 island where ships wa'n't very prompt to go commonly. 
 But old Twist didn't care for cannibals nor wild beast? 
 when they stood in his way ; and there wasn't but half 
 a cask of water aboard, and that a hog wouldn't 'a' 
 drank, only for the name on't. So we pulled ashore 
 after some, and, findin' a spring near by, was takin' it 
 out, hand over hand, as fast as we could bale it up, 
 when all of a sudden the mate see a bunch of feathers 
 over a little bush near by, and yelled out to run for our 
 lives, the savages was come. 
 
 " Now I had made up my mind to run away from the 
 ship that very day ; and, all the while I'd been baling 
 the water up, I had been tryin' to lay my course so as 
 to get quit of the boat's crew, and be off. But natur' 
 is stronger than a man thinks. When I heerd the mate 
 sing out, and see the men begin to run, I turned and 
 run too, full speed, down to the shore ; but my foot 
 caught in some root or hole, I fell flat down, and, 
 hittin' my head ag'inst a stone near by, I lay as good 
 as dead ; and, when I come to, the boat was gone, and
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 17 
 
 the ship makin' all sail out of harbor, and a crew of 
 wild Indian women were a-lookin' at me as I've seen 
 a set of Simsbury women-folks look at a baboon jn a 
 caravan ; but they treated me better. 
 
 "Findin' I was helpless, for I'd sprained my 
 ankle in the fall, four of 'em picked me up, and car- 
 ried me away to a hut, and tended me like a babv. 
 And when the men, who'd come over to that side of the 
 island 'long with 'em, and gone a-fishin', come back, 
 I was safe enough ; for women are women all the world 
 over, soft-hearted, kindly creturs, that like any thing 
 that's in trouble, 'specially if they can give it a lift 
 out on't. So I was nursed and fed, and finally taken 
 over the ridge of rocks that run acrost the island, to 
 their town of bamboo huts ; and now begun to look 
 about me, for here I was, stranded, as one may say, 
 out o' sight o' land. 
 
 " Ships didn't never touch there, I knew by their 
 ways, their wonderiu', and takin' sights at me. As 
 for Cap'en Twist, he wouldn't come back for his own 
 father, unless he was short o' hands for whalin'. I 
 was in for life, no doubt on't ; and I'd better look at 
 the fairweather side of the thing. The island was as 
 pretty a bit of land as ever lay betwixt sea and sky; 
 full of tall cocoanut-palms, with broad feathery tops, 
 and bunches of brown nuts ; bananas hung in yellow 
 clumps, ready to drop off at a touch ; and big bread- 
 fruit trees stood about everywhere, lookin' as though a 
 punkin-vine had climbed up into 'em, and hung half- 
 ripe punkins off of every bough ; beside lots of other 
 trees that the natives set great store by, and live on 
 the fruit of 'em ; and, flyin' through all, such pretty 
 birds as you never see except in them parts ; but one
 
 18 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 brown thrasher'd beat the whole on 'em singing'. Fact 
 is, they run to feathers : they don't sing none. 
 
 " It was as sightly a country as ever Adam and Eve 
 had to themselves, but it wa'n't home. Howsomever, 
 after a while the savages took to me mightily. I was 
 allers handy with tools, and by good luck I'd come off 
 with two jack-knives and a loose awl in my jacket- 
 pocket: so I could beat 'em all at whittlin'. And I 
 made figgers, on their bows an' pipe-stems, of things 
 they never see, roosters and horses, Miss Buel's old 
 sleigh, and the Albany stage, driver'n' all, and our 
 yoke of oxen a-ploughin', till nothin' would serve 
 them but I should have a house o' my own, and be 
 married to their king's daughter. So I did. 
 
 "Well, doctor, you kinder wonder I forgot Hetty 
 Buel. I didn't forget her, but I knew she wa'n't to 
 be had anyhow. I thought I was in for life ; and 
 Wailua was the prettiest little craft that ever you set 
 eyes on, as straight as a spar, and as kindly as a 
 Christian. And, besides, I had to, or I'd have been 
 killed, and broiled, and eaten, whether or no. And 
 then in that 'are latitude it a'n't just the way 'tis here : 
 you don't work ; you get easy and lazy and sleepy ; 
 somethin' in the air kind of hushes you up ; it makes 
 you sweat to think, and you're too hazy to if it didn't ; 
 and you don't care for nothing much but food and 
 drink. I hadn't no spunk left : so I married her after 
 their fashion, and I liked her well enough ; and she was 
 my wife, after all. 
 
 ' ' I tell ye, doctor, it goes a gret way with men- 
 folks to think any thing's their'n, and nobody else's. 
 But, when I married her, I took the chain with Hetty 
 Buel's ring off my neck, and pit 'em in a shell, and
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 19 
 
 buried the shell under my doorway. I couldn't have 
 Wailua touch that. 
 
 ' ' So there I lived fifteen long year, as it might be, 
 in a kind of a curus dream, doin' nothin' much, only that 
 when I got to know the tongue them savages spoke, 
 little by little I got pretty much the steerin' o' the hull 
 crew, till by-'n'-by some of 'em got jealous, and 
 plotted and planned to kill me, because the king, Wai- 
 lua's father, was gettin' old, and they thought I 
 wanted to be king when he died, and they couldn't 
 stan' that noway. 
 
 "Somehow or other Wailua got word of what was 
 goin' on ; and one night she woke me out of sleep, 
 an' told me I must run for't, and she would hide me 
 safe till things took a turn. So I scratched up the 
 shell with Hetty's ring in't ; and afore morning I was 
 over t'other side of the island, in a kind of a cave 
 overlookin' the sea, near by to a grove of bananas and 
 mammee-apples, and not fur from the harbor where I'd 
 landed, and safe enough, for nobody but Wailua knew 
 the way to't. 
 
 "Well, the sixth day I sot in the porthole of that 
 cave I see a sail in the offing. I declare I thought I 
 should 'a' choked. I catched off my tappa-cloth, and 
 h'isted it on a pole ; but the ship kep' on stiddy out to 
 sea. My heart beat up to my eyes ; but I held on 
 ag'inst hope, and I declare I prayed. Words come to 
 me that I hadn't said since I was a boy to Simsbury, 
 and the Lord he hecrd ; for, as true as the compass, 
 that ship lay to, tacked, put in for the island, and afore 
 night I was aboard of ' The Lysander,' a Salem 
 whaler, with my mouth full of grog and ship-biscuit, 
 and my body in civilized toggery. I own I felt queer
 
 20 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 to go away so, and leave Wailua ; but I knew 'twas 
 gettin' her out of danger, for the old king was just 
 a-goin' to die, and, if ever I'd have gone back, we 
 should both have been murdered. Besides, we didn't 
 always agree : she had to walk straighter than her wild 
 natur' agreed with, because she was my wife ; and we 
 hadn't no children to hold us together ; and I couldn't 
 a' taken her aboard of the whaler if she'd wanted to 
 go. I guess it was best : anyhow, so it was. 
 
 "But this wasn't to be the end of my v'yagin'. 
 ' The Lysander ' foundered just off Valparaiso ; and, 
 though all hands was saved in the boats, when we got 
 to port there wasn't no craft there bound any nearer 
 homeward than an English merchant-ship for Liver- 
 pool by way of Madeira. So I worked a passage to 
 Funchal ; and there I got aboard of a Southampton 
 steamer bound for Cuba, that put in for coal. But, 
 when I come to Havana, I was nigh about tuckered out ; 
 for goin' round the Horn in ' The Lemon,' that 'are 
 English ship, I'd ben on duty in all sorts o' weather ; 
 and I'd lived lazy and warm so long I expect it was too 
 tough for me, and I was pestered with a hard cough, 
 and spit blood, so't I was laid up a long spell in the 
 hospital at Havana. And there I kep' a-thinkin' over 
 Hetty's Bible ; and I b'lieve I studied that 'are chart 
 till I found out the way to port, and made up my log 
 all square for the owner ; for I knowed well enough 
 where I was bound, but I did hanker to get home to 
 Simsbury afore shovin' off. 
 
 ""Well, finally there come into the harbor a Mystic 
 ship that was a-goin' down the Gulf for a New- York 
 owner. I'd known Seth Crane, the cajp'en of her, away 
 back in old Simsbury tunes. He was an Avon boy ;
 
 EBEN JACKSOX. 21 
 
 and when I sighted that vessel's name, as I was crawl- 
 in' along the quay one day, and, seein' she was Con- 
 necticut-built, boarded her, and see Seth, I was old fool 
 enough to cry right out, I was so shaky. And Seth 
 he was about as scart as ef he'd seen the dead, havin' 
 heerd up to Avon, fifteen year ago nearly, that "The 
 Lowisy Miles ' ' had been run down off the Sandwich 
 Islands by a British man-of-war, and all hands lost 
 exceptin' one o' the boys. However, he come to his 
 bearin's after a while, and told me about our folks, and 
 how't Hetty Buel wasn't married, but keepin' deestrict 
 school, and her old grandmother alive yet. 
 
 "Well, I kinder heartened up, and agreed to take 
 passage with Seth. Good Lord, doctor ! what's 
 that?" 
 
 A peculiar and oppressive stillness had settled down 
 on every thing in and out of the hospital while Jackson 
 was going on with his story. I noticed it only as the 
 hush of a tropic midnight ; but as he spoke I heard, 
 apparently out on the prairie, a heavy jarring sound, 
 like repeated blows, drawing nearer and nearer the 
 building. 
 
 Jackson sprung upright on his pillows. The hectic 
 T>assed from either gaunt and sallow cheek, leaving the 
 red-and-blue tattoo marks visible in most ghastly dis- 
 tinctness ; while the sweat poured in drops down his 
 hollow temples. 
 
 The noise drew still nearer. All the patients in the 
 ward awoke, and quitted their beds hastily. The noise 
 was at hand. Blows of great violence and power, 
 and a certain malign rapidity, shook the walls from one 
 end of the hospital to the other, blow upon blow, 
 like the fierce attacks of a catapult, only with no like
 
 22 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 result. The nurse, a German Catholic, fell on his 
 knees, and told his beads, glancing over his shoulder in 
 undisguised horror ; the patients cowered together, 
 groaning and praying ; and I could hear the stir and 
 confusion in the ward below. In less than a minute's 
 space the singular sound passed through the house, and 
 in hollow, jarring echoes died out toward the bay. 
 
 I looked at Eben. His jaw had fallen ; his hands 
 were rigid, and locked together ; his eyes were rolled 
 upward, fixed and glassy. A stream of scarlet blood 
 trickled over his gray beard from the corner of his 
 mouth. He was dead. As I laid him back on the 
 pillow, and turned to restore some quiet to the ward, 
 a Norther came sweeping down the Gulf like a rush of 
 mad spirits, tore up the white crests of the sea and 
 flung them on the beach in thundering surf, burst 
 through the heavy fog that had trailed upon the moon's 
 track and smothered the island in its soft, pestilent 
 brooding, and in one mighty pouring-out of cold, pure 
 ether changed earth and sky from torrid to temperate 
 zone. 
 
 Vainly did I endeavor to calm the terror of my 
 patients, excited still more by the elemental uproar 
 without ; vainly did I harangue them, in the plainest 
 terms to which science is reducible, on atmospheric 
 vibrations, acoustics, reverberations, and volcanic agen- 
 cies : they insisted on some supernatural power having 
 produced the recent fearful sounds. Neither common 
 nor uncommon sense could prevail with them : and 
 when they discovered, by the appearance of the extra 
 nurse I had sent for to perform the last offices for 
 Jackson, that he was dead, a renewed and irrepressible 
 horror attacked them ; and it was broad day beforf
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 23 
 
 composure or stillness was regained in any part of the 
 building except my own rooms, to which I betook 
 myself as soon as possible, and slept till sunrise, too 
 soundly for any mystical visitation whatever to have 
 disturbed my rest. 
 
 The next day, in spite of the brief influence of the 
 Norther, the first case of yellow-fever showed itself 
 in the hospital : before night seven had sickened, and 
 one, already reduced by chronic disease, died. 
 
 I had hoped to bury Jackson decently, in the ceme- 
 tery of the city, where his vexed mortality might rest 
 in peace under the oleanders and china-trees, shut in 
 by the hedge of Cherokee roses that guards the en- 
 closure from the prairie, a living wall of glassy green, 
 strewn with ivory-white buds and blossoms, fair and 
 pure ; but, on applying for a burial-spot, the city au- 
 thorities, panic-stricken cowards that they were, denied 
 me the privilege even of a prairie grave outside the 
 cemetery hedge for the poor fellow. In vain did I 
 represent that he had died of lingering disease, and 
 that nowise contagions : nothing moved them. It was 
 ^,aough that there was yellow-fever in the ward where 
 he d\ed. I was forthwith strictly ordered to have all 
 the dead from the hospital buried en the sand-flats at 
 the east end of the island. 
 
 What a place that is it is scarcely possible to de- 
 scribe, wide and dreary levels of sand some four 
 or five feet lower than the town, and flooded by high 
 tides, the only vegetation a scanty, dingy gray, brittle, 
 crackling growth, bitter sandworts, and the like, 
 over and through which the abominable tawny sand- 
 crabs are constantly executing diabolic waltzes on the 
 tips of their eight legs, vanishing into the ground like
 
 24 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 imps as you approach. Curlews start from behind the 
 loose drifts of sand, and float away with heart-broken 
 cries seaward ; little sandpipers twitter plaintively, 
 running through the weeds ; and great, sulky gray 
 cranes droop their motionless heads over the still salt 
 pools along the shore. 
 
 To this blank desolation I was forced to carry poor 
 Jackson's body, with that of the fever-patient, just at 
 sunset. As the Dutchman who officiated as hearse, 
 sexton, bearer, and procession stuck his spade into 
 the ground, and withdrew it full of crumbling shells 
 and fine sand, the hole it left filled with bitter black 
 ooze. There, sunk in the ooze, covered with the shift- 
 ing sand, bewailed by the wild cries of sea-birds, note- 
 less and alone, I left Eben Jackson, and returned to 
 the mass of pestilence and wretchedness within the 
 hospital walls. 
 
 In the spring I reached home safely. None but the 
 resident on a Southern sandbank can fully appreciate 
 the verdure and bloom of the North. The great elms 
 of my native town were full of tender buds, like a 
 clinging mist in their graceful branches ; earlier trees 
 were decked with little leaves, deep-creased, and sil- 
 very with down ; the wide river in a fluent track of 
 metallic lustre weltered through green meadows that 
 on either hand stretched far and wide ; the rolling land 
 beyond was spread out in pastures, where the cattle 
 luxuriated after the winter's stalling ; and on many a 
 slope and plain the patient farmer turned up his heavy 
 sods and clay to moulder in sun and air for seedtime 
 and harvest ; and the beautiful valley that met the 
 horizon on the north and south rolled away eastward 
 and westward to a low blue range of hills that guarded
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 25 
 
 it with granite walls, and bristling spears of hemlock 
 and pine. 
 
 This is not my story ; and, if it were, I do not know 
 that I should detail my home-coming. It is enough to 
 say, that I came, after a five-years' absence, and found 
 all that I had left nearly as I had left it. How few 
 can say as much ! 
 
 Various duties and some business arrangements kept 
 me at work for six or seven weeks, and it was June 
 before I could fulfil my promise to Eben Jackson. I 
 took the venerable old horse and chaise that had car- 
 ried my father on his rounds for years, and made the 
 best of my way out toward Simsbury. I was alone, 
 of course : even cousin Lizzy, charming as five years 
 had made the little girl of thirteen whom I had left 
 behind on quitting home, was not invited to share my 
 drive : there was something too serious in the errand 
 to endure the presence of a gay young lady. But I 
 was not lonely. The drive up Talcott Mountain, under 
 the rude portcullis of the toll-gate, through fragrant 
 woods, by trickling brooks, past huge bowlders that 
 scarce a wild vine dare cling to with its feeble, deli- 
 cate tendrils, is all exquisite, and full of living repose ; 
 and turning to descend the mountain, just where a 
 brook drops headlong with clattering leap into a steep 
 black ravine, and comes out over a tiny green meadow, 
 sliding past great granite rocks, and bending the grass- 
 blades to a shining track, you see suddenly at your feet 
 the beautiful mountain valley of the Farmington River, 
 trending away in hill after hill, rough granite ledges 
 crowned with cedar and pine, deep ravines full of 
 heaped rocks, and here and there the formal white 
 rows of a manufacturing village, where Kiihleborn is
 
 26 SOMEBODY S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 captored, and forced to turn water-wheels, and Undine 
 picks cotton, or grinds hardware, dammed into utility. 
 
 Into this valley I plunged ; and, inquiring my way of 
 many a prim farmer's wife and white-headed school- 
 boy, I edged my way northward under the mountain 
 side, and just before noon found myself beneath the 
 "great ellum," where, nearly twenty years ago, Eben 
 Jackson and Hetty Buel had said " good-by." 
 
 I tied my horse to the fence, and walked up the 
 worn footpath to the door. Apparently no one was at 
 home. Under this impression I knocked vehemently, 
 by way of making sure ; and a weak, cracked voice at 
 length answered, " Come in ! " There, by the window, 
 perhaps the same where she sat so long before, 
 crouched in an old chair covered with calico, her bent 
 fingers striving with mechanical motion to knit a coarse 
 stocking, sat old Mrs. Buel. Age had worn to the 
 extreme of attenuation a face that must always have 
 been hard-featured ; and a few locks of snow-white 
 nair straying from under the bandanna handkerchief 
 of bright red and orange that was tied over her cap 
 and under her chin, added to the old-world expression 
 of her whole figure. She was very deaf : scarcely 
 could I make her comprehend that I wanted to see her 
 grand-daughter ; at last she understood, and asked me 
 to sit down till Hetty should come from school; and 
 before long, a tall, thin figure opened the gate, and 
 came slowly up the path. 
 
 I had a good opportunity to observe the constant, 
 dutiful, self-denying Yankee girl, girl no longer, now 
 that twenty years of unrewarded patience had lined 
 her face with unmistakable graving. But I could not 
 agree with Eben's statement that she was not pretty.
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 27 
 
 She must have been so in her youth : even now there 
 was beauty in her deep-set and heavily fringed dark 
 eyes, soft, tender, and serious, and in the noble and 
 pensive Greek outline of the brow and nose. Her upper 
 lip and chin were too long to agree well with her little 
 classic head ; but they gave a certain just and pure ex- 
 pression to the whole face, and to the large, thin-lipped 
 mouth, flexible yet firm in its lines. It is true her hair 
 was neither abundant, nor wanting in gleaming threads 
 of gray ; her skin was freckled, sallow, and devoid of 
 varying tint or freshness ; her figure angular and 
 spare ; her hands red with hard work ; and her air at 
 once sad and shy : still Hetty Buel was a very lovely 
 woman in my eyes, though I doubt if Lizzy would 
 have thought so. 
 
 I hardly knew how to approach the painful errand I 
 had come on ; and, with true masculine awkwardness, 
 I cut the matter short by drawing out from my pocket- 
 book the Panama chain and ring, and placing them in 
 her hands. Well as I thought I knew the New-Eng- 
 land character, I was not prepared for so quiet a 
 reception of this token as she gave it. With a steady 
 hand she untwisted the wire fastening of the chain, 
 slipped the ring off, and, bending her head, placed it 
 reverently on the ring-finger of her left hand, brief 
 but potent ceremony, and over without preface or 
 comment, but over for all tune. 
 
 Still holding the chain, she offered me a chair, and 
 sat down herself, a little paler, a little more grave, 
 than on entering. 
 
 "Will you tell me how and where he died, sir?" 
 said she, evidently having long considered the fact 
 in her heart as a fact ; probably having heard Seth 
 Crane's story of the loss of " The Louisa Miles."
 
 28 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 I detailed my patient's tale as briefly and sympathet- 
 ically as I knew how. The episode of Wailua caused 
 a little flushing of lip and cheek, a little twisting of the 
 ring, as if it were not to be worn after all ; but as I 
 told of his sacred care of the trinket for its giver's 
 sake, and the not unwilling forsaking of that island 
 wife, the restless motion passed away, and she listened 
 quietly to the end, only once lifting her left hand to 
 her lips, and resting her head on it for a moment, as I 
 detailed the circumstances of his death, after supply- 
 ing what was wanting in his own story, from the tune 
 of his taking passage in Crane's ship to their touch- 
 ing at the island expressly to leave him in the hospital 
 when a violent hemorrhage had disabled him from 
 further voyaging. 
 
 I was about to tell her I had seen him decently 
 buried, of course omitting descriptions of the how and 
 where, when the grandmother, who had been watching 
 us with the impatient querulousness of age, hobbled 
 across the room to ask "what that 'are man was 
 a-talkin' about." 
 
 Briefly and calmly, in the key long use had suited to 
 her infirmity, Hetty detailed the chief points of my 
 story. 
 
 "Dew tell!" exclaimed the old woman. "Eben 
 Jackson a' n't dead on dryland, is he? Left means, 
 eh?" 
 
 I walked away to the door, biting my lip. Hetty, 
 for once, reddened to the brow, but replaced her 
 charge in the chair, and followed me to the gate. 
 
 ' ' Good-day, sir, ' ' said she, offering me her hand, 
 and then, slightly hesitating, "Grandmother is very 
 old. I thank you, sir. I thank you kindly."
 
 EBEN JACKSON. 29 
 
 As she turned, and went toward the house, I saw the 
 glitter of the Panama chain about her thin and sallow 
 throat, and, by the motion of her hands, that she was 
 retwisting the same wire fastening that Eben Jackson 
 had manufactured for it. 
 
 Five years after, last June, I went to Simsbury with 
 a gay picnic party. This tune Lizzy was with me : 
 indeed, she generally is now. 
 
 I detached myself from the rest, after we were fairly 
 arranged for the day, and wandered away alone to 
 "MissBuel's." 
 
 The house was closed, the path grassy, a sweetbrier- 
 bush had blown across the door, and was gay with 
 blossoms : all was still, dusty, desolate. I could not 
 be satisfied with this. The meeting-house was as near 
 as any neighbor's, and the graveyard would ask me no 
 curious questions. I entered it doubting ; but there, 
 ' ' on the leeward side, ' ' near to the grave of ' ' Bethia 
 Jackson, wife of John Eben Jackson," were two new 
 stones, one dated but a year later than the other, re- 
 cording the deaths of "Temperance Buel aged 96," 
 and " Hester Buel aged 44."
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 
 
 BUT that Solomon is out of fashion, I should quote 
 him here and now, to the effect that there is a time for 
 all things; but Solomon is obsolete, and never no, 
 never will I dare to quote a dead language, "for 
 raisons I have," as the exiles of Erin say. Yet, in 
 spite of Solomon and Horace, I may express my own 
 less concise opinion, that even in hard times, and dull 
 tunes, and war times, there is yet a little time to laugh, 
 a brief hour to smile and love and pity ; just as through 
 this dreary easterly storm, bringing clouds and rain, 
 sobbing against casement and door with the inarticulate 
 wail of tempests, there comes now and then the soft 
 shine of a sun behind it all, a fleeting glitter, an eva- 
 nescent aspect of what has been. 
 
 But if I apologize for a story that is nowise tragic, 
 nor fitted to "the fashion of these times," possibly 
 somebody will say at its end that I should also have 
 apologized for its subject, since it is as easy for an 
 author to treat his readers to high themes as vulgar 
 ones, and velvet can be thrown into a portrait as 
 cheaply as calico ; but of this apology I wash my 
 hands. I believe nothing in place or circumstance 
 makes romance. I have the same quick sympathy 
 for Biddy's sorrows with Patrick that I have for the 
 Empress of France and her august but rather grim lord 
 
 30
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 31 
 
 and master. I think words are often no harder to 
 bear than " a blue bating ; " and I have a reverence for 
 poor old maids as great as for the nine Muses. Com- 
 monplace people are only commonplace from character, 
 and no position affects that. So forgive me once more, 
 patient reader, if I offer to you no tragedy in high life, 
 no sentimental history of fashion and wealth, but only 
 a little story about a woman who could not be a 
 heroine. 
 
 Miss Lucinda Jane Ann Manners was a lady of 
 unknown age, who lived in a place I call Dalton, in a 
 State of these Disuniting States, which I do not men- 
 tion for good cause. I have already had so many 
 unconscious personalities visited on my devoted head, 
 that, but for lucidity, I should never mention persons 
 or places, inconvenient as it would be. However, Miss 
 Lucinda did live, and lived by the aid of "means," 
 which in the vernacular is money. Not a great deal, 
 it is true, five thousand dollars at lawful interest, 
 and a little wooden house, do not imply many luxuries 
 even to a single woman ; and it is also true that 
 a little fine sewing taken in helped Miss Manners to 
 provide herself with a few small indulgences otherwise 
 beyond her reach. She had one or two idiosyncra- 
 sies, as they are politely called, that were her delight. 
 Plenty of dish-towels were necessary to her peace of 
 mind ; without five pair of scissors she could not be 
 happy ; and Tricopherous was essential to her well- 
 being : 'indeed, she often said she would rather give up 
 coffee than Tricopherous, for her hair was black and 
 wiry and curly, and caps she abhorred ; so that, of a 
 winter's day, her head presented the most irrelevant 
 and volatile aspect, each particular hair taking a twist
 
 32 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 on its own responsibility, and improvising a wild halo 
 about her unsaintly face, unless subdued into propriety 
 by the aforesaid fluid. 
 
 I said Miss Lucinda's face was unsaintly ; I mean 
 unlike ancient saints as depicted by contemporary art- 
 ists : modern and private saints are after another fash- 
 ion. I met one yesterday, whose green eyes, great 
 nose, thick lips, and sallow wrinkles, under a bonnet 
 of fifteen years' standing, further clothed upon by a 
 scant merino cloak and cat-skin tippet, would have cut 
 a sorry figure in the gallery of the Vatican or the 
 Louvre, and put the tranquil Madonna of San Sisto 
 into a state of stunning antithesis. But if St. Agnes 
 or St. Catharine was half as good as my saint, I am 
 glad of it. 
 
 No, there was nothing sublime and dolorous about 
 Miss Manners. Her face was round, cheery, and 
 slightly puckered, with two little black eyes sparkling 
 and shining under dark brows, a nose she unblvishingly 
 called pug, and a big mouth, with eminently white and 
 regular teeth, which she said were such a comfort, for 
 they never ached, and never would to the end of time. 
 Add to this physiognomy a small and rather spare 
 figure, dressed in the cleanest of calicoes, always made 
 in one style, and rigidly scorning hoops, without a 
 symptom of a collar, in whose place (or it may be over 
 which) she wore a white cambric handkerchief knotted 
 about her throat, and the two ends brought into sub- 
 jection by means of a little angular-headed gold pin, 
 her sole ornament, and a relic of her old father's days 
 of widowhood, when buttons were precarious tenures. 
 So much for her aspect. Her character was even more 
 quaint.
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 33 
 
 She was the daughter of a clergyman, one of the 
 old school, the last whose breeches and knee-buckles 
 adorned the profession, who never "outlived his use- 
 fulness," nor lost his godly simplicity. Parson Man- 
 ners held rule over an obscure and quiet village in the 
 wilds of Vermont, where hard-handed farmers wres- 
 tled with rocks and forests for their daily bread, and 
 looked forward to heaven as a land of green pastures 
 and still waters, where agriculture should be a pastime, 
 and winter Impossible. Heavy freshets from the moun- 
 tains, that swelled their rushing brooks into annual 
 torrents, and snow-drifts that covered five-rail fences 
 a foot above the posts, and blocked up the turnpike- 
 road for weeks, caused this congregation fully to ap- 
 preciate Parson Manners 's favorite hymns, 
 
 "There is a land of pure delight," 
 and 
 
 " On Jordan's stormy banks I stand." 
 
 Indeed,. one irreverent but "pretty smart feller," who 
 lived on the top of a hill known as Drift Hill, where 
 certain adventurous farmers dwelt for the sake of its 
 smooth sheep-pastures, was heard to say, after a 
 mighty sermon by Parson Manners about the seven- 
 times heated furnaces of judgment reserved for the 
 wicked, that "parson hadn't better try to skeer Drift- 
 Hillers with a hot place : 'twouldn't more 'n jest warm 
 'em through down there, arter a real snappin' winter." 
 In this out-of-the-way nook was Lucinda Jane Ann 
 born and bred. Her mother was like her in many 
 things, just such a cheery, round-faced little body, 
 but with no more mind than found ample scope for 
 itself hi superintending the affairs of house and farm,
 
 34 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 and vigorously "seeing to" her husband and child. 
 So, while Mrs. Manners baked, and washed and 
 ironed, and sewed and knit, and set the sweetest 
 example of quiet goodness and industry to all her 
 flock, without knowing she could set an example, or 
 be followed as one, the parson amused himself, be- 
 tween sermons of powerful doctrine and parochial 
 duties of a more hximan interest, with educating Lu- 
 cinda, whose intellect was more like his own than her 
 mother's. A strange training it was for a young girl, 
 mathematics, metaphysics, Latin, theology of the 
 dryest sort ; and after an utter failure at Greek and 
 Hebrew, though she had toiled patiently through seven 
 books of the " JEneid," Parson Manners mildly sniffed 
 at the inferiority of the female mind, and betook him- 
 self to teaching her French, which she learned rapidly, 
 and spoke with a pure American accent, perhaps as 
 pleasing to a Parisian ear as the hiss of Piedmont or 
 the gutturals of Switzerland. Moreover, the minister 
 had been brought up himself in the most scrupulous 
 refinement of manner : his mother was a widow, the 
 last of an "old family;" and her dainty, delicate 
 observances were inbred, as it were, in her only son. 
 This sort of elegance is perhaps the most delicate test 
 of training and descent, and all these things Lucinda 
 was taught from the grateful recollection of a son who 
 never forgot his mother through all the solitary labors 
 and studies of a long life. So it came to pass, that, 
 after her mother died, Lucinda grew more and more 
 like her father ; and, as she became a woman, these 
 rare refinements separated her more and more from 
 those about her, and made her necessarily solitary. 
 As for marriage, the possibility of such a thing never
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 35 
 
 crossed her mind : there was not a man in the parish 
 who did not offend her sense of propriety, and shock 
 her taste, whenever she met one ; and though her 
 warm, kind heart made her a blessing to the poor and 
 sick, her mother was yet bitterly regretted at quiltings 
 and tea-drinkings, where she had been so " sociable- 
 like " 
 
 It is rather unfortunate for such a position as Lu- 
 cinda's, that, as deacon Stowell one day remarked to 
 her father, " Natur' will be natur' as much on Drift 
 Hill as down to Bosting ; " and when she began to feel 
 that " strong necessity of loving," that sooner or later 
 assails every woman's heart, there was nothing for it 
 to overflow on when her father had taken his share. 
 Now, Lucinda loved the parson most devoutly. Ever 
 since the time when she could just remember watching 
 through the dusk his white stockings as they glim- 
 mered across the road to evening meeting, and looked 
 like a supernatural pair of legs taking a walk on 
 their own responsibility, twilight concealing the black 
 breeches and coat from mortal view, Lucinda had 
 regarded her father with a certain pleasing awe. His 
 long abstractions, his profound knowledge, his grave, 
 benign manners, and the thousand daily refinements 
 of speech and act that seemed to put him far above 
 the sphere of his pastorate, all these things inspired 
 as much reverence as affection ; and when she wished 
 with all her heart and soul she had a sister or a brother 
 to tend and kiss and pet, it never once occurred to her 
 that any of those tender familiarities could be expended 
 on her father. She would as soon have thought of 
 caressing any of the goodly angels, whose stout legs, 
 flowing curls, and impossible draperies, sprawled among
 
 36 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 the pictures in the big Bible, and who excited her won- 
 der as much by their garments as their turkey-wings 
 and brandishing arms. So she betook herself to pets, 
 and growing up to the old maidenhood of thirty-five 
 before her father fell asleep, was by that time the 
 centre of a little world of her own, hens, chickens, 
 squirrels, cats, dogs, lambs, and sundry transient 
 guests of stranger kind ; so that when she left her 
 old home, and removed to the little house in Dalton 
 that had been left her by her mother's aunt, and had 
 found her small property safely invested by means of 
 an old friend of her father's, Miss Manners made one 
 more journey to Vermont to bring in safety to their 
 future dwelling a cat and three kittens, an old blind 
 crow, a yellow dog of the true cur breed, and a rooster 
 with three hens, "real creepers," as she often said, 
 " none of your long-legged, screaming creatures." 
 
 Lucinda missed her father, and mourned him as 
 constantly and faithfully as ever a daughter could. 
 But her temperament was more cheerful and buoyant 
 than his ; and when once she was quietly settled in her 
 little house, her garden and her pets gave her such full 
 occupation that she sometimes blamed herself for not 
 feeling more lonely and unhappy. A little longer life, 
 or a little more experience, would have taught her bet- 
 ter : power to be happy is the last thing to regret. 
 Besides, it would have been hard to be cheerless in 
 that sunny little house, with its queer old furniture 
 of three-legged tables, high-backed chairs, and chintz 
 curtains, where red mandarins winked at blue pagodas 
 on a deep yellow ground, and birds of insane orni- 
 thology pecked at insects that never could have been 
 hatched, or perched themselves on blossoms totally
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 37 
 
 unknown to any mortal flora. Old engravings of 
 Bartolozzi, from the stiff elegances of Angelica Kauf- 
 man and the mythologies of Reynolds, adorned the 
 shelf ; and the carpet in the parlor was of veritable 
 English make, older than Lucinda herself, but as 
 bright in its fading, and as firm in its usefulness, as 
 she. Up stairs the tiny chambers were decked with 
 spotless white dimity, and rush-bottomed chairs stood 
 in each window, with a strip of the same old carpet 
 by either bedside ; and in the kitchen the blue settle 
 that had stood by the Vermont fireside now defended 
 this lesser hearth from the draught of the door, and 
 held under the seat thereof sundry ironing-sheets, the 
 blanket belonging to them, and good store of ticking 
 and worsted holders. A half -gone set of egg-shell 
 china stood in the parlor-closet, cups and teapot 
 rimmed with brown and gold in a square pattern, and a 
 shield without blazon on the side ; the quaint tea-caddy 
 with its stopper stood over against the pursy little cream- 
 pot ; and the three-legged sugar-bowl held amid its 
 lumps of sparkling sugar the oddest sugar-tongs, also 
 a family relic ; beside this, six small spoons, three 
 large ones, and a little silver porringer comprised all 
 the "plate" belonging to Miss Manners, so that no 
 fear of burglars haunted her, and, but for her pets, 
 she would have led a life of profound and monotonous 
 tranquillity. But this was a vast exception : in her 
 life her pets were the great item now ; her cat had 
 its own chair in the parlor and kitchen ; her dog, a 
 nig and a basket never to be meddled with by man or 
 beast ; her oil crow, its special nest of flannel and 
 cotton, where it feebly croaked as soon as Miss Lu- 
 cmda Ixigan to spread the little table for her meals ;
 
 38 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 and the three kittens had their own playthings and 
 their own saucer as punctiliously as if they had been 
 children. In fact, Miss Manners had a greater share 
 of kindness for beasts than for mankind. A strange 
 compound of learning and unworldliness, of queer sim- 
 plicity, native penetration, and common sense, she had 
 read enough books to despise human nature as it 
 develops itself in history and theology, and she had not 
 known enough people to love it in its personal devel- 
 opment. She had a general idea that all men were 
 liars, and that she must be on her guard against their 
 propensity to cheat and annoy a lonely and helpless 
 woman ; for, to tell the truth, in her good father's 
 over-anxiety to defend her from the snares of evil men 
 after his death, his teachings had given her opinion this 
 bias, and he had forgotten to tell her how kindly and 
 how true he had found many of his own parishioners, 
 how few inclined to hai-m or pain him. So Miss Lu- 
 cinda made her entrance into life at Dalton, distrust- 
 ful, but not suspicious ; and, after a few attempts on 
 the part of the women who were her neighbors to be 
 friendly or intimate, they gave her up as impracticable : 
 not because she was impolite or unkind ; they did not 
 themselves know why they failed, though she could 
 have told them ; for old maid as she was, poor and 
 plain and queer, she could not bring herself to asso- 
 ciate familiarly with people who put their teaspoons 
 into the sugar-bowl, helped themselves with their own 
 knives and forks, gathered up bits of uneaten butter 
 and returned them to the plate for next time, or re- 
 placed on the dish pieces of cake half eaten, or cut with 
 the knives they had just introduced into their mouths. 
 Miss Lucinda's code of minor morals would have for-
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 39 
 
 bidden her to drink from the same cup with a queen, 
 and have considered a pitchfork as suitable as a knife 
 to eat with ; nor would she have offered to a servant 
 the least thing she had touched with her own lips or 
 her own implements of eating ; and she was too deli- 
 cately bred to look on in comfort where such things 
 were practised. Of course these women were not 
 ladies ; and, though many of them had kind hearts 
 and warm impulses of goodness, yet that did not make 
 up to her for their social misdemeanors ; and she drew 
 herself more into her own little shell, and cared more 
 for her garden and her chickens, her cats and her dog, 
 than for all the humanity of Dalton put together. 
 
 Miss Manners held her flowers next dearest to her 
 pets, and treated them accordingly. Her garden was 
 the most brilliant bit of ground possible. It was big 
 enough to hold one flourishing peach-tree, one Siberian 
 crab, and a solitary egg- plum ; while under these fruit- 
 ful boughs bloomed moss-roses in profusion, of the 
 dear old-fashioned kind, every deep pink bud, with its 
 clinging garment of green, breathing out the richest 
 odor. Close by, the real white rose, which fashion has 
 banished to country towns, unfolded its cups of pearl, 
 flushed with yellow sunrise, to the heart ; and by its 
 side its damask sister waved long sprays of bloom and 
 perfume. Tulips, dark-purple and cream-color, burn- 
 ing scarlet and deep maroon, held their gay chalices 
 up to catch the dew ; hyacinths, blue, white, and pink, 
 hung heavy bells beneath them ; spiced carnations of 
 rose and garnet crowded their bed in July and August ; 
 heart' s-ease fringed the walks ; May honeysuckles clam- 
 bered over the board-fence ; and monthly honeysuckles 
 overgrew the porch at the back-door, making perpetual
 
 40 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 fragrance from their moth-like horns of crimson and 
 ivory. Nothing inhabited those beds that was not 
 sweet and fair and old-fashioned. Gray-lavender- 
 bushes sent up purple spikes in the middle of the gar- 
 den, and were duly housed in winter ; but these were 
 the sole tender plants admitted, and they pleaded their 
 own cause in the breath of the linen-press and the 
 bureau-drawers that held Miss Lucinda's clothes. Be- 
 yond the flowers, utility blossomed in a row of bean- 
 poles, a hedge of currant-bushes against the farther 
 fence, carefully tended cauliflowers, and onions enough 
 to tell of their use as sparing as their number. A few 
 deep-red beets and golden carrots were all the vege- 
 tables beside. Miss Luciuda never ate potatoes or 
 pork. 
 
 Her housekeeping, but for her pets, would have been 
 the proper housewifery for a fairy. Out of her fruit 
 she annually conserved miracles of flavor and trans- 
 parence, great plums like those in Aladdin's garden, 
 of shining topaz ; peaches tinged with the odorous 
 bitter of their pits, and clear as amber ; crimson crabs 
 floating in their own ruby sirup, or transmuted into 
 jelly crystal clear, yet breaking with a grain ; and 
 jelly from the acid currants to garnish her dinner- 
 table, or refresh the fevered lips of a sick neighbor. 
 It was a study to visit her tiny pantry, where all these 
 " lucent sirops " stood in tempting array, where spices 
 and sugar and tea in their small jars flanked the sweet- 
 meats, and a jar of glass showed its store of whitest 
 honey, and another stood filled with crisp cakes. Here 
 always a loaf or two of home-made bread lay rolled in 
 a snowy cloth, and another was spread over a dish of 
 butter. Pies were not in favor here, nor milk, save
 
 MISS LTJCINDA. 41 
 
 for the cats. Salt fish Miss Manners never "could abide : 
 her savory taste allowed only a bit of rich old 
 cheese, or thin scraps of hung beef, with her bread 
 and butter. Sauces and spices were few in her reper- 
 tory ; but she cooked as only a lady can cook, and 
 might have asked Soyer himself to dinner. For verily, 
 after much meditation and experience, I have divined 
 that it takes as much sense and refinement and taient 
 to cook a dinner, wash and wipe a dish, make a bed as 
 it should be made, and dust a room as it should be 
 dusted, as goes to the writing of a novel, or shining in 
 high society. 
 
 But because Miss Lucinda Manners was reserved 
 and "unsociable," as the neighbors pronounced her, 
 I did not, therefore, mean to imply that she was inhu- 
 man. No neighbor of hers, local or scriptural, fell ill, 
 without an immediate offer of aid from her. She made 
 the best gruel known to Dalton invalids, sent the ripest 
 fruit and the sweetest flowers ; and if she could not 
 watch with the sick because it interfered with her duties 
 at home in an unpleasant and inconvenient way, she 
 would sit with them hour after hour in the day-time, 
 and wait on all their caprices with the patient tender- 
 ness of a mother. Children she always eyed with 
 strange wistfulness, as if she longed to kiss them, but 
 didn't know how ; yet no child was ever invited across 
 her threshold, for the yellow cur hated to be played 
 with, and children always torment kittens. 
 
 So Miss Luciuda wore on happily toward the farther 
 side of the middle ages. One after another of her 
 pets passed away, and was replaced ; the yellow cur 
 barked his last currish signal ; the cat died, and her 
 kittens came to various ends of time or casualty ; the
 
 42 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 crow fell away to dust, and was too old to stuff ; and 
 the garden bloomed and faded ten times over, before 
 Miss Manners found herself to be forty-six years old, 
 which she heroically acknowledged one fine day to the 
 census-taker. But it was not this consciousness, nor 
 its confession, that drew the dark brows so low over 
 Miss Lucinda's eyes that day : it was quite anotner 
 trouble, and one that wore heavily on her mind, as we 
 shall proceed to explain. For Miss Manners, being, 
 like all the rest of her sex, quite unable to do without 
 some masculine help, had employed for some seven 
 years an old man by the name of Israel Slater to do 
 her " chores," as the vernacular hath it. It is a mor- 
 tifying thing, and one that strikes at the roots of 
 women's rights terribly sharp blows, but I must even 
 own it, that one might as well try to live without one's 
 bread and butter as without the aid of the dominant 
 sex. When I see women split wood, unload coal-carts, 
 move wash-tubs, and roll barrels of flour and apples 
 handily down cellar- ways or up into carts, then I shall 
 believe in the sublime theories of the strong-minded 
 sisters ; but as long as I see before me my own forlorn 
 little hands, and sit down on the top stair to recover 
 breath, and try in vain to lift the water-pitcher at table, 
 just so long I shall be glad and thankful that there are 
 men in the world, and that half a dozen of them are 
 my kindest and best friends. It was rather an afflic- 
 tion to Miss Lucinda to feel this innate dependence ; 
 and at first she resolved to employ only small boys, 
 and never any one of them more than a week or two. 
 She had an unshaped theory that an old maid was a 
 match for a small boy, but that a man would cheat and 
 domineer over her. Experience sadly put to flight
 
 MISS LTJCINDA. 43 
 
 these notions ; for a succession of boys in this cabinet 
 ministry for the first three years of her stay in Dalton 
 would have driven her into a Presbyterian convent, 
 had there been one at hand. Boy Number One caught 
 the yellow cur out of bounds one day, and shaved his 
 plumy tail to a bare stick, and Miss Lucinda fairly 
 shed tears of grief and rage when Pink appeared at 
 the door with the denuded appendage tucked between 
 his little legs, and his funny yellow eyes casting side- 
 long looks of apprehension at his mistress. Boy Num- 
 ber One was despatched directly. Number Two did 
 pretty well for a month ; but his integrity and his appe- 
 tite conflicted, and Miss Lucinda found him one moon- 
 light night perched in her plum-tree devouring the 
 half-ripe fruit. She shook him down with as little 
 ceremony as if he had been an apple ; and, though he 
 lay at death's door for a week with resulting cholera- 
 morbus, she relented not. So the experiment went on, 
 till a list of casualties that numbered in it fatal acci- 
 dents to three kittens, two hens, and a rooster, and at 
 last Pink himself, who was sent into a decline by re- 
 peated drenchings from the watering-pot, put an end 
 to her forbearance, and she instituted in her viziership 
 the old man who had now kept his office so long, a 
 queer, withered, slow, humorous old creature, who 
 did " chores " for some six or seven other households, 
 and got a living by sundry "jobs" of wood-sawing, 
 hoeing corn, and other like works of labor, if not of 
 skill. Israel was a great comfort to Miss Lucinda : 
 he was efficient counsel in the maladies of all her pets, 
 had a sovereign cure for the gapes in chickens, and 
 could stop a cat's fit with the greatest ease ; he kept 
 the tiny garden in perfect order, and was very honest,
 
 44 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 and Miss Manners favored him accordingly. She com- 
 pounded liniment for his rheumatism, herb-sirup for 
 his colds, presented him with a set of flannel shirts, 
 and knit him a comforter ; so that Israel expressed 
 himself strongly in favor of "Miss Lucindy," and 
 she said to herself he really was "quite good for a 
 man." 
 
 But just now, in her forty-seventh year, Miss 
 Lucinda had come to grief, and all on account of 
 Israel, and his attempts to please her. About six 
 months before this census-taking era, the old man had 
 stepped into Miss Manners 's kitchen with an unusual 
 radiance on his wrinkles and in his eyes, and began, 
 without his usual morning greeting, 
 
 "I've got so'thin' for you naow, Miss Lucindy. 
 You're a master-hand for pets ; but I'll bet a red cent 
 you ha'n't an idee what I've got for ye naow ! " 
 
 "I'm sure I can't tell, Israel," said she: "you'll 
 have to let me see it." 
 
 ""Well," said he, lifting up his coat, and looking 
 carefully behind him as he sat down on the settle, lest 
 a stray kitten or chicken should pre-occupy the bench, 
 " you see I was down to Orrin's abaout a week back, 
 and he bed a litter o' pigs, eleven on 'em. Well, he 
 couldn't raise the hull on 'em, 't a'n't good to raise 
 more'n nine, an' so he said ef I'd 'a' had a place o' 
 my own, I could 'a' had one on 'em ; but as 'twas he 
 guessed he'd hev to send one to market for a roaster. 
 I went daown to the barn to see 'em ; an' there was 
 one, the cutest little critter I ever sot eyes on, an' 
 I've seen more'n four pigs in my day, 'twas a little 
 black-spotted one, as spry as an ant, and the dreffullest 
 knowin' look out of its eyes. I fellowshipped it right
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 45 
 
 Dff ; and I said, says I, ' Orrin, ef you'll let me hev that 
 'ere little spotted feller, I'll git a place for him, for I 
 do take to him consarnedly . ' So he said I could, and 
 I fetched him hum ; and Miss Slater and me we kinder 
 fed him up for a few days back, till he got sorter 
 wonted, and I'm a-goin f to fetch him to you." 
 
 " But, Israel, I haven't any place to put him in." 
 
 " Well, that a'n't nothin' to bender. I'll jest fetch 
 out them old boards out of the wood-shed, and knock 
 up a little sty right off, daown by the end o' the shed, 
 and you ken keep your swill that I've hed before, and 
 it'll come handy." 
 
 " But pigs are so dirty ! " 
 
 " I don't know as they be. They ha'n't no great 
 conveniences for washin' ginerally ; but I never heerd 
 as they was dirtier' n other critters where they run wild. 
 An' beside, that a'n't goin' to bender, nuther. I cal- 
 culate to make it one o' the chores to take keer of 
 him ; 't won't cost no more to you, and I ha'n't no 
 great opportunities to do things for folks that's allers 
 a-doin' for me : so 't you needn't be afeard, Miss 
 Lueindy : I love to." 
 
 Miss Luciuda's heart got the better of her judgment. 
 A nature that could feel so tenderly for its inferiors in 
 the scale could not be deaf to the tiny voices of human- 
 ity when they reached her solitude ; and she thanked 
 Israel for the pig so heartily, that the old man's face 
 brightened still more, and his voice softened from its 
 cracked harshness, as he said, clicking up and down 
 the latch of the back-door, 
 
 " Well, I'm sure you're as welcome as you are 
 obleeged, and I'll knock up that 'ere pen right off. He 
 sha'n't pester ye any, that's a fact."
 
 46 SOMEBOD'Y'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Strange to say, yet perhaps it might have been 
 expected from her proclivities, Miss Lucinda took 
 an astonishing fancy to the pig. Very few people 
 know how intelligent an animal a pig is ; but, when one 
 is regarded merely as pork and hams, one's intellect is 
 apt to fall into neglect, a 'moral sentiment which 
 applies out of pigdom. This creature would not have 
 passed muster at a county fair ; no Suffolk blood com- 
 pacted and rounded him : he belonged to the " racers," 
 and skipped about his pen with the alacrity of a large 
 flea, wiggling his curly tail as expressively as a dog's, 
 and " all but speakin'," as Israel said. He was always 
 gla/l to see Miss Lucinda, and established a firm friend- 
 ship with her dog Fun, a pretty, sentimental German 
 spaniel. Besides, he kept tolerably clean by dint of 
 Israel's care, and thrust his long nose between the 
 rails of his pen for grass or fruit, or carrot and beet 
 tops, with a knowing look out of his deep-set eyes, 
 that was never to be resisted by the soft-hearted spin- 
 ster. Indeed, Miss Lucinda enjoyed the possession of 
 one pet who could not tyrannize over her. Pink's 
 place was more than filled by Fun, who was so oppress- 
 ively affectionate, that he never could leave his mis- 
 tress alone. If she lay down on her bed, he leaped up 
 and unlatched the door, and stretched himself on the 
 white counterpane beside her with a grunt of satisfac- 
 tion ; if she sat down to knit or sew, he laid his head 
 and shoulders across her lap, or curled himself up on 
 her knees ; if she was cooking, he whined and coaxed 
 round her till she hardly knew whether she fried or 
 broiled her steak ; and if she turned him out, and but- 
 toned the door, his cries were so pitiful, she could nevei 
 be resolute enough to keep him in exile five minutes
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 47 
 
 for it was a prominent article in her creed that animals 
 have feelings that are easily wounded, and are of " like 
 passions " with men, only incapable of expression. 
 Indeed, Miss Lucinda considered it the duty of human 
 beings to atone to animals for the Lord's injustice in 
 making them dumb and four-legged. She would have 
 been rather startled at such an enunciation of her 
 practice, but she was devoted to it as a practice. She 
 would give her own chair to the cat, and sit on the 
 settle herself ; get up at midnight if a mew or a bark 
 called her, though the thermometer was below zero ; 
 the tenderloin of her steak, or the liver of her chicken, 
 was saved for a pining kitten or an ancient and tooth- 
 less cat ; and no disease or wound daunted her faithful 
 nursing, or disgusted her devoted tenderness. It was 
 rather hard on humanity, and rather reversive of Prov- 
 idence, that all this care and pains should be lavished 
 on cats and dogs, while little morsels of flesh and 
 blood, ragged, hungry, and immortal, wandered up 
 and down the streets. Perhaps that they were immor- 
 tal was their defence from Miss Lucinda. One might 
 have hoped that her " other- worldliness " accepted that 
 fact as enough to outweigh present pangs, if she had 
 not openly declared, to Israel Slater's immense amuse- 
 ment and astonishment, that she believed creatures had 
 souls, little ones perhaps, but souls, after all, and 
 she did expect to see Pink again some time or other. 
 
 " Well, I hope he's got his tail feathered out ag'in," 
 said Israel dryly. "I do'no' but what hair'd grow 
 as well as feathers in a speretooal state, and I never 
 see a pictur' of an angel but what hed consider 'ble 
 many feathers." 
 
 Miss Lucinda looked rather confounded. But hu-
 
 i8 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 manity had one little revenge on her in the shape of her 
 cat, a beautiful Maltese with great yellow eyes, fur 
 as soft as velvet, and silvery paws as lovely to look at 
 as they were thistly to touch. Toby certainly pleaded 
 hard for Miss Lucinda's theory of a scul : but his was 
 no good one ; some tricksy and malign little spirit had 
 lent him his share of intellect, and he used it to the 
 entire subjugation of Miss Lucinda. When he was 
 hungry, he was as well-mannered and as amiable as a 
 good child ; he would coax and purr, and lick her 
 fingers with his pretty red tongue, like a "perfect 
 love : " but when he had his fill, and needed no more, 
 then came Miss Lucinda's time of torment. If she 
 attempted to caress him, he bit and scratched like a 
 young tiger : he sprang at her from the floor, and fas- 
 tened on her arm with real fury. If he cried at the 
 window and was not directly let in, as soon as he had 
 achieved entrance his first manoeuvre was to dash at 
 her ankles, and bite them if he could, as punishment 
 for her tardiness. This skirmishing was his favorite 
 mode of attack. If he was turned out of the closet, or 
 off the pillow up stairs, he retreated under the bed, and 
 made frantic sallies at her feet, till the poor woman 
 got actually nervous, and if he was in the room made a 
 flying leap as far as she could to her bed, to escape 
 those keen claws. Indeed, old Israel found her more 
 than once sitting in the middle of the kitchen-floor, 
 with Toby crouched for a spring, under the table, his 
 poor mistress afraid to move for fear of her unlucky 
 ankles. And this literally cat-ridden woman was 
 hazed about and ruled over by her feline tyrant to that 
 extent that he occupied the easiest chair, the softest 
 cushion, the middle of the bed, and the front of the
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 49 
 
 fire, not only undisturbed, but caressed. This is a 
 veritable history, beloved reader, and I offer it as a 
 warning and an example. If you will be an old maid, 
 or if you can't help it, take to petting children, or 
 donkeys, or even a respectable cow, but beware of 
 domestic tyranny in any shape but man's. 
 
 No wonder Miss Lucinda took kindly to the pig, who 
 had a house of his own, and a servant as it were, to 
 the avoidance of all trouble on her part, the pig who 
 capered for joy when she or Fun approached, and had 
 so much expression in his physiognomy that one almost 
 expected to see him smile. Many a sympathizing 
 conference Miss Lucinda held with Israel over the per- 
 fections of piggy, as he leaned against the sty, and 
 looked over at his favorite after this last chore was 
 accomplished. 
 
 "I say for 't," exclaimed the old man one day, 
 "I b'lieve that cre'tur' knows enough to be professor 
 hi a college. Why, he talks ! he re'lly doos ; a leetle 
 through his nose, maybe, but no more'n Dr. Colton 
 allers does, 'n' I declare he appears to have abaout 
 as much sense. I never see the equal of him. I 
 thought he'd 'a' larfed right out yesterday when I gin 
 him that mess o' corn. He got up onto his forelegs 
 on the trough, an' he winked them knowin' eyes o' 
 his'n, an' waggled his tail, an' then he set off an* 
 capereu rounu till he come bunt up ag'inst the boards. 
 I tell you, that sorter sobered him. He gin a growiiiT 
 grunt, an' shook his ears, an' looked sideways at me ; 
 and then he put to and eet up that corn as sober as a 
 judge. I swan ! he doos beat the Dutch ! " 
 
 But there was one calculation forgotten, both by Miss 
 Lucinda and Israel : the pig would grow, and in conse-
 
 50 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 quence, as I said before, Miss Lucinda came to grief ; 
 for, when the census-taker tinkled her sharp little 
 door-bell, it called her from a laborious occupation at 
 the sty, no more and no less than trying to nail up a 
 board that piggy had torn down in struggling to get 
 out of his durance. He had grown so large, that Miss 
 Lucinda was afraid of him ; his long legs and their 
 vivacious motion added to the shrewd intelligence of 
 his eyes ; and his nose seemed as formidable to this 
 poor little woman as the tusk of a rhinoceros : but what 
 should she do with him ? One might as well have pro- 
 posed to her to kill and cut up Israel as to consign 
 piggy to the " fate of race." She could not turn him 
 into the street to starve, for she loved him ; and the 
 old maid suffered from a constancy that might have 
 made some good man happy, but only embarrassed her 
 with the pig. She could not keep him forever, that 
 was evident. She knew enough to be aware that time 
 would increase his disabilities as a pet ; and he was an 
 expensive one now, for the corn-swallowing capacities 
 of a pig, one of the "racer" breed, are almost in- 
 credible, and nothing about Miss Lucinda wanted for 
 food, even to fatness. Besides, he was getting too big 
 for his pen; and so "cute" an animal could not be 
 debarred from all out-door pleasures, and tantalized 
 by the sight of a green and growing garden before his 
 eyes continually, without making an effort to partake 
 of its delights. So, when Miss Lucinda endued herself 
 with her brown linen sack and sun-bonnet to go and 
 weed her carrot-patch, she was arrested on the way by 
 a loud grunting and scrambling in piggy's quarter, and 
 found, to her distress, that he had contrived to knock off 
 the upper board from his pen. She had no hammer at
 
 MISS LUCINDA.* 51 
 
 hand : so she seized a large stone that lay near by, and 
 pounded at the board till the twice-tinkling bell recalled 
 her to the house ; and, as soon as she had made confes- 
 sion to the census-taker, she went back alas, too 
 late ! Piggy had redoubled his efforts, another board 
 had yielded, and he was free. What a thing freedom 
 is ! how objectionable in practice ! how splendid in 
 theory ! More people than Miss Lucinda have been 
 put to their wits' end when " hoggie " burst his bonds, 
 and became rampant instead of couchant. But he en- 
 joyed it. He made the tour of the garden on a delight- 
 ful canter, brandishing his tail with an air of defiance 
 that daunted his mistress at once, and regarding her 
 with his small bright eyes as if he would before long 
 taste her, and see if she was as crisp as she looked. 
 She retreated forthwith to the shed, and caught up a 
 broom, with which she courageously charged upon 
 piggy, and was routed entirely ; for, being no way 
 alarmed by her demonstration, the creature capered 
 directly at her, knocked her down, knocked the broom 
 out of her hand, and capered away again to the young 
 carrot-patch. 
 
 "Oh, dear! " said Miss Manners, gathering herself 
 up from the ground, " if there only was a man here ! " 
 
 Suddenly she betook herself to her heels ; for the 
 animal looked at her, and stopped eating : that was 
 enough to drive Miss Lucinda off the field. And now, 
 quite desperate, she rushed through the house, and out 
 of the front-door, actually in search of a man. Just 
 down the street she saw one. Had she been composed, 
 she might have noticed the threadbare cleanliness of 
 his dress, the odd cap that crowned his iron-gray locks, 
 and the peculiar manner of his walk ; for our little old
 
 52 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 maid had stumbled upon no less a person than Mon- 
 sieur Jean Leclerc, the dancing-master of Dalton. Not 
 that this accomplishment was much in vogue in the 
 embryo city ; but still there were a few who liked to fit 
 themselves for firemen's balls and sleighing- ^j\rty frol- 
 ics, and quite a large class of children were learning 
 betimes such graces as children in New England re- 
 ceive more easily than their elders. Monsieur Leclerc 
 had just enough scholars to keep his coat threadbare, 
 and restrict him to necessities ; but he lived, and was 
 independent. All this Miss Lucinda was ignorant of : 
 she only saw a man ; and, with the instinct of the sex 
 in trouble or danger, she appealed to him at once. 
 
 "O sir! won't you step in and help me? My pig 
 has got out, and I can't catch him, and he is ruining 
 my garden! " 
 
 " Madame, I shall ! " replied the Frenchman, bowing 
 low, and assuming the first position. 
 
 So Monsieur Leclerc followed Miss Manners, and 
 supplied himself with a mop that was hanging in the 
 shed as his best weapon. Dire was the battle between 
 the pig and the Frenchman. They skipped past each 
 other and back again as if they were practising for a 
 cotillon. Piggy had four legs,-which gave him a cer- 
 tain advantage ; but the Frenchman had most brain, 
 and in the long-run brain gets the better of legs. A 
 weary dance they led each other ; but after a while the 
 pet was hemmed in a corner, and Miss Lucinda had 
 run for a rope to tie him, when, just as she returned, 
 the beast made a desperate charge, upset his opponent, 
 and giving a leap in the wrong direction, to his mani- 
 fest astonishment landed in his own sty. Miss Lu- 
 cinda's courage rose : she forgot her prostrate friend in
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 53 
 
 need, and, running to the pen, caught up hammer and 
 nail-box on her way, and with unusual energy nailed 
 up the bars stronger than ever, and then bethought 
 herself to thank the stranger. But there he lay quite 
 still and pale. 
 
 "Dear me!" said Miss Manners. "I hope you 
 haven't hurt yourself, sir." 
 
 "I have fear that I am hurt, madame," said he, 
 trying to smile. " I cannot to move but it pains me." 
 
 "Where is it? Is it your leg, or your arm? Try 
 and move one at a time," said Miss Lucinda promptly. 
 
 The left leg was helpless, it could not answer to the 
 effort ; and the stranger lay back on the ground, pale 
 with the pain. Miss Lucinda took her lavender-bottle 
 out of her pocket, and softly bathed his head and face ; 
 then she took off. her sack, and folded it up under his 
 head, and put the lavender beside him. She was good 
 at an emergency, and she showed it. 
 
 "You must lie quite still," said she. "You must 
 not try to move till I come back with help, or your leg 
 will be hurt more." 
 
 With that she went away, and presently returned 
 with two strong men and the long shutter of a shop- 
 window. To this extempore litter she carefully moved 
 the Frenchman ; and then her neighbors lifted him, 
 and carried him into the parlor, where Miss Lucinda' s 
 chintz lounge was already spread with a tight-pinned 
 sheet to receive the poor man ; and, while her helpers 
 put him to bed, she put on her bonnet, and ran for tne 
 doctor. 
 
 Dr. Col ton did his best for his patient, but pro- 
 aouuced it an impossibility to remove him till the bone 
 should be joined firmly, as a thorough cure was all-
 
 54 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 essential to his professional prospects. And now, in- 
 deed, Miss Lueincla had her hands full. A nurse could 
 not be afforded ; but Monsieur Leclerc was added to 
 the list of old Israel's " chores," and what other nurs- 
 ing he needed Miss Lucinda was glad to do ; for her 
 kind heart was full of self-reproaches to think it was 
 her pig that had knocked down the poor man, and her 
 mop-handle that had twisted itself across and under his 
 leg, and aided, if not caused, its breakage. So Israel 
 came in four or five times a day to do what he could, 
 and Miss Lucinda played nurse at other times to the 
 best of her ability. Such flavorous gruels and por- 
 ridges as she concocted ! such tisanes after her guest's 
 instructions ! such dainty soups and sweetbreads and 
 cutlets, served with such neatness ! After his experi- 
 ence of a second-rate boarding-house. Monsieur Leclerc 
 thought himself in a gastronomic paradise. Moreover, 
 these tiny meals were garnished with flowers, which his 
 French taste for color and decoration appreciated, 
 two or three stems of lilies-of-the-valley in their folded 
 green leaves, cool and fragrant ; a moss-rosebud and 
 a spire of purple-gray lavender bound together with 
 ribbou-grass ; or three carnations set in glittering myr- 
 tle-sprays, the last acquisition of the garden. 
 
 Miss Lucinda enjoyed nursing thoroughly, and a 
 kindlier patient no woman ever had. Her bright needle 
 flew faster than ever through the cold linen and flaccid 
 cambric of the shirts and cravats she fashioned, while 
 he told her, in his odd idioms, stories of his life in 
 France, and the curious customs, both of society and 
 ciasinerie, with which last he showed a surprising ac- 
 quaintance. Truth to tell, when Monsieur Leclerc said 
 he had been a member of the Due de Montmorenci's
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 55 
 
 household, he withheld the other half of this truth, 
 that he had been his valet-de-chambre ; but it was an 
 hereditary service, and seemed to him as different a 
 thing from common servitude as a peer's office in 
 the bed chamber differs from a lackey's. Indeed, Mon- 
 sieur Leclerc was a gentleman in his own way, not of 
 blood, but of breeding ; and while he had faithfully 
 served the " aristocrats," as his father had done before 
 him, he did not limit that service to their ^prosperity, 
 but in their greatest need descended to menial offices, 
 and forgot that he could dance and ride and fence 
 almost as well as his young master. But a bullet from 
 a barricade put an end to his duty there ; and he hated 
 utterly the democratic rule that had overturned for him 
 both past and future : so he escaped, and came to 
 America, the grand resort of refugees, where he had 
 labored, as he best knew how, for his own support, and 
 kept to himself his disgust at the manners and customs 
 of the barbarians. Now, for the first time, he was at 
 home and happy. Miss Lucinda's delicate fashions 
 suited him exactly. He adored her taste for the beau- 
 tiful, which she was unconscious of. He enjoyed her 
 cookery ; and though he groaned within himself at the 
 amount of debt he was incurring, yet he took courage, 
 from her kindness, to believe she would not be a hard 
 creditor, and, being naturally cheerful, put aside his 
 anxieties, and amused himself, as well as her, with his 
 stories, his quavering songs, his recipes f or pot-au-feu, 
 tisane, audpdtcs, at once economical and savory. Never 
 had a leg of lamb or a piece of roast beef gone so far 
 in her domestic experience. A chicken seemed almost 
 to outlive its usefulness in its various forms of re-ap- 
 pearance ; and the salads he devised were as wonderful
 
 56 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 as the omelets he superintended, or the gay dances he 
 played on his beloved violin, as soon as he could sit up 
 enough to manage it. Moreover, I should say most- 
 over, if the word were admissible, Monsieur Leclerc 
 lifted a great weight before long from Miss Lucinda's 
 mind. He began by subduing Fun to his proper place 
 by a mild determination that completely won the dog's 
 heait. " Women and spaniels," the world knows, " like 
 kicking ; " and, though kicks were no part of the good 
 man's Rareyfaction of Fun, he certainly used a certain 
 amount of coercion, and the dog's lawful owner -ad- 
 mired the skill of the teacher, and enjoyed the better 
 manners of the pupil thoroughly. She could do twice 
 as much sewing now, and never were her nights dis- 
 turbed by a bark ; for the dog crouched by his new 
 friend's bed in the parlor, and lay quiet there. Toby 
 was next undertaken, and proved less amenable to dis- 
 cipline. He stood in some slight awe of the man who 
 tried to teach him, but still continued to sally out at 
 Miss Lucinda's feet, to spring at her caressing hand 
 when he felt ill-humored, and to claw Fun's patient 
 nose and his approaching paws, when his misplaced 
 sentimentality led him to caress the cat. But, after a 
 while, a few well-timed slaps, administered with vigor, 
 cured Toby of his worst tricks : though every blow 
 made Miss Lucinda wince, and almost shook her good 
 opinion of Monsieur Leclerc ; for in these long weeks 
 he had wrought out a good opinion of himself in her 
 mind, much to her own surprise. She could not have 
 believed a man could be so polite, so gentle, so patient, 
 and, above all, so capable of ruling without tyranny. 
 Miss Lucinda was puzzled. 
 
 One day, as Monsieur Leclerc was getting better,
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 57 
 
 just able to go about on crutches, Israel came into the 
 kitchen, and Miss Manners went out to see him. She 
 left the door open ; and along with the odor of a pot of 
 raspberry-jam scalding over the fire, sending its steams 
 of leaf-and-insect fragrance through the little ho^se, 
 there came in also the following conversation. 
 
 "Israel," said Miss Lucinda, in a hesitating and 
 rather forlorn tone, "I have been thinking, I don't 
 know what to do with Piggy. He is quite too big for 
 me to keep. I'm afraid of him, if he gets out ; and 
 he eats up the garden." 
 
 " Well, that is a consider'ble swaller for a pig, Miss 
 Lucindy ; but I b'lieve you're abaout right abaout 
 keepin' on him. He is too big, that's a fact ; but 
 he's so like a human cre'tur', I'd jest abaout as lievea 
 slarter Orrin. I declare, I don't know no more'n a 
 taown-house goose what to do with him ! " 
 
 " If I gave him away, I suppose he would be fatted 
 and killed, of course? " 
 
 " I guess he'd be killed, likely ; but, as for fattenin' 
 on him, I'd jest as soon undertake to fatten a salt cod- 
 fish. He's one o' the racers, an' they're as holler as 
 hogsheads. You can fill 'em up to their noses, ef you're 
 a mind to spend your corn, and they'll caper it all off 
 their bones in twenty-four haours. I b'lieve, ef they 
 was tied neck an' heels, an' stuffed, they'd wiggle thin 
 betwixt feedin-times. Why, Orrin, he raised nine on 
 'em, and every darned critter's as poor as Job's turkey 
 to-day. They a'n't no good. I'd as lieves ha' had 
 nine chestnut-rails, an' a little lieveser' ; cause they 
 don't eat nothin'." 
 
 " You don't know of any poor person who'd like to 
 have a pig, do you? " said Miss Lucinda wistfully.
 
 58 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Well, the poorer they was, the quicker they'd eat 
 him up, I guess, ef they could eat such a razor- 
 back." 
 
 "Ch, I don't like to think of his being eaten! I 
 wish he could be got rid of some other way. Don't 
 you think he might be killed in his sleep, Israel? " 
 
 This was a little too much for Israel. An irresisti- 
 ble flicker of laughter twitched his wrinkles, and bub- 
 bled in his throat. 
 
 "I think it's likely 'twould wake him up," said he 
 demurely. "Killin's killin', and a cre'tur' can't 
 sleep over it's though 'twas the stomach-ache. I 
 guess he'd kick some, ef he was asleep and screech 
 some too ! " 
 
 Dear me ! " said Miss Lucinda, horrified at the idea. 
 "I wish he could be sent out to run in the woods. 
 Are there any good woods near here, Israel? " 
 
 " I don't know but what he'd as lieves be slartered 
 to once as to starve, an' be hunted down out in the 
 lots. Besides, there a'n't nobody as I knows of would 
 like a hog to be a-rootin' round amongst their turnips 
 and young wheat." 
 
 "Well, what I shall do with him I don't know!" 
 despairingly exclaimed Miss Lucinda. ' ' He was such 
 a dear little thing when you brought him, Israel ! Do 
 you remember how pink his pretty little nose was, 
 just like a rose-bud, and how bright his eyes looked, 
 and his cunning legs? And now he's grown so big 
 and fierce ! But I can't help liking him, either." 
 
 "He's a cute critter, that's sartain ; but he does 
 (oo much rootin' to have a pink nose now, I expect: 
 there's consider'ble on't, so I guess it looks as well to 
 have it gray. But I don't know no more'n you do 
 what to do abaout it."
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 59 
 
 "If I could only get rid of him without knowing 
 what became of him ! " exclaimed Miss Lucinda, 
 squeezing her forefinger with great earnestness, and 
 looking both puzzled and pained. 
 
 "If Mees Lucinda would pairmit?" said a voice 
 behind her. 
 
 She turned round to see Monsieur Leclerc on his 
 crutches, just in the parlor-door. 
 
 " I shall, mees, myself dispose of piggee, if it 
 please. I can. I shall have no sound : he shall to 
 go away like a silent snow, to trouble you no more, 
 never ! ' ' 
 
 " O sir, if you could ! But I don't see how." 
 
 " If mees was to see, it would not be to save her 
 pain. I shall have him to go by magique to fiery 
 land." 
 
 Fairy-land probably. But Miss Lucinda did not 
 perceive the equivoque. 
 
 " Nor yet shall I trouble Meester Israyel. I shall 
 have the aid of myself and one good friend that I 
 have ; and some night, when you rise of the morning, 
 he shall not be there." 
 
 Miss Lucinda breathed a deep sigh of relief. 
 
 " I am greatly obliged, I shall be, I mean," said 
 she. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad enough to wash my hands on't," 
 said Israel. " I shall hanker arter the critter some, 
 but he'e a-gettin' too big to be handy ; 'n' it's one 
 comfort abaout critters, you ken get rid on 'em some- 
 haow when they're more plague than profit. But 
 folks has got to be let alone, excep' the Lord takes 
 'em ; an' he don't allers see fit." 
 
 What added point and weight to these final remarks
 
 60 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 of old Israel was the well-known fact that he suf- 
 fered at home from the most pecking and worrying of 
 wives, and had been heard to say, in some moment ot 
 unusual frankness, that he " didn't see how 't could 
 be sinful to wish Miss Slater was in heaven, for she'd 
 be lots better off, and other folks too." 
 
 Miss Lucinda never knew what befell her pig one 
 fine September night: she did not even guess that a 
 visit paid to monsieur by one of his pupils, a farmer's 
 daughter just out of Dalton, had any thing to do with 
 this enlevement. She was sound asleep in her bed up 
 stairs, when her guest shod his crutches with old 
 gloves, and limped out to the garden-gate by dawn, 
 where he and the farmer tolled the animal out of his 
 sty, and far down the street, by tempting red apples, 
 and then Farmer Steele took possession of him, and 
 he was seen no more. No, the first thing Miss Lu- 
 imda knew of her riddance was when Israel put his 
 nead into the back-door that same morning, some four 
 hours afterward, and said with a significant nod, 
 
 "He's gone ! " 
 
 After all his other chores were done, Israel had a 
 conference with Monsieur Leclerc ; and the two sallied 
 into the garden, and in an hour had dismantled the 
 low dwelling, cleared away the wreck, levelled and 
 smoothed its site, and monsieur, having previously 
 provided himself with an Isabella grape-vine, planted 
 it on this forsaken spot, and trained it carefully against 
 the end of the shed : strange to say, though it was 
 against all precedent to transplant a grape in Septem- 
 ber, it lived and flourished. Miss Lucinda' s gratitude 
 to Monsieur Leclerc was altogether disproportioned, 
 as he thought, to his slight service. He could not
 
 MISS LTJCINDA. 61 
 
 understand fully her devotion to her pets ; but he re- 
 spected it, and aided it whenever he could, though he 
 never surmised the motive that adorned Miss Luciuda's 
 table with such delicate superabundance after the late 
 departure, and laid bundles of lavender-flowers in his 
 tiny portmanteau till the very leather seemed to gather 
 fragrance. 
 
 Before long Monsieur Leclerc was well enough to 
 resume his classes, and return to his boarding-house ; 
 but the latter was filled, and only offered a prospect of 
 vacancy in some three weeks after his application : so 
 he returned home somewhat dejected ; and as he sat 
 by the little parlor-fire after tea, he said to his hostess 
 in. a reluctant tone, 
 
 " Mees Luciuda, you have been of the kindest to 
 the poor alien. I have it in my mind to relieve you of 
 this care very rapidly, but it is not in the Fates that I 
 do. I have gone to my house of lodgings, and they 
 cannot to give me a chamber as yet. I have fear that 
 I must yet rely me on your goodness for some time 
 more, if you can to entertain me so much moie of 
 time ? ' ' 
 
 " Why, I shall like to, sir," replied the kindly, sim- 
 ple-hearted old maid. "I'm sure you are not a mite 
 of trouble, and I never can forget what you did for my 
 pig." 
 
 A smile flitted across the Frenchman's thin dark 
 face, and he watched her glittering needles a few min 
 utes in silence before he spoke again. 
 
 "But I have other things to say of the most un- 
 pleasant to me, Mees Lucinda. I have a great debt 
 for the goodness and care you to me have lavished. 
 To the angels of the good God we must submit to be
 
 62 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 debtors ; but there are also of mortal obligations, j 
 have lodged in your mansion for more of ten weeks, 
 and to you I pay yet no silver ; but it is that I have it 
 not at present. I must ask of your goodness to wait." 
 
 The old maid's shining black eyes grew soft as she 
 looked at him. 
 
 " Why," said she, " I don't think you owe me much 
 of any thing, Mr. Leclerc. I never knew things last as 
 they have since you came. I really think you brought 
 a blessing. I wish you would please to think you don't 
 owe me any thing." 
 
 The Frenchman's great brown eyes shone with sus- 
 picious dew. 
 
 ' ' I cannot to forget that I owe to you far more than 
 any silver of man repays ; but I should not think to 
 forget that I also owe to you silver, or I should not be 
 worthy of a man's name. No, mces ! I have two 
 hands and legs. I will not let a woman most solitary 
 spend for me her good self." 
 
 " Well," said Miss Luciuda, " if you will be uneasy 
 till you pay me, I would rather have another kind of 
 pay than money. I should like to know how to dance. 
 I never did learn when I was a girl, and I think it 
 would be good exercise." 
 
 Miss Luciuda supported this pious fiction through 
 with a simplicity that quite deceived the Frenchman. 
 He did not think it so incongruous as it was. He had 
 seen women of sixty, rouged and jewelled and furbe- 
 lowed , foot it deftly in the halls of the Faubourg St. 
 Germain in his earliest youth ; and this cheery, healthy 
 woman, with lingering blooms on either cheek, and 
 uncapped head of curly black hair but slightly strewn 
 with silver, seemed quite as fit a subject for the accom-
 
 . MISS LUCTNDA. 63 
 
 plishment. Besides, he was poor ; and this offered 
 so easy a way of paying the debt he had so dreaded ! 
 Well said Solomon, "The destruction of the poor is 
 their poverty." For whose moral sense, delicate sen- 
 sitiveness, generous longings, will not sometimes give 
 way to the stringent need of food and clothing, the gall 
 of indebtedness, and the sinking consciousness of an 
 empty purse and threatening possibilities ? 
 
 Monsieur Leclerc's face brightened. 
 
 " Ah, with what grand pleasure shall I teach you the 
 dance ! " 
 
 But it fell dark again as he proceeded, 
 
 "Though not one, nor two, nor three, nor four 
 quarters shall be of value sufficient to achieve my pay- 
 ment." 
 
 "Then, if that troubles you, why, I should like to 
 take some French lessons in the evening, when you 
 don't have classes. I learned French when I was quite 
 a girl, but not to speak it very easily ; and if I could 
 get some practice, and the right way to speak, I should 
 be glad." 
 
 " And I shall give you the real Parisian tone, Mees 
 Lucinda," said he proudly. " I shall be as if it were 
 no more an exile when I repeat my tongue to you." 
 
 And so it was settled. Why Miss Lucinda should 
 learn French any more than dancing was not a question 
 in Monsieur Leclerc's mind. It is true that Chaldaic 
 would, in all probability, be as useful to our friend as 
 French ; and the flying over poles, and hanging by toes 
 and fingers, so eloquently described by apostles of the 
 body, would have been as well adapted to her style 
 and capacity as dancing. But his own language, and 
 his own profession ! what man would not have
 
 64 SOMEBODY'S NETGHBOKS. 
 
 regarded these as indispensable to improvement, par- 
 ticularly when they paid his board ? 
 
 During the latter three weeks of Monsieur Leclerc's 
 stay with Miss Lucinda, he made himself surprisingly 
 useful. He listed the doors against approaching winter 
 breezes ; he weeded in the garden, trimmed, tied, 
 trained, wherever either good office was needed, mend- 
 ed china with an infallible cement, and rickety chairs 
 with the skill of a cabinet-maker ; and, whatever hard 
 or dirty work he did, he always presented himself at 
 table in a state of scrupulous neatness. His long brown 
 hands showed no trace of labor ; his iron-gray hair was 
 reduced to smoothest order ; his coat speckless, if 
 threadbare-; and he ate like a gentleman, an accom- 
 plishment not always to be found in the " best society," 
 as the phrase goes : whether the best in fact ever lacks 
 it is another thing. Miss Lucinda appreciated these 
 traits ; they set her at ease ; and a pleasanter home-life 
 could scarce be painted than now enlivened the little 
 wooden house. But three weeks pass away rapidly ; 
 and when the rusty portmanteau was gone from her 
 spare chamber, and the well-worn boots from the 
 kitchen-corner, and the hat from its nail, Miss Lucinda 
 began to find herself wonderfully lonely. She missed 
 the armfuls of wood in her wood-box that she had to 
 fill laboriously, two sticks at a tune ; she missed the 
 other plate at her tiny round table, the other chair be- 
 side her fire ; she missed that dark, thin, sensitive 
 face, with its rare and sweet smile ; she wanted her 
 story-teller, her yarn-winder, her protector, back again. 
 Good gracious ! to think of an old lady of forty-seven 
 entertaining such sentiments for a man. 
 
 Presently the dancing-lessons commenced. It was
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 65 
 
 thought udvisable that Miss Manners should enter a 
 class, and in the fervency of her good intentions she 
 did not demur. But gratitude and respect had to 
 strangle with persistent hands the little serpents of the 
 ridiculous in Monsieur Leclerc's soul when he beheld 
 his pupil's first appearance. What reason was it, O 
 i-ose of seventeen ! adorning thyself with cloudy films 
 of lace and sparks of jewelry before the mirror that 
 reflects youth and beauty, that made Miss Lucinda 
 array herself in a brand-new dress of yellow muslin-de 
 laine strewed with round green spots, and displace her 
 customary handkerchief for a huge tamboured collar, 
 on this eventful occasion ? Why, oh, why ! did she tie 
 up the roots of her black hair with an unconcealable 
 scarlet string? And, most of all, why was her dress so 
 short, her slipper-strings so big and broad, her thick 
 slippers so shapeless, by reason of the corns and 
 bunions that pertained to the feet within? The "in- 
 stantaneous rush of several guardian angels" that 
 once stood dear old Hepzibah Pynchon in good stead 
 was wanting here ; or perhaps they stood by all- 
 invisible, their calm eyes softened with love deeper 
 than tears, at this spectacle so ludicrous to man, be- 
 holding in the grotesque dress and adornments only 
 the budding of life's divinest blossom, and in the 
 strange skips and hops of her first attempts at dancing 
 only the buoyancy of those inner wings that goodness 
 and generosity and pure self-devotion were shaping for 
 a future strong and stately flight upward. However, 
 men, women, and children do not see with angelic eyes, 
 and the titterings of her fellow-pupils were irrepressible. 
 One bouncing girl nearly choked herself with her hand- 
 kerchief, trying not to laugh ; and two or three did not
 
 66 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 even try. Monsieur Leclerc could not blame them. At 
 first he could scarce control his own facial muscles ; but 
 a sense of remorse smote him, as he saw how uncon- 
 scious and earnest the little woman was. and remem- 
 bered how often those knotty hands and knobbed feet 
 had waited on his need or his comfort. Presently he 
 tapped on his violin for a few moments' respite, and 
 approached Miss Lucinda as respectfully as if she had 
 been a queen. 
 
 " You are ver' tired, Mees Lucinda? " said he. 
 
 "I am a little, sir," said she, out of breath. "I 
 am not used to dancing : it's quite an exertion." 
 
 "It is that truly. If you are too much tired, is it 
 better to wait? I shall finish for you the lesson till I 
 come to-night for a French conversation ? ' ' 
 
 " I guess I will go home," said the simple little lady. 
 "I am some afraid of getting rheumatism. But use 
 makes perfect, and I shall stay through next time, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " So I believe," said monsieur, with his best bow, 
 as Miss Lucinda departed and went home, pondering 
 all the way what special delicacy she should provide 
 for tea. 
 
 "My dear young friends," said Monsieur Leclerc, 
 pausing with the uplifted bow in his hand, before he 
 recommenced his lesson, " I have observe that my new 
 pupil does make you much to laugh. I am not so sur- 
 prise ; for you do not know all, and the good God does 
 not robe all angels in one manner. But she have taken 
 me to her mansion with a leg broken, and have nursed 
 me like a saint of the blessed, nor with any pay of 
 silver, except that I teach her the dance and the French. 
 They are pay for the meat and the drink ; but she will
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 67 
 
 have no more for her good patience and care. I like 
 to teach you the dance ; but she could teach you the 
 saints' ways, which are better. I think you will no 
 more to laugh." 
 
 "No, I guess we won't!" said the bouncing girl 
 with great emphasis ; and the color rose over more than 
 one young face. 
 
 After that day Miss Lucinda received many a kind 
 smile and hearty welcome, and never did anybody ven- 
 ture even a grimace at her expense. But it must be 
 acknowledged that her dancing was at least peculiar. 
 With a sanitary view of the matter, she meant to make 
 it exercise ; and fearful was the skipping that ensued. 
 She chassed on tiptoe, and balanced with an indescrib- 
 able hopping twirl, that made one think of a chickadee 
 pursuing its quest of food on new-ploughed ground ; 
 and some late-awakened feminine instinct of dress, 
 restrained, too, by due economy, endued her with the 
 oddest decorations that woman ever devised. The 
 French lessons went on more smoothly. If Monsieur 
 Leclerc's Parisian ear was tortured by the barbarous 
 accent of Vermont, at least he bore it with heroism, 
 since there was nobody else to hear ; and very pleasant, 
 both to our little lady and her master, were these long 
 winter evenings, when they diligently waded through 
 Racine, and even got as far as the golden periods of 
 Chateaubriand. The pets fared badly for petting in 
 these days : they were fed and waited on, but not with 
 the old devotion. It began to dawn on Miss Lucinda's 
 mind that something to talk to was preferable, as- a 
 companion, even to Fun, and that there might be a 
 stranger sweetness in receiving care and protection 
 than in giving it.
 
 68 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Spring came at last. Its softer skies were as blue 
 over Dalton as in the wide fields without, and its foot- 
 steps as bloom-bringing in Miss Lucinda's garden as 
 in mead or forest. Now Monsieur Leclerc came to 
 her aid again at odd minutes, and set her flower-beds 
 with mignonette-borders, and her vegetable-garden 
 with salad-herbs of new and flourishing kinds. Yet 
 not even the sweet season seemed to hurry the catas- 
 trophe, that we hope, dearest reader, thy tender eyes 
 have long seen impending. No ; for this quaint alliance 
 a quainter Cupid waited : the chubby little fellow with 
 a big head and a little arrow, who waits on youth and 
 loveliness, was not wanted here. Lucinda's god of 
 love wore a lank, hard-featured, grizzly shape, no 
 less than that of Israel Slater, who marched into the 
 garden one fine June morning, earlier than usual, to 
 find monsieur in his blouse, hard at work weeding the 
 cauliflower-bed . 
 
 " Good-mornin', sir, good-mornin' ! " said Israel, in 
 answer to the Frenchman's greeting. " This is a real 
 slick little garden-spot as ever I see, and a pootty 
 house, and a real clever woman too. I'll be skwitched 
 ef it a'n't a fust- rate consarn, the hull on't. Be you 
 ever a-goin' back to France, mister? " 
 
 " No, my goot friend. I have nobody there. I 
 stay here. I have friend here ; but there, oh, non I 
 je ne reviendrai pas ! ah, jamais, jamais!" 
 
 "Pa's dead, eh? or shamming? Well, I don't un- 
 derstand your lingo ; but, ef you're a-goin' to stay here, 
 I don't see why you don't hitch bosses with Miss 
 Lucindy." 
 
 Monsieur Leclerc looked up astonished. 
 
 " Horses, my friend? I have no horse."
 
 MISS LUCINDA. 69 
 
 " Thunder 'n' dry trees ! I didn't say you bed, did 
 I? But that comes o' usin' what Parson Hyde calls 
 figgurs, I s'pose. I wish 't he'd use one kind o' figgur- 
 in' a leetle more : he'd pay me for that wood-sawin'. 
 I didn't mean nothin' about bosses. I sot out fur to 
 say, Why don't ye marry Miss Lucindy ? " 
 
 "I?" gasped monsieur, "I, the foreign, the 
 poor? I could not to presume so ! " 
 
 "Well, I don't see 's it's sech drefful presumption. 
 Ef you're poor, she's a woman, and real lonesome 
 too : she ha'n't got nuther chick nor child bclongin' to 
 her, and you're the only man she ever took any kind 
 of a notion to. I guess 'twould be jest as much for 
 her good as yourn." 
 
 " Hush, good Is-ray-el ! it is good to stop there. 
 She would not to marry after such years of goodness. 
 She is a saint of the blessed." 
 
 "Well, I guess saints sometimes fellerships with 
 sinners ; I've heerd tell they did : and, ef I was you, 
 I'd make trial for't. Nothin' ventur', nothin' have." 
 
 Whereupon Israel walked off, whistling. 
 
 Monsieur Leclerc's soul was perturbed within him 
 by these suggestions. He pulled up two young cauli- 
 flowers, and reset their places with pigweeds ; he hoed 
 the nicely sloped border of the bed flat to the path, and 
 then flung the hoe across the walk, and went off to his 
 daily occupation with a new idea in his head. Nor 
 was it an unpleasant one. The idea of a transition 
 from his squalid and pinching boarding-house to the 
 delicate comfort of Miss Lucinda's menage, the pros- 
 pect of so kind and good a wife to care for his hitherto 
 dreaded future, all this was pleasant. I cannot hon- 
 estly say he was in love with our friend : I must even
 
 70 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 confess that whatever element of that nature existed 
 between the two was now all on Miss Lucinda's side, 
 little as she knew it. Certain it is, that when she 
 appeared that day at the dancing-class in a new green 
 calico flowered with purple, and bows on her slip- 
 pers big enough for a bonnet, it occurred to Monsieur 
 Leclerc, that, if they were married, she would take no 
 more lessons. However, let us not blame him. He was 
 a man, and a poor one ; one must not expect too much 
 from men or from poverty : if they are tolerably good, 
 let us canonize them even, it is so hard for the poor 
 creatures ! And, to do Monsieur Leclerc justice, he 
 had a very thorough respect and admiration for Miss 
 Lucinda. Years ago, in his stormy youth-time, there 
 had been a pair of soft-fringed eyes that looked into 
 his as none would ever look again. And they mur- 
 dered her, those mad wild beasts of Paris, in the 
 chapel where she knelt at her pure prayers, murdered 
 her because she knelt beside an aristocrat, her best 
 friend, the Duchess of Montmorenci, who had taken 
 the pretty peasant from her own estate to bring her up 
 f or her maid. Jean Leclerc had lifted that pale shape 
 from the pavement, and buried it himself : what else he 
 buried with it was invisible. But now he recalled the 
 hour with a long, shuddering sigh, and, hiding his face 
 in his hands, said softly, " The violet is dead : there is 
 no spring for her. I will have now an amaranth : it 
 is good for the tomb." 
 
 Whether Miss Lucinda's winter dress suggested this 
 floral metaphor, let us not inquire. Sacred be senti- 
 ment, when there is even a shadow of reality about 
 it: when it becomes a profession, and confounds it- 
 self with millinery, and shades of mourning, it is 
 " bosh," as the Turkeys say.
 
 MISS LUCTNDA. 71 
 
 So that very evening Monsieur Leclerc arrayed him- 
 self in his best to give another lesson to Miss Luciuda. 
 But, somehow or other, the lesson was long in begin- 
 ning. The little parlor looked so homelike and so pleas- 
 ant, with its bright lamp and gay bunch of roses ou 
 the table, that it was irresistible temptation to lounge 
 and linger. Miss Lucinda had the. volume of Florian 
 in her hands, and was wondering why he 'did not 
 begin, when the book was drawn away, and a hand 
 laid on both of hers. 
 
 "Lucinda," he began, "I give you no lesson to- 
 night. I have to ask. Dear mees, will you to marry 
 your poor slave?" 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " said Miss Lucinda. 
 
 Don't laugh at her, Miss Tender-eyes. You will 
 feel just so yourself some day, when Alexander 
 Augustus says, "Will you be mine, loveliest of your 
 sex? " Only you won't feel it half so strongly, for you 
 are young, and love is nature to youth ; but it is a 
 heavenly surprise to age. 
 
 Monsieur Leclerc said nothing. He had a heart, 
 after all, and it was touched now by the deep emotion 
 that flushed Miss Luciuda 's face, and made her tremble 
 so violently ; but presently he spoke. 
 
 "Do not," said he. " I am wrong. I presume. 
 Forgive the stranger." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " said poor Lucinda again. " Oh ! you 
 KUOW it isn't that ; but how can you like me?" 
 
 There, mademoiselle, there's humility for you ! you 
 will never say that to Alexander Augustus. 
 
 Monsieur Leclerc soothed this frightened, happy, 
 incredulous little woman into quiet before very long ; 
 and, if he really began to feel a true affection for her
 
 72 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 from the moment he perceived her humble and entire 
 devotion to him, who shall blame him? Not I. If we 
 were all heroes, who would be valet-de-chambre? If 
 we were all women, who would be men? He was very 
 good as far as he went ; and, if you expect the chival- 
 ries of grace out of nature, you "may expect," as 
 old Fuller saith. So it was peacefully settled that they 
 should be married, with a due amount of tears and 
 smiles on Lucinda's part, and a great deal of tender 
 sincerity on monsieur's. She missed her dancing- 
 lesson next day ; and, when Monsieur Leclerc came in 
 the evening, he found a shade on her happy face. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " said she, as he entered. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" was Lucinda's favorite aspiration. 
 Had she thought of it as an Anglicizing of " Dieu / " 
 perhaps she would have dropped it ; but this time she 
 went on headlong, with a valorous despair, 
 
 " I have thought of something. I 'm afraid I can't ! 
 Monsieur, aren't you a Romanist? " 
 
 ' ' What is that ? ' ' said he, surprised. 
 
 "A Papist, a Catholic." 
 
 "Ah!" he returned, sighing, "once I was bon 
 Catholique, once in my gone youth ; after then I was 
 nothing but the poor man who bats for his life ; now I 
 am of the religion that shelters the stranger, and binds 
 up the broken poor." 
 
 Monsieur was a diplomatist. This melted Miss Lu- 
 cinda's orthodoxy right down : she only said, 
 
 " Then you will go to church with me? " 
 
 "And to the skies above, I pray," said monsieur, 
 kissing her knotty hand like a lover. 
 
 So in the earliest autumn they were married, mon- 
 sieur having previously presented Miss Lucinda with a
 
 MISS LUCrNDA. 73 
 
 delicate plaidcd gray silk for her wedding attire, in 
 which she looked almost young ; and old Israel was 
 present at the ceremony, which was briefly performed 
 by Parson Hyde in Miss Manners's parlor. They did 
 not go to Niagara, nor to Newport ; but that afternoon 
 Monsieur Leclerc brought a hired rockaway to the 
 door, and took his bride a drive into the country. 
 They stopped beside a pair of bars, where monsieur 
 hitched his horse, and, taking Lucinda by the hand, 
 led her into Farmer Steele's orchard, to the foot of his 
 biggest apple-tree. There she beheld a little mound, 
 at the head and foot of which stood a daily rose-bush 
 shedding its latest wreaths of bloom, and upon the 
 mound itself was laid a board, on which she read, 
 
 " Here lie the bones of poor piggy." 
 
 Mrs. Lucinda burst into tears ; and monsieur, pick- 
 ing a bud from the bush, placed it in her hand, and led 
 her tenderly back to the rockaway. 
 
 That evening Mrs. Lucinda was telling the affair to 
 old Israel with so much feeling, that she did not per- 
 ceive at all the odd commotion in his face, till, as she 
 repeated the epitaph to him, he burst out with, "He 
 didn't say what become o' the flesh, did he?" and 
 therewith fled through the kitchen-door. For years 
 afterward Israel would entertain a few favored audi- 
 tors with his opinion of the matter, screaming till the 
 tears rolled down his cheeks, 
 
 " That was the beateree of all the weddin'-towers I 
 ever .leerd tell on. Goodness ! it's enough to make 
 the AVanderin' Jew die o' larfin'."
 
 DELY'S COW. 
 
 I WENT down to the farmyard one day last month ; 
 and as I opened the gate I heard Pat Malony say, 
 " Biddy, Biddy ! " I thought at first he was calling a 
 hen ; but then I remembered the hens were all shut into 
 the poultry-house that day, to be sorted, and numbered, 
 and condemned. So I looked again, thinking perhaps 
 Pat's little lame sister had strayed up from the village, 
 and gone into the barn after Sylvy's kittens, or a 
 pigeon-egg, or to see a new calf ; but, to my surprise, 
 I saw a red cow, of no particular beauty or breed, 
 coming out of the stable-door, looking about her as if in 
 search of somebody or something ; and when Pat called 
 again, "Biddy, Biddy, Biddy!" the creature walked 
 up to him across the yard, stretched out her awkward 
 neck, sniffed a little, and cropped from his hand the 
 wisp of rowen hay he held, as composedly as if she 
 were a tame kitten, and then followed him all round 
 the yard for more, which I am sorry to say she did not 
 get. Pat had only displayed her accomplishments to 
 astonish me, 'and then shut her in her stall again. I 
 afterward hunted out Biddy's history, and here it is. 
 
 On the Derby turnpike, just before you enter Haner- 
 ford, everybody that ever travelled that road will re- 
 member Joseph German's bakery. It was a red brick 
 house, with dusty windows toward the street, and just
 
 DELY'S cow. 75 
 
 inside the door a little shop, where Mr. German retailed 
 the scalloped cookies, fluted gingerbread, long loaves 
 of bread, and scantily-filled pies in which he dealt, and 
 which were manufactured in the long shop, where in 
 summer you caught glimpses of flour barrels all a-row, 
 and men who might have come out of those barrels, 
 so strewed with flour were all their clothes, paper 
 cap and white apron scarcely to be distinguished from 
 the rest of the dress as far as color and dustiness went. 
 Here, too, when her father drove out the cart every 
 afternoon, sitting in front of the counter with her sew- 
 ing or her knitting, Dely German, the baker's pretty 
 daughter, dealt out the cakes, and rattled the pennies 
 in her apron-pocket, with so good a grace, that not a 
 young farmer came into Hanerford with grain, or 
 potatoes, or live-stock, who did not cast a glance in at 
 the shop-door going toward town, and go in on his 
 return, ostensibly to buy a sheet of gingerbread, or a 
 dozen cookies, for his refreshment on the drive home- 
 ward. It was a curious thing to see how much hungrier 
 they were on the way home than coming into town. 
 Though they might have had a good dinner in Haner- 
 ford, that never appeased their appetites entirely ; 
 while in the morning they had driven their slow teams 
 all the way without so much as thinking of cakes and 
 cheese. So by the time Dely was seventeen, her black 
 eyes and bright cheeks were well known for miles 
 about ; and many a youth, going home to the clean 
 Kitchen where his old mother sat by the fire, knitting, 
 or his spinster sister scolded and scrubbed over his 
 muddy boot-tracks, thought how pretty it would look 
 to see Dely German sitting on the other side, in her 
 neat calico frock and white apron, her black hair
 
 76 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 shining smooth, and her fresh, bright face looking a 
 welcome. 
 
 But Dely did not think about any one of them in a 
 reciprocal manner. She liked them all pretty well ; but 
 she loved nobody except her father and mother, her 
 three cats and all their kittens, the big dog, the old 
 horse, and a wheezy robin that she kept in a cage, 
 because her favorite cat had half killed it one day, and 
 it never could fly any more. For all these dumb things 
 she had a really intense affection. As for her father 
 and mother, she seemed to be a part of them : it never 
 occurred to her that they could leave her, or she them ; 
 and when old Joe German died one summer day, just 
 after Dely was seventeen, she was nearly distracted. 
 However, people who must work for their living have 
 to get over their sorrows practically much sooner than 
 those who can afford time to indulge them ; and, as 
 Dely knew more about the business and the shop than 
 anybody but the foreman, she had to resume her place 
 at the counter before her father had been buried a 
 week. It was a great source of embarrassment to her 
 rural admirers to see Dely in her black frock, pale and 
 sober, when they went in. They did not know what to 
 say : they felt as if their hands and feet had grown 
 very big all at once, and as if the cents in their pockets 
 never could be got at, at which they turned red and hot, 
 and got choked, and went away, swearing internally 
 at their own blundering shyness, and deeper smitten 
 than cvor with Dely, because they wanted to comfort 
 her so very much, and didn't know how. 
 
 One, however, had the sense and simplicity to know 
 how ; and that was George Adams, a fine, healthy young 
 fellow from Hartland Hollow, who came in at least
 
 DELY'S cow. 77 
 
 once a week with a load of produce from the farm on 
 which he was head man. The first time he went after 
 his rations of gingerbread, and found Dely in her 
 mourning, he held out his hand, and shook hers heartily. 
 Dely looked up into his honest blue eyes, and saw 
 them full of pity. 
 
 "I'm real sorry for you," said George. "My 
 father died two years ago." 
 
 Dely burst into tears ; and George couldn't help 
 stroking her bright hair softly, and saying, "Oh, 
 don't!" So she wiped her eyes, and sold him the 
 cookies he wanted ; but from that day thei e was one 
 of Dely's customers that she liked best, one team of 
 white horses she always looked out for, and one voice 
 that hurried the color into her face if it was ever so 
 pale ; and the upshot of pity and produce and ginger- 
 bread was that George Adams and Dely German were 
 heartily in love with each other, and Dely began to 
 be comforted for her father's loss six months after he 
 died. Not that she knew why, or that George had 
 ever said any thing to her more than was kind and 
 friendly ; but she felt a sense of rest, and yet a sweet 
 restlessness, when he was in her thoughts or presence, 
 that beguiled her grief, and made her unintentionally 
 happy. It was the old, old story, the one eternal 
 novelty that never loses its vitality, its interest, its 
 bewitching power, nor ever will till time shall be no 
 more. 
 
 But the year had not elapsed, devoted to double 
 crape and triple quillings, before Dely's mother, too, 
 began to be consoled. She was a pleasant, placid, 
 feeble-natured woman, who liked her husband very 
 jvell, and fretted at him in a mild, persistent way a
 
 78 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 good deal. He swore, and chewed tobacco, which 
 annoyed her ; he also kept a tight grip of his money, 
 which was not pleasant : but she missed him very much 
 when he died, and cried and rocked, and said how 
 afflicted she was, as much as was necessary, even in 
 the neighbors' opinion. But, as time went on, she 
 found the business very hard to manage : even with Dely 
 and the foreman to help her, the ledger got all astray, 
 and the day-book followed its example. So when old 
 Tom Kenyon, who kept the tavern half a mile farther 
 out, took to coming Sunday nights to see the " Widder 
 German," and finally proposed to share her troubles, 
 and carry on the bakery in a matrimonial partnership, 
 Mrs. German said she "guessed she would," and an- 
 nounced to Dely on Monday morning that she was 
 going to have a step-father. Dely was astonished and 
 indignant, but to no purpose. Mrs. German cried 
 and rocked, and rocked and cried again, rather more 
 saliently than when her husband died. But for all 
 that she did not retract ; and in due time she got into 
 the stage with her elderly lover, and went to Meriden, 
 where they got married, and came home next day to 
 carry on the bakery. 
 
 Joe German had been foolish enough to leave all hi a 
 property to his wife ; and Dely had no resource but to 
 stay at home, and endure her disagreeable position as 
 well as she could, for Tom Kenyon swore and chewed, 
 and smoked beside : moreover, he drank, not to real 
 drunkenness, but enough to make him cross and in- 
 tractable. Worse than all, he had a sou, the only child 
 of his first marriage ; and it soon became unpleasantly 
 evident to Dely, that Steve Kenyon had a mind to 
 marry her, and his father had a mind he should. Now,
 
 DELY'S cow 79 
 
 it is all very well to marry a person one likes ; but to 
 go through that ceremony with one you dislike is more 
 than anybody has a right to require, in my opinion, aa 
 well as Dely's : so when her mother urged upon her the 
 various advantages of the match, Steve Kenyon being 
 the present master and prospective owner of his father's 
 tavern, a great resort for horse-jockeys, cattle-dealers, 
 and frequenters of state and county fairs, Dely still 
 objected to marry him. But, the more she objected, the 
 more her mother talked ; her step-father swore ; and 
 the swaggering lover persisted in his attentions at all 
 tunes ; so that the poor girl had scarce a half-hour to 
 herself. She grew thin and pale and unhappy enough ; 
 and one day George Adams, stepping in unexpectedly, 
 found her with her apron to her eyes, crying most 
 bitterly. It took some persuasion, and some more 
 daring caresses than he had yet ventured on, to get 
 Dely's secret trouble to light. I am inclined to think 
 George kissed her at least once before she would tell 
 him what she was crying about. But Dely naturally 
 came to the conclusion, that if he loved her enough to 
 kiss her, and she loved him enough to like it, she might 
 as well share her troubles ; and the consequence was, 
 George asked her then and there to share his. Not 
 that either of them thought there would be troubles 
 under that copartnership, for the day was sufficient to 
 them ; and it did not daunt Dely in the least to know 
 that George's only possessions were a heifer calf, a 
 suit of clothes, and twenty dollars. 
 
 About a month after this eventful day, Dely went 
 into Hanerford on an errand, she said : so did George 
 Adams. They stepped into the minister's together, 
 and were married : so Dely's errand was done, and she
 
 80 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 rode out on the front-scat of George's empty wagon, 
 stopping at the bakery to tell her mother, and get her 
 trunk ; having wisely chosen a day for her errand when 
 her step-father had gone away after a load of flour 
 down to Hanerford wharves. Mrs. Kenyon went at 
 once into wild hysterics, and called Dely a jade-hopper 
 and an ungrateful child. But not understanding the 
 opprobrium of the one term, and not deserving the 
 other, the poor girl only cried a little, and helped 
 George with her trunk, which held all she could call 
 her own in the world, her clothes, two or three cheap 
 trinkets, and a few books. She kissed the cats all 
 round, hugged the dog, was glad her robin had died, 
 and then said good-by to her mother, who refused to 
 kiss her, and said George Adams was a snake in the 
 grass. This was too much for Dely : she wiped her 
 eyes, and clambered over the wagon-wheel, and took 
 her place beside George with a smile so much like cry- 
 ing, that he began to whistle, and never stopped for two 
 miles. By that time they were in a piece of thick pine- 
 woods, when, looking both before and behind to be 
 certain no one was coming, he put his arm round his 
 wife and kissed her, which seemed to have a consoling 
 effect ; and, by the time they reached his mother's little 
 house, Dely was as bright as ever. 
 
 A little bit of a house it was to bring a wife to, but 
 it suited Dely. It stood on the edge of a pine- wood, 
 where the fragrance of the resinous boughs kept the air 
 sweet and pure, and their leaves thrilled responsive to 
 every breeze. The house was very small and very red. 
 It had two rooms below, and one above ; but it was 
 neater than many a five-story mansion, and far more 
 cheerful. And, when Dely went in at the door, she
 
 DELY'S cow. 81 
 
 thought there could be no prettier sight than the ex- 
 quisitely neat old woman sitting in her arm-chair on 
 one side of the fireplace, and her beautiful cat on the 
 other, purring and winking, while the tea-kettle sang 
 and sputtered over the bright fire of pine-cones, nnd 
 the tea-table at the other side of the room was spread 
 with such clean linen, and such shining crockery, that 
 it made one hungry even to look at the brown-bread 
 and butter, and pink radishes, that were Dely's wed- 
 ding-supper. 
 
 It is very odd how happy people can be when they 
 are as poor as poverty, and don't know where to look 
 for their living, but to the work of their own hands. 
 Genteel poverty is horrible. It is impossible for one to 
 be poor and elegant, and comfortable ; but downright, 
 simple, unblushing poverty may be the most blessed of 
 states. And though it was somewhat of a descent in 
 the social scale for Dely to marry a farm-hand, fore- 
 man though he might be, she loved her George so 
 devoutly and healthily, that she was as happy as a 
 woman could be. George's mother, the sweetest and 
 teuderest mother to him, took his wife to a place beside 
 his in her heart ; and the two women loved each other 
 the more for this man's sake. He was a bond between 
 them, not a division. Hard work left them no thought 
 of rankling jealousy to make their lives bitter ; and 
 Dely was happier than ever she had thought she should 
 be away from her mother. Nor did the hard work hurt 
 her ; for she took to her own share all of it that was 
 out of doors, and troublesome to the infirmities of the 
 old lady. She tended the calf in its little log-hut, 
 shook down the coarse hay for its bed, made its gruel 
 till it grew beyond gruel, then drove it daily to the
 
 82 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 pasture where it fed, gave it extra rations of bread and 
 apple-parings and carrot- tops, till the creature knew 
 her voice, and ran to her call like a pet kitten, rubbing 
 its soft, wet nose against her red cheek, and showing 
 in a dozen blundering, calfish ways that it both knew 
 and loved her. 
 
 There are two sorts of people in the world, those 
 who love animals, and those who do not. I have seen 
 them both, I have known both ; and if sick or op- 
 pressed, or borne down with dreadful sympathies for a 
 groaning nation in mortal struggle, I should go for aid, 
 for pity, or the relief of kindred feeling, to those I had 
 seen touched with quick tenderness for the lower crea- 
 tion, who remember that the " whole creation travaileth 
 in pain together," and who learn God's own lesson of 
 caring for the fallen sparrow, and the ox that treadeth 
 out the corn. With men or women who despise ani- 
 mals, and treat them as mere beasts and brutes, I never 
 want to trust my weary heart or my aching head. But 
 with Dely I could have trusted both safely ; and the 
 calf and the cat agreed with me. 
 
 So, in this happy, homely life, the sweet centre of 
 her own bright little world, Dely passed the first year 
 of her wedded life, and then the war came ! Dread- 
 ful pivot of so many lives ! on it also this rude idyl 
 turned. George enlisted for the war. 
 
 It was not in Dely or his mother to stop him. 
 Though tears fell on every round of. his blue socks, and 
 sprinkled his' flannel shirts plentifully ; though the old 
 woman's wan and wrinkled face paled and saddened, 
 and the young one's fair throat quivered with choking 
 sobs when they were alone ; still, whenever George 
 appeared, he was greeted with smiles and cheer,
 
 BELT'S cow. 83 
 
 strengthened and steadied from this home armory 
 better than with sabre and bayonet, ' ' with might in 
 the inner man." George was a brave fellow, no doubt, 
 and would do good service to his free country ; but it 
 is a question with me, whether, when the Lord calls out 
 his ' ' noble army of martyrs ' ' before the universe of 
 men and angels, that army will not be found officered 
 and led by just such women as these, who fought 
 silently with the flesh and the Devil by their own 
 hearth, quickened by no stinging excitement of battle, 
 no thrill of splendid strength and fury in soul and 
 body, no tempting delight of honor or even recognition 
 from their peers, upheld only by the dull, recurrent 
 necessities of duty and love. 
 
 At any rate, George went, and they staid. The 
 town made them an allowance as a volunteer's family ; 
 they had George's bounty to begin with ; and a friendly 
 boy from the farm near by came and sawed their wood, 
 took care of the garden, and, when Dely could not go 
 to pasture with the heifer, drove her to and fro daily. 
 
 After George had been gone three months, Dely had 
 a little baby. Tiny and bright as it was, it seemed 
 like a small star fallen down from some upper sky to 
 lighten their darkness. Dely was almost too happy ; 
 and the old grandmother, fast slipping into that other 
 world whence baby seemed to have but newly arrived, 
 stayed her feeble steps a little longer to wait upon her 
 son's child. Yet, for all the baby, Dely never forgot 
 her dumb loves. The cat had still its place on the 
 foot of her bed ; and her first walk was to the barn, 
 where the heifer lowed welcome to her mistress, and 
 rubbed her head against the hand that caressed her, 
 with as much feeling as a cow can show, however
 
 84 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 much she may have. And Biddy the heifer was a 
 good friend to that little household all through that 
 long ensuing winter. It went to Dely's heart to sell 
 her first calf to the butcher ; but they could not raise 
 it : and when it was taken away she threw her check 
 apron over her head, and buried her face deep in the 
 pillow, that she might not hear the cries of appeal and 
 grief her favorite uttered. After this, Biddy would 
 let no one milk her but her mistress ; and many an 
 inarticulate confidence passed between the two while 
 the sharp streams of milk spun and foamed into the 
 pail below, as Dely's skilful hands coaxed it down. 
 
 They heard from George often. He was well, and 
 busy with drill and camp life, not in active service 
 as yet. Incidentally, too, Dely heard of her mother. 
 Old Kenyon was dead of apoplexy, and Steve like to 
 die of drink. This was a bit of teamster's gossip, but 
 proved to be true. Toward the end of the winter, old 
 Mother Adams slept quietly in the Lord. No pain or 
 sickness grasped her, though she knew she was dying, 
 kissed and blessed Dely, sent a mother's message to 
 George, and took the baby for the last time into her 
 arms ; then she laid her head on the pillow, smiled, 
 and drew a long breath no more. 
 
 Poor Dely's life was very lonely. She buried her 
 dead out of her sight, wrote a loving, sobbing letter to 
 George, and began to try to live alone. Hard enough 
 it was. March revenged itself on the past toleration 
 of winter : snow fell in blinding fury ; and drifts hid 
 the fences, and fenced the doors, all through Hartland 
 Hollow. Day after day Dely struggled through the 
 path to the barn to feed Biddy, and milk her ; and a 
 warm mess of bread and milk often formed her only
 
 DELY'S cow. 85 
 
 meal in that bitter weather. It is not credible to 
 those who think no more of animals than of chairs and 
 stones, how much society and solace they afford to 
 those who do love them. Biddy was really Dely's 
 friend. Many a long day passed when no human face 
 but the baby's greeted her from dawn till dusk. Bn< 
 the cow's beautiful purple eyes always turned to wel- 
 come her as she entered its shed-door ; her wet muzzle 
 touched Dely's cheek with a velvet caress ; and, while 
 her mistress drew from the downy bag its white and 
 rich stores, Biddy would turn her head round, and eye 
 her with such mild looks, and breathe such fragrance 
 toward her, that Dely, in her solitary and friendless 
 state, came to regard her as a real sentient being, capa- 
 ble of love and sympathy, and had an affection for her 
 that would seem utter nonsense to half, perhaps three- 
 quarters, of the people in this unsentimental world. 
 Many a time did the lonely little woman lay her head 
 on Biddy's neck, and talk to her about George, with 
 sobs and silences interspersed ; and many a piece of 
 dry bread steeped in warm water, or golden carrot, or 
 mess of stewed turnips and bran, flavored the dry hay 
 that was the staple of the cow's diet. The cat was 
 old now, and objected to the baby so strenuously, that 
 Dely regarded her as partly insane from age ; and 
 though she was kind to her of course, and fed her 
 faithfully, still a cat that could growl at George's baby 
 was not regarded with the same complacent kindness 
 that had always blessed her before ; and, whenever the 
 baby was asleep at milking-time, pussy was locked into 
 the closet, a proceeding she resented. Biddy, on 
 the contrary, seemed to admire the child, she cer- 
 tainly did not object to her, and necessarily obtained
 
 86 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 thereby a far higher place in Dely's heart than the 
 eat. 
 
 As I have already said, Dely had heard of her step- 
 father's death some time before ; and one stormy day, 
 the last week in March, a team coming from Haner- 
 ford with grain stopped at the door of the little red 
 house, and the driver handed Dely a dirty and ill- 
 written letter from her mother. Just such an epistle 
 it was as might have been expected from Mrs. Kenyon, 
 full of weak sorrow, and entreaties to Dely to come 
 home and live : she was old and tired ; the bakery was 
 coming to trouble for want of a good manager ; the 
 foreman was a rogue, and the business failing fast, 
 and she wanted George and Dely there. Evidently she 
 had not heard, when the letter began, of George's de- 
 parture, or baby's birth ; but the latter half said, "Cum 
 anyway. I want to se the baby. Ime an old critur 
 a-sinking into my graiv, and when george cums back 
 from the wars he must liv hear the rest off his life." 
 
 Dely's tender heart was greatly stirred by the letter, 
 yet she was undecided what to do. Here she was, 
 alone and poor ; there would be her mother, and she 
 loved her mother, though she could not respect her ; 
 there, too, was plenty for all : and, if George should 
 ever come home, the bakery business was just the 
 thing for him ; he had energy and courage enough to 
 redeem a sinking affair like that. But then what 
 should she do with the cow ? Puss could go home with 
 her ; but Biddy ? there was no place for Biddy. 
 Pasture was scarce and dear about Hanerford : Dely's 
 father had given up keeping a cow long before his 
 death for that reason. But how could Dely leave and 
 sell her faithful friend and companion? Her heart
 
 DELY'S cow. 87 
 
 sank at the thought : it almost turned the scale, for 
 one pitiful moment, against common sense and filial 
 feeling. But baby coughed, nothing more than a 
 slight cold ; yet Dely thought, as she had often 
 thought before, with a quick thrill of terror, What if 
 baby were ever sick? Seven miles between her and 
 the nearest doctor ; nobody to send, nobody to leave 
 baby with, and she herself utterly inexperienced in the 
 care; of children. The matter was decided at once ; 
 and, before the driver who brought her mother's letter 
 had come on his next journey for the answer he had 
 offered to carry, Dely's letter was written, sealed, and 
 put on the shelf, and she was busy contriving and 
 piecing out a warm hood and cloak for baby to ride in. 
 But every time she went to the barn to milk Biddy, 
 or feed her, the tears sprang to her eyes, and her mind 
 misgave her. Never before had the dainty bits of food 
 been so plentiful for her pet, or her neck so tenderly 
 stroked. Dely had written to her mother that she 
 would come to her as soon as her affairs were settled, 
 and she had spoken to Orrin Nye, who brought the 
 letter, to find a purchaser for her cow. Grandfather 
 Hollis, who bought Biddy, and in whose farmyard I 
 made her acquaintance, gave me the drover's account 
 of the matter, which will be better in his words than 
 mine. It seems he brought quite a herd of milch cows 
 down to AA'ondale, which is twenty miles from Haner- 
 ford, and, hearing that grandfather wanted a couple of 
 cows, he came to "'trade with him," as he expressed 
 it. He had two beautiful Ayrshires in the lot, clean 
 heads, shining skins, and good milkers, that mightily 
 pleased the old gentleman's fancy ; for he had long 
 brooded over his favorite scheme of a pure-blooded
 
 88 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 herd, and the red-and-white-clouded Ayrshires showed 
 beautifully on his green hillside pastures, and were 
 good stock besides. But Aaron Stow insisted so per- 
 tinaciously that he should buy this red cow, that the 
 squire shoved his hat back, and put both his hands in 
 his pockets, a symptom of determination with him, and 
 began to question him. They fenced a while in true 
 Yankee fashion, till at last grandfather became exas- 
 perated. 
 
 "Look, here, Aaron Stow!" said he, "what in 
 thunder do you pester me so about that cow for? 
 She's a good enough beast, I see, for a native ; but 
 those Ayrshires are better cows and better blood, and 
 you know it. What are you navigating round me for 
 so glib?" 
 
 "Well, now, squire," returned Aaron, whittling at 
 the gate with sudden vehemence, " fact is, I've set my 
 mind on your buyin' that critter, an' you jes' set down 
 on that 'ere milkin'-stool, an' I'll tell ye the rights 
 on't, though I feel kinder meechin' myself, to be so 
 soft about it as I be." 
 
 "Leave off shaving my new gate, then, and don't 
 think I'm going to trust a hundred and eighty-five solid 
 flesh to a three-legged stool. I'm too old for that. 
 I'll sit on the step here. Now go ahead, man." 
 
 So grandfather sat down on the step, and Aaron 
 turned his back against the gate, and kicked one boot 
 on the other. He was not used to narration. 
 
 " Well, you know we had a dreadful spell o' weather 
 a month ago, squire. There ha'n't never been such a 
 March in my day as this last ; an' 'twas worse up our 
 way'n 'twas here ; an' down to Hartlancl Holler was 
 the beat of all. Why, it snowed, an' it blowed, an' it
 
 DELY'S cow. 89 
 
 friz, till all natur' couldn't stan' it no more. Well, 
 about them days I was down to Hartland Centre 
 a-buyin' some fat cattle for Hanerford market ; an' I 
 met Orrin Nye drivin' his team pretty spry, for he see 
 it was comin' on to snow ; but, when he catched sight 
 o' me, he stopped the horses, an' hollered out to me : 
 so I stepped along, an' asked what he wanted. An' he 
 said there was a woman down to the Holler that had a 
 cow to sell, an' he knowed I was apt to buy cow-critters 
 along in the spring, so he'd spoke about it, for she was 
 kinder in a hurry to sell, for she was goin' to move. 
 So I said I'd see to.'t, an' he driv along. I thought 
 likely I should git it cheap, ef she was in a hurry to 
 sell, an' I concluded I'd go along next day : 'twa'n't 
 more'n seven mile from the Centre, down by a piece 
 o' piny woods, an' the woman was Miss Adams. I 
 used ter know George Adams quite a spell ago, an' he' 
 was a likely feller. A\ r ell, it come on to snow jest as 
 fine an' dry as sand, an' the wind -blew like needles ; 
 an' come next day, when I started to foot it down 
 there, I didn't feel as though I could ha' gone ef I 
 hadn't been sure of a good bargain. The snow hadn't 
 driv much, but the weather had settled down dreadful 
 cold : 'twas dead still, an' the air sorter cut ye to 
 breathe it ; but I'm naterally hardy, an' I kep' along 
 till I got there. I didn't feel so all-fired cold as I hev 
 sometimes ; but when I stepped in to the- door, an' she 
 asked me to hev a cheer by the fire, fust I knew I 
 didn't know nothin' : I come to the floor like a felled 
 ox. I expect I must ha' been nigh on to dead with 
 clear cold, for she was the best part o' ten minutes 
 bringin' on me to. She rubbed my hands an' face 
 with camphire, an' gin me some hot tea. She hadn't
 
 90 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 got no sperits in the house ; but she did every thing a 
 little woman could do, an' I was warmed through an* 
 through afore long, an' we stepped out into the shed to 
 look at the cow. 
 
 " Well, squire, I ha'n't got much natur' into me 
 noway, an' it's well I ha'n't ; but that cow beat all, I 
 declare for't ! She put her head round the minute 
 Miss Adams come in; an', if ever you see a dumb 
 beast pleased, that 'ere cow was tickled to pieces. She 
 put her nose down to the woman's cheek, an' she licked 
 her hands, an' she moved up agin' her, an' rubbed her 
 ear on her: she all but talked. An' when I looked 
 round, an' see them black eyes o' Miss Adams's with 
 wet in 'em, I 'most wished I had a pocket-handker- 
 cher myself. 
 
 " 'You won't sell her to a hard master, will you?' 
 says she. ' I want her to go where she'll be well cared 
 for, an' I shall know where she is ; for, if ever things 
 comes right agin, I want to hev her back. She's been 
 half my livin' an' all my company for quite a spell, an' 
 I shall miss her dreadfully.' 
 
 "'Well,' says I, 'I'll take her down to Squire 
 Hollis's in Avondale : he's got a cow-barn good enough 
 for a representative to set in, an' clean water, an' 
 chains to halter 'em up with, an' a dry yard where the 
 water all dreens off as slick as can be ; an' there a'n't 
 such a piece o' land nowhere round for root-crops ; an' 
 the squire he sets such store by his cows an' things, 
 I've heerd tell he turned off two Irishmen for abusin' 
 on 'em ; an' they has their bags washed, an' their tails 
 combed, every day in the year, an' I don't know but 
 what they ties 'em up with a blew ribbin.' " 
 
 "Get out ! " growled grandfather.
 
 DELY'S cow. 91 
 
 "Can't, jest yet, squire, not till I've done. Any- 
 way, I figgered it off to her, an' she was kinder con- 
 soled up to think on't ; for I told her I thought likely 
 you'd buy her cow. An' when we come to do the 
 tradin' part, why, con-found it ! she wa'n't no more fit 
 to buy an' sell a critter than my three-year-old Ilepsy. 
 I said a piece back I ha'n't got much natur', an' a man 
 that trades dumb beasts the biggest part o' the time 
 hedn't oughter hev ; but I swan to man ! natur' was too 
 much for me this time. I couldn't no more ha' bought 
 that cow cheap than I could ha' sold my old gran'ther 
 to a tin-peddler. Somehow, she was so innocent, an' 
 she felt so to part with the critter, an' then she let me 
 know't George was in the army ; an' thinks I, I guess 
 I'll help the gov'ment along some : I can't fight, 'cause 
 I'm subject to rheumatiz in my back, but I can look 
 out for them that can : so, take the hull on't, long an' 
 broad, why, I up an' gin her seventy-five dollars for 
 that cow, an' I'd ha' gin twenty more not to ha' seen 
 Miss Adams's face a-lookin' arter me an' her when we 
 went away from the door. 
 
 " So now, squire, you can take her, or leave her." 
 
 Aaron Stow knew his man. Squire Hollis pulled 
 out his pocket-book, and paid seventy-five dollars on 
 the spot for a native cow called Biddy. 
 
 " JNow clear out with your Ayrshircs ! " said he 
 irascibly. " I'm a fool, but I won't buy them too." 
 
 " Well, squire, good-day," said Aaron with a grin. 
 
 But I am credibly informed that the next week he 
 did come back with the two Ayrshires, and sold them 
 to grandfather, remarking to the farmer, that he 
 " should ha' been a darned fool to take the old gentle- 
 man at his word ; for he never knowed a man hanker
 
 92 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 arter harnsome stock, but what he bought it fust oi 
 last." 
 
 Now I also discovered that the regiment George en- 
 listed in was one whose colonel I knew well : so I 
 wrote, and asked about Sergeant Adams. My report 
 was highly honorable to George, but had some bad 
 news in it : he had been severely wounded in the right 
 leg, and, though recovering, would be disabled from 
 further service. A fortnight after, I drove into Haner- 
 ford with Grandfather Hollis, and we stopped at the 
 old bakery. It looked exquisitely neat in the shop, as 
 well as prosperous externally, and Dely stood behind 
 the counter with a lovely child in her arms. Grand- 
 father bought about half a bushel of crackers and 
 cookies, while I played with the baby. As he paid for 
 them, he said in his kind old voice, that nobody can 
 hear without pleasure, 
 
 ' ' I believe I have a pet of yours in my barn at 
 Avondale, Mrs. Adams." 
 
 Dely's eyes lighted up, and a quick flush of feeling 
 glowed on her pretty face. 
 
 ' ' O sir ! you did buy Biddy, then ? And you are 
 Squire Hollis?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am ; and Biddy is well, and well cared for, 
 as fat and sleek as a mole, and still comes to her 
 name." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, sir ! " said Dely, with an em- 
 phasis that gave the simple phrase most earnest mean- 
 ing. 
 
 " And how is your husband, Mrs. Adams? " said I. 
 
 A deeper glow displaced the fading blush grand- 
 father had called out, and her beautiful eyes flashed at 
 me.
 
 DELY'S cow. 93 
 
 " Quite well, I thank you, and not so very lame. 
 ^Lnd he's coming home next week." 
 
 She took the baby from me as she spoke, and, look- 
 ing in its bright little face, said, 
 
 "Call him, baby." 
 
 " Pa-pa ! " said the child. 
 
 " If ever you come to Avondale, Mrs. Adams, come 
 and see my cows," said grandfather as he gathered up 
 the reins. "You may be sure I won't sell Biddy to 
 anybody but you." 
 
 Dely smiled from the steps where she stood ; and we 
 drove away.
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 
 
 SAMUEL PAINE was a hard-headed, " hard-fe'tured " 
 Yankee boy, who grew up in the old homestead with- 
 out brothers or sisters. 
 
 Had any of those means of grace shared his joys 
 and sorrows, perhaps his nature would have been modi- 
 fied ; but he was sole heir of the few rugged acres, 
 scant pasturage for the old red cow, and the bit of 
 ' ' medder-land ' ' that reluctantly gave corn and rye 
 and potatoes enough for the household, and barely hay 
 sufficient to winter the cow and the venerable horse 
 that belonged to old Dibble Paine, Samuel's father. 
 Now, in such a case it is slave or starve in New Eng- 
 land. Hard work is the initial lesson. Samuel's 
 youth of labor began early. At three years old, in 
 brief garments of yellow flannel, and a flaxen thatch 
 of hair for head-covering, he toddled in and out of the 
 kitchen with chips in a basket ; he fed the chickens ; 
 he rode in the hay- wagon, and was, moreover, ruled 
 already with a rod of iron, or rather a stout shingle, 
 which hung ready to hand by the chimney-piece. At 
 seven the Assembly's Catechism was drilled into 
 him, and he trudged daily a mile and back to the red 
 schoolhouse, doing " chores " at every odd interval ; 
 getting up by daylight in summer, and long before in 
 winter, to fetch and carry for the poor, pale woman 
 94
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 95 
 
 who was wife and mother in that meagre household ; 
 going to meeting Sundays as faithfully as Parson 
 Wires himself ; and in the course of years growing up 
 to be a goodly youth, saving, industrious, correct, per- 
 fectly self-satisfied, and conscious of his own merits 
 and other people's demerits. 
 
 But the course of years takes as well as gives. 
 When Samuel was twenty, he was fatherless and moth- 
 erless. The old farm was let on shares ; and behind 
 the counter of a country store in Bassett he dealt out 
 with strict justice to his employer scant yards of 
 calico, even measures of grass-seed, small pounds 
 of groceries, weakly rum, sugar not too sweet, and 
 many other necessities of life in the same proportion. 
 Old Si Jones never had so thrifty a clerk, never made 
 so much money in the same time, and never had so 
 few loungers about. In due time Samuel experienced 
 religion, or said he did, was duly examined, glibly 
 reeled off his inward exercises to the admiring deacons, 
 and at the proper season was propounded, and admitted 
 to the church in Bassett. He had always been a 
 strictly moral young man, and a sober one ; not in the 
 sense of temperance, but sober in habit and manner. 
 
 Samuel Paine never indulged in those youthful gaye- 
 ties that so many boys rejoice in. He did not waste 
 his hard-earned substance in riotous picnics, husking- 
 frolics, boat-rides, or sleighing-parties ; he never used 
 tobacco in any form, never drank cider, or "waited" 
 on any girl in Bassett, though there was the usual 
 feminine surplus of a New-England village in this one. 
 In the evening he read law diligently in Squire Lar- 
 kin's office, because he thought it might be useful to 
 him hereafter. He sat in the singers' seat in the meet
 
 96 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ing-house, his straight, long face, cold gray eyes, 
 sleek light hair, and immaculate linen, looking re- 
 spectable enough for a whole congregation. He had 
 a class in Sunday school, ' a class of big girls, all of 
 whom hated him thorough!}', but never dared own it. 
 Armed with "Barnes's Notes" and "Cruden's Con- 
 cordance," he did his duty to his class in explaining 
 and expounding the doctrine of the lesson ; but, while 
 he impressed the letter on their minds, the sweet and 
 living spirit never lit his cool eye, or warmed bis accu- 
 rate speech. Whatever else those young girls learned 
 of Samuel Paine, they never learned to love the Lord 
 or his words ; for he knew not how to teach them. His 
 soul had never yet found its level, had never had the 
 lesson that comes to us all some time in our lives, 
 whether we accept it or not ; and he went on in his own 
 narrow way without let or hinderance. 
 
 Before Samuel was twenty-five, Si Jones retired from 
 business in Bassett, being persuaded by his wife to 
 remove into Vermont, where her friends lived. He 
 had made a good deal of money ; and being childless, 
 and well under his wife's thumb, she had induced him 
 to sell out, and go back to her old home. Now came 
 the time Samuel Paine had long looked for. He had 
 saved, spared, pinched, to this end. He bought out 
 the store and the small frame-house that contained it, 
 a house with two rooms up stairs, and a kitchen in 
 the little wing, Part of the money he paid down in 
 cash, part borrowed on a mortgage : the rest he was 
 forced to give notes for. 
 
 " Well," said 'Bijah Jones, a far-off cousin of Si's, 
 and the village loafer and joker, " guess folks'll hev to 
 keep then: eyes peeled now. I tell ye, Samwell Paine
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 97 
 
 i/eats the Dutch to drive a bargain. Ye won't know 
 where ye be, fust ye know any thing. He'll sell ye a 
 pair o' store pants in five minnits, when ye don't want 
 'em iio more'n a toad wants a pocket." 
 
 ' ' Dew tell ! ' ' sputtered old Grandsir Baker, who had 
 just come over from the town-house with a hank of 
 yarn to trade off for some molasses. "Well, well, 
 well ! Hows 'ever, he can't sell me nothin', cos I 
 hain't got no money. Ye can't get blood outen a stun, 
 nohow. He, he, he ! " 
 
 " Blessed be nothin' ! " dryly put in 'Bijah. 
 
 And all this while Samuel was announcing his prin- 
 ciples in the store to a knot of farmers and village 
 worthies come in for their weekly supplies for the first 
 time since S. Paine' s name had been seen above the 
 door. 
 
 "Yes, sir; yes, sir! I've cleaned up consider'ble. 
 I hope to clear up more. I 'xpect to conduct this 
 business on a line, gentlemen, a straight line, so to 
 speak, seemiu'ly, as it were. There ain't no rewl better 
 for all things than the Golden Rewl. That contains 
 the sperrit and principle of the hull thing : do's you'd 
 like ter be done by. That's my idee in short partikelar 
 metre." 
 
 A dry, rattling laugh emphasized this conclusion, 
 and a sort of unwilling "Haw, haw!" chorussed it 
 from the audience. 'Bijah Jones had drawn near 
 enough to the open door to hear part of the sentence, 
 and grinned widely. 
 
 " Come along, grandsir," shouted he to the hobbling 
 old fellow from the poor-house. "Strike while th' 
 iron's hot. He's talking Scripter with all fury : naow's 
 your time to swop that air yarn. Bet you'll git a hull 
 cask o' 'lasses ! "
 
 98 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Grandsir Baker did not quicken his halting pace for 
 this advice, and it is not on record that he got any 
 more molasses than he expected to : but, when he got 
 back to the poor-house, he told Mrs. Wells that molasses 
 had riz, and yarn hadn't ; Samwell Paine told him so. 
 
 A village store the store is not a matter of 
 hazard, but a vital necessity. There is no competition 
 to be dreaded in a place like Bassett. Nobody else 
 had capital or experience to set up an opposition shop : 
 there was no better place to trade within twenty miles, 
 and it was by the very doors of Bassett people. If they 
 did not quite like the way things were conducted, they 
 must still abide by it, for there was no help. And in 
 many things the business was mightily improved since 
 Si Jones's time. The shop itself was clean and orderly. 
 Cod-fish did not lurk in a dusty corner behind patent 
 ploughs, and tea-leaves did not fall into the open flour- 
 barrel. If sand was suspected in the sugar, there were 
 certainly no chips of tobacco in its grainy mass ; and 
 calico and candy did not live on the same shelf ; or 
 raisins, bar soap, and blacking occupy a drawer together. 
 The floor was swept, washed, and sanded, the counters 
 scoured off, tho cobwebs banished, the steps repaired, 
 the windows kept bright and clear, the scales shining. 
 If S. Paine's clerk had hard work for a lad of eighteen, 
 his employer could quote Scripture with tremendous 
 fluency and fitness when the boy's old mother remon- 
 strated. 
 
 "Well, Miss Bliss, I don't deny John has to work. 
 So do I ; so do I. It is good for a man to bear the 
 yoke in his youth, Scripter says. There ain't nothin' 
 better for no man than work. ' By the sweat o' thy 
 brow,' ye know. The sperrit an' principle of the
 
 SQUIEE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 99 
 
 Golden Rewl is my sperrit an' principle : do's you'd be 
 done by. Yes, yes, ef I was a boy agin, I'd want ter 
 be fetched up jest as I was fetched up, on hard work 
 an' poor livin'. That rouses the grit, I tell ye. I'm 
 a-doin' by John jest as I was done by ; so don't ye re- 
 sent it. It's fur his best int'rest, soul an' body." 
 Will- which chopped straw poor Mrs. Bliss's motherly 
 heart was forced to content itself, for there was no 
 other refreshment. 
 
 Perhaps, in this application of the "Golden Rewl," 
 Samuel Paine forgot how his childish flesh had wept 
 and cringed under the hardships of his early life, how 
 his childish soul had flamed with rage under the torture 
 and insult of the unjustly applied shingle, and the con- 
 stant watching of stern arid pitiless eyes. He may not 
 have remembered how his growing bones ached under 
 heavy burdens, and his spare flesh craved enough even 
 of such diet as pork, cabbage, and rye-bread to allay 
 the pangs of childish hunger and the demands of daily 
 growth. But, if he did not, is that excuse ? Is not the 
 command explicit to ' ' remember all the way the Lord 
 thy God led thee " ? and is forgetfulness without sin? 
 
 But the man kept on in his respectable career, buy- 
 ing and selling, buying at the lowest rates, and selling 
 at the highest ; faithful externally to all his duties ; 
 ever present in church ; never late at his Sunday-school 
 class ; never missing a prayer-meeting ; a zealous ex- 
 horter; "a master-hand at prayin'," as Widow Bliss 
 allowed ; deeply interested in the work of missions ; 
 and a stated contributor to the Bible Society : but at 
 home, no, it was no home, at his store, strict in 
 every matter of business, merciless to his debtors, close 
 and niggardly even to his best customers, harsh to his
 
 100 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 clerk, and greedy of every smallest profit. Nobody 
 ever went to him for friendly offices. Nobody asked 
 him to be neighborly ; no subscription-list for a poor 
 man with a broken leg or a burned-down barn ever 
 crossed the door-sill of the store. When all other 
 young men went to quiltings and sociables, he staid at 
 the desk, amusing himself with his ledger or a ponder- 
 ous law-book borrowed from Squire Larkin. So he 
 lived, or existed, till he was thirty years old ; and one 
 fine day Squire Larkin died, and left behind him an 
 only daughter, a goodly sum of money, and a vacant 
 office of postmaster. Now was Samuel's time again. 
 He attended the funeral, and appeared to be deeply 
 affected by the loss of an old acquaintance. He called 
 on Miss Lucy as early as was proper, and made an 
 offer for the squire's law-books. They were useless to 
 Lucy now, and she had not thought of selling them. 
 The nearest city was full thirty miles away, and she had 
 not even a friend in its busy sphere ; nobody in Bassett 
 wanted law-books : so Samuel Paine bought them for a 
 quarter of their value, and Lucy never found it out. 
 His next step was to petition for the post-office : here, 
 again, nobody interfered. It would be very convenient 
 to all concerned that the post-office should be in the 
 store : that was its natural and fit situation. When 
 Squire Larkin took it into his hands, his old law-office 
 stood close by Si Jones's place of business ; but that 
 tiny tenement had been burned this long time, and the 
 mails carried to Mr. Larkin's house, and distributed in 
 (he south parlor, where, also, his books and his few 
 clients found a place. Now, if S. Paine got the office, 
 it would be "everlastin' handy," everybody said : so 
 everybody signed the petition, and postmaster Paine 
 was sworn in.
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 10 1 
 
 Lucy Larkin was no longer young : she was 
 eight at least, a gentle, faded, pretty woman, with 
 mild blue eyes, and thin soft hair of dull brown, and 
 soft trembling lips. She was not forcible or energetic ; 
 she pottered about the house a good deal, and had 
 headaches, and went punctually to sewing-circles. Her 
 literary tastes were not violent. She was fond of 
 Tupper and the "Lady's Book;" and every day she 
 read a chapter in the Bible, and tried with all her simple 
 heart to be good. But she had not much vitality in 
 body or soul ; and after her father, who had always 
 been her tender companion and guide, left her to her- 
 self, Lucy was dreadfully lonely. The squire left her 
 money well tied up ; but she had all the income, and 
 the principal was also well invested. Here was another 
 opening for S. Paine. 
 
 "It really seems providential," he said to himself, 
 as he carefully sanded the last barrel of sugar, having 
 first filled his own jar. For, since he had taken the 
 store, he had lived in the two rooms above it, taken 
 care of his own wants himself, and hired Widow Bliss 
 one day in the week to do his washing, ironing, and 
 mending, all of which must be achieved within those 
 twelve hours, or her dollar (according to agreement) 
 was forfeited. "Yes, it does seem to be a leadin'. 
 She can't sell that house, there ain't nobody ni Bas- 
 sett wants to buy a house, an' it's real handy to the 
 store. I can put Widder Bliss up stairs, an' then John 
 won't lose no time a-comin' an' a-goin' to his meals : 
 he'll be real handy to his work, an' I can stop the rent 
 out o' his wages, so's to be sure on't. Guess I won't 
 move them law-books yit. Things seems to be gittin' 
 inter shape somehow. I'll fetch round there to-morrow
 
 102 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 night, if I'm spared, an' visit with her a little." And. 
 covering up the sugar carefully, Samuel Paine took 
 himself off to bed. 
 
 Poor Lucy was lonely, and Mr. Paine made himself 
 agreeable. He condoled with her in good set terms, 
 quoted Scripture, and threw in verses of Dr. Watts ia 
 an appropriate manner ; blew his nose sonorously when 
 Lucy cried a little, and thereby produced in her inno- 
 cent mind the impression that he was crying too. And 
 after he had cheered her up a little with tender exhor- 
 tations not to give way too much to her feelings, to 
 remember that man was made to mourn, that every- 
 body must die some time or other, and that no doubt 
 Squire Larkin, or rather "our dear departed friend," 
 enjoyed the ' ' hallelooycrs ' ' of heaven much better 
 than his daughter's society and keeping post-office, 
 with other appropriate remarks of the same kind, he 
 bade her good-night, tenderly squeezing her hand as he 
 left, and causing the poor little woman to feel doubly 
 lonely, and to wish he would come back. 
 
 Ah ! why do we try to comfort those whom death 
 has bereft? Why do we go over these vain conven- 
 tionalisms which we know are futile? Can words lil& 
 these bring back the smile, the voice, the touch, for 
 which we hunger with maddening eagerness ? Can it 
 help us, in our hopeless longing, to know that others 
 suffer the same vital anguish ? that to die is the sure 
 fate of all we love, sooner or later? or that we must 
 submit to these solitudes and cryings, and strong tears, 
 because we cannot help ourselves? No, ten thousand 
 times no ! There is but one consolation of real virtue, 
 and that is the closer clinging of the soul to Him who 
 cannot die. The rings that clasped these broken sup-
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 103 
 
 ports must close on higher branches, even on the Tree 
 of Life ; and if human love takes us in its tender arms, 
 and silently kisses away our tears, it may bring us still 
 nearer to the divine ; for, if we so love one another, 
 shall not God who made us love us eternally and 
 infinitely? But Lucy Larkin was one of the bending 
 sort of women, who never break under any blow. She 
 went her placid way about the world she knew, did all 
 her tranquil duties, and prayed hard to be resigned. 
 It made resignation easier to have Mr. Paine come in 
 once or twice a week ; and when, after a decent inter- 
 val, he proposed to fill the vacant place in her heart, 
 the little smitten plant rose up meekly, and accepted 
 the pallid sunshine with gentle surprise and content. 
 She was so glad not to be lonely any more, and so 
 astonished that such a smart, pious man as Samuel 
 Paine should have thought to make her an offer, ' ' she 
 that wasn't talented, nor good-lookin', nor real young." 
 Unworldly little soul ! Her twenty thousand dollars 
 were more to this "smart" man than the beauty of 
 Helen, the gifts of Sappho, or the divine sparkle and 
 freshness of ideal girlhood ; but she never guessed it. 
 "So they were married just a year after her father's 
 death. Mrs. Bliss was installed into the tenement over 
 the store ; and Squire Larkin 's handsome old house, 
 being freshened up with paint, and set in thorough 
 order, though without any expense of new furnishings, 
 seemed to renew its youth. Perhaps, when Mrs. Paine 
 learned to know her husband better, she did not expe- 
 rience all that superhuman bliss which poets and ro- 
 mancers depict as the result of matrimony but then 
 who does ? Most of us learn to be content if we can 
 rub along easily with our life-partners, and cultivate a
 
 104 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 judicious blindness and deafness, in the wise spirit of 
 good old Quaker Ellwood's well-known hymn : 
 
 " Oh that miue eyes might closed be 
 To what becomes me not to see ; 
 That deafness might possess mine ear 
 To what becomes me not to hear! " 
 
 Lucy was not consciously so wise as this ; but she had 
 the greatest respect for her husband's piety and smart- 
 ness ; and, if she could not understand certain of his 
 manners and customs, she still thought a man could 
 not err who made such long and fervent prayers at 
 family devotions, and who always had the Golden Rule 
 on his lips as a professed rule of life. She was not 
 naturally demonstrative : few New-England women 
 are. If they were as afraid of being angry, or cross, 
 or peevish before people, as they are of being affection- 
 ate and tender, life would be mightily sweetened to 
 many of us. But when our sour but sublime old Puri- 
 tan fathers made it a legal offence for a man to kiss 
 his wife on Sunday, what wonder that their descend- 
 ants' teeth should be set on edge ? 
 
 But, if Mrs. Paine was not caressing and affectionate 
 in manner, Mr. Paine was still less so. If he had any 
 heart beside the muscular organ of that name, he had 
 it yet to discover : certainly Lucy had not awakened 
 it any more than his last investment in groceries. 
 Things went on very calmly with the pair for a year 
 or two ; the only disturbance being a sudden and un- 
 reasonable crying-fit of Lucy's, in which Mr. Paine 
 detected her, coming home on an errand quite unex- 
 pectedly. 
 
 "I ca-ca-can't help it!" she sobbed hysterically, 
 when he sternly demanded,
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 105 
 
 " What on airth's the matter with ye, Looey ? Stop, 
 now, right off. Stop, I tell ye, an' speak up.'* 
 
 " Oh, o-h, o-h, husband ! Miss Nancy Tuttle's ben 
 here : she's ben a-talkin' awful. She said she consid- 
 ered 'twas her dooty to come an' deal with me, becoz 
 becoz oh, o-h, o-h! " 
 
 " Stop it, now, thunderin' quick, Looey ! I can't 
 stan' here all day." 
 
 " O-h ! she said she heerd a lot of talk against you, 
 husband ; an' she thought I'd ought to know it, so's't 
 I could use my influence with you, an' kinder persuade 
 you to do different." 
 
 A grim smile twisted S. Paine's stiff lips. Lucy's 
 influence with him, indeed ! 
 
 "Well, well," said he, "go ahead: let's hear what 
 I've ben a-doin'." 
 
 "O-h! oh, dear! She said you sanded the sugar 
 down to the store, an' put water into the sperrits, an' 
 asked folks two prices for butter. Oh, dear ! I never 
 was so beat in all my days." 
 
 "H-m," growled Mr. Paine. "I'll settle with her 
 myself, Looey." 
 
 " Oh, you can't ! you can't noways. She's gone off 
 in the stage to York State to live. She said she felt 
 as though she must free her mind before she went, so 
 she jest stepped in." 
 
 "Darn her! " 
 
 Luckily for Lucy she was sobbing so hard she did 
 not hear this expletive, which had all the force of a 
 stronger oath, coming from those decorous lips, yet 
 was not quite open profanity. 
 
 "Look a-here, Looey," Mr. Paine began: "jest 
 you shut your head about that scandalous old maid's
 
 106 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 talk. Hain't I told ye time an' agin that the sperrit 
 an' principle o' the Golden Rewl was my sperrit an' 
 principle? What's the harm ef I sell poor folks butter 
 a leetle mite cheeper'n I sell it to folks with means ? 
 An', ef I put a pint o' water inter Bije Jones's rum- 
 jug, I do't out o' consideration for his fam'ly : he 
 can't afford to buy clear sperrit. As for shoogar, it's 
 sanded afore it comes to me, you better believe ! Now 
 don't ye go a-tellin' everybody all these lies : they 
 grow every time they're sot out in fresh ground. 
 There ain't nothin' so good for a fool's talk nor a liar's 
 as a hullsome lettin' alone." With which piece of 
 verbal wisdom Samuel Paine went his way, and Lucy 
 subsided to her customary and domestic meekness. 
 
 But the current of their lives was mightily disturbed, 
 some months after this conversation, by the advent into 
 the quiet household of a big obstreperous baby. Lucy 
 was blessed for once in her life to the very overflowing 
 of her torpid heart. Mr. Paine would have been better 
 pleased with a boy, to take the store and the post-office 
 after him ; but still he was pleased. An odd stir of 
 feeling astonished him when he saw the helpless little 
 creature ; and with natural forecast he reflected that 
 there might be a boy yet, and so forgave her for being 
 only a girl. However, when years slipped by, and no 
 boy came, the sturdy, bright, merry little girl made her 
 way boldly into her father's good graces, and almost 
 reconciled him to her sex. Miss Louise ruled her 
 mother, of course ; that was in the nature of things : 
 but all the village looked on in wonder to see the mas- 
 tery she achieved over Samuel Paine, or as he was 
 now called, partly because of the legal information 
 he had acquired, and on a pinch dispensed, from his
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 107 
 
 father-in-law's library, and partly because he had well 
 stepped into that gentleman's shoes otherwise, Squire 
 Paine. 
 
 Louise was an unaccountable offshoot from the pa- 
 rental tree certainly. Her vivid complexion, waving 
 dark hair, brilliant brown eyes, and well-made figure, 
 were not more at variance with the aspects of her 
 father and mother than her merry, honest, and fearless 
 nature was with their dispositions. ^ Keither of them 
 tried to govern her, after a few futile attempts. Her 
 mother did not see any need of it. To- her the child 
 was perfect, a gift of God, held in fear and trembling, 
 lest he should recall it from mortal idolatry, but, being 
 such a gift, to be entertained as an angel. Squire 
 Paine never held any such nonsensical idea as this. 
 But, if he undertook to scold or reprove mademoiselle, 
 she instantly sprang into his arms, wound her fat hands 
 in his coat-collar, and snuggled her curly head against 
 his lips with a laugh like a bobolink's ; and, utterly 
 routed, the squire would lift her to his shoulder, and 
 march her off to the store, to range among raisin-boxes, 
 sugar-barrels, and candy-jars to her heart's content, 
 feeling all the while half ashamed of the unwonted 
 warmth in his breast, the difficulty of speech, the soft 
 cowardice that carried him away captive, bound to the 
 chariot of this small conqueror, who was gracious 
 enough not to triumph, only because she conauered un- 
 consciously. 
 
 So matters went on year after year. In spite of 
 sweets and spoiling, Louise grew up strong and healthy, 
 thanks to the open air in which it was her royal pleas- 
 ure to live and move, and have her being. A city 
 mother would have wept over the brown complexion,
 
 108 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 in which living crimson, burned with a warm splendor 
 unknown to milk and roses ; and any boarding-school 
 phalanx would have shuddered at the well-tanned, slen- 
 der hands that were so deft at nutting, fishing, picking 
 berries, and digging roots. But Bassett people were 
 not fine. They only laughed and nodded as Louise 
 tore down the wide street on the squire's ancient horse, 
 lashed to a horrid gallop by an old trunk-strap whanged 
 about his sides, and the thumps of stout country boots, 
 when he dared relax this spirited pace. 
 
 By and by Lucy, quite ashamed of herself, in all 
 these years of mild motherly bliss, to think she had 
 never given her husband a son, began to fade and fail 
 a little, and at last declined into her grave as gently as 
 a late spring snow-drift melts into the brown grasses. 
 Louise was fifteen now, and knew no more about house- 
 keeping than a deer in the forest, though successive 
 seasons at the academy had given her a fair education 
 for a country girl who did not need or intend to teach 
 for her living. She mourned for her dear, patient little 
 mother far more than she missed her ; for Lucy was too 
 inert, too characterless, to leave a wide vacancy in her 
 home. There are some people whose departure takes 
 the sunshine of our days, the salt of our food, the 
 flavor of our pleasures, yea, the breath of our lives, 
 away with them, whose loss is a wound never to be 
 healed, always bleeding, smarting, burning into our 
 very souls, till time shall be no more ; and there are 
 others, whose death, after the first natural burst of feel- 
 ing, fails to impress itself deeply, even on their nearest 
 and dearest. The selfish, the exacting, the tasteless, 
 timid natures, that were scarce more than vegetable in 
 their humanity, these are lightly mourned ; and of 
 these last was Lucy Paine.
 
 SQUIKE PAINE~'S CONVERSION. 109 
 
 It became necessary, it is true, to put a housekeeper 
 in her place ; for the ' ' hired girl ' ' whom Squire Paine 
 had unwillingly consented to install in the kitchen 
 when his wife's strength began to fail, could not be 
 trusted to manage the household : so Mr. Paine be- 
 thought himself of a second-cousin living in a small 
 village up the country, of whom he had now and then 
 heard incidentally, and happened to know was still 
 unmarried, and pursuing her trade of tailoress about 
 Hermon and the vicinity. So he wrote to Miss Roxy 
 Keep to come down at once to Bassett and see him, as 
 Hermon was too far for him to go, taking time from 
 his business which he could not spare. It was made 
 very plain in Squire Paine's letter that Miss Roxy's 
 visit was purely a matter of business ; and her answer 
 was as business-like as could be desired. She could 
 not, she said, afford a journey to Bassett, unless it 
 resulted in some purpose of good : if Squire Paine 
 wanted to see her enough to pay her fare* one way, she 
 was willing to ' ' resk ' ' the other half. This curt and 
 thrifty, note rather pleased the squire, ; for, though he 
 did not want to risk his money any more than Miss 
 Roxy, still he thought her proposition showed her to 
 be of his own frugal and forehanded sort, and he at 
 once closed with those terms. 
 
 It might be a curious matter of investigation to note 
 the influence different occupations have upon those who 
 pursue them. Why is it that a tailoress was always 
 incisive, practical, full of resource, acute, fearless, 
 and even snappy? Did anybody ever see a meek 
 woman useful with cloth and shears ? Do the mascu- 
 line habiliments which she fashions impart a virile 
 vigor, and the implements of her trade a man-like
 
 110 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 strength, to the mind which plans and the hand which 
 wields them ? But we have no tune for inductive sci- 
 ence here. When Squire Paine met Roxy Keep at the 
 door, he was at once struck by her compact aspect 
 and entire self-possession. Her gown of dark home- 
 made gingham, and thick plaid shawl, were simply the 
 most useful garments that could be. Beauty did not 
 excuse their being, much less that of the severe Leg- 
 horn bonnet, without flower or feather, tied down under 
 her chin with a sturdy greenish ribbon that must have 
 been her grandmother's. But over all these the sensi- 
 ble face, the keen, dark eyes, firm mouth, and dominant 
 nose, forbade any idea of ridicule or contempt to be 
 associated with Miss Roxy, whatever she chose to 
 wear. The squire was as urbane as he knew how 
 to be. 
 
 " Set down, cousin Roxy, set down. I'll take ye 
 over to the house in a minnit. I've hed to put in a 
 new clerk, ye .see. John Bliss he tho't he could do 
 better in the city : so he up an' left me sudden, too 
 sudden re'lly, considerin' him an' me hed ben together 
 so long. An' now 'Lisha Squires has took his place. 
 'Lisha's a likely young man, for what I know well 
 eddicated ; father's a minister o' the gospel ; got run 
 down a-preachin'. His wife had means not much, 
 not much, but 'nough to buy a farm : so they traded 
 with me for th' old humstead, an' he's a-farmin' on't, 
 an' 'Lisha he's gi'n up goin' to college, an' took John 
 Bliss's place here. He's ruther high-strung, to be 
 sure ; but he's smart, real smart, an' I don't know as 
 I could ha' did better. He's a-onheadin' some barr'ls 
 now. A-h ! there he is." 
 
 And a handsome young fellow, grave and sad be-
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. Ill 
 
 yond his years, came up from the cellar with a hatchet 
 in his hand. Miss Roxy's keen eyes read that open 
 face at once. She felt the purest pity for the mis- 
 placed boy, whose education was wasted, and his na- 
 ture disgusted, by the repellent character of his duties 
 as well as his employer. Elisha was indeed misplaced ; 
 but he was in bis daily way a hero, and to be heroic 
 iu the pel ty drudgery of a distasteful life is a thousand 
 times harder than to win splendid battles. He had 
 given up every thing to help his feeble father and his 
 six sisters ; so had his mother : and neither of them 
 looked upon their sacrifices as more than a matter of 
 course, which, perhaps, was the one touch superior 
 even to heroism. 
 
 But Miss Roxy, used to that sort of intercourse with 
 many, perhaps most, of the families in her neighbor- 
 hood, which is attributed to the proverbial valet de 
 chambre, was yet so much more perceptive than that 
 stupid French man-servant, that she knew a hero even 
 in a country store ; and she turned away with the 
 squire, carrying in her heart a fund of admiration and 
 good will that was to stand Elisha in stead at a future 
 time of need. 
 
 In the library of Squire Larkin's time the next hour 
 was spent by Samuel Paine and Roxy Keep in a pas- 
 sage of arms. He was determined to secure- Roxy to 
 manage his establishment on his own terms : and she 
 was willing to be secured, but it must be on her terms ; 
 and, being a tailoress, she carried the day. In con- 
 sideration of the little home she left in Hermon, and 
 the lucrative trade she left, she required of the squire 
 a written guaranty that her services should continue 
 for two years in any case, subject only to her own
 
 112 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 change of miiid ; that her salary should be paid quar- 
 terly, under pain of her immediate departure if it failed 
 to come to hand ; and that the aforesaid salary should 
 be a sufficient equivalent for the trade she gave up. 
 After much conversation, the squire yielded all these 
 points, though with no good grace. 
 
 " Well, now I've gi'n up to ye," said he, "I'd like 
 to know how soon ye can come, Roxy. Things is 
 a-goin' every which way here. Lowisy's a good girl, 
 she's a good enough girl ; but she ain't nothin' but a 
 girl, an' she ain't no more fit to run a house'n she is 
 to preach a sermon : so I'd like ye to come back's 
 quick as ye can." 
 
 " I dono's I need to go," curtly and promptly an- 
 swered Miss Roxy. ' ' I reckoned I should stay when 
 I come : so I sold out my house to deacon Treadwell's 
 widder, an' I fetched my trunks along. They're over 
 to Reading depot ; and the stage-driver he'll take the 
 checks to-morrer, and fetch 'cm back. I don't never 
 let no grass grow under my feet, Squire Paine." 
 
 "Land alive! I should think not!" ejaculated the 
 astonished squire. So Miss Roxy staid, and the house 
 was stirred up from beneath to meet her. Bridget 
 gave notice just in time not to have it given to her ; 
 and brush in hand, the fiercest of bandanna handker 
 chiefs tied over her crisp black hair, Miss Roxy began 
 that awful ' ' setting to rights ' ' which is at once the 
 privilege and the necessity of strenuous souls like hers. 
 At first.Louise was half inclined to rebel : the slipshod 
 family rule, or misrule, had just suited her youthful 
 carelessness. But Miss Roxy's keen humor, pleasant 
 common sense, and comfortable efficiency, soon en- 
 listed Louise on her side ; and the girl could not help
 
 SQUTBE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 113 
 
 enjoying the bright order, the speckless comfort, the 
 savory meals, the thrift that was not meanness, and 
 the frugality that could be discreetly generous, which 
 followed Miss Roxy's reign : and at the end of two 
 years the squire was glad enough to renew the guar- 
 anty which this foreseeing woman still demanded of 
 him. "Well for her, well for all of them, was it that 
 he did so sign. 
 
 In the mean tune Squire Paine had gone his way, 
 buying and selling, and talking much about the " Golden 
 Rewl," and many small tiffs had ensued between him 
 and Miss Roxy on points of domestic economy. But 
 the squire knew, if he had never read, that discretion 
 is the better part of valor, and considering just in time 
 that housekeeping was not his forte, and was Miss 
 Roxy's, he always beat a retreat after these battles, 
 and not always with flying colors. But now, toward 
 the beginning of this third year, there began to be 
 trouble in the camp. Elisha Squires, in common with 
 various other youths of Bassett, had found out that 
 Louise Paine was charming above all other girls of the 
 vicinity ; and the squire's house became a sort of be- 
 sieged castle, greatly to his disgust and indignation. 
 
 " I won't hev it ! I won't hev it ! " stormed he one 
 fine night, when the last of seven callers had gone from 
 the front-door, and Louise judiciously slipped off to 
 bed. 
 
 " "Won't hev what? " calmly inquired Roxy, who sat 
 by the " keeping-room " table, toeing off a stocking. 
 
 " "Why, I won't hev so many fellers a-comin' here 
 the hull etarnal time. There ain't no use on't, an' I 
 tell ye I won't hev it. I won't, as sure's ye live." 
 
 ""What be you goin' to do about it?" was Roxy 'a 
 cool rejoinder.
 
 114 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "I'll lock the doors." 
 
 "Then they'll come into the back- winder, " smiled 
 the exasperating spinster. " Look here, Squire Paine," 
 and she laid down her knitting, and confronted him as 
 one who 
 
 " Drinks delight of battle with his peers," 
 
 " you're a master-hand to talk about the Golden Rewl : 
 how'd you ha' liked it ef Squire Larkin had locked the 
 door to this house on you ? " 
 
 " Pie hadn't no call to : he was dead." 
 
 " Now don't jump no fences that way. 'Spose he'd 
 ben alive?" 
 
 " I dono's I'm called to tell ye. I'm a professor in 
 good an' reg'lar standin', an' the Golden Rewl hes allers 
 ben my standard o' livin' ; an' the sperrit and princi- 
 ple o' the Golden Rewl is to do to others as you'd wish 
 to be done by ; an' ef I was a gal I should be glad to 
 hev the doors locked on a passel o' fellers that come 
 foolin' around nights." 
 
 "You're life-everlastin' sure o' that, be ye?" was 
 the dry rejoinder. 
 
 " Well, ef she ain't, she'd orter be ; an' I'm free to 
 conclude that Lowisy doos what she'd orter, bein' my 
 child and her ma's." 
 
 " I don't believe no great in hinderin' young folks's 
 ways, Squire Paine. It's three wheels to a wagon to be 
 young, an' hinderin' don't overset nothin' : it's more 
 apt to set it, a long sight. Don't you never expect 
 Lowisy to git married? " 
 
 "I dono's I do, an' I dono as I do. Married life 
 is an onsartin state. Mebbe Lowisy'd be better off to 
 stay to hum with me. Anyway, there ain't no sech
 
 SQUIRE PATNE'S CONVERSION. 115 
 
 hurry : 'tain't the best goods go off the fust. An* 
 I tell ye what, Roxy, I do expect she'll hark to me 
 about who she marries, and not go an' git tied up to 
 some poor Jack." 
 
 " Then I tell you what, Sam well Paine, you expect 
 nothin', an' you'll sup sorrow. Girls will pick out 
 their own husbands to the day after never, for all you. 
 I always hold that there's two things a woman had 
 oughter pick out for herself, spite o' fate ; and them 
 two is her husband an' her carpets." 
 
 "An' I expect to pick 'enl both out for Lowisy," 
 answered the undaunted squire, as he marched off to 
 bed, holding his tallow candle askew, and dropping hot 
 tears of tallow as he went. 
 
 But as fate, or Louise, would have it, Squire Paine 
 was not to pick out either of these essentials for his 
 daughter. She was fast drifting into that obstinate 
 blessedness which is reserved for youth and love, 
 which laughs at parents and guardians, defies time and 
 circumstance, and too often blinds the brightest eyes, 
 and brings the most fastidious hands to 
 
 " Wreathe thy fair large ears, my gentle joy," 
 
 and finds out too late it is Bottom the weaver. 
 
 In Louise's case, however, there was no danger of 
 such waking : she had good reason for her preference. 
 Elisha Squires, her father's clerk, was a handsome, 
 well-educated, energetic young fellow, a gentleman 
 by nature and breeding both. Louise had pitied him 
 ten thousand times for his unfit position in her father's 
 employment, before he perceived that she was inter- 
 ested the least in him or his occupation ; and, when it 
 dawned on the busy and weary soul that one bright
 
 116 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 blossom looked over the paling into his desert life, 
 what was the natural impulse that followed? It is not 
 a young man who " loves the wild rose, and leaves it 
 on its stalk," literally or figuratively; and these juve- 
 nile idiots fell fathoms deep in love with each other, 
 entirely unconscious of the melancholy fact that one 
 was the richest girl in Bassett, and the other working 
 for daily bread. Arcadia could not have shown more 
 divine simplicity. But Bassett was not Arcadia ; and 
 when sundry jealous and disappointed swains discov- 
 ered that " Lowisy Paine"" would go home from prayer- 
 meetings with 'Lisha Squires, had actually been seen 
 lingering with him at her father's front- gate in the 
 starry May darkness, even after the nine-o'clock bell 
 had rung, and was sure to welcome him on a Sunday 
 night, though she might snap and snarl at them, then 
 Louise's troubles began. Prayer-meetings must be 
 attended ; but the squire went to and fro with her him- 
 self, and Elisha could not be spared from the store to 
 attend them at all. Squire Paine hated to lose his 
 clerk, but he would not lose his daughter : so, with the 
 obtuse perception of the heavy father from time imme- 
 morial, he rushed into the melee like some floundering 
 elephant into a flower-bed. 
 
 " Lowisy," said he, one Sunday night, after the row 
 of adorers were dispersed, Elisha Squires among them, 
 " hear to me now ! I ain't a-goin' to hev you courted 
 the hull time by these here fellers. You've got to stop 
 it. 'Specially I won't have ye careerin' around with 
 'Lisha: he's poorer'n poverty, an' as stuck up as 
 though he was mighty Cresar. I've fetched ye up, an' 
 gi'n ye a good eddication, an' you ain't a-goin' tc 
 throw yourself away on no sech trash."
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 117 
 
 The hot color rushed up to Louise's forehead, her 
 red lip curled, aud unspeakable disdain expressed it- 
 self, as she looked straight into her father's face ; but 
 she did not say a word. She left the room with perfrot. 
 composure, stopping to pick a dry leaf from her pet 
 geranium, and walked up the stairs with a slow precis- 
 ion that ought to have spoken volumes to her father's 
 ear, as it did to Roxy's. 
 
 " Well, you've done it now," remarked that respecta- 
 ble woman. 
 
 "Yes, I guess I hev," was the squire's complacent 
 answer, quite misapprehending the sense in which he 
 had done it. "I guess I've put a spoke inter that 
 wheel, an' sideways too." 
 
 Roxy gave one of the silent chuckles which meant 
 deep amusement, and took herself off to bed. She 
 was not a woman to interfere with the course of true 
 love between Louise and Elisha, both of whom had 
 become special favorites of hers since their first ac- 
 quaintance ; but, as she said to herself, she would not 
 " make nor meddle " in this matter, having full confi- 
 dence in Louise's power of managing her own affairs, 
 and far too much reverence and delicacy in her own 
 nature to be a match-maker. But the squire went on 
 from bad to worse, and, in his blind zeal to have his 
 own way, brought things to a swift conclusion ; for, 
 having given Elisha notice that he should need him no 
 longer, he was more than surprised one fine July morn- 
 ing to find that Louise had left him too, that the pair 
 had gone together. The squire was black with rage 
 when the fact was announced to him by Miss Roxy, 
 and a brief anel defiant note from Louise put into- his 
 hand. He raved, raged, even swore, hi his first wild
 
 118 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 fury, and paced up and down the kitchen like a wild 
 animal. 
 
 Miss Roxy eyed him with a peculiar expression. 
 She felt that her hour had come. As she afterward 
 said, "I should ha' bust ef I hadn't spoke. I'd ben 
 a-hankerin' to give it to him quite a spell, but I held 
 my tongue for Lowisy's sake. But thinks sez I, 
 now's your time, Roxanny Keep ; pitch in an' do your 
 dooty. An' I tell ye it whistled of itself. Seemed as 
 though 'twa'n't me re'lly, but soinethin' makin' a tin 
 horn out o' my lips to rouse him up to judgment." 
 And certainly Miss Roxy was roused herself : she con- 
 fronted the squire like a Yankee lioness. 
 
 "Look a-here, Samwell Paine: it's time somebody 
 took ye to do. You've ben a-buyin' an' a-sellin', an' 
 a-rakin' an' a-scrapin', till your soul ef you've got 
 any is nigh about petered out. You call yourself a 
 Christian an' a professor, an' a follerer of the Golden 
 Rewl, do ye? An' here you be, cussin' an' swearin' 
 like a Hivite an' a Jeboosite, an' all the rest on 'em, 
 because things ain't jest as you would have 'em to be. 
 You hain't had no bowels of compassion for Lowisy no 
 more'n ef you was her jailer, instead of her pa. 
 What's the matter with 'Lisha Squires? He's a hon- 
 est, good-disposed; reliable feller as ever was, good 
 enough for anybody's girl ; a Christian too, not one 
 o' the sugar-sanclin', rum-wateriu', light-weight kind, 
 but a real one. He don't read the Golden Rewl t'other 
 side up, as you do, I tell ye. You make it doin' to 
 other folks just what you want to do, an' lettiii' them 
 go hang. I tell ye the hypocrite's hope shall perish ; 
 an"you're one on 'em as sure as the world. 'Tain't 
 sayin' Lord, Lord, that makes folks pious : it's doin'
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 119 
 
 the will o' God, justice, an' mercy, an' lovin'-kind- 
 ness." 
 
 Here Roxy paused for breath ; and the astounded 
 squire ejaculated, " Roxanny Keep ! " 
 
 "Yes, that's my name: I ain't afeared to own it, 
 nor to set it square to what I've said. I hain't lived 
 here goin' on three year, an' seen your ways, for nothin'. 
 I've had eyes to behold your pinchin' an' sparin' an' 
 crawliu' ; grindin' poor f oiks' s faces, an' lickin' rich 
 folks's platters ; actin' as though your own daughter 
 was nothin' but a bill of expense to ye, an' a block to 
 show off your pride an' vanity, not a livin', lovin' soul 
 to show the way to heaven to. An' now she's quit. 
 She's got a good, lovin', true-hearted feller to help her 
 along where you didn't know the way, and didn't want 
 to, neither; an' you're ravin' mad 'cause he hain't got 
 no money, when you've got more'n enough for all on 
 ye. Samwell Paine, you ain't no Christian, not 'cordin' 
 to gospel truth, ef you have been a professor nigh on 
 to forty year. You no need to think you was con- 
 verted, for you never was. Folks ain't converted to 
 meanness an' greediness an' self-seekin', an' wrath an' 
 malice. The Lord don't turn 'em into the error of their 
 ways : he turns 'em out on't. Ef you was a minister 
 in the pulpit, or a deacon handin' the plate, you ain't 
 no Christian 'thout you act like one ; an' that's the 
 etarnal fact on't. You've ben a livin' lie all these 
 years ; an' you've ended by drivin' your only daughter, 
 your own flesh an' blood, the best thing the Lord ever 
 give ye, out o' house an' home 'cause you was mad 
 after money. An' it'll happen unto ye accordin' to 
 the word o' the Lord about sech folks : you'll l)e 
 drownded in destruction an' perdition, an' pierce your-
 
 120 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 self through with many sorrers, ef you don't flee for 
 your life from sech things, and f oiler after righteous- 
 ness, godliness, an' the rest on 'em. You'd oughter 
 go clown on your poor old knees, an' pray to be con- 
 verted at the 'leventh hour. There, I've freed my 
 mind, thank the Lord ! an' there won't be none o' your 
 blood found on my skirts ef the last day comes in to- 
 morrer mornin'." With which the exhausted lecturer 
 heaved a long breath, and began to mop her heated 
 face vigorously with her inseparable bandanna handker- 
 chief, which might have symbolized to the audience, 
 had there been any, a homely victorious banner. 
 
 The squire stood amazed and afraid. In all the long 
 course of his life nobody had ever before gainsaid him. 
 Outward respect and consideration had been his por- 
 tion : now the ground cracked under his feet, and he 
 found himself in a new land. He did not go to the 
 store that day : he stumbled out of Roxy's sight, and 
 shut himself up in the unused parlor, where alternate 
 storms of rage, conviction, despair, and scorn, assailed 
 him for many hours. It was, indeed, a dreadful battle 
 that he fought in the musty silence of that darkened 
 room, pacing up and down like a caged tiger. Roxy 
 had spoken awful words ; but they were milk and honey 
 compared to the echo which his late-awakened con- 
 science gave them : still he fought with a certain sav- 
 age courage against the truths that were toppling over 
 to crush him, and justified himself to his own accusing 
 soul with a persistent hardihood that had better served 
 a better cause. It was reserved for God's own stroke 
 to bring sweet waters out of this rock : Moses and the 
 rod had smitten it in vain. Just as his courage seemed 
 to aid him, and he had resolved to send Roxy back to
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 121 
 
 flermon and her tailoring, and brave out the judgment 
 of his fellow-inen and the desertion of Louisa, nay, 
 more, to revenge himself for that desertion by refusing 
 her aid or comfort, or even recognition of any kind, 
 just then, as he had settled down into his self-compla- 
 cency, and wilful disregard of God's own words, pelted 
 at him as they had been by Roxy, he heard an outer 
 door open, invading steps, voices of low tumult, a sort 
 of whispering horror and stifled grief drawing nearer 
 to his retreat, and the door opened very slowly, dis- 
 closing the stern features of Parson Peters, the village 
 minister. Not altogether stern now was that long and 
 meagre visage : a sort of terror mingled with pity soft- 
 ened its rigid lines. 
 
 "My brother," he said, lifting one hand, as he was 
 wont to do when praying over a coffin, and facing the 
 troubled and inflamed countenance of Squire Paine, 
 ' ' my brother, the hand of the Lord is upon you this 
 day. Your child has been taken. There has been a 
 terrible accident to the train by which they left Reading 
 station, and news has come that both are gone." 
 
 Like a forest tree into which the woodman sets his 
 last stroke, the squire tottered, paused for one instant 
 of time, and fell forward prostrate. 
 
 Roxy was behind Parson Peters as the old man fell ; 
 and, pushing that eminent divine out of her way like a 
 spider, she was at once on her knees by his side, 
 promptly administering the proper remedies. It was 
 only a fainting-fit ; but, when the squire recovered, he 
 was weak, humble, and gentle as a little child. He lay 
 on the sofa in the parlor all day. The unused windows 
 were opened, and the sweet summer air flowed in and 
 out with scents of late roses and new hay on its deli-
 
 122 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 cate wings ; but Squire Paine did not notice it. He 
 took the broth Roxy brought him without a complaint, 
 and actually thanked her for it. She herself guarded 
 the outside door like a dragon, and even refused ad- 
 mittance to Parson Peters. 
 
 "No," said she: "it's good to let him be to-day. 
 I tell ye the Lord's a-dealin' with the poor old creter, 
 an' we hadn't ought to meddle. Human nater is ever- 
 lastin' queer, an' there is some folks nobody can tune 
 so well as Him that made 'em. He'll take up his bed 
 an' walk as soon as the merracle works, an' we can't 
 hurry it up any ; but I've faith to believe it's 
 a-workin'." 
 
 And it was according to Roxy's faith. As soon as 
 the sun went down, the squire rose up, ate what was 
 set before him, put his disordered dress to rights, and 
 walked feebly over to the weekly prayer-meeting ; for 
 these things happened of a Thursday. 
 
 The lights in the little schoolhouse were dim and 
 few, for the night's warm atmosphere made even the 
 heat of the two necessary lamps oppressive ; but Squire 
 Paine took no advantage of this darkness, though the 
 room was unusually full. He walked to the very front 
 bench, and seated himself before the deacon who con- 
 ducted the meeting ; and, as soon as the opening hymn 
 was sung, he waved the good man who was about to 
 follow with a prayer aside with a certain rugged dig- 
 nity, and rose, facing the assembly, and beginning with 
 broken voice to speak. 
 
 "Brethring," he said, "I come here to-night to 
 make a confession. I've lived amongst you for sixty 
 odd year, man an' boy, an' the last forty on 'em I've 
 ben a livin' lie. Brethring, I hev ben a professor in
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 123 
 
 this here church all that time, an' I wa'n't never con- 
 verted. I was a real stiddy-goin' hypocrite, an' I 
 hain't but jest found it out. The marciful Lord has 
 kinder spared me for a day of repentance, an' it's 
 come : I tell ye it's come ! There was one that dealt 
 with me mightily, an' shook me some, one, I may 
 say, that drilled the hole, an' put in the powder of the 
 Word, an' tamped it down with pretty stiff facts ; but 
 it didn't do no good. I was jest like a rock bored an' 
 charged, but pooty rugged an' hard yet. But, breth- 
 ring, THE LORD HAS FIRED THE BLAST HIMSELF, an' the 
 nateral man is broken to pieces. I give up right here. 
 The Lord is good. God be merciful to me a sinner ! 
 Brethring, can't you pray? " 
 
 There was but one answer to the pathetic agony of 
 that appeal. Deacon Adkins rose, and prayed as if his 
 lips had been touched with a coal from the altar, and 
 there were sympathetic tears in the hardest eyes there 
 before he finished ; while Squire Paine's low sobs were 
 heard at intervals, as if they were the very convulsions 
 of a breaking heart. 
 
 " Let us sing 
 
 " ' Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,' " 
 
 said the deacon, after his prayer was over. And, when 
 the last line of that noble Doxology floated away into 
 the rafters, they all gathered round to shake hands, 
 and express their deep sympathy with the repentant 
 and bereaved father. It was almost too much for 
 Squire Paine. The breaking-up of the great deep within 
 had worn upon him exceedingly : humbled, sad, yet 
 wonderfully peaceful as his spirit felt, still the flesh 
 trembled, and was weak. He was glad when Roxy
 
 124 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 came up, and, taking hold of his arm, led him home- 
 ward. 
 
 Was he glad, or death-smitten, or, as he thought, 
 suddenly in the heavenly places, when his own door 
 opened before his hand touched the latch, and Louise, 
 darting forward, threw her arms about his neck ? 
 
 "Land o' liberty!" shrieked Eoxy. "Do you 
 want to kill your pa outright? An' how came ye here 
 anyway? We heered you an' him was both stun- 
 dead ! " 
 
 Roxy's curt and curious interposition seemed to re- 
 store the equilibrium suddenly. Squire Paine did not 
 faint, and Louise actually laughed. Here was some- 
 thing natural and homely to shelter in after the dream- 
 like agitation of the day. 
 
 " No," said Louise's clear voice : " we wa'n't hurt, 
 not much only stunned, and scared a bit. But there 
 was two in the next seat who well, they won't come 
 home to their folks, Aunt Roxy. We thought maybe 
 you would be anxious ; and then somebody said right 
 before us that we were both killed, and they'd sent 
 the news over to Bassett : so we thought the best 
 thing to do was to come back and show ourselves. 
 Here's 'Lisha." 
 
 Squire Paine must have been converted ; for he shook 
 his son-in-law's hand with all good will, and kissed 
 his daughter heartily. His voice was somewhat weak 
 and husky ; but he managed to say so as to be heard, 
 "An' now ye've got home re'lly, you've got to stay 
 home. I sha'n't hev no more sech risks run. And, 
 'Lisha, we'll open the store real early to-morrer. I 
 dono when it's ben shut twenty- four hours before." 
 
 This was all he said ; for the New-England man,
 
 SQUIRE PAINE'S CONVERSION. 125 
 
 saint or sinner, has few words when feeling is strong- 
 est. But the squire's action spoke for him. He never 
 referred to the past, but strove with his might to live 
 a new and righteous life. Not all at once the granite 
 gave place to gold : there were were roots of bitterness, 
 and strivings of the old Adam, many and often ; but 
 none who had once known him doubted that Squire 
 Paine was a changed man. At his own earnest re- 
 quest he was allowed to make a new profession of reli- 
 gion ; and, after relating his experiences in due form 
 to the assembled deacons, he wound up the recital in 
 this fashion : "It was the Lord's hand done it fin'lly, 
 brethring ; but, next to him, I owe this here real con- 
 version to Roxanny Keep." 
 
 " Halleloojah ! " exclaimed Aunt Roxy, when Mrs. 
 Deacon Adkins betrayed her good husband's confidence 
 far enough to tell her this. "I tell ye, Miss Adkins, 
 I took my life in my hand that mornin' ; but I felt a 
 call to do it. Ye know David killed Goliath with a 
 pebble, nothin' more ; an' I allers could sling straight."
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 
 
 " I DON'T want to be too fine, ye know, Mary Jane, 
 somethin' tasty and kind of suitable. It's an old bun- 
 nit ; but my ! them Leghorns '11 last a generation if you 
 favor 'em. That was mother's weddin* bunnit." 
 
 "You don't say so! Well, it has kept remarkable 
 well ; but a good Leghorn will last, that's a fact, 
 though they get real brittle after a spell : and you'll 
 have to be awful careful of this, Miss Beulah ; it's 
 brittle now, I see." 
 
 " Yes, I expect it is ; but it'll carry me through this 
 summer, I guess. But I want you to make it real 
 tasty, Mary Jane ; for my niece Miss Smith, she that 
 was 'Liza Barber, is coming to stay a while to our 
 house this summer, and she lives in the city, you 
 know." 
 
 " 'Liza Barber ! Do tell ! Why, I haven't seen her 
 sence she was knee-high to a hop-toad, as you may say. 
 He ain't livin', is he? " 
 
 " No : he died two years ago, leavin' her with three 
 children. Sarah is a grown girl ; and then there's 
 Jack, he's eight, and Janey, she's three. There was 
 four died between Jack and Sarah. I guess she's full 
 eighteen." 
 
 " Mercy to me ! time flies, don't it? But about the 
 bunnit : what should you say to this lavender ribbin? '' 
 126
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BOITNET. 127 
 
 "Ain't I kind of dark for lavender? I bad an idee 
 to have brown, or mabbe dark green." 
 
 "Land! for spring? Why, that ain't the right 
 thing. This lavender is real han'some ; and I'll set it 
 off with a little black lace, and put a bow on't in the 
 front. It'll be real dressy and seemly for you." 
 
 "Well, you can try it, Mary Jane; but I give you 
 fair warnin', if I think it's too dressy, you'll have to 
 take it all off." 
 
 " I'm willin'," laughed Miss Mary Jane Beers, a 
 good old soul, and a contemporary of her customer, 
 Miss Beulah Larkin, who was an old maid living in 
 Dorset on a small amount of money carefully invested, 
 and owning the great red house which her grandfather 
 had built for a large family on one corner of his farm. 
 Farm and family were both gone now, save and except 
 Miss Beulah and her niece ; but the old lady and a 
 little maid she had taken to bring up dwelt in one end 
 'of the wide house, and contrived to draw more than 
 half their subsistence from the garden and orchard 
 attached to it. Here they spun out an innocent exist- 
 ence, whose chief dissipations were evening meetings, 
 sewing-societies, funerals, and the regular Sunday ser- 
 vices, to which all the village faithfully repaired, and 
 any absence from which was commented on, investi- 
 gated, and reprobated, if without good excuse, in the 
 most unsparing manner. Miss Beulah Larkin was tall, 
 gaunt, hard-featured, and good. Everybody respected 
 her, some feared, and a few loved her : but she was 
 not that sort of soul which thirsts to be loved ; her 
 whole desire and design was to do her duty and be 
 respectable. Into this latter clause came the matter of 
 a bonnet, over which she had held such anxious dis-
 
 128 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 course. If she had any feminine vanity, and she 
 was a woman, it took this virtuous aspect of a desire 
 to be "rcspectit like the lave," for decency of dress 
 as well as demeanor. This spring she had received a 
 letter from her niece, the widowed Mrs. Smith, asking 
 if she could come to visit her ; and, sending back a 
 pleased assent, Miss Beulah and her little handmaid 
 Nanny Starks bestirred themselves to sweep and gar- 
 nish the house, already fresh and spotless from its re- 
 cent annual cleaning. Windows were opened, beds 
 put out to sun, blankets aired, spreads unfolded, sheets 
 taken from the old chests, and long-disused dimity cur- 
 tains washed, ironed, and tacked up against the small- 
 paned sashes, and tied back with scraps of flowered 
 ribbon, exhumed from hidden shelves, that might well 
 have trimmed that Leghorn bonnet in its first youth. 
 
 Mrs. Eliza Smith was a poor woman, but a woman 
 of resource. Her visit was not purely of affection, or 
 of family respect. Her daughter Sarah a pretty,- 
 slight, graceful girl, with gold-brown hair, dark straight 
 brows above a pair of limpid gray eyes, red lips, and 
 a clear pale skin had been intended by her mother 
 to blossom into beauty in due season, and " marry 
 well," as the phrase goes; but Sarah and a certain 
 Fred Wilson, telegraph-operator in Dartford, had set 
 all the thrifty mother's plans at defiance, and fallen 
 head over heels in love, regardless of Mrs. Smith or 
 anybody else. Sarah's brows were not black and 
 straight, or her chin firm and cleft with a dimple, for 
 nothing : she meant to marry Fred Wilson as soon as 
 was convenient ; and Mrs. Smith, having unusual com- 
 mon sense, as well as previous experience of Sarah's 
 capacity of resistance, ceased to oppose that young
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 129 
 
 lady's resolute intention. Master Wilson had already 
 gone West, to a more lucrative situation than Dartford 
 afforded ; and Sarah was only waiting to get ready as 
 to her outfit, and amass enough money for the cost 
 of travelling, to follow him, since he was unable to 
 return for her, both from lack of money and time. 
 In this condition of things it occurred to Mrs. Smith 
 that it would save a good deal of money if she could 
 spend the summer with Aunt Beulah, and so be spared 
 the expense of board and lodging for her family. 
 Accordingly she looked about for a tenant for her 
 little house ; and, finding one ready to come in sooner 
 than she had anticipated, she answered aunt Beulah's 
 friendly letter of invitation with an immediate accept- 
 ance, and followed her own epistle at once, arriving 
 just as the last towel had been hung on the various 
 wash-stands, and while yet the great batch of sweet 
 home-made bread was hot from the oven, and, alas 
 ' for Miss Beulah ! before that Leghorn bonnet had come 
 home from Miss Beers's front-parlor, in which she 
 carried on her flourishing millinery business. 
 
 Miss Larkin was unfeignedly glad to see Eliza again, 
 though her eyes grew a little dim, perceiving how time 
 had transformed the fresh, gay girl she remembered 
 into this sad and sallow woman ; but she saul nothing 
 of these changes, and, giving the rest an equal wel- 
 come, established them in the clean, large, cool cham- 
 bers that were such a contrast to the hot rooms, small 
 and dingy, of their city home. 
 
 Jack was a veritable little pickle, tall of his age, 
 and light of foot and hand ; nature had framed him 
 in body and mind for mischief : while Sarah was* a 
 pleasant, handy young girl, as long as nothing opposed
 
 130 SOMEBODY'S- NEIGHBORS. 
 
 her ; and Janey a round and rosy poppet, who adored 
 Jack, and rebelled against her mother and Sarah 
 hourly. Jack was a born nuisance : Miss Beulah could 
 hardly endure him, he did so controvert all the orders 
 and manners of her neat house. He hunted the hens 
 to the brink of distraction, and broke up their nests 
 till eggs were scarce to find, a state of things never 
 before known in that old barn, where the hens had 
 dwelt and done their duty, till that duty had consigned 
 them to the stew-pan, for years and years. He made 
 the cat's life a burden to her in a hundred ways ; au 
 poor Nanny Starks had never any rest or peace till her 
 tormentor was safe in bed. 
 
 Mrs. Smith began to fear her visit would be prema- 
 turely shortened on Jack's account : and Sarah, who 
 had wisely confided her love-affair to aunt Beulah, and 
 stirred that hardened heart to its core by her pathetic 
 tale of poverty and separation, began to dread the 
 failure of her hopes also ; for her aunt had more than 
 hinted that she would give something toward that trav- 
 elling money which was now the girl's great object 
 in life, since by diligent sewing she had almost finished 
 her bridal outfit. As for Janey, she was already, in 
 spite of her naughtiness, mistress of aunt Beulah's 
 very soul. Round, fat, rosy, bewitching as a child and 
 only a child can be, the poor spinster's repressed 
 affection, her denied maternity, her love of beauty, 
 a secret to herself, and her protecting instinct, all 
 blossomed for this baby, who stormed or smiled at 
 her according to the caprice of the hour, but was 
 equally lovely in the old lady's eyes whether she 
 smiled or stormed. If Janey said, "Turn!" in her 
 imperative way, Miss Beulah came, whether her hands
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 131 
 
 were in the wash-tub or the bread-tray. Janey ran 
 riot over her most cherished customs ; and, while she 
 did not hesitate to scold or even slap Jack harshly for 
 his derelictions, she had an excuse always ready for 
 Janey's worst sins, and a kiss instead of a blow for her 
 wildest exploits of mischief. Jack hated the old aunty 
 as much as he feared her tongue and hand : and this 
 only made matters worse ; for he felt a pertain right to 
 torment her that would not have been considered a 
 right, had he felt instead any shame for abusing her 
 kindness. But a soft answer from her never turned 
 away his wrath, or this tale of woe about her bonnet 
 had never been told. 
 
 There had been long delay concerning that article. 
 The bleacher had been slow, and the presser imprac- 
 ticable : it had been sent back once to be reshaped, 
 and then the lavender ribbon had proved of scant 
 measure, and-had to be matched. But at last, one hot 
 day in May, Nanny brought the queer old bandbox 
 home from Miss Beers' s, and aunt Beulah held up her 
 head-gear to be commented on. It was really a very 
 good-looking bonnet. The firm satin ribbon was a pleas- 
 ant tint, and contrasted well with the pale color of the 
 Leghorn ; and a judicious use of black lace gave it an 
 air of sobriety and elegance combined, which pleased 
 Miss Beulah's eye, and even moved Mrs. Smitn to 
 express approbation. 
 
 " Well, I'm free to own it suits me," said the old 
 lady, eying the glass with her head a little on one 
 side, as a bird eyes a worm. "It's neat, audit's 
 becomin', as fur as a bunnit can be said to be becomin' 
 to an old woman, though I ain't really to call old. 
 Mary Jane Beers is older than me ; and she ain't but
 
 132 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 seventy- three, jest as spry as a lark too. Yes, I 
 like the bunnit; but it doos sort of seem as 
 though that there bow wa'u't really in the middle of 
 it. What do you think, 'Lizy?" 
 
 " I don't see but what it's straight, aunt Beulah." 
 
 " 'Tain't," said the spinster firmly. " Sary, you 
 look at it." 
 
 Sarah's eye was truer than her mother's. " 'Tis a 
 mite too far to the left, aunt Beulah ; but I guess I 
 can fix it." 
 
 " You let her take it," said Mrs. Smith. " She's a 
 real good hand at millinery : she made her own hat, 
 and Janey's too. I should hate to have her put her 
 hand to that bunnit if she wa'n't ; for it's real pretty 
 'specially for a place like Dorset to get up." 
 
 " Lay it off on the table, aunt Beulah. I'm going 
 up stairs to make my bed, and I'll fetch my work- 
 basket down, and fix that bow straight in a jiffy." 
 
 "Well, I must go up too," said Mrs. Smith, and 
 followed Sarah out of the room ; but Miss Beulah, 
 though duty called her too, in the imperative shape 
 of a batch of bread waiting to be moulded up, lingered 
 a little longer, poising the bonnet on her hand, holding 
 it off to get a distant view, turning it from side to 
 side, and, in short, behaving exactly as younger and 
 prettier women do over a new hat, even when it is a 
 miracle of art from Paris, instead of a revamped Leg- 
 horn from a country shop. 
 
 She laid it down with a long breath of content, for 
 taste and economy had done their best for her ; and 
 then she, too, left the room, never perceiving that Jack 
 and Janey had been all the time deeply engaged under 
 the great old-fashioned breakfast- table, silently ripping
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 133 
 
 up a new doll to see what was inside it, silently, be- 
 cause they had an inward consciousness that it was 
 mischief they were about ; and Jack, at least, did not 
 want to be interrupted till he was through. But he 
 had not been too busy to hear and understand that aunt 
 Beulah was pleased ; and, still smarting from the switch 
 with which- she had whipped his shoulders that very 
 morning lor putting the cat into the cistern, he saw 
 an opportunity for revenge before his eyes : he would 
 hide this precious bonnet so aunt Beulah could never 
 Qnd it again. How to do this, and not be found out, 
 was a problem to be considered ; but mischief is quick- 
 witted. There stood in the window a large rocking- 
 chair, well stuffed under its chintz cover, and holding 
 a plump soft feather cushion so big it fairly overflowed 
 the seat. Under this cushion he was sure nobody 
 would think of looking ; arid, to save himself from 
 consequences, he resolved to make Janey a cat's-paw : 
 so he led her up to the table, made her lift the precious 
 hat and deposit it under the cushion, which he raised 
 for the purpose ; then, carefully dropping the frill, he 
 tugged Janey, unwilling but scared and silent, out 
 into the yard, and, impressing on her infant mind with 
 wild threats of bears and guns that she must never 
 tell where the bonnet was, he contrived to interest her 
 in a new play so intensely, that the bonnet went utterly 
 into oblivion, as far as she was concerned ; and when 
 they were called in to dinner, and she had taken her 
 daily nap, Janey had become as innocent of mischief 
 iu her own memory as the dolly who lay all disembow- 
 eled and forlorn under the table. 
 
 When Sarah came down and did not find the bonnet, 
 she concluded aunt Beulah had put it away in her own
 
 134 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 room, for fear a sacrilegious fly or heedless speck 
 of dust might do it harm : so she took up a bit of lace 
 she was knitting, and went out into the porch, glad to 
 get into a cool place, the day was so warm. 
 
 And when the bread was moulded up, aunt Beulah 
 came back, and, not seeing her bonnet, supposed Sarah 
 had taken it up stairs to change the bow. She was 
 not an impatient woman, and the matter was not 
 pressing : so she said nothing about the bonnet at 
 dinner, but hurried over that meal in order to finish 
 her baking. Mis. Smith had not come down again, 
 for a morning headache had so increased upon her, she 
 had lain down : so that no one disturbed the rocking- 
 chair in which that bonnet lay hid till Mrs. Blake, the 
 minister's wife, came in to make a call about four 
 o'clock. She was a stout woman, and the walk had 
 tired her. Aunt Beulah' s hospitable instincts were 
 roused by that red, weary face. 
 
 "You're dreadful warm, ain't you, Miss Blake?" 
 said she. "It's an amazin' warm day for this time 
 of year, and it's consider'ble more'n a hen-hop from 
 your house up here. Lay your bunuit off, do, and set 
 down in the rocker. I'll tell Nanny to fetch some 
 shrub and water. Our ras' berry shrub is good, if I do 
 say it ; and it's kep' over as good as new." 
 
 So Mrs. Blake removed her bonnet, and sank down 
 on that inviting cushion with all her ^weight, glad 
 enough to rest, and ignorant of the momentous conse- 
 quences. Her call was somewhat protracted. Had 
 there been any pins in that flattened Leghorn beneath 
 her, she might have shortened her stay. But Miss Mary 
 Jane Beers was conscientiously opposed to pins ; and 
 every lavender bow was sewed on with silk to match,
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 135 
 
 and scrupulous care. After the whole village news 
 had been discussed, the state of religion lamented, and 
 the short-comings of certain sisters who failed in at- 
 tending prayer-meetings talked over, with the chari- 
 table admission, to be sure, that one had a young baby, 
 and another a sprained ankle, Mrs. Blake rose to go, 
 tied on her bonnet, and said good- by all round, quite 
 as ignorant as her hosts of the remediless ruin she had 
 done. 
 
 It was tea-tune now ; and, as they sat about the^table, 
 Sarah said, "I guess I'll fix your bonnet after tea, 
 aunty : 'twon't take but a minute, and I'd rather do 
 it while I recollect just where that bow goes." 
 
 ' ' Why, I thought you had fixed it ! " returned Miss 
 Beulah. 
 
 " Well, I came right back to ; but it wa'n't here. I 
 thought you'd took it into your bedroom." 
 
 "I hain't touched it sence it lay right here on the 
 table." 
 
 "I'll run up and ask ma : maybe she laid it by." 
 
 But Mrs. Smith had not been down stairs since she 
 left aunt Beulah with 'the bonnet in her hands. And 
 now the old lady turned on Jack. "Have you ben 
 and carried off my bunnit, you little besom?" 
 
 "I hain't touched your old bonnet!" retorted Jack 
 with grand scorn. 
 
 "I don't believe he has," said Sarah; "for, when 
 I come down stairs and found it wa'n't here, I went, out 
 and set on the bench to the front-door, and I heard 
 him and Janey away off the other side of the yard, 
 play in' ; and you know they wa'n't in here when the 
 bonnet come." 
 
 "Well, of course Janey hasn't seen it, if Jack
 
 136 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 hasn't; and, if she had, the blessed child wouldn't 
 have touched old aunty's bonnet for a dollar would 
 she, precious lamb?" And aunt Beulah stroked the 
 bright curls of her darling, who looked up into her 
 face, and laughed ; while Jack grinned broadly between 
 his bites of bread and butter, master of the situation, 
 and full of sweet revenge. "And Nanny hain't seen 
 it, I know," went on aunt Beulah ; " for she was along 
 of me the whole enduring time. She set right to a-pariu' 
 them Jloxbury russets the minnit she fetched home the 
 bunnit ; and I kep' her on the tight jump ever sence, 
 because it's bakin'-day, and there was a sight to do. 
 But I'll ask her : 'tain't lost breath to ask, my mother 
 used to say, and mabbe it's a gain." 
 
 The old lady strode out into the kitchen with knit 
 brows, but came back without any increased knowl- 
 edge. "She hain't ben in here once sence she set 
 down the bandbox; and, come to think on't, I know 
 she hain't, for I cleared the table myself to-day, and, 
 besides, the bunnit wa'n't here at dinner-time. Now 
 let's hunt for it. Things don't gener'lly vanish away 
 without hands ; but, if we can't find no hands, why, it's 
 as good as the next thing to look for the bunnit." 
 
 So they went to work and searched the house, as 
 they thought, most thoroughly. No nook or corner but 
 was investigated, if it was large enough to hold that 
 bonnet ; but nobody once thought of looking under the 
 chair-cushion. If it had been as plump and fluffy as 
 when Jack first had Janey put the lost structure under 
 it, there might have been a suspicion of its hiding- 
 place ; but Mrs. Blake's two hundred pounds of solid 
 flesh had reduced bonnet and cushion alike to unusual 
 flatness. Or, if it had been any other day but Satur-
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 137 
 
 day, the chair might have been dusted and shaken up, 
 and revealed its mystery ; but early that very morning 
 the house below stairs had been swept, and the furni- 
 ture dusted, the cushions shaken out, the brasses pol- 
 ished, and all the weekly order and purity restored 
 everywhere. The bonnet was evidently lost ; and Jack, 
 who had followed the domestic detectives up stairs 
 and down, retired behind the wood-pile, and executed a 
 joyful dance to relieve his suppressed feelings, snap- 
 ping his fingers, and slapping his knees, and shouting 
 scraps of all the expletives he knew, in the joy of his 
 heart. How tragic would this mirth have seemed to a 
 spectator aware of its cause, contrasted with the por- 
 tentous gloom on aunt Beulah's forehead, and the 
 abstracted glare of her eye ! For several days this 
 deluded spinster mused and mazed over her bonnet, 
 going to church on Sunday in her shabby old velvet 
 hat, which had scarcely been respectable before, but 
 now, in the glare of a hot May sun, not only showed 
 all its rubbed and worn places, its shiny streaks and 
 traces of eaves-drops in the depressed and tangled 
 nap, but also made her head so hot that she fairly went 
 to bed at last with sick-headache, unable to attend even- 
 ing service, a most unheard-of thing for her. 
 
 Before the week was half done, she had settled into 
 a profound belief that some tramp had passed while 
 they were all out of the room, and, charmed by that 
 lavender satin ribbon and black lace, stolen the bonnet, 
 and carried it off to sell ; and many a time did Miss 
 Beulah sit rocking to and fro on top of her precious 
 Leghorn, wondering and bemoaning at its loss. But 
 murder will out sometimes, and would certainly have 
 come out in the weekly cleaning the next Saturday,
 
 138 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 if, on the Friday morning, Miss Be.ulah had not set 
 down a pitcher of milk, just brought in by a neighbor, 
 on the end of the table nearest to that rocking-chair, 
 set it down only for a moment, to get the neighbor a 
 recipe for sugar gingerbread peculiar to the Larkin 
 family. Janey happened to be thirsty, and reached 
 after the pitcher, but was just tall enough to grasp the 
 handle so low down, that when she pulled at it, steady- 
 ing herself against the chair, it tipped sideways, and 
 poured a copious stream of fresh milk on the cushion. 
 The chintz was old, and had lost its glaze, and the 
 feathers were light : so the rich fluid soaked in at 
 once ; and before the two women, recalled from the 
 cupboard by Janey 's scream, could reach the pitcher, 
 there was only a very soppy and wet cushion in the 
 chair. 
 
 " For mercy's sakes ! " said the neighbor. But Miss 
 Beulah, with great presence of mind, snatched up the 
 dripping mass and flung it out of the open window, 
 lest her carpet should suffer. She reverted to the chair 
 in a second, and stood transfixed. 
 
 "What under the everlastin' canopy!" broke from 
 her dismayed lips ; for there, flattened out almost be- 
 yond recognition, and broken wherever it was bent, its 
 lavender ribbons soaked with milk, the cheap lace limp 
 and draggled, lay the remains of the Leghorn bonnet. 
 
 " Of all things ! " exclaimed the neighbor ; but there 
 was an echo of irrepressible amusement in her tones. 
 Aunt Beulah glared at her, and lifted the damp bonnet 
 as tenderly as if it had been Janey's curls, regarding 
 it with an expression pen or pencil fails to depict, a 
 mixture of grief, pity, indignation, and amazement, 
 that, together with the curious look of the bonnet, was
 
 MISS BETJLAH'S BONNET. 139 
 
 too much for the neighbor ; and, to use her own after- 
 expression in describing the scene, she "snickered 
 right out." 
 
 " Laugh, do," said aunt Beulah witheringly. "do 
 laugh ! I guess, if your best bunnit had ben set on 
 and drownded, you'd laugh the other side o' your 
 mouth, Miss Jackson. This is too much." 
 
 " Well, I be sorry," said the placable female ; " but 
 it doos look so dreadful ridiculous like, I couldn't no- 
 ways help myself. But how on earth did it git there, 
 I admire to know? " 
 
 " I dono myself as I know ; but I hain't a doubt in 
 my own mind it was that besom of a Jack. He is tJie 
 fullest of 'riginal sin and actual transgression of any 
 boy I ever see. He did say, now I call to mind, that 
 he hadn't never touched it ; but I mistrust he did. He 
 beats all for mischief that ever I see. I'm free to say 
 I never did like boys. I suppose divine Providence 
 ordained 'em to some good end ; but it takes a sight o' 
 grace to believe it : and, of all the boys that ever was 
 sent into this world for any purpose, I do believe he is 
 the hatefulest. I'd jest got my bunnit to my mind, 
 calc' latin' to wear it all summer ; and I am a mite per- 
 nickity, I'll allow that, about my bunnits. Well, 
 'tain't no use to cry over spilt milk." 
 
 "I'll fetch ye some more to-morrow," said the lit- 
 eral neighbor. 
 
 " You're real good, Miss Jackson ; but I'm more ex- 
 ercised a lot about my bunnit than I be about the milk. 
 Sary, look a-here ! " 
 
 Sarah, just coming in at the door, did look, and, like 
 Mrs. Jackson, felt a strong desire to smile, but with 
 native tact controlled it.
 
 140 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Why, where on earth did you find it, aunt 
 Beulah?" 
 
 " Right under the rocker-cushion. It must have ben 
 there when Miss Blake come in that day and set down 
 Ihere ; for I remember thinkin' Nanny must ha' shook 
 that cushion up more'n usual, it looked so comfortable 
 and high." 
 
 " I don't wonder it's flat, if Miss Blake set on't," 
 giggled Mrs. Jackson, at which aunt Beulah's face 
 darkened so perceptibly that the good neighbor took 
 her leave. Comedy to her was tragedy to the unhappy 
 owner of the bonnet ; and she had the sense to know 
 she was alien to the spirit of the hour, and go home. 
 
 " But bow did it get there? " asked Sarah. 
 
 "You tell," replied Miss Beulah, "for I can't. I 
 do mistrust Jack." 
 
 "Jack said he hadn't touched it, though; and it 
 couldn't get there without hands." 
 
 " Well, mabbe Jack don't always say the thing that 
 is. 'Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child,' 
 Scriptur says ; and I guess he hain't had enough of the 
 rod o' correction to drive it out of him yet. He's the 
 behavin'est youngster /ever see ; and I'm quite along 
 in years, if I be spry." 
 
 "I'll call him, aunty, and see what he'll say this 
 tune." 
 
 " 'Twon't be no use: if he's lied once, he'll lie 
 twice. Scriptur says the Devil was a liar from the be- 
 ginnin' ; and I expect that means that lyin' is ingrain. 
 I never knowed it to be fairly knocked out of anybody 
 yet, even when amazin' grace wrastled with it. 
 There's Deacon Shubael Morse : why, he's as good as 
 gold ; but them Morses is a proverb, you may say, and
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 141 
 
 always hes ben, time out o' mind, born liars, so to 
 speak. I've heerd Grandsir Larkin say, that, as fur 
 back as he could call to mind, folks would say, 
 
 ' Steal a horse, 
 An' b'lieve a Morse.' 
 
 But the deacon he's a hero at prayer, and gives heaps 
 to the s'cieties ; but he ain't reely to be relied on. He's 
 sharper'n a needle to bargain with ; and, if his word 
 ain't writ down in black and white, why, 'tain't no- 
 where. He don't read no novils, nor play no cards : 
 he'd jest as lives swear outright as do one or t'other. 
 But I do say for't, I'd ruthcr myself see him real honest 
 than any o' them things. I don't believe in no sort o' 
 professin' that falls short in practisin' ; but I can't 
 somehow feel so real spry to blame the deacon as 
 though he wa'n't a Morse. But you call Jack any- 
 how." 
 
 So Jack was called. 
 
 He came in, with Janey, flushed, lovely, and dirty, 
 trotting behind him, and was confronted with the 
 bonnet. 
 
 " Jack, did you hide it? " 
 
 " I hain't touched your old bonnet. I said so be- 
 fore." 
 
 An idea struck Sarah. 
 
 "Janey," she said sharply, "did you put aunty's 
 bonnet under the cushion ? ' ' 
 
 "Janey don't 'member," said the child, smiling as 
 innocently as the conventional cherub of art. 
 
 "Well, you must remember! " said Sarah, picking 
 her up from the floor, and setting her down with em- 
 phasis on the table.
 
 142 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Janey began to cry. 
 
 " Naughty Salah hurt Janey ! " and the piteous tears 
 coursed down her rosy, dust-smeared cheeks from those 
 big blue eyes that looked like dew-drowned forget-me- 
 nots. 
 
 Aunt Beulah could not stand this. "You let that 
 baby alone, Sarah ! She don't know enough to be 
 naughty, bless her dear little soul ! There, there, 
 don't you cry a mite more, Janey. Aunty'll give you 
 ginger-cooky this very minute ! " 
 
 And Janey was comforted with kisses and smiles and 
 gingerbread, her face washed, and her curls softly 
 turned on tender fingers ; while Jack, longing for gin- 
 gerbread with the preternatural appetite of a growing 
 boy, was sent off in disgrace. 
 
 " I make no doubt you done it, you little rascal, and 
 lied it out too. But I don't b'lieve you no more for 
 your lyiu' : so don't look for no extries from me. 
 Fellers like you don't get gingerbread nor turnovers, 
 now I tell you ! " 
 
 How Jack hated her ! How glad he was he had 
 spoiled her bonnet! Shall I draw a moral here to 
 adorn my tale ? No, dear reader : this is not a treatise 
 on education. Miss Beulah was a good woman ; and if 
 she made mistakes, like the rest of us, she took the 
 consequences as the rest of us do ; and the conse- 
 quences of this spoiled bonnet were not yet ended. 
 
 She felt as if she must have a new one for Sunday. 
 She really did not know how to afford it ; for ' she had 
 promised to help Sarah, and in her eyes a promise was 
 as sacred as an oath. And, as for giving up her sub- 
 scriptions to home missions, that would be a wilful sin. 
 But, without a bonnet, she could not go to meeting ; and
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 143 
 
 that was a sin too. So she put on her sun-bonnet ; and 
 taking the wreck of the Leghorn, carefully concealed 
 in a paper, she set out after tea that same, evening for 
 a conference with Miss Beers, stopping at the post- 
 office as she went along. She found one letter await- 
 ing her, and knew by the superscription that it was 
 from a second-cousin of hers in Dartford, who had 
 charge of such money of hers as was not in the sav- 
 ings bank or Dartford and Oldbay Railroad stock, a 
 road paying steady dividends. But, besides the three 
 or four thousands in these safe investments that Miss 
 Beulah owned, she had two shares in a manufacturing 
 company, and one in Dartford Bridge stock, from 
 which her cousin duly remitted the annual dividends : 
 so, knowing what was in the letter, for the tool com- 
 pany's payment was just due, she did not open it till 
 she sat down in Miss Beers 's shop, and first opened the 
 Leghorn to view. 
 
 " Of all things ! " said Miss Beers, lifting up hands 
 and eyes during Miss Beulah's explanations. "And 
 you can't do nothing with it never. Why, it's flat- 
 ter'n a pancake. "Well, you couldn't expect nothing 
 else, with Miss Blake on top on't : she'd squash a baby 
 out as thin as a tin plate if she happened to set on't, 
 which I do hope she won't. See ! the Leghorn's all 
 broke up. I told you 'twas dreadful brittle. And the 
 ribbin is spoiled entire. You can't never clean laven- 
 der, nor yet satin, it frays so. And the lace is all gum : 
 anyway, that's gone. Might as well chuck the hull 
 into the fire." 
 
 "So do, Mary Jane, so do. I never want to set 
 eyes on't again. I haven't no patience with that boy 
 now, and the bunnit riles me to look at. I do want- to
 
 144 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 do right by the boy, but it goes against the grain 
 dreadful. I mistrust I shall have to watch and pray 
 real hard before I can anyway have patience with him. 
 I tell you he's a cross to 'Liza as well as to me. But 
 don't let's talk about him. What have you got that'll 
 do for a bunnit for me? " 
 
 Then the merits of the various bonnets in Miss 
 Beers's small stock were canvassed. A nice black 
 chip suited aunt Beulah well ; and a gray corded ribbon, 
 with a cluster of dark pansies, seemed just the thing 
 for trimming. In fact, she liked it, and with good 
 reason, better than the Leghorn ; but it was expensive. 
 All the materials, though simple, were good and rich. 
 Try as she would, Miss Beers could not get it up for 
 less than six dollars, and that only allowed twenty-five 
 cents for her own work. The alternative was a heavy 
 coarse straw, which she proposed to deck with a 
 yellow-edged black ribbon, and put some gold-eyed 
 black daisies inside. But Miss Beulah did want the 
 chip. 
 
 "Let's see," said she. "Mabbe this year's divi- 
 dend is seven per cent : 'tis once in a while. I'll see 
 what cousin Joseph says. If 'tain't more than usual, 
 I must take the straw." 
 
 But cousin Joseph had to tell her, that owing to 
 damage by flood and fire, as well as a general disturb- 
 ance of business all over the country, the C. A. Com- 
 pany paid no dividend this year. 
 
 " Then I sha'n't have no bunnit," said Miss Larkin 
 firmly. 
 
 "Why, you've got to have some kind of a bunnit,'' 
 said the amazed Miss Beers. 
 
 " I hain't got to if I can't."
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 145 
 
 "But why can't ye, Beulah? All your money and 
 all your dividends ain't in that comp'ny." 
 
 "Well, there's other uses for money this year be- 
 sides bunnits." 
 
 " You can't go to meetin'." 
 
 " I can stay to home." 
 
 "Why, Beulah Larkin, I'll trust you, and wel- 
 come." 
 
 " But I won't be trusted. I never was, and I never 
 will be. What if I should up and die? " 
 
 "I'd sue the estate," practically remarked Miss 
 Beers. 
 
 "No: 'out of debt, out of danger,' mother always 
 said, and I believe in't. I shall hate to stay to home 
 Sundays, but I can go to pray er-mee tin* in my slat 
 bunnit well enough." 
 
 "Why, the church'll deal with ye, Beulah, if ye 
 neglect stated means of grace." 
 
 "Let 'em deal," was the undaunted answer. Miss 
 Beulah had faced the situation, arranged it logically, 
 and accepted it. She had promised Sarah fifteen dol- 
 lars in June. She had lost a dividend of twelve dollars 
 on which she had reckoned with certainty ; five dollars 
 was due to home missions ; and, with her increased 
 family, there would be no margin for daily expenses. 
 There were twenty dollars in the savings bank over and 
 above the five hundred she had laid up for a rainy day, 
 and left in her will, made and signed but last week, to 
 little Janey. On this she would not trench, come what 
 might, except in case of absolute distress ; and the 
 twenty dollars were sacred to Sarah and home mis- 
 sions. But this was her private affair : she would not 
 make the poverty of her niece known abroad, or the
 
 146 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 nature of her will. If the church chose to deal with 
 her, it might ; but her lips should never open to ex- 
 plain, a commonplace martyrdom enough, and less 
 than saintly because so much of human pride and 
 self-will mingled in its suffering ; yet honesty and up- 
 rightness are so scarce in these days as to make even 
 such a sturdy witness for them respectable, and many 
 a woman who counts herself a model of sanctity might 
 shrink from a like daily ordeal. But aunt Beulah set 
 her face as a flint, and pursued her way in silence. 
 June came and went ; and with it went Sarah to her 
 expectant bridegroom in Chicago, from whence a paper 
 with due notice of her marriage presently returned. 
 Aunt Beulah strove hard to make both ends meet 
 in her housekeeping, and, being a close manager, 
 succeeded. There was no margin, not even twenty-five 
 spare cents to take Janey to the circus ; though she cut 
 aunt Beulah' s heart with entreaties to be taken to see 
 " lions an' el'phants," and said, " P'ease take Janey," 
 in a way to melt a stone. For to get food enough to 
 satisfy Jack was in itself a problem. Often and often 
 the vexed spinster declared to Nanny, her sympathizing 
 handmaid, 
 
 " ' Taiii't no use a-tryin' to fill him. He's holler 
 down to his boots, I know. He eat six b'iled eggs for 
 breakfast, and heaps of johnny-cake, besides a pint o' 
 milk, and was as sharp-set for dinner as though he'd 
 ben a-mowin' all the forenoon. 'Lizy says he's grow- 
 in' : if he grows anyways accordin' to what he eats, 
 he'll be as big as Goliath of Gath, as sure as you're 
 born. I don't begrudge the boy reasonable vittles, 
 but I can't buy butcher 's-meat enough to satisfy him 
 noway. And as to garden sass, he won't eat none.
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 147 
 
 That would be real fillin' if he would. Thanks be to 
 praise ! he likes Indian. Pudding and johnny-cake do 
 help a sight." 
 
 But while aunt Beulah toiled and moiled, and filled 
 her wide measure of charity toward these widowed and 
 fathp.rlp.sa with generous hand, the church, mightily 
 scandalized at her absence from its services, was pre- 
 paring to throw a shell into her premises. It was all 
 very well to say to Miss Beers that she was not afraid 
 of such a visitation ; but a trouble at hand is of quite 
 another aspect than a trouble afar off. Her heart quailed 
 and f uttered, when, one July afternoon, Nanny ushered 
 intvj the dark, cool parlor Deacon Morse and Deacon 
 Flint, come to ask her why she had not attended 
 church since the middle of last May, when she was in 
 usual health and exercise of her faculties. Miss Beu- 
 lah, however, was equal to the occasion. She faced 
 the deacons sternly, but calmly. 
 
 "It is so," she said, when they had finished their 
 accusation. " I hain't ben to meetin' for good cause. 
 You can't say I've did any thing that's give occasion 
 to the enemy more'n this. I've attended reg'lar to 
 prayer-meetin's and se win '-circle. I've give as usual to 
 home missions. You can't say I've made any scandal, 
 or done nothin' out o' rule, save an' except stayin' at 
 home sabbath days ; and my family has attended punc- 
 tooally." 
 
 But this did not satisfy the deacons : they pressed 
 for a reason. 
 
 "If you would free your mind, sister Larkin, it 
 would be for the good of the church," said Deacon 
 Morse. 
 
 "Mabbe 'twouldn't be altogether to your likin'
 
 148 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 deacon, if I did free my mind. Seems as though 
 stayin' at home from meetin' wa'n't no worse'u sandin' 
 sugar an' waterin' rum ; and I never heerd you was 
 dealt with for them things." 
 
 Deacon Morse was dumb, but Deacon Flint took up 
 the discourse. 
 
 " Well, sister Larkin, we didn't know but what you 
 was troubled in your mind." 
 
 " I ain't ! " snapped Miss Beulah. 
 
 " Or perhaps was gettin' a mite doubtful about doc- 
 trines, or suthin'." 
 
 "No, I ain't. I go by the 'Sembly's Catechism, 
 and believe in every word on't, questions and all." 
 
 ' ' Well, you seem to be a leetle contumacious, sister 
 Larkin, so to speak : if you had a good reason, why, of 
 course, you'd be willin' to tell it." 
 
 This little syllogism caught Miss Beulah. 
 
 " Well, if you must know, I hain't got no bunnit." 
 
 The deacons stared mutually ; and Deacon Morse, 
 forgetful of his defeat, and curious, as men naturally 
 are, asked abruptly, " Why not? " 
 
 " Cause Miss Blake sot on it." 
 
 The two men looked at each other in blank amaze- 
 ment, and shook their heads. Here was a pitfall. 
 Was it proper, dignified, possible, to investigate this 
 truly feminine tangle? They were dying to enter into 
 particulars, but ashamed to do so : nothing was left 
 but retreat. Miss Beulah perceived the emergency, 
 and chuckled grimly. This was the last straw. The 
 deacons rose as one man, and said, " Good-day," with 
 an accent of reprobation, going their ways in deep 
 doubt as to what they should report to the church, 
 which certainly would not receive with proper gravity
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 149 
 
 the announcement that Miss Beulah Larkin could not 
 come to church because the minister's wife had sat on 
 her Sunday bonnet. The strife of tongues, however, 
 did not spare aunt Beulah, if the deacons did ; and for 
 a long time Miss Beers, who had the key to the situa- 
 tion, did not hear any of the gossip, partly because 
 she had been ill of low fever, and then gone to her 
 sister's in Dartford for change of air, and partly, that,, 
 during July and August, the sewing-circle was tempo- 
 rarily suspended. But it renewed its sessions in Sep- 
 tember ; and Miss Beers was an active member, sure 
 to be at the first meeting. It was then and there she 
 heard the scorn and jeers and unfounded stories come 
 on like a tidal wave to overwhelm her friend's char- 
 acter. She listened a few minutes in silence, growing 
 more and more indignant. Then, for she was a little 
 woman as far as stature went, she mounted into a 
 chair, and demanded the floor in her own fashion. 
 
 "Look a-here ! " said she, her shrill voice soaring 
 above the busy clapper of tongues below. "It's a 
 burnin' shame to say a hard word about Beulah Lar- 
 kin. She's as good a woman as breathes the breath 
 of life, and I know the hull why and wherefore she 
 hain't ben to meetin'. She hain't had no bunnit. I 
 made her as tasty a bunnit as ever you see last spring ; 
 and that jackanapes of a boy he chucked it under the 
 rocker-cushion jest to plague her, and Miss Blake she 
 come in and sot right down on it, not knowin', of 
 course, that 'twas there ; and, as if that wa'n't enough 
 to spile it " (an involuntary titter seemed to express 
 the sense of the audience that.it was), "that other 
 sprig, she took and upsot a pitcher of milk onto the 
 cushion, and you'd better believe that bunnit was a 
 sight ! "
 
 150 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Why didn't she get another?" severely asked 
 Deacon Morse's wife. 
 
 "Why? Why, becos she's a-most a saint. Her 
 dividends some on 'em didn't come in, and she'd prom- 
 ised that biggest girl fifteen dollars to help her get out 
 to her feller at Chicago, for Sary told me on't herself ; 
 and then she gives five dollars to hum missions every 
 year, and she done it this year jest the same ; and she's 
 took that widder and them orphans home all summer, 
 and nigh about worked her head off for 'em, and never 
 charged a cent o' board ; and therefor and thereby 
 she hain't had no money to buy no bunnit, and goes 
 to prayer-meetin' in her calico slat." 
 
 A rustle of wonder and respect went through tho 
 room as the women moved uneasily in their chairs, 
 exchanged glances, and said, "My!" which inspired 
 Miss Beers to go on. 
 
 "And here everybody's ben a-talkin' bad about her, 
 while she's ben a real home-made kind of a saint. I 
 know she don't look it ; but she doos it, and that's a 
 sight better. I don't b'lieve there's one woman in 
 forty could ha' had the grit and the perseverance to do 
 what she done, and hold her tongue about it too. I 
 know I couldn't for one." 
 
 " She shouldn't ha' let her good be evil spoken of," 
 said Mrs. Morse with an air of authority. 
 
 " I dono as anybody had oughter have spoken evil 
 of her good," was Miss Beers's dry answer ; and Mrs. 
 Morse said no more. 
 
 But such a warm and generous vindication touched 
 many a feminine heart, which could appreciate Miss 
 Beulah's self-sacrifice better than the deacons could. 
 There was an immediate clustering and chattering
 
 MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. 151 
 
 among the good women, who, if they did love a bit of 
 gossip, were none the less kindly and well-meaning ; 
 and presently a spokeswoman approached Miss Beers 
 with the proposition, that, if she would make Miss 
 Beulah a handsome bonnet, a dozen or more had 
 volunteered to buy the materials. 
 
 "Well,"" said Miss Mary Jane, wiping her specta- 
 cles, " this is real kind ; and I make no doubt but what 
 Beulah'd think the same, though she's a master-hand 
 to be independent, and some folks say proud. Mabbe 
 she is ; but I know she couldn't but take it kind of 
 friends and neighbors to feel for her. However, there 
 ain't no need on't. It seems that Sary's husband ain't 
 very forehanded, and she's got a dreadful taste for the 
 millinery, business : so she's gone to work in one of the 
 fust shops there, and is gettin' great wages, for her ; 
 and only yesterday there come a box by express for 
 Miss Beulah, with the tastiest bunnit in it I ever see in 
 my life, good black velvet, with black satin kinder 
 puffed into the brim, and a dark-green wing to one side 
 of the band, and a big bow in under a jet buckle be- 
 hind. I tell you it was everlastin' pretty. Sary she 
 sent a note to say she hoped aunt Beulah'd give her 
 the pleasure to accept it ; for she'd knowed all along 
 how that she was the cause of her goin' without a 
 bunnit all summer (I expect her ma had writ to her) , 
 and she felt real bad about it. You'd better b'lieve 
 Beulah was pleased." 
 
 And Miss Beulah was pleased again when the women 
 from the village began to call on her even more fre- 
 quently than before, and express cordial and friendly 
 interest in a way that surprised her, all unaware as she 
 was of Miss Beers 's enthusiastic vindication of her
 
 152 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 character before the sewing-circle. Yet, poor, dear, 
 silly old woman, only a woman, after all, nothing 
 so thrilled and touched her late-awakened heart as little 
 Janey's soft caresses and dimpled patting hands on 
 that sallow old face, when she climbed into her lap the 
 next Sunday, and, surveying Miss Beulah's new bonnet, 
 exclaimed, with her silvery baby voice, "Pitty, pitty 
 bonnet ! ' ' 
 
 Jack did not say any thing about it, nor did the con- 
 gregation, though on more than one female face beamed 
 a furtive congratulatory smile ; and Deacon Flint looked 
 at Deacon Morse across the aisle. 
 
 If there is any moral to this story, as no doubt 
 there should be, it lies in the fact that Mrs. Blake 
 never again sat down in a chair without first lifting the 
 cushion.
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 
 
 " "Tis true, 'tis pity : 
 Pity 'tis 'tis true." 
 
 ""WELL," said Calvary Culver, sometimes called 
 Cal, and not infrequently Cal Cul, by such as believed 
 in the old adage that brevity is the soul of wit, 
 "well, my mind's nigh about made up. Mother's 
 kinder feeble : it's time there was more folks to our 
 house. I guess I'll git married." 
 
 "Haw, haw, haw!" burst from the audience, a 
 group of waiters and loungers in the country store, 
 where Cal stood, with his back against the counter, 
 whittling and spitting. 
 
 " 'Tain't no larfin matter, boys," he went on. 
 "You may think it's suthin' smart to git married, but 
 mebbe you'll find 'tain't all honey-sugar pie. Look at 
 Deacon Flint, now ! I tell ye his wife's as afeard o' 
 him as Parson Robbins is of the Devil ; and you can't 
 say no more'n that, now can ye? " 
 
 "Oh, say!" began another lounger: "you hain't 
 heerd, hev ye, about the parson's last tussle with the 
 adversary ? ' ' 
 
 Nobody had. He was unanimously urged to go on. 
 
 " Well, you know it hain't ben real fust-rate sugarin' 
 weather : it ha'n't thew days, though it's friz consid- 
 er'ble night-tunes. But it's kinder late for tappin', 
 
 153
 
 154 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 anyway, 'cordin' to the year: so parson he reckoned 
 he'd be amazin' forehanded this year, and git his holes 
 bored, and spouts drove in, and buckets set, so's to be 
 on hand, ye see. Now, them trees never dripped a 
 drop a Thursday, nor a Friday, nor a Saturday : three 
 days the buckets hung right there, and was empty ; but 
 sabba'-day it come round real warm, the sun shone 
 powerful, and, when he went to the bush Monday 
 mornin', the sap troughs and buckets was brimmin' over 
 full, as sure as you're born ! What does parson do 
 but take and tip 'em all up ; and Jim Beebe he was 
 behind him, 'cause his bush is over the fence, and he 
 knowed sap had run by that tune Jim heerd him say, 
 ' I know thy works, Satan, tempting me with Lord's 
 Day sap. Get thee behind me ! ' And he up and 
 tipped over every drop onf-r the ground, and went 
 off." 
 
 " Jeerus'lem ! " " Don't he beat ! " " Gosh ! " 
 "Darnation ! " and one rustic expletive after another 
 chorussed this tale. 
 
 Cal Culver kept silence, shifting from one foot to 
 the other ; then he spoke meditatively, as if he had 
 considered the subject before. " Parson Robbins does 
 take consider'ble comfort out o' the Devil, don't he?" 
 
 " Comfort ! " echoed the crowd. 
 
 "Well, mebbe you wouldn't call it that exackly; 
 but the idee is, he gits somethin' to spend his grit on 
 that way that's orthydox. You see, natur's awful 
 strong in Parson Robbins, and by natur' he'd orter ha' 
 ben a fightin' man : he's got it in him. I've seen him 
 when I knowed he nigh about ached to pitch in and 
 knock a feller down. He'd ha' fit Injuns like all pos- 
 sessed, ef they'd ben around sence he growed up. Now
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 155 
 
 what's in a man, 'cordin' to my belief, 's got to come 
 out o' him some way or nuther. Ef he's a good man, 
 I s'pose it's kinder made over, sanctified like, ef it's 
 grit, or lyin', or brag, or any seeh thing." 
 
 "Kinder difficult to sanctify lyin'," dryly remarked 
 Mr. Battle, the village store-keeper. 
 
 " AVell, 'tis, that's a fact; but I s'pose ef it was 
 b'iled over into 'cuteness, and sarcumventions of the 
 Evil One, and sech, 'twouldn't do no great o' harm? 
 Might come in useful in waterin' rum, and sandin' 
 sugar." 
 
 Mr. Battle heard a noise at the back-door just then : 
 and Cal winked deliberately at the crowd, who wanted 
 to grin, but dare not ; for most of them were chalked 
 up on that dreadful slate behind the door with many 
 marks, and all of them liked rum, with or without 
 water. 
 
 ' ' Parson doos pay quite a sight of 'tention to the 
 Devil," sighed and squeaked a bent old man, bent 
 and worn with rheumatism, that rack and thumb-screw 
 of the New-England climate. " 'Pears to me some- 
 times as though he talked a sight more 'bout him than 
 'bout the Lord above." 
 
 " I expect he has to," answered Cal Culver. " He's 
 round here in Bassett a good deal the most o' the two." 
 
 "You look out!" called the speaker who had told 
 about the sap- troughs : "you'll git ketched up yet, as 
 Mat Lines did t'other day. He said the south eend o* 
 Bassett was as bad as hell ; and I'm blamed if they 
 didn't take him up for't, and fine him." 
 
 " 'T won't do to tell the truth allers," replied Culver. 
 " But, boys, to go back to fust principles, I be ser'ous- 
 ly a mind to git married."
 
 156 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " Who ye goin' to mary, Cal? " inquired Mr. Battle. 
 
 " Well, I dono as I know myself, some smart likely 
 gal." 
 
 Here was a general shout, for Cal Culver was the 
 village do-nothing. The owner of a small red house 
 and "home lot," which his father had left him, the 
 sole proceeds of a long life spent at a cobbler's bench, 
 Cal acted as if work were as needless to his life as '.t 
 was unpleasant ; that is, hard work. He managed to 
 raise enough potatoes and Indian corn on the two 
 acres to keep his mother and himself in meal and the 
 great vegetable staple. If he felt like it in the time of 
 it, he raised bush-beans along by the fence ; and in 
 among the corn it was easy to drop a few pumpkin- 
 seeds. The apple-trees in the door-yard produced their 
 crops without trouble, and " garden-sass " was left to 
 his mother's care : if she wanted it, she could raise it. 
 Poor old woman ! she had enough to do with loom, 
 spinning-wheel, and needle, besides the simple house- 
 wifery of her time and means ; so that the garden only 
 bloomed with such flowers as were hardy and perennial, 
 deep- red roses and glowing white ones ; hollyhocks 
 in stately spires ; stiff sweet-williams, and ragged beds 
 of moss-pink ; little Burgundy roses no bigger than a 
 copper cent, and trim as an old maid ; and long wreaths 
 of cinnamon roses, sweet as the luxuriant blooms of 
 far-away Cashmere, but stinted in leaf and growth and 
 tlossom, as if they pined and half died in bitter North- 
 ern airs and grudging sunshine. There was sage too, 
 and summer-savory ; for there was a pig always. The 
 labor of feeding it bore hard on Cal ; but who could 
 live without pork? pork that meant pies, doughnuts, 
 suet-pudding, sausages in winter ; cheeks smoked under
 
 CAL CULVEf. AND THE DEVTL. 157 
 
 a barrel, and hung in the -shed ; slabs of fat, salt and 
 unctuous, adding savor and strength to a b'iled dinner 
 or a "fry" of any sort. No, indeed 1 a pig was the 
 great necessity of life, and must be fed if they two 
 went hungry. 
 
 But Cal was a mighty hunter, so that food was seldom 
 wanting. He could snare partridges, kill woodcock and 
 quail with his old shot-gun, bring home squirrels by 
 the dozen, and set rabbit-traps with unfailing success ; 
 trout leaped to his hook ; and, as to perch and sunfish, 
 they were to be had for the asking at his hands, and 
 the ponds in winter were full of pickerel : more than 
 he and Granny Culver could use found their way to the 
 store or the squire's, and resulted in rum, tea, or maple- 
 sugar, luxuries of life. Yet Cal was a shiftless, 
 thriftless fellow ; shrewd, witty, keen-sighted, and 
 lazy. He loved to roam over the land with rod or gun, 
 to lie on the fragrant sand of a pine-wood and sleep 
 away sultry noons, to hang about the big stove in the 
 store in cold weather and take a hot "nip" of rum 
 toddy, while he told and heard stories and cracked 
 jokes ; but how he hated to plough, to hoe, to chop, to 
 break stone, to mow, to tend mill ! Parson Robbins 
 and he were always at odds, and no wonder. The 
 parson was a fiery, positive, set, energetic little man, 
 with enough executive power in him to have been presi- 
 dent of six railroads at a time, a man who could not 
 be idle a moment, who rose early and read late, who 
 was by nature a belligerent, autocratic, eager, earnest 
 man, and was set down in a little country parish. Cal 
 was right : to fight something was the necessity of the 
 parson's nature ; his very face was aggressive. Modern 
 clergymen, who preach one sermon a week, are victims
 
 158 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 to dyspepsia, and use long words by the thousand to 
 express what they don't mean ; who dabble in aesthetics 
 and affinities, and have spiritual ups and downs like 
 the cradle-holes in a winter-drifted road, because they 
 have so little work that they have time to waste in 
 studying themselves and their feelings, would have 
 made Parson Robbins stare. Three sermons a Sunday,- 
 and a lecture Thursday evening ; prayer-meetings in 
 the ends of the town alternately twice a week ; visiting 
 such of his flock as needed it, and all of them occa- 
 sionally, and writing sermons every week with con- 
 scientious diligence ; splitting wood, hoeing corn, and, 
 in short, farming his few acres by way of amusement 
 and relaxation ; his only reading the county weekly 
 paper, and the few solid volumes of theology on his 
 bedroom shelves, what a life is this in comparison 
 with that of to-day ? Five hundred dollars a year were 
 well earned, and hard earned too. No wonder that the 
 gospel was a daily reality to this prophet in the wilder- 
 ness, and the Devil a real and roaring personage, to be 
 baffled, fought, defied, and exorcised : and no wonder 
 that learning to endure hardness as a good soldier of 
 Christ Jesus, and to put on the whole armor of God, 
 this militant parson longed to test that hardness, and use 
 those weapons in lawful warfare with the enemy ; and he 
 did. He did not forget God, but he could trust him. 
 The Devil was persistent and at hand ; and he preached 
 about, prayed at, and wrestled with him to an extent 
 incredible to us who talk about an impersonal principle 
 of evil, and consider that awful solitude in the wilder- 
 ness and its agonies only a dramatization. 
 
 To Parson Robbius, as to Luther, the Enemy was a 
 real and active being ; and the flock whom he gathered
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 159 
 
 into the old red meeting-house accepted his belief with 
 equal earnestness, except a few born sceptics who 
 could not believe in any thing, and a few sturdy sin- 
 ners who would not. 
 
 Even Cal Culver believed in the Devil ; but he was 
 too lazy to repent of his sins and lead a new life, far 
 too lazy to begin a warfare that must last as long as 
 he did, and keep mind and body on the alert. To-day 
 he was not so much troubled about Satan as he had 
 been sometimes. His mind was given to another sub- 
 ject, whom he should marry ; for marriage was get- 
 ting to be the only way out of his difficulties. His 
 mother grew feebler and feebler ; and he contemplated 
 with terror the idea that he must do the work himself, 
 and take care of her too, unless somebody stepped in 
 to take the burden off his shoulders. He had an- 
 nounced his intention in the store, partly to fix it in his 
 own mind beyond recall, partly in the hope of some 
 gratuitous advice being offered ; but nobody there had 
 any to give. It did not occur to any of them that 
 Cal was in earnest, or, if he was, that any girl in 
 Bassett would look at him in a matrimonial light. But 
 this was not Cal's opinion. He knew he was hand- 
 some. The straight, regular features, big blue eyes, 
 and golden hair and beard he had seen mirrored iu 
 many a silent forest pool, told him a true story ; and 
 when a hearty laugh parted the full red lips, and 
 showed his regular white teeth, and his eyes flashed 
 with fun, or glittered with humor or craft, the too 
 perfect face wore an added charm of bright expression. 
 He was tall, too, straight, and strong, and being the 
 only man in all the village, old or young ; whose beard 
 had been allowed its natural growth, simply because
 
 160 ' SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 he was too lazy to shave, he was a marked figure 
 wherever he went, and in constant request at raisings, 
 apple-bees, and huskings, both as help in the work, 
 which being only occasional, and followed by a feast, 
 was not objectionable to him, and also as " fust- rate 
 company," a guest who could play all sorts of games, 
 and dance all night, where any householder dared 
 admit of dancing. But, though the girls all liked his 
 society, none of them wanted to marry him ; and to- 
 day, after he had waited for some expression of assent 
 01 opinion from the knot of his comrades in the store, 
 and waited in vain, he sauntered off to find his special 
 crony, Jim Beebe, and get him to go fishing. An hour 
 or two after, they were both embarked in a dug-out on 
 Long Lake, diligently waiting for something to bite, 
 and Cal began discourse in a low tone, out of consid- 
 eration for the fishes. 
 
 " Say, Jim, I'm a-goin' to git married." 
 
 " Be ye? " Jim answered meditatively, giving a gen- 
 tle motion to his rod to see if the line was free. 
 
 " Yes, I be ; but, darn it all ! I douo who I'll marry 
 yet, and I've got to hurry up. Mother's dreadful mis- 
 er'ble along back." 
 
 "Kinder sure somebody'll hev ye, 'pears to me," 
 sarcastically remarked Jim. 
 
 " Well, what ef I be? Gals is most gener'ly ready 
 to say snip when a good-lookiu' young feller says 
 snap. I'll bet ye a cooky the fust gal I ask says yes 
 right off." 
 
 Jim was disgusted with this conceit : he entertained 
 no doubt that any girl in Bassett would marry him, but 
 Cal Culver was another sort of person. Men have not 
 radically changed within the last hundred years, and
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 161 
 
 both Calvary and Jim might find comrades to-day. 
 However, Jim held his tongue, and Cal went on, 
 
 " Trouble is to find jest the right one. There's lota 
 o' folks in the world ; but, come to marryin', you want 
 jest the right critter. It's a life bizness, you see ; and 
 what on airth* kin a n!an do ef he gets haltered up tight 
 to the wrong un? " 
 
 Cal was not " of the fashion of these tunes ; " for as 
 yet divorce facilities were unknown to decent Con- 
 necticut, and ' ' till death ' ' did not mean the ' ' dying 
 daily " it seems to now. 
 
 "What sort o' head-marks be you sot on speci- 
 fyin' ? " dryly remarked Jim, as he gave a little twitch 
 to his rod, and landed a round, fat little "punkin- 
 seed " in the bottom of the boat. 
 
 " Well, I want a smart un, that, or no thin'." 
 
 " I knowed that afore ye told me : there's got to be 
 smartness some'eres," curtly put in Jim, pushing an 
 unhappy worm on to the end of his hook. 
 
 " Git out ! " laughed Cal. " You shouldn't twit on 
 fac's, Jim. I'm smart enough when I'm a mind ter, 
 but I'd jest as lieves other folks would take a stiddy 
 job on't. I want a strong, healthy gal too. Mother 
 she can't do a heap more : she's failin', that's the 
 truth on't. Somebody's got to step round lively to our 
 house while she lasts. I want somebody that's got 
 faculty too : fact is, a woman that hain't got faculty 
 ain't good for nothin'." 
 
 "Mebbe ye might try for Pollythi Bangs," put in 
 Jim, who was getting interested in the matter at last. 
 
 "Well, I declare for't, I hadn't had a thought o' 
 Pollythi Bangs. She is a masterpiece for smartness, 
 now, ain't she?"
 
 162 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " Steel trape ain't nothin' to her," assented Jim : 
 "she's too smart a'most. But she's got amazin' 
 faculty, everybody says. I dono, though, as I should 
 reelly hanker to many her, Cal: them Bangses is a 
 dreadful queer lot." 
 
 " Well, I don't calkerlate to marry the %ull on 'em, 
 Jim. I guess I could hold my own with Polly, ef she 
 is reel masterful. Come to that, I've the biggest 
 bones anyway. I can shake her up good." 
 
 Jim shook his head. He did not feel sure that 
 physical force could put down Polly thi Bangs, and 
 proceeded, as delicately as he knew how, to urge this 
 question. 
 
 " Well, I guess ye could, ef it come to that. But, 
 Lord, how be ye goin' to stop her tongue? She'll talk 
 ye lame and blind, ef ye stroke her the wrong way ; and 
 she'll hetchel the old woman mortally, I be afraid." 
 
 "Queer, ain't it?" Cal said, dropping his hook 
 slowly into the water, having mated Jim's pumpkin- 
 seed while he talked, "queer how women-folks do 
 ketch fire, come to git 'em together. The best on 'em 
 can't live in the same house two days 'thout some 
 darned thing or 'nother sprouts up to set 'em by the 
 ears. It doos beat all." 
 
 " I expect Parson Bobbins would say the Devil comes 
 in thirdsman, Cal, them times." 
 
 " I guess there ain't no special call for an extry 
 Dovil. 'Riginal sin's actyve enough in 'em most times ; 
 but they're reel handy to hev around, for all that. I 
 shall begin square and fair. Ef she wants to hetchel 
 me, she kin try it on ; but she'd better let the old 
 woman alone. 'Twon't be for long anyway." 
 
 " Don't you reckon on that," put hi the experienced
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 163 
 
 Jim. " Old women last for ever 'n' ever. They don't 
 know how to die when they git started. Lordy ! look 
 at granny. She's ben prayed for more times in meet- 
 in'. She's ben dangerous forty times since I kin 
 remember : but she hops up every tune like a pa'tridge 
 trap ; and she's ninety, come July, as sure as you're 
 born." 
 
 "Well, what do ye keep hevin' her prayed for?" 
 coolly suggested Cal ; an idea that tickled Jim till he 
 dropped his rod over the side, worn out with suppressed 
 laughter, suppressed, for fear of startling the perch 
 and pumpkin-seeds, which were now tempting their 
 fate with commendable alacrity. 
 
 " Cal Culver, you do beat all ! " he found breath to 
 gasp at length. " Why, cf I didn't hand in no paper, 
 Parson Robbins ud pray for her whether or no : so I 
 might jest as well be kinder decent. But, ef you do 
 go in for Pollythi Bangs, why, you ain't noways blind- 
 ed. I expect you know her, root and branch." 
 
 " Jee-rusalem ! I guess I do! Ain't her folks gin 
 the name to Squabble Hill? Their house is jest like 
 a flock o' blackbirds, foreveiiastin' a-cacklin' an' 
 jawin' an' takin' to do : you can hear 'em nigh onto 
 quarter of a mile when you're a-goin' along the turn- 
 pike. But mother's everlastiu' hard o' hearin' : that's 
 a comfort, seein' things is as they is." 
 
 " I didn't know as they was yit," suggested Jim. 
 
 " Well, I guess there ain't no great doubt but what, 
 ef I make up my mind, she'll make up her'n pretty 
 much arter the same pattern. Polly hain't had no great 
 luck with company-kecpin', and she ain't no chicken 
 nuther. I'll fetch round there next sabba'-day night, 
 I guess, and kinder let fall a hint. I didn't want to 
 rile her by bein' too suddin."
 
 164 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 "I wouldn't," said Jim. "But look a-here, Cti. 
 there's suthin' else to't. I forgot for to tell ye, fot I 
 only heerd it yesterday. She's hed a aunt, or suthm', 
 die over to Har'ford, that's left her a couple o' housen 
 there wuth quite a sum, two or three thousan', I 
 expect." 
 
 "Do tell! Now, Jim, that kinder clinches me. 
 I'm bound for Pollythi, sure, now. Means i<s a help, 
 that's a fact. I'd made up my mind pretty well 
 afore : now I'm sartin." 
 
 All this time Pollythi Bangs was fly m g about the 
 house at home, doing her annual spring-cleaning. 
 Dreadful stage of human experience ! Civilization has 
 never softened its horrors, but rather added thereto. 
 It is the crucial test before which all the amenities of 
 life, its conveniences, its comforts, its elegancies, go 
 down helplessly into the valley of humiliation. Furni- 
 ture, bric-a-brac, carpets, paintings, china, only exas- 
 perate this insatiable epidemic, and give it more and 
 more victims, till their number is legion. If Polly 
 Bangs was cross over the lustration of a house with 
 one carpet, two cracked looking-glasses, no sofa, blue- 
 aud- white crockery, and pewter platters, a house 
 where soap and water could be slopped about with 
 absolute freedom, and the whitewash-brush smeared 
 liberally everywhere, what would she have been, 
 turned loose among Sevres, Dresden, Crown Derby, 
 French porcelain, Japanese enamel, Bohemian glass, 
 Venetian crystal ; carpets of Persia, India, France, 
 and England ; furniture carved and upholstered as if 
 for palaces ; priceless pictures ; paper of Eastlake and 
 Morris ; and the ten thousand costly dusty bawbles of 
 a modern mansion? Let lunatic- asylums answer. If
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 165 
 
 we have gained mucl: in these latter days, how nrach 
 have we not lost? 
 
 Polly was cross naturally : her mother was cross ; 
 her father fairly growled. The Bangs temper was 
 proverbial in Bassett, and now it was in active exer- 
 cise ; for house-cleaning would test an angel's amia- 
 bility, and tries that of common mortals to the 
 extremest limit, even unto utter failure : why should a 
 bad temper fail to find it exasperating? But how 
 much more furious would Pollythi have been, had she 
 known of that discussion as to her future which was 
 being held on the fair breast of Long Lake, while the 
 budding trees shed soft shadows into the water, white 
 clouds gently sailed along its depths, the fragrant 
 reluctant breath of a New-England spring sighed 
 tenderly over wave and shore, and Cal and Jim slaugh- 
 tered little fishes with relentless hook and line as they 
 discussed a deeper angling with a livelier bait. Would 
 she ever have risen to their hook ? Never ! But no 
 officious telephone betrayed them : tune aud space 
 kept the secret with their ancient honesty. They are 
 demoralized now ; and that which is spoken in the bed- 
 chamber is declared on the house-top, even on the 
 house-top miles away. Who shall ever know safety of 
 speech again ? 
 
 Pollythi Bangs was all that Jim Beebe had painted 
 her, and perhaps more, strong of body and will both, 
 imperious, quick-tempered, and absolutely unrestrained 
 in speech. She inherited all these traits from a father 
 and mother so alike in character that they never were 
 at peace with each other or their child. Peace, indeed, 
 was a state unknown in the Bangs family ; and so 
 notorious were their quarrels, so continuous their wars
 
 166 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 and fightings, that the hill halfway up which their old 
 farm-house stood was known all through Bassiugton 
 township as Squabble Hill, a name borne by it to- 
 day. But, if Polly Bangs was a scold, she was also 
 smart, a great worker, and a woman who could turn 
 her hand to any thing. She could weave any sort of 
 fabric known to domestic looms in those days ; she 
 could out-spin any other woman in the town, having 
 once, in a contest of wheels, spun seven run of yarn 
 between sunrise and sunset, an achievement that 
 would have half -killed any other woman (two run being 
 counted a legitimate day's work), but which seemed to 
 have no effect on Polly thi's strength of nerve and 
 muscle. Her bread was town-talk ; her quilts elaborate 
 beyond every thing, the seven-stars pattern and the 
 sun-rising-over-the-Alleghany-Mountains pattern hav- 
 ing originated in her own accomplished brain. As for 
 knitting, and yeast, fine darning, election-cake, train- 
 ing-day gingerbread, and pot-pie, she was simply 
 wonderful. Her root-beer always foamed, her nut- 
 cakes fried just right, and her pork and beans were 
 inimitable. These things never are the forte of amia- 
 ble, gentle, "pretty-behaved" women. Energy, force, 
 Sturm und Drang, make the world go round, not soft 
 rftrokes : they have their own power, but it is not the 
 power of leverage. Yet Polly had a certain rough 
 kindliness about her when every thing went right. 
 
 " Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, 
 To make a wash would hardly stew a child." 
 
 She did not like children or animals ; but she would 
 fish a screaming infant out of the brook if need were, 
 and had been known not to kick a lame dog that lay
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 167 
 
 down on the door-step. It was wonderful to her 
 mother that Polly had no lovers. People who live 
 together get used sometimes to each other's faults. A 
 husband will ignore a great deal in a wife, because he 
 does not notice her short-comings as others do who do 
 not come under their disturbance daily ; and a mother 
 will love and admire the spoiled child who is a nuisance 
 to everybody else about her. Polly was handsome, 
 after a fashion : she had hard black eyes, strong curl- 
 ing dark hair, red cheeks, strong white teeth, and a 
 good tall figure, angular and awkward to be sure. But 
 roundness, grace, dimples, are not the rule in New 
 England ; and Polly wa j better-looking than most of 
 her compeers : yet she had attained the respectable age 
 of thirty-five, without an offer, even from a widower, 
 when Cal Culver took heart of grace, and asked her to 
 marry him, after a three-weeks' courtship, following 
 directly on his consultation with Jim Beebe. 
 
 Pollythi neither said yes nor no on that interesting 
 occasion, nor did she go through the ordinary formulas 
 of speech or action : she blushed not, neither sighed, 
 nor drooped her head on Cal's shoulder. She was too 
 far off for such tender demonstration, if she had in- 
 tended it : so she sat bolt-upright in her chair, and 
 answered audibly, " I'll think on't." 
 
 "Well, I wisht you would," manfully responded 
 Cal. 
 
 He knew and she knew, and she knew he knew she 
 knew (bless the English language !) that there was no 
 particular love in the matter. Cal wanted a capable 
 wife ; and Pollythi, being a woman, fully understood 
 that it is more creditable to an individual of the weaker 
 sex to be anybody's wife than nobody's. She knew
 
 j.68 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 very well that Calvary Culver was a shiftless, lazy, 
 penniless fellow, who wanted her to help him : hand- 
 some, to be sure ; but, if Polly's heart warmed the 
 least to his goodly presence, her head was cool enough 
 to chill such absurd flames immediately. Yet even 
 that very " level " head gave a casting vote in favor of 
 Cal. If she married him, she would have her own 
 bouse and her own way ; for she justly reckoned Mrs. 
 Culver as a cipher in the family. At home her mother 
 and her father both "drank delight of battle" with 
 her, and not infrequently got the victory, when they 
 were astute enough to join forces against her. But 
 with Cal she could hold her own, and take on her the 
 state and privileges of a matron ; while now she was 
 fast sinking into that purgatory of women, old 
 maidenhood. So she " thought on't," as she promised, 
 and thought favorably ; and in due time brisk little 
 Parson Robbins published the banns of marriage be- 
 tween "Calvary Culver of this place, and Pollythi 
 Bangs of Squabble Hill," greatly to the edification, if 
 not the amusement, of his congregation. Some smiled, 
 and some shook their heads ; but the parson looked 
 like a small thunder-cloud, and, before the day was 
 over, effectually turned the thoughts of his flock from 
 Cal and Polly in this wise : 
 
 It seems Jim Beebe had laid a bet with Squire Battle 
 that Parson Robbins couldn't preach a sermon without 
 mentioning the Devil literally his bete noire at 
 least a dozen times, and agreed with him that they both 
 should keep count the next Sunday, and so settle this 
 peculiar wager. Jim accordingly went to meeting 
 armed with a paper of big pins, and at each mention 
 of the Devil made by the parson stuck one of them
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 169 
 
 upright in the front-edge of the gallery where he sat. 
 A fine row they made before that day was over, 
 thirteen for the morning sermon, fifteen for the after- 
 noon's discourse, and positively twenty in the evening. 
 
 Jim won his bet, and triumphed. Brief exultation. 
 The parson's keen eye had noticed his fixed attention, 
 and a peering ray of sunshine had twinkled on the new 
 pins. Parson Robbins was pleased. He was a man, 
 after all, of mortal flesh and blood ; and to have 
 arrested the attention of such an incorrigible idler and 
 " chuckle-head" as he had more than once stigmatized 
 Jim Beebe, did the natural man a deal of good, and 
 imparted power and fervency to his address. He could 
 not quite explain the pins, but tried hard to believe 
 Jim was so absorbed in the discourse he did not know 
 what he was about. Even so have I known a modern 
 minister speak with pathetic gratification of the effect 
 " a few simple words " of L:s from the pulpit had 
 upon a certain volatile young lady accidentally present, 
 whom he fondly supposed to be sobbing with emotion, 
 and who, alas ! as I had the best reason to know, was 
 merely struggling, with hidden face and abased head, 
 to conquer a fit of mighty laughter, brought about by 
 the machinations of a wicked companion. But Parson 
 Robbins was more unlucky than the blessed man who 
 gave me credit for my false- faced emotion ; for, going 
 home a little more upright and confident than ever, he 
 heard a- loud cackle of laughter from the steps of 
 brother Battle's side-door, which was screened from 
 the street by some shrubby lilacs, and Jim Beebe's 
 voice uplifted with, 
 
 " I stuck one in every time, squire ; and you see 
 your tally and mine is as like as peas hi a pod. Forty-
 
 170 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 eight ' Devils ' in them 'ere three discourses ; 'bout as 
 bad as the herd o' swine. Haw, haw, haw ! He 
 does beat all for givin' it to th' Enemy, now don't he ? 
 But I got my bet." 
 
 "That's so," owned Squire Battle, re-echoing Jim's 
 irresistible chuckle. 
 
 Parson Bobbins walked on in a state of mind quite 
 changed from the high content he had enjoyed before. 
 He was, in fact, furiously angry, and, thinking he did 
 well to be so, devoted himself to preparing in this week 
 three new sermons entirely free from any allusions to 
 the foul fiend, or his work and ways. It was a hard 
 piece of writing to do this, hard as to stand with 
 level guns before the face of a hostile army, and not 
 pull a trigger ; but yet it taught the parson one lesson 
 unconsciously. He learned more of the goodness of 
 God in the course of those three sermons than in many 
 a long year before, though the knowledge did not 
 immediately bear fruit, for it fell among the thorns of 
 kindled temper and wounded vanity. But they were 
 good sermons, and fell on the ears of his people like 
 dew on the mown grass, and showers that water the 
 field. Sweet pale Margaret Robbins lifted up her face, 
 delicate as the cup of a wood-anemone, toward the 
 high pulpit, and wondered what fresh coal from the 
 altar had touched her father's lips ; and Deacon Flint, 
 harder than his apt name, stirred uneasily in his square 
 pew, and thought many of such sermons might meddle 
 with his domestic discipline, and put new and revolu- 
 tionary ideas into his wife's head. But at the end of 
 the evening sermon the parson destroyed the lovely 
 edifice he had so carefully laid up through the day, and 
 restored matters to their usual level by facing about
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 171 
 
 squarely at unlucky Jim Beebe, who sat as usual in the 
 gallery, in the face and eyes of the congregation, and 
 remarking in a loud voice, "There, young man! I 
 have preached three sermons to-day, and have not 
 mentioned the name of your father once." 
 
 Confusion twice confounded fell upon Jim and Squire 
 Battle ; and a light rustle of choked and stifled laughter 
 ran through the church, while the parson in a sonorous 
 voice gave out the hymn beginning, 
 
 " Why do the wicked boast abroad ?" 
 
 Under cover of this remarkable incident, the publish- 
 ment of Cal and Polly went into obscftrity ; and in due 
 time they were married, and Pollythi was installed in 
 the little red house. She came in as with a besom of 
 destruction, fetching store of linen and blankets, fresh 
 splint-bottomed chairs, a new clock, a set of blue-edged 
 crockery, and sundry other plenishings. Granny Cul- 
 ver's rickety belongings were hustled into the second 
 story, and she herself bundled out of her warm bed- 
 room, opening out of the kitchen, into one of the two 
 up stairs, which were under the roof, and, in this July 
 weather, sweltering hot. But Polly announced at once 
 that she " wa'n't a-goin' trapesin' up and down them 
 stairs forevermore ; " and granny, being in a feeble 
 minority, crept up the sharp ascent, and before long 
 ceased to come down, but lay there, lonely and drowsy, 
 day aiier day. Polly did not really neglect her. She 
 had proper food, and was kept painfully clean. A 
 little tenderness would have reconciled the old lady to 
 fewer scrubbings and less food ; but Polly gave what 
 she had to give. Can any of us do more? Cal was 
 good to her in his lazy way ; but Cal was never so put
 
 172 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 about in his own house before. No peace was left him 
 IL. those easy-going precincts where he had been used 
 to lie round at his leisure ; for now the floor was white 
 with abundant soaping and sanding in the kitchen, the 
 sills polished with scrubbing, the hearth immaculate, 
 the very jambs whitewashed, and a great corn-husk 
 mat lay before every door, whereon he was obliged, at 
 the point of the broom-handle, to rub his boots before 
 he could enter ; white curtains adorned every window ; 
 the walls glared with fresh whiteness ; the most elabo- 
 rate quilt forbade him to nap on the bed, to rest his 
 head on those shining linen pillow-cases would have 
 made it as uneay as to wear a crown ; and the chintz 
 cushions in rocker and arm-chair were beautiful for 
 sight and situation, but their poppies and roses were 
 never meant to sit down on. 
 
 It is true that Cal had never before been regaled 
 with such food as Polly thi prepared. Her bread was 
 whiter than milk, light as cork, delicate as cake, she 
 wrought it after a secret process that Bassett maids and 
 matrons pined to discover, but never attained ; and the 
 game Cal brought in was converted into savory stews 
 and crisp broils that would have done credit to a French 
 chef. But what atones for domestic peace? How 
 pathetic is the declaration of Solomon ! " It is better 
 to dwell in a corner of the house-top than with a brawl- 
 ing woman in a wide house." 
 
 There is but one parallel to this misery, a man with 
 dyspepsia. And, if Solomon left him out in this speci- 
 fication, it is because he was a man himself ; and there 
 is a way made and provided for men or women to de- 
 fend themselves against their own sex, which does not 
 hold good against the other.
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 173 
 
 If Cal Culver had taken into his house a brother 
 whose days were spent in snapping and snarling, in 
 sulking silently, or scolding mercilessly, he would forth- 
 with have extended his good right arm, and knocked 
 dyspepsia out of him summarily ; but against a woman, 
 and that woman his wife, he was comparatively power- 
 less, almost as powerless as the dyspeptic's wife or 
 children would be against his afflictive manners and 
 customs. So Polly thi pursued her triumphant career ; 
 and Cal inhabited the barn and the woods chiefly 
 through the summer, and became almost a fixture by 
 the stove of Squire Battle's store in winter. Polly 
 grew more and more furious over his defections and 
 short-comings ; and, rather than consume with speech- 
 less wrath, she spent her tune, between the occupations 
 of housekeeping, in pouring that wrath into poor old 
 granny's ears as she lay on her feather-bed in the loft. 
 Granny was helpless ; for winter had now set in, and 
 bound her hand and foot with " rheumatiz." She could 
 not even creep up, and sit in her rocking-chair, which 
 Cal had insisted should be carried up there ; but it was 
 mighty convenient for Pollythi, who sat there by the 
 hour, rocking and scolding and knitting, till granny 
 learned to think the hiss of rushing snows, the crackle 
 of sharp sleet, or the tireless drip of chilly rains, upon 
 the roof so close to her head, a song of comfort in 
 comparison with Polly's long diatribes. And when Cal 
 came home at night, or occasionally to dinner, the 
 tongue-tempest raged frantically, all the more that he 
 seemed neither to hear nor fear this wordy assault, but 
 bore himself like 
 
 "Feather-bed 'twixt castle-wall 
 And heavy brunt of cannon-ball,"
 
 174 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 eating his dinner as placidly and deliberately as if Polly 
 and he were Darby and Joan. 
 
 He did feel one thing, though he diplomatically con- 
 cealed it, and that was his mother's discomfort ; for 
 the poor old woman feebly whimpered her woes to him 
 whenever they had a moment together, and he saw that 
 her life was a burden to her because of this daughter 
 of Heth. But Cal could not help it ; and his lazy, sun- 
 shiny nature shook off trouble as a duck flirts the roll- 
 ing waters from her packed and glossy feathers. He 
 said nothing to Polly, nor even let her know that he 
 appreciated his mother's sufferings : discretion was 
 eminently the better part of valor here. 
 
 The year rolled on into summer again, and again 
 found Cal and his crony fishing in latter May on Long 
 Lake. The orchards were heaped with rosy bloom, the 
 woods fresh and odorous with young leaves ; gold-and- 
 crimson columbines danced on the rocky shores, and 
 nodded to their vivid counterparts in the still wave 
 below ; and the first wood- robin blew his fairy clarion, 
 resonant as a silver bell, sweet as a flute, yet shrill as 
 a violin, in the very highest boughs of the forest : but 
 Cal and Jim, blind and deaf as two images of wood, 
 neither saw nor heard the beauty and songs about 
 them ; they were absorbed in discussing the rules and 
 regulations of a hunting-club to which they both be- 
 longed, and which gave prizes for certain achieve- 
 ments. The subject had been introduced by the sight 
 of a heifer calf, apparently pure Devon, grazing peace- 
 fully in a near pasture. It was Cal's calf, the captive 
 of his bow and spear in one sense ; for he had won it 
 as last year's prize. 
 
 " Pretty critter, ain't it? " he said to Jim.
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 175 
 
 "Well, yes, middlin'. I dono but what I should 
 think 'twas all-fired harnsome ef I'd got it as easy as 
 you did, Cal." 
 
 "Easy! I tell ye it took some huntin' to git all 
 them heads." And Cal's blue eyes twinkled with fun 
 as he made this statement. 
 
 " Haw, haw, haw ! You be the beateree, Cal Cul, of 
 any critter I ever see. There ain't another feller in 
 Bassett would ha' thought o' fetchin' in two hundred 
 mouse-heads to the last minnit, and claimin' on 'em 
 for game, so'st they couldn't help but give ye the 
 prize." 
 
 " Well, they was game, dreadful lively game too. 
 I 'arned the prize, ef ever a man did." 
 
 " I say for't, Cal, ef you had as 'much grit as you've 
 got gumption, I bet you'd be put up for guv'nor, or 
 hog- herd, or suthin', afore ye die." 
 
 " Mebbe I should, mebbe I should ; but 'tain't wuth 
 the trouble, Jim. I'm 'flicted with a chronic overdid 
 from my youth up'ard, as Parson Bobbins might say. 
 I don't see no payin' property in workin' yourself to 
 death afore your time." 
 
 " It's awful lucky you've got a real smart wife, now 
 I tell ye." 
 
 "Well, there might be two ways o' lookin' at that, 
 now, Jim Beebe. There is sech a thing as bein' too 
 everlastin' smart and spranxious for a feller's com- 
 fort." 
 
 " That's so," briefly assented Jim. 
 
 " Now, I don't say but what Pollythi's a smart 
 woman, an orful smart woman ; but she's got a kind 
 of a mighty way with her, so to speak, a kinder pep- 
 pery nater, that makes things lively as a bumble-bee's 
 nest in hayin'-time."
 
 176 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " She's dreadful neat, ain't she? " 
 
 "Neat! she's cleaner'n creation arter the flood. 
 There dursn't so much as one small fly skip round 
 where she is; and as for skeeters my land! she'd 
 ketch 'em and soap their feet, if they durst to hum one 
 time to our house. I b'lieve, 'twixt you and me and 
 tiie post, she's 'most washed mother away: there ain't 
 but mighty little left of her." 
 
 " Why, she used to be kinder fat when I see her." 
 
 " Fat ! well, she's 'bout as fat's a hen's forehead, 
 now, I tell ye. And her floor's sloshed over with a 
 mop so frequent, I believe honest, she's got the rheu- 
 matiz past helpin', or pokeberry mm." 
 
 "Do tell!" 
 
 "She has, sir. Priest Bobbins he come to see her 
 a spell ago, and he praised up the looks o' things 
 amazin'. Poll} 7 she nussed him up with a mug o' flip 
 and a lot o' 'lection-cake, till he was as pleasant as a 
 young rooster. But thinks sez I, ' you're nearer to 
 the Devil, a-settin' right there, parson, than ever you 
 was afore.' By jinks! I don't want no wuss Devil 
 round than a foreverlastin' jawin' woman, Jim Beebe, 
 now I tell ye." 
 
 " Thunder ! " ejaculated Jim, not knowing what else 
 to say to this astonishing burst of confidence on Cal's 
 part. 
 
 "Yes, sir: it's thunder and lightnin' too; and I 
 dono how to stand it, nor how to git red oii't." 
 
 Jim had no advice to give. In those days a married 
 pair were helpless, however incompatible they might 
 be : they had to jog along the highways and by-ways 
 of life like an ill-mated pair of oxen, however the 
 yoke galled them, or however much they wanted to
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 177 
 
 gore eaoh other. It was a relief to Cal to have freed 
 his mind to Jim Beebe, whom he knew to be reticent 
 of any real confidence ; but it was only a temporary 
 relief. He was as unhappy, or rather as uncomfort- 
 able, as a person of his temperament could be ; and 
 Pollythi was more unhappy still. Before two years of 
 her married life had gone by, she had learned thor- 
 oughly to despise her husband : she knew him to be 
 radically lazy and self-indulgent, traits for which she 
 had no mercy or patience. It did not occur to her that 
 in her own way she equally indulged herself. This is 
 a nice distinction often drawn by persons who do not 
 seem able to see that self-indulgence can lie in yielding 
 to evil temper and irritated nerves quite as surely, and 
 far more painfully to others, than in giving way to an 
 indolent and ease-loving nature. Pollythi even claimed 
 to be a religious woman, or to have such intentions : 
 she had assented to the " halfway " covenant of those 
 times, which made her a sort of postulant for full 
 membership at some future period, and she had an 
 honest desire to be a good woman. But she was quite 
 unaware how bitter and stinging her speech was to 
 Calvary, how differently it sounded in his ears and 
 hers. It was the habit of her life to scold ; but it was 
 an unpleasant novelty to him, and, for the sake of what 
 little peace was left to his mother, he forbore conflict, 
 but chose flight instead. Now, if Polly Culver ever had 
 loved anybody on earth, it was her handsome, worth- 
 less husband ; and, while she despised his character, she 
 raged with frantic jealousy at his neglect. Anomalous, 
 perhaps ; but women are all anomalies. She would 
 have forgotten all his sins, had he condescended to 
 coaxing and caressing ; but she would have gone on
 
 178 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 scolding just as usual. At the end of two years 
 Granny Culver died, peacefully and joyfully. She was 
 glad to go somewhere else, if her faith was not very 
 vivid, or her hope clear. A sort of dim but helpful 
 belief upheld her to the verge of the grave. Naturally 
 dull of intellect, uneducated, wearing away her hard 
 and simple life in the pursuit of daily bread, yet the 
 relics of early teaching lingered with her, and she died 
 with folded hands, saying "Our Father;" and the 
 words at which she left off were, " Thy will be done." 
 
 Calvary went after Parson Robbins to attend the 
 funeral. The parson himself answered that stout 
 thump at the fr3nt-door. 
 
 " Say, parson, can you 'tend up to mother's funeral 
 to-morrer?" 
 
 " Is your mother dead, Calvary? "Why, why, why ! " 
 
 "Ef she wa'n't, there wouldn't be no need o' a 
 funeral," muttered Calvary under his breath; for the 
 parson was a little deaf. 
 
 " Well, well! What was the matter? What was 
 her complaint? What did she die of, eh? " 
 
 "Pollythi," stoutly responded Cal. 
 
 "Polypus? Dear, dear! Strange disorder. I 
 never heard of a case in these parts." 
 
 " Pollythi, I said ! " shouted the indignant son. 
 
 " Calvary Culver ! " The parson's indignation ren 
 dered him speechless. 
 
 "Well, she did anyhow; and it's a wuss disease'n 
 t'other polly, a heap. I'm like to die on't myself 
 afore long, ef somebody don't doctor her for't." 
 
 " Your frame of mind is carnal indeed," began Par- 
 son Robbins, "if you can talk such talk about your 
 lawful wife."
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 179 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't say nothin' about her ef she 
 wa'n't my wife," answered the incorrigible Cal. " But 
 ef a man dono what his wife is, who doos ? I tell ye, 
 Pollythi's the Devil and all." 
 
 "Hold your profane tongue, sir!" flamed the 
 parson. 
 
 " 'Taiii't no sech. It don't say nowheres in the 
 Bible nothin' about takin' Satan's name in vain, now, 
 I'll bet ye. Besides, I took it to^good puppus, an' 
 I'll say it agin for a copper. I'd a darn sight ruther 
 the Old Boy was arter me than Poll, anyway." 
 
 " Calvary Culver, I've a great mind to set the tithing- 
 man after you for using profane and loose talk ; and I 
 will surely, if you offend again. This is not to be 
 borne." 
 
 "Well, it ain't to the p'int, that's a fact, parson. 
 Let's commence to the beginnin' agin. Say, would you 
 ruther hev the corpse fetched to the meetin ' -house ? 
 and will you hev funeral services to-morrow, or a Thurs- 
 day?" 
 
 "Thursday, in the Lord's house. And I say unto 
 you, Beware, Calvary Culver, lest you be taken at your 
 word, and the Enemy do indeed come after you to 
 enlist you in his service, which is death." 
 
 " Amen ! " ejaculated Calvary, and strode off. But 
 diy did he, a few rods down the road, stop, slap his 
 thigh as in congratulation, and stifle a laugh outwardly 
 that nevertheless shook him all over? 
 
 On Thursday the funeral- took place in church. Par- 
 sou Bobbins preached a sermon with seventeen heads, 
 calculated to make the flesh creep on the bones of his 
 audience, and with abundant mention of the Enemy 
 therein, as one lying in wait for perishing sinners, a
 
 180 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 point he directed straight at the chief mourner on this 
 occasion, who received it decorously, though he after- 
 ward was heard to remark to Jim Beebe, that he did 
 think it was " everlastin' mean to jaw at a feller like 
 that when he can't noway jaw back." 
 
 The choir also did their part at exalting the miseiy 
 and despair of the occasion, by wailing out in the dis- 
 cordant manner of country choirs, "Mear," " China," 
 and "Windham" % to appropriate words; the whole 
 ceremony, to an unbiassed observer, presenting rather 
 the aspect of a heathen assemblage howling over the 
 dead, than a Christian church celebrating the falling- 
 asleep of a sister in the hope of a joyful resurrection. 
 But, as this style of funeral service is still prevalent 
 among us, we cannot cast any stones at Bassett, but 
 must turn away, and follow Cal Culver as far as we 
 can. 
 
 Home did not become any more homelike, or Polly 
 any lovelier, to Calvary after his mother's death, but 
 rather more distasteful ; and before long, exasperated 
 by his wife's constant vituperation, and unrestrained 
 by any fear of troubling the poor soul who lay safe 
 asleep in the graveyard, he turned upon the astonished 
 Polly, and gave her a good shaking. 
 
 This finished the last bit of kindly feeling in her 
 heart. The "dynamic reasons of larger bones" did 
 not appear logical to her : she raved and raged like n 
 perfect fury, and retaliated by throwing the piggin of 
 soft-soap at Calvary's head, a missile he would have 
 found sufficiently uncomfortable, if Polly could have 
 thrown it straight enough to hit him ; but, as it was, 
 it only broke the flax- wheel in its flight, and poured 
 its contents of unsavory jelly over the basket of fresh-
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 181 
 
 ironed clothes. Polly fell into hysterics ; and Cal 
 picked her up, deposited her on the bed, and strode 
 off. 
 
 "What's the matter o' you?" shouted Jim Beebe, 
 who was going by, seated in an ox-cart, whistling, and 
 balancing his long whip as the heavy red beasts ma'cie 
 deliberate progress along the road. 
 
 " Plenty," curtly responded Cal. 
 
 " Hain't seen the Enemy, hev ye? " queried Jim. 
 . "Wisht I had. I'd consider'ble rather go to the 
 Devil than stay to hum 'long o' her," pointing over his 
 shoulder with expressive thumb toward the house. 
 
 " Cal Culver ! What ef Priest Robbins heerd ye ? " 
 
 " Well, what ef he did? He talk about the Devil ! 
 He don't know nothiu'. Both his wives died pretty 
 near right off ; and that gal o' his'n is 'most too good 
 to live, folks tell. Folks ain't qualified to preach 
 about things, onless they know 'em so to be." 
 
 "Well, there is suthiu' to that," allowed Jim, urging 
 on his slow team. " Where you goin' ? " 
 
 " Over to the store," gloomily answered Cal. " I'm 
 a-goin' to hire Out a' spell this year ; take it in jobs. 
 Ef I could git a mite o' cash, I'd go to York sure as 
 you're born, and git suthin' to do there. Mebbe I'd git 
 onto a whaler." 
 
 " Why, hain't you got cash enough? I thought she 
 had rents out o' the housen in Har'ford." 
 
 " Heavens-to-Betsy ! You don't think I ever see a 
 copper o' her cash, do ye? It's trusted out to a bank 
 in Har'ford quick as lightnin'. It don't never peek at 
 Bassett ; and, ef it did, I shouldn't have none of it." 
 
 "But I b'lieve, accordin' to law, it's all your'n, tc 
 hcv an' to hold, ain't it?"
 
 182 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " 'Tain't accordin' to Pollythi ; and that's more to 
 the p'int, a lot. I wouldn't hev it nuther, not to git it 
 by law. She'd make it burn my fingers, and p'ison my 
 pocket. No, sir : I ain't got no hankerin' arter work, 
 but I'd ruther hill corn than squabble for her money." 
 
 " Well, well, I don't say but I agree with ye so fur. 
 But it doos seem cur'us, kinder, how she works it with 
 ye. Say! Deacon Flint he wants help. He's a-plantin' 
 the ten-acre medder this year ; and he reckons to hire, 
 his rheumatics is so dreadful bad." 
 
 "I sha'n't get puss-proud on his pay," dryly re- 
 marked Cal ; "but mebbe I'd better take up with it, 
 seein' itrs three mile off." 
 
 "Haw, haw, haw!" roared Jim; and the oxen, 
 roused by that familiar sound, turned placidly off tc 
 the left. And while Jim was trailing them back into 
 position with, " Gee, Buck ! gee, I tell ye. Bright ! git 
 up! gee, can't ye?" and sundry cracks of the whip, 
 Calvary stalked off the other way, and at night an 
 nounced to Pollythi that he had "got a job" at 
 Deacon Flint's. 
 
 He worked here pretty steadily for -a week or two, 
 ploughing the great field for winter rye, and renewing 
 the fence, which was old and feeble ; being very little 
 at home, and receiving Polly's wordy flights with con- 
 temptuous silence. He took his dinner always to the 
 field, an abundant and wholesome provision, for Polly 
 never stinted any one in their food, and matters ap- 
 peared to have settled down into an armed neutrality, 
 wnen one noon-time a mighty knocking startled Parson 
 Bobbins from his sermon-writing ; and he opened the 
 door to behold Calvary Culver, his fair hair disturbed 
 as if it had been standing on end, his eyes big as sau-
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 183 
 
 cers, and drops of sweat thick over all his face, which 
 was disturbed by a wild look of terror and dismay. 
 
 "O Lord, parson ! I've been and gone and done it 
 now!" he exclaimed, as the parson's square dark 
 visage glared sternly upon him over the lower half of 
 the door. 
 
 " Set a guard on your lips, Calvary Culver," indig- 
 nantly exclaimed the parson. 
 
 "O L Oh! Well, th' occasion kinder needs 
 cussin'. Well, I won't: so there. But I do want 
 to tell ye suthin', parson. I'm under concern, so to 
 speak: I want dealin' with." 
 
 The parson's face brightened. 
 
 "Bless the Lord! Walk in; my friend; walk in! 
 This is indeed to be rejoiced in." 
 
 "Idono," said Cal ruefully: "I should say 'twas 
 to be t'other thinged myself." 
 
 "Sit down there," said the parson, when he had 
 piloted him to the study, pointing to a splint-bottomed 
 chair hard and straight enough to have served as a 
 stool of repentance, "sit there, and let us reason 
 together." 
 
 " Well, fust and foremost I want to tell ye suthin' ; 
 then you kin reason on't, ef you hanker to. I don't. 
 I'm nigh about skeered to death, parson. I swan to 
 riian I be ! " 
 
 " Cannot you tell your story without unseemly words, 
 my friend? " objected the parson. 
 
 " Well, I dono's I can, and I dono as I can : fact is, 
 1 want suthin' to h'ist me along, as it might be, seem- 
 in' ly, and I'm used to them words you tell about. 
 Lordy ! what's words? They don't mean uothin' when 
 you're used to 'em, no more'n a cat-bird's scoldin' ; 
 come kinder nateral."
 
 184 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 "Well, well, go on!" ejaculated the parson, who 
 really felt much more like swearing than Calvary ; for 
 it was late in the week, and a happy train of thought 
 in his sermon curtly interrupted. 
 
 " "Well, you see, I'm a-workin' for Deacon Flint ; ben 
 a-ploughin' and seedin' down and harrerin' that 'ere 
 ten-acre medder o' his'n. He don't pay fust-rate, ye 
 know : but for sartin private reasons, such as the man 
 had that killed the goose, I wanted a job that wa'ri't 
 nigh hum ; so I took up with that. Well, I was har- 
 rerin' away this mornin', 'most to the eend o' the lot, 
 and kinder speculatin' whether or no I'd go to choppin' 
 to-morrer, or whether I'd go up on to the mounting, 
 and snare a mess o' pa'tridges." 
 
 ' ' Boast not thyself of to-morrow, ' ' put in the parson 
 solemnly. 
 
 "I wa'n't, as I knows of; but I kinder hankered 
 arter them birds : they've ben a-fattin' up ' on the 
 deacon's buckwheat this four weeks back, and they'll 
 be plump as punkins. Well, that ain't here nor there. 
 But, as I was sayin', I got nigh about to the road-eend 
 o' the lot, and I see somebody a-comin' full tilt down 
 the road. Thinks me, that's Jim Beebe : so I let the 
 critters stop. They'd allers ruther stop, ye know, than 
 go 'long, oxen would: they're slower'n molasses." 
 
 The parson wiped his damp face. To a man of his 
 temper this prolixity was maddening. "Well, well, 
 well, never mind the team. Go on, Calvary." 
 
 " Why, I was a-goin' on. Well, you see, I kinder 
 leaned up agin the fence to wait for him ; but, when he 
 come along, I see 'twa'n't nobody I ever see afore, nor 
 nobody 't looked like anybody I ever see afore. 'Twas 
 a dreadful dark-complected man, reel spry appearin'.
 
 CAL CULVEK AND THE DEVIL. 185 
 
 one that looked as though his name was Smart, now 
 I tell ye. My, how them eyes o' his'n did snap ! 
 jest like Pollythi's when she throwed the piggin at my 
 head, only he didn't act noways mad, and I didn't 
 think nothin' strange o' his eyes till I come to rec'lect 
 them arter he'd gone. You know, parson, folks don't 
 allers sense things right off : they sorter call 'em to 
 mind, so to speak, as it might be, arter they've gone 
 by. Well, he come along and spokfc reel civil ; sez, 
 ' How be ye? ' or suthin' : 'tain't no great matter what 
 he did say ; I guess 'twas 'bout the weather. But he 
 went on fur to say, ' Got a job, hain't ye? ' ' Well,' 
 sez I, ' I hev and I hain't. I've got through here : 
 there's quite a spell o' choppin' in his wood-lot I 
 could hev, I s'pose, ef I hankered to.' 'Well,' sez 
 he, ' I want a feller of 'bout your heft to work for me 
 a spell. I'll give good wages.' So I sez, ' What'll 
 ye give?' for I wa'n't gittin' but three-an' -sixpence 
 by the day, boardin' myself. Ye know Deacon Flint's 
 a dreadful near man : he dursn't look at a dollar out- 
 side his pocket, it scares him so. So I reckoned here 
 was a chance of a betterment ; and ef he didn't up and 
 offer me a dollar right off, and found ! " 
 
 "Filthy lucre," groaned the parson. 
 
 "No, he wa'n't filthy a mite : he was dressed up for 
 'lection, I tell ye, ef he was lookin' ; but I snapped 
 him up jest as a pickerel does a shiner. Sez I, ' I'm 
 your feller.' ' Well,' sez he, ' you might go 'long an' 
 hire out to somebocly't offered ye more : let's hev it in 
 writin'. I b'lieve in contracks.' ' Hev it your own 
 way,' sez I : ' fetch on your contrack.' So he whipped 
 a little book out o' his pocket, an' sez he, ' I keep my 
 'greements writ out in here. I'm a-hiriu' out a lot
 
 186 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 o' men for this here coalin' job.' I dono's I men- 
 tioned, parson, he told me, fust go off, 'twas a coalin' 
 job. ' So now,' sez he, ' write your name down here.' 
 ' Jeerus'lem ! ' sez I, 'I don't keep pen and ink in 
 my breeches-pocket ; do you? ' He larfed a little, and 
 then he sez, ' "Well, prick your finger : there's a crow's 
 feather ; I'll make a pen for ye.' Sure enough he did, 
 and I jest scratched a place on my arm till I fetched a 
 leetle mite o' blood, and writ my name down in the 
 book with that crow-quill as sure as you're a livin' 
 critter." 
 
 " Singular," muttered the parson. 
 
 " Sing'lar ! I guess it was. Fust I knew he wa'n't 
 there. I'd dropped my whip-stock while I was writin' ; 
 and, when I'd writ, sez I, ' "Where do ye live ? ' ' Well, 
 quite a ways off, down by the Kingdom,' sez he ; ' but 
 I'll come and fetch ye a Friday come two weeks, to-day 
 bein' Saturday. ' So then I bent down to git my whip- 
 stock ; and, as sure as you're born, when I straightened 
 up, that black feller wa'n't there ; but there was the 
 all-firedest stink ! Thunder ! ef you'd had a bonfire 
 o' roll brimstone, 'twouldn't ha' ben no wuss. That 
 struck me all of a heap. I know'd what that meant 
 quicker'n punk. Sartin as you live, I'd gin a contrack 
 to the Enemy, and he'll be arter me immediate. Now, 
 what be I a-goiu' to do, parson? " 
 
 Parson Bobbins paced up and down his small study, 
 his eye kindled, and his head erect, like one who snuffs 
 the battle afar off, muttering to himself, half aloud 
 " He goeth about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he 
 may devour ; but resist him, yea, resist the Devil, and 
 he shall flee from thee. This kind goeth not out save 
 by prayer and fasting. Calvary Culver," turning to
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 187 
 
 the victim, who sat watching him with a peculiar look 
 of intelligence and craft in his half-shut eye, Calvary 
 Culver, this is an awful warning to you. Repent, and 
 flee from all your evil doings. You have lived a kind 
 of a shiftless life, not profitable to God or man, nor 
 according to your chief end ; and now Satan hath 
 desired to have thee. But the Adversary shall be put 
 to flight. I will appoint a day of fasting and prayer 
 in the church. It shall be the day of your master's 
 arrival to fetch you ; but by the help of the Lord we 
 will slay a thousand, yea, we will put ten thousand to 
 flight." 
 
 "Well now, parson, I didn't expect to give ye no 
 sech trouble," said Cal, looking a little uneasy. "I 
 thought I'd oughter tell ye, so'st ef I was took away 
 sudden, you might kinder suspect whereabouts I was ; 
 and I didn't know but what you could give me suthin', 
 some kind of a word, ye know, like them long ones in 
 the fust part o' the Bible, to scare him off, ef he reelly 
 was the Old Boy." 
 
 "I will have the day of prayer appointed very 
 shortly," went on the parson, giving little heed to Cal's 
 remonstrances or suggestions. " To-morrow is already 
 occupied with another subject : I am advised to pray 
 for rain." 
 
 ""Well, 'tis everlastin' dry, that's a fact. I dono's 
 that winter wheat ever will come up anyhow," assented 
 Calvary. 
 
 "Besides, I think it better to appoint the day the 
 Evil One hath himself set ; for I think he will scarcely 
 venture into the house of the Lord to seize his prey." 
 
 And the parson smiled a grim smile, as who should 
 say, "I have outgeneraled the enemy."
 
 188 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 So Calvary left him, and went his way, finished his 
 day's work, and told Pollythi the whole story at the 
 tea-table. 
 
 At first that strong-minded woman was disinclined 
 to accept the tale ; but education and superstition w^re 
 too much for her : she ended by believing it all, an^ 
 prepared for church in the morning with a sense of 
 personal importance, for heretofore she had not con- 
 sidered her husband of enough consequence for even 
 the Devil to come after him. 
 
 It was a splendid October day. The abundant for- 
 ests burned in the soft red sunshine like crusted gems 
 and dead gold ; the air was sweet and sad with odors 
 of dying foliage and fading flowers. A rich silence 
 brooded over the hills and fields of Bassett, broken 
 only by the first sounding of the bell for service, which 
 aroused here and there, in answer to its lummons, 
 clouds of dust from the ash-dry roads, stirred by the 
 heavy wagons and deliberate horses of the more dis- 
 tant farmers. 
 
 The day was so quiet, so serene, the blue heaven and 
 the gorgeous misty hills so lovely in their calm repose, 
 that Bassett might have passed for a bit of paradise. 
 But, to the astonishment of everybody, Parson Robbins 
 trotted across the green to church, carrying a great 
 green umbrella. 
 
 " Why, parson," asked Squire Battle, who was 
 "standing around" on the meeting-house steps, 
 "ain't ye kind of prematoor? There ain't the first 
 sign o' rain." 
 
 "I shall fetch her! I shall fetch her!" sharply 
 answered the parson, as if his neighbor had been 
 doubting Thomas ; and, to be sure, before the second
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 189 
 
 service was well begun, the mists gathered depth and 
 then blackness ; light winds sighed through the forest, 
 and died out in ominous quiet ; thunder growled afar 
 off, drew nearer and nearer; and then the heavens 
 opened suddenly, dashing their stores of rain upon the 
 thirsty earth, and drowning the parson's triumphant 
 burst of praise and thanksgiving in the clatter it made 
 on the old church-roof. The people were impreased, 
 as well they might be ; and when the parson went on to 
 appoint a day of fasting and prayer, the next Friday 
 week, for a brother hi distress and danger, a feeling of 
 awe and interest stole through the congregation ; and 
 after service was over many a question was asked, and 
 answer suggested. But the parson spoke to nobody : 
 he went home in silence. He had never felt nearer to 
 God, or more sure of victory over Satan, than now. 
 
 Cal and Jim Beebe went home together through the 
 rain, which had quieted down now to a cold drizzle. 
 Some neighbors had taken Pollythi into their wagon. 
 
 "Parson's a hero at prayer, ain't he?" suggested 
 Jim. 
 
 "Well, he ain't nothin' else." 
 
 " But who d'you suppose the feller is in sech trouble 
 they've got to hev a meetin' about him? " 
 
 Cfu gave him an expressive punch with his elbow. 
 " Lawful sakes ! it's me, Jim." 
 
 " Sho ! " Jim exclaimed, standing still, and facing 
 round at Calvary with wide eyes and open mouth. 
 
 " 'Tis, I tell ye. Now shet up that mouth o' your'n, 
 and come along, and I'll tell ye the hull on't." 
 
 So he poured his tale into Jim's willing ear, whether 
 with any additions or emendations, history has not 
 recorded : if there were, the reader's imagination must
 
 190 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 supply them. It is only sure that Jim went home with 
 an expression of mixed amusement and astonishment; 
 on his face, that did not do credit to the solemnity of 
 the story. 
 
 At last the eventful Friday arrived. Parson Rob- 
 bins, after much pondering, had marshalled and ordered 
 his forces, and planned his battle-array. Calvary was 
 ushered into the gallery of the meeting-house, and 
 placed hi the front-seat. He had on his Sunday suit : 
 his hair was laid as flat as those rebellious curls could be 
 by the aid of a tallow candle assiduously applied ; and 
 his handsome face was shining with yeUow soap, and 
 water; his boots had a portentous creak to them; 
 and his blue eyes were empty of all expression, as he 
 sat there, his great red hands clasping a still redder 
 bandanna handkerchief, and he himself supported by 
 the proud consciousness that he was the object of all 
 this bustle and attention. At the head of the stairs 
 leading into the gallery, Simeon Tucker, the black- 
 smith, holding a mighty stick, stood on guard, lest the 
 Old Boy should take on himself to come hi person, and 
 nab Cal Culver before meeting was over ; and at the 
 foot of the stairs another muscular brother, with 
 another stick, looked both ways with his cross-eyes, as 
 if he kept double watch and ward. Jim Beebe, escort- 
 ing Cal to the door, as became a true comrade, sug- 
 gested the idea to him that the parson had picked out 
 Josiah on this very account, and Calvary found it hard 
 to repress an indecorous chuckle. 
 
 But, once in the church, chuckling was at an end. 
 The parson read long selections from the Bible ; all 
 the minatory Psalms, to begin with, and then every 
 verse he could find under the heads relating to Satan hi
 
 CAL CULVER AND THE DEVIL. 191 
 
 the Concordance ; then certain awful hymns, minor in 
 key and minor in thought, were wailed and groaned 
 out by the congregation ; then the parson prayed, and 
 Deacon Flint prayed, till the very gates of heaven 
 seemed to be stormed. Then there was more reading, 
 followed by a short discourse of twelve heads only, in 
 which the parson gave a full account of " the young 
 man's" experience, and a historic and biographic 
 account of the Devil, going back to Eden. During the 
 first part of the discourse Cal sat on thorns. He was 
 not overly modest or shy, but to be the centre of all 
 those eyes was abashing even to him ; and, moreover, 
 he was much bored with the whole matter. The seat 
 was hard, the day was warm, as late October days 
 sometimes are : he was hungry, and thirsty too ; for 
 though he had tied up a loaf of rye bread and several 
 slices of cheese in a handkerchief that morning, and 
 filled a flat bottle with cider, he did not fetch them to 
 church. 
 
 After the sermon, praying began again. Every 
 brother present " desired to jine " in the exercise, and 
 the sun was ready to set before these zealous members 
 gave out. Flesh and blood could not bear it longer ; 
 and at last Parson Bobbins wound up the meeting with 
 a pointed but brief exhortation to Cal, and a benedic- 
 tion. Then the two stalwart men, clubs and all, 
 escorted Calvary to his own house, lest some outlying 
 fiend should snap him up ; while Pollythi lingered a 
 little to talk it all over with Deacon Flint's wife. 
 
 The spiritual constables brought him safely to the 
 red house, and declared afterward that he seemed 
 much solemnized by the way, and thanked them kindly 
 for their good offices. He shut the door upon them
 
 192 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 with a composed countenance ; but from that day to 
 this Calvary Culver was never again seen in Bassett. 
 
 Many were the conjectures as to his fate ; though 
 most people believed, with Parson Robbins, that the 
 Devil was as good as his word, and had taken him off, 
 body and soul, as well as his new overalls, which were 
 missing. Pollythi mourned him decorously ; but in a 
 couple of years married again, in spite of Jim Beebe's 
 remonstrances, and his wild idea that Cal might turn 
 up yet. But he never did ; and to this day Bassett 
 people tell the shuddering tale of Cal Culver and the 
 Devil.
 
 AMANDAR. 
 
 " What's in a name ? " 
 
 u 'TAIN'T no use, Keery; you needn't take me to 
 do no more. I shall hev that young un called accordin' 
 to the counsel of my own will, as Cat'chism says. If 
 a man hain't got a right to put a name to his own 
 child, I don' know who hes." 
 
 "Well, well, talk, do talk, Bezy Hills. Who said 
 you shouldn't? I jest kinder throwed in an idee, as 
 ye may say. I think Scripter names are seemly for 
 deacons' folks ; an', ef you don't want no Scripter 
 names round, why, I can't help it. Folks will be 
 folksy, I s'pose, an' mother she always said 'twas rule 
 or ruin with Bezy when you wa'n't more'n knee-high 
 to a grasshopper ; an' what's bred in the bone'll come 
 out in the flesh, I've always heered, an' " 
 
 The monologue was CUT; short here by the slam of 
 the kitchen-door, as Bezaleel Hills fled into the shed 
 from the scourge of tongues. 
 
 Widow Walker was his elder sister, a weakly, buzz 
 ing, fluent, but not unprincipled woman. She had a 
 long nose, a fallen- in and yet wide mouth, a distinct 
 chin, and a pair of weak gray eyes with red lids, all 
 overshadowed by a severe front of false chestnut hair 
 set in stiff puffs, making her face look like those trian- 
 gular heads which the schoolboy's pencil bestows upon 
 
 193
 
 194 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 a cat when he solaces the dull hours of his education, 
 by means of a slate meant for far other purposes. 
 
 Bezaleel had lost his wife six months ago, exchan- 
 ging her for the fat baby now lying in his sister's lap 
 before the fire. He was a silent man in regard to his 
 affections, though voluble enough as to his will and 
 opinions. Sister Kerenhappuch had not the least idea 
 how his soul was bound up in the delicate, shy creature 
 who had been his wife only five years, or how he had 
 labored to give her such rude comforts as a country 
 village could afford. It had been the one joy of his 
 life to see the dark, soft eyes shine when he entered 
 the door, and his solitary reward to know, that, even 
 in the delirium of death, his voice could quiet her, and 
 her last conscious word was " Dear ! " 
 
 When he banged the door to-day, Keery did not 
 know that his cold eyes were dim with tears, thinking 
 of Amanda and his own solitude. She gave a sigh of 
 obtrusive length and volume, as who should say, " Such 
 is life, and, slowly squeaking to and fro in the old 
 rocker, began to sing to the baby, who threatened to 
 awake when the door slammed, that excellent but 
 unpleasant old hymn, 
 
 " Broad is the road that leads to death," 
 
 to the equally unpleasant, if not as excellent, tune of 
 "Windham." 
 
 As the long-drawn, doleful whine of the cadences 
 kept tune to the slow squeak of the rocker, the baby, 
 like a child of sense, objected, and not only woke, but 
 set up a scream so lively and so sharp, that the wail 
 of his aunt's voice hushed before the fresh life of this 
 infantine chorus.
 
 AMANDAK. 195 
 
 charge across her knee, gave him two smart resound- 
 ing slaps, and, tucking him vigorously under one arm, 
 proceeded to warm his supper in the flat silver porrin- 
 ger that was an heirloom of unknown antiquity, and 
 so appease his temper. 
 
 A week after, having relegated him to the care of a 
 poor neighbor (paid for the office with a peck of tur- 
 nips) , she betook herself to sewing-society, a big silk 
 bag on her left arm, a calash on her head, and her 
 Sunday gown of black bombazine adorned by a vast 
 tamboured muslin collar, while her chestnut front looked 
 sterner than ever surmounted by a structure of black 
 lace and hard dark purple satin ribbons. 
 
 Five old women about a quilt ! Can the pen of one 
 give a tithe of their conversation record? Let us 
 attempt but a part of it. Mrs. Green began the tour- 
 nament. 
 
 " I hain't seen ye a month o' Sundays, Miss Walk- 
 er : where do ye keep yerself ? " 
 
 "Why, I've ben to hum. 'Taint real handy to 
 take to baby-tendin' when ye git along in years a 
 spell ; but there don't seem to be nobody else to take 
 care of Bezy's babe but me. Bezy's as pernickity as 
 a woman about the child : he won't lemme give it a 
 speck of nothin' but red cow's milk ; an' he's nigh 
 about seven months old, an' he'd oughter set in lap 
 to the table, an' take a taste o' vittles along with us. 
 My land ! my children used to set to an' grab things 
 as quick as ever I fetched 'em where they could. 
 Little Jemimy was the greatest hand for b'iled cabbage 
 ye ever did see ; an' pork ! how that child would holler 
 for fried pork ! There wa'n't no peace to the wicked 
 till she got it. She'd ha' ben a splendid child ef she'd
 
 196 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 lived. But the summer complaint was dreadful preva- 
 lent that year ; aa' it took her off in the wink of an 
 eye, as ye may say : allers doos the healthy children. 
 Then my Samwell, why, he was the greatest hand for 
 pickles that ever was : he'd git a hunk o' fried steak 
 into one leetle hand, an' a pickle into t'other, an' he 
 would crow an' squeal. Cuttin' of his stomach-teeth 
 was the end o' him : got 'em too early ; was took with 
 convulsions, an' died right off. An' the twins : well, 
 they favored beans, baked beans an' minute- puddin'. 
 They was eighteen months old when they died, an' they 
 eet toast an' cider like good fellers only the day they 
 was took sick. "We'd hed buckwheats an' tree molasses 
 for breakfast that day ; an' I expect they'd eet so 
 much sweet, it kinder made 'em squeamy, so't the 
 hard cider jest hed the right tang. Poor little cre- 
 turs ! Mabbe 'twas the bilious colic a-comin' on made 
 'em dry : anyway they was awful sick with 't, an' they 
 died a Sunday week, for they was took of a Sunday, 
 an'" 
 
 Miss Polly Paine, a short, plump old maid, gently 
 interrupted here : she thought widow Walker had occu- 
 pied the floor long enough. 
 
 "But say, what do ye give it red cow's milk for? 
 I never knowed there was any great o' virtoo in red 
 cows." 
 
 " Sakes alive ! " Here Semanthy House, Deacon 
 House's wife, took up the thread of conversation. " I 
 want to know ef ye didn't? Why, red's the power- 
 fulest thing ! You jest put a red flannel round your 
 throat, an' it won't never be sore ; an' a red string in 
 your ears'll keep off fever, everybody knows. But 
 then I don't hold to fetchin' up a child on milk alto-
 
 AMANDAR. 197 
 
 gether : they won't never make old bones that way. 
 I b'lieve in hearty vittles for everybody. Pie's real 
 hearty, ef ye make it good, an' so's cheese, when ye 
 can't git butcher's meat. I b'lieve I could stan' it the 
 year round on pie an' cheese an' baked beans." 
 
 "Well, ye see," pottered on Mrs. Walker, who 
 seized a chance to begin again, "Bezy he won't hear 
 to no reason : he claims he knows more about fetchin' 
 up children than I do, spite of my hevin' bed four on 
 'em. He speaks about their all dyin' off, an' says he 
 wants his'n to live, a-flyin' in the face of Providence, 
 as ye may say ; for we all know folks die by the dis- 
 pensations of Providence, an' mortal man can't say, 
 ' Why do ye so? ' to the Lord. But I don't know but 
 what brother Bezy thinks he can. He sets dreadful 
 loose to religion, 'specially doctrines an' sech ; says 
 he wishes 't Parson Pine wouldn't say sech a lot about 
 'lection, an' hell, an' decrees, an' more about mercy 
 an' lovin'-kindness. Land! I want to know how 
 you're goin' to fetch hardened old sinners like some 
 ye could mention, ef ye was a-min' to an' I guess we 
 all know who they be without namin' of 'em inter 
 the kingdom, ef ye couldn't scare 'em out of their 
 seven senses a-shakin' of 'em over the pit, as ye may 
 say. They don't mind nothin' but a real scare, an* 
 they don't mind that no great. I feel to wonder real 
 often why sech folks is spared to " 
 
 Polly Paine broke in again. She knew by experi- 
 ence that widow Walker would talk interminably if 
 they waited for her easy tongue to stop of itself. 
 
 "Say, what be you a-goin' to call that child? I 
 hain't heerd it spoke of save an' except 'baby,' sence 
 ever 'twas born. I s'pose it's got to hev some handle 
 to't, ha'n'tit?"
 
 198 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 "Well, now, there!" said Kerenhappuch, heaving 
 a long and quavering sigh "there's Bezy agin! 
 He's most too cur'us to live. I wanted he should give 
 the child a real good Scripter name, sech as mine an' 
 his 'n is. It seems as though it give a child a kind of 
 a pious start in this world to call it out o' Scripter. 
 But he's jest as sot ! I don' know's you know 'twas 
 so, but so it was : he made a reg'lar idle out of 'Mandy. 
 He a-most said his prayers to her, I do b'lieve. She 
 was a good enough gal, for't I know ; but he took on 
 real foolish about her. The washing was did for her ; 
 an' he didn't keep but two cows, because he wouldn't 
 let her be overdid." 
 
 "Dew tell!" "Well, I never!" "That doos 
 beat all !" " Sakes alive!" echoed round the quilt, 
 as the old ladies glared over their spectacles, and 
 suspended their needles, in the great shock of learning 
 that a man could consider his wife's comfort before 
 the fulness of his pocket. But they did not stop the 
 flow of Keery's mild, incessant gabble. She went 
 right on : 
 
 "Well, she wa'n't real strong, kinder weakly from 
 the fust ; an' when she up an' died, seemed as though 
 Bezy couldn't stand it no way in the mortal world. 
 He was cut down dreadful : the consolations of religion 
 wa'n't of no account to him. He behaved around a 
 sight worse'n Job in the Bible did. Why, I tell ye I 
 was skeert for a spell ; an' then I up and I took him 
 to do, I tell ye. I says, says I, ' Bezaleel Hills,' says 
 I, ' be ye a perfesser, or not? I don't see how ye can 
 fly inter the face o' Providence this way. Don't ye 
 know ye made a idle of 'Mandy? ' says I, ' so the Lord 
 he took her away from ye. Ye thought a heap too
 
 AMANDAK. 199 
 
 much of her.' ' Git out ! ' says he, a-snappin' at me 
 so quick I screeched a little screech ; an' he banged 
 the door, an' you nor I nor nobody knows where under 
 the canopy he went to ; but he never come in till dark 
 night, an' his eyes was as red as a rabbit's, an' there 
 was hay-seed onto his head. I mistrust he'd ben into 
 the mow a-cryin', but " 
 
 Miss Polly, who saw she must fetch the widow back 
 to her subject-matter of discourse, interposed again : 
 
 " Well, he can't call the boy after her, seem' 'tain't 
 a girl ; an' her t'other name was Smith. I guess he 
 wouldn't never yoke Smith an' Hills up together." 
 
 A faint smile relaxed the severe wrinkles of Keery's 
 sallow forehead. " I don't suppose ye ever would 
 guess, nor nobody else neither ; but he doos act like all 
 possessed about it. He says and, when he doos say 
 a thing, he sticks to't like shoemaker's wax that he's 
 a-goin' to call that poor babe Amandar." 
 
 A chorus of exclamations again went round the 
 quilt. Mrs. Green, in the very act of snapping the 
 chalked twine that marked the quilters' pattern, lifted 
 her head, and forgot to let go of the string. 
 
 "For mercy's sakes what do you mean?" she said 
 sharply. " Call a boy-babe Amandy?" 
 
 "No, it ain't Amandy; but it's as nigh to't as ye 
 can turn your tongue an' not say it, an' " 
 
 " What upon the face of the yerth do ye let him do 
 it for? " severely inquired Mrs. Green. 
 
 Keery's eyes opened as far as the secretive narrow 
 lids would allow. 
 
 "Let him? Hear that! I want to know ef ye 
 think any mortal bein' can stop Bezy Hills from doin' 
 what he's got a mind to? "
 
 200 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Or any other man," purred Miss Polly, who had 
 an elderly maiden's contempt for the sex. 
 
 " They ain't all jest alike," dryly remarked Mrs. 
 Green. 
 
 A look of intelligence passed round the table. It 
 was well known in Hampton that Mrs. Green was the 
 head of the family ; and, instead of rejoicing in her 
 supremacy as a tribute to her abused sex and a proph- 
 ecy of hope, the women who should have sympathized 
 sniffed at her. Such is human nature. 
 
 ' ' But what will folks say when the child is presented 
 for baptism? " asked the deacon's wife. 
 
 "There 'tis agin," wailed Iveery. "Bezy don't 
 Vlieve in infant- baptism. He says the' ain't no sech 
 thing told about in the Bible, an' he don't b'lieve 'twas 
 ever meant for folks to be baptized till they was con- 
 verted ; an' he won't never have it done to the babe 
 no way, for he's got a conscience about it. An' I've 
 talked an' talked an' talked to him ; an' I might jest as 
 well ha' talked to the side o' White Mounting, for " 
 
 "I'll send the deacon over to deal with him," said 
 Mrs. House, to whom the deacon was the end of the 
 law ; for which the rest of her sisters secretly sniffed at 
 Jier. The happy medium of a bland indifference was 
 " the thing " as to marital relations in Hampton. 
 
 " H'm ! " said Miss Polly. " I don't b'lieve talk'll 
 turn him. I've seen quite a few men-folks, bein' as I 
 go out nursin' by spells ; an' I've seen pretty clear that 
 it takes science to manage of 'em. The mortal ! I've 
 seen a feller go boastin' around that he would be mas- 
 ter in his own house, he would be minded, or things 
 would crack ; an', come to find out, he was jest twisted 
 round his wife's finger, like a hank o' darnin' -cotton,
 
 AMANDAK. 201 
 
 all the time he was bustin' with boastin'. They're 
 queer creturs. Like enough, now, if you let Bezalecl 
 alone, an' keep a-peggin' at the boy how't he's got a 
 girl's name tacked onto him, why, he'll git sick on't 
 himself when he comes to years, an' drop it." 
 
 "Well, I declare for't! I never thought o' that," 
 responded the astonished widow ; and, just then being 
 called to help roll the quilt, she had no chance to say 
 any more on the matter ; for the minister's wife came 
 in, and the state of religion in the village became the 
 topic of conversation in deference to her official posi- 
 tion. 
 
 But the stubborn fact remained, that Bezy Hills 
 would call his boy Amandar, a name he had, indeed, 
 invented, after much study, and a dull sort of sense 
 that few, if any, feminine names ended in "r," and 
 several masculine ones had that termination. Possibly, 
 Keery might have taken the counsel of the serpent 
 from Polly Paine, but she did not live to try the force 
 of iteration. Before Amandar was five years old, his 
 aunt died, and her place in the family was taken by a 
 fat and kindly woman, whose husband had run away 
 and left her, in a drunken fit, and never been heard of 
 since. Indeed, Sally Swett took no pains to discover 
 him. She did not wish to marry again ; and in taking 
 care of Bezaleel's house, and bringing up little 'Maudy, 
 she was nappy as she never had been during her mar- 
 ried life, the only skeleton in her closet being the fear 
 that Apollos might yet appear on the stage, and deprive 
 her of a home. 
 
 'Mandy grew up, as most country children grow, 
 sunburned, ragged, dirty, but by no means neglected ; 
 for the motherly heart of "Aunt Sally," never com
 
 202 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 forted with offspring of her own, went out to the 
 motherless boy, for whom she delighted to make and 
 mend, to concoct pies, turnovers, gingerbread, and 
 fantastic doughnuts. She let him make endless work 
 for her in the kitchen, with his pans of molasses candy, 
 kettles of sirup to sugar off, pots of evil-smelling 
 ointment for his little boots, and roastings of chestnuts 
 that would explode, and fly hi savory fragments all over 
 the kitchen-floor. But, for all Sally's indulgence, she 
 did not wean Amandar from his father : no temptation 
 of food or fun could keep him from the lonely man's 
 side. Together they went to salt the sheep, to mend 
 the rail fences, to sow rye, or plant corn and potatoes ; 
 and it was Bezy's great solace to tell " 'Mandy," as 
 he got to call his boy, all about his dead mother. The 
 squirrel- cups, lifting soft gray buds and blooms of 
 *pink and purple from the dead leaves, reminded him 
 how glad she always was to find them, and how her 
 eyes sparkled when he brought them in first : he 
 planted thein all about her low grave on the hillside, 
 and 'Mandy helped him. Not a thing was done about 
 the farm without some reference to the past. 
 
 " Yer ma liked them peach-blow potaters first best: 
 I guess we'll set 'em agin this year." Or, "Mother 
 she took to rye bread amazin', ef 'twas new rye : we'll 
 sow some onto that hill lot." 
 
 Great white-rose bushes were trained each year 
 higher and higher by the door, because the dear dead 
 wife had loved them ; and, by the time 'Mandy was 
 fifteen, it seemed to him that the whole farm was linked 
 to such tender associations of his unknown mother, 
 and her memory made so living to him by the iterations 
 of his father's love and loss, that it would
 
 AMANDAR. 203 
 
 have startled him to see the delicate face waiting at 
 the window, or hear the young fresh voice call from 
 his door. 
 
 Perhaps he loved her all the more from the fact that 
 he had borne her name at the expense of much tribula- 
 tion ; for, from the moment he began to attend the 
 district school, that name had been the scorn and jest 
 of all the other boys. Day after day he came home, 
 his lips set with indignation, and his eyes red with 
 tears ; but never could his father get a word of com- 
 plaint out of him, except, " Them boys plague me." 
 
 The child, young as he was, felt that his father 
 would be even more hurt than he to find this dear 
 memorial name had become only occasion of anger and 
 shame to the son who bore it. 
 
 But Sally was a woman ; and, finding it in vain to 
 question or coax 'Mandy, her curiosity was fired at 
 once, and, by various feminine arts and stratagems, 
 she succeeded in discovering the secret from some of 
 his playfellows ; and one night, when 'Mandy was safe 
 asleep up stairs, and his father toasting his feet by the 
 kitchen-fire, preparatory to his own retirement, she 
 laid down her knitting, and blandly plunged into the 
 middle of things at once. 
 
 " I've got to the bottom of 'Mandy 's red eyes now, 
 I tell ye, Square Hills. I set a sight by that youngster ; 
 an' it's took me aback to hev him come home every 
 mortal day a-lookin' mad, and sorry too. It's them 
 boys to the school. I say for't, I don't want to fault 
 Providence ; but I do wish the Lord hed kinder con- 
 trived some way to carry on the world 'thout boys. 
 They're the most trouble to the least puppus of any 
 thing that ever was created, except, mabbe, Dutchmen
 
 204 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 an' muskeeters ; but, seein' they be here, the matter in 
 hand 'pears to be to do a body's darn'dest to sarcum- 
 vent 'em, as you may say. But I'm beat ef I know 
 what to do about these here boys. They've got hold 
 o' 'Mandy's name, it 'pears, I guess 'twas writ into 
 his speller, an' they're a-plaguin' of him to pieces ; 
 callin' of him 'Miss Hills,' an' 'lovely 'Manda,' an' 
 a-askin' of him ef he's a-makin' a quilt aginst his wed- 
 din', an' all sorts o' talk like that, an' wuss, if wuss 
 can be. The little feller can't thrash 'em, he's the 
 smallest of the hull lot ; an' I've figgered on't all day, 
 but I can't do nothin' as I know of : so I thought I'd 
 tell you about it, for I vum I'm to my wits' ends." 
 
 A look of keen pain flitted across Bezy Hills's face 
 as Sally prattled on. He had not thought of this con- 
 tingency. He was a slow- minded man, possessed all 
 these years by one dominant idea, and every thing else 
 fell into the background. His daily duties had been 
 done because they must be : his sole enjoyment had 
 been thinking of his wife, and talking about her to his 
 boy. He had given him her name, as nearly as he 
 could, in order to make her near to the child who had 
 never seen her ; and the appellation was sacred to him. 
 He had never thought it could be made the jest and 
 weapon of rough boys, or a torment, instead of a pride, 
 to 'Mandy. 
 
 Perhaps if Amanda had lived, become the mother 
 of other children, grown old and sad with hard work 
 and the hard life of a farmer's wife, this devotion of 
 her husband would not have endured the wear and tear 
 of so many years. Probably he would have lost his 
 patience with her headaches and groans, and learned 
 the grim silence or the bitter speech that love neve*
 
 AMANDAR. 205 
 
 knows. He might have become not only indifferent, 
 bat unkind : men do. But the sweet memory of their 
 brief love and companionship became ideal because it 
 was a memory, and he clung to it with a persistence 
 reality never knows or inspires. Had she died at 
 forty, and left him with two or three children and ten 
 cows, he would have looked about him in a very few 
 months to find some one who should fill her place : as 
 it was, his days went on unsotaced in that way ; and he 
 was as much an Amandian as he was a Christian, 
 perhaps more so. 
 
 But as he sat by the fire to-night in silence, for he 
 made no answer to Sally, and she was too used to his 
 silences, and cared too little for him, to resent them, 
 his startled soul was forced to own that he had not 
 been judicious or considerate in making his boy wear 
 his mother's name, dear and sacred as it was. 
 
 Nothing could be done about it now. The name was 
 given, and he had sense enough to see that for him to 
 interfere in the affair would only exasperate it : perhaps 
 he had better not speak of it even to 'Mandy. 
 
 Rising, with a long sigh, at length he took the tallow 
 candle, and stole up the stair into his boy's room, to 
 take a good-tiigut IOOK. 
 
 The child lay with his cheek on one hand, the dark 
 lashes, so like his mother's, fallen on to the rose-tinted 
 cheek, and the red lips just parted with an even breath 
 of young health : but the lashes were still wet ; and 
 while his father gazed at him fondly, thinking how like 
 his mother he looked in that rest and position, a low 
 sob, like the last swell of a storm, shook the boy's 
 chest, and a look of anger swept across his placid fore- 
 head. Bezy Hills was grieved to the heart. Long and
 
 206 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 late he pondered what he should do ; and even in his 
 troubled sleep, when at last it came, he was haunted 
 by 'Mandy's angry face and tearful eyes. 
 
 The next day was Saturday ; and as it was good sap 
 weather, weather that "friz by night, and thew by 
 day," as Sally said, 'Mandy went up to the sugar- 
 camp with his father to stay till Sunday morning. The 
 hut was substantial ; and a standing bed-place, laid 
 thick with spruce-boughs and sheep-skins, was delight- 
 ful hardship to the boy. He stirred the kettles, fetched 
 sap in his small pail, and carried a milk-pan of snow 
 from a hidden drift between two rocks at the north 
 foot of Black Mountain, in which to cool his share of 
 sirup, and harden it to wax, delicious, deleterious 
 compound, that sticks the organs of speech together, 
 and forbids deglutition to the strongest jaw, but has 
 withal, the flavor of wild honey, and the sweetness of 
 nectar Olympus never knew. 
 
 When noon-mark was straightened out by the great 
 gnomon of a tulip-tree on the turf-dial whefe the 
 shanty stood, Bezy set some apples to roast before the 
 fire, placed his tin pot of coffee on the ashes, and 
 toasted some thick slices of cheese at the coals to eat 
 with their rye bread and doughnuts, a meal fit for 
 any king, 'Mandy thought, its only objection being that 
 a hearty dinner did somewhat limit the possibilities of 
 eating maple-wax ; but the keen air edged his appetite, 
 and demanded solids as well as sweets. 
 
 While he was munching his last doughnut, the silence 
 of the repast was suddenly broken by his father. 
 
 " 'Mandy," said he, "I've heerd tell that the boys 
 to school plague ye a heap about your given name? " 
 
 'Mandy blushed up to the roots of his yellow hair.
 
 AMANDAli. 207 
 
 "They do plague some, pa," he said honestly, though 
 choking a little, perhaps from the over-dry doughnut. 
 
 "Well, I've jBggered on't some, an' I don't see hut 
 what ye'll hev to stan' it for a spell. Ye ain't big 
 enough to thrash 'em, nor to knock 'em over: when 
 you be, I s'pose you will." 
 
 " You bet ! " exclaimed the eight-year-old hero. 
 
 " But meantime, don't ye fret about it no more'n ye 
 can help. Ye've got mother's name as near as I coukl 
 fix it ; an' you an' me think a sight o' mother, don't 
 we?" 
 
 'Mandy nodded : his mouth was still full, and pathos 
 was not his forte. 
 
 "Ye see, ef ye'd ben a little gal, why, 'twould hev 
 come right ; but ye wa'n't, an' I don't know as I 
 wanted for ye to be." 
 
 " /didn't," shouted the indignant boy. 
 
 "But for all, I wanted ye to hev mother's name. 
 She was the best an' the beautifulest cretur ever was, 
 an' them boys hain't any one on 'em got no sech a 
 mother. I expect if they hed, they'd be proper glad to 
 hev her given name tacked to 'em." 
 
 "Hullo! there's a 'chuck!" shouted 'Mandy; and 
 off he went, seizing a stake, and knocking over the 
 apples, to wage war with a sober old woodchuck that 
 had come out to inspect the savory odors in his usually 
 quiet haunts. 
 
 Bezy sighed, but the sugar needed stirring : and 
 when 'Mandy came back from the chase, disgusted 
 that the fro ward beast would not stop to be killed, his 
 father said no more to him about his school troubles ; 
 but what he had said dwelt long in the child's mind, 
 and had its effect.
 
 208 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 The old saying, that "the blood of the martyrs is 
 the seed of the Church," is as applicable to other affec- 
 tions as to religion. The more the boys reviled and 
 laughed at 'Mandy for wearing his mother's name, the 
 more closely he became attached to it ; and when time 
 came to his aid with its slow security, and his thews 
 and sinews were both strong and hard with his sturdy 
 life and free growth, the boys of Hampton began to 
 respect the "dynamic reasons of larger bones," and 
 be careful how they roused the wrath they found latent 
 under Amandar's kindly, handsome visage. 
 
 About the time he was seventeen years old, there 
 came to the village a distant relative of Bezaleel Hills, 
 of the same surname. Samuel Hills had lived hitherto 
 by the seaside ; but malaria, creeping slowly up the 
 Connecticut coast, had laid its chilly, withering finger 
 on him after he was fifty years old, and driven him 
 northward into the pure mountain air which his father 
 had left, a long time since, to settle on a fat farm near 
 Guilford. He exchanged these green acres now for as 
 many of mountain pasture on the outskirts of Hampton ; 
 and, under the care of his wife and daughter, the old 
 brown house put on a new aspect. Morning-glories 
 twined over the windows, the white-rose trees were 
 pruned and trained, and a " posy bed " by the south 
 door made the yard gay and fragrant. 
 
 It was not strange that Samuel Hills's daughter 
 should be named Amanda, though to her relatives it 
 seemed a peculiar and startling coincidence. Amanda 
 was as common in those days as Susie, AIKe, Salli'e, 
 or any other absurdity ending in ie is in these ; and 
 to the cultivated ear there is a far greater decency in 
 the whole of any feminine appellative than in the
 
 AMANDAR. 209 
 
 nicknames that should be kept for household usage and 
 private fondness. Amanda wore her grandmother's 
 name, who received it from her mother. And so little 
 did she know of her relatives, that, till she came to 
 Hampton, she was all unaware of having a distant 
 cousin of almost her own name. It was a passport 
 at once to the good graces of Bezaleel and his son 
 that this bright, pretty young girl should so recall the 
 wife and mother they both idolized. Amandar, just 
 budding into manhood, was carried away captive at 
 once. And Amanda, who was his own age, rather 
 looked down upon him in point of years, because a 
 woman is always so much older than a man, whatever 
 equality of age may be shared by the two. 
 
 Yet she was by no means unwilling to add another 
 trophy to those already dangling at her belt ; and she 
 smiled, dimpled, coquetted, till the handsome, awkward 
 boy, who took the serious side of the matter, felt like 
 a bewitched creature, and wore his chains with a silent 
 joy, not yet knowing that they were chains. 
 
 But, while he was f ailing fathoms deep in love with 
 Amanda, other youths in Hampton discovered how 
 pleasant it was to be welcomed in the cheery brown 
 house by such sparkling eyes and red lips ; and she 
 had a welcome for all. 
 
 Amandar began to feel pangs of jealous fury, to 
 lose his sleep by night, and his appetite by day. Being, 
 however, a practical youth, instead of wasting his time 
 in sighs and philandering, he worked harder than ever, 
 and "laid about him," as Robinson Crusoe says, to 
 discover how he should be soonest able to marry, and 
 so carry his idol off from all competitors. 
 
 The farm was his father's : he could not ask him to
 
 210 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 give it up ; nor would its sterile acres ever furnish more 
 tban the barest support to their family as it was. 
 Amandar's desire was to go into some sort of business, 
 and make money more rapidly ; and to this end he at 
 last persuaded Bczy to let him go to work in the iron- 
 furnace at Hampton Falls, a little offshoot of Hamp- 
 ton, on the Black River, only two miles from Bezy 
 Hills's farm. 
 
 He worked in the f urnace four years ; his intelligence 
 and strength bringing gradual promotion, and his wages 
 accumulating in the Rutland savings bank. But he 
 had not the faith or the patience (whichever it was) of 
 Jacob ; for the tune he served for his Rachel seemed 
 inteiminable, and was rendered even more tantalizing 
 bj r that young woman's persistent coquetry with other 
 men . It was true she did not engage herself to any of 
 them : there were too many delights in having a train 
 of lovers for Amanda to sacrifice all to one. But no 
 man likes to have his own idol set up for public wor- 
 ship ; and 'Mandy was too young and too dreadfully in 
 earnest to be philosophical about the matter. ' 
 
 It happened soon after he was twenty-one that his 
 brooding jealousy exploded, and brought his affairs to 
 a crisis. He had been away from home on some affair 
 of the f urnace ; for he had now advanced so far as to 
 have all the outside business in his hands, and he was 
 mounted on top of the lumbering "stage" that for a 
 few miles carried passengers between the railroad 
 station and Hampton Falls. Before him, on either 
 side of the driver (who happened to be a new man on 
 the line, and quite ignorant of Hampton people), sat 
 two young men of that class whom the English call 
 "bagmen," and the Americans " drummers. " Their
 
 AMANDAK. 211 
 
 conversation was not peculiarly interesting at first ; 
 Imt, as Hampton steeple came in sight, one said to the 
 other, 
 
 " What takes you to this little hole, Harris? " 
 
 "I'm going to see 'Handy Hills," answered the 
 other, with a smirk of such meaning that Amandar s 
 blood boiled. 
 
 "After a girl, eh? I thought you was drumminV' 
 
 Harris chuckled, and the other went on. "Pretty, 
 is she?" 
 
 "You bet! " replied the indiscreet youth, with still 
 another laugh. 
 
 "What style?" 
 
 " Why, Smith, I don't know: photographs haven't 
 been exchanged yet; that is" chuckling again 
 " no colored ones." 
 
 ' ' Just like all country girls, I dare say, hair 
 straight as a candle, and nose the length of your arm." 
 
 ' ' Not a bit. Hair curly, and nose a little turned 
 up." 
 
 Here Harris laughed uproariously ; and Arnandar 
 clinched his fist, and straightened out his arm danger- 
 ously near the young man's head. 
 
 "Well, good luck to you! Hope she won't put on 
 airs, ami mitten you, to wind up." 
 
 " Not she," laughed Harris, as if the idea was the 
 most exquisite of jokes. " She ain't that kind. She'll 
 fall into my mouth quick as ever I open it, you bet 
 your head." 
 
 The words had scarce left his lips when Amandai's 
 hand clutched his collar, and he was flung off the . seat 
 just as the stage drew up at the Hampton tavern ; and 
 our hero, jumping down after him, administered a
 
 
 212 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 sound pommelling to the surprised drummer before 
 interfering spectators could pull him off. 
 
 The bruised and bleeding youth was rescued, done 
 up in vinegar and brown paper, and put to bed up 
 stairs, and a justice of the peace brought immediately 
 to deal with the assailant, who, having washed his 
 hands at the pump, sat down and waited for arrest as 
 calmly as if assault and battery were his profession. 
 
 However, the battered party could not appear against 
 him that day, and there was no place to shut him up : 
 so he gave bail, went to the office for an hour, and 
 thence walked home to tea. 
 
 Hampton, of course, was all alive with the affair 
 before morning ; and early next dayAmandar appeared 
 before the justice, with his disfigured adversary, who 
 had his temple covered with wet brown paper, and 
 diffused a mingled odor of cider- vinegar and New-Eng- 
 land rum through the assembly that crammed the little 
 court-room. Amandar could not bring himself to con- 
 fess the motive for his apparently unprovoked assault : 
 so he submitted to the heavy fine imposed, and private- 
 ly sought occasion to apologize to Harris, or rather to 
 explain. The young man burst into a roar of laughter, 
 all the more uncontrollable that Amandar 's face blazed 
 all over at this unseemly levity, till Harris at last 
 caught breath. 
 
 " My dear fellow, I never saw Miss Hills in my life, 
 nor ever knew there was such a person : but you and I 
 have corresponded about that pig-iron, though of course 
 as I only signed my letter Fowle, Norris, and Co., per 
 H.,. you could not know my name ; but I had seen 
 yours, and been rather beg pardon rather amused 
 at it : so when Jack began to question me (which he is
 
 AMA:NDAK. 213 
 
 mighty apt to do), I thought I'd blind him, and an- 
 swered as I did. Particulars were made to order : I 
 don't see how they came to fit. Honest, now, did 
 they?" 
 
 " Well, her hair does curl some," awkwardly admit- 
 ted Amandar, unconscious of nightly papering and 
 pinching, " and I didn't know but you'd call her nose 
 pug. I don't." 
 
 Harris could not help another laugh ; and Amandar 
 almost said, "Confound my name! " but, just as his 
 lips opened, loyalty and love for the dead mother closed 
 them ; and he only said, "Well, I was a fool, and I 
 own it." 
 
 " You can't say no fairer than that, old fellow. 
 Shake hands on it, will you? " 
 
 And Amandar and Harris " made up," as children 
 say ; but the unlucky name had not yet done its work. 
 Somebody overheard this conversation, or "Jack," 
 sharing in the explanation, betrayed it with his easy 
 tongue ; for in twenty-four hours it had reached Aman- 
 da, and made her furious. New England, as a rule, 
 does not take kindly to sentiment, even of the chival- 
 ric sort ; and Hampton people were only too glad to 
 get a laugh on Amandar, who had always, as their 
 phrase went, " kept himself to himself." And Aman- 
 da well knew she would be teased and laughed at un- 
 mercifully. But her namesake, unconscious of her 
 wrath, and feeling that the time had come when he had 
 courage to ask her, since the blow he struck for her 
 sake seemed to have roused his dormant manhood, and 
 proved to himself that he had at last the daring to 
 
 "Put it to the touch, 
 To gain or lose it all," 
 
 uetook himself to the hill farm that very night.
 
 214 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 He was too absorbed in his purpose to understand 
 Amanda's silence and the flash of her eyes ; but the 
 moment they were alone, in . good set terms he asked 
 her to marry him. 
 
 "I guess not!" she retorted bitterly. "I don' 
 know how you ask. Hain't you made my name a by- 
 word and a hissin' already down to the village? I've 
 heerd, sir, about your knockin' down that city feller ; 
 and I don't think it's no great recommend to a man to 
 have him ready to quarrel for a breath, as you maj 
 say." 
 
 "But, 'Mandy," gasped the astonished suitor, "I 
 couldn't set such store by you as I do, and hear a man 
 speak light of you that way." 
 
 "Then stop a-settin' store by me, 's all I've got to 
 say." 
 
 "I can't do it, I can't : I'd as lief root out twitch- 
 grass out o' a ten-acre lot. I can't no more stop likin' 
 of ye'n I can stop breathin'." 
 
 "Well, I don' know's that's my blame," retorted 
 Amanda, with genuine scorn. 
 
 It seemed to her this man was a weak fool : a Scy- 
 thian wooer, who would have knocked her down and 
 carried her away across his saddle, would have com- 
 manded her respect much more. Amandar TV as far too 
 much in love to perceive the trait in his charmer's char- 
 acter which would have made his marriage with her 
 emphatically "the curse of a granted prayer." He 
 could not yet take no for an answer : his misery and 
 his passion made him abject. He went on, "Maybe. 
 I've hurried up matters too much ; try and think on't, 
 Amandy. I'll wait ; I can wait I'd wait seven year, 
 like the man in the Bible, if so be you'd take me to the 
 end on't, as he was took."
 
 AMANDAR. 215 
 
 There is a curious provision of Providence in the 
 nature of girls who are not sophisticated by life oi 
 education, which makes a man whom they do not love, 
 but who loves them, actually hateful and disgusting 
 the moment he betrays his devotion. It seemed to 
 Amanda that her lover was intolerable ; she would have 
 liked to drive him out of the house ; her whole nature 
 rose up in an instinctive reVolt against him ; she shud- 
 dered inwardly at the idea of his presence continually 
 before her, and her wrath found words. 
 
 "Hain't you got eyes, Amandar Hills?" she said 
 with cold fury. "Don't you see I mean no when I 
 say no? Let alone that I wouldn't marry you ef you 
 was the last created critter of the masculine sect in the 
 hull universe, I wouldn't never marry a man that I 
 set by like all possessed ef he bed a girl's name : so 
 there now ! " 
 
 This was brutal, but convincing. Amandar 's head 
 dropped on his breast. He picked up his hat, and loi- 
 tered out of the door, feeling strangely weak and 
 uncertain, yet withal a little indignant, from an odd 
 consciousness that his mother's memory had not been 
 respected. He was not given to analyzing his sensa- 
 tions. He could feel, but he could not " peep and bota- 
 nize ' ' in his own soul : he could only cast a wistful 
 glance at the green flower-set mound in the graveyard 
 as he went by, and send a tender thought to the memo- 
 ry that was so far the only religion he possessed, but, 
 like all human, religions, had no power to heal the hurt 
 within him. 
 
 It happened that Sally had been at the hillside fann 
 that evening to return some yeast borrowed in an emer- 
 gency ; and not finding Amanda's mother in the kitch-
 
 216 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 en, and hearing voices in the front-room, she naturally 
 went to the door to see if Mrs. Hills was there, and in 
 the little entry her steps were arrested by the pleading 
 sound of her boy's voice. She Cloved Amandar little 
 less than if he had been her own child ; and her faith- 
 ful old heart sank as she gathered the sense of his low, 
 eager words. It did not occur to her to go away : she 
 had not been educated into that sense of honor, which 
 is not a native -trait of women ; and her blood boiled as 
 she heard Amanda's cruel words, so distinctly and 
 curtly uttered that they were like so many blows. In- 
 stinct taught her not to follow the rejected lover, and 
 offer him comfoi't : she only set down her yeast-pitcher 
 and left the house, feeling that she could not restrain 
 her tongue if she met Amanda then and there. 
 
 Poor old Sally ! Amandar writhed and groaned and 
 tossed all night in purely self-centred misery ; but she, 
 in the next chamber, sighed and woke also. Tears of 
 deep pity and grief stole from her dim eyes, and wet 
 her sallow, wrinkled cheeks with the most unselfish of 
 all suffering ; yet the pathos and the picturesqueness of 
 the situation all lay with him, for is not a despairing 
 lover by far a finer figure than a sympathizing old 
 woman ? 
 
 Yet could we but look at the pair, having our sight 
 purged by some diviner euphrasy than conventional 
 literature or romantic poetry supplies, would not Sally 
 appear the nobler and lovelier of the sufferers ? How- 
 ever that may be, Amandar never knew*what pure tears 
 were shed for him that night, or what honest pangs 
 tortured poor Sally for his sake. He got up the next 
 morning and went to his work as usual ; but the spring 
 of his life was broken, its interest gone. Nothing from
 
 AMANDAR. 217 
 
 within could help him ; nothing without offered aid. 
 He set himself with listless quiet to endure :" that alone 
 was left to him, the resource of a dumb animal, the 
 vis inertia of the tree that lies where it falls. If help 
 was ever to come, it must seek him and save him with- 
 out his will or wish. His father looked at him with 
 sad eyes, but said nothing. Sally cooked every dainty 
 dish she could remember, or invent from her small 
 resource of material ; but all was alike to the weary 
 body that held this stricken soul. That the two who 
 idolized and attended him never offered tender speech, 
 gentle caress, loving look or touch, was not for want 
 of lo\ e, but from the dreadful reticence that underlies 
 all New-England character, and forbids it to blossom 
 in expression, though, like some abnormal plant, it may 
 bear fruit abundantly in deeds, from the most insignifi- 
 cant or unlovely flowers. 
 
 So the summer went on drearily enough. The routine 
 of seedtime and harvest, old as the world's gray ribs, 
 recurrent as the sad story of life, occupied Bezaleel 
 Hills as it had done over and over before : into many 
 a furrow he ploughed useless regrets and defeated 
 hopes ; for he was hardly less disappointed than his 
 son, though the bitterest element of Amandar's' trou- 
 ble, the love that he had wasted, was not a part of his 
 father's pain. Yet, for all the ache of the sower, the 
 regardless seed absorbed dews of night and summer 
 showers, softened, sprouted, burst into the blade, shot 
 into the stalk, swelled into the heavy-freighted ear, with 
 the divine sequences of nature as gladly as if there 
 were no humanity in the atmosphere ; also the fan* 
 pink blooms of the orchards painted the knotted old 
 boughs, wiled the bees with their delicate bitter per-
 
 218 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 fume and drop of limpid honey, faded, fell, gave way 
 to small green spheres rounding daily to full-orbed 
 fruit that lay at last in heaps of gold and crimson on 
 the long, scant grass below ; the forests feathered into 
 waving, verdant plumes, darkened, rioted in brilliance 
 indescribable, and whirled away their finery en the 
 wild autumnal winds : but there was no parallel growth 
 or loss in the dull sorrow that had taken hold of Amau- 
 dar's strong nature. Humanity is not the flower of an 
 hour or a season : it takes a lifetime for development, 
 a long tale of years for its growth, fruitage, and death. 
 Its harvests are sudden, and it sleeps long ages in the 
 dust before any resurrection ; but then comes another 
 and eternal up-springing, a bloom that knows no har- 
 vest, a perennial spring. 
 
 It was in the bitter days of November that Sally 
 heard -of her sister's death in a remote village of 
 Maine. Hepsy was her only living relative, and the 
 stringent separation of poverty had kept them apart 
 since they were children. Occasionally a letter had 
 passed between them ; but further than these brief, 
 clumsy, ill-spelled messages, Sally knew nothing of 
 her sister's life except its bare circumstances. She 
 had married Sam Tucker, a poor, amiable, " shiftless " 
 creature, half farmer, half fisherman, and had the poor 
 man's blessing, ten children; but sis of these lay 
 buried in Fosdick Island graveyard, three had been 
 lost in a boat out blue-fishing. Sam had been dead 
 ten years ; and there was left of all the tribe only the 
 fifth child, Love, a girl of eighteen, who had been her 
 mother's sole comfort and company since the last 
 baby was laid beside its father. 
 
 Hepsy had known she was about to die, and with
 
 AMANDAK. 219 
 
 much pain and delay penned a short good-by to Sally, 
 begging her to find some place for Love where she 
 could earn her living, and be near her aunt. 
 
 "For she's a kinder cossit, Sary ; and I mistrust 
 she'll hanker after me sum. I want you should be 
 muther to her nigh as ken be, and sorter harten of her 
 upp when she taiks on, as mabbe she will. Poor 
 cretur ! I hate to hev to leave her ; but I hoap the Lord 
 and you'll take keer on her." 
 
 This letter came enclosed in one from a neighbor, 
 announcing Mrs. Tucker's death ; and Sally, with red 
 eyes and mild snuffles, put it into Bezy's hand to read. 
 
 He puzzled through it, and wiped the back of his 
 hand across his eyes, muttering under his breath, 
 "Darn them cobwebs !"' though he knew, and Sally 
 knew, that no spider that ever was laid in egg was the 
 author of the dimness he was ashamed to own. 
 
 " Well, Sally, the' ain't but one thing for to do ; an' 
 that is for you to go to the island, an' fetch the poor 
 gal hum with ye. Fetch her here, I say, till she finds 
 a better place. She'll be dreadful lonesome an' scary, 
 to begin with : you must get her used to folks grad- 
 ooal. There's plenty room in this old barrack, an' 
 enough vittles ; an' she's welcome. Nuf said." 
 
 So Sally, who had made a perfect autocrat of Bezy 
 of late years, meekly obeyed, drew out her small sav- 
 ings from the bank, and with trembling ignorance 
 went her way, managing to reach Fosdick Island 
 safely, and in a week returned with her charge to 
 Hampton, slipping back into her old place with a sigh 
 of satisfaction. Love was a great surprise to the 
 squire, who had thought of her as a lank, frightened, 
 homely down-East girl, and stared in amaze at the
 
 220 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 quiet, sweet face that smiled up at him so modestly, 
 the trim, plump figure, the exquisitely neat dress, and 
 shining hair. 
 
 "I swan.! " he said to Amandar, " she's the most 
 like one of them blue pidgins of any thing I ever see 
 in a woman." 
 
 But Amandar did not care. 
 
 A', the year went on, a new sense of comfort stole 
 into the house. Love had that inborn power of mak- 
 ing any place she inhabited attractive and home-like, 
 which is a greater gift to a woman than any artistic 
 faculty. She brightened up the dark kitchen with gay 
 patchwork cushions in the arm-chairs, set two scarlet- 
 flowered geraniums in the south window, which she had 
 fetched from her old home, and pinned up some chintz 
 curtains to the windows, relics of Sally's former house- 
 keeping ; then she scoured up the old pewter platters 
 to silvery brightness, and made the brass tops of shovel 
 and tongs radiant. A red shawl served for stand- 
 cover, and a few books always lay on it. The kitchen 
 looked like a place to live in, not a mere shelter 
 and feeding-trough ; and not its least ornament was 
 Love's calm, sweet face, the brown eyes shining a wel- 
 come to each comer, the brown hair braided and pinned 
 up with that smooth glitter carefully kept hair shows, 
 and the white apron, cuffs, and collar spotlessly pure 
 against her black woollen dress. Her very face ex- 
 pressed the atmosphere that she seemed to dwell in, 
 and to spread about her a sense of peace, composure, 
 and rest. 
 
 She reminded Bezy of his lost wife many and many 
 a time. Her eyes were like Amanda's, so was her 
 shining hair ; and though Love's health and plumpness
 
 AMANDAR. 221 
 
 were as unlike Amanda's frail delicacy as could be, 
 Bezy did not place any stress on that : he thought it 
 merely the natural distinction between the girl and the 
 young mother. At any rate, she was like his 'Handy, 
 almost as gentle and sweet ; and his old young life 
 came back to him like a lovely, mournful dream as he 
 looked at Love sitting where his wife had sat in their 
 brief happiness, flitting in and out at little household 
 cares just as she did, and making the house home 
 again, as in all these years it had never been. And, 
 as the days went on, a subtle sense of comfort and 
 peace stole, even against his will, into Amandar's 
 heart. He scarce ever looked at Love, or spoke to 
 her ; but he could not help hearing his father's voice 
 soften when he said "Lovey," nor could he fail to 
 see how the pucker was getting smoothed out of Sally's 
 forehead, or ignore the fact that the daily meals were 
 better cooked, more neatly served, more savory of 
 smell, in every way more appetizing, than before. 
 A man's heart and his stomach are said to be inter- 
 changeable terms. I would not so malign the sterner 
 sex as to indorse this fact ; yet I certainly know of 
 more than one instance where a woman's sole tie to an 
 unloving, selfish, cold husband, has been her power of 
 ministering deftly to his chronic dyspepsia. I am 
 sure that I have seen this despised faculty avert 
 divorce, and preserve family unity, where all else failed / 
 and love had never been. The moral of wjrich is, 
 young ladies, learn to cook well. 
 
 And how was it wi f h Lovey ? Dear girl-reader, how 
 would it have been with you, if, homeless, almost 
 friendless, you had been brought into the daily society 
 of a youth good-looking enough, well-to-do, intelligent, 
 and the victim of an unfortunate attachment?
 
 222 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Dear little Lovey ! She pitied Amandar with all her 
 sweet, gentle heart. She thought Amanda Hills a 
 cruel, heartless coquette ; which was rather unjust to 
 'Maudy, at her worst a mere coarse, commonplace girl, 
 not at all the being Amandar painted her. So her 
 beautiful pity worked itself out in gentle deeds : it was 
 she who darned the youth's stockings with such an 
 even lattice of yam, so smoothly ended or begun that 
 his foot never felt the new fabric ; probably it never 
 would have troubled him if she had put on flannel 
 patches, but there are as many works of supereroga- 
 tion in love as in the Romish religion. 
 
 She, too, saw that no button ever missed its duty, 
 no string was ever torn off or knotted on any of his 
 clothes. She brushed his Sunday suit every Saturday, 
 with a little of the same devotion that impelled her 
 prayers, and stitched his collars with a tender thought 
 to every two threads, as well as a stitch ; and hemming 
 his handkerchiefs gave her a more exquisite joy than 
 the finest Kensington embroidery ever confers on its 
 votaries. 
 
 Yes, Lovey was in love ; in love after the genuine 
 old fashion of Eden, when there was but one man for 
 one woman ; in love without an alloy of diamonds or 
 settlements, trousseau, or lace and white satin ; in love 
 in that divine, almighty, absorbing, unselfish way, that 
 counts not its own life dear unto itself in comparison 
 with the lightest wish or want of the beloved. And 
 Amandar, feeling the sun rise on him, did not see it ; 
 growing warm and light of heart as he went on with 
 his back to the east, he yet wist not that it shone. 
 
 But spring at last kissed the land : the brown sad 
 fields" softened in tint, the brooks laughed, the winter
 
 AMANDAR. 223 
 
 grain sprung up afresh on hill and dale, and bluebirds 
 ventured to call out their small encouragements from 
 leafless trees. Work at the forge was dull, and Aman- 
 dar staid at home to help his father plough. The first 
 few days of May were warm even to sultriness : and 
 holding, a plough on the hillside in the blaze of noon 
 proved too much for his unaccustomed head ; a sudden 
 ache smote him, so severe that he had to stop and 
 sit down to recover from the shock, which almost 
 amounted to sunstroke. His father was startled at 
 the pale face and blue lips, that told their own story, 
 and sent him home at once. When he reached the 
 house, Sally and Love were taking in the wash from 
 the lines in the orchard ; and Amandar went up to his 
 room without seeing them. The cool shade and soft 
 air flowing through his blinds relieved and soothed him ; 
 so that he fell asleep at once, and awoke some hours 
 afterward to the sound of voices. The two women 
 were sitting on the back door-steps ; and before he 
 was really conscious of where he was, and whose voices 
 he heard, Sally said to Love, 
 
 " The meat-man told me a piece o' news to-day." 
 
 Lovey laughed like a song-sparrow, for it was the 
 joke of the house to call the meat-man Sally's news- 
 paper. 
 
 " Well, he did really, this tune. He says for true 
 that Amandy Hills is a-goin' to marry old Square 
 Shores down to Ludlow." 
 
 The listener felt a dull pang in his heart ; and a 
 thrill of sharp surprise followed, to feel the pang was 
 so dull. 
 
 " Isn't she goin' to do well? " asked Love, rather as 
 a matter of course than for any deep interest in the 
 subject.
 
 224 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 " Well, I don' know's she is, an' I don' know as 
 she is. He's got means, he's got a sight of means, 
 if that's all ; an' he lives into a two-story yaller brick 
 house, with a big gardin, and a picket-fence all round 
 on't ; but he's cur'us, dark-complected, an' jest as 
 pornickity as an old maid, and meaner my land! 
 meaner'n dirt. If she's marryin' on him for money, 
 she won't get none on't." 
 
 "I hope she won't," burst out Love in a righteous 
 indignation. "I think anybody that marries anybody 
 for money ought to get come up with every time." 
 
 " Highty-tighty ! Why, Lovey, you ain't riled none, 
 be ye? Money's like fried cakes, real handy to hev in 
 the house, now I tell ye. 'F I was a gal agin, I'd 
 keep an eye out to't, you'd better believe, when folks 
 come a-foolin' round me. 'Tain't to be sneezed at." 
 
 " I don't believe you would one bit, Aunt Sally. I 
 know you, and you wouldn't marry a man for his 
 money no more'n I would." 
 
 "Well, ef you know so much, child, what on airth 
 would you marry a man for, ef I may be so bold? " 
 
 Lovey 's fair sweet face colored like a peach- blossom, 
 from soft round throat to shining hair, as she answered, 
 "For nothing only because I loved him so I couldn't 
 help it." 
 
 " My land ! seems to know a heap about it. Well, 
 'Mandy ain't that sort : she wouldn't hev our 'Mandar 
 jest cos he's got a queer name." 
 
 "Aunt Sally! Is that what makes him so awful 
 sober? " 
 
 "Jest exactly that. I heerd her tellin' of him my- 
 self, accidental like, as ye may say ; an' she done it as 
 though she knocked him down with a stun, and kinder
 
 AMANDAK. 225 
 
 liked to. I tell ye I never heerd a woman no harder 
 spofien than 'Mandy Hills was, in this mortal world." 
 
 " Aunt Sally, how hateful ! I should have thought 
 she'd ha' liked him all the better for thinkin' so much 
 of bis dead mother. I'm sure I felt just like cryin' 
 when you told me about the squire's namin' of him 
 after the one he set such store by ; seemed as though 
 'twas most worth while to die, if it made folks think 
 so much of you." 
 
 ' ' Why, how you talk, child ! You ain't dreadful 
 way- wise yet, it's plain to behold. It's a sight better 
 to hev 'em set by ye whilst ye live. It don't do Miss 
 Hills no good up there under the mulleins an' burdocks 
 to. hev the square allers thinkin' about her, and mournin' 
 after her." 
 
 "I don't believe it ! " retorted Lovey, her soft voice 
 thrilled with indignation. "I don't believe but what 
 she knows all about it, and is sort of comforted by it. 
 She ain't up there in the forlorn old graveyard : she's 
 in a better place, and I know she likes to be loved 
 more'n ever. My gracious ! do you think I shouldn't 
 know, if I was ever so dead, that anybody I set my 
 life by had forgot me, and taken another into my 
 place?" 
 
 " Well, well, well, child, don't be so stirred up. I 
 don't know nothin' about it, nor you don't nuther, an' 
 it's time to put the tea to draw. Fetch up the butter, 
 will ye, and cut the bread? " And Sally walked off tc 
 her work, unable to cope with the ardent young heart 
 that life and grief had not yet tamed down to hard 
 sense and practical philosophy. 
 
 But there was another heart, still young, if wounded, 
 that heard and responded, in the chamber overhead,
 
 226 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 where Amandar lay in the cool silence, listening 
 very dishonorably no doubt to the door-step conver- 
 sation. If he had read Shakspeare, probably he would 
 have quoted that well-worn passage : 
 
 " Oh ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets." 
 
 As it was, he had a sense of comfort and peace enter 
 his very soul from the genuine and tender sympathy 
 Love bestowed on him. There was a woman, then, 
 who not only did not despise his name, but could love 
 him the better for it, a heart that knew what a beloved 
 memory was, and admired the respect in which the 
 living held it. 
 
 Yes, Amandar began to see the sun. There is no 
 creature on earth so cousolable as man. A dog will 
 mourn his lost master to the death, and a woman 
 bewail her husband till she rejoins him ; but in man 
 there lies a sublime store of affection that must ex- 
 pend itself on somebody, generally on some woman. 
 Amandar was no exception to this great compensatory 
 rule. He had resisted it longer than usual, because of 
 a certain trait in his nature, a tendency to monotony, 
 which he inherited, diminished in descent, from his 
 father ; but now resistance fell, like the walls of Jeri- 
 cho, before the blast of a breath. The queen was 
 dead : long live the queen ! He began from that hour 
 to recognize and cultivate a sort of healthy hatred of 
 Amanda, to wonder that he had never understood her 
 character before, and to draw daily the most odious of 
 comparisons between her and Lovey. 
 
 In short, he fell manfully ia love again ; and, before 
 the ploughed land was well harrowed and seeded, the
 
 AMANDAK. 227 
 
 new passion had sprouted so well, that he himself 
 recognized it, and began to wonder if it would be suc- 
 cessful. But Lovey was timid, shy, and evasive as a 
 nestling partridge. It was, or seemed, many a long 
 day before Amandar could detain her from her occupa- 
 tions long enough to tell the old story ; and when one 
 day, with masculine will, he swept the clothes off the 
 line himself, and took possession of the small schemer 
 who had made their ingathering an excuse to avoid 
 him, it was a matter of hours to persuade her that he 
 really was in deep earnest. She could not understand 
 that the love which had shipwrecked him was a thing 
 of the past ; and a new passion, as genuine as the first, 
 had taken true hold of him. It was only after long 
 argument and iterated assurances, that Lovey, moved 
 no doubt by the conviction so earnestly expressed, that 
 she alone of all women could have availed to heal his 
 wound, consented to believe in him, and revealed her 
 own honest, tender heart, with a gentle shyness that 
 became it as moss does a rosebud. 
 
 It was a day of rejoicing hi that house when Aman- 
 dar told his father and Sally that Love had consented 
 to be his wife. Bezaleel already loved her as a daugh- 
 ter, and she only disputed Sally's heart with Amandar. 
 And as for the lover, he was happy : in this case it 
 was he who held the cheek out, and Lovey who kissed 
 it. He was not now slave, but master ; and the natu- 
 ral position set him at ease, and restored the self- 
 respect Amanda had from the beginning trampled on, 
 and at last outraged. Before the harvest came, they 
 were married ; and, under Love's household reign, 
 peace and brightness came permanently to live in the 
 old farmhouse. Amandar's mother found another wor-
 
 228 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 shipper at her homely shrine ; and, if there was a thorn 
 in Lovey's roses, it was the fact that no little girl was 
 given her to wear the sacred appellation of its grand- 
 mother. And, of all the fine boys who made in their 
 turn a temporary bedlam of the farm, not one was 
 permitted to be called after his father ; for Amandar 
 had answered for himself the old question, and found 
 out, that there is a great deal in a name.
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 
 
 TAUNTON STREET is long and high. A wide road, 
 skirted by equally wide strips of turf, in whose shal- 
 low gutters (a single furrow of the plough, grassed over 
 by time) grow Mayweed, yarrow, and nettle, herbs of 
 repellant touch and vile odor, it runs on the top of 
 Taunton Hill, from whose broad and long crest you 
 can see more of Western Connecticut in its develop- 
 ment of bare round hills, mullein-stalks, stones, and 
 life-everlasting, than is good for the soul of the thrifty, 
 or pleasant to the eyes of the discerning. 
 
 "Whatever is agreeable to behold lies on either hand 
 in the white, red, or brown farmhouses, each in its 
 own green yard, with a garden on one hand and a lane 
 leading to the barn and shed on the other ; some more 
 adorned than others with lilac-bushes and sticky rose- 
 acacias ; others more neatly ordered about doorstep, 
 chip-yard, and picket-fence ; but all wearing a certain 
 patient and pathetic homeliness that must have risen 
 -housands of times before dying eyes, and filled them 
 with homesick tears. 
 
 On the very top of Taunton Hill, or, rather, on the 
 middle of its broad back, stood the old white meeting- 
 house, and behind it, on the eastern slope, the grave- 
 yard, no elegant cemetery, where one can return to 
 dust regardless of expense hi rosewood and velvet, 
 
 229
 
 230 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 wept over by marble angels holding cold blossoms, 
 but a quiet, deserted-looking place of burial, weaning 
 the natural loneliness of death ; altogetha : separated 
 from life, except at the rare and silent funerals that 
 gathered there on business, or when, once in a decade, 
 some profane antiquary, fumbling after dates among 
 the brown stones, discovered among those gaping and 
 agonized cherubs a record to the effect that Mrs. 
 Lovina Jinkinson's " ethereal parts became a seraph 
 on the loth of June," and smiled behind his silk 
 handkerchief. 
 
 Half a mile beyond this abode of religion and mor- 
 tality was a small red house, standing in its own yard, 
 and having a little garden to the south, but neither 
 lane nor barn : a drooping elm-tree shaded it in front, 
 and one huge apple-tree spread its gnarled growth 
 over the end of the garden ; cinnamon-roses grew on 
 either side of the flat gray door-stone ; but no further 
 floral decorations softened the grim aspect of those 
 always-shut windows, behind whose green glass, 
 greener paper shades preserved a ghastly twilight in 
 the " front- room." But a little sidling path, well worn 
 through the turf, led round the corner to the south 
 door, a place of cheerier countenance, where broods 
 of chickens peeped and pecked ; where the cat washed 
 her face in the sunshine ; and where the opened door 
 gave pleasant glimpses of a clean kitchen, with 'Sire 
 Mariner, in a tall, list-bottomed arm-chair, sitting by 
 the fire doing nothing, and Polly his daughter bus- 
 tling about doing every thing. Desire Mariner (com- 
 monly called 'Sire) was a placid, weakly, peace-loving 
 old man, who had been sexton and shoemaker time 
 out of mind in Taunton Street. If you wanted a pair
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 231 
 
 of shoes, he could make them in three weeks, if noth- 
 ing happened : if you wanted a grave dug, it took him 
 all day to do it. His wife had lived in a state of bustle 
 and aggravation while she did live ; and, when she 
 died, her child carried on the business. 
 
 "Well, Polly, what be you a-goin' to do now?" 
 said Mrs. Perkins, the deacon's wife, to Polly, as she 
 entered the house behind her, coming home from 
 Marah Mariner's funeral. 
 
 "Learn a trade," said Polly, nowise resenting the 
 freedom of speech which interfered with her private 
 affairs on what should have been a solern and sad occa- 
 sion. 
 
 "The land's sake!" and up went Mrs. Perkins's 
 eyes. " Learn a trade ! Well, I never ! 'n' here you've 
 had a real good edication, 'u' might jest as well get a 
 good deestrick school as not, 'n' stay to home 'n' take 
 keer of him ! " 
 
 "I ha'n't had no great schooling Miss Perkins, 
 though I s'pose I could make shift to knock what little 
 I had into childern's heads ; but keep school I never 
 will. Firstly I hate damp boys : they're always gettin' 
 damp and steamin', and I'd as lieve be choked to 
 once. Secondly I hate boys anyway : they're nothin' 
 but torments. An' thirdly 1 hate sehool-keepin' . You 
 don't never suit. If you're strict, then folks sez you're, 
 cruel and bad dispositioned : if you're easy, an' ffet 
 git along, then you're slack and lazy. I'd jest as 
 williu'ly be a minister's wife as a schoolma'am, an' I 
 can't say no more'n that. No, my mind's made iij. 
 mother 'n' me talked it over. Aunt Roxy's goin' to 
 stay here 'long of father for a year, while Samwell and 
 his wife goes out to Indianny to get settled, and then
 
 232 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 she's goin' too ; and by that time I'll have got my 
 trade learned, and come home." 
 
 "Well, well, I s'pose you'll do jest as you'd 
 rutber." 
 
 And so Polly did. Vain were all the remonstrances 
 of friends and neighbors. Off she went the next week 
 to Hartford ; and there, by dint of hard work, " doing 
 chores " for hei board, and grubbing through all the 
 mysteries of cutting, pressing, turning, and button- 
 holing, she became mistress of her art, and returned 
 to Taunton Street as accomplished a tailoress as the 
 times afforded. But alas ! her fair plans of a busy and 
 vivacious life, going out day by day to the neighboring 
 farmers' houses with her beneficent press-board, shears, 
 and headless thimble, where she would be regaled with 
 the best of food and the freshest of gossip, all fell 
 through. 'Sire Mariner was hopelessly bed-ridden when 
 Polly came back, and aunt Koxy all packed for her 
 Western journey. 
 
 Nothing very serious seemed to ail the old man. He 
 had been rheumatic, taken cold, gone to bed, and 
 found it was a warm, comfortable place, and lain there 
 till the unused muscles and dulled circulation became 
 a fixed physical habit ; and he had no energy of mind 
 or elasticity of nerves to combat the mild depression 
 that held him, as it were, in cobweb chains. 
 
 Still he needed constant care, and made constant 
 trouble. Polly could not leave him for more than ar. 
 hour ; and he would spill his food, and drop his snuff, 
 and tip over the tallow candle, till Polly's hair crinkled 
 more fiercely than ever, and she scolded and bustled 
 like a domestic blackbird. Whatever tailoring s':-: 
 could take in at home she did and did well, and
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 233 
 
 even condescended to plain sewing at odd times. She 
 hoed the garden after old Isr'el Grubb had dug and 
 planted it ; she made root-beer to sell, and concocted 
 sirups of great power in cases of "humors" and 
 "spine in the bac-c." Sometimes she made election- 
 cake, a Connecticut institution that takes as much 
 "judgment " to its final success as a salad ; and nobody 
 made such hop-yeast as Polly. All these things eked 
 out a frugal existence for the two during the next ten 
 years ; and then one nighfc 'Sire Mariner went to sleep, 
 and never woke up. Mrs. Deacon Perkins had on the 
 same black bombazine, the same figured lace veil over 
 ft brown silk bonnet, and the same gray-centred broche" 
 shawl that adorned her before, when she followed 
 Polly into the house this time after the funeral, with 
 the same question on her thin lips, 
 
 " "Well, Polly, what be you goin' to do now? " 
 
 "Tailoria'," says Polly undauntedly. 
 
 " I want to know ! You ain't calculatin' to live here 
 all alone, be ye?" 
 
 " I don't expect to take boarders." 
 
 " Laws sakes ! I wa'n't thinking o' that. I should 
 suppose now you'd go an' make it your home with 
 somebody. There's your aunt Sary : she hain't got no- 
 body to help her, 'n' she's dreadful feeble this year ; 
 and I should think 'twould be a kind of a dooty for 
 ye, and a gocd home." 
 
 "Well, now, Miss Perkins," said Polly, sitting 
 clown deliberately, and evidently resolved to finish the 
 matter, "I a'u't a-goin' into nobody's house that 
 way. I don't b'lieve in't. Whilst I live by myself 
 an' take care of myself, I a' n't beholden to nobody ; 
 and I know when my work's done, and what's to pay
 
 234 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 for't. I kin sing, or laugh, or cry, or fix my hair into 
 a cocked hat, and nobody's got right or reason to say, 
 ' Why do ye so? ' Fact is, I've got my liberty, 'n' I'm 
 goin' to keep it : it'll be hard work, p'rhaps ; but it's 
 wuth it." 
 
 "Well, I never did see sech a contrary creetur in 
 all my born days," sighed Mrs. Perkins. " You'll live 
 to repent it, sure as I'm alive, Polly Mariner ! 'n' 
 what's more, I don't b'lieve you'll stick to't more'n 
 a month ! " 
 
 Polly felt no sinkings of heart at this denunciation : 
 what had she to be afraid of? She shut her door, and 
 went to bed, no more solitary than she had been 
 before. Her work was lightened of its heaviest rou- 
 tine ; and when she had cleared away the traces of her 
 father's occupancy, and cleaned her tiny house from 
 top to bottom till the very tins shone, she sat down to 
 her needle witli a stout and contented heart, with 
 nobody to make her afraid, though there were a few 
 to molest her. 
 
 Now, if Polly had been sixty instead of thirty-five, 
 she might have been let alone, except for the kindly 
 gifts of their abundance that the neighbors might send 
 in. But here was a strong, healthy, intelligent woman, 
 cast on her own resources, and without a relative near 
 enough to interfere with her choice of livelihood. 
 What a help and treasure she would be in a family ! 
 not as a mere servant, but one of the household, ready 
 to fill all gaps, fasten all loose threads, and be the 
 general " knitter-tip of uneonsidered trifles." 
 
 Aunt Sary came first, aunt by courtesy, as the 
 second wife of Polly's step (not half) uncle. She was 
 a thin, pale, dreary, bilious-looking woman, with dark
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 235 
 
 ayes set in dismal hollows, drooping lips, emaciated 
 temples, and a little iron-gray hair scratched up here 
 and there on her head, and crowned with a fearful 
 black lace cap, that, in its turn, wore patches of dull 
 purple ribbon. Aunt Sary was an invalid and a de- 
 sponding woman. 
 
 "And what more can I say? she said." Talk 
 about Ossa on Pelion ! what were Chimborazo on Popo- 
 catapetl compared to dyspepsia and liver-complaint on 
 constitutional melancholy? To her, every wind blew 
 from the east ; all clouds were tempest, and all sun- 
 shine torrid; if snow "kilt" her, heat and verdure 
 had as bad an effect; the grasshopper was more 
 than a burden to her ; and the mourners had gone 
 about the streets of her soul for so many years, that 
 everybody else had got worn out hearing their wails 
 and howls, and fairly wished the funeral over. Yet 
 aunt Sary had, like all the rest of us miserable sinners, 
 her good and lovable points. She was kind-hearted 
 when she could be brought to consider anybody else's 
 woes : she was a dutiful wife and mother. Though 
 her husband's mental thermometer always sank when 
 he entered the door, and her children kept out of her 
 way, there were few women in Taunton more consci- 
 entiously dutiful than Mrs. Sarah Platt. Her fate 
 was hard ; for nobody loved her, and every thing fretted 
 her. Shall not one rather pity than condemn the nettle 
 whose bloom is so trivial, and its foliage so repellant? 
 
 Polly Mariner did not feel any special compassion 
 for nettles. 
 
 " Well, Polly," sighed aunt Sary, painfully laboring 
 up the two steps into the kitchen, and dropping into the 
 nearest chair, " you've been quite afflicted since I saw
 
 236 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ye. It's a real mysterious Providence 't you should 
 be left so to yourself ! " (As if she was !) 
 
 " No 'tain't," snapped Polly. 
 
 Aunt Sarah groaned. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad to see you don't feel your par's 
 loss." 
 
 " Who said I didn't, aunt Sary ? I a'n't one to go 
 a-wipin' my eyes on everybody's han'kercher. I hadn't 
 never felt a call to cry on the meetin'-house steps, 
 nuther ; but that don't say but what I've got feelings 
 somewhere." 
 
 "You hadn't got a monenneut ready to put up for 
 him, I s'pose? Husband's got a slab to spare, I 
 b'lieve. He goi, two wheu Malviny and Jane Maria 
 was both so took down with fever ; but you see Malviny 
 got well, an' the slab's there in our back-shed, and 
 he's dreadful afraid it'll get scratched and sp'ilt : so 
 he'd let you hev it cheap." 
 
 "Well, I don't know but what I'll come over an' 
 dicker with him," said Polly respectfully, somewhat 
 softened by the prospect of a bargain. 
 
 " But that a'n't the moct of what I come to say, 
 Polly. I know't you'll be dredful lonesome here, and 
 husband and I'll be real glad to have you come 'n' make 
 it your home with us. I have so many poor spells, 
 and I don't seem to get the upper hand of 'em ; they 
 ruther gain on me, that I should be proper glad to 
 have some grown woman in the house, though I calker- 
 late to do the heft of the work myself. You could 
 have time to sew consider'ble, and I'd give ye the back- 
 chamber, where Hanner sleeps, and you could bring 
 aloug what beddiu' an' furnitoor you've got ; and I 
 guess the rent of this house would pay for your clothin',
 
 POLLY MAKENEK, TAILOEESS. 237 
 
 and I wouldn't begrudge ye what it didn't. And more- 
 over it a'n't quite to my likin' for a young woman to 
 live to [by] herself so : 'n there ! " 
 
 Mrs. Platt stopped, exhausted, wiped her face with 
 a printed cotton handkerchief, and began to rock. 
 
 Polly had been sitting speechless, with her eyes fixed 
 on her aunt, as if to hear what she would say to the 
 end ; and it was no pleasant thing to have those black 
 eyes, so keen, so apprehending, so persistent, looking 
 behind one's words into their thoughts. No wonder 
 aunt Sary's face shone with unwonted drops of sweat ! 
 
 " What did you pay Marthy Wade last year? " said 
 she at length. 
 
 Aunt Sary stared, but spoke. 
 
 " Well, I gin her a dollar a week." (Dear reader, 
 this was forty years ago.) 
 
 " Well now, aunt Sary, I don't expect to go out to 
 doin' chores for nobody ; and, ef I did, I wouldn't do it 
 fornothin'. Work's wuth pay; 'n' when I can't I'll 
 go to the town- farm 'n' be took hi." 
 
 " O Polly, Polly !" 
 
 "And, what's more, if I a'n't old enough to take 
 keer of myself, 'n' live by myself, I don't know who is. 
 I'm five an' thirty year ojid last December, 'n' I'd cut 
 my eye-teeth quite a spell ago ; and I a'n't a-goin* to 
 live with nobody, much less for nothin', as I told ye 
 before." 
 
 " O Polly ! I'm dredful disapp'inted, I do declare. 
 I'd lotted on havin' ye to my house. But I ha'n't got 
 no strength to battle it out with ye : an', come to think 
 on't, I guess it's all for the best, as providences gen- 
 erally be ; for I shouldn't want your fellers round in 
 the keepin'-room evenin's."
 
 238 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 At this last little feminine fling Polly blazed ; for it 
 was a notorious fact in the village, that no } T ouug m:ui 
 had ever cared to face her temper and her tongue 
 enough to "keep company" with her. 
 
 "There, now you've done it! I never knew a 
 dreadful good, sickly woman bu't what could sting jest 
 as well as a honey-bee. No, ma'am ! you won't be 
 troubled with me nor my company ; but I wish you well 
 and good- afternoon, and I hope you won't be troubled 
 with nothin' wuss nor your husband neither ! " 
 
 Mrs. Platt began to wipe her eyes, and snuffle so vio- 
 lently that Polly knew she had driven her to the wall, 
 and watched her retreat down the yard with grim satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Next day came another afflicter of her peace in the 
 sweet guise of cousin Rachel Green, a Quakeress of 
 the gentlest sort; one of those "sporadic cases," as 
 the doctors call them, of Quakerism, that now and 
 then blossom out in remote New-England villages. 
 
 Peace on earth and good will toward men embodied 
 Rachel's moral creed ; and peace lived in her pure eyes, 
 smoothed the fair old forehead, and almost bloomed on 
 those sweet, faded lips. Something like a south wind 
 in early spring sounded in Polly's ear as she sat by the 
 window, stitching a pair of overalls, though it only 
 said, 
 
 " Good-day, Polly ! Thee is as busy as ever, I 
 see." 
 
 "Why, Miss Green! Do tell if it's you? Walk 
 right in and sit down. I've been kind of expectin' ye 
 quite a spell." 
 
 " And I should have been to see thee before, Polly ; 
 but I have been down to Westerly to stay with Jona-
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 23 i 
 
 tban's fattier, who was nigh death for quite a while. 
 1 only came back yesterday, and heard thee had expe- 
 rienced a great loss. So I came over as quickly as 1 
 could." 
 
 "Well, yes: father was a kind of a loss. He 
 hadn't been no great company for several years along 
 back, and it was consider 'ble of a chore to keer for 
 him jest as one had oughter ; but I expect I miss him 
 as much as most folks would, though I a'n't one o' the 
 frettin' kind." 
 
 u Thee has been a good daughter to him, and that is 
 a comfort ; and then thee must feel also that he is 
 better off without the affliction of the body, and re 
 joiced to meet thy mother." 
 
 "Well, I don't know about that," rejoined Polly, a 
 refractory smile twisting the deep corners of her mouth 
 in spite of herself. " I expect we're all kind o' made 
 over in another state : ef we a'n't, I don't see much use 
 in goin' there." 
 
 Friend Green looked hard at the cooking-stove. She 
 was undeniably shocked ; but her habitual and un- 
 bounded charity speedily put its own construction, like 
 the outpouring of a golden mist, on Polly's speech. 
 
 " Yes, we shall all be changed, it saith in Scripture ; 
 and I think, with thee, it is a blessed change to lay off 
 our mortality, and take on us spiritual garments white 
 and clean." 
 
 Polly looked at her, but said no more. 
 
 "I came to see thee also, Polly, to ask about thy 
 plans ; not in the spirit of curiosity, but that I might 
 help thee if I could." 
 
 " My plans is pretty much cut an' dried, Miss Green. 
 I guess I shall git enough tailorin' to do, now't I can
 
 240 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 go out an' do't ; 'n' Isr'el Grubb'll fix my garden foi 
 me ; and I understand plantin' and weedin' pretty well. 
 I can raise what green sass I need to hev, an' yarbs, 
 'n' I guess potatoes enough, because I expect to get a 
 good deal o' boardin', you know; 'n' that's why I'd 
 ruther go out than take work to home. Besides, it's 
 kinder refrashin' to go round and see folks. I don't 
 nanker no great to travil to see mountains, and sea- 
 sides, and what folks in the newspapers call 'natur'.' 
 I'd sights liveser see folks. I like to hear talk, and 
 talk myself, 'nd git sorter interested in what's goin' on. 
 I expect that's what people were meant to do, not go 
 pokin' around with their noses in the air after stumps 
 and trees, and sightly places thet can't say nor do so 
 much as a fannin'-mill any time o' day." 
 
 " If those is thy feelings, Polly, don't thee think it's 
 a leading for thee to find a home in some family where 
 thee'll be one of the household, and have thy interests, 
 as it were, all in a place ? There is many a family here 
 and elsewhere would be glad to have a capable person 
 like thee amongst them." 
 
 "Oh, dear, Miss Green! Who'd ha' thought you 
 was goin' to pester me about that too? I tell you 
 what, I've made up my mind about it, 'n' it'll take a 
 sight to change it. I a'n't one o' them complyin' and 
 good-natered critturs that'll give up, 'n' give up, 'n' give 
 up, till they can't call their souls their own : them's 
 the kind that's good to live in other folks's families, 'n' 
 to go into the ministry ; and they a'n't good for noth- 
 in' else. I want to do what I'm a mind to, 'n' I can't 
 be yoked up to other folks's wants anyhow, leastways 
 no more'n just for a spell, say a day or so. Also I 
 must use my tongue, if I have to speak in meetin'. I've
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 241 
 
 got to call a spade a spade, an' a lie a lie ; and you 
 know . that don't allers sound savory ; but it dooa 
 appear better, a beap, in tbem that has bouse an' land 
 o' their own, and a place to hide their sassy heads in, 
 than m them that's allers under foot. Now, hain't I 
 got reason to roast my eggs by? " 
 
 "I don't deny that thee has reason, Polly. Thy 
 talk sounds well-considered ; but I am fearful that by 
 and by thee may get to hanker after those family ties 
 that seem burdensome to thee now. Thee knows the 
 Scripture, ' It is not good for man to be alone,' which, 
 I think, meaneth not a man, but the whole humanity. 
 It hath pleased the Lord to leave thee solitary in 
 respect of relations ; but ' he setteth the solitary hi 
 families.' " 
 
 " Well I don't feel to be sure that they're other 
 people's families ; 'n' if I ha'n't got no relations, 'pears 
 to me, ef you git to talkin' about Providence, that it 
 looks' s though I was kinder intended to be left by 
 myself." 
 
 Rachel had to smile. The inherent dry sense of 
 Dumor that seems to be the calyx of a Quakeress blos- 
 Bom like this was tickled by Polly's ingenious defence 
 of her own will and way. 
 
 " Well, thee must act by thy lights, Polly ; and re- 
 member thee has plenty of good friends if thee changes 
 thy mind." 
 
 " Thankey kindly, Miss Green. I guess I a'n't like 
 to forget you amongst 'em." 
 
 This was so much more sentiment than Polly often 
 indulged in, that she retired behind the overalls, under 
 pretence of some omitted overcasting, and only said 
 "Good-by," in a prim and grim way, when Friend 
 Green departed.
 
 242 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Alas for the weakness of human nature ! No sooner 
 had the little gate clicked to than down went those 
 friendly overalls on the floor. 
 
 " I swan to man, it's enough to crisp one's eyelashes 
 to have sech pesterin' goin' on all the time. Why, in 
 the name o' judgment, I can't be left to do what I darn 
 please, is musical to me. Anyhow, I guess I'll do it, 
 or I'll know why an' wherefore, as true's my name's 
 Polly Mariner." 
 
 But Polly was troubled no more. On the contrary, 
 aid and comfort came to her in the person of Isr'cl 
 Grubb, no later than the next morning, when he thrust 
 his grizzled head and shrewd wrinkled face into the 
 back-door early. 
 
 "Mornin', Miss Polly! Say, Jehiel wants to know 
 if them overhauls o' his'n a'u't nigh about done? " 
 
 "Why, yes, they be. I act the last stitch into 'em 
 last night." 
 
 "Well, Jehiel's wife she wants you to come over 
 there a spell next week and fix up her boys : school's 
 a-goin' to keep next week." 
 
 " Yes : I'll go any time after Tuesday night." 
 
 " I declare for't ! you're real prompt. I do hate to 
 see folks fiddlin' round's though they was so shif'Jess 
 .they didn't know nothin'. Say, I heerd down to the 
 store you giv Miss Platt an all-fired dressin' when she 
 come for to git you to go 'n' live with her." 
 
 "Well, now. that's a Tauuton lie. I didn't do no sech 
 thing. First she pestered me, 'n' then she sassed me ; 
 'n' what I said back didn't no way square the bill, 
 you'd better believe." 
 
 " I don't say but what I think you had the right on't, 
 ef you did," pursued Isr'el, taking off his hat as if to
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 243 
 
 find his rag of a handkerchief, and settling himself on 
 the doorstep, where he resumed the hat after shaking 
 and turning it round. "It allers seemed to me the 
 foolishest thing a woman could do't hadn't got no folks, 
 to go 'n' take 'em on. Good land ! did ever anybody 
 see men-folks do sech a gawpin' thing? I guess it 'ud 
 look pooty to see old Granther Styles, or me, took into 
 somebody's house to do chores for nothin'. I don't 
 know as men-folks ginerally knows more'n wimmen 
 'bout house an' sich ; but they do know enough to work 
 jest as long as bons an' sinners [he meant sinews] '11 
 hang together, 'n' then go to the town-haouse 'thout 
 makin' no fuss." 
 
 "I guess there's all kinds o' folks in the world, 
 Isr'el, 'n' I'm glad I a'n't one on 'em, as Miss Purkis 
 used ter say ; 'nd I do s'pose there's some wimmen's 
 jest as good as some men, an' some men jest as good- 
 for-nothin' as some wimmen." 
 
 " Well, I guess there be. Naow, I calkerlate to dig 
 your garden for ye next week ; 'nd in case you want 
 any thing o' me dredful bad any tune, you can jest put 
 a white handkercher, or suthin', in 3 T our keepin'-room 
 winder, or a lamp, ef so be it's night-time, 'n' ef I or 
 my folks sees it, we'll be raound pootty spry, I tell 
 
 ye." 
 
 44 "Well, I don't know but what I will, though I guess 
 I sha'n't get skeered." 
 
 44 But ye might be sick. Folks is flesh an' blood, if 
 they be dredful mighty. I'll tell Jehiel to come round 
 for ye real early Wednesday." 
 
 Isr'el sauntered off ; and on that next Wednesday 
 began the public life and services of Polly Mariner, 
 tailoress. It needs a personal acquaintance with the
 
 244 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 lonely and hard lives of New-England farmers, and 
 more especially their wives, to fully comprehend how 
 Polly became at once a power in the land. She was a 
 woman of strong character and great courage. Had 
 she lived in these days, the very queens of the women's 
 rights' party would have been domineered over, out- 
 scolded, and out-dressed by her. She would not have 
 stopped short of masculine garments in the adoption of 
 masculine privileges ; for she had that rarest of femi- 
 nine gifts, except one, a logical mind; and, be- 
 ginning at the end of a clew, would unwind it with 
 precision and skill to the very end, bitter or not, as it 
 might be. But, happily for this generation, she lived 
 in the last ; and Fate, always intelligent and benign 
 under its severest aspect, even when we hesitate to call 
 it by its Christian name of Providence, compelled her 
 to a sphere where she did good less mingled with evil 
 than it might have been in the unrestrained possession 
 of pulpit, platform, and press. If Polly (forgive the 
 misquotation) 
 
 " To a village gave up what was meant for mankind," 
 
 mankind and the village were both the better. She 
 circulated among the solitary farmhouses far and near, 
 like a racy newspaper, for one thing. She had a 
 faculty, frequent in old maids, of having genealogies at 
 her tongue's end. She knew who everybody's grand- 
 father's first wife's second-cousin married, and where 
 all their children had settled. All the children's ages 
 in every house were referred to her as final authority, 
 if they chanced to have been left out of the family 
 record. She was infallible on pickles, sweetmeats, 
 " jell," curing hams, and corning beef. Nobody made
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 245 
 
 such soap, or such yeast. Hens that recalcitrated 
 from their yearly duties quaked before her, and began 1 
 to set under her " methods " as if nothing could please 
 them better. She even knew how to eradicate smut 
 from wheat, and cut potatoes for planting better than 
 half the farmers. And as for news, not a mouse 
 squeaked anywhere within her rounds but she coul^ 
 and would tell the next cat of it. Judge what tireless 
 gossip flowed from her vivacious tongue, and tickled the 
 dull pool of many a household into ripples of laughter, 
 regret, or astonishment, full of mental healing for 
 those stagnant lives. 
 
 Then Polly had another gift, equally beneficent, if 
 more poignant. She had the power and the will to tell 
 truths, pleasant or unpleasant, in a manner that was as 
 convincing as caustic ; for the strong common sense 
 that gave her insight its practical value weighted all 
 her shafts, and sent them deep into the mark. Nobody 
 seemed to be much offended, or, if they were, they 
 sulked a while and got over it ; for Polly was as imper- 
 vious to sullen looks or sharp words as a duck to rain, 
 and she was too necessary to be lightly set aside. 
 Poor Mr. Evarts, the minister who was once, for his 
 sins, preaching as " candidate " in Taunton, dated his 
 disappointment there from the day a sewing-circle met 
 at Deacon Griswold's, and Polly " freed her mind." 
 
 " What do I think about him, Miss Gris'l'd? Well, 
 I think he's small pertaters, and few in a hill. I don't 
 hev no faith in a man't gits up in a pulpit, an' preaches 
 away about flowers, 'n' stars, 'n' love, 'n' crystal 
 springs, 'n' all that. A'n't we sinners, 'n' pretty bad 
 ones too, at that? And what on airth did he expect 
 to do when he set up to preach, ef 'twan't to make
 
 246 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 folks better? I don't like to hear his posies no bet- 
 ter'n I did to hear Parson Tinker allers thunderin' 
 damnation, and 'lection, an* decrees. What I like's to 
 have him preach so't the men-folks'll go home an' try 
 to behave better to their wives, an' their children, an' 
 their helps ; and the wimmen'll stop frettin' and 
 whinin' and fault-findin, and sayin' mean, stingin' 
 things to each other when they get vexed. Fact is, I 
 want to get kinder licked smooth myself, 'nd git some 
 patience drummed into me. I don't want a snip like 
 that set up to hash verses, and reel 'em off, cos he's 
 paid to do sumthin', an' that's all he can do. Sup- 
 posin' you was took dredful sick, 'u' struck with death, 
 and, naterally enough, your folks sent for the minister 
 to come 'n' see ye : what kind o' use or comfort would 
 this little peepin' crittur be, a-talkiu' about harps, 'n' 
 angels, 'n' sech? I tell ye, Miss GrisTd, a minister 
 had ought to be a man, and a smart un', and a good 
 un'. Ef the Lord's work's worth doin', it's worth 
 doiu' well jest as much as your'n or mine is : thet's 
 what I think about it." 
 
 "Well, I don't know but what ye're in the right 
 on't, Polly. I don't think husband reelly sets by him 
 much." 
 
 "Husband" was duly regaled with Polly's speech, 
 after the feminine conclave had folded their work, and 
 gone home to bed. 
 
 " Darn it all ! " said the deacon (" darn " is a harm- 
 less expletive, even for deacons), bringing his right 
 hand down on his knee with a forcible slap, " Polly 
 Mariner is a master-hand to speak in meetin' as ever 1 
 see. Them is jest my idees about the young man, 
 though I shouldn't never ha' ben so free-spoken afore
 
 POLLY MAKINKR, TAILOEESS. 247 
 
 folks : 'twoir t do ! Folks had ougkter hev more cau- 
 tion, partikerly cf they're deacons. I guess I Khali 
 tell the brethren 't I don't think brother Evarts is 
 equivalent to our work. Ye see, he's kinder feeble ; an' 
 our congregation is dreadful scattered, 'n' winter's 
 cornin' on, 'n' so. Thet's all trew ; an' it won't hurt 
 his feelin's none, and'll fix it just right. But I swan 1 
 do b'lieve Polly'll git into a real fix some day, speakin' 
 her mind." 
 
 " Law, no, she won't! " said Mrs. Griswold, in the 
 intervals of her vigorous setting the kitchen to rights 
 at once. "There sot Miss Peters; 'nd she's Parson 
 Tinker's fust-cousin, 'n' she jest larfed. Nobody gits 
 mad with Polly : 'tain't no use. Why, I tried it once. 
 Fact is, I was pipin' mad when she come out about 
 your 'stillin' cider-brandy, 'n' sellin' it down to '"ie 
 corner ; and I give it to her, I tell ye ! But she sot 
 there with her press-board, as composed as a clam, 
 a-waitin till I got through ; 'u' then she sed, sez she, 
 4 What's the use o' gettin' riled, Miss Gris'l'd? 'Tis so, 
 a'n't it? ' Well, I couldn't deny but what it was ; 'n' 
 then, come to think, I knew I better ha' held my 
 tongue ; 'n' Polly was a-lookin' at me with them eyes 
 o' hern, jest like two gimlets, and she see I was coolin' 
 off. ' I sha'n't never say nothin' to nobody else about 
 it,' sez she, ' now I've told ye, nor I sha'n't to you, 
 Miss Gris'l'd. I've cleared my conscience, 'n' thet's 
 p lar as eousarns me : so I guess we'll kinder let it 
 alone now.' So I did. She was pootty near right, 
 'n' I never got mad with her sence. Fact is, besides, 
 ii*e've got three boys ; 'n' they get through their coats 
 'n' things most amazin' fast, and ' ' with which dis- 
 joined conjunction Mrs. Griswold stopped, and took 
 breath.
 
 248 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ""Well, she is the beateree, 110 doubt on't," rejoined 
 the deaeon, picking up his boots, and going off to bed. 
 
 So Mr. Evarts was not called to Taunton Street, but 
 wended his way meekly to Mount Holyoke Seminary, 
 married a well-recommended young person on five 
 days' acquaintance, and was forthwith shipped to the 
 wilds of Southern Africa, there to learn, let us hope, 
 though by deadly experience, what preaching the gos- 
 pel is, and what it is good for. 
 
 Perhaps the only things that defied Polly's common 
 sense and experience were the love-affairs, that even in 
 hard-working, unromautic Taunton, would spring up 
 "even as a flower." The little god was no less capri- 
 cious when properly " clothed upon " with good home- 
 spun and flannel than in his classic costume of wings 
 and bow. Alike in either garb, he snapped his pink 
 and dimpled fingers at the crabbedness of reality and 
 the warnings of sense. Blessed little apostle of un- 
 reason ! What a world of solitude and tears we should 
 have, if all the ineligibles were forsaken in their usc- 
 lessness, and only the good, sweet, prudent, and well- 
 dowered people got married ! Here was poor Louisa 
 Platt, daughter of the aforesaid "Aunt Sary," a tall, 
 weedy, sallow girl, as became her mother's daughter, 
 yet with great eyes, whose dark splendor blazed be- 
 neath clustering curls of equal darkness, and full red 
 lips, capable of a sweetness as intense as their ordinary 
 sullen droop. She had led, for all her eighteen years, 
 such a life as the sensitive daughter of a woman like 
 Mrs. Platt must lead. Constantly fretted at, found 
 fault with, shut in, as it were, in her narrow round of 
 duty, which no tenderness, no sympathy, overflowed, 
 with a hungry heart and an active mind, no wonder
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILORESS. 249 
 
 tnat the first hand that offered her food was grasped at 
 eagerly ; no wonder, that, in her want and ignorance, 
 she glorified into a hero almost too sublime for a hus- 
 band Alonzo Sprague, clerk in the country store at 
 the corner ; a youth whose adorableness consisted 
 chiefly in a great deal of hair-oil used on his light 
 locks, an unlimited amount of simper, some fine lan- 
 guage, weak good-temper, and tolerable manners. 
 But he loved "Lowisy," as Taunton pronunciation 
 hath it, as much as he could love any thing but himself. 
 Her unequal but unusual beauty, for beauty it was, 
 once lighted up by fun or feeling, excited his admira- 
 tion ; and her father's reputed " means " enhanced the 
 feeling to seriousness, that might otherwise have died 
 out like a thousand other of his temporary loves. But 
 to such a connection neither Mr. nor Mrs. Platt would 
 give any countenance. 
 
 " Lowisy 's a fool, and you can clear out o' my 
 premises, 'Lonzo Sprague!" was the short and sharp 
 dictum of the father ; while aunt Sary overwhelmed 
 Louisa with a persistent flow of tears, reproaches, 
 taunts, sniffs, and a sort of mongrel ridicule that had 
 in it no glitter of humor, or spark of fun, but was 
 simply senseless chatter. And in the middle of theso 
 tirades entered Polly Mariner, shears and press-board 
 in hand, come to repair the "trouses" of a small 
 Platt ; for tune and necessity had long ago growu 
 grass over her quarrel with aunt Sary ; and, beside, 
 the Platt boys wore out clothes particularly fast. 
 
 " Good-mornin', Miss Platt! good-moruin', Low- 
 isy:" But the girl burst into a flood of passionate 
 tears, welcome enough to her hot eyes and face, and 
 ran out of the room, making no reply.
 
 250 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " What kettle's upset now? " inquired Polly, making 
 herself at home in a low chair, and turning her sharp 
 nose and sharper eyes toward Mrs. Platt. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" (rocking violently) " Lowisy's jest 
 the ongratefullest crittur in the univarse ! Here's her 
 father an' me been an' gone an' waited on her, ami 
 fetched her up, and done for her all her days ; 'n' now 
 jest as she's a-gettin' good for somethin', she ups and 
 takes a shine to that ninkum of a 'Lonzo Sprague, 'n' 
 wants to marry him, I hope ! He's a poor, mean, 
 shiftless feller as ever stepped. He ha'n't got the fust 
 cent to call his own, an' he never will hev ; 'nd that 
 girl wants to leave a good home, and me so dredful 
 miserable, to go'n try her fortin' with him ! It's jest 
 my luck! " 
 
 " Folks 's luck is generally their rnakin'," dryly put 
 in Polly. 
 
 *' I wish't you'd give her a piece o' your mind, 
 Polly : she don't seem to set by what I say to her the 
 least mite, and you've allers had a faculty at talkiu' 
 folks over." 
 
 " Well, I don't know's I hev got any partikler great 
 faculty," said the secretly-gratified Polly. " I gener- 
 ally tell folks the trewth : there's some '11 take it in, 
 an' some won't." 
 
 But before dinner she got a chance, not unaided by 
 Mrs. Platt, to tell Lowisy the truth, or rather fling it 
 at her, stone fashion. 
 
 " So, Lowisy, I hear tell you've been a-takin' up 
 with 'Lonzo Sprague down to the corners? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " I should ha' thought you could ha' done better 'n 
 that ! He's a real shiftless feller, jest like his father
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAILOEESS. 251 
 
 afore him, and his grandfather afore that. I've allers 
 noticed that shiftlessness runs in families pretty much 
 like scrofooly, 'nd I tell you there a'n't no harder row 
 to hoe than a woman's got that's got a shif'less hus- 
 band. She ha'n't, so to speak, got nobody. Fact is, 
 I'd ruther have a real sperrity man, ef he was real 
 ambitious, than one that didn't never fix up, nor pro- 
 vide, nor fly round real spry, at least." 
 
 " What sort of a husband was yours, Miss Polly? " 
 interpolated Louisa, inspired by feminine instinct. But 
 Polly was arrow-proof, and put this little shaft aside. 
 
 " That ha'n't nothin' to do with it. I've got eyes 
 'nd I've used 'em ; an' I've seen consider'ble many 
 folks, both married an' single, sence I was born, and I 
 know what I'm tellin' ye. You'd better think twice 
 on't : you hev to lie on a hard bed ef you make it ; 'n' 
 when you're once tied up to him, you can't noway get 
 away, that's the worst on't : there you be, an' there 
 you'll hcv to be ; an' you may kick the breechin' to 
 bits, 'iid break the bridle ; but 'twon't be no good, 
 the lines'll hold ye." 
 
 This, as we have said, was forty years ago, before 
 Connecticut made it even an easier matter to break the 
 niarriage-tie than to form it. 
 
 "I don't care a mite, there!" burst in Louisa. 
 " If I want to marry a man that a'n't wicked, nobody's 
 got any right to say I sha'n't, anyway!" anto-dating 
 the later axiom of our New-England philosopher, that 
 ' the soul has inalienable rights, and the first of these 
 is love, " in a more lucid and practical form. 
 
 " Mighty Cesai ! " ejaculated Polly, " ef you a'n't 
 a highflyer, Lowisy Platt ! Ha'n't lost your senses, hev 
 ye?"
 
 252 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Guess I've got what'll keep me alive," said the 
 girl, her whole face settling down into a sullen resolu- 
 tion that seemed to make Polly Manner's curls crisp 
 with fresh vigor as she pierced her with the penetrative 
 eyes beneath them. 
 
 "Well," said the astonished tailoress, drawing a 
 long breath ; and that was all she said. Here was one 
 thing that surpassed her comprehension. Never in all 
 the long years of -her life had that organ popularly 
 supposed to be the heart given within her one unrea- 
 sonable flutter ; no delicious folly had ever kissed her 
 eyelids down, no fire of passion ever kindled its resist- 
 less blaze in her respectable bosom. She had but a 
 spare gift of the gentler affections ; and here, flung in 
 her very face like a hen defending her brood, was an 
 inexcusable foolishness that regarded nothing beyond 
 the insatiable hunger of the moment. Here was a soul 
 parched with mortal thirst, intent on slaking it from 
 tht firs.t woodside puddle ; and Polly had never been 
 thirsty how could she understand it ? For once her 
 spells had failed. Truth itself is powerless against love ; 
 and so Louisa Platt and her simpering lover made a 
 flitting over the State line, happily not far off, the first 
 moonlight night, and, being married in Massachusetts, 
 came home to Taunton, and settled down to reality. 
 
 Whether in her future life, when the little frame- 
 house swarmed with puny children, and Alonzo devel- 
 oped the hereditary talent he possessed, and she burned 
 with the fever of frequent headaches, and writhed with 
 the torture of a lame back, in her hard but inevitable 
 labor, Lowisy ever wished in her secret heart that she 
 had been wiser and calmer, or even at the last moment 
 taken Polly's advice, I do not know and cannot tell ;
 
 POLLY MAEINER, TAILORESS. 258 
 
 but one thing I do know, that Polly lost no opportunity 
 to say, " I told you so," either in word or act, or by 
 significant words and sniffs that added fresh thorns to 
 poor Lowisy's burden, already rasping enough. 
 
 Partly the wise woman did this from the natural 
 instinct of humanity, partly to vindicate her own 
 superior wisdom, and partly because, as the cynical 
 Frenchman said, "there is something pleasant in the 
 misfortunes of our best friends," particularly when 
 we have told them so. 
 
 But, notwithstanding this one failure of method, 
 Polly's life went on with its wonted usefulness and 
 fearlessness, year after vear, though, be it observed, 
 she never again meddled with a love-affair, observing 
 once, with a sniff of defiance and contempt, "Them 
 that meddles with fools gets a fool's-cap for their 
 pains," apropos of somebody else's folly quite as bad 
 as Lowisy's. 
 
 Yet as the years rolled on, and brought Polly Mari- 
 ner to the goodly age of fifty, she met with one of 
 those signal discomfitures that now and then befall 
 both the best and the wisest, oftener, perhaps, befall 
 women than men, by reason of that lack of poise, of 
 caution, of far-seeing, that is characteristic of the 
 feminine mind. Strange enough it was that Polly, 
 who had so successfully engineered the affairs of other 
 people so long, should at last make a fatal and ludi- 
 crous blunder in her own ; but it was, after all, the 
 gradual result of a process like that which loosens and 
 disintegrates the base of a granite bowlder, and sends it 
 & lipping with still accelerated impetus down the grassy 
 slope where it has reposed so long. In fact, Polly was 
 an illustration of that great law, " the eternal fitness of
 
 254 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 things," in the result of its infraction. In spite of her 
 strength, her courage, her self-assertion, her rage for 
 independence, she was, after all, a woman ; and she is 
 uot a woman, but an anomaly, if not a monster, who 
 can wear out a long life of social solitude with no 
 quiver of failing resolution, no sinking of heart. To 
 be a woman without a home, without a family where 
 yhe is at least dear and necessary, if not supreme, is to 
 be a dweller in the desert, lost and famished ; if not 
 iii the bright duys of youth and strength, yet at least 
 \vhen the feebler pulses and the more faithful heart 
 demand help and consolation against the desolation of 
 age and the hour of death. And slowly, as time laid 
 one finger after another on her life ; as her eyes became 
 dim, none the less that she brandished her new specta- 
 cles defiantly before everybody, as if they had been 
 an ornament instead of a necessary aid ; as she began 
 to find her active limbs stiffen with every winter's frost, 
 and her quick ears lose their acuteness of hearing ; 
 when it grew a weariness and a burden to go home to 
 her own solitary house at night, unlock the door, kindle 
 the fire, and sit down beside it, tired and depressed, 
 with not even a cat to purr under her hand, Polly 
 began, no doubt, to feel what Rachel Green had said 
 to her long before, that it is not good for man to be 
 alone, nor woman either. 
 
 Now there lived on Taunton Hill, on a road running 
 at right angles from the street, a certain elderly man, 
 long time a widower, whose name was Timothy Kunce. 
 IK- was not a favorite in the village, being somewhat 
 simple in mind, but crabbed in manner: not that he 
 really was cross-grained ; but he was weak, and knew 
 it, and defended himself with such weapons as he had
 
 POLLY MARINER, TALLORESS. 255 
 
 against his craftier and stronger brethren. But he 
 had a good farm, and money in the bank, and every 
 thing comfortable about him ; his cows were sleek, and 
 his fowls abundant ; his crops always fair, if not re- 
 markable. And to a stranger it seemed odd enough 
 that no woman had stormed his castle, and taken pos- 
 session of him and his long ago. But, beside Timothy 
 Bunco's weakness and snappishness, there was one 
 thing that separated him yet more widely from the 
 Taunton people : he was an Episcopalian. He was 
 not born or "raised" in Taunton, where everybody 
 that could go anywhere went duly to the big white 
 meeting-house, and took in pure Calvinism with un- 
 questioning simplicity. He had gone from a neighbor- 
 ing village to the city early in life, and there fallen 
 into what Taunton held to be the wrong religion and 
 wrong politics. And when he had amassed some 
 money, at the age of forty, he bought this farm on the 
 hill, and toek up his abode there, religion, politics, 
 and all, clinging to his old ideas simply because he had 
 not wish or will to change them. 
 
 He had always had a niece to keep house with him ; 
 but, a few weeks before he fell into collision with Polly, 
 the niece had died, and left him in a peculiarly helpless 
 and friendless condition, which was fully discussed in 
 and about Taunton, not only as to its present wants, 
 but their prospective supply. But nobody seemed to 
 suggest just the right thing: in fact, nobody thought 
 of Polly as a person attainable to fill Mary Ann Bunco's 
 place. She was altogether too important to the town. 
 But in Polly's mind there was a certain stir of expecta- 
 tion, a balancing of probabilities, an appraisement, as 
 it were, of what was and what might be, that prepared
 
 256 SOMEBODY'S KEIGHBOKS. 
 
 her to receive a call from Mr. Bunce with a proper 
 degree of composure, and to show no signs of its 
 unexpectedness. 
 
 It was late Sunday afternoon ; and Polly sat by the 
 open door of her clean kitchen, rocking placidly. All 
 her belongings were as spotless and orderly as ever. 
 She herself looked, in her Sunday gown of black silk, 
 something softer than usual. Age had not changed her, 
 except to a kindlier aspect ; a little threading of silver 
 in the black curls, less fire in the blacker eyes, less 
 snap and crackle in her movements and her voice : yes, 
 Polly was really mitigated ; and when she said to Tim 
 Bunce, " Set down, set down, Mr. Bunce, take this 
 cheer," there was something almost like suavity in her 
 tones. 
 
 Timothy sat down. He was a little man, and in 
 bodily presence contemptible enough. His narrow face, 
 wandering blue eyes, sleek and scanty light hair, the 
 very crack in his voice, bespoke him a weak brother. 
 And yet he considered himself able to control and 
 direct any woman on earth, regarding them as inferior 
 creatures, useful about a house, as others have done 
 before him. But Polly's aspect, exceptionally subdued 
 as it was when he encountered it alone, rather daunted 
 him. He began to stroke his hair nervously, to roll 
 his eyes about like a timid rabbit, to clear his throat, 
 and fidget on his chair, symptoms which Polly 
 regarded with a critical eye, and judged favorable. 
 
 " Well'm, Miss Polly," at last he stammered, 
 " pretty good weather for corn." 
 
 ""Well, yes 'tis, drcdful growthy kind o' weather 
 for most any thing : garden sass seems to be partiker- 
 lerly favored this year."
 
 POLLY MAELNEK, TAILOKESS. 257 
 
 "Doos, doos it? I should think so by the look o' 
 yourn. Quite a hand with a garden you be, I guess." 
 
 " Well, I don't know. Some hes faculty, an' some 
 hesn't." 
 
 " Mary Ann she was a masterpiece of a gardener. 
 I don't reelly know how to git along without her." 
 
 "It was quite an affliction for ye. I should think' t 
 you'd miss her a heap." 
 
 "1 do, reelly now: I miss her consider'ble. Seems 
 as though I couldn't get along no longer 'thout some- 
 body." Here Timothy happened to look sidewise, and 
 caught those black eyes fixed upon him with unwinking 
 sternness, and his own rolled fearfully : the ground 
 seemed uncertain under his feet. He was scared ; but 
 he went on, "Fact is, I don't feel as though I could 
 stan' much more on't. Mary Ann she'd lived to our 
 house a spell along back afore Miss Bunce died, so't 
 she staid right along 'n' did for me, 'nd I didn't feel so 
 kinder lost without Miss Buuce as I should hev other- 
 wise ; but now I do, I tell ye. And I've heered a lot 
 about how dredful smart you be, and knowin' ; and I 
 stepped over to see ef mebbe you'd take her place." 
 (O Timothy, Timothy ! your last proper noun was 
 "Miss Bunce;" and Polly knew it, though you 
 didn't.) "I'd fix up the haouse 'nd I'd " 
 
 Polly never let a driven nail go unclinched. Some 
 vague instinct of femininity made her drop her eyes, 
 but she spuive. "I d'clare for't ! Mr. Bunco, you 
 hev took me clean by surprise. I hadn't never thought 
 changin' my condition " 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Timothy, turning red and blue ; but 
 she did not hear or see him. 
 
 " But seein' you're so kind, and your lonesomeness,
 
 258 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 'nd all, I don't know but what I'd as lives merry you 
 as the next one." 
 
 " O-h ! " gasped Timothy again ; "oh, dear! I 
 I i didn't, o-h! " 
 
 " Why, suthin' ails ye, don't there? 'Pears as ef 
 you was overcome : 'tis kind of a tryin' time. Won't 
 ye hev some peppermint? " 
 
 Timothy sat with both hands on his knees, convulsed 
 with rage and terror. Perhaps she would marry him 
 then and there, in spite of him, and carry him home 
 iu triumph ; and his dry tongue refused more words. 
 
 " Now, do hev some, or smell to the camphire. 
 Time you had a wife to look after ye. I understand 
 fits real well." 
 
 "O h! " shrieked Timothy, rising to his tottering 
 feet in fresh fury that loosed his speech. "I didn't! 
 I don't ! I a'n't a-goin' to. I didn't say nothin' 
 about marry in'. I won't, I don't want to." 
 
 Polly was purple herself now : her eyes snapped like 
 sparks, her nose went up higher yet in the air, her chin 
 quivered, the very curls on her head seemed to bristle. 
 She was a spectacle of terror to Timothy, who literally 
 shook in his shoes. 
 
 "Well, I should think! You pitiful little rat, 't 
 can't hardly squeak iu your own barn, a-comiu' round 
 me, a respectable woman, to make me your music ! 
 Fust a-askin' of me plain as a pikestaff to marry ye, 
 'lid then a-backin' out on't right off ! You're the 
 meanest critter the Lord ever made, 'nd I guess you 
 was made out o' the bits 'nd ends that was left. I 
 wouldn't pick ye out o' the dirt with the tongs ! " 
 
 " 1 didn't, I didn't ; oh ! I didn't. I never though! 
 on't. I don't want to."
 
 POLLY MARINEK, TAILOEESS. 259 
 
 " Now go to lyin', will ye?" ejaculated Polly, culm 
 with excess of anger, like a buzz-saw, and equally 
 dangerous. "Hain't I got ears? 'nd didn't I hear 
 3 7 e ask me to take Miss Bunco's place jest as plain as 
 the nose on your little sneakin' face, that's most all 
 nose?" 
 
 " Oh, I didn't ! " reiterated the abject and thoroughly 
 terrified Timothy. " I didn't ! I never ! I said Mary 
 Ann." 
 
 "Well, keep on a-lyin', do! I might ha' know'd 
 there wan't no good in ye, nothiu' but a 'Piscopalian 
 anyhow ! Don't know enough to say your own prayers. 
 "What the Lord above made 'Piscopalians and muskee- 
 ters for I don't know, 'xcept to keep up an everlastin' 
 buzz : they hain't nyther on 'em got souls thet's worth 
 savin', nor bodies enough to hold 'em if they hed. 
 Come!" Polly advanced in wrath. "Clear out o' 
 my house ! Quit, afore I ketch ye by the back o' your 
 neck, 'nd drop ye out o' the window. Clear, I say ! " 
 
 A whole troop could not have alarmed the luckless 
 Timothy more. Snatching up his hat from the floor, he 
 fled, ejaculating as he went, in broken accents, 
 
 " O Lord ! Oh, my ! Good Lord, deliver us from all 
 Oh, darn this gate ! Thunder oh," far into the 
 distance, finding, poor fellow, nowhere in the Litany, 
 vliich involuntarily sprung to his lips, a petition for 
 deliverance from furies or old maids. 
 
 Polly sank into ner chair, breathless. For a while 
 the excitement of rage supported her, then came the 
 bitter after-taste of mortification and disappointment. 
 As she sat in her door, the melancholy range of bare 
 hills that lay before her sent unawares a chill into her 
 neart. Polly was not ordinarily sensitive to Nature :
 
 260 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 but Nature, like air and love, acts upon us without our 
 consciousness or connivance ; and the sad peace of 
 those rolling summits, the plaintive quiet that settled 
 round closing day, all the solitary depths of the sum- 
 mer sky, untroubled with one spark as yet, seemed to 
 close about the exasperated and lonely woman like the 
 "walls of a cloister, and sink deeper into her soul the 
 conviction that for her there was no centre, no home. 
 It may do for men to live their own lives, and die alone, 
 with the courage or the stoicism that is their birthright, 
 but not for women. The strongest, the best, the most 
 audaciously independent of us, will be conscious, as 
 age assaults us, of our weakness and helplessness, 
 bitterly conscious if we are solitary. 
 
 Polly's mood of regret and bitterness was new to 
 her, and exquisitely painful ; but at last she roused her- 
 self from it, growling, as she went about her work for 
 the night, 
 
 " Well, he was a fool, that's a fact, J nd I was con- 
 sider 'ble of one myself ; but I skeered him mightily, 
 anyhow." 
 
 Neither of the parties cared to tell the tale of their 
 mutual discomfiture. But Timothy sold his farm, and 
 removed to the wilds of Vermont, haunted by the fear 
 of Polly Mariner ; and people noticed, as years passed, 
 that Polly grew less and less aggressive, even more 
 friendly. She spared and pinched and saved, till 
 there was enough laid up in the Folland Bank to give 
 her rest in her last days ; but rest she could not take. 
 Action was the breath of her existence ; and, happily 
 for her, a sharp and brief fever ended her long and 
 busy life : a decline would have tortured her both in 
 her own incapacity and that of any available help.
 
 POLLY MARINER, TAELORESS. 261 
 
 But for a few days of delirium and unconsciousness 
 there was resource enough in neighborly kindness ; and 
 Rachel Green, herself lingering on the verge of her 
 days, but sweeter and gentler than ever, came and 
 staid to superintend the nursing she was unable to do ; . 
 while "Aunt Hanner Bliss," the only professional 
 nurse for miles about, was sent for, and installed as the 
 doctor's aid, and at times substitute, since a country 
 doctor must needs be "here and there and every- 
 where." 
 
 At last, worn with the cruel violence of fever, Polly 
 woke from her delirium weaker than a child, but clear- 
 headed as ever : her eyes fell first on Rachel Green's 
 calm face, where the very peace of heaven seemed 
 almosl dawning. 
 
 "Well, Miss Green, I'm a dredful sick woman, I 
 gue.s-s." 
 
 " Thee has had a severe fever, Polly, and it is not 
 over yet." 
 
 There was something ominous in the sad tenderness 
 of the old lady's voice, that sjruck Polly: a strange 
 look passed over her countenance as this shock of an 
 untried and awful experience stared her inevitably in 
 the face ; and her voice was even feebler and more 
 quivering when she spoke again. 
 
 " Struck with death I be, a'n't I? " 
 
 "Thee is almost home, Polly," softly replied 
 Rachel. 
 
 " Home? " said she vaguely ! " oh, dear ! " and then, 
 rousing herself, "I hain't never had a home. Miss 
 Green, do you rek'lect what you sed to me quite a 
 number of years ago? Well, I'd ha' done better ef I'd 
 ha' done your way. 'Tain't more'n honest to tell ye
 
 262 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 I've hankered after a home 'n' folks o' my own many 
 a time since; but I wouldn't tell ou't: 'nd now I'm 
 a-clyin', so to speak, by myself or I should, ef 
 'twa'u't for you." 
 
 "Anyhow," said Aunt Hanner, with the skill and 
 experience of one of those Spanish nurses who thrust 
 their elbows into the stomachs of the dying to shorten 
 their agonies, "anyhow, ef you hain't got nobody 
 to cry for you, you hain't got nobody to cry for, 'nd 
 you've lied your way ." 
 
 "Folks's way is worse'n the want on't," whispered 
 Polly- They were her last words. The death-mist 
 passed, and settled upon her sunken features, as Rachel 
 Green stooped over her, saying low and clear, 
 
 "'As one whom his mother comforteth, so 7/ill I 
 comfort you,' saith the Lord of hosts." 
 
 Two tears, the first and last that mortal ever saw her 
 shed, stole gently out of Polly's closed eyelids : she 
 smiled and died.
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 
 
 JOSH GRANT; was a Yankee born and bred, a fanner 
 on Plainfield Hill, and a specimen. If some strange 
 phrases were grafted on his New-England vernacular, 
 it was because, for fifteen years of his youth, he had 
 followed the sea ; and the sea, to return the compli- 
 ment, thereafter followed him. 
 
 His father, old Josh Crane, kept the Sanbury grist- 
 mill, and was a drunken, shiftless old creature, who 
 ended his days in a tumble-down red house a mile below 
 Plainfield Centre, being "took with the tremens," as 
 black Peter said when he came for the doctor, all too 
 late ; for the " tremens " had indeed taken him off. 
 
 Mrs. Crane, our Josh's mother, was one of those 
 calm, meek, patient creatures, by some inscrutable 
 mystery always linked to such men ; " martyrs by the 
 pang without the palm," of whom a noble army shall 
 yet rise out of New England's desolate valleys and 
 melancholy hills to take their honor from the Master's 
 hand. For years this woman lived alone with her 
 child in the shattered red house, spinning, knitting, 
 washing, sewing, scrubbing, to earn bread and water, 
 sometimes charity-fed, but never failing at morning 
 and night, with one red and knotted hand upon her 
 boy's white hair, and the other on her worn Bible, to 
 pray, with an intensity that boy never forgot, for his
 
 264 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOBS. 
 
 well-being for ever and ever : for herself she never 
 prayed aloud. 
 
 Then came the country's pestilence, consumption ; 
 and after long struggles, relapses, rallies, all received 
 in the same calm patience, Hetty Crane died in a 
 summer's night, her little boy asleep beside her, and 
 a whippoorwill on the apple-tree by the door sounding 
 on her flickering sense the last minor note of life. 
 
 When Josh woke up, and knew his mother was dead, 
 he did not behave in the least like good little boys in 
 books, but dressed himself without a tear or a sob, and 
 ran for the nearest neighbor. 
 
 " Sakes alive!" said "Miss" Ranney. "I never 
 did see sech a cretur as that are boy in all my days ! 
 He never said nothin' to me when he came to our 
 folks's, only jest, ' Miss Ranney, I guess you'd better 
 come cross lots to see mother : she don't seem to be 
 alive." "Dew tell!" sez I. An' so I slipt on my 
 Shaker bunnet jist as quick's I could ; but he was off, 
 spry's a cricket, an' when I got there he was a-settin' 
 the room to rights. He'd spunked up a fire, and hung 
 on the kittle : so I sed nothin', but stept along inter the 
 bedroom, and turned down the kiver, and gin a little 
 screech, I was so beat ; for, sure enough, Hetty Crane 
 was dead an' cold. Josh he heerd me, for he was 
 clos't onto me ; and he never spoke, but he come up 
 to the bed, and he put his head down, and laid his cheek 
 right along hers (and 'twan't no redder'n her'n), an' 
 staid so 'bout a minnit ; then he cleared out, and I 
 never see him no more all day. But Miss Good'in she 
 come in ; and she said he'd stopped there, an' sent 
 her over. 
 
 " Well, we laid out Hetty, and fixed up the house,
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 265 
 
 and put up a curtain to her winder. And Miss Good 'in 
 she 'n' I calkerlated to set up all night ; and we was 
 jest puttin' a mess of tea to draw, so's to keep lively, 
 when in come Josh, drippin' wet ; for the dews was 
 dreadful heavy them August nights. And he said 
 nothin' more'n jest to answer when he was spoke to. 
 And Miss Good 'in was a real feelin' woman : she 
 guessed he'd better be let alone. So he drink't a cup 
 of tea, and then he started off into the bedroom ; and 
 when she went in there, 'long towards midnight, there 
 he was, fast asleep on the bed beside of the corpse, as 
 straight as a pin, only holdin' on to one of its hands. 
 Miss Good' in come back cryin' ; and I thought I 
 should 'a' boo-hoocd right out. But I kinder strangled 
 it down, and we set to work to figger out what was 
 a-goin' to be done with the poor little chap. That 
 house of their'n that old Josh had bought of Mr. 
 Ranuey hadn't never been paid for, only the interest- 
 money whenever Miss Crane could scrape it up, so't 
 that would go right bask into husband's hands ; an' 
 they hadn't got no cow, nor no pig ; and we agreed the 
 s'lcctmen would hev' to take him, and bind him out. 
 
 " I allers mistrusted that he'd waked up, and heerd 
 what we said ; for next morning, when we went to call 
 him, he was gone, and his shirts an' go-to-meetiu's 
 too ; and he never come back to the funeral, nor a 
 good spell after. 
 
 " I know, after Hetty was buried, and we'd resolved 
 to sell what things she had to get her a head-stone, 
 for Mr. Ranney wouldn't never put in for the rest of his 
 interest money, I took home her old Bible, and kep' 
 it for Josh ; and the next time I see him was five and 
 twenty years after, when he come back from sea-farui',
 
 266 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 an' settled down to farmin' ou't. And he sot by thai 
 Bible a dredful sight, I expect : for he gin our Sail the 
 brightest red-an'-yeller bandanner you ever see ; she 
 used to keep it to take to meetin'." 
 
 " Miss " Ranncy was certainly right in her " guess." 
 Josh had heard in that miserable midnight the discus- 
 sion of his future, and, having a well-founded dread 
 of the selectmen's tender-mercies, had given a last 
 caress to his dead mother, and run away to Boston, 
 where he shipped for a whaling-voyage ; was cast 
 away on the Newfoundland shore after ten years of 
 sea-life ; and being at that time a stout youth of 
 twenty, sick of his seamanship, he had hired himself to 
 work in a stone-yard ; and, by the time he was thirty- 
 five, had laid up enough money to return a thrifty 
 bachelor, and, buying a little farm on Plainficld Hill, 
 settle down to his ideal of life, and become the amuse- 
 ment of part of the village, and the oracle of the rest. 
 
 We boys adored Uncle Josh ; for he was always 
 ready to rig our boats, spin us yarns a week long, and 
 fill our pockets with apples red and russet as his own 
 honest face. With the belles of the village Uncle 
 Josh had no such favor. He would wear a pigtail, in 
 spite of scoff and remonstrance ; he would smoke a 
 cutty-pipe ; and he did swear like a sailor, from mere 
 habit and forgetfulness, for no man not professedly 
 religious had a diviner instinct of reverence and wor- 
 ship than he. But it was as instinctive in him to swear 
 as it was to breathe ; and some of our boldly specula- 
 tive and law- despising youngsters held that it was no 
 harm in him, any more than " gosh " and." thunder " 
 were in us, for really he meant no more. 
 
 However, Uncle Josh did not quite reciprocate the
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 267 
 
 contempt of the sex. Before long he began to make 
 Sunday-night visitations at Deacon Stone's, to "brush 
 his hat o' mornings," to step spry, and wear a stiff 
 collar and stock, instead of the open tie he had kept, 
 with the pigtail, long after jacket and tarpaulin had 
 been dismissed the service : so the village directly dis- 
 covered that Josh Crane was courting the school-inis- 
 Iress, " Miss Eunice," who boarded at Deacon Stone's. 
 What Miss Eunice's surname might be, I never knew ; 
 nor did it much matter. She was the most kindly, 
 timid, and lovable creature that ever tried to reduce a 
 district school into manners and arithmetic. She lives 
 in my memory still, a tall, slight figure, with tender 
 brown eyes and a sad face, its broad, lovely forehead 
 shaded with silky light hair, and her dress always dim- 
 tinted, faded perhaps, but scrupulously neat and 
 stable. 
 
 Everybody knew why Miss Eunice looked so meekly 
 sad, and why she was still "Miss" Eunice: she had 
 been " disapp'inted." She had loved a man better 
 than he loved her, and therein, copying the sweet 
 angels, made a fatal mistake, broke her girl's heart, 
 and went to keeping school for a living. 
 
 All the young people pitied and patronized her ; all 
 the old women agreed that she was " a real clever little 
 fool ; " and men regarded her with a species of wonder 
 and curiosity, first for having a breakable heart, and 
 next for putting that member to fatal harm for one 
 of their kind. But boys ranked Miss Eunice even 
 above Uncle Josh ; for there lives in boys a certain 
 kind of chivalry, before the world has sneered it out of 
 them, that regards a sad or injured woman as a crea- 
 ture claiming all their care and protection. And it was
 
 268 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 with a thrill of virtuous indignation that we heard 
 of Josh Crane's intentions toward Miss Eunice; nor 
 were we very pitiful of our old friend, when Mrs. 
 Stone announced to old Mrs. Ranney (who was deaf 
 ss a post, and therefore very useful, passively, in 
 spreading news confided to her, as this was in the 
 church-porch), that "Miss Eunice wa'n't a-goin' to 
 hev' Josh Crane, 'cause he wa'n't a professor; but 
 she didn't want nobody to tell on't:" so everybody 
 did. 
 
 It was, beside, true. Miss Eunice was a sincerely 
 religious woman ; and though Josh Crane's simple, fer- 
 vent love-making had stirred a thrill within her she 
 had thought quite impossible, still she did not think it 
 was right to marry an irreligious man, and she told 
 him so with a meek firmness that quite broke down 
 poor Uncle Josh, and he went back to his farming with 
 pro founder respect than ever for Miss Eunice, and a 
 miserable opinion of himself. 
 
 But he was a person without guile of any sort. He 
 would have cut off his pigtail, sold his tobacco-keg, 
 tried not to swear, for her sake ; but he could not pre- 
 tend to be pious, and he did not. 
 
 A year or two afterward, however, when both had 
 quite got past the shyness of meeting, and set aside, if 
 not forgotten, the past, there was a revival of religion 
 in Plainfield ; no great excitement, but a quiet spring- 
 iug-up of "good seed" sown in past generations, it 
 may be ; and among the softened hearts and moist eyes 
 were those of Uncle Josh. His mother's prayers 
 had slept in the leaves of his mother's Bible, and now 
 they awoke to be answered. 
 
 It was strangely touching, even to old Parson Pitcher,
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 269 
 
 long used to such interviews with the oddest of all peo- 
 ple under excitement, rugged New-Englanders, to 
 see the simple pathos that vivified Uncle Josh's story 
 of his experience ; and when, in the midst of a sentence 
 about his dead mother, and her petitions for his safety, 
 with tears dripping down both cheeks, he burst into a 
 hallelujah metre tune, adapting the words, 
 " Though seed lie buried long in dust," &c., 
 
 and adding to the diversity of rhythm the discordance 
 of his sea-cracked voice, it was a doubtful matter to 
 Parson Pitcher whether he should laugh or cry ; and 
 he was forced to compromise with a hysterical snort, 
 just as Josh brought out the last word of the verse on 
 
 a powerful fugue, 
 
 " Cro-o-o- o-op ! " 
 
 So earnest and honest was he, that, for a whole week 
 after he had been examined and approved by the 
 church committee as a probationer, he never once 
 thought of Miss Eunice ; when suddenly, as he was 
 reading his Bible, and came across the honorable men- 
 tion of that name by the apostle, he recollected, with a 
 sort of shamefaced delight, that now, perhaps, she 
 wouiu have him. So, with no further ceremony than 
 reducing his gusty flax-colored hair to order by means 
 of a pocket-comb, and washing his hands at the pump, 
 away he strode to the schoolhouse, where it was Miss 
 Eunice's custom to linger after school till her fire was 
 burnt low enough to " rake up." 
 
 Josh looked in at the window as he " brought to ' ' 
 (m his own phrase) "alongside the school'us," and 
 there sat the lady of his love knitting a blue stocking, 
 with an empty chair most propitiously placed beside
 
 270 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 her in front of the fireplace. Josh's heart rose up 
 mightily ; but he knocked as little a knock as his great 
 knuckles could effect, was bidden in, and sat himself 
 down on the chair in a paroxysm of bashfulness, 
 nowise helped by Miss Eunice's dropped eyes and per- 
 sistent knitting. So he sat full fifteen minutes, every 
 row and then clearing his throat in a vain attempt to 
 introduce the point, till at length, desperate enough, 
 he made a dash into the middle of things, and bubbled 
 over with, " Miss Eunice, I've got religion! I'm sot 
 out for to be a real pious man. Can't you feel to 
 hcv' me now? " 
 
 What Miss Eunice's little trembling lips answered, 
 I cannot say : but I know it was satisfactory to Josh ; 
 for his first reverent impulse, after he gathered up her 
 low words, was to clasp his hands, and say, "Amen," 
 as if somebody had asked a blessing. Perhaps he felt 
 he had received one in Miss Eunice. 
 
 When spring came they were married, and were 
 happy, Yankee fashion, without comment or demon- 
 stration, but very happy. Uncle Josh united with the 
 church, and was no disgrace to his profession save 
 and except in one thing, he would swear. Vainly 
 did deacons, brethren, and pastor assail him with 
 exhortation, remonstrance, and advice ; vainly did liiy 
 meek wife look at him with pleading eyes ; vainly did 
 lie himself repent and strive and watch : "the stump 
 of Dagon remained," and was not to be easily up- 
 rooted. 
 
 At length Parson Pitcher, being greatly scandalized 
 at Josh's expletives, used unluckily in a somewhat 
 excited meeting on church business (for in prayer- 
 meetings he never answered any calls to rise, lest habit
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 271 
 
 should get the better of him, and shock the very sin- 
 ners he might exhort) , Parson Pitcher himself made a 
 pastoral call at the farm, and found its master in the 
 garden, hoeing corn manfully. 
 
 " Good-day, Mr. Crane ! " said the old gentleman. 
 
 "Good-day, Parson Pitcher, good-day! d hot 
 
 day, sir," answered the unconscious Josh. 
 
 " Not so hot as hell for swearers," sternly responded 
 the parson, who, being of a family renowned in New 
 England for noway mincing matters, sometimes verged 
 upon profanity himself, though unawares. Josh threw 
 down his hoe in despair. 
 
 " O Lord ! " said he. " There it goes again, I swear ! 
 
 the d dogs take it ! If I don't keep a-goin' ! O 
 
 Parson Pitcher ! what shall I dew ? It swears of itself. 
 
 I am clean beat tryin' to head it off. Con no ! I 
 
 mean confuse it all ! I'm such an old hand at the 
 wheel, sir! " 
 
 Luckily for Josh, the parson's risibles were hardly 
 better in hand than his own profanity ; and it took him 
 now a long time to pick up his cane, which he had 
 dropped in the currant-bushes, while Joe stood among 
 the corn-hills wiping the sweat off his brow, in an 
 abject state of penitence and humility ; and, as the 
 parson emerged like a full moon from the leafy cur- 
 rants, he felt more charitably toward Josh than he had 
 done before. "It is a very bad thing, Mr. Crane," 
 said he mildly, ' ' not merely for yourself ; but it 
 scandalizes the church-members, and I think you should 
 take severe measures to break up the habit." 
 
 " What upon arth shall I do, sir? " piteously asked 
 Josh: it's the d dest plague! Oh! I swan to man I've 
 done it agin ! "
 
 272 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 And here, with a long howl, Josh thrc-w himself 
 down in the weeds, and kicked out like a half- broken 
 colt, wishing in his soul the earth would hide him, and 
 trying to feel as bad as he ought to ; for his honest 
 conscience sturdily refused to convict him in this mat- 
 ter, faithful as it was in much less-sounding sins. 
 
 I grieve to say that Parson Pitcher got behind an 
 apple-tree, and there cried perhaps ; for he was 
 wiping his eyes, and shaking all over, when he walked 
 off ; and Josh, getting up 'considerably in a state of 
 dust, if not ashes and sackcloth, looked sheepishly 
 about for his reprover, but he was gone. 
 
 Parson Pitcher convened the deacons and a few of 
 the uneasy brethren that night in his study, and ex- 
 pounded to them the duty of charity for people who 
 would sleep in meeting, had to drink bitters for their 
 stomachs' sake, never came to missionary meetings 
 for fear of the contribution-box, or swore without 
 knowing it ; and as Deacon Stone did now and then 
 snore under the pulpit, and brother Eldridge had a 
 "rheumatiz" that nothing but chokeberry- rum would 
 cure, and that is very apt to affect the head, and 
 brother Peters had so firm a conviction that money is 
 the root of all evil, that he kept his from spreading, 
 they all agreed to have patience with brother Crane's 
 tongue-ill ; and Parson Pitcher smiled as he shut the 
 door behind them, thinking of that first stone that no 
 elder nor ruler could throw. 
 
 Nevertheless, he paid another visit to Josh the next 
 week, and found him in a hopeful state. 
 
 "I've hit on't now, Parson Pitcher!" said lie, 
 without waiting for a more usual salutation. "Miss 
 Eunice she helped me : she's a master cretur for inven-
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 273 
 
 tions. I s-sugar! There, that's it. When I'm 
 a-goiu' to speak quick, I catch up somethin' else that's 
 got the same letter on the bows, and I tell yew, it goes, 
 'r else it's somethin'. Hollo! I see them d-dipper 
 sheep is in my corn. Git aout ! git aout ! you d-dan- 
 delions ! Git aout ! " Here he scrambled away after 
 t le stray sheep, just hi time for the parson, who had 
 quieted his face and walked in to see Mrs. Crane, when 
 Josh came back dripping, and exclaiming, "Pepper- 
 grass ! them is the d-drowndedest sheep I ever see." 
 
 This new spell of "Miss Eunice's," as Josh always 
 called his wife, worked well while it was new. But the 
 unruly tongue relapsed ; and meek Mrs. Crane had 
 grown to look upon it as she would upon a wooden 
 leg, had that been Josh's infirmity with pity and 
 regret, the purest result of a charity which ' ' endureth 
 and hopeth all things," eminently her ruling trait. 
 
 Every thing else went on prosperously. The farm 
 paid well, and Josh laid up money, but never for him- 
 self. They had no children, a sore disappointment to 
 both their kindly hearts ; but all the poor and orphan 
 little ones in the town seemed to have a special claim 
 on their care and help. Nobody ever went away 
 hungry from Josh's door, or unconsoled from Miss 
 Eunice's "keeping-room." Everybody loved them 
 both, and in time people forgot that Josh swore ; but he 
 never did : a keen pain discomforted him whenever he 
 saw a child look up astonished at his oath. He had 
 grown so far toward ' ' the full ear, ' ' that he under- 
 stood what an offence his habit was ; and it pained him 
 very much that it could not be overcome, even in so 
 long a trial. But soon other things drew on to change 
 the current of Josh's penitent thoughts.
 
 274 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 He had been married about ten years when Miss 
 Eunice began to show signs of failing health. She 
 was, after the Yankee custom, somewhat older than 
 b 3r husband, and of too delicate a make to endure the 
 hard life Connecticut farmers' wives must or do lead. 
 Josh was as fond of her as he could be ; but he did not 
 know how to demonstrate it. All sorts of comforts she 
 had, as far as food and fire and clothing went, but no 
 recreation. No public amusements ever visited Plain- 
 field, a sparse and quiet village far off the track of any 
 railroad. The farmers could not spend time to drive 
 round the country with their wives, or to go visiting, 
 except now and then on Sunday nights to a neighbor's ; 
 sometimes to a paring or husking bee, the very essence 
 of which was work. Once a year a donation-party at 
 the minister's, and a rare attendance upon the sewing- 
 circle, distasteful to Josh, who must get and eat his 
 supper alone in that case, these were all the amuse- 
 ments Miss Eunice knew. Books she had none, except 
 her Bible, "Boston's Fourfold State," a dictionary, 
 and an arithmetic, relics of her school ; and, if ever 
 she wished for more, she repressed the wish, because 
 these ought to be enough. She did not know, or dared 
 not be conscious, that humanity needs something for 
 its lesser and trivial life; that "by all these things 
 men live," as well as by the word and by bread. 
 
 So she drudged on uncomplainingly, and after ten 
 years of patience and labor, took to her bed, and was 
 pronounced by the Plainfield doctor to have successively 
 " a spine in the back," a "rising of the lungs," and a 
 " gittaral complaint of the lights." (Was it catarrhal ?) 
 Duly was she blistered, plastered, and fomented, dosed 
 with Brandreth's pills, mullein-root in cider, tansy,
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 275 
 
 burdock, bitter-sweet, catnip, and boneset teas, sow- 
 bugs tickled into a ball, and swallowed alive, dried 
 rattlesnakes' flesh, and the powder of a red squirrel, 
 shut into a red-hot oven living, baked till powderable, 
 and then put through that process in a mortar, and 
 administered fasting. 
 
 Dearly beloved, I am not inprovising. All these, 
 and sundry other and filthier medicaments which I 
 refrain from mentioning, did once, perhaps do still, 
 abound in the inlands of this Yankeedom, and slay 
 their thousands yearly, as with the jaw-bone of an ass. 
 
 Of course Miss Eunice pined and languished, not 
 merely from the "simples" that she swallowed, but 
 because the very fang that had set itself in the breast 
 of Josh's gentle mother gnawed and rioted in hers. 
 At length some idea of this kind occurred to Uncle 
 Josh's mind. He tackled up Boker, the old horse, and 
 set out for Sanbury, where there lived a doctor of some 
 eminence, and returned in triumph, with Dr. Sawyer 
 following in his own gig. 
 
 Miss Eunice was carefully examined by the physi- 
 cian, a pompous but kindly man, who saw at once there 
 was no hope and no help for his fluttered and panting 
 patient. 
 
 When the millennium comes, let us hope it will bring 
 physicians of sufficient fortitude to forbear dosing in 
 hopeless cases : it is vain to look for such in the present 
 condition of things. And Dr. Sawyer was no better 
 than his kind : he hemmed, hawed, screwed up one 
 eye, felt Miss Eunice's pulse again, and uttered orac- 
 ular ly, 
 
 " I think a portion of some sudorific febrifuge would 
 probably allay Mrs. Crane's hectic."
 
 273 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Well, I expect it would," confidently asserted 
 Josh. " Can I get it to the store, doctor? " 
 
 "No, sir: it should be compounded in the family, 
 Mr. Crane." 
 
 "Dew tell!" responded Josh, rather crestfallen, 
 but brightening up as the doctor went on to describe, 
 in all the polysyllables he could muster, the desirable 
 fluid. At the end Josh burst out joyfully with, 
 
 "I sw swan ! 'tain't nothin' but lemonade with 
 gumarabac in't." 
 
 Dr. Sawyer gave him a look of contempt, and took 
 his leave, Josh laboring under the profound and happy 
 conviction that nothing ailed Miss Eunice, if lemonade 
 was all that she needed ; while the doctor called, on his 
 way home, to see Parson Pitcher, and to him confided 
 the mournful fact that Miss Eunice was getting ready 
 for heaven fast, could scarcely linger another week by 
 any mortal help. Parson Pitcher grieved truly ; for he 
 loved and respected Eunice, and held her as the sweet- 
 est and brightest example of unobtrusive religion in all 
 his church : moreover, he knew how Josh would feel ; 
 and he dreaded the task of conveying to him this pain- 
 ful intelligence, resolving, nevertheless, to visit them 
 next day with that intent, as it was now too near night 
 to make it convenient. 
 
 But a more merciful and able shepherd than he pre- 
 ceded him, and spared Josh the lingering agony of an 
 expectation that could do him no good. Miss Eunice 
 had a restless night after Dr. Sawyer's visit ; for, with 
 the preternatural keenness of her disease, she read the 
 truth in his eye and tone. Though she had long 
 looked on to this end, and was ready to enter into rest, 
 the nearness of that untried awe agitated her, and for-
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 277 
 
 bade her sleep ; but faith, unfailing in bitter need, 
 calmed her at length, and with peace wr'ten upon her 
 face she slept till dawn. A sudden paiig awoke her, 
 and her start roused Josh. He lifted her on the pillow, 
 where the red morning light showed her gasping and 
 gray with death : he turned all cold. 
 
 " Good- by, Josh!" said her tender voice, fainting 
 as it spoke, and, with one upward rapturous look of the 
 soft brown eyes they closed forever, and her head fell 
 back on Josh's shoulder, dead. 
 
 There the neighbor who "did chores" for her of 
 late found the two when she came in. Josh had 
 changed since his mothtr died ; for the moment Mrs. 
 Casey lifted his wife from his arm, and laid her patient, 
 peaceful face back on its pillow, Josh flung himself 
 down beside her, and cried aloud with the passion and 
 carelessness of a child. Nobody could rouse him, no- 
 body could move him, till Parson Pitcher came in, and, 
 taking his hand, raised and led him into the keeping- 
 room. There Josh brushed off the mist before his 
 drenched eyes with the back of his rough hand, and 
 looked straight at Parson Pitcher. 
 
 " O Lord ! she's dead," said he, as if he alone of 
 all the world knew it. 
 
 "Yes, my son, she is dead," solemnly replied the 
 parson. "It is the will of God, and you must con- 
 sent." 
 
 " I can't, I can't ! I a'n't a-goin' to," sobbed Josh. 
 " 'Ta'n't no use talkin' if I'd only 'xpected some- 
 thin' : it's that doctor ! O Lord ! I've swore, and 
 
 Miss Eunice is dead ! Oh gracious goody ! what be I 
 a-goiu' to do? Oh, dear, oh, dear ! O Miss Eunice ! " 
 
 Parson Pitcher could not evm smile : the poor
 
 278 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 fellow's grief was too deep. What could he think of 
 to console him, but that deepest comfort to the be- 
 reaved, her better state? " My dear friend, be com- 
 forted. Eunice is with the blessed in heaven." 
 
 " I know it. I know it. She allers was nigh about 
 lit to get there without dyin'. O Lordy ! she's gone 
 to heaven, and I ha'n't ! " 
 
 No, there was no consoling Uncle Josh : that touch 
 of nature showed it. He was alone, and refused to be 
 comforted : so Parson Pitcher made a fervent prayer 
 for the living, that unawares merged into a thanksgiv- 
 ing for the dead, and went his way, sorrowfully con- 
 victed that his holy office had in it no supernatural 
 power or aid, that some things are too deep and too 
 mighty for man. 
 
 Josh's grief raved itself into worn-out dejection, 
 still too poignant to bear the gentlest touch : his groans 
 and cries were heart-breaking at the funeral, and it 
 seemed as if he would really die with agony while the 
 despairing wretchedness of the funeral hymn, the wail- 
 ing cadences of " China," poured round the dusty and 
 cobwebbed meeting-house to which they carried his 
 wife in her coffin, one sultry August Sunday, to utter 
 prayers and hymns above her who now needed no 
 I rayer, and heard the hymns of heaven. 
 
 After this, Josh retired to his own house, and, 
 according to Mrs. Casey's story, neither slept nor ate ; 
 but this was somewhat apocryphal : and, three days 
 after the funeral, Parson Pitcher, betaking himself to 
 the Crane farm, found Uncle Josh whittling out a set 
 of clothes-pegs on his door-step, but looking very 
 downcast and miserable. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Crane ! " said the good divine.
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 279 
 
 " Mornin', Parson Pitcher ! Hev' a cheer? " 
 
 The parson sat down on the bench of the stoop, and 
 wistfully surveyed Josh, wondering how best to intro- 
 duce the subject of his loss ; but the refractory widower 
 ga re no sign, and at length the parson spoke. 
 
 " I hope you begin to be resigned to the will of 
 Providence, my dear Mr. Crane? " 
 
 "No, I don't, a speck!" honestly retorted Josh. 
 Parson Pitcher was shocked. 
 
 " I hoped to find you in a better frame," said he. 
 
 " I can't help it ! " exclaimed Josh, flinging down a 
 finished peg emphatically. " I ain't resigned. I want 
 Miss Eunice. I ain't willin' to have her dead : I can't 
 
 and I ain't ; and that's the hull on't ! And I'd a 
 
 sight rather Oh, goody ! I've swore agin. Lord-a- 
 massy ! 'n' she ain't here to look at me when I do, 
 
 and I'm goin' straight to the d ! Oh, land, there 
 
 it goes ! Oh, dear soul ! can't a feller help himself 
 nohow? " 
 
 And, with that, Josh burst into a passion of tears, 
 and fled past Parson Pitcher into the barn, from 
 whence he emerged no more till the minister's steps 
 were heard crunching on the gravel-path toward the 
 gate ; when Josh, persistent as Galileo, thrust his head 
 out of the barn-window, and repeated in a louder and 
 more strenuous key, "I ain't willin', Parson Pitcher ! " 
 leaving the parson in a dubious state of mind, on which 
 he ruminated for some weeks ; finally concluding to 
 leave Josh alone with his Bible till time should blunt 
 the keen edge of his pain, and reduce him to reason. 
 And he noticed with great satisfaction that Josh 
 came regularly to church and conference-meetings, and 
 at length resumed his work with a due amount of com- 
 posure.
 
 280 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 There was in the village of Plainfield a certain Miss 
 Eanney, daughter of the aforesaid Mrs. Ranney, the 
 greatest vixen in those parts, and of course an old 
 maid. Her temper and tongue had kept off suitors in 
 her youth, and had in nowise softened since. Her 
 name was Sarah, familiarized into Sally ; and as sho 
 grew up to middle age, that pleasant, kindly title being 
 sadly out of keeping with her nature, everybody called 
 her Sail Ran, and the third generation scarce knew 
 she had another name. 
 
 Any uproar in the village always began with Sail 
 Ran ; and woe be to the unlucky boy who pilfered an 
 apple under the overhanging trees of Mrs. Ranney's 
 orchard by the road, or tilted the well-sweep of her 
 stony-curbed well to get a drink. Sail was down upon 
 the offender like a hail-storm ; and cuffs and shrieks 
 mingled in wild chorus with her shrill scolding, to the" 
 awe and consternation of every child within half a 
 mile. 
 
 Judge, then, of Parson Pitcher's amazement, when, 
 little more than a year after Miss Eunice's death, 
 Josh was ushered into his study one evening, and, 
 after stroking a new stove-pipe hat for a long time, at 
 length said he had "come to speak about bein' pub- 
 lished." The parson drew a long breath, partly for 
 the mutability of man, partly of pure wonder. 
 
 "Who are you going to marry, Mr. Crane?" said 
 he, after a pause. Another man might have softened 
 the style of his wife to be : not Josh. 
 
 "Sail Ran," said he undauntedly. Parson Pitcher 
 arose from his chair, and, with both hands in his 
 pockets, advanced upon Josh like horse and foot to 
 gether. But he stood his ground.
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 281 
 
 "What in the name of common sense and decency 
 do you mean by marrying +hat woman, Joshu-way 
 Crane ? ' ' thundered the parson. 
 
 " W.}11, ef you'll set down, Parson Pitcher, I'll tell 
 ye the rights on't. You see, I'm dreadful pestered 
 with this here swearin' way I've got. I kinder thought 
 i 4 ; would wear off, if Miss Eunice kep' a-lookin at me ; 
 bat she's died." Here Josh interpolated a great blub- 
 bering sob. " And I'm gettin' so d bad ! There ! 
 
 you see, parson, I doo swear dreadful ; and I ain't no 
 more resigned to her dyin' then I used ter be, and I 
 can't stan' it. So I set to figgerin' on it out, and I 
 guess I've lived too easy, hain't had enough 'flictions 
 and trials. So I concluded I hed oughter put myself 
 to the wind'ard of some squalls, so's to learn naviga- 
 tion ; and I couldn't tell how, till suddenly I brought 
 
 to mind Sail Ran, who is the D and all. Oh, dear, 
 
 I've nigh about swore agin' ! And I concluded she'd 
 be the nearest to a cat-o-nine-tails I could get to tew- 
 tor me. And then I reklected what old Cap'n Thomas 
 used to say when I was a boy aboard of his whaler : 
 'Coys,' sez he, 'you're allers sot to hev' your own 
 way, and you've got ter hev mine : so's it's pooty 
 clear that I shall flog you to rope-yarns, or else you'll 
 hev to ruake b'lieve my way's your'n, which'll suit all 
 round. ' So you see, Parson Pitcher, I w'an't a-goin' 
 lo put myself in a way to quarrel with the Lord's will 
 agin ; and I don't expect you to hev' no such trouble 
 with me twice, as you've hed sence Miss Eunice up 
 an' died. I swan I'll give up reasonable next time, 
 seem' it's Sail." 
 
 Hardly could Parson Pitcher stand this singular 
 screed of doctrine, or the shrewd and self-satisfied yet
 
 282 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 honest expression of face with which Josh clinched 
 his argument. Professing himself in great haste to 
 study, he promised to publish as well as to marry Josh, 
 and, when his odd parishioner was out of hearing, 
 indulged himself with a long fit of laughter, almost 
 inextinguishable, over Josh's patent Christianizer. 
 
 Great was the astonishment of the whole congrega- 
 tion on Sunday, when Josh's intentions were given out 
 from the pulpit, and strangely mixed and hesitating 
 the congratulations he received after his marriage, 
 which took place in the following week. Parson Pitcher 
 took a curious interest in the success of Josh's project, 
 and had to acknowledge its beneficial effects, rather 
 against his will. 
 
 Sail Ran was the best of housekeepers, as scolds are 
 apt to be ; or is it in reverse that the rule began? She 
 kept the farmhouse Quakerly clean, and every garment 
 of her husband's scrupulously mended and refreshed. 
 But, if the smallest profanity escaped Uncle Josh's 
 lips, he did indeed "hear thunder;" and, with the 
 ascetic devotion of a Guyonist, he endured every objur- 
 gatory torrent to the end, though his soft and kindly 
 heart would now and then cringe and quiver in the 
 process. 
 
 It was all for his good, he often said ; and, by the 
 time Sail Ran had been in Miss Eunice's place for an 
 equal term of years, Uncle Josh had become so mild- 
 spoken, so kind, so meek, that surely his dead wife 
 must have rejoiced over it in heaven, even as his breth- 
 ren did on earth. 
 
 And now came the crowning honor of his life. Uncle 
 Josh was made a deacon. Sail celebrated the event 
 by a new black silk frock ; and asked Parson Pitcher
 
 tJNCLB JOSH. 283 
 
 borne to tea after the church-meeting, and to such a 
 tea as is the great glory of a New-England house- 
 keeper. Pies, preserves, cake, biscuit, bread, short- 
 cake, cheese, honey, fruit, and cream, were pressed 
 and pressed again upon the unlucky parson, till he was 
 ijui'.e in the condition of Charles Lamb and the omni- 
 bus, and gladly saw the signal of retreat from the 
 table ; he withdrawing himself to the bench on the 
 stoop, to breathe the odorous June air, and talk over. 
 matters and things with Deacon Josh, while "Miss 
 Crane cleared off." 
 
 Long and piously the two worthies talked ; and at 
 length came a brief pause, broken by Josh. 
 
 "Well, Parson Pitcher, that 'are calkerlation of 
 mine about Sail did come out nigh onter right, didn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes indeed, my good friend," returned the parson. 
 " The trial she has been to you has been really blessed, 
 and shows most strikingly the use of discipline in this 
 life." 
 
 "Yes," said Josh. "If Miss Eunice had lived, I 
 don't know but what I should 'a' ben a swearin' man 
 to this day ; but Sail she's rated it out o' me. And 
 I'm gettin' real resigned too." 
 
 The meek complacency of the confession still gleamed 
 in Uncle Josh's eyes as he went in to prayers ; but 
 Sail Ran looked redder than the crimson peonies on 
 her posy-bed. 
 
 Parson Pitcher made an excellent prayer, particu- 
 larly descanting on the use of trials ; and when he 
 came to an end, and arose to say good-night, Mrs. 
 Crane had vanished : so he had to go home without 
 taking leave of her. Strange to say, during the follow-
 
 284 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ing year a rumor crept through the village that " Miss 
 Deacon Crane" had not been heard to scold once for 
 months ; that she even held her tongue under provoca- 
 tion ; this last fact being immediately put to the test 
 by a few evil-minded and investigating boys, who pro- 
 ceeded to pull her fennel-bushes through the pickets, 
 and nip the yellow heads ; receiving for their audacious 
 thieving no more than a mild request not to "do 
 that," which actually shamed them into apologizing. 
 
 With this confirmation, even Parson Pitcher began 
 to be credulous of report, and sent directly for Deacon 
 Crane to visit him. 
 
 "How's your wife, deacon?" said the parson, as 
 soon as Josh was fairly seated in the study. 
 
 "Well, Parson Pitcher, she's most onsartainly 
 changed. I don't believe she's got riled mor'n once, 
 or gin it to me once, for six months." 
 
 "Very singular," said Parson Pitcher. "I am 
 glad for both of you. But what seems to have wrought 
 upon her ? ' ' 
 
 " Well," said Uncle Josh, with a queer glitter in his 
 eye, "I expect she must 'a' ben to the winder that 
 night you 'n' I sot a-talkin' on the stoop about 'flio 
 tions and her ; for next day I stumbled, and spilt a lot 
 o' new milk onto the kitchen-floor. That allers riled 
 her : so I began to say, ' Oh, dear, I'm sorry, Sail ! ' 
 when she ups right away, and sez, sez she, ' You hain't 
 no need to be skeered, Josh Crane : you've done with 
 'flictions in this world. I sha'n't never scold you no 
 more. I ain't a-goin' to be made a pack-horse to 
 carry my husband to heaven.' And she never said no 
 more to me, nor I to her ; but she's ben nigh about as 
 pretty-behaved as Miss Eunice ever since ; and I hope
 
 UNCLE JOSH. 285 
 
 I sha'n't take to swearin'. I guess I sha'n't; but I 
 do feel kinder crawly about bein' resigned." 
 
 However, Uncle Josh's troubles were over. Sail 
 Ran dropped her name for "Aunt Sally," and finally 
 joined the church, and was as good in her strenuous 
 way as her husband in his meekness ; for there are 
 " diversities of gifts." And when the Plainfield bell, 
 one autumn day, tolled a long series of eighty strokes, 
 and Deacon Crane was gathered to his rest in the 
 daisy-sprinkled burying-yard beside Miss Eunice, the 
 young minister who succeeded Parson Pitcher had 
 almost as hard a task to console Aunt Sally as his 
 predecessor had to instil resignation, on a like occa- 
 sion, into Uncle Josh.
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 
 
 IT is sometimes a relief to have a story without a 
 heroine, and this distinction alone can I claim for 
 mine. Nothing heroic or wonderful casts its halo about 
 little Poll Jennings, the seventh daughter of Abe Jen- 
 nings, the south-side fisherman. Not even one of those 
 miraculous poor cottages that are always so exquisitely 
 clean, and have white curtains and climbing roses 
 through all depths of poverty and suffering, held my 
 little girl in its romantic shelter. Abe's house, lying 
 between three of those low sand-hills that back the 
 shore on our New-England coast, like waves of land 
 that simulate the sea, was not in the least attractive or 
 picturesque. At first a mere cabin of drift-wood, the 
 increasing wants and numbers of his family had, as it 
 were, built themselves out in odd attachments square, 
 or oblong, or triangular as wood came to hand, or 
 necessity demanded, till the whole dwelling bore the 
 aspect externally of a great rabbit-hutch or poultry- 
 house, such as boys build, on a smaller scale, out of old 
 boards from ruined barns, palings of fence, and refuse 
 from carpenters' shops. Though no constructive maga- 
 zine furnished inside or outside of the fisherman's 
 home, it was all fashioned from the waifs of a great 
 destroyer, all drift-wood from the sea, that raved 
 an 1 thundered half a mile off, as if yet clamorous f 01
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 287 
 
 its prey. Still, uncouth and rude as was its shaping, 
 a poet might have found it more suggestive than any 
 model cottage in the land, if a poet be not merely 
 the rhymer of sentiment and beauty, but he whose 
 creative soul, from one slight thread of association, 
 spins a wide web of fancies, and tracks the idea 
 through all its windings, till imagination becomes 
 reality, and the real and the ideal are one. However, 
 no poet ever entered there to talk or think all this non- 
 sense ; and the old walls, where teak, that an Indian 
 forest missed, stood side by side with oak from English 
 uplands, and pine from the -ZEolian woods of Maine ; 
 the windows, that had been driven ashore, void of 
 then- crystal panes, from some full-freighted steamer, 
 gone down too deep for any more wistful eyes to watch 
 receding shore or hurrying storm-rack through the 
 sashes ; doors, that had swung to in the last lurch of 
 the vessel, and made the state-rooms they guarded 
 tombs of the dead, all these spoke nothing to the 
 practical brain of old Abe Jennings, nor softened to 
 any pathos the high spirits of his six rosy daughters, 
 who laughed and romped and worked, as regardless of 
 any outside suffering as if they were the world, and 
 their sand-hills comprised all life and destiny. But 
 Poll, the last and least of the seven, was one of those 
 exceptional creatures that come as some new and 
 strange variety of a flower does, as unlike all its con- 
 geners in tint and habit as if it were the growth of an 
 alien soil and climate. Ruth and Mary and Martha, 
 Nancy, Jane, and Adeline, were all straight and strong, 
 with thick, dark hair, varying only from the tar- black 
 of Ruth's coarse curls to the shining deep-brown of 
 Adeline's braids. Roses of the deepest dye bloomed
 
 288 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 on their faces. Except Ruth, they were never sad 01 
 moody: they had their sweethearts and their frolics, 
 and were altogether common-sense, ordinary, whole- 
 some girls as one could find. Polly could lay claim to 
 none of these charms or virtues : she was slight and 
 pale, with great hazel eyes, that oftenest looked vague 
 and dreamy ; her very lips were colorless ; and her 
 skin, roughened and red, offered neither bloom nor 
 purity to attract the eye : but her hair was truly mag- 
 nificent. Of the deepest red, undeniably red, as is the 
 glossy coat of a bright bay horse, it fell to her feet in 
 shining waves, so soft, so fine, yet so heavy, that it 
 seemed as if the splendid growth had absorbed all the 
 beauty and strength that should otherwise have been 
 hers in face and form. But with this peculiar coloring 
 came also the temperament of which it is the index, 
 sensitive, passionate, shy as a quail, yet proud as only 
 a woman can be. If Poll Jennings had been taught and 
 trained to the height of her capacities, or even had the 
 means of self-training, her latent genius would have 
 dawned on her sphere in one shape or another ; and 
 perhaps an actress, perhaps an author, some star of 
 art, some wonder of vocalization, might have delighted 
 or astonished the world. But, happily for Poll, another 
 and a better fate than these awaited her, though its 
 vestibule was only a hut, and its locality the sand-hills 
 of the Atlantic shore. Yet this special beauty of the 
 child's, her resplendent hair, was made her peculiar 
 torment. To her sisters and father it was red, and only 
 red ; and all the jokes that people will waste on that 
 tint artistic, historic, exquisite as it may be were 
 lavished on Polly's head, till hot tears filled her eyes, 
 and burning color suffused her face at the least allusion
 
 POLL JENNLNGS'S HAIR. 289 
 
 to it. Moreover, her physical capacity was far inferior 
 to that of her sisters ; her slight hands and arms could 
 not row a boat through the rolling seas outside the bar ; 
 she could not toil at the wash-tub, or help draw a seine ; 
 and when a young farmer from inland came down ' ' tc* 
 salt," or a sturdy fisher from another bay hauled up 
 his boat inside the little harbor of Squamkeag Light, 
 and trudged over to have a talk with old Abe, it was 
 never Poll who waded out into the mud with bare, 
 white legs and flying hair, to dig clams for supper ; 
 or who, with a leather palm, in true sailor- fashion, 
 mended sails by the fireside, singing 'longshore songs 
 at her work. Poll's place was never there : she shrank 
 away to gather berries, or hunt for gulls' eggs, or 
 crouched motionless in a darker corner, her great, 
 luminous eyes fixed on some panelled fragment of the 
 wall that hungry seas had thrown ashore, painting to 
 herself the storm and the wreck till she neither heard 
 nor saw the rough love-making that went on beside her. 
 So it happened that Mary and Martha, the twins, 
 married two young farmers up the country, and led 
 the tinpastoral lives that farming women in New 
 England must lead, lives of drudgery and care. 
 Nancy went off with a young fisherman over to Fire 
 Island. Ruth, the oldest, had lost her lover, years 
 gone by, in a whale-ship that sailed away, and was 
 never heard of more ; while Jane was just about to 
 be married to hers, mate on a New-Haven schooner, 
 "Mdse. to Barbadoes," as the shipping-list said ; and 
 Adeline laughed and coquetted between half a dozen 
 of the roughest sort. 
 
 There were enough at home to do the work ; and 
 Ruth's set sobriety, Jane's boisterous healthiness.
 
 290 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Adeline's perpetual giggle, none of them chimed with 
 Poll's dreamy nature. A weary sense of her own 
 incapacity oppressed her all the time. She could not 
 work as they did ; and, worst of all, the continual 
 feeling that she was ugly, "red-headed," "white- 
 faced," "eyes as big as a robin's," brooded over her 
 solitary thoughts, and made her more sad, more lonely, 
 from day to day. Yet though no refinement of speech 
 ever turned plain "Poll" into Pauline, and no suave 
 ministrations of higher civilization toned her wild grace 
 into elegance, or wove her beautiful locks into the 
 crown they should have been, she had her own consola- 
 tions ; for Nature is no foster-mother, and she took this 
 sobbing child into her own heart. Polly's highest 
 pleasure was to steal out from the cabin, and wander 
 away to the shore : there, laid at length among the 
 rank grass whose leaves waved and glittered in the 
 wind, she watched the curling waves of beryl sweep in, 
 to leap and break in thunder, while the spray-bells 
 were tossed far and sparkling from their crests on the 
 beaten sands, and the crepitation of those brilliant 
 bubbles, crushed beneath the wave, scarce finished ils 
 fairy peal of artillery ere another and a heavier surf 
 swelled, and curled, and broke above it ; while milk- 
 white gulls darted and screamed overhead, or a lonely 
 fish-hawk hovered with dire intent over the shoal of 
 fish that dimpled and darkened the water with a wan- 
 dering wave of life ; and far beyond, through the pur- 
 ple haze that brooded on the horizon, white- sailed ships 
 glided into sight, and, stately as dreams, vanished 
 again whence they seemed to come. Here, while the 
 fresh breeze swept her cheek with its keen odor of the 
 seas, and the warm sands beneath quickened her lan
 
 POLL JENNIKGS'S HAIR. 291 
 
 guid pulses, Poll lay hour after hour, and dreamed, 
 not such dreams as girls have whose life is led among 
 luxury and society, but pure visions of far-off countries 
 beyond the ocean, whose birds and flowers and trees 
 were all of earth's brightest, and all quickened with 
 the acute life of the sea itself to poignant beauty. 
 Ileie, in this paradise, no mocking mirth, no harsh 
 Hoicl, no cold or storm, intruded ; and in its castles a 
 new life dawned for the fisherman's girl, that held her 
 in its trance safe from the harshness of her own, and 
 lapped her in its soft sweetness from all that was hard 
 and bitter in reality. So all the summer days passed 
 away, lying on the shore, or wandering on the sand-hills 
 that rolled back to sand-plains or boggy stretches of 
 inland ; plains that had their own treasures of great 
 open-eyed violets, azure as the sky above, or white as 
 its clouds, milky strawberry-blooms and clusters of 
 their scarlet fragrant fruits, crowding flowers of pink 
 and purple, trails of starry blackberry-vines, and 
 swamps that beguiled her wandering feet through fra- 
 grant thickets of bayberry, tangled with catbrier and 
 sweetbrier, to great blueberry-bushes, hanging thick 
 with misty blue spheres, aromatic and sweet with a 
 sweetness no tropic suns can give ; while beside them 
 bloomed the splendid wild lily, set thick as a pagoda 
 with bells ; and at its foot the rare orange orchis showed 
 its concentred sunshine, and regal cardinal-flowers 
 flamed through the thin grass with spikes of velvet fire. 
 Not a flower blossomed, or a fruit ripened, for miles 
 about, that Poll did not know : it was she who hung the 
 shelf above the chimney with bundles of spearmint, 
 peppermint, boneset, marsh-rosemary, pennyroyal, 
 mountain-mint, tansy, catnip, sweet-fern, sweet-cicely,
 
 292 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 prince's-piny, sassafras-root, winter-green, and birch- 
 bark, part the gatherings of her own rambles at home, 
 part a tribute from her sisters up the country, who 
 brought Poll only ' ' yarbs ' ' instead of the squashes 
 for Ruth, the apples that filled Jane's apron, and the 
 hickory-nuts Adeline cracked in her great white teeth. 
 So things went on till Poll was seventeen, and our 
 story begins ; when Jane's lover came home and they 
 were married, and Adeline betook herself to see Nancy, 
 leaving only the eldest and youngest of the seven sis- 
 ters at home for the winter that set in early and bitter. 
 The last day of November was a wild north-easter: 
 rain, that the fierce wind drove aslant against the hut 
 windows, froze as fast as it fell, and while Ruth sat by 
 the stove, and sewed, drawing once in a while one of 
 those deep sighs that are the echoes of a great sorrow 
 gone past, Poll pressed her face against the blurred 
 window-pane to see the storm she dared not be out in ; 
 and, while she looked and dreamed, the outer door burst 
 open, and in came her father, dripping as if he had 
 been drowned, followed by a stout young fellow as pale 
 as a sheet, carrying his right arm in a sling. 
 
 "I veow ! " said old Abe, shaking himself like a 
 great water-clog, ef this a'n't about the most weather- 
 some weather I ever see. I ha'n't ben only jest out- 
 side the bar, an' my jib's as stiff as a tin pan, and the 
 old fo'sail took an' cracked fore an' aft afore I could 
 get her head on so's to run in. Ef I hadn't a had 
 Sam Bent here along, I dono but what I should ha' ben 
 swamped, whether or no. He and me both done ouj 
 darnedest, and then I'll be drowned ef he didn't fa'J 
 foul of a board't was all glib ice, jest as we was a-land- 
 in' : up flew his heels, and he kinder lay to on his right
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIK. 293 
 
 arm, so't I expect it's broke. I slung it up with my 
 old comforter till he could get under hatches here, 'n' 
 now you gals must take keer on him till I make sail 
 over to Punkintown, and get that are nateral bone-setter 
 to come along and splice him." 
 
 Sam Bent was no stranger to the girls ; but, though 
 Poll had often seen him before, she had never ex- 
 changed half a dozen words with him. But ceremonies 
 are spared at Southside : so Poll took the scissors which 
 Ruth handed her, and proceeded to cut the sleeve of 
 Sam Bent's coat and jacket, while her sister set a 
 spare bedroom to rights, and brewed some herb-tea, 
 lest the youth might be ordered a sweat. Poll's fingers 
 were slight and careful, and she did her office tenderly, 
 even Sam felt it through the pain of his doubly- 
 broken arm ; and when at length Abe returned from 
 his walk to Punkintown, a settlement some four miles 
 inland, he found Sam, released from his heavy pea- 
 jacket and coat, wrapped in Poll's shawl, with his feet 
 to the fire, about as comfortable as he could have been 
 under the disadvantages of the occasion. The "nat- 
 eral bone-setter ' ' worked his usual wonders on the 
 occasion, and, having duly splintered and bandaged 
 the young man, took his knife out of his pocket, and 
 began to snap the blade out and in as a preliminary to 
 conversation, while he tilted his chair back against the 
 wall, and cleared his throat with a vigorous " ahem." 
 
 "Well, sir, well, sir," began Dr. Higgs, "that job 
 is done, sir. You will have rather of a procrastinat- 
 ing season with such a fracter as that is ; but patience 
 ia a virtoo, sir. Yes, sir, and so is patients too, we 
 doctors think. He, he, he ! Ho, ho, ho ! Well, I am 
 pleased to see you reciprocate my little joke : rayther
 
 294 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 hard to be ludiciously inclined, sir, under the proximity 
 of corporal anguish. Ahem : shows you have good 
 grit into you. I expect you'll become evanescent very 
 rapid, if you don't catch a cold, nor over-eat, nor 
 over-do the prudential, noway. Do you reside in these 
 parts, sir?" 
 
 " I live over to Mystic when I'm to home," modestly 
 replied Sam, overcome with this torrent of words, but, 
 fortunately for him, not knowing the difference between 
 evanescent and convalescent. 
 
 "Well, I can't recommend to you a removal to 
 your natyve spere immediately, sir. No, sir, I should 
 rayther advise you, in order to abrogate your confine- 
 ment as much as possible, to remain where you be. If 
 any febrifugal disorders was to set in, it would con- 
 catenate the fracter, sir. Very serious, very serious ! 
 You will want considerble nussin', I think probcrble ; 
 and, if you can indooce this here old gentleman to 
 inhabitate you for a spell, why, I should counsel you 
 to become stationary for the present." 
 
 "I guess I a'n't a-goin' for to turn Sam Bent out 
 o' my cabin, ef 'twa'n't no bigger 'n a yawl-boat's 
 locker," growled old Abe. "He's his father's son, 
 'n' that's enough, if he was the miserblest hoss-shoe 
 crab 't ever left his back behind him. Poll here can 
 miss him. She a'n't good for much but pokiu' round, 
 'n' it's too consarued cold to do that this kind o' 
 clymit." 
 
 "Well, sir, well, sir, I'll call over agin to-morrer, 
 ef the weather is conveuable. I am a-comin' into this 
 region to see a poor indignant female who is laid up 
 with a neuralogy of the marrer-bones, so't mebbe I 
 shall be rather delayed in gettiu' around ; but I'm sure
 
 POLL JENKINGS'S HAIR. 295 
 
 certain to be on hand, Providence permitting, before 
 noon by night whether or no. Good-day, good- 
 day ! " Wherewith the verbose doctor departed ; and 
 Sam Bent, suddenly looking up, caught a little flicker 
 of fun just fading out of Poll's great eyes, and laughed 
 outright. 
 
 " He bears up hard onto big words, don't, he? " said 
 Sam, whose genuine nature detected the pretension he 
 did not .understand. "He's a kind of a nateral dic- 
 tionary, I guess." 
 
 Poll's eyes danced, and Sam fixed a long look on 
 her. He didn't know why, no more did she ; but, being 
 both uncivilized enough to feel and think without ask- 
 ing why or how, they were not concerned about the 
 matter. And, when Sam Bent was safely convoyed to 
 bed in the queer little five-angled room allotted to him, 
 he fell asleep, and dreamed he was drawing a seine on 
 the north shore, and a great sting-ray stood up on its 
 tail, and turned into Dr. Higgs ; while Poll only lis- 
 tened to the storm outside, and fancied that she heard 
 minute-guns and shrieks of terror through the wild 
 wind, and at length slept too heavily to dream. But 
 for all this a great guest was drawing near to the fish- 
 erman's hut, though in silence and secrecy, a guest 
 that pagans hailed with wine and roses, wreaths of 
 myrtle, and dances of joy, but we, sadder and wiser, 
 welcome oftenest with trembling and wonder. Poll 
 knew neither. She never even stopped to wonder why 
 she cared no more to search the beach for its treasures, 
 or pore over the odd pictures in their Bible. Nor did 
 Sam Bent ever suspect why he liked to have his 
 bandages renewed daily, his black hah- smoothed for 
 him, and his black ribbon knotted so carefully under
 
 296 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 the coarse white collar that set off the muscular throat 
 and handsome head above it. Sam would not have 
 cared if his broken arm was not set for six months, 
 he liked so well his self-elected office of teacher to 
 Poll, who was learning to read at his knee like a child, 
 and listening to his discourses of other lands (as she 
 considered Maine and Georgia) with as much eager- 
 ness as if he had been Hakluyt himself, instead of 
 foremast hand to a coasting-schooner. Under the 
 pressure of her new duties, Poll grew into new devel- 
 opments. She became far more handy about the house ; 
 she spoke oftener of her own accord ; she moved more 
 rapidly, and never a hole in her apron or her frock lay 
 an hour unmended now ; and, taking patient lessons 
 of Ruth, she learned to mend Sam's stockings so 
 nicely, that he, at least, considered it an ornament 
 to have had a hole in the most conspicuous quarter 
 possible. 
 
 But at last Sam got well, and could not evade the 
 fact that he had been doing nothing for two months 
 but receiving care and a home ; and he began to wonder 
 to himself what he could ever do to escape from this 
 hea^ weight of obligation. Now it never was sup- 
 posed in old times that the aforesaid little deity med- 
 dled with lesser things than flowers and jewels ; but 
 gi eat is civilization ! In its faintest influence comes 
 a subtlety unknown to dear primeval days ; and at this 
 juncture love if love it was dropped a timely rheu- 
 matism on Uncle Abe's old back ; and, the day after 
 Sam Bent left off his sling, the poor old fisherman came 
 home groaning and hobbling, and, I regret to say, 
 swearing after his own fishy fashion. 
 
 "Darn it!" growled he, as he let himself down
 
 POLL JEXNIXGS'S HAIR. 297 
 
 into an old rush-bottomed chair that stood by the fire. 
 "I'll be jiggered if I a'n't got to be in docks now! 
 I couldn't but jest h'ist her over the bar, V make out 
 to git ashore. Flat-fish 'n' flounders ! I ha'n't had 
 such a spell sence ten year back ; 'n' what's goin' to 
 become of the eyester bisness I should like ter tell? " 
 
 "You'd better take a sweat right away, father," 
 said Ruth, taking down the sheaf of boneset for the 
 necessary brewage. 
 
 " Sweat ! I calk'late I shall sweat enough with thJ 
 here screwin' in my bones, gal ! Loddy Doddy ! ef I 
 don't yell an' holler afore daybreak, I shall miss my 
 reckonin' ; and all the eyesters in the bay '11 be raked 
 up afore I'm stirrin' agin, for all't I know." 
 
 " No, they won't, Uncle Abe ! " said Sam sturdily, 
 coming up to the fire as he spoke. "Ha'n't I had a 
 free passage here nigh on to two months, 'n' you 
 think I a'n't goin' for to work it out? I ken work 
 ' The Mary Ann ' fust-rate, and I know the lay of 
 the beds pretty near as well as anybody. I'm all right 
 now ; and here I am, standin' on my feet, ready to do 
 the most a feller can, though I don't never expect I 
 can work out the kind o' care I've hed along back." 
 With which Sam cast a sheep's-eye at Poll's place, 
 and beheld nobody; for she was behind him, look- 
 ing hard out of the window at the new and interesting 
 prospect of an old seine and two wash-tubs back- 
 ground a sand-hill. But Poll's eyes were too misty to 
 see ; and her rough, red skin flushed to purple as she 
 beard her father go on : 
 
 "Hold hard, Sam! You're your dad's son: there 
 a'n't a doubt on't. Old 'Paphro Bent never see a dis- 
 tress-signal h/isted, but what he lay to, an' sent aboard.
 
 298 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 But you're a young feller, 'n' I a'n't a-goin' for to 
 take your vittles 'n' put 'em into my jaws. You ken 
 git a bunk aboard of any coaster, 'n' get your wages 
 reg'lar : so you 'bout ship, and mind your own helium. 
 I can keep to my anchorage, I guess, for a spell ; 'n' 
 it's no use starving while them gals has got legs to 
 go and dig clams. I shall weather it, boy ; though I 
 don't r>ay but what you're a good feller to think on't." 
 
 "Now look at here, Uncle Abe," said Sam vehe- 
 mently, setting his feet as wide apart, and bracing his 
 hands on his hips as firmly, as if he expected old Abe 
 to make a rush at him, and try to upset him, " 'tain't 
 no use hailin' this here schooner with that kind of talk. 
 I a'n't a-goin' coastin'. I a'n't goin' away. I wish 
 I may be drownded off Hatteras, and come ashore at 
 Point Judy, if I do ! I'm a-goiu' eyesterin', an' deep-sea 
 fishin' in 'The Mary Ann,' till that darned rheumatiz 
 o' yours goes to Joppy, ef it lasts till day after never ; 
 'n' ef you won't give me night's lodgin's and a meal 
 of vittles here., why, I'll go over to Squamkeag Light 
 'n' get 'em out o' Ben Gould : so there's the hull 
 ou't ! " With which peroration Sam turned away, and 
 spat energetically into the fire. 
 
 Old Abe held his peace a minute. It was hard for 
 the sturdy man to own his dependence, to become use- 
 less ; and Sam's strong youth and manhood mixed 
 regret with his simple willingness of acceptance. 
 
 "Well," said he at last, "Lord knows I'd f oiler 
 the sea till I dropped ef I hadn't no rheumatiz ; but a 
 rotten hulk a'n't no use outside. You ken take ' The 
 Mary Ann,' Sam Bent. She's easy handled, and she's 
 cute enough of herself to keep school to-morrer, 'n' I 
 can tell you the lay of the eyestcr-beds tollerble v<U.
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 299 
 
 But look here, young feller, ef I catch you a-takin' a 
 meal of vittles, or a night's sleep, over to Ben Gould's, 
 you'll hear thunder, 'n' ketch lightnin'." 
 
 ""Well, I won't," laughed Sain ; and so the matter 
 ended. And old Abe was put to bed with the dose of 
 boneset, and rose no more for long weeks, long 
 enough to Ruth ; for a sick man's attendant has n~ 
 sinecure. But Poll never wearied of the linarering days, 
 for a step tramping over the sand-hills, and a broad, 
 brown face full of honest delight, waited to charm the 
 day's ending, and in that anticipation nothing seemed 
 dull or dreary. Nor did ever any man have gentler 
 nursing than Poll lavished on her cross and unrea- 
 sonable old father. One hears vast blame laid upon 
 lovers for their seeming sweetness and excellence while 
 yet love is new ; but is not the blame unjust ? For 
 what can call out the latent, lovelinesses of any charac- 
 ter, if the one rose of life does not win them to the sur- 
 face? Lost in that divine blooming, wrapped in that 
 sacred spell, shall not the desert blossom, and the sands 
 glitter with flowing springs ? Still a desert ; still the 
 red sands : let us rather bless the transformer than sneer 
 at the transformation. So the wiitter wore on ; and 
 if, in its routine, there was any bitterness, it was only 
 when storms swept over the hut with fierce scream and 
 heavy pinions, and Ruth shuddered over her dead 
 lover, Poll over her living one. Meanwhile no storms 
 wrecked Sam Bent. He raked oysters, and caught 
 sea-bass, halibut, porgies, and various other finny 
 creatures, in quantities unknown ; discovered a new 
 oyster-bed "inside," in one of his long voyages round 
 Montauk; and made money at a rate that pleased 
 him even more than it did old Abe : while he thor
 
 300 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ouglily enjoyed having a home to go to, and exulted 
 in his pupil's progress, who had got so far as to read 
 fluently the book of fairy-tales he bought for her in 
 New York by the first of April. But with April home 
 came Adeline ; and, Adeline being one of those women 
 who are born coquettes, great was her delight at 
 finding a handsome young fellow like Sam Bent don't-. 3- 
 ticated in her house, and of course she immediately 
 began a vigorous flirtation with him. Now, Adeline 
 was a sort of woman Sam had seen before, understood, 
 and held in small account. With Poll he was respect- 
 ful, shy, timid, yet self-respectful ; but he laughed, 
 jested, and romped with " Addy," spoke to her as if 
 she were another fisherman, helped her to dig clams, 
 and sculled her boat across the bay with as much ease 
 and carelessness as if she had been a boy. Poor Poll ! 
 She did not know why she grew cross to Adeline, and 
 silent to Sam. Something told her that she ought not 
 to steal away to her old haunts, and neglect her home- 
 work, and let her father shift for himself as best he 
 could ; yet Poll did all this, and the sea and sky com- 
 forted her no more. Neither was she particularly con- 
 soled by hearing from her sleepless pillow, one night, 
 Ruth remonstrating with Adeline on her manners to 
 Sam. 
 
 "I don't like to have you make so free with Sam 
 Bent, Addy," said poor prim Ruth, who had never 
 given so much as one kiss to Jonas Scranton before 
 he sailed away to be drowned, and probably regretted 
 it still. " 'Tain't mannerly to be a-rompin' round so 
 with a young feller." 
 
 " O law ! " laughed Addy ; " jest as ef I was goin 
 to be stuck up with Sam Bent ! I like to plague him.
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 301 
 
 He's ben cooped up all winter with you an' Poll till he 
 wants a livenin' up." 
 
 " "Well, 'tain't a good thing for Poll to see you a-be- 
 havin' so, Addy. Maybe she might take to them ways, 
 'n' she a'n't a kind to take things so easy as you 
 do, ? n' maybe folks would think hard of her ef she 
 should foller your manners ; for you never was nothin' 
 but a kitten, sence you was knee-high to a hoptoad." 
 
 Adeline laughed harder than ever. "Well, T de- 
 clare ! " said she. " As ef our Poll would ever take to 
 kitin' after a feller like Sam Bent ! I guess he would 
 feel crawly if she did, poor cretur ! That red hair and 
 pink-red face of her'n a'n't very takin'." With 
 which she resumed her laughter as if the idea was 
 delightfully absurd. 
 
 Ruth gave a little sigh, and knit more energetically 
 than ever. She might as well have exhorted the sea- 
 spray as Adeline. She never even moved her to petu- 
 lance with her exhortations, which would have been 
 some comfort. But Poll turned her face to her pillow, 
 crushed and heart-sick ; and slow, hot tears crept 
 down her cheeks one after another, as she thought of 
 her happy winter evenings, of Sam Bent's shy, kind 
 looks, and, as climax, of her own horrid red hair, and 
 rough skin, and saucer-eyes. Poor Poll ! 
 
 But by May Uncle Abe's rheumatism began to be 
 forgotten : his sturdy legs ached no more, his back 
 oiraightened out, and his wearier- beaten face recovered 
 its old look of kindly shrewdness, and he was as fit as 
 ever to handle "The Mary Ann." So Sam had been 
 " down to York," and got a place as foremast hand on 
 a brig bound for China, to sail the first of June, a 
 good place, and good wages. Yet somehow Poll did
 
 302 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 not receive the news joyfully ; and she said nothing at 
 all to Sam Bent when he came to announce it. 
 
 Poll was not magnanimous ; but who is among 
 women? That is not their forte. A thousand other 
 virtues flourish with them ; but this is the millennial 
 grace, and Poll owned it not. She was as weak, as 
 selfish, as jealous, as a humble and ugly woman is apt 
 to be when she is in love ; and I shall not blame her, 
 though I know there are plenty who will. So, when 
 Ruth had said quietly, "I'm real glad, Sam, but we 
 shall kinder miss you ; ' ' and Adeline had giggled out, 
 "Well, that is first-rate, 'n' I guess you'll have to 
 get me something real pretty over to Chiuy," Sam 
 missed one voice that was, after all, the only one he 
 cared for ; and, looking round, saw Poll's blue-check 
 gown flutter away over the top of a sand-hill, past the 
 window. "I declare for't," said Sam, "if I hain't 
 left a lot o' little fixin's down in ' The Mary Ann,' 't 
 I brought from York. I'll jest step down and fetch 
 'em." 
 
 I regret to say that Sam had left them on purpose^ 
 having already learned the strategic lesson of lovers, in 
 order to provide some sure way of excuse to meet or 
 follow Poll, if she should happen to be out of the 
 house. Would he have followed her, had he known 
 that she ran away to avoid him ? He might have been 
 a fool for his pains, like other men. But it happened 
 he had no provocation : so he betook himself to, or 
 toward, "The Mary Ann," but, as soon as the house 
 was hidden, changed his course, and followed after tlio 
 light track of Poll's steps till they were lost in the 
 thick beach-grass. Poor child ! she had thrown her- 
 self down in the glittering blades, and buried her head
 
 POLL JEKNTNGS'S HAIR. 303 
 
 in her apron. Faster than the clear green waves, that 
 rolled relentless splendors on the failing shore below, 
 did the heavy surges of her first sorrow thunder and 
 sweep above her shrinking heart. Sam was going 
 away. That was first ; and then came in the shame, 
 the self-contempt, the bitter grief, that had racked and 
 wasted her ever since she overheard Ruth and Addy 
 talking about her that unhappy night. What if he did 
 stay? He wouldn't care for her, handsome fellow! 
 How could he bear to look at such a homely thing as 
 she? And that dreadful hair ! so red, and so much of 
 it ! If Poll had ever read novels, she might have torn 
 it and scattered it with highly appropriate gestures. 
 But she had not : so she let her hair alone, and only 
 cried, and wished she was any body or any thing but 
 Poll Jennings. Even a little fiddler-crab in its hole 
 was enviable, since it never cared for Sam Bent, and 
 hadn't got red hair. 
 
 Between the thunder of the surf, and the checked 
 apron that covered her ears and tried to stifle her sobs, 
 Poll heard nothing ; but, in the midst of her passive 
 anguish, suddenly a strong arm was passed round her ; 
 and, stunned with surprise, she found herself lifted on 
 to Sam Bent's knee. Any woman who knew any thing 
 would have sprung to her feet and blazed with anger, 
 told seven lies in one breath, defied and scorned Sam, 
 and sent him to China a broken-hearted man, indiifer- 
 ent to sharks and cholera, to be rewarded, perhaps, 
 after ten years, with an elderly and acetous woman as 
 the meed of constancy. But Poll was a little fool : she 
 just laid her head against Sam's red shirt, and sobbed 
 harder than ever. Sam choked : he couldn't speak, 
 and yet he wanted to swear. Finally he sputtered out,
 
 304 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 " Poll, what's to pay ? " No answer, only a great big 
 sob that seemed to shake the little creature in his arms 
 all over, and made it incumbent on Sam to clasp her 
 still tighter. 
 
 So he tried again : 
 
 " Poll, don't ! Hold up, dear ! Don't keep a-cryin* 
 so ! " Useless remonstrance ; for, though the sobs 
 ceased, bright drops of salt water that the sea dis- 
 owned went hopping down that red flannel shirt in a 
 deliberate way, as if they didn't care to, but rathei 
 thought it best. 
 
 " Polly," repeated Sam in a gentler tone. 
 
 "What?" said Poll faintly, lifting her head, and 
 wiping her eyes with her apron. 
 
 " Don't do that ! I see you through the winder, and 
 I follered along ; for you see, Poll, I'm a-going to 
 Chiny, 'n' I wanted to I well I dono. Poll, 
 when I come back will you marry me? " 
 
 Poll's eyes opened wider and brighter than ever. 
 She drew back, and looked into Sam's face : her cheek 
 flushed as she met his steady gaze. 
 
 "Don't make fun of me ! " said she piteously. 
 
 Sam's eyes blazed. "Make fun of you!" said ho, 
 indignantly. "Why, Poll Jinnins ! what are you 
 thinkin' about? I should think you might believe a 
 feller was honest when he said that." 
 
 " O Sam ! " pleaded Poll, with moist eyes. 
 
 " Will you, Poll?" 
 
 ' ' But but oh ! " said she with half a sob. 
 " Are you sure, Sam? " 
 
 "Sure of what?" 
 
 " Sure you like me," courageously ventured Poll. 
 
 "I don't know nothin' else I'm so sure on," said 
 he dryly.
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 305 
 
 " But I've got such red hair, Sam ! " 
 
 Sara laughed outright. He could not help it. But 
 those great hazel eyes, full of vague apprehension, and 
 the trembling lips, sobered him. 
 
 " Well, Poll, I think your hair is the prettiest thing 
 to you by a long sight. Sence I see it tumble down 
 once, when you was a-bindin' up my arm, I ha'n't 
 never see the sun risin' acrost the water but what I've 
 thought on't : it's just like the wake the sun makes, 
 kinder crinkly, and yet slick and bright, and kinder 
 draws your eyes to't. I wouldn't change your hatr for 
 nobody's 't ever I see." 
 
 With which Sam withdrew the comb from the mas- 
 sive knot, and its great bright coil slipped down over 
 Poll's neck, and across his arm, and spread into a veil 
 of length and splendor Athene might have coveted, 
 had she "been there to see." Sam's big brown fist 
 grasped the silken waves ; and, bringing them round 
 before Poll's face, he caressed his capture as if it were 
 real gold, and he a miser, threaded it through his fin- 
 gers, held it in bright bows up to the sunshine, stroked 
 its ripples over his unoccupied knee, till Poll, who had 
 innocently laid one arm round his neck while she looked 
 on, fairly smiled ; but a sigh followed instantly. 
 
 "But I am so humly, Sam ! " [Homely, she meant.] 
 
 "Well," said Sam, dropping the hair, and putting 
 both arms round her, " what if you be? And I don't 
 sciy't I think you're like a pink-and-white figure-head 
 to a liner. I a'n't one o' them that buys a boat for its 
 paint. I never see a handsome gal I liked half so well, 
 'n' I guess I wouldn't 'a' had no better care out o' tne 
 prettiest cretur betwixt the reefs and the banks than I 
 had last winter. Besides, Poll, to my mind your hair's
 
 806 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 a sight prettier'n most folks's hull faces ; 'n', if your 
 eyes l^e ruther big, they're as bright as two starn-lan- 
 terns any day, 'n' as soft as a gull's be. I don't know 
 what for you want to quarrel with your looks, so long's 
 I don't." 
 
 A more fastidious man would not have found fault 
 with the look she gave Sam now, so tender, so inno- 
 cently glad, so trustful ; and, if Sam gave no audible 
 reply, it was none the less fervently answered, and for 
 the next hour Poll was happy. No more visions of 
 over-sea now, no dream of tropic shores and unwither- 
 ing blossoms : her tropic had come, and her fadeless 
 flowers burst into glowing life. Her beautiful head 
 safe on Sam's shoulder, and her face buried hi his 
 strong breast, except when he would lift it up to be 
 kissed, she had no thought for the past or future : the 
 only "now" of life held her fast; and in its sweet 
 embrace she lay basking till common life, in the shape 
 of Adeline, came full upon the deaf lovers, and re- 
 marked sharply, 
 
 "Well, if you hadn't ought to be ashamed, San. 
 Bent, out here in the grass a-huggin' and kissin' our 
 Poll!" 
 
 Sam rose up with a laugh, carrying Poll with him, 
 circled still in his arm. 
 
 " She's my Poll now, Addy. I don't know who's 
 a better right ! " 
 
 " Good Jehoshaphat ! " said old Abe, who had also 
 come up behind Adeline. 
 
 At this singular expletive Addy herself laughed, 
 though not a little piqued and provoked at Sam's de- 
 fection from her, as she fancied it. " And all her red 
 mg down her back! " exclaimed she, laying a rough 
 grasp on the offending tresses.
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 307 
 
 "Hands off, Addy," threatened Sam smilingly. 
 " That are's mine too, 'n' the biggest lady in the land 
 might be proud on't, ef 'tis red." 
 
 Adeline sniffed. 
 
 "Well," said old Abe, regarding the pair with his 
 hands in his trowsers-pockets, and his hat askew, as if 
 they were some great natural curiosity, " this does beat 
 all. Our Poll and Sarn Bent ! Well, I can't lay no 
 course here-away. I ha'n't got my bearin's. A'n't 
 a-goin' to trade her off clown to Chiny, be ye, Sam?" 
 concluded he, chuckling at his own facetiousness. 
 
 "Money wouldn't buy her," said Sam, with a smile 
 that consoled Poll for the family depreciation : and, 
 still with his arm round her, the whole party drew to 
 the hut to surprise Ruth. 
 
 She took it more quietly and kindly. 
 
 " Well, I won't say I haven't thought on't before," 
 said she. ' ' Poll's more of a girl latterly 'n what she was. 
 And looks a'n't of no account: they a'n't lastin'." 
 Ruth sighed, wondering if Jonas would know the sad, 
 dark face that looked at her from her cracked glass 
 daily now, and went on, " I don't deny it's a misfortin' 
 to have red hair ; but then we didn't make it, 'n' can't 
 mend it : so it's no use to be troubled." 
 
 "Her hair is splendid," growled Sam angrily, a little 
 o^ erdoing his praise to atone for the insult ; and lifting 
 the coil Poll was twisting, to his lips, he bestowed on 
 it a heart} 7 smack. 
 
 "Hain't you burnt you?" screeched Adeline ; and 
 Sam could scarce keep a straight face till he saw a tear 
 cloud Poll's eyes. 
 
 "You want your ears boxed," said he to Adeline, 
 between vexation and laughter.
 
 308 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " I guess it'll take more'n you to box 'em," was the 
 retort, whereupon a slight scuffle ensued ; but Ruth re- 
 marked to herself that Sam made no attempt to snatch 
 the expected kiss from Adeline, and smiled as she 
 noticed it ; while Poll knotted up her hair, and won- 
 dered at herself for Sam's sake, and coiled the "red 
 wig" tenderly, because he had praised and kissed it. 
 Forgive her, sensible reader : I own she was a little 
 fool. 
 
 Sam found his way to the sloop, and brought up the 
 little package of gifts for the girls, Adeline's red 
 ribbon, and Ruth's silver thimble, entirely overtopped 
 by the delicate collar and book of pictures for Poll. 
 But this was natural enough ; though Adeline took 
 occasion afterward to remark that he must have felt 
 pretty sure Poll would have him when he bought them, 
 a remark utterly neutralized by Poll's nd've and humble 
 " Why, of course he did." 
 
 The next morning Sam said good-by. He was going 
 to Connecticut to see his grandmother, his only near 
 relative living, and from there to join the brig. Poll 
 cried bitterly but comfortably, if one may use so un- 
 sentimental a word ; for she had a heart full of com- 
 fort, and just then it refused to face the possibility of 
 loss, and bore up bravely against the need of separa- 
 tion. 
 
 Summer was come too, and its long days of wander- 
 ing. The sea laughed again on the shore, and flung its 
 ;flower-spray over the relentless rocks till they looked 
 only strong, no longer cruel : the long grass waved in 
 soft, southern winds ; and the purple mists of the hori- 
 zon were dotted with snowy sails, emerging and fleeing 
 in incessant, silent change : and every day, that first
 
 POLL JENXTNGS'S HAIR. 309 
 
 bright week of June, Poll strained her eager eyes to 
 bee ' ' The Flying Cloud ; ' ' and every ship seemed tc 
 her the ship she watched for, till at last came news that 
 she had been spoken far out at sea by a returning 
 vessel, and after that Poll watched no more. But not 
 now could she spend her whole time in the fresh fields 
 or on the shore : grave duties impended over her, and 
 Ruth would not let them be forgotten. Ruth herself 
 had been under a mother's care when Jonas left her, 
 and been trained to those duties in the sweet anticipa- 
 tion of their exercise in a home of her own ; and it was 
 with bitter memories that she set herself to teach Poll 
 how to keep house. Cooking and washing, ironing, 
 mending, cutting out new garments, and refitting old 
 ones, might have been a dull routine to Poll before ; 
 but now it was vividly pleasant. Her imagination, that 
 hitherto, aimless and void, had wandered far and wide 
 on fair but profitless journeys, now drew down its 
 wings for a narrower and more blessed sphere. Love 
 has its own miracles, whether human or divine ; and 
 they who have known what it is to do every daily duty, 
 whether trivial or important, as for one dearest object, 
 toward whom life tends in every leaf and bough, as 
 toward the light, can best understand what the apostle 
 meant in charging his Christian flock to do all things 
 as " unto the Lord." But Poll's idol was of the earth 
 as yet. She knew and aspired no higher ; though Sam 
 Bent's own earnest, rugged, every-day religion had 
 recommended itself to her admiration and reverence 
 long ago. So she did all these things as if Sam were 
 to be directly aided and comforted by them, and soon 
 surpassed her teacher in practice as far as she ex- 
 ceeded her in mental ability ; one's mind having, aftei
 
 310 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 all, in spite of customary sneers to the contrary, an 
 effect 'on something besides literary capacity. Before 
 autumn Uncle Abe discovered that nobody on the 
 shore made chowder like Poll's, or stewed such flavor- 
 ous dishes from despised haddock and chip-dry halibut. 
 Also a tiny bit of mould that the accretion of years of 
 refuse had formed behind the house, much as it might 
 have on a coral-reef, Poll had shorn of its rank weeds, 
 dug, by means of an old fire-shovel, and planted with 
 onions, beets, and potatoes ; while in one corner 
 bloomed and thrived a daily rosebush, Sam's parting 
 token, brought from New York .by Ben Gould the day 
 after "The Flying Cloud" sailed. Those pink buds 
 told Poll a great many tender stories as she watched 
 their clean, bright petals unfold against the myrtle- 
 green leaves ; and, if care were a specific for rose- 
 bushes, this one ought to have flourished even more 
 than it did ; and before autumn there grew about it, 
 like a court about a queen, clusters of every blossom 
 that was native to the soil, and Poll's " posy-bed " was 
 brighter and fairer than many a parterre of exotics. 
 
 It is beyond the limits of fact to say, as we would 
 be glad to, that this improvement of Poll's renewed 
 her complexion, and re-dyed her hair : unfortunately, 
 they remained as rough and red as ever ; but she had 
 grown so tidy and so self-respectful, her calico dress 
 was always so clean and well-fitted, her rippling hair 
 so smooth and bright, and carefully knotted, that a 
 new attraction embellished her, and approved itself to 
 the housewifely soul of Martha, who lived up in the 
 country, not two miles from Mary, and had come 
 down this hot September "to get recruited up," as 
 she phrased it, after the labors of summer. She was
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 311 
 
 so pleased with Poll, whom she had held in the same 
 estimation that the rest bestowed on her formerly, 
 +hat she asked her to go home with her for a visit ; 
 and Full went. 
 
 But though the rich meadows and wet woods of 
 Ewefield were beautiful enough, in their green breadth 
 and October splendor, to bewitch Poll's unaccustomed 
 eyes, she felt a strange languor assail her, and a 
 sleepy sweetness in the air made it seem hard to 
 breathe. She drooped and paled, and dragged her 
 heavy feet from field to field in search of gay maple- 
 leaves and new flowers, till she was fit only to sink on 
 the doorstep when she got back, and could scarce 
 hold up her head, it ached and throbbed so hard. 
 Long before the end of her month's stay, she grew 
 homesick for the queer old cabin and the poignant 
 sea-breeze. Martha's gray farmhouse, neat and cool 
 and spare as it was, looked chill and dreary in every 
 square room and clean corner ; the dairy smells of 
 curd and cheese sickened her morbidly acute sense ; 
 the quiet of the inland pastures and hills stifled her 
 like a shroud. She could not eat, or sleep, or work, 
 and she did not know why, except that she was home- 
 sick ; and she heartily welcomed the day fixed for her 
 to go home, and wondered at herself when the sea- 
 wind failed to revive her, and her own little cot to 
 rest her aching limbs. But a day or two of increasing 
 weakness and sleeplessness revealed the secret of 
 Toll's restless manner and flushed cheek. In the steam- 
 ing meadows of Ewefield, its thick river- fogs, and 
 deep black swamps, full of rotting vegetation, lurked 
 the breath of malaria ; and a violent fever had fas- 
 tened upon Poll's unacclimated frame, and begun to
 
 312 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 waste and burn and destroy like an invading army, 
 All Ruth's simples were tried in vain ; and when the 
 redoubtable Dr. Higgs, the " nateral bone-setter," 
 who was also the sole physician of Punkintown, was 
 summoned, he pronounced Poll to be "in a most 
 vicarious condition, repugnant typhus, with a deter- 
 minacy to digestion of the brain." Perhaps his skill 
 was better than his language ; for he had, at least, 
 sense enough to forbid either bleeding or blistering, 
 as old Abe alternately begged for one or the other, 
 simply because the only sickness he ever had was 
 allayed by both. But at last Poll became so deliri- 
 ous, and the danger to her brain so great, that every 
 bit of her splendid hair was shorn, and at last shaved 
 off, and the redundant tresses laid away in a drawer, 
 perhaps, as Ruth thought, to be all Sam should find 
 when he came back from China. 
 
 Days and weeks passed by. November became 
 December, and yet Poll wrestled with the death that 
 impended over her ; for, though the fever was at 
 kngth mastered and abated, she was left in a state of 
 infantile weakness, and it required all Ruth's most 
 faithful care to keep her in life. Her mind, too, 
 seemed feeble as her body. She remembered nothing, 
 cared for nothing, but took her food and tonics, and 
 dozed away the days. But by the middle of January 
 she began to brighten, to say a few weak words, 
 though evidently Ruth and her father were her only 
 memoiies. Jn her delirium she had raved about Sam 
 and her red hair, regretted it, wept over it, and 
 caressed it, by turns, till even Adeline felt painful 
 twinges of repentance for the pain she had given the 
 poor child in times past. But now she never men-
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 3l3 
 
 tioncd Sam's name, nor alluded to her hair ; and 
 though there was a letter carefully laid away in Ruth's 
 drawer, waiting to be asked for, it seemed as if Poll 
 had forgotten but she only slept. 
 
 One warm day in February she sat up by her win- 
 dow, and her eye fell on the bare branches of the 
 little rose-tree. Something stirred in her brain, a 
 moment's painful struggle to catch the fleeting thought, 
 one moment of that exquisitely painful wandering 
 and groping darkness that assails the weak will and the 
 faded memory, and Poll remembered. Ruth saw the 
 keen agony of look that pierced her vague eyes, and 
 died out almost as quickly, to renew its spark, the 
 flushing and paling cheek, the tremulous lips, till 
 those eyes brightened into certainty, and her cheek 
 burned with a blush and a smile at once, and she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Ruth," said she, " have you heard any thing from 
 Sam?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ruth quietly, stepping to her drawer 
 for the letter, which she handed to Poll. Perhaps even 
 you, refined and well-educated reader, may forgive its 
 spelling and grammar if I venture to transcribe it over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 AT SEA. August 17th 
 DEEK POLL 
 
 This is to say I am alive And well and Hoap you enjoy the 
 saim blesing. we wayed Anker the first of June acordiug to 
 orders, and maid a Steddy run acrost the atlantick till we 
 stood off Sow-east for the cape. I now rite in hops of a Vesel 
 pasing bye I rite for to tell you agane How much I keep a 
 strate Course in my inind for the Port where you be Poll, my 
 deer I think of you evry Day and likewise when I keep Watch. 
 I seem somehow to sight the old Cabbin, and the beach-gras 
 a-shinin' all round you, where you lay when I ketched you
 
 314 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 up. deer I am no grate fist at ritin, but I want for to hev you 
 know that I aint One of that sort o' Craft that shifts their 
 flaggs in knew Places. I be as trew to my bearin's as our 
 figger-head and I allays rekollects your Bewtiful hare when I 
 see the Risin Sun acrost the sea. So no more at Pressent from 
 your loving frend to Command SAM BENT 
 
 Tears of pleasure filled Poll's eyes as she read ; but, 
 when she came to the last line, a sudden paleness 
 swept across her face. She put up her hand gropingly 
 to her head : it was smooth and soft as a mouse-skin. 
 " Ruth," said she eagerly, " where is it? " 
 
 Ruth had watched her, and answered, as if to a more 
 definite question, " We had to cut it off when you were 
 so sick, Poll : you wouldn't have got well without." 
 
 Poll lay back in her chair, faint and sick. She said 
 nothing at first ; but the slow, hot tears rolled down 
 her cheeks, and her wan face gathered a look of pain 
 that was sad to see. The thought that smote her so 
 bitterly was all of Sam : what would he say ? Her 
 hair, that was " the prettiest thing about her," that he 
 thought of so far away, that he would want to see. 
 How she must look ! And with that came a strange 
 desire to see herself. She sat up, and asked Ruth to 
 get her some tea. A little stratagem only ; for, when 
 she left the room, Poll got up and tottered to the glass 
 that hung by the window. Poor Poll ! the spectacle 
 was not pleasant, a thin white face, eyes bigger than 
 ever, and the small head in that ugly transition from 
 no hair, when any color of a coming crop seems only 
 slaty gray fom its extreme shortness. Poll turned 
 away : she was altogether humiliated. Surely she might 
 give up Sam now and forever, for the only attraction 
 she had possessed was gone, and she was actually re-
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 315 
 
 pulsive besides. She was too weak to -be passionately 
 disappointed ; but she laid herself on the bed like a 
 grieved and tired child, and cried herself to sleep. 
 
 A vainer or a more selfish woman might have fretted 
 and brooded over her trouble till the fever had re- 
 turned with fatal consequences ; but Poll was too 
 absorbed in Sam and his future to give so much 
 thought to her own. She wept bitterly for days over 
 her loss and his, but from the first accepted it as a 
 fact that Sam could not love her when he came back, 
 and tried earnestly to accustom herself to the belief. 
 And she succeeded very well till it occurred to her one 
 day that he would marry somebody else, perhaps Ade- 
 line, and then Poll found she had not sounded her 
 trouble before : she could no more face that thought 
 than she could the looking-glass, which she had never 
 looked into from that day when she first saw herself. 
 But the weeks did not stop to look at her, or to pity 
 Sam Bent. 
 
 Spring came stealing on with steady advance, and 
 Poll's naturally tenacious constitution revived in the 
 soft airs and breezes. Her best consolation was her 
 old out-of-door haunts ; and, though she was now ha- 
 bitually sad and silent, she did not mope or cry, though 
 Ruth wondered why she withdrew herself more and 
 more from her housekeeping duties, and even remon- 
 strated with her, to no effect except saddening her 
 more deeply, or bringing about a brief spasm of effort. 
 
 But Poll might have looked into the glass by the 
 middle of May with good effect. The long fever had 
 either renovated some torpid function of her skin, or 
 the long confinement to the house softened and soothed 
 its habitual inflammation ; for now it was smooth and
 
 816 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 fair as a child's, and every breeze brought to it a light 
 bloom like a wild-rose petal. Her lips were reddened 
 with healthy crimson, and her broad white brow had 
 lost its burned and tanned look, for she had now to 
 keep on her sun-bonnet, missing the heavy covering 
 of her hah-. Yet, to tell the truth, its loss was an 
 embellishment ; for her head was covered with thick 
 soft rings and curls of the richest chestnut, glossy as 
 the new skin of that nut, and fine as floss. Nothing 
 prettier could have crowned her forehead, and shaded 
 so beautifully with her eyes of the same tint, a shade 
 darker, but softened and deepened by suffering and 
 emotion. There was nobody to tell Poll all this. 
 Kuth was glad her red hair had gone ; but she did 
 not say so for fear of hurting her feelings, and old Abe 
 did not understand any beauty but the type of sturdy 
 figures, red cheeks, and black eyes, a type rather 
 forced on his admiration by repetition, till he pre- 
 ferred it from habit. Adeline had been gone since 
 March to see Nancy at Madison, and nobody ever 
 came to the hut whom Poll was willing to see now : so 
 she kept by herself, and waited with sad patience for 
 Sam's coming, that she might tell him what she 
 expected, and have it over with. 
 
 But one rarely does just what they mean to do be- 
 forehand ; and " The Flying Cloud " was safe in New 
 York, without Poll's hearing of her arrival, for two 
 days ; and Poll herself, sitting in her low chair, read- 
 ing, was "taken all aback," as her father said, one 
 bright June morning, by the heavy " thud " of a box 
 set down on the sill of the door, and the quick jump of 
 a man over it. 
 
 "Why, Poll! " said Sam, after the first unrcsisted
 
 POLL JENNTNGS'S HAIR. 317 
 
 kissing was over, holding her off to look at her, ''I 
 shouldn't ha' known you ! " 
 
 "No, I guess not," said Poll, with quivering lips. 
 "My hair is all gone, and and Sam, I look so I 
 know ' ' 
 
 "Look so!" interrupted ,Sam : "I guess you do! 
 Why, you've ben and got made over ! " 
 
 "O Sam, don't!" said she. Somehow it was 
 harder to bear than she had expected ; and the tears 
 would come as she went on, "I know I am as humly 
 as a crab ; but I sha'n't feel hard about you, Sam. I 
 know you can't love me. I I" Here came a 
 big sob. 
 
 " Jethuuderation ! " roared Sam, getting up his big- 
 gest expletive, "you, humly? You're handsomer'n 
 a picture this minnit. Why, Poll ! " 
 
 'Sam!" said she indignantly, "don't! Do you 
 think 1 don't know? " 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Sam. "Hold hard a bit!" 
 With which little exhortation he put her down, and 
 went to his chest. Out of its capacious interior he 
 drew a great bundle done up in folds of canvas, wads 
 of cotton, and wrappings of Chinese paper, which at 
 last peeled off under his clumsy fingers, and displayed 
 the prettiest little dressing-case of black lacker, stud- 
 ded with gold flowers and butterflies, its four drawers 
 surmounted by an oval mirror in a frame of the same 
 material. Sam triumphantly hoisted the whole of the 
 affair on the top of the bureau, and, catching up Poll 
 in his arms, held her up, and asked her to look. Oh, 
 what a pretty vision was there ! a fair sweet face, 
 with a deep glow on either cheek, its tender, panting 
 mouth just parted over little snow-white teeth, its
 
 318 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 great brown eyes moist and bright with the tears they 
 had but just shed, and a head wreathed with silky 
 ringlets whose coils caught the light with a bronze 
 lustre as lovely as rare. The blue-check dress and 
 white ruffle identified her. 
 
 " Why ! " said Poll with a little start. 
 
 " You mean to say that a' n't hansum? " triumphant- 
 ly asked Sam. 
 
 "I didn't know I looked like that" was the na've 
 answer. 
 
 "Don't you never look in the glass? " returned he. 
 
 "I haven't since I was sick, but once," said Poll, 
 dropping her head. 
 
 "Here's a reef!" said Sam, light beginning to 
 dawn on his mind. ' ' Well, I am some took aback 
 myself. I don't think a poor seafarin' man like me 
 had oughter ask sech a three-decker to marry him. 
 Poll, I b'lieve I must haul down my flag : I can't 
 expect you to keer for me now." 
 
 Poll turned round, and looked at him : there was no 
 mistaking the sparkle of that deep gray eye. Poll 
 dropped her head on his shoulder. She could hear the 
 light laughter he had repressed now. 
 
 "O Sam," said she, nestling still closer to his 
 cheek, "I'm so glad ! " 
 
 The black lacker dressing-case, somewhat worn and 
 tarnished, stands now in the "spare chamber" of a 
 tiny gray house at the foot of a Squamkeag Light- 
 house ; for Ben Gould was drowned, and Sam got his 
 situation. In the upper drawer of the pretty luxury 
 a mass of red hair, long and wavy, is coiled away, and 
 tied up with an Indian ribbon that smells of sandal-
 
 POLL JENNINGS'S HAIR. 819 
 
 wood ; but Poll Jennings's hair has grown again clown 
 to the hem of her dress, and its beautiful coil is as 
 bright as ever, though no longer red. Sam offers tc 
 get a divorce now and then, on account of his " hum- 
 liness ; " but at the last advices his offer was not yet 
 accepted "on account of the children," Poll de- 
 murely says.
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY 
 WITH PROVIDENCE. 
 
 A STORY OF OLD NEW ENGLAND. 
 I. 
 
 AUNT HULDY and Aunt Hannah sat in the kitchen, 
 Aunt Huldah bolt upright in a straight-backed wooden 
 chair, big silver-bowed spectacles astride her high nose, 
 sewing carpet-rags with such energy that her eyes 
 snapped, and her brown, wrinkled fingers flew back and 
 forth like the spokes of a rapid wheel ; Aunt Hannah 
 in a low, creaky old rocker, knitting diligently but 
 placidly, and rocking gently. You could almost hear 
 her purr, and you wanted to stroke her ; but Aunt 
 Huldah ! an electric machine could not be less desira- 
 ble to handle than she, or a chestnut-burr pricklier. 
 
 The back-log simmered and sputtered ; the hickory- 
 sticks in front shot up bright, soft flames ; and through 
 the two low, green-paned windows the pallid sun of 
 February sent in a pleasant shining on to the clean 
 kitchen-floor. Cooking-stoves were not made then, 
 nor Merrimac calicoes. The two old women had stuff 
 petticoats and homespun short-gowns, clean mob-caps 
 over their decent gray hair, and big blue-check aprons : 
 hair-dye, wigs, flowered chintz, and other fineries had 
 not reached the lonely farms of Dorset in those days 
 
 320
 
 FREEDOM w HEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 321 
 
 " Spinsters " was uot a mere name. The big wool 
 wheel stood in one corner of the kitchen, and a littk 
 flax-wheel by the window. In summer both would be 
 moved to the great garret, where it was cool and out of 
 the way. 
 
 " Gurus, ain't it?" said Aunt Huldah. "Freedom 
 never come home before, later'n nine-o'clock bell, and 
 he' was mortal mighty then ; kep' his tongue between 
 his teeth same way he did to breakfast this mornin'. 
 There's suthin' a-goin' on, Hanner, you may depend 
 on't." 
 
 " Mabbe he needs some wormwood-tea," said Aunt 
 Hannah, who, like Miss Hannah More, thought the only 
 two evils in the world were sin and bile, and charitably 
 preferred to lay things first to the physical disorder. 
 
 "I clu b'lieve, Hanner, you think 'riginal sin is 
 nothin' but a bad stomick." 
 
 " Ef 'tain't 'riginal sin, it's actual transgression 
 pretty often, Huldy," returned the placid old lady with 
 a gentle cackle. The Assembly's Catechism had been 
 ground into them both, as any old-fashioned New-Eng- 
 lauder will observe, and they quoted its forms of speech, 
 as Boston people do Emerson's Essays, by " an auto- 
 matic action of the unconscious nervous centres." 
 
 The door opened, and Freedom walked in, scraping 
 his boots upon the husk-mat, as a man will who has 
 lived all his clays with two old maids, but nevertheless 
 spreading abroad in that clean kitchen an odor of the 
 barn that spoke of " chores," yet did not disturb the 
 accustomed nostrils of his aunts. He was a middle- 
 sized, rather "stocky" man, with a round head well 
 covered with tight-curling short hair, that revenged 
 itself for being cut too short to curl by standing on end
 
 322 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 toward every point of the compass. You could not 
 call him a common-looking man : something in his keen 
 blue eye, abrupt nose, steady mouth, and square chin, 
 always made a stranger look at him twice. Rugged 
 sense, but more rugged obstinacy, shrewdness, keen 
 perception, tempered somewhat by a certain kindliness 
 that he himself felt to be his weak spot, all these 
 were to be read in Freedom Wheeler's well-bronzed 
 face, sturdy figure, positive speech, and blunt manner. 
 
 He strode up to the fireplace, sat down in an arm- 
 chair rudely shaped out of wood by his own hands, and 
 plunged, after his fashion, at once into the middle of 
 things. 
 
 "Aunt Huldy and Aunt Hanner, I'm a-goin' to git 
 married." The domestic bombshell burst in silence. 
 Aunt Hannah dropped a stitch, and couldn't see to pick 
 it up for at least a minute. Aunt Huldah's scissors 
 snipped at the rags with a vicious snap, as if they were 
 responsible agents, and she would end their proceedings 
 then and there: presently she said, "Well, I am 
 beat!" To which rather doubtful utterance Freedom 
 made no reply, and the scissors snipped harder yet. 
 
 Aunt Hannah recovered herself first. "Well, I'm 
 real glad on't," purred she. It was her part to do the 
 few amenities of the family. 
 
 " I dono whether I be or not, till I hear who 'tis," 
 dryly answered Aunt Huldah, who was obviously near 
 akin to Freedom. 
 
 "It's Lowly Mallory," said the short-spoken nephew, 
 who by this time was whittling busily at a peg for his 
 ox-yoke. 
 
 " Du tell ! " said Aunt Hannah in her lingering, de- 
 liberate tones, the words running into each other as
 
 FEEEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 323 
 
 isne spoke. " She's jest's clever's the day is long. 
 You've done a good thing, Freedom, 's sure's you 
 live." 
 
 "He might ha' donewuss: that's a fact." And 
 with this approval Freedom seemed satisfied ; for he 
 brushed his chips into the fire, ran his fingers through 
 his already upright hair, eyed his peg with the keen 
 aspect of a critic in pegs, and went off to the barn. 
 He knew instinctively that his aunts must have a chance 
 to talk the matter over. 
 
 " This is the beateree ! " exclaimed Aunt Huldah as 
 the door shut after him. "Lowly Mallory, of all 
 creturs ! Freedom's as masterful as though he was 
 the Lord above, by natur ; and ef he gets a leetle softly 
 cretur like that, without no more grit'n a November 
 chicken, he'll ride right over every thing, and she won't 
 darst to peep nor mutter a mite. Good land ! " 
 
 "Well, well," murmured Aunt Hannah, "she is a 
 kind o' feeble piece, but she's real clever ; an' -I dono 
 but what it's as good as he could do. Ef she was like 
 to him, hard-headed, 'n' sot in her way, I tell ye, 
 Iluldy, the fur'd fly mightily ; and it's putty bad to 
 have fight to home when there's a fanj'ly to fetch up." 
 
 ' - Well, you be f orecastin' , I must say, Hanner ; but 
 mabbe you're abaout right. Besides, I've obsarved 
 that folks will marry to suit themselves, not other peo- 
 ple. An' mabbe it's the best way, seein' it's their own 
 loss or likin' more'n anybody else's." 
 
 "But, Huldy, 'pears as if you'd forgot one thing: 
 I expect we'd better be a-movin' out into the old house, 
 ef there's goin' to be more folks here." 
 
 " Well, I declare ! I never thought on't. "Tis best, 
 I guess. I wonder ef Freedom's got the idee."
 
 324 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Idono. But that hadn't oughter makj no differ- 
 ence. There never was a house big enough for two 
 families ; an', ef we go before we're oblceged to, it's a 
 sight better'n stayin' till we be." 
 
 "That's so, Hanner: you allers was a master-hand 
 for takin' things right end foremost. I'll sort out our 
 linen right off, 'nd set by our furnitoor into the back- 
 chamber. I guess 'the old house '11 want a leetle 
 paintin' an' scrapin'. It's dreadful lucky Amasy 
 Flint's folks moved to Noppit last week: seems as 
 though there was a Providence about it." 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder ef Freedom had give 'em a 
 sort o' hint to go, Huldy." 
 
 " Well, you do beat all ! I presume likely he did." 
 
 And Aunt Huldah picked up the rags at her feet, 
 piled them into a splint basket, hung the shears on a 
 steel chain by her side, and lifting her tall, gaunt figure 
 from the chair, betook herself up stairs. But Aunt 
 Hannah kept on knitting. She was the thinker, and 
 Huldah the doer, of the family. Now her thoughts ran 
 before her to the coming change, and she sighed ; for 
 she knew her nephew thoroughly, and she pitied the 
 gentle, sweet nature that was to come in contact with 
 his. 
 
 Dear Aunt Hannah ! She had never had any ro- 
 mance in her own life : she did not know any thing 
 about love, except as the placid and quite clear-eyed 
 affection she felt for Freedom, who was her only near 
 relation, and she saw little Lowly Mallory's future on 
 its hardest side. But she could not help it ; and her 
 nature was one that never frets against a difficulty, any 
 more than the green tr.rf beats against the rock to 
 whose cdgj it clings.
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 325 
 
 So the slow, sad New-England spring, with storm 
 aud tempest, drifting snows and beating rains, worked 
 its reluctant way into May. And when the lilacs 
 were' full of purple and white plumes, delicate as cut 
 coral sprays, and luscious with satiating odor, and the 
 heavy-headed daffodils thrust golden locks upward from 
 the sward, Aunt Huldah and Aunt Hannah moved 
 their wool-wheel and their flax-wheel, the four stiff- 
 backed chairs, the settle and big red chest, the high 
 four- post bedstead, and the two rush-bottomed rockers 
 that had been Grandsir Wheeler's, back into the small 
 red house, for which these furnishings had been pur- 
 chased sixty years before, laid the rag-carpet, that 
 Aunt Huldah had sewed and dyed and woven, on the 
 " settin'-room floor, and, with a barrel of potatoes and 
 a keg of salt pork, went to housekeeping. 
 
 There was some home-made linen belonging to them, 
 and a few cups and dishes, also a feather-bed, and a 
 pair of blankets. Freedom kept them supplied with 
 what necessaries they wanted, and, though he was 
 called ' ' dreadful near ' ' in the town , he was not an 
 unjust man. His two aunts had taken him in charge, 
 an orphan at six, and been faithful and kind to him 
 all his days, and he could do no less than care for 
 them now. Beside, they owned half the farm, and 
 though one was fifty-six, and the other fifty-eight, there 
 was much hard work left in them yet. Aunt Huldah 
 was a skilful tailoress, in demand for miles about ; and 
 Aunt Hannah was the best sick-nurse in the county. 
 They would not suffer : and, truth to tell, they rather 
 eujoyed the independence of their own house ; for Free- 
 dom and Aunt Huldah were chips of the same block, 
 and only Aunt Hannah's constant, quiet restraint and
 
 826 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 peace-makiag kept the family tolerably harmonious. 
 And in the farmhouse a new reign began, the reign 
 of Queen Log. 
 
 Lowly Mallory was a fragile, slender, delicate 'girl, 
 with sweet gray eyes and plenty of brown hair ; pale 
 as a spring anemone, with just such faint pinkness in 
 her lips and on her high cheek-bones as tints that pen- 
 sile, egg-shaped bud, when its 
 
 " Small flower layeth 
 Its fairy gein beneath some giant tree " 
 
 on the first warm days of May. She had already the 
 line of care that marks New-England women across the 
 forehead, like a mark of Cain, the signal of a life in 
 which work has murdered health and joy and freedom ; 
 for Lowly was the oldest of ten children, and her 
 mother was bed-ridden. Lovina was eighteen now, 
 and could take her place ; and Lowly loved Freedom 
 with the reticent, undemonstrative affection of her race 
 and land : moreover, she was glad of change, of rest. 
 Rest! much of that awaited her! Freedom's first 
 step after the decorous wedding and home-coming was 
 to buy ten cows he had two already and two dozen 
 new milk-pans. 
 
 "I calkerlate we can sell a good lot of butter 'n' 
 cheese down to Dartford, Lowly," he said, on intro- 
 ducing her to the new dairy he had fitted up at one end 
 of the woodshed ; and, if the gentle creature's heart 
 sank within her at the prospect, she did not say so, and 
 Freedom never asked how she liked it. He was " mas- 
 terful " indeed ; and having picked out Lowly from all 
 the other Dorset girls, because she was a still and hard- 
 working maiden, and would neither rebel against nor
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 327 
 
 criticise his edicts, he took it for granted things would 
 go on as he wished. 
 
 Poor little Lowly ! Her simple, tender heart went 
 out to her husband like a vine feeling after a trellis ; 
 and, even when she found it was only a bowlder that 
 chilled and repelled her slight ardors and timid ca- 
 resses, she did still what the vine does, flung herself 
 across and along the granite faces of the rock, and 
 turned her trembling blossoms sunward, where life and 
 light were free and sure. 
 
 Aunt Huldah and Aunt Hannah soon grew to be her 
 ministering angels ; and if they differed from the gold- 
 haired, pink-enamelled, straight-nosed creations of Fra 
 Angelico, and would have figured ill, in their short- 
 gowns and mob-caps, bowing before an ideal Ma- 
 donna, Lowly wanted no better tendance and providing 
 than they gave her, when in due season there appeared 
 in the farmhouse a red and roaring baby, evidently pat- 
 terned after his father, morally as well as physically ; 
 the white down on his raw pink head twisting into tight 
 kinks, and his stubby fists set in as firm a grasp as 
 ever Freedom's big brown paws were. Lowly was a 
 happy little woman : she had loved children always, and 
 here was one all her own. .Two weeks were dreamed 
 away in rest and rapture ; then Freedom began to bus- 
 tle and fret, and growl about the neglected dairy, and 
 the rusty pork, and the hens that wanted care. 
 
 " Don't ye s'pose she'll git 'raound next week, Aunt 
 Huldy? Things is gittin' dredful behind-hand!" 
 Freedom had left the bedroom-door open on purpose. 
 Aunt Huldah got up, and shut it with a slam, while 
 he went on: "Them hens had oughter be set, 'n' I 
 never git tune to be a half a drfy prowlin' araound after
 
 328 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 'em : they've stole their nests, I expect, the hull tribe ; 
 'nd Hepsy don't make butter to compare along-side o' 
 Lowly's ; then there's that 'ere pork a-gittin' rusty, 'n' 
 Aunt Hanner, she's over to Mallory's, nussin' Loviny, 
 so's't I can't call on you ; 'n' it doos seem's though 
 two weeks was a plenty for well folks to lie in bed." 
 
 Here Aunt Huldah exploded: "Freedom Wheeler, 
 you hain't got a mite o' compassion into ye ! Lowly 
 ain't over 'n' above powerful, anyway : she'll break 
 clear down ef she ain't real keerful ; mabbe I ain't" 
 
 The shutting of the back-door stopped her tirade. 
 "While she hunted in a table-drawer for her thimble, 
 Freedom had coolly walked off : he did not choose to 
 argue the subject. But next day Lowly got up, and 
 was dressed. There were two lines across the sad, low 
 forehead now, but she went about her work in silence. 
 There is a type of feminine character that can endure 
 to the edge of death, and endure silently, and that 
 character was eminently hers. 
 
 "Good little feller, so he was, as ever was ; there, 
 there, there 1 should be cuddled up good 'n' warm, so 
 he should," Aunt Hannah purred to the small boy a 
 month after, seeing him for the first time, as she had 
 been taking care of Loyina Mallory through a low 
 fever, when he was born. 
 
 " "What be ye a-goin' to call him, Freedom? " 
 
 "I calkerlate he'll be baptized Shearjashub. There's 
 allus ben a Shearjashub 'nd a Freedom amongst our 
 folks. I've heered Grandsir Wheeler tell on't more'n 
 forty times, how the' was them two names away back 
 as fur as there's gravestones to tell on't down to Litch- 
 field meetin' -house, 'nd back o' that in the old grave- 
 yard to Har'ford. I eipect this here feller'll be called
 
 FREEDOM WHEELEE'S CONTEOVEESY. 329 
 
 Shearjashub, 'nd the next one Freedom : that's the 
 way they've allus run." 
 
 "For the land's sakes ! " sputtered Aunt Huldah. 
 " I was in hopes you hadn't got that notion inter your 
 head. Why can't ye call the child some kind o' pootty 
 Scripter name, like David, or Samwell, or Eber, 'nd 
 not set him a-goin' with a kite's tail like that tied on tr : 
 him?" 
 
 " I guess what's ben good 'nough for our folks time 
 out o' mind'll be good 'nough for him," stiffly answered 
 Freedom. And Aunt Huldah, with inward rage, ac- 
 cepted the situation, and went out to the barn to help 
 Lowly set some refractory hens, where she found the 
 poor little woman, with suspiciously red eyes, counting 
 eggs on a corner of the hay-mow. 
 
 "Banner's come, Lowly," said she, "so she's got 
 baby, 'nd I come out to give ye a lift about them hens. 
 I've ben a-dealin' with Freedom about that there 
 child's name ; but you might jest as well talk to White 
 Rock : I will say for't he's the sottest man I ever see. 
 I b'lieve he'd set to to fight his own way out with the 
 Lord above, if he hed to." 
 
 Lowly gave a little plaintive smile, but, after the 
 manner of her sex, took her husband's part. " Well, 
 you see, Aunt Huldy, it's kind o' nateral he should 
 want to foller his folks's ways. I don't say but what 
 I did want to call baby Eddard, for my little brother 
 that died. I set great store by Eddy," here Low- 
 ly's checked apron wiped a certain mist from her 
 patient eyes, "and 'twould ha' been my mind to 
 call him for Eddy ; but Freedom don't feel to, and you 
 know Scripter says wives must be subject to husbands." 
 
 "Hm! " sniffed Aunt Huldah, who was lost to the
 
 330 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 strong-minded party of her sex by being born before 
 its creation, " Scripter has a good deal to answer 
 f or ! " with which enigmatical and shocking remark, 
 she turned, and pounced upon the nearest hen. Poor 
 old hen ! She evidently represented a suffering ami 
 abject sex to Aunt Huldah, and exasperated her ac- 
 cordingly. Do I not know ? Have not I, weakly and 
 meekly protesting against their ways and works, also 
 been hustled and bustled by the Rights Women? 
 even as this squawking, crawking, yellow biddy was 
 fluffed and cuffed and shaken up by Aunt Huldah, and 
 plunged at last, in spite of nips and pecks and screaks, 
 into the depths of a barrel, the head wedged on above 
 her, and the unwilling matron condemmed to solitary 
 confinement, with hard labor, on thirteen eggs ! 
 
 So Freedom had his way, of course ; and Lowly 
 went on, with the addition of a big naughty baby to 
 take care of, waking before light to get her " chores " 
 out of the way, prepare breakfast, skim cream, strain 
 new milk and set it, scald pans, churn, work and put 
 down butter, feed pigs and hens, bake, wash, iron, 
 scrub, mend, make, nurse baby, fetch wood from the 
 shed, and water from the well, a delicate, bending, 
 youthful figure, with hands already knotted, and shoul- 
 ders bowed by hard work ; her sole variety of a week- 
 day being when one kind of pie gave place to another, 
 or when the long winter evenings, with dim light of 
 tallow candles, made her spinning shorter, and her 
 sewing longer. 
 
 For Sundays were scarce a rest : breakfast was as 
 early, milk as abundant, on that day as on any other ; 
 and then there was a five-mile ride to meeting, for 
 which ample lunch must be prepared, since they
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 331 
 
 staid at noon ; there was baby to dress, and her own 
 Sunday clothes to put on, in which stiff and unaccus- 
 tomed finery she sat four mortal hours, with but the 
 brief interval of nooning, on a hard and comfortless 
 seat, and then home again to get the real dinner of 
 the day, to feed her pigs and hens, to get the clamor- 
 ous baby quiet : this was hardly rest. And snmm^ 
 that brings to overstrained nerves and exhausted 
 muscles the healing of sun, sweet winds, fresh air, 
 and the literal "balm of a thousand flowers " only 
 heralded to her the advent of six strong hungry men 
 at haying, shearing, and reaping time, with extra 
 meals, increased washing, and, of course, double 
 fatigue. Yet this is the life that was once the doom 
 of all New-England farmers' wives ; the life that sent 
 them to early graves, to mad-houses, to suicide ; the 
 life that is so beautiful in the poet's numbers, so terri- 
 ble in its stony, bloomless, oppressive reality. It 
 would have been hard to tell if Lowly was glad or 
 sorry, when, on a soft day in June, Aunt Hannah, 
 this time at home, was hurriedly called from the red 
 house to officiate as doctor and nurse both at the arriv- 
 al of another baby. This time, Freedom growled and 
 scowled by himself in the kitchen, instead of conde- 
 scending to look at and approve the child ; for it was 
 a girl. 
 
 Aunt Hannah chuckled in her sleeve. Freedom had 
 intimated quite frankly that this child was to be 
 called after himself, nothing doubting but that another 
 boy was at hand ; and great was his silent rage at the 
 disappointment. 
 
 " Imperdent, ain't it?" queried Aunt Huldah, who 
 sat by the kitchen-fire stirring a mess of Indian-meal
 
 332 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 porridge. " To think it darst to be a girl when ye was 
 so sot on its turnin' out a boy ! Seems as though Provi- 
 dence got the upper hand on ye, Freedom, arter all ! " 
 
 But Freedom never gave retort to Aunt Huldah. He 
 had been brought up in certain superstitions, quite 
 obsolete now, about respecting his elders ; and, though 
 the spirit was wanting sometimes, the letter of the law 
 had observance. He could rage at Aunt Huldah pri- 
 vately, but before her he held his tongue. It was his 
 wife who suffered as the sinner should for disturbing 
 his plans hi this manner. He snubbed her, he despised 
 the baby, and forthwith bought two more cows, with 
 the grim remark, " Ef I've got to fetch up a pack o* 
 girls, I guess I'd better scratch around 'n' make a 
 leetle more money." 
 
 But, if the new baby was an eyesore to Freedom, 
 she was a delight to Lowly. All the more because 
 her father ignored and seemed to dislike her, the afflu- 
 ent mother-heart flowed out upon her. She was a coo- 
 ing, clinging, lovely little creature ; and when, worn 
 out with her day's work, Lowly had at last coaxed her 
 cross, teething boy to sleep, and she sat down in the 
 old creaky rocker to nurse and tend her baby, the 
 purest joy that earth knows stole over her like 
 the tranquil breath of heaven. The touch of tiny fin- 
 gers on her breast ; the warm shining head against her 
 heart ; the vague baby-smile and wandering eyes that 
 neither the wistfulness of doubt, the darkness of grief, 
 nor the fire of passion, clouded as yet ; the inarticulate 
 murmurs of satisfaction ; the pressure of the little help- 
 less form upon her lap ; the silent, ardent tenderness 
 that awoke and burned in her own heart for this pre- 
 cious creature, all made for the weary woman a daily
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 333 
 
 oasis of peace and beauty that perhaps saved her 
 brain from that common insanity we call nervousness, 
 and her body from utter exhaustion ; for happiness is 
 a medicine of God's own sending : no quack has ever 
 pretended to dispense its potent and beneficent cordial ; 
 and the true, honest physician, he whose very profes- 
 sion is the nearest approach to that of the Saviour and 
 Healer of men, knows well that one drop of the only 
 elixir he cannot bring outweighs all he can. Shearja- 
 shub grew up to the height of three years, and the baby 
 toddled about, and chattered like a merry chipping- 
 bird, when, one Fast Day morning, Lowly staid at 
 home from meeting with a sinking heart, and Aunt 
 Hannah was sent for again. Freedom went off to 
 hear the usual sermon, on a pretence of taking Shear- 
 jashub out of the way ; he being irrepressible except by 
 his father, whom alone he feared. Mother and aunts 
 the youngster manfully defied and scorned ; but the 
 very sound of his father's steps reduced him to silence. 
 Shingles were not out of fashion then as a means of 
 discipline ; and the hot tingle of the application dwelt 
 vividly in the boy's mind ever since he had been 
 ' ' tuned mightily, ' ' as his father phrased it, for dis- 
 obedience and obstinacy ; Aunt Huldah's comment at 
 the first punishment being, ' ' Hemlock all three on 
 'em, man an' boy an' shingle : it's tough to tell 
 which '11 beat." 
 
 Little Love staid at home with old Hepsy, and prat- 
 tled all day long in the kitchen. Lowly could not 
 spare the sweet voice from her hearing, and she had 
 need of all its comfort : for, when Freedom came home 
 from Dorset Centre, a great girl- baby lay by Lowly in 
 the bed ; and if its welcome from the mother had leen
 
 334 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 bitter tears, whose traces still shone on her wan face, 
 from the father came far bitterer words, curses in all 
 but the wording ; for Freedom was a ' l professor, ' ' and 
 profanity was a sin. Mint and anise and cumin he 
 tithed scrupulously ; but mercy and judgment fled from 
 him, and hid their shamefaced heads. Aunt Huldah 
 and Aunt Hannah made their tansy-pudding that day. 
 after the custom of their forefathers, and ate it with 
 unflinching countenances ; but Lowly fasted in her 
 secret soul ; and since her husband grimly remarked, 
 " 'Tain't nothin' to me what ye call her: gals ain't 
 worth naim'n' anyhow!" the new baby was baptized 
 Marah, and behaved herself neither with the uproarious 
 misconduct of Shearjashub, nor the gentle sweetness of 
 Love, but, quite in defiance of her name, was the mer- 
 riest, maddest little grig that could be, afraid of noth- 
 ing and nobody, but as submissive to Lovey as a lamb 
 could be, and full of fight when Shearjashub intruded 
 himself on her domains. For this baby was a sturdy, 
 rosy girl of three, before the fourth appeared. Lowly 
 by this time had fallen into a listless carelessness 
 toward her husband, that was simply the want of all 
 spring in a long down-trodden heart. Lovey alone 
 could stir her to tears or smiles. Marah tired and 
 tormented her with her restless and overflowing vitality, 
 though she loved her dearly ; and her boy was big 
 enough now to cling a little to "mother," and reward 
 her for her faithful patience and care : but Lovey was 
 the darling of her secret heart ; and, being now five 
 years old, the little maid waited on mother like a 
 cherub on a saint, ran of errands, wound yarn, and did 
 many a slight task in the kitchen that saved Lowly 'a 
 bent and weary fingers.
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 385 
 
 It was with an impotent rage beyond speech that Free- 
 dom took the birth of another daughter, a frail, tiny 
 creature, trembling and weak as a new-born lamb in a 
 snow-drift, but for that very reason rousing afresh iu 
 Lowly 's breast the eternal floods of mother-love, the 
 only love that never fails among all earthly passions, 
 the only patience that is never weary, the sole true and 
 abiding trust for the helpless creatures who come into 
 life as waifs from the great misty ocean to find a shel- 
 ter or a grave. Lowly was not only a mother accord- 
 ing to the flesh, for there are those whose maternity 
 goes no further, and there are childless women who 
 have the motherliness that could suffice for a countless 
 brood, but she had, too, the real heart : she clung to 
 her weakling with a fervor and assertion that disgusted 
 Freedom, and astounded Aunt Huldah, who, like the 
 old Scotch woman, sniffed at the idea of children in 
 heaven: "No, no! a hantle o' weans there! an' me 
 that could never abide bairns onywhere ! I'll no believe 
 it." 
 
 "It doos beat all, Hanner, to see her take to that 
 skinny, miser'ble little crittur ! The others was kind 
 o' likely, all on 'em ; but this is the dreadfulest weakly, 
 peeked thing I ever see. I should think she'd be sick 
 on't." 
 
 ' ' I expect mothers anyway them that's real 
 motherly, Huldy thinks the most of them that needs 
 it the most. I've seen women with children quite a 
 spell now, beiii' out nussiu' 'round, an' I allers notice 
 that the sickly ones gets the most lovin' an' cuddlin'. 
 I s'pose it : s the same kind o' fcelin' the Lord hez for 
 sinners : they want him a sight more'n the 
 dc "
 
 336 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " Why, Hanner Wheeler, what be you a-thinkin 
 of ! Where's your Catechis' ? Ain't all men by natei 
 under the wrath an' cuss o' God 'cause they be fallen 
 sinners? And here you be a-makin' out he likes 'em 
 bcttcr'n good folks." 
 
 " Well, Huldy, I warn't a-thinkin' of Catechisir : I 
 was a-thinkin' about what it sez in the Bible." 
 
 Here the new baby cried ; and Aunt Huldah, con- 
 founded but unconvinced, gave a loud sniff, and earned 
 off Shear jashub and Marah to the red house, where 
 their fights and roars and general insubordination soon 
 restored her faith in the Catechism. 
 
 Lowly got up very slowly from little Phoebe's birth ; . 
 and Freedom grumbled loud and long over the expense 
 of keeping Hepsy a month in the kitchen. But his wife 
 did not care now : a dumb_and sudden endurance pos- 
 sessed her. She prayed night and morning, with a cer- 
 tain monomaniac persistence, that she and Lovey and 
 the baby might die ; but she did her work just as faith- 
 fully and silently as ever, and stole away at night to lie 
 down on the little cot-bed in the back- chamber by 
 Lovey and Marah, her hot cheek against the cool, soft 
 face of her darling, and the little hand hid deep in her 
 bosom, for an hour of rest and sad peace. 
 
 Freedom, meanwhile, worked all day on the farm, 
 and carried Shear jashub, whose oppressive name had 
 lapsed into Bub, into wood and field with him ; taught 
 him to drive the oxen, to hunt hens' nests in the barn 
 on the highest mow, to climb trees, in short to risk his 
 neck however he could " to make a man of him ; " and 
 the boy learned, among other manly ways, a sublime 
 contempt for " gals," and a use of all the forcible 
 words permitted to masculine tongues. But Shear-
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 337 
 
 jashub's sceptre was about to tremble. Little Phoabe 
 had lingered in this world through a year of fluttering 
 life, when another baby was announced ; but this time it 
 was a boy! small even to Phoebe's first size, pallid, 
 lifeless almost, but still a boy. 
 
 "By Jinks!" exclaimed Freedom, his hard face 
 glowing with pleasure. "I told ye so, Aunt Huldy! 
 There's bound to be a Freedom Wheeler in this house, 
 whether or no." 
 
 " Hm ! " said Aunt Huldah. "You call to mind old 
 Hepsy Tinker, don't ye? she that was a-goin' to Har'- 
 ford a Tuesday, Providence permitting an' Wednesday 
 whether or no. Mabbe ye'll live to wish ye hadn't fit 
 with the Lord's will the way ye hev." 
 
 " I've got a boy, anyhow," was the grim exultant 
 answer. " And he'll be Freedom Wheeler afore night ; 
 for I'm a-goin' to fetch the parson right off." 
 
 Strenuously did Parson Pitcher object to private 
 baptism : but he was an old man now ; and Freedom 
 threatened that he would go to Hartford and fetch the 
 Episcopal minister, if Parson Pitcher refused, and the 
 old doctor knew he was quite sure to keep to his word : 
 so, with a groan at the stiff-necked brother, he got out 
 his cloak and hat, and rode home with victorious Free- 
 dom to the farmhouse. Here the punch-bowl was 
 made ready on a stand in the parlor, and a fire kindled 
 on the hearth, for it was a chilly April day ; and from 
 the open door into Lowly 's bedroom the wailing day- 
 old baby was brought, and given into its father's arms, 
 a mere scrid and atom of humanity, but a boy. 
 
 The rite was over, the long prayer said, and Freedom 
 strode into the chamber to lay his namesake beside its 
 mother ; but, as he stooped, the child quivered suddenly
 
 338 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 all over, gasped, opened its half -shut eyes glazed with 
 a fatal film, and then closed the pallid, violet-shadowed 
 lids forever. 
 
 The next entry in the family Bible was, 
 "Freedom. Born April 11 ; died same day." 
 " Well, he hain't got nobody but the Lord to querrel 
 with this bout!" snapped Aunt Huldah. "He's had 
 his way, 'nd now see what come on't ! " 
 
 Lowly got up again, after the fashion of her kind, 
 without a murmur. She felt her baby's death, she 
 mourned her loss, she was sorry for Freedom. She 
 had loved him pnce dearly ; and, if she had known i' u , 
 Freedom loved her as much as he could any thing but 
 himself : but it was not his way to show affection, even 
 to his boy ; as much of it as ever came to the surface 
 was a rough caress offered now and then to Lowly, a 
 usage that had died out, and died with no mourning on 
 either side. But as there is a brief sweet season often- 
 times in our bitter climate, that comes upon the sour 
 and angry November weather like a respite of execu- 
 tion, a few soft, misty, pensively sweet days, when the 
 sun is red and warm in the heavens, the dead leaves 
 give out their tender and melancholy odor, and the 
 lingering birds twitter in the pine-boughs as if they 
 remembered spring, so there came to Lowly a late and 
 last gleam of tranquil pleasure. 
 
 Aunt Huldah brought it about, for her tongue never 
 failed her for fear. She caught Freedom by himself 
 one day, looking like an ill-used bull-dog, all alone in 
 the barn, setting some new rake-teeth. 
 
 " I've hed it on my mind quite a spell, Freedom," 
 began the valorous old woman, ' ' to tell ye, that, ef ye 
 expect Lowly is ever a-goiu' to hev a rousin' heart j
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 339 
 
 child ag'in, you'll hev to cosset her up some. She 
 ain't like our folks." 
 
 "That's pretty trew, Aunt Huldy," was the bitter 
 interruption. 
 
 " She ain't a nether millstone, thet's a fact," an- 
 swered Aunt Huldah with vigor; "nor she ain't 
 bend leather, by a good sight : she's one o' the weakly, 
 meekly sort ; 'nd you can't make a whistle out o' a 
 pig's tail, I've heerd father say, 'nd you no need to 
 try : no more can ye make a stubbid, gritty cretur out 
 o' Lowly. She's good as gold : but she's one o' them 
 that hankers arter pleasantness, an' lovin', an' sich ; 
 they're vittles an' drink to her, I tell ye. You an' I 
 can live on pork an' cabbage, and sass each other con- 
 tinooal, without turnin' a hair ; but Lowly won't stan' 
 it ; 'nd, ef ye expect this next baby to git along, I tell 
 ye it's got to be easy goin' with her. You want to 
 keep your fight with the Lord up, I s'pose : you're sot 
 on hevin' another Freedom Wheeler? " 
 
 " I be," was the curt response. But though Aunt 
 Huldah turned her back upon him without further en- 
 couragement, and marched through the ranks of "gar- 
 den-sass " back to the house, her apron over her head, 
 and her nose high in air, like one who snuffeth the bat- 
 tle from afar, her pungent words fell not to the ground. 
 Freedom perceived the truth of what she said, and his 
 uneasy conscience goaded him considerably as to paat. 
 opportunities ; but he was an honest man, and, when he 
 saw a thing was to be done, he did it. Next day he 
 brought Lowly a new rocking-chair from the Centre . 
 he modified his manners daily. He helped her lift 
 the heavy milk-pails, he kept her wood-pile by the 
 Bhed-door well heaped, and was even known to swing
 
 340 SOMEBODY S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 the great dinner- pot off the crane, if it was full and 
 weighty. 
 
 "For the land sakes ! " exclaimed Aunt Hannah , 
 "what's a-comin' to Freedom? He does act halfway 
 decent, Huldah." 
 
 Aunt Huldah shook her cap-ruffle up and down, 
 and looked sagacious as an ancient owl. "That's me ! 
 I gin it to him, I tell ye, Hanner ! Lowly wants 
 cossetin', 'nd handlin' tender-like, or we'll be bavin' 
 more dyin' babies 'round. I up an' told him so 
 Wednesday mornin' out hi the barn, 's true's I'm 
 alive." 
 
 "I'm glad on't ! I'm real glad on't!" exclaimed 
 Aunt Hannah. "You done right, Huldy. But, massy 
 to me ! how darst ye ? " 
 
 "Ho!" sniffed Aunt Huldah. "Ef you think I'm 
 afeard o' Freedom, you're clean mistook. I've spanked 
 him too of ten, 'n' I wish to goodness I'd ha' spanked 
 him a heap more : he'd ha' ben a heap the better for't. 
 You reklect I had the tunin' of him, Hanner? You 
 was allus a-nussin' mother : Freedom come to us jest 
 ay she got bedrid. Land! what a besom he was! 
 His folks never tuned him, nor never took him to do, 
 a mite. I bed it all to do, 'nd my mind misgives me 
 now I didn't half do it. 'Jest as the twig is bent the 
 tree's inclined.' ye know it says in the Speller." 
 
 " But, Huldy, 'tain't so easy bending a white-oak 
 staddle ; 'specially ef it's got a six-years' growth." 
 
 "Well, I got the hang of him, anyhow; 'nd he'll 
 hear to me most allus, whether he performs accordin', 
 or not." 
 
 " Mabbe it's too late, though, now, Huldy." 
 
 "Law, don't ye croak, Hanner. The little cretur'l] 
 hev a pleasant spell anyhow, for a while."
 
 FEEEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 341 
 
 And so she did. Lowly's ready heart responded to 
 sunshine as a rain-drenched bird will, preening its 
 feathers, shaking its weary wings, welcoming the warm 
 gladness with faint chirps and tiny brightening eyes, 
 and then taking flight. 
 
 A long and peaceful winter passed away, and in early 
 May another boy was born : alas, it was another waxen, 
 delicate creature. The old parson was brought in 
 haste to baptize it. The pallid mother grew more white 
 all through the ceremony, but nobody noticed her. 
 She took the child in her arms with a wan smile, and 
 tried to call it by name: "Free," was all she said. 
 Her arms closed about it with a quick shudder and 
 stringent grasp ; her lips parted wide. Lowly and her 
 baby were both "free," for its last breath fluttered 
 upward with its mother's ; and in the family Bible 
 there was another record : 
 
 " Lowly Wheeler. Died May 3." 
 
 " Freedom Wheeler. Born May 3, died same day." 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Huldah, as they came back to 
 the ghastly quiet of the shut and silent house, after 
 laying Lowly and her boy under the ragged turf of 
 Dorset graveyard, "I guess Freedom'll give up his 
 wrastle with Providence now, sence the Lord's took 
 wife, 'iid baby, 'nd all." 
 
 "I don't feel sure of that," answered Aunt Han- 
 nah, for once sarcastic. 
 
 n. 
 
 Aunt Huldah and Aunt Hannah took Love and 
 Phoebe over to the red house to live with them ; for 
 they found a little note in Lowly's Bible requesting
 
 342 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 them to take charge of these two, and their father did 
 not object. Phoebe was a baby still, hopelessly fe<- 
 ble : she could not stand alone, though she was more 
 than two years old ; and Love was devoted to her. 
 Bub and Marah could "fend for themselves;" and 
 the old woman, who came as usual in Lowly's frequent 
 absences from the kitchen, had promised to stay all 
 summer. But, before the summer was over, Phoebe 
 faded away like a tiny snow-wreath in the sun, and 
 made a third little grave at her mother's feet ; and 
 Lovey grieved for her so bitterly, that Aunt Hannah 
 insisted she should stay with them still, and made her 
 father promise she should be their little girl always ; 
 certain forebodings of their own as to the future, 
 prompting them to secure her a peaceful home while 
 they lived. 
 
 As for Freedom, if he mourned Lowly, it was with 
 no soft or sentimental grief, but with a certain resent- 
 ful aching in his heart, and a defiant aspect of soul 
 toward the divine will that had overset his intentions 
 and desires, a feeling that deepened into savage 
 determination ; for this man was made of no yielding 
 stuff. Obstinacy stood him in stead of patience, an 
 active instead of a passive trait ; and in less than six 
 months after Lowly's death he was "published," ac- 
 cording to the custom of those days ; the first intima- 
 tion his aunts or his children had of the impending 
 crisis being this announcement from the pulpit by 
 Parson Pitcher, that "Freedom Wheeler of this town, 
 and Meliuda Bassett of Hartland, intend marriage." 
 
 Aunt Huldah looked at Aunt Hannah from under 
 her poke-bonnet with the look of an enraged hen ; her 
 cap-frill trembled with indignation : and Lovey shrank
 
 FKEEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 343 
 
 up closer to Aunt Hannah than before ; for she saw two 
 tears rise to her kind old eyes as they met Huldah's, 
 and she loved Aunt Hannah with all her gentle little 
 soul. As for Freedom, he sat bolt upright, and per- 
 fectly unmoved. 
 
 "Set his face as a flint!" raged Aunt Huldah as 
 soon as she got out of church, and went to take her 
 "noon-spell" in the graveyard, where the basket of 
 doughnuts, cheese, pie, cake, and early apples, was 
 usually unpacked on the stone wall on pleasant Sun- 
 days, and the aunts sitting on a tombstone, and the 
 children on the grass, ate their lunch. To-day Lovey 
 and Marah were left on the stone to eat their fill. Bub 
 had gone to the spring for water, and Freedom nobody 
 knew where; while the aunts withdrew to "talk it 
 over. ' ' 
 
 " Yis," repeated Aunt Huldah, "set his face like a 
 flint. I tell ye he hain't got no more feelin' than a 
 cherub on a tombstone, Hanner ! She ain't cold in her 
 grave afore he's off to Hartland, buyin' calves. Calves ! 
 I guess likely, comin' home jest as plausible as a pass- 
 nip : ' I sha'n't make no butter this year : so I bought a 
 lot o' calves to raise.' Ho ! heifer-calves every one on 
 'em, mind ye. Ef we hadn't ha' ben a pair o' fools, we 
 should ha' mistrusted suthin'. Ef that gal's Abigail 
 Bassett's darter, things'll fly, I tell ye." And here 
 Aunt Huldah blew a long breath out, as if her steam 
 was at high pressure, and could not help opening a 
 valve for relief ; and wise Aunt Hannah seized the 
 chance to speak. 
 
 "Well, Hulcly, I declare I'm beat myself; but we 
 can't help it. I must say I looked forrard to the time 
 when he would do it ; but I didn't reelly expect it jest
 
 344 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 yet. "We've got Lovey anyway ; and, if Melindy r.in' 
 a pootty capable woman, she'll hev her hands full with 
 Bub and Marah." 
 
 " Thet's a fact," returned Aunt Huldah, whose in- 
 most soul rejoiced at the prospect of Bub's contuma- 
 ciousness under new rule ; for he was not a small boy 
 any more, and shingles were in vain, though he still 
 raarle a certain outward show of obedience. Marah, 
 loo, was well calculated to be a thorn in the flesh of 
 any meek step-mother, with her high spirits, untamed 
 temper, and utter wilfulness ; and Aunt Huldah, whose 
 soul was sore, * not because of Freedom's marriage, 
 for she recognized its necessity, but because of its 
 indecent haste, which not only seemed an insult to 
 gentle Lowly, whom Aunt Huldah had loved dearly, but 
 a matter of talk to all the town where the Wheelers had 
 been respected for many a long year, Aunt Huldah 
 rejoiced in that exasperated soul of hers at a prospect 
 of torment to the woman who stepped into Lowly 's 
 place quite unconscious of any evil design or desire on 
 the part of her new relatives. 
 
 But it was no meek step-mother whom Freedom 
 brought home from a very informal wedding, in his 
 old wagon, some three weeks after. Melinda Bassett 
 was quite capable of holding her own, even with Aunt 
 Huldah, a strapping, buxom, rosy- faced girl, with 
 abundant rough dark hah 1 , and a pair of bright, quick, 
 dark eyes, an arm of might in the dairy, and a power 
 of work and management that would have furnished 
 forth at least five feeble pieces like Lowly. Freedom 
 soon found he had inaugurated Queen Stork. Bub 
 was set to rights as to his clothes, and " pitched into," 
 as he sulkily expressed it, in a way that gave him a
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 345 
 
 new and unwilling respect for the other sex ; and 
 Marah entered at once into an alliance, offensive and 
 defensive, with the new " mammy ; " for Melinda was 
 pleasant and cheerful when things went right, and gen- 
 erally meant they should go right. She was fond of 
 children, too, when they were " pretty behaved ; " and 
 Marah was bright enough to find out, with the rapid 
 perception of a keen-witted child, that it was much 
 better for her to be pretty behaved than otherwise. 
 
 But Freedom it was new times to him to have 
 his orders unheeded, and his ways derided. He had 
 been lord and master in his house a long time ; but 
 here was a capable, plucky, courageous, and cheery 
 creature, who made no bones of turning him out of her 
 dominions when he interfered, or ordering her own 
 ways without his help at all. 
 
 " Land of Goshen ! " said Melinda to the wondering 
 Aunt Hannah, "do you s'pose I'm goin' to hev a 
 man tewin' round in my way all the time, jest cos he's 
 my husband? I guess not. I know how to 'tend to 
 my business, and I expect to 'tend right up to it : 
 moreover I expect he'll tend to his'n. When I get 
 u-holt of his plough, or fodder his team, or do his chop- 
 pin', '11 be time enough for him to tell me how to work 
 butter, 'n' scald pans. I ain't nobody's fool, I tell ye, 
 Aunt Hanner. ' ' 
 
 "I'm glad on't, I'm dredful glad on't!" growled 
 Aunt Huldah, when she heard of this manifesto. 
 
 " That's the talk : she'll straighten him out, I'll bet 
 ye ! Ef poor Lowly'd had that spunk she might ha' 
 been liviu' to-day. But I guess she's better off," sud- 
 denly wound up Aunt Huldah, remembering her Cate- 
 chism, no doubt, as she walked off muttering, "Are at
 
 346 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 their death made perfect in holiness, and do imme- 
 diately pass into glory," an assurance that b-s ur> 
 held many a tried and weary soul more conversant 
 with the language of the Assembly of Divines than 
 that of their Lord and Head ; for in those old days 
 this formula of the faith was ground into every infant 
 memory, though the tender gospel words were com- 
 paratively unknown. 
 
 So the first year of the new reign passed on ; and in 
 the next February Freedom was mastered by a more 
 stringent power than Melinda, for he fell ill of old- 
 fashioned typhus-fever, a malign evil that lights down 
 here and there in lonely New-England farmhouses, 
 utterly regardless of tune or place ; and in a week this 
 strong man was helpless, muttering delirious speech, 
 struggling for life with the fire that filled his veins and 
 consumed his flesh. Aunt Hannah came to his aid, 
 and the scarce neighbors did what they could for him. 
 Brother-farmers snored away the night in a chair beside 
 his bed, and said that they had " sot up with Freedom 
 Wheeler last night," ministrations worse than use- 
 less, but yet repeated as a sort of needful observance. 
 And at the end of the first week Aunt Hannah was 
 called away to the "up-chamber" room, where Me- 
 liuda slept now, and a big boy was introduced into the 
 "Wheeler family ; while Moll Thunder, an old woman 
 skilled in " yarbs," as most of her race are, for she 
 was a half-breed Indian, was sent for from Wing- 
 field, and took command of the fever-patient, who 
 raged and raved at his will, dosed with all manner of 
 teas, choked with lukewarm porridge, smothered in 
 blankets, bled twice a week, and kept as hot, as feeble, 
 and as dirty, as the old practice of medicine required,
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 347 
 
 till disease became a mere question of ' ' the survival 
 of the fittest." Our grandfathers and grandmothers 
 are vaunted to this day as a healthy, hard-working 
 race, because the weakly share of each generation was 
 neatly eliminated according to law. 
 
 But, if Freedom was helpless and wandering, Melindu 
 was not. A week was all she spared to the rites and 
 rights of the occasion ; and when she first appeared in 
 the kitchen, defying and horrifying Aunt Huldah, there 
 ensued a brief and spicy conversation between the three 
 women concerning this new baby, who lay sucking his 
 fist in the old wooden cradle, looking round, hard, and 
 red as a Baldwin apple, and quite unconscious what a 
 firebrand he was about to be. 
 
 "It's real bad, ain't it?" purred Aunt Hannah, 
 "to think Freedom shouldn't know nothin' about the 
 baby? He'd be jest as tickled ! " 
 
 "I don' know what for," snapped Melinda. "I 
 should think there was young uns enough round now to 
 suit him." 
 
 "But they wasn't boys," answered Aunt Hannah. 
 " Freedom is sot on havin' a boy to be called for him. 
 There's allus ben a Freedom Wheeler amongst our 
 folks, as well as a Shearjashub, and I never see him 
 more pestered by a little thing than when them two 
 babies died, both on 'em bein' baptized Freedom ; and 
 he's had a real controversy with Providence, Parson 
 Pitcher sez, his mind's so sot on this business." 
 
 "Well, this little feller isn't a-goin' to be called 
 Freedom, now, I tell yc," uttered Melinda, with a look 
 of positiveness that chilled Aunt Hannah to the heart. 
 "He's jest as much my baby's he is his pa's, and a 
 good sight more, I b'lieve. Sha'n't I hev all the trou-
 
 348 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ble on him? an' jest as quick as he's big enough to 
 help, instead o' hinder, won't he be snaked off inter the 
 lots to work? I've seen men- folks afore ; and I tell ye, 
 Aunt Banner, you give 'em an inch, 'n' they take a 
 harf a yard certain." 
 
 "Well, Melindy," interfered Aunt Huldah, for 
 once in her life essaying to make peace, "Freedom's 
 dreadful sick now : reelly he's dangerous." [This is 
 New-England vernacular for in danger.] "What ef 
 he should up 'n' die? Wouldn't ye feel kind o' took 
 aback to think on't? " 
 
 "Things is right 'n' wrong jest the same ef every- 
 body dies : everybody doos, sooner or later. I don't 
 see what odds that makes, Aunt Huldy. I ain't a-goin' 
 to make no fuss about it. Fust Sunday in March 
 is sacrament day, and childern is allers presented for 
 baptism then. I'll jest fix it right ; and, ef his pa gits 
 well, why, there 'tis, 'nd he'll hev to git used to't ; 
 and, ef he don't, it ain't no matter, he won't never 
 know. I guess I've got folks as well as you, and 
 names too. There's old Grandsir Bassett : he sot a 
 sight by me, 'nd he was ninety years old 'n' up'ards 
 when he died. Why, he fit the British out to Ticon- 
 derogy long o' Ethan Allen ! He was a dredful spry 
 man, and had a kind o' pootty name too, smart- 
 soundin' ; and I'm a-goin' to call the boy for him. 
 Freedom ! Land o' Goshen ! 'tain't a half a name any- 
 how ; sounds like Fourth o' July oh-rations, 'nd Hail 
 Columby, 'nd fire-crackers, 'nd root-beer, 'nd Yankee 
 Doodle thrown in ! Now Grandsir Bassett's name 
 was Tyagustus. That sounds well, I tell ye ! kinder 
 mighty an pompous, 's though it come out o' them 
 columns o' long proper names to the end of the 
 Speller."
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 349 
 
 Here Melincla got out of breath ; and dismayed Aunt 
 Huldah followed Aunt Hannah, who had stolen off to 
 Freedom's room with a certain instinct of protecting 
 him, as a hen who sees the circling wings of a hawk 
 in the high blue heaven runs to brood her chicks. 
 
 Moll Thunder was smoking a clay pipe up the wide 
 chimney ; and Freedom lay on the bed with half -shut 
 eyes, drawn and red visage, parched lips, and restless, 
 tossing head, murmuring wild words, here and there 
 calls for Lowly, a tender word for Love (whom he 
 scarce ever noticed in health), or a muttered profanity 
 at some balky horse or stupid ox-team. 
 
 "Kinder pootty sick," grunted Moll Thunder, nod- 
 ding to the visitants. " Plenty much tea-drink drown 
 him ole debbil fever clear out 'fore long. He, he, he ! 
 Moll knows : squaw-vine, pep'mint, cohosh, fever-wort ; 
 pootty good steep." And from a pitcher of steaming 
 herbs, rank of taste and evil of smell, she proceeded 
 to dose her patient, a heroic remedy that might have 
 killed or cured, but that now Aunt Hannah was no 
 more needed up stairs, and could resume her place by 
 Freedom. And Moll was sent home to Wingfield with 
 a piece of pork, a bag of meal, and a jug of cider- 
 brandy, a professional fee she much preferred to 
 money. 
 
 But even Aunt Hannah could not arrest the fever : it 
 had its sixty days of fight and fire. While yet it raged 
 in Freedom's gaunt frame with unrelenting fierceness, 
 Melinda carried out her programme, and had her baby 
 baptized Tyagustus Bassett. Parson Pitcher came now 
 and then to visit the sick man ; but, even when recovery 
 had proceeded so far that the reverend divine thought 
 fit to exhort and catechise his weak brother in reference
 
 550 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 to his religious experience, the old gentleman shook his 
 head, and took numerous pinches of snuff at the result. 
 
 " There seems to be a root of bitterness, a root of 
 bitterness remaining, Huldy. His speritooal frame ia 
 cold and hard. There is a want of tenderness, a want 
 of tenderness." 
 
 "He didn't never have no great," dryly remarked 
 Aunt Huldah. 
 
 'Grace has considerable of a struggle, no doubt, with 
 the nateral man ; it is so with all of us : but after such 
 a dispensation, an amazing dispensation, brought 
 into the jaws of death, Huldy, where death got 
 hold of him, and destruction made him afraid, in the 
 words of Scripter, I should expect, I did expect, to 
 find him in a tender frame. But he seems to kick 
 against the pricks, to kick against the pricks." 
 
 " Well, Parson Pitcher, folks don't allus do jest as 
 ye calc'late to have 'em here below ; and grace doos 
 have a pootty hard clinch on't with Freedom, I'm free 
 to confess. He's dredful sot, dredful ; and I don't 
 mind tellm' ye, seein' we're on the subject, that he's 
 ben kinder thwarted in suthin' whilst he was sic, an' 
 he hain't but jest found it out, and it doos rile him 
 peskily : he dono how on airth to put up with't." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed! Well, Huldy, the heart know- 
 eth its own bitterness. I guess I will pray with the 
 family now, and set my face homeward without deal- 
 ing with Freedom further to-day." 
 
 "I guess I would," frankly replied Aunt Huldah. 
 "A little hullsome lettin' alone's good for grown folks 
 as 'tis for children ; and after a spell he'll kinder 
 simmer down : as Hanner sez, when ye can't fix a 
 thing your way, you've got to swuller it some other 
 way ; but it doos choke ye awful sometimes."
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 351 
 
 There is no doubt that " Tysgustus " did choke 
 Freedom, when he found that sonorous name tacked 
 irremediably on to the great hearty boy he had hoped 
 for so long, but never seen till it was six weeks' old, 
 and solemnly christened after Grandsir Bassett. A 
 crosser and a more disagreeable man than this conva- 
 lescent never made a house miserable. The aunts went 
 delicately, in bitterness of soul, after Agag's fashion ; 
 Bub fled from before the paternal countenance, and 
 almost lived in the bam ; Marah had been for two 
 months tyrannizing over Lovey at the Red House, as 
 happy and as saucy as a bobolink on a fence-post; 
 while Melinda, quite undaunted by the humors of her 
 lord and master, went about her work with her usual 
 zeal and energy, scolding Bub, working the hired man 
 up to his extremest capacity, scrubbing, chattering, 
 and cheery, now and then stopping to feed and hug 
 the great good-tempered baby, or fetching some savory 
 mess to Freedom, whose growls and groans disturbed 
 her no more than the scrawks and croaks of the gos- 
 siping old hens about the doorstep. 
 
 By June he was about again, and things had found 
 their level. If this were not a substantially true story, 
 I should like to branch off here from the beaten 
 track, and reform my hero, make the gnarly oak into 
 a fluent and facile willow-tree, and create a millennial 
 peace and harmony in the old farmhouse, just to make 
 things pleasant for dear Aunt Hannah and gentle 
 little Lovey : but facts are stubborn things ; and, if 
 circumstances and the grace of God modify character, 
 they do not change it. Peter and Paul were Paul and 
 Peter still, though the end and aim of life were changed 
 for them after conversion.
 
 352 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 So Freedom Wheeler returned to his active lifp 
 unchastened, indeed rather exasperated, by his illness. 
 The nervous irritation and general unhinging of mind 
 and body that follow a severe fever, added, of course, 
 to his disgust and rebellion against the state of things 
 about him. His heart's desire had been refused him 
 over and over; but it grew up again like a pruned 
 shrub, the stronger and sturdier for every close cut- 
 ting ; and, grinding his teeth against fate, he dared 
 not say against God, he went his bitter way. 
 
 Melinda never feared him, but he was a terror to 
 the children ; and, had there been any keen observer at 
 hand, it would have been painful to see how " father " 
 was a dreadful word, instead of a synonyme for lov- 
 ing protection and wise guidance. Aunt Hannah was 
 shocked when Marah refused to say the Lord's Prayer 
 one night. "Me won't! Me don't want Father in 
 heaven : fathers is awful cross. Me won't say it, 
 aunty." 
 
 " Now, you jest clap down 'nd say, ' Now I lay me' 
 quick as a wink ! " interposed Aunt Huldah. " Han- 
 ner, don't ye let that child talk so to ye. I'd tune 
 her, afore I would, I tell ye." 
 
 But, in the secrecy of her own apartment, Aunt Hul- 
 dah explained, " You see, Hanner, I've took the meas- 
 ure of that young un's foot. She's pa all over, no 
 more like Lowly'n chalk is like cheese. Ef you'd 
 ha' battled it out with her, she'd ha' got the better of 
 ye, 'nd more'n likely gone home an' told the hull 
 story ; and then Freedom would nigh about ha' slar- 
 tered her ; 'nd I don't want the leetle cretur's sperit 
 broke. Fact is, I feel jes' so myself. He is so all- 
 fired ugly, seems as though I should bust sometimes.
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 355 
 
 Moreover, 'nd above all, 't ain't never best to let chil- 
 dern git the better of ye. They don't never go back 
 on their tracks ef they do. I put in my finger that 
 time so's't she shouldn't querrel with you, *nd she 
 said t'other thing jest like a cosset lamb : she was 
 sort o' surprised into't, ye see." 
 
 "I presume likely, I presume likely, Huldy. She's 
 a masterful piece, Mara is. I'm afeard she'll taste 
 trouble afore she dies. Sech as she has to have a lot 
 of discipline to fetch 'em into the kingdom." 
 
 "Don't seem to be no use to Freedom, 'flictions 
 don't, Hanner. Sometimes, I declare for't, I have my 
 doubts ef he ever got religion, anyhow." 
 
 "Why, Huldy Wheeler!" Aunt Hannah's eyea 
 glowed with mild wrath, " 'nd he's ben a professor 
 nigh on to thirty year. How can ye talk so? I'm 
 clean overcome." 
 
 " Well, I can't help it. There's some things stand 
 to reason, ef they be speritooal things ; 'nd one on 'em 
 is, that, ef a man's born again, he's a new cretur. 
 You're paowerful on Bible-texts ; so I won't sling no 
 Catechism at ye this time: but there's suthin', some- 
 where 'long in some o' the 'Pistles, about ' love, joy, 
 peace, gentleness, goodness, meekness,' 'nd so on, for 
 quite a spell ; and, if that cap fits Freedom, why, I'm 
 free to say I don't see it." 
 
 "Well, Huldy, we must make allowances: ye see, 
 he's dreadful disapp'inted." 
 
 " That's so. You'd better believe he don't say the 
 Lord's Prayer no more'n Marah ; or, ef he doos, it 
 goes, ' My will be done : ' he hain't learnt how to spell 
 il t'other way." Aunt Hannah sighed. She was get- 
 ting old aow ; and Freedom was as dear to her as an
 
 354 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 only child, wayward and wilful though it be, to a loving 
 mother ; but she rested her heart on its lifelong com- 
 fort, a merciful presence that was her daily strength, 
 and hoped for the best, for some future time, eve:* 
 if she did not live to see it, when this stubborn heart of 
 her boy's should become flesh, and his soul accept a 
 divine Master, with strong and submissive faith. 
 
 Poor Aunt Hannah ! She had shed countless tears, 
 and uttered countless prayers, to this end, but as yet 
 in vain. Next year only brought fresh exasperation 
 to Freedom in the birth of a daughter, as cross, noisy, 
 and disagreeable as she was unwelcome. He flung out 
 of the house, and went to ploughing the ten-acre lot, 
 though the frost was only out of the surface : he broke 
 his share, goaded his oxen till even those patient 
 beasts rebelled, and at last left the plough in the fur- 
 row, and took a last year's colt out to train. Melinda 
 escaped a great deal through that poor colt ; for what 
 he dared not pour on her offending head in the way 
 of reviling, he safely hurled at the wild creature he 
 found so restive in harness ; and many a kick and 
 blow taught the brute how superior a being ' man is 
 particularly when he is out of temper. 
 
 "Keep that brat out o' my sight, Aunt Hanner," 
 was his first greeting to the child. "Don't fetch it 
 'round here : it's nothin' but a noosance." 
 
 Aunt Hannah retreated in dismay ; but she dared 
 not tell Melinda, whose passion for fine-sounding 
 names was mightily gratified at the opportunity to 
 select a girl's appellation. Before she issued from her 
 sick-room she made up her mind to call this child 
 Chimera Una Vilda. 
 
 Dear reader, give me no credit for imagination here.
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 355 
 
 These are actual names, registered on church record! 
 and tombstones, with sundry others of the like sort, 
 such as Secretia, Luelle, Lorilla Allaroila, Lue, Plumy, 
 Antha, Loruhama, Lophelia, Bethursda, and a host 
 more. But it mattered little to Freedc n : the child 
 might have any name, or no name, as far as he cared. 
 It was a naughty babv, and rent the air with cries of 
 temper in a manner that was truly hereditary. 
 
 " I never see such a piece in all my days ! " sighed 
 Aunt Hannah, whose belief in total depravity became 
 an active principle under this dispensation. "I de- 
 clare for't, Huldy, you can hear her scream way over 
 here." 
 
 "Well, I b'lieve you, Hanner: the winders is wide 
 open, and we ain't but jest acrost the road. I guess 
 you could hear her a good mile. An' she keeps it up 
 the hull endurin' time. Makes me think o' them cheru- 
 bims the Rev'lations tells about, that continooally do 
 cry: only she ain't cryin' for praise." 
 
 "I expect she'd cry for suthin' besides crossness ef 
 she knew how her pa feels about her. It's awful, 
 Huldy, it is awful, to see him look at the child once in 
 a while." 
 
 " She knows it in her bones, I tell ye. Talk about 
 'riginal sin ! I guess she won't want no sin more 
 'riginal than what's come down pootty straight from 
 him. She's jest another of 'em, now I tell ye." 
 
 But Melinda was equal to the situation, whether she 
 picked up the last maple-twig Marah brought in from 
 driving the cows, or pulled the stiff wooden busk from 
 her maternal bosom, or " ketched off her shoe," or 
 even descended upon that chubby form with her own 
 hard hand, and pungently " reversed the magnetic cur-
 
 356 SOMEBODY'S XETGHBOES. 
 
 rents," an they say in Boston. Those currents were 
 reversed so often, it might have been matter of doubt 
 which way they originally ran after a year or two. 
 But the old Adam was strong ; and when Chimera 
 no chimera to them, but a dreadful reality was sent 
 over to stay a while at the red house, the aunts were at 
 their wits' ends, and Lovey both tired and tormented. 
 
 This time, for Chimera's visit to the aunts was 
 occasioned by the immediate prospect of another baby, 
 Aunt Hannah was not able to take care of Melindy. 
 The dear old woman was getting old : a " shockanum 
 palsy," as Aunt Huldah called a slight paralytic stroke, 
 had given her warning ; her head shook perpetually, 
 and her hands trembled. She could still do a little 
 work about the house ; but her whole failing body was 
 weary with the perpetual motion, and she knew life 
 was near its end for her. So they sent to Dorset 
 Centre for the village nurse, a fat, good-natured crea- 
 ture ; and one morning, early, a boy a rosy, sturdy, 
 big boy appeared on the stage. 
 
 Now Freedom exulted : he strode over to the red 
 house to tell the news. "Fact, Aunt Hannah! I've 
 got him now, a real stunner too. You won't see no 
 tricks played now, I tell ye ! By jingo ! I'm goin' off 
 for Parson Pitcher quicker'n lightnin'. I'll bet ye 
 Melindy won't git ahead o' me this time. That leetle 
 feller'll be Freedom Wheeler in two hours' time, sure's 
 ye live." 
 
 "Providence permitting," put in Aunt Hannah 
 softly, as if to avert the omen of this loud and pre- 
 sumptuous rejoicing. But, soft as the prayer was, 
 Freedom heard it, and, as he opened the door, turned 
 on his heel, and answered, "Whether or no, this 
 time."
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 357 
 
 Aunt Hannah lay back in her chair, utterly shocked. 
 This was rank blasphemy in her ears : she did not 
 remember the illustrative story Aunt Huldah told Fiee- 
 dom, on a time long past, about a certain old woman's 
 intention to go to Hartford, or she might, perhaps, have 
 J-een less horrified. Still it was bad enough ; for, if 
 tho words were lightly spoken, the spirit within the man 
 accorded fully with his tone, and never was keener 
 triumph rampant in any conqueror's heart than in this 
 rough, self-willed farmer's as he drove his horse, full 
 tilt, down the long hills, and up the sharp ascents, that 
 lay between him and the parsonage. But Parson 
 Pitcher had been called up higher than Freedom 
 "Wheeler's. That very morning he had fallen asleep hi 
 his bed, weak and wasted with a long influenza ; and, 
 being almost ninety years old, the sleep of weakness 
 had slipped quietly into the deeper calm of death. 
 
 He had for a year past been obliged to have a col- 
 league : so Freedom hunted the young man up at his 
 boarding- place, and took him instead, a little ag- 
 grieved, indeed, for long custom made Parson Pitcher 
 seem the only valid authority for religious observances 
 of this kind ; and, years after he ceased to preach, the 
 little children were always brought to him for baptism. 
 
 " But I s'pose one on 'em's reelly as good as t'other 
 ror this puppus," hilariously remarked Freedom to the 
 old lady who lodged the colleague, receiving a grim 
 stare of disapproval for his answer, as he deserved. 
 However, there was one advantage in having Mr. 
 Brooks instead of the parson. Freedom was but 
 slightly acquainted with the new-comer : so he poured 
 out all his troubles, his losses, and his present rejoicing, 
 ill the way home, with a frankness and fluency strangf
 
 358 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 enough ; for New-Euglauders as a race are reticent 
 both of their affairs and their feelings, and Freedom 
 Wheeler was more so by nature than by race. This 
 exultation seemed to have fused his whole character 
 for the time into glowing, outpouring fervor : a deep 
 and ardent excitement fired his eye, and loosed his 
 tongue ; and Mr. Brooks, who had a tinge of the meta- 
 physical and inquisitive about him, was mightily inter- 
 ested in the man ; and being, as he phrased it, a 
 " student of character," which is, being interpreted, 
 an impertinent soul who makes puppets of his fellows 
 to see how their wires work, and discover the thoughts 
 of their hearts for his own theories and speculations, 
 he gently drew out this intoxicated man, "drunken, 
 but not with wine," as he was, with judicious sugges- 
 tions and inquiries, till he knew him to the core ; a 
 knowledge of use to neither party, and to the young 
 clergyman only another apple off the tree from which 
 Eve plucked sin and misery, and a sour one at that. 
 
 Once more the old china punch-bowl that had been 
 a relic in the Wheeler family beyond their record, and 
 would have crazed a china-fancier with the lust of the 
 eye, was filled from the spring, and set on the claw- 
 footed round table in the parlor, the door left open 
 into Melinda's room so she could see all the ceremony, 
 the aunts and nurse assembled in solemn array (all 
 the children being sent over to Lovey's care at the 
 red house) ; and with due propriety the new baby, 
 squirming and kicking with great vigor in his father's 
 arms, was baptized Freedom Wheeler. 
 
 Why is it that "the curse of a granted prayer" 
 comes sometimes immediately ? Why do we pant and 
 thirst, and find the draught poisonous ? or, after long
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 359 
 
 exile, come home, only to find home gone? Alas I 
 these are the conditions of humanity, the questions we 
 all ask, the thwarting and despair we all endure, and 
 also the mystery and incompleteness which tell us in 
 hourly admonition that this life is a fragment and a 
 beginning, and that its ends are not peace and rapture, 
 but discipline and education. Freedom Wheeler was 
 no apt pupil, but his sharpest lesson came to-day. 
 
 Full of exultation over fate, Melinda, and the aunts, 
 chuckling to himself with savage satisfaction at the 
 conscious feeling that it was no use for anybody even 
 the indefinite influence he dared not call God to try 
 to get the better of him, he strode across the room to 
 give his boy back to Melinda, stumbled over a little 
 stool that intruded from below the sofa, fell full-length 
 on the floor, with the child under him ; and when he 
 rose to his feet, dazed with the jar of the fall, it was 
 but just in time to sec those baby eyelids quiver once, 
 and close forever. The child was dead. 
 
 Melinda rose up in the bed with a dreadful face : 
 shriek on shriek burst from her lips. The women 
 crowded about Freedom, and took the limp little body 
 from his arms. He leaned against the door- way like a 
 man in a dream. The torrents of reproach and agony 
 that burst from Melinda's lips seemed not to enter his 
 ears : " INow, you ve uouu IL ! you've killed" him ! you 
 have ! you have ! " But why repeat the wild and bitter 
 words of a mother bereft of her child in the first hours 
 of its fresh, strong life ? Melinda was not a cruel or 
 ungenerous woman naturally ; but now she was weak 
 and nervous, and the shock was too much for her bruin. 
 
 In this sudden stress Mr. Brooks forgot his meta- 
 physics, and fell back on the old formulas, which, after
 
 360 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOES. 
 
 all, do seem to wear better than metaphysics in any real 
 woe or want. He drew near to Freedom, and put his 
 hand on the wretched man's shoulder. " My brother," 
 said he gently, "this evil is from the hand of the 
 Lord : bear it like a Christian." 
 
 "He ain't no Christian!" shouted Melinda, with 
 accents of concentrated bitterness. "Christians ain't 
 that sort, growlin' and scoldin', and fightin' with the 
 Lord that made him, cos he couldn't hev his own way, 
 and uplifted sky-high when he got it : 'nd now look to 
 where 'tis ! The hypocrite's hope is cut off, cut oft; ! 
 Oh, my baby, my baby, my baby!" Here she fell 
 into piteous wailing and fainting ; and Mr. Brooks led 
 the passive, stricken man away ; while Aunt Huldah 
 despatched Reuben Stark for the doctor, and Aunt 
 Hannah and the nurse tried to calm and restore 
 Melinda. 
 
 But it was idle to try to draw Freedom from his 
 silent gloom. He would neither speak nor hear, ap- 
 parently ; and Mr. Brooks, seeing Reuben hitching the 
 horse to the wagon, took his hat to leave. Aunt 
 Huldah followed him to the door for politeness. 
 
 " Send for me when you are ready for the funeral, 
 Miss Huldah," said he in taking leave. " I feel deeply 
 for you all, especially for brother Wheeler. The Lord 
 seems to have a controversy with him indeed." 
 
 "That's so," curtly replied Aunt Huldah; "an' I 
 don't see but what he's kep' up his end on't pootty 
 well. But I guess he's got to let go. This makes 
 three on 'em ; and it's an old sayin', ' three times an' 
 out.' " 
 
 A suddenly subdued smile curled the corners of Mr. 
 Brooks's mouth for a second. Poor man, he had a
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 361 
 
 keen sense of the ludicrous, and was minister in a 
 country parish. 
 
 "Good-day," nodded Aunt Huldah, quite unaware 
 that she had said any thing peculiar ; and then she 
 returned to Freedom. But he had gone out of the 
 kitchen ; nor did any one know where he was, till the 
 horn called to supper, when he came in, swallowed a 
 cup of tea, and went speechless to bed, not even ask- 
 ing about Melinda, whom the doctor found in the first 
 stage of fever, and pronounced "dangerous." 
 
 But Melinda was strong, and could bear a great deal 
 yet. She was comparatively a young woman ; and, 
 after a month's severe illness, she began to improve 
 daily, and in another month was like her old self again, 
 perhaps a trifle less cheery, but still busy, vivacious, 
 and unsparing of herself or others. But Freedom was 
 a changed man. The scornful and bitter words Melinda 
 had uttered in her frantic passion burnt deep into his 
 soul, though he gave no sign even of hearing them. 
 
 Kingslcy speaks of "the still, deep-hearted North- 
 ern, whose pride breaks slowly and silently, but breaks 
 once for all ; who tells to God what he never will tell 
 to man, and, having told it, is a new creature from that 
 day forth forever; " and something after this fashion 
 was Freedom Wheeler shaped. He had been brought 
 up in the strictest Calvinism, had his " experience " in 
 due form, and then united with the church. Bu* 
 Parson Pitcher never preached to anybody but uncon- 
 verted sinners : hell-fire drove him on to save from the 
 consequences of sin. Its conditions, people who were 
 once converted must look out for themselves. And 
 Freedom's strong will, sullen temper, and undisciplined 
 character, grew up like the thorns in the parable, and
 
 362 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 choked the struggling blades of grain that never 
 reached an ear. Melinda's accusations were the first 
 sermon that ever awoke his consciousness. lie had 
 always prided himself on his honesty, and here he saw 
 that he had been an utter hypocrite. 
 
 With all his faults, he had a simple faith in th 
 truths of the Bible, and a conscientious respect for ordi- 
 nances ; and now there fell upon him a deep conviction 
 of heinous sin, a gloom, a despair, that amounted 
 almost to insanity. But he asked no counsel, he im- 
 plored no divine aid : with the peculiar sophistry of 
 religious melancholy, he considered that his prayers 
 would be an abomination to the Lord. So he kept 
 silence, poring more and more over his Bible, appro- 
 priating its dreadful texts all to himself, and turning 
 his eyes away from every gracious and tender promise, 
 as one unworthy to read them. 
 
 He worked more faithfully than ever, worked from 
 day's first dawn into the edge of darkness, as if the 
 suffering of a worn-out body had a certain counter- 
 irritation for the tortured mind. There are many rods 
 of stone wall on that old farm to-day, laid up of such 
 great stones, made so wide and strong and close, that 
 the passer-by looks at it with wonder, little knowing 
 that the dreadful struggles of a wandering and thwarted 
 soul mark the layers of massive granite, and record the 
 exhaustion of flesh mastered by strong and strenuous 
 spirit. 
 
 When Melinda was herself ^again, it was yet some 
 time before she noticed the change in Freedom. There 
 was a certain simple selfishness about her that made 
 her own grief hide every other, and impelled her to try 
 with all her might to forget her trouble, to get rid of
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 363 
 
 the sharp memory that irked .her soul like a rankling 
 thorn. She hid all her baby-clothes away in the garret ; 
 she sent the cradle out to the shed-loft, and never 
 opened her lips about that lost boy, whose name Aunt 
 Iluldah had recorded in the same record with the two 
 who had preceded him, and whose little body lay under 
 the mulleins and golden-rods, beside the others, at Low- 
 ly 's feet. 
 
 But, as time wore on, Melinda began to see that 
 some change had passed over her husband. She had 
 quite forgotten her own mad words, spoken in the first 
 delirium of her anguish, and followed by the severe 
 fever that had almost swept away life as well as memo- 
 ry. No remorse, therefore, softened her heart ; but it 
 was not needed. Though Melinda was an incisive, 
 stirring, resolute woman, with her warm temper she 
 had also a warm heart : she could not live in the house 
 with a dog or a cat without feeling a certain kindly 
 affection for the creature. Her step-children never 
 suffered at her hands, but shared in all the care she 
 gave her own, and loved her as well as shy, careless 
 children of a healthy sort love anybody. She loved her 
 husband truly. Her quick, stormy words meant no more 
 than the scolding of a wren : in her heart she held 
 Freedom dear and honored, only he did not know it. 
 
 But she began now, in her anxiety about his sad and 
 gloomy ways, to soften her manner toward him daily. 
 She remembered the things he liked to eat, and prepared 
 taem for the table ; she made him a set of new shirts, 
 and set the stitches in them with scrupulous neatness ; 
 ghe kept the house in trim and pleasant order, and n 
 up at night to mend his working-clothes, so that they 
 were always whole, homel} services and demonstra-
 
 364 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 tions, no doubt, but haying as much fitness to place 
 and person as the scenic passion of a novel in high life, 
 or a moral drama where the repentant wife throws her- 
 self into a stern husband's arms, and, with flying tresses 
 and flowing tears, vows never to vex or misunderstand 
 his noble soul again. 
 
 Freedom's conscious controversy with his Maker still 
 went on within him, and raged between doubt and 
 despair ; but he was human, and the gentle ray of 
 affection that stole from Melinda's " little candle " did 
 its work in his " naughty world." He felt a certain 
 comfort pervading home when he came in at night sad 
 and weary : the children's faces were clean, the hearth 
 washed, the fire bright ; warmth and peace brooded 
 over the old kitchen, crackled softly from the back-log, 
 purred in the cat, sang from the kettle-nose ; Melinda's 
 shining hair was smooth, her look quiet and wistful ; 
 the table was neatly spread, little things, surely ; but 
 life is made up of them, and hope and happiness and 
 success. 
 
 The dark cloud in this man's soul began to lift im- 
 perceptibly ; and he was called out of himself pres- 
 ently to stand by Aunt Hannah's bed and see her die. 
 A second shock of paralysis suddenly prostrated her, 
 and she was laid on the pillows speechless and sense- 
 less. Twenty-four hours of anxiety and tears passed, 
 and then she seemed to revive : she stirred her hand, 
 her face relaxed, her eyes opened ; but the exhaustion 
 was great, and she was unable to speak. Conscious 
 and patient, she endured through a few days more, and 
 then the final message came. Another paralysis, a 
 longer silence, and those grouped about her bed in the 
 old red house, thinking every moment to see the shadow
 
 FKEEDOM WHEELEE'S CONTROVERSY. 365 
 
 of death fall over those beloved features, beheld with 
 surprise the soft brown eyes open, and fix upon Free- 
 dom such a look of longing, tender, piteous affection 
 as might have broken the heart of a stone ; a long, 
 long gaze, a very passion of love, pity, and yearning, 
 and then those eyes turned heavenward, grew glorious 
 with light and peace, and closed slowly, closed for- 
 ever. 
 
 Freedom went out and wept bitterly : he had denied 
 his Lord too ; and it was a look that smote him to the 
 heart, as that divine glance did Peter. But no man 
 knew or saw it. Hidden in the barn, a dim and fra- 
 grant oratory that has seen more than one struggle of 
 soul in the past and unknown records of New England, 
 Freedom " gave up," and gave up finally. 
 
 He was no longer a young man, and he was not the 
 stuff that saints are made of ; but he had a stern 
 honesty, an inward uprightness, that held him to his 
 new resolve like hooks of steel. If his temper soft- 
 ened a little, his obstinacy yielded here and there, his 
 manner gave out now and then some scanty spark of 
 affection and consideration, these were the outward 
 signs of a mighty change within ; for an old and 
 weather-beaten tree does not bloom in its spring resur- 
 rection with the Cowers and promise of a young and 
 vigorous growth : it is much if the gnarled boughs put 
 out their scanty share of verdure, if there is a blossom 
 on a few branches, and shelter enough for a small 
 bird's nest from sun or rain. Lovey, grown by this 
 time a tall and helpful girl, with her mother's delicate 
 sweetness in face and figure, was first perhaps to feel 
 this vital change in her father. Aunt Hannah's death 
 was a woful loss to her tender, clinging nature ; and she
 
 366 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 turned to him with the instinct of a child, and found a 
 shy and silent sympathy from him that was strangely 
 clear and sweet, and bound them together as never be- 
 fore. Aunt Huldah, too, noticed it. "Dear me!" 
 said she to herself, as she sat alone by the fire, knitting 
 red stockings for Chimera, who had begun to mend her 
 ways a little under the steady birch-and-shingle disci- 
 pline, " dear me, I'm real afraid Freedom ain't long 
 for this world. He is kinder mellerin', like a stone- 
 apple in June : it's onnateral. I expect he's struck 
 with death, Hanner, don't you? Oh, my land, what a 
 old fool I be ! Planner's gone, 'nd here I be a-talkin' 
 to her jest as though" Aunt Huldah wiped her 
 dimmed eyes with a red silk handkerchief, and rubbed 
 her misty glasses before she went on, still leaving the 
 sentence unfinished. "Mabbe it's a triumph o' grace. 
 I s'pose grace can get the better o' Freedom : seems 
 kinder doubtful, I must confess ; but I don't see nothin' 
 else that could fetch him, and he is a-growiu' soft, sure 
 as ye live." 
 
 But Melinda, less sensitive or perceptive, perceived 
 only that her efforts had ' ' kinder sorter slicked him 
 down," as she said. 
 
 It was reserved for the birth of another child to de- 
 monstrate how Freedom had laid down his arms, and 
 gone over to the king at last. Yes, two years after 
 Aunt Hannah's death, another fine and hearty boy 
 entered the family, but not this time with such acclaim 
 and welcome as the last. Melinda, weak and happy, 
 grew gentler than ever before, between present bliss 
 and future fear : and Freedom, hiding his face in his 
 hard brown hands, thanked God with shame and trem- 
 bling for this undeserved mercy ; and even while he
 
 FREEDOM WHEELER'S CONTROVERSY. 3G7 
 
 shuddered, naturally enough, at the possibilities the 
 past recalled, lie could say humbly and fervently, 
 "Thy will be done." 
 
 Nobody spoke of sending for the minister now, nor ' 
 was even a name for baby suggested till two months 
 after, when Melinda said to Freedom one night, when 
 the children were all in bed, and they sat alone by the 
 fire, waiting for the last brand to fall in two before it 
 could be raked up, "Next Sunday but one is sacra- 
 ment Sunday, Freedom. It's good weather now : 
 hadn't the little feller better be presented fur baptism ? " 
 
 " I guess so," answered he. 
 
 "What do ye calkerlate to call him?" asked Me- 
 linda shyly, after a pause. 
 
 "Thet's for you to say, Melinda: I wish ye to do 
 jest as ye 're a mind to," he said gently, with a stifled 
 sigh. 
 
 "That's easy settled then," she replied, a pretty 
 smile about her red lips, and laying her hand on her 
 husband's knee: "I don't want to call him nothiu' 
 more nor less than Freedom." 
 
 He put his hand on hers for a moment, looked the 
 other way, and then got up "and went out silently. 
 
 So one bright June day baby was taken to the meet- 
 ing-house, and received his name, and was duly re- 
 corded in the family Bible, but with no ominous mono- 
 syllable added to his birth-date ; and Aunt Huldah, as 
 she went put of church, said to Mr. Brooks, by no 
 means inaudibly, " I guess Freedom's gin up his con- 
 troversy finally. He did keep up his end on't quite a 
 spell ; but he's gin up for good now, I expect." 
 
 " Yes," answered the young parson, with a smile of 
 mingled feeling arid reverence. " The Lord was in the 
 still small voice."
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 
 
 "WELL, Mindwell, I have counselled a good deal 
 about it. I was happy as the day is long with your 
 father. I don't say but what I cleaved to this world 
 consider 'ble more than was good for my growth in 
 grace. He was about the best. But it pleased the 
 Lord to remove him, and it was quite a spell before 
 I could reelly submit : the nateral man rebelled, now I 
 tell you ! You can't never 'tell what it is to lose a 
 companion till you exper'ence it." 
 
 A faint color, vanishing as rapidly as it came, almost 
 as if ashamed that it bore witness to the emotion within 
 her, rose to Mindwell Pratt's face as her mother spoke. 
 She was a typical New-England woman, pale, serious, 
 with delicate features, grave dark eyes, a tall, slight, 
 undeveloped figure, graceful from mere unconscious- 
 ness, awkward and angular otherwise. You could 
 compare her to nothing but some delicate and slender 
 tree of the forest that waves its fragile but hardy 
 branches fresh and green in spring-time, and abides 
 undaunted the worst blast of winter, rooted in the fis- 
 sures of the rock, fed by the bitterest showers, the 
 melting snows, the furious hail that bends but never 
 breaks it ; perfect in its place, fitted utterly to its sur- 
 roundings. Her mother, the Widow Gold, was exter- 
 nally like her ; but deep in Mindwell 's heart lay a
 
 MES. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 369 
 
 strength of character, and acuteness of judgment, the 
 elder woman did not possess, and a reticence that for- 
 bade her to express sympathy, even with her mother's 
 sorrow, further than by that reluctant blush ; for sym- 
 pathy implied an expression of her love for her hus- 
 band, a hidden treasure she could not profane by 
 speech, which found its only demonstration in floods, 
 and was the chief spring of her active and devoted life 
 as wife and mother. 
 
 Mrs. Gold had been a happy woman, as she said, 
 while her husband lived, and had not yet ceased to 
 reproach herself for mourning him so bitterly. The 
 religion of New England at that time was of a stern 
 type : it demanded a spiritual asceticism of its follow- 
 ers, and virtually forbade them to enjoy the blessings 
 of this life by keeping them in horrid and continual 
 dread of "the pains of hell forever," as their Catechism 
 expresses it. It was their purpose to work out their 
 own salvation with fear and trembling under the curse 
 of the law. The gospel was a profound and awful 
 mystery, to be longed for afar off, no more daily bread 
 than the show-bread of the Temple. 
 
 They lived and worked, and suffered and died, with 
 few exceptions, in an awful sense of flying time, brief 
 probation, an angry God, a certain hell, but a very 
 uncertain heaven. No wonder that they wc^e austere 
 and hard : the wonder was that even natural tempera- 
 ment and mental organization should ever resist this 
 outside pressure, and give play to humor, or fancy, or 
 passion of any sort. Yet in this faithless faith lay 
 elements of wonderful strength. The compelling force 
 of duty made men nobly honest, rigidly upright, just, 
 as far as their narrow views allowed, and true to the
 
 370 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 outward relations of this life, however they violated 
 their inner principle and meaning. Speculation, defal 
 cation, divorce, were crimes they called by other names 
 than these, and abhorred. Can we say as much for 
 ourselves? However we may sneer at Puritanism, it 
 had its strong virtues ; and its outgrowth was honesty, 
 decency, and respect for law. A share of such virtues 
 would be worth .much to us now. 
 
 Mrs. Gold was " a professor," and it behooved her 
 to submit to the will of God when her husband died. 
 He had been a strong, generous, warm-hearted man ; 
 and, though undemonstrative as his race, his wife had 
 been loved and cherished as the very blossom of his 
 life. She was a sweet, fair girl when Ethan Gold 
 married her, clinging and dependent by nature, though 
 education had made her a hard worker ; but her fragile 
 beauty and soft temper had attracted the strength and 
 fervor of the man, and their short life together had 
 been exceptionally happy. Then fever struck him 
 down in his full prime ; and their only child, a girl of 
 six, could but just remember all her life that she once 
 had a father whose very memory was sacred. Fifteen 
 years of mourning, at first deeply, then steadily, at last 
 habitually, and rather as a form than a feeling, passed 
 away. 
 
 Ethan had left his wife with "means ; " so that pov- 
 erty did not vex her. And now Mindwell was a grown 
 woman, and married to Samuel Pratt, a well-to-do 
 young farmer of Colebrook, a hearty, jovial young 
 fellow, whose fun and animal spirits would bubble over 
 in spite of reproving eyes and tongues, and who came 
 hi to Mindwell's restrained and reserved life like a burst 
 of sunshine. Are the wild blossoms grateful tc* the
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 371 
 
 sun that draws them with powerful attraction from the 
 cold sod, 
 
 " Where they together, 
 
 All the cold weather, 
 
 Keep house alone"? 
 
 Perhaps their odor and color are for him who brings 
 them to light and delight of life. Mind well's great 
 fear was that she made an idol of he.r husband, yet 
 he certainly had not an idea that she did. 
 
 If the good soul had stopped to analyze the relation 
 between them, his consciousness would have been 
 found, when formulated, to be, that his wife bore with 
 him as saints do with rather amusing sinners ; while he 
 worshipped her as even the most humorous of sinners 
 do sometimes secretly worship saints. But what the 
 wife did not acknowledge, or the husband perceive, 
 became in a few years painfully perceptible to the 
 mother's feminine and maternal instinct. Mindwell 
 treated her with all possible respect and kindness, but 
 she was no longer her first object. There is a strange 
 hunger in the average female heart to be the one and 
 only love of some other heart, which lies at the root of 
 fearful tragedies and long agonies of unspoken pain, 
 a God-given instinct, no doubt, to make the monopoly 
 of marriage dear and desirable, but, like all other in- 
 stincts, fatal if it be not fulfilled or followed. Utterly 
 wanting in men, who grasp the pluralities of passion 
 as well as of office, this instinct niches itself deepest in 
 the gentlest of women, and was the ruling yet unrecog- 
 nized motive in the Widow Gold's character. If Mind- 
 well had not had children, perhaps her mother would 
 have been more necessary to her, and more dear ; but 
 two babies had followed on her marriage within three
 
 372 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 years, and her mother-love was a true passion. This 
 the grandmother perceived with a tender jealousy fast 
 growing acute. She loved the little girls, as grand- 
 mothers do, with unreasoning and lavish fondness. If 
 there had been a maiden aunt in the family, that 
 unconsidered maid-of-all-work, whose love is felt to be 
 intrusive, while yet the demands on it are insatiable, 
 the Widow Gold would have had at least one sympa- 
 thetic breast to appeal to ; but as it was she became 
 more and more uneasy and unhappy, and began to 
 make herself wretched with all the commonplaces she 
 could think of, about her "room being better than 
 her company," "love runs down, not up," and the 
 like, till she was really pining, when just at this 
 moment an admirer came upon the scene, and made 
 known the reason of his appearance in a business-like 
 way. 
 
 "Deacon Flint's in the keepin'-room, mother, wish- 
 ful to see you," said Mindwell one day, about five 
 years after her marriage. Deacon Flint was an old 
 acquaintance, known to Mrs. Gold ever since she was 
 a girl in Bassett. When she married, and moved to 
 Denslow, the acquaintance had been partly dropped, 
 though only nine miles lay between them ; but she had 
 then her family cares, and Ethan Gold and Amasa 
 Flint were as unlikely to be friends as a Newfoundland 
 dog and a weasel. Since she had come to Colebrook 
 to live with her daughter, she was a little farther still 
 from her Bassett friends, and therefore it was a long 
 time since she had seen the deacon. Meanwhile he 
 1iad lost his wife, a silent and sickly woman, who crept 
 about and worried through her daily duties for years, 
 spent and fainting when the last supper-dish was
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 373 
 
 washed, and aching at early dawn when she had to get 
 up to milk. She did not complain : her duty lay there, 
 in her home, and she did it as long as she could then 
 she died. This is a common record among our barren 
 hills, which count by thousands their unknown and 
 unsung martyrs. It was a "year after her death when 
 Deacon Flint made his first visit to Widow Gold. He 
 was tired of paying Aunt Polly Morse seventy-five 
 cents a week to do housework, though she spun and 
 wove, and made and mended, as faithfully as his wife 
 had done, confiding only to one trusty ear her opinion 
 of her employer. 
 
 "He's a professor, ye know, Isr'el, and I make no 
 doubt but what he's a good man ; but he is dreadful 
 near. Seems as if he reelly begrutched me my vittles 
 sometimes ; and there ain't a grain o' salt in that house 
 spilt without his findiu' of it out. Now, I don't calc'late 
 to spill no salt, nor nothin' else, to waste it ; but, land's 
 sakes ! I can't see like a fly, so's to scare up every 
 mite of sugar that's left onto the edges of the paper he 
 fetches it hum in. I wish to gracious he'd get some- 
 body else. I'd ruther do chores for Mirandy Huff 
 than for the deacon." 
 
 Old Israel's wrinkled face, puckered mouth, and 
 deep-set eyes, twitched with a furtive laugh. He was 
 the village fool, yet shrewder than any man who stopped 
 to jest with him, and a fool only in the satiric sense 
 of jester ; for though he had nothing of his own but a 
 tiny browii house and pig-pen, and made his living, 
 such as it was, by doing odd jobs, and peddling yeast 
 from the distilleries at Simsbury, he was the most inde-* 
 pendent man in Bassett, beiiig regardless of public 
 opinion, and not at all afraid of Parson lioberts.
 
 374 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "Well, Aunt Polly," he answered, " you stay by a 
 spell : the deacon won't want ye too long. He's got 
 a sharp eye, now I tell ye, and he's forehanded as fury. 
 Fust you know, Miss Flint'll come home, and you'll 
 go home." 
 
 "Miss Flint!" screamed Aunt Polly. ""Why, 
 Isr'el Tucker, you give me such a turn ! Poor cretur, 
 she's safe under the mulleins this year back. I guess 
 I shall go when she comes, but 'twon't be till the day 
 o' judgment." 
 
 " Then the day o' judgment's near by, Aunt Polly ; 
 and I reckon it is for one poor cretur. But you don't 
 somehow seem to take it in. I tell ye the deacon's 
 gone a-courtin'." 
 
 " Courtin' ! Isr'el! you be a-foolin' of me now, 
 certain sure." 
 
 "Not a mite on't. I see him a-'ilin' up his old 
 harness yesterday, and a-rubbin' down the mare, and 
 I mistrusted he was up to suthin. And Squire Battle 
 he met him a'most to Colebrook this morniu' : I hecrd 
 him say so. I put this 'n' that together, and drawed 
 my own influences ; and I figgered out that he's gone 
 to Co'ebrook to see if Widder Gold won't hev him. A 
 wife's a lot cheaper than hired help, and this one's got 
 means." 
 
 "For mercy's sakes ! You don't suppose Sarepty 
 Gold would look at him, do ye? " 
 
 " I never see the woman yet that wouldn't look at 
 a man when he axed her to," was the dry answer. 
 But Aunt Polly was too stunned with her new ideas 
 to retort. She went on, as if the sneer at her sex had 
 Hot reached her ear, 
 
 "Why, she ha'n't no need to marry him: she's
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 375 
 
 got a good' home to Sam Pratt's. And there's that 
 farm here that Hi Smith runs on shares, and money in 
 Har'ford bank, they do say. She won't have him : 
 don't ye tell me so." 
 
 "Women are mortal queer," replied old Israel. 
 
 "If they wa'n't, there wouldn't no men get mar- 
 ried," snapped Aunt Polly, who was a contented old 
 maid, and never suspected she was " queer" herself. 
 
 "That's so, Aunt Polly. Mabbe it's what Parson 
 Roberts calls a dispensation, and I guess it is. I say 
 for't, a woman must be extry queer to marry Amasy 
 Flint, ef she's even got a chance at Bassett poor-house." 
 
 Yet Israel was right in his prophecy. At that very 
 moment Deacon Flint was sitting bolt-upright in a 
 high-backed chair in Sam Pratt's keeping-room, dis- 
 coursing with the Widow Gold. 
 
 Two people more opposite in aspect could hardly be 
 found. Mrs. Gold was not yet fifty, and retained 
 much of her soft loveliness. Her cheek was still 
 round and fair, her pale brown hair but slightly lined 
 with gray, and the mild light of her eyes shone tenderly 
 yet ; though her figure was a little bent, and her hands 
 knotted with work. 
 
 She looked fair and young in comparison with the 
 grizzled, stern, hard-favored man before her. A 
 far-off Scotch ancestry had bequeathed to him the 
 high cheek-bones and deep-set eyes that gave him so 
 severe an aspect ; and to these an aquiline nose, a 
 cruel, pinched mouth, a low forehead, and a sallow, 
 wrinkled skin, added no charms. But the charm of 
 old association brought him a welcome here. Bas- 
 sett was the home of Mrs. Gold's childhood, and she 
 had a great many questions to ask. Her face gath
 
 376 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 ered color and light as she recalled old affections and 
 sympathies ; and the deacon took a certain satisfaction 
 in looking at her. But this was a mere ripple above 
 his serious intention. He meant business, and could 
 not waste time : so, as soon as there came a little lull 
 in Mrs. Gold's fluent reminiscences, he curtly began, 
 
 " I came over to-day on an arrand, Miss Gold, I 
 may say quite a ser'ous arrand. I lost my companion, 
 I suppose ye know, a year ago come September the 
 10th. She was a good woman, Miss Flint was, savin' 
 and reasonable as ever was." 
 
 "I always heard her well spoke of," modestly re- 
 joined the widow. 
 
 " Yes, her children praise her in the gates, or they 
 would hev, if she'd had any. I feel her loss. And 
 Scripter says, 'It is not good for man to be alone.' 
 Scripter is right. You are a woman that's seen afflic- 
 tion too, Miss Gold : you've passed under the rod. 
 Well, folks must be resigned : professors like you and 
 me have got to set example. We can't fault the Lord 
 when he takes our companions away, and say, ' Why do 
 ye so?' as though 'twas a man done it. We've got 
 this treasure in earthen vessels. Well, to come to the 
 p'int, I come over to-day to see ef you wa'n't willin' 
 to consider the subject of uniting yourself to me in the 
 bonds of marriage." 
 
 " Oh ! " said the astonished widow. 
 
 "I don't want to hurry ye none," he went on: 
 " take time on't. I should like to get my answer right 
 off ; but I can make allowance for bein' onexpected. 
 I'll come agin next week say this day week. I 
 hope you'll make it a subject of prayer, and I expect 
 you'll get light on your duty by that time. I've got
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 377 
 
 a good house and a good farm, and I'll do well by ye. 
 And, moreover and besides, you know Mr. Pratt's 
 folks are pressed some for room, I expect. I guess 
 they won't stand in the way of your goin' to Bassett. 
 Good-day, good-day." 
 
 And the widow received a calm up-and-down hand- 
 shake, with which decorous caress the deacon for 
 we cannot call him the lover departed, leaving Mrs. 
 GoM in a state of pleased amazement, partly because 
 she was a woman and a widow, partly because it was 
 Deacon Flint wh'o had asked her to marry him ; for 
 the deacon was a pillar in Bassett church, owned a 
 large farm and a goodly square house, and was a 
 power in the State, having twice been sent to the Gen- 
 eral Assembly. She could not but be gratified by the 
 preference, and as she pondered on the matter it grew 
 more feasible. Her girl was hers no longer, but a 
 wife and mother herself ; and she who had been all in 
 all to Mind well was now little more than "grandma" 
 in the house, a sort of suffered and necessary burden 
 on Samuel's hands. But here a home of her own was 
 offered her, a place of dignity among other women, 
 a place where she could ask her children to come to 
 her, and give rather than receive. 
 
 There is nothing so attractive to a woman who is no 
 longer young as the idea of a home. The shadow of 
 age and its infirmities affrights her ; loneliness is a 
 terror in the future ; and the prospect of drifting about 
 here and there, a dependent, poor, proud, unwelcome, 
 when flesh and heart fail, and the ability to labor is 
 gone, makes any permanent shelter a blessed pros- 
 pect, and draws many a woman into a far more dread- 
 ful fate than the work-house mercies or the colder char 
 ity of relatives.
 
 378 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 This terror was strong in Mrs Gold's feeble heart. 
 She was one of the thousands of women who cannot 
 trust what they do not see, and she misjudged her 
 daughter cruelly. Mindwell felt that to-day, as her 
 mother avowed to her Deacon Flint's offer and her own 
 perplexities. When Mrs. Gold asserted that her 
 daughter could never understand what it was to lose a 
 husband, Mindwell felt a sure but unspoken conviction 
 that the terror of such a bereavement, which con- 
 fronted her whenever her heart leaped up to meet 
 Samuel, was experience enough for her to interpret 
 thereby the longings of a real bereavement ; but she 
 only colored faintly, and answered, 
 
 " Well, mother, I don't see my way clear to offer you 
 any advice. You must use your own judgment. You 
 know Samuel and me think every thing of having you 
 here ; and the children just begin to know grandma 
 by heart. But I don't want to be self-seeking : if 
 it's for your best good, why, we sha'n't neither of us 
 say a word. I don't skerce know how to speak about 
 it, it's so strange like and sudden. I can't say no 
 more than this : if you're going to be happier and bet- 
 ter off with Deacon Flint than with your own folks, we 
 haven't no right to hinder you, and we won't." 
 
 Mindwell turned away with trembling lips, silent, 
 because strong emotion choked her. If she had fallen 
 on her mother's neck and wept, and begged her to 
 stay, with repeated kisses and warm embrace, Mrs. 
 Gold never would have become Mrs. Flint ; but she 
 could not appreciate Mind well's feeling. She took her 
 conscientious self-control and candor for indifference ; 
 and her elderly lover loomed through this mist in 
 grander proportions than ever. She resolved then and 
 there that it was her duty to accept him.
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 879 
 
 Mindwell had gone down stairs to find her husband, 
 who sat by the fire, fitting a rake-tail more firmly into 
 a hay-rake. He had been caught in a distant field by 
 a heavy shower, and was steaming now close to the 
 fireplace, where a heap of chips was lighted to boil the 
 kettle for tea. Mindwell stole up to him. and laid one 
 hand on his handsome head. He looked up, astonished 
 at the slight caress, and saw his wife's eyes were full 
 of tears. 
 
 "What's the matter, darling?" he said in his 
 cheery voice. It was like a kiss to her to have him 
 say " darling," for sweet words were rare among their 
 class ; and this was the only one he ever used, kept 
 sacredly, too, for Mindwell. 
 
 " O Sam ! " she answered, with a quiver in her deli- 
 cate voice, "don't you think, Deacon Flint wants to 
 marry mother! " 
 
 "Thunder an' guns! You don't mean it, wife? 
 Haw, haw, haw! It's as good as a general trainin'. 
 Of all things ! What doos she say to't? " 
 
 "Well, I'm 'most afraid she favors him a little. 
 He's given her a week's time to consider of it ; but, 
 someway, I can't bear to have it thought of." 
 
 "Don't pester your head about it, Miss Pratt: you 
 can't make nor meddle in such things. But I'm free 
 to v^vvn that I never was more beat in all my days. 
 Why, Amasy Flint is town-talk for nearness an' mean- 
 ness. He pretends to be as pious as a basket o' chips, 
 but I hain't no vital faith in that kind o' pious. I 
 b'lieve in my soul he's a darned old hypocrite." 
 
 " O Sam, Sam ! you hadn't ought to judge folks." 
 
 "I suppose I hadn't, reelly ; but you know what 
 Scripter says somewhere or 'nother, that some folks'?
 
 380 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 sins are open, an' go to judgment beforehand, and I 
 guess his'n do. I should hate to have mother take up 
 with him." 
 
 " What can we do, Sam? " 
 
 "Nothin', strenoously. I don't know what 'tis 
 about women- folks in such matters : they won't bear 
 no more meddlin' with than a pa'tridge's nest ; you'll 
 spile the brood if you put in a finger. I'd say jest as 
 much as I could about her bein' always welcome here. 
 I'll do my part of that set piece o' music ; and that's 
 all we can do. If she's set on havin' him, she will ; 
 and you nor me can't stop it, Miss Pratt." With 
 which sound advice, Sam rose from the milking-stool 
 with his reconstructed rake, took down a coarse comb 
 from the clock-case, ran it through his hair by way of 
 toilet, and sat down to supper at the table with the 
 three other hay-makers. Mindwell and her mother 
 were going out to tea, so they did not sup with the 
 men. 
 
 After they came home, Sam expressed himself in a 
 succinct but forcible manner to Mrs. Gold on the sub- 
 ject of her marriage, and Mindwell attempted a faint 
 remonstrance again ; but her morbid fear of selfishness 
 shut the heart-throbs she longed to express to her 
 mother back into their habitual silence. She and Sam 
 both, trying to do their best, actually helped, rather 
 than hindered, this unpropitious marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Gold, in her heart, longed to stay with her chil- 
 dren, but feared and disliked so heartily to be a bur- 
 den on their hands, that she was unjust to herself and 
 them too. A little less self-inspection, and a little 
 more simple honesty of speech, would have settled this 
 matter in favor of Mindwell and Colebrook : as it was,
 
 MBS. FLINT'S MARKIED EXPERIENCE. 381 
 
 Deacon Flint carried the day. On the Friday follow- 
 ing he arrived for his answer ; his gray hair tied in a 
 long cue, his Sunday coat of blue, and brass buttons, 
 his tight drab pantaloons, ruffled shirt, and low boots, 
 all indicating a ceremonial occasion! 
 
 "Gosh," said old Israel Tucker, jogging along in 
 his yeast-cart, as he met the gray mare in clean har- 
 ness, whipped up by the deacon in this fine raiment, the 
 old wagon itself being for once washed and greater!. 
 " gosh ! it's easy tellin' what he's after. I should think 
 them mulleins an' hardbacks in the buryin' -ground 
 would kinder rustle round. I don't know, though ; 
 mabbe Miss Flint's realized by now that she's better 
 off under them beauties of natur' than she ever was in 
 Amasy Flint's house. Good land ! what fools women- 
 folks be ! They don't never know when they're well 
 off. She's had an easy tune along back ; but she's 
 seen the last on't, she's seen the last on't. Get up, 
 Jewpiter." 
 
 Nothing daunted by any mystic or magnetic sense of 
 this vaticination by the highway, Deacon Flint whipped 
 up his bony steed still more, and to such good purpose 
 that he arrived in Colebrook before the widow had 
 taken down the last pinned- up curl on her forehead, or 
 decided which of her two worked collars she would put 
 on, and whether it would be incongruous to wear a 
 brooch of blue enamel with a white centre, on which 
 was depicted (hi a fine brown tint produced by grind- 
 ing up in oil a lock of the deceased Ethan Gold's hair) 
 a weeping-willow bending over a tomb, with an urn, 
 and a date on the urn. This did seem a little personal 
 on such an occasion : so she pinned on a blue bow in- 
 stead, and went down to receive the expecting deacon.
 
 382 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Mr. Flint. 
 
 " Comfortably well, I'm obleeged to you," was the 
 prim answer. 
 
 But the deacon was not to be daunted at this crisis : 
 he plunged valiantly into the middle of things at once. 
 "I suppose you've took into consideration the matter 
 in hand, Miss Gold?" 
 
 The widow creased her handkerchief between her 
 finger and thumb, and seemed to be critical about the 
 hemming of it ; but she pretty soon said softly, " Yes, 
 ] can't say but what I have thought on't a good deal. 
 I've counselled some with the children too." 
 
 "Well, I hope you're fit and prepared to acknowl- 
 edge the leadin's of Providence to this end, and air 
 about ready to be my companion through the valley of 
 this world up to them fields beyond the swellin' flood 
 stands dressed in livin' green. Amen." 
 
 The deacon forgot he was not in a prayer-meeting, 
 and so dropped into the hymn-book, as Mr. Wegg did 
 into secular poetry. 
 
 " H'm, well there's a good deal to be thought of for 
 and ag'inst it too," remarked Mrs. Gold, unwilling to 
 give too easy an assent, and so cheapen herself in the 
 eyes of her acute adorer. But, when her thoughts were 
 sternly sifted down, they appeared to be slight matters ; 
 and the deacon soon carried his point. He wasted no 
 time hi this transaction. Having "shook hands on 
 it," as he expressed himself, he proceeded at once to 
 arrange the programme. 
 
 "Well, Sarepty, we're both along in years, and to 
 our tune o' life delays is dangerous. I think we'd 
 better get married pretty quick. I'm keepia' that 
 great lazy Polly Morse, and payin' out cash right
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 383 
 
 along ; and you no need to fix up any, you've got good 
 clothes enough : besides, what's clothes to worms of 
 the dust sech as we be? The Catechism says 'Man's 
 chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever ; ' 
 and if that's so, and I expect 'tis so, why, 'tain't 
 nothin' to be concerned about what our poor dyin' 
 bodies is clothed in." 
 
 Mrs. Gold did not agree with him at all. She liked 
 Ler clothes, as women ought to ; but his preternatural 
 piety awed her, and she said meekly enough, "Well, I 
 don't need no great of gowns. I sha'n't buy but one, 
 I don't believe." 
 
 A faint color stole to her cheek as she said it, for 
 she meant a wedding-dress ; and Deacon Flint was 
 acuts enough to perceive it, and to understand that this 
 was a point he could not carry. 
 
 " One gown ain't neither here nor there, Sarepty ; 
 but I ami to fix it on your mind, that, as I said afore, 
 delays is dangerous. I purpose, with the divine bless- 
 in', to be married this day two weeks. I suppose 
 you're agreeable?" The widow was too surprised to 
 deny this soft impeachment; and he went on, " Yc 
 see, there's papers to be drawed up : you've got inde- 
 pendent means, and so have I, and it's jest as well to 
 settle things fust as last. Did Ethan Gold leave you 
 a life-int'rest in your thirds, or out an' out? " 
 
 The widow's lip trembled : her dead husband had 
 been careful of her, more careful than she knew, till 
 now. 
 
 " He didn't will me no thirds at all : he left me use 
 an' privilege, for my nateral life, of every thing that 
 vas his'n, and all to go to Mindwell when I'm gone." 
 
 "Do tell! He was forehanded, I declare for't ! "
 
 384 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 exclaimed the deacon, both pleased and displeased; 
 for, if his wife's income was to be greater than he sup- 
 posed, in case of her death before his there would be 
 no increase to his actual possessions. 
 
 " Well, I always calc'lated you had your thirds, an' 
 prob'ly, knowin' Ethan was free-handed, you had 'em 
 out an' out. This makes some difference about what 
 papers I'll have to have drawed up. Now, I guess the 
 best way is to have a agreement like this : I agree not 
 to expect to hev an' to hold none of your property, an' 
 you don't none of mine ; but I to have the use of 
 your'n, and you to have your livin' out o' mine. You 
 see, you don't have no more'n your livin' out of your'n 
 now : that's all we any of us get in this here world. 
 'Hevin' food an' raiment, let us therewith be content,' 
 as Scripter says. You agree to this, don't ye? " 
 
 Bewildered with the plausible phrases ballasted by a 
 text, unaware that even the Devil can quote Scripture 
 to serve his turn, Mrs. Gold did not see that she was 
 putting herself entirely into the hands of this man, and 
 meekly agreed to his arrangement. If this story were 
 not absolutely true, I should scarce dare to invent such 
 a character as Deacon Flint. But he was once a living 
 man, and hesitating to condemn him utterly, being now 
 defenceless among the dead, we can but hope for him 
 and his like that there are purifying fires beyond this 
 life, where he may be melted and refined into the image 
 of Him who made him a man, and gave him a long life 
 here to develop manhood. Not till after he was gone 
 did Mrs. Gold begin to think that he had left her to 
 explain his arrangements to Mindwell and Sam, and 
 instinctively she shrank from doing so. Like many 
 another weak woman, she hated words, particularly
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 385 
 
 hard words. Her life had flowed on in a gentle routine, 
 so peacefully that she had known but one sorrow, and 
 that was so great, that, with the propensity we all have 
 to balance accounts with Providence, she thought her 
 trouble had been all she could bear. But there was 
 yet reserved for her that sharp attrition of life which is 
 so different from the calm and awful force of sorrow, 
 so much more exasperating, so much more educating. 
 Some instinct warned her to avoid remonstrance by 
 concealing from her children the contract she was about 
 to make, and she felt, too, the uncertainty of a woman 
 unaccustomed to business, about her own clear under- 
 standing of the situation. So she satisfied herself with 
 telling Mindwell of the near approach of her marriage. 
 
 "O mother, so soon ! " was all Mindwell said, though 
 her eyes and lips spoke far more eloquently. 
 
 "Well, now the thing's settled, I don't know but 
 what it may as well be over with. "We ain't young 
 folks, Mindwell. 'Tain't as if we had quite a spell to 
 live." 
 
 Tears stood in her eyes as she said it. A certain 
 misgiving stole over her : just then it seemed a good 
 thing that she could not live long. 
 
 Mindwell forced back the sob that choked her. A 
 woman of single heart, she did not consider a second 
 marriage sacred. For herself, she would rather have 
 taken her children to the town-farm, cold as corporative 
 charity is, than married another man than Samuel, even 
 if he had been dead thirty years ; and she bitterly re- 
 sented this default of respect to her father's memory. 
 But her filial duty came to the rescue. 
 
 "Dear mother, I can't bear to think of it. What 
 shall I do? What will the children say? I did hope 
 you would take time to consider."
 
 386 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 " It ain't real dutiful in you to take me to do, Mind- 
 well : I'm full old to be lessoned, seems to me. As 
 for you and the children, I don't feel no great distress : 
 love runs down, not up, folks say ; and I don't believe 
 you'll any of ye pine a long spell." 
 
 This weak and petulant outburst dismayed Mindwell, 
 who had never seen her mother otherwise than gentle 
 and pleasant ; but, with the tact of a great heart, she 
 said nothing, only put her arms about the elder woman's 
 neck, and kissed her over and over. At this, Mrs. 
 Gold began to cry ; and, in soothing her distress, Mind- 
 well forgot to ask any further questions, but set herself 
 to divert both their minds -from this brief and bitter 
 outburst by inquiring what preparation her mother 
 meant to make in the fortnight. 
 
 "I don't look to no great preparation," sighed the 
 widow. "I have always had good clothes enough, 
 and there's a piece of linen I wove before we come 
 here that'll do for all I want. I suppose I had ought 
 to have a new gown to be married in. "When I was 
 married to Ethan, I had a white dimity gown and a 
 blue levantine petticoat ; and if he didn't fetch me a 
 big bunch of sand- violets they was blossoming then 
 for to match my eyes and my skirt, he said. But that's 
 past and gone, as the hymn-book says. I do want to 
 have one good gown, Mindwell ; and, now I'm a little 
 along in years, I guess I'll have a dark one. T'other 
 night, when we was up to Squire Barnes's to tea, Miss 
 Barnes was telling about a piece of plum-colored 
 paduasoy Mr. Battle bought in Ilar'ford for 'Lecty's 
 weddin'-gown, and she wouldn't hev it. She said 
 'twasu't lively enough, and so she's set her mind on a 
 blue levantine. But I should think the plum- color 
 would become me real well."
 
 MBS. FLINT'S MAKEIED EXPERIENCE. 387 
 
 So the plum-colored silk was bought ; and arrayed in 
 its simple folds, with a new worked collar and a white 
 satin bow, the Widow Gold was dressed for her second 
 wedding. 
 
 Did she think, as she looked into her oval mirror 
 that morning, what a different vision was this quiet, 
 elderly, sober woman, in decent but not festal gar- 
 ments, from the smiling, blushing, blue-eyed creature 
 in her spotless dimity gown opening over a blue petti- 
 coat, and clasped at the throat with a bunch of still 
 bluer violets ? "What does a woman think who is mar- 
 ried the second time ? A man is satisfied that now his 
 house will be kept once 'more, his clothes mended, his 
 whims humored, his table spread to his taste, and 
 his children looked after. If it is needful, he can 
 marry six wives one after the other. They are a do- 
 mestic necessity : the Lord himself says it is not good 
 for man to be alone. But it is quite another thing for 
 the woman. Such a relation is not a movable feast to 
 her : it is once for all ; and, if circumstance or pique 
 betray her into this faithlessness, what does she think 
 of herself when it becomes inevitable ? 
 
 The Widow Gold did not tell. She was paler when 
 she turned from the glass than when she looked into 
 it : and she trembled as she went down stairs to sign 
 the papers before Parson Roberts should arrive. 
 
 The best parlor was opened to-day. The high- 
 backed chairs with old brocade cushions, that had be- 
 longed to Sam Pratt' s grandmother, were ranged along 
 the wall like a row of stiff ghosts ; the corner-cupboards 
 were set open to display the old china and glass that 
 filled them; there was a "bow-pot" of great red 
 peonies, abundant and riotous with color and fatness,
 
 388 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 set under the chimney in the well-whited fireplace ; and 
 a few late roses glowed in a blue china jar on the high 
 mantelpiece. On a square table with a leaf lay a legal 
 paper that Sam was reading, with his hands supporting 
 his head as if it was hard to understand the document. 
 
 The deacon, in his Sunday garments, was looking at 
 him askance ; and Mindwell, with the little girls Ede 
 and Sylvia clinging to her gown, was staring out of 
 the window, down the road, staring, but not seeing ; 
 for the splendid summer day that lavished its bloom 
 and verdure and odor on these gaunt New-England 
 hills, and hid their rude poverty with its royal mantle, 
 was all a dim blur to the heart-wrung woman. 
 
 "Mother," said Sam Pratt, raising his head, "do 
 you know what's the sum and substance of these here 
 papers? and do you agree to't?" 
 
 The widow glanced aside at Deacon Flint, and caught 
 his " married eye," early as it was to use that ocular 
 weapon. 
 
 "Why, yes, Samwell: I don't know but what I 
 do," she said slowly and rather timidly. 
 
 "Well," said Sam, rising, and pushing the paper 
 away, " if you do, why, then you're going right into't, 
 and it's right, I s'pose ; but, by Jinks ! I think it's the 
 d " 
 
 Mindwell's touch on his arm arrested the sentence. 
 "There's Parson Roberts, Samwell. You jest help 
 him out of the gig, will you? He's quite lame, I see." 
 
 Sam Pratt went, with the half-finished sentence on 
 his lips. He was glad his wife had stopped him, on 
 many accounts ; but he did long to give Deacon Flint 
 his own opinion of that preliminary contract. 
 
 He indulged himself for this deprivation, after the
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 389 
 
 stiff and somewhat melancholy wedding was over, and 
 the staid couple had departed for Bassett in the deacon's 
 wagon, by freeing his mind to his wife. 
 
 ' ' Miss Pratt, I was some riled to hev you stop me 
 when I was a-goin' to tell the deacon what I thought 
 about that there contrack ; but I don't never stay riled 
 with you, marm, as you'd ought to know by this time." 
 And Sam emphasized this statement with a hearty kiss. 
 "Besides, I will own on second thoughts I was glad 
 you did stop me ; for it's no use pinchin' your fingers 
 in a pair o' nippers. But I do say now and here, it 
 was the darndest piece o' swindlin' I ever see, done 
 under a cover of law an' gospel, you may say ; for the 
 deacon had stuck in a bit of Scripter so's to salt it like. 
 He's got the best of the bargain, I tell ye, a long sight. 
 I'm real glad your father went and fixed that prop'ty 
 so she has the use on't only ; for she wouldn't have two 
 cents in two years' time, if she'd had it to do with what 
 she's a mind to." 
 
 "I am glad he did," said Mindwell. "I have felt 
 as though mother would be better suited if she did have 
 it to do what she liked to with ; but if this was to 
 happen, why, it's as good she is provided for. She 
 can't want for nothing now." 
 
 " I guess she'll want for more'n money, and mabtxj 
 for that too. The paper says she's to have her livin'. 
 Now, that's a wide word. Folks can live on bread and 
 water, I expect ; and he can't be holden for no more 
 than he's a mind to give." 
 
 "O Sam, you don't think Deacon Flint would 
 grudge her a good living? Why, if he is near, as folks 
 tell he is, he's a professor of religion." 
 
 " I'd a durned sight ruther he was a practiser on't,
 
 390 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Miss Pratt. Religion's about the best thing there is ; 
 and makin' believe it is about the wust. I b'lieve in 
 Amasy Flint's religion jest so far forth as I hear him 
 talk, an' not a inch farther. I know he'll pinch an' 
 shave an' spare to the outside of a cheese-rind ; and I 
 haven't no great reason to think he'll do better by 
 Mother Gold than he does by himself." Mindwell 
 turned away, full of foreboding ; and Sam, following 
 her, put his arm about her, and drew her back to the 
 settle. 
 
 " Don't worry, dear. She's made her bed, and she's 
 got to lie on't. But, after all, it's the Lord who lets 
 folks do that way, so's to show 'em, I expect, that 
 beds ain't always meant to sleep on, but sometimes to 
 wake folks up. We're kind of apt to lie long an' get 
 lazy on feathers. I expect that's what's the matter 
 with me. I'll get my husks by and by, I guess." 
 
 Mindwell looked up at him, with all her heart in her 
 eyes ; but she said nothing, and he gave a shy laugh. 
 Their deep love for each other was "a fountain shut 
 up ; " and so far no angel had rolled away the stone, 
 and given it visible life. It was still voiceless and 
 sleeping. 
 
 Before her wedding-day was over, Mrs. Flint's new 
 life began ; for Polly Morse had been sent off the night 
 before, being the end of an even week, lest she might 
 charge ninepence for an extra day. So her successor 
 without wages had to lay aside her plum-colored silk, 
 put on a calimanco petticoat and short-gown, and pro- 
 ceed to get supper ; while Polly, leaning over the half- 
 door of the old red house which she shared with the 
 village tailoress, exchanged pungent remarks with old 
 Israel on the topic of the day in Bassett.
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 391 
 
 "No, they didn't make no weddin', Isr'el. There 
 wa'n't nobody asked, nor no loaf-cake made for her: 
 he wouldn't hear to't, noway. I'd have staid and 
 fixed up for her to-day ; but he was bound I shouldn't. 
 As for me, I'm most amazin' glad to get hum, now I 
 tell ye. I'd a sight ruther be in Simsbury prison for a 
 spell, if it wa'n't for the name on't." 
 
 " Say, Polly, do you call to mind what I said three 
 weeks back about Miss Flint comin' home ? Oh ! ye do, 
 do ye? Well, I ain't nobody's fool, be I? I guess I 
 can see through a millstone, providin' the hole's big 
 enough, as well as the next man. I'm what ye may 
 call mighty obsarvin', now. I can figger consider'ble 
 well on folks, ef I can't on 'rithmetic ; and I know'd 
 jest as well, when I see him rigged up in his sabba'-day 
 go-to-meetin's, and his nose p'inted for Colebrook, what 
 he was up to, as though I heerd him a-askin' her to 
 hev him." 
 
 "Well, I never did think Sarepty Gold would de- 
 mean herself to have him. She's got means and a real 
 good home ; and Mindwell sets a sight by her, and so 
 does Sam Pratt : but here she's ben an' gone an' done 
 it. I wouldn't ha' thought it, not if th' angel Gabriel 
 had have told me on't." 
 
 " Guess he's in better business than goin' round with 
 Bassett gossip, anyhow. But what was you so took 
 back by ? Lordy ! I should think you was old enough 
 to git over bein' surprised at women-folks : them and 
 the weather is two things I don't never calc'late on. 
 You can't no more tell what a woman'll do, 'specially 
 about marryin', than you can tell which way in the road 
 a pig'll go, onless you work it back'ard, same as some 
 folks tell they drive a pig ; and then 'tain't reel reli-
 
 392 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 able : they may go right ahead when you don't a mite 
 expect it." 
 
 "That is one thing about men, I allow, Isr'el : you 
 can always tell which way they'll go for sartain ; and 
 that is after their own advantage, an' nobody else's, 
 now an' forever." 
 
 "Amen! They'd be all fools, like me, if they 
 didn't," assented the old man, with a dry chuckle, as 
 he drove off his empty cart. Yet, for all his sneers and 
 sniffs, neither Polly nor the new Mrs. Flint had a truer 
 friend than Israel. Rough as he was, satiric as a chest- 
 nut burr that shows all its prickles in open defiance, 
 conscious of a sweet white heart within, his words only 
 were bitter : his nature was generous, kindly, and per- 
 ceptive. He had become the peripatetic satirist and 
 philosopher that he was out of this very nature, 
 
 "Dowered with a scorn of scorn, a love of love," 
 
 and free with the freedom of independent poverty to 
 express pungently what he felt poignantly, being in his 
 own kind ana measure the ' ' salt of the earth ' ' to 
 Bassett. 
 
 But, in spite of comment and pity, the thing was a 
 fixed fact. Mrs. Flint's married life had begun under 
 new auspices, and it was not a path of roses upon 
 which she had entered. Her housekeeping had always 
 beon frugal, with the thrift that is or was characteristic 
 of her race ; but it had been abundant for the wants of 
 her family. The viands she provided were those of 
 the place and period, simple and primitive enough ; but 
 the great brick oven was well filled with light bread of 
 wheat and rye both ; pies of whatever material was in 
 season, whose flaky crust and well-filled interiors testi-
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 393 
 
 fied to her knowledge of the art ; deep dishes of baked 
 beans ; jars of winter pears ; pans of golden-sweet 
 apples ; and cards of yellow gingerbread, with rows of 
 snowy and puffy biscuit. Ede and Sylvia knew very 
 well where to find crisp cookies and fat nut-cakes ; and 
 pie was reiterated three times a day on San: Pratt's 
 table. 
 
 It was a part of her " pride of life " that she was a 
 good housekeeper ; and Mindwell had given her the 
 widest liberty. But now the tide had changed. She 
 soon found that Deacon Flint's parsimony extended 
 into every detail. Her pies were first assailed. 
 
 " Sarepty, don't make them pies o 'your'n so all-fired 
 rich. They ain't good for the stomach : besides, they 
 use up all the drippin's, and you had ought to make 
 soap next month. Pie is good, and I think it's savin' 
 of meat. But it pompers up the flesh, too good livin' 
 does ; and we hev got to give an account, ye know. I 
 don't mean to have no wicked waste laid to my ac- 
 count." 
 
 So she left out half the shortening from her crust, 
 and felt ashamed to see the tough substance this 
 economy produced. Next came the sugar question. 
 
 "We buy too much sweetenin', Sarepty. There's 
 a kag of tree-molasses down cellar. I expect it's 
 worked some ; but you jest take an' bile it up, an' stir 
 consiuer'ble saleratus into't, an' it'll do. I want to get 
 along jest as reasonable as we can. Wilful waste 
 makes woful want, ye know." 
 
 Yet in his own way the deacon was greedy enough. 
 He had the insatiable appetite that belongs to people 
 f his figure far more often than to the stout. 
 
 " He's a real racer," said Uncle Israel, reverting to
 
 394 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 his own experience in pigs, "slab-sided an' lank. 
 I bet you could count his ribs this minnit ; and that's 
 the kind you can feed till the day after never, and they 
 won't do ye no credit. I never see a man could punish 
 vittles the way he can ; but there ain't no more fat to 
 him than there is to a hen's forehead." 
 
 Mrs. Flint was not " hungry nor hankering," as she 
 expressed it, but a reasonable eater of plain food ; but 
 the deacon's mode of procedure was peculiar. 
 
 " Say, Sarepty, don't bile but a small piece o' pork 
 with that cabbage to-day. I've got a pain to my head, 
 an' I don't feel no appetite ; an' cold pork gets eat up 
 for supper when there ain't no need on't." 
 
 Obeying instructions, the small piece of fat pork 
 would be cooked, and, once at the table, transferred 
 bodily to the deacon's plate. " Seems as though my 
 appetite had reelly come back. I guess 'twas a hun- 
 gry headache." And the tired woman had to make 
 her dinner from cabbage and potatoes seasoned with 
 the salt and greasy water in which they had been 
 cooked. 
 
 There were no amusements for her out of the house. 
 The younger people had their berrying frolics, sleigh- 
 rides, kitchen-dances, nuttings, and the like ; and their 
 elders, their huskings, apple-bees, and sewing-societies : 
 but against all these the deacon set his hard face. 
 
 " It's jest as good to do your own extry chores your- 
 self as to ask folks to come an' help. That costs 
 more'n it comes to. You've got to feed 'em, and like 
 enough keep a big fire up in the spare room. I'd ruther 
 be diligent in business, as Scripter says, than depend 
 on neighbors." 
 
 The sewing -society, too, was denied to poor Mrs.
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 396 
 
 Flint, because they had to have tea got for them. 
 Prayer-meetings he could not deny her ; for they cost 
 nothing, and officially he attended them. Meeting on 
 Sunday was another outlet, when she could see friendly 
 faces, receive kind greetings, and read in many eyes a 
 sympathy and pity that at once pleased and exasper- 
 ated her. 
 
 Another woman in her place might have had spirit 
 or guile enough to have resisted the pressure under 
 which she only quailed and submitted. She was one 
 of those feeble souls to whom a hard word is like a 
 blow, and who will bear any thing and every thing 
 rather than be found fault with, and who necessarily 
 become drudges and slaves to those with whom they 
 live, and are despised and ill-treated simply because 
 they are incapable of resentment. There are some 
 persons who stand in this position not so much from 
 want of strength as from abounding and eager affec- 
 tion for those whom they serve ; and their suffering, 
 when they discover how vain has been their labor and 
 self-sacrifice, is known only to Him who was 
 
 " At once denied, betrayed, and fled 
 By those who shared his daily bread." 
 
 But Mrs. Flint had no affection for her husband : she 
 married him because it seemed a good thing to do, and 
 oueyed him because he was her husband, as was the 
 custom in those clays. So she toiled on dumbly from 
 day to day, half fed, overworked, desperately lonely, 
 but still uncomplaining ; for her constitution was natu- 
 rally strong, and nerves were unrecognized then. 
 
 Her only comfort was the rare visits of her children. 
 Mindwell found it hard to leave home ; but, suspicious
 
 396 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 of her mother's comfort, she made every effort to see 
 her as often as possible, and always to carry her some 
 little present, a dozen fresh eggs, which the poor 
 woman boiled privately, and ate between her scanty 
 meals, a few peaches, or a little loaf of cake, small 
 gifts, merely to demonstrate her feeling. She did not 
 know what good purpose they served, for Mrs. Flint 
 did not tell her daughter what she endured. She 
 remembered too well how Mindwell had begged her to 
 delay and consider her marriage ; and she would not 
 own to her now that she had made any mistake : for 
 Mrs. Flint had as much human nature in her composi- 
 tion as the rest of us ; and who does like to hear even 
 then: dearest friend say, " I told you so " ? 
 
 Matters went on in this way for five years, every 
 day being a little more weary and dreary than the pre- 
 ceding. The plum-colored paduasoy still did duty as 
 the Sunday gown, for none of her own money evei 
 passed into Mrs. Flint's hands. By this time she 
 understood fully what her ante-nuptial contract meant. 
 She had her living, and no more. People could live 
 without finery, even without warmth. A stuff gown of 
 coarse linsey-woolsey for winter wear replaced the soft 
 merinoes she had always bought for that purpose ; and 
 homespun linen check was serviceable in summer, 
 though it kept her busy at flax-wheel and loom many 
 an hour. She had outlived the early forbearances of 
 her married life, and learned to ask, to beg, to persist 
 in entreating, for what she absolutely needed ; for only 
 in this way could she get her " living." Her only vivid 
 pleasure was in occasional visits from Ede and Sylvia, 
 lovely little creatures in whom their mother's beauty 
 of character and their father's cheery, genial nature
 
 FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 397 
 
 seemed to combine, and with so much of Mindwell's 
 delicate loveliness, her sweet, dark eyes contrasted with 
 the fair hair of their father's family, that to grand- 
 motherly eyes they seemed perfectly beautiful. For 
 them the poor woman schemed and toiled, and grew 
 secretive. She hid a comb of honey sometimes, wheu 
 the deacon's back was turned, and kept it for Sylvia, 
 who loved honey like a real bee-bird ; she stored up red 
 pearmains in the parlor- closet for Ede ; and when Sam 
 Pratt went into Hartford with a load of wool, and 
 brought the children as far as Bassett to stay at Dea- 
 con Flint's over night, the poor woman would make for 
 them gingerbread such as they remembered, and savory 
 cookies that they loved, though she encountered hard 
 looks, and hard words too, for wasting her husband's 
 substance on another man's children. 
 
 Ede, who had a ready memory and a fluent tongue, 
 was the first to report to Mindwell these comments of 
 " Grandsir Flint," as they were taught to call him. 
 
 "O mother," she exclaimed, "I do think grandsir 
 is real mean ! ' ' 
 
 "Edy, Edy, you mustn't talk so about your elders 
 and betters." 
 
 "I can't help it," chattered on the irrepressible 
 child. "What did he want to come into the kitchen 
 for when granny was giving us supper, and scold 
 because she made cookies for us ? Granny 'most cried ; 
 and he kept tellin' how he'd said before she shouldn't 
 do it, and he wouldn't have it." 
 
 "Don't talk about it, Edy," said her mother, full 
 of grief and indignation. 
 
 "Mother, it's true. I heard him too," interposed 
 Sylvia, who thought Ede's word was doubted ; for the
 
 398 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 voluble and outspoken child was a little apt to embel- 
 lish her reports. 
 
 "Well, Sylvy dear, it isn't best to talk about a good 
 many things that are true." 
 
 But, for all that, Mindwell did discuss the matter 
 with Sam before she slept, in that "grand committee 
 of two " which is the stre'ngth and comfort of a happy 
 marriage. 
 
 "What ever can we do about it, Sam?" she said, 
 with tears in her voice. "I can't bear to keep the 
 children to home, mother sets by 'em like her life ; 
 but, if they're going to make trouble between her 
 and Deacon Flint, don't you think I had ought to pre- 
 vent their going there ? ' ' 
 
 " Well, it does seem hard on mother every way ; but 
 I guess I can fix it. You know we had a heap of 
 wheat off that east lot last year, and I've sent it to 
 mill to be ground up for us. I guess I'll take and 
 send a barrel on't over to mother for a present. The 
 deacon won't mistrust nothing ; nor he can't say noth- 
 ing about her usin' on't for the children." 
 
 "That's the very thing," said Mindwell. And so 
 it was, for that small trouble ; yet that was only a drop 
 in the bucket. After a few years of real privation, 
 and a worse hunger of spirit, Mrs. Flint's health 
 began to fail. She grew nervous and irritable, and 
 the deacon browbeat her more than ever. Her tem- 
 per had long since failed under the hourly exaspera- 
 tion of her husband's companionship, and she had 
 become as cross, as peevish, and as exasperating 
 herself as a feeble nature can become under such a 
 pressure. 
 
 " I never see nobody so changed as Miss Flint is,"
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 399 
 
 confided Aunt Polly to old Israel. "I've always 
 heerd tell that 'flictions was sent for folks's good ; but 
 her'n don't seem to work that way a mite." 
 
 " "Well, Polly, I expect there's a reel vital diffcr'iice 
 in 'flictions, jest as there is in folks. She picked her'n 
 up, as you may say, when she married him. 'Twan't 
 reelly the Lord's sendin'. She no need to ha' married 
 him, if she hadn't ben a min' to." 
 
 "I sorter thought the Lord sent every thing 't hap- 
 pened to folks." 
 
 "Well, in a manner mabbe he doos. But don't ye 
 rek'lect what David said, how't he'd ruther fall 
 inter the hands of the Lord than inter men's? I 
 expect we're to blame for wilful sins, ain't we? And 
 I guess we fetch 'flictions on ourselves sometimes." 
 
 "I don't see how you make them idees jibe with 
 'lection and fore-ordination," rejoined Aunt Polly, 
 who was a zealous theologian, and believed the Say- 
 brook Platform and the Assembly's Catechism to be 
 merely a skilful abridgment and condensation of Scrip- 
 ture. 
 
 "I don't know as I'm called to, Polly. I don't 
 believe the Lord's ways is jest like a primer, for every- 
 body to larn right off. I shouldn't have no great 
 respect for a ruler an' governor, as the Confession 
 sez, that wa'n't no bigger'n I was. Land! ef I 
 was to set sail on them seas o' divinity, I should 
 be snooped up in the fust gale, an' drownded right 
 off. I b'lieve He is good, and doos right, anyhow. 
 Ef I can't see the way on't, why, it's 'cause my spirit- 
 ooal eyes ain't big enough. I can't see into some 
 littler things than him, and I don't hold to takin' up 
 the sea in a pint cup : 'twon't carry it, nohow." With
 
 400 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 which aphorism old Israel travelled off with his bar- 
 row, leaving Polly amazed and shocked, but perhaps 
 a little wiser after all. 
 
 Just about this time a cousin of Deacon Flint's died 
 " over in York State," as he said, and left 'him guard- 
 ian of her only daughter, a girl of eighteen. A couple 
 of thousand dollars was all the property that the Widow 
 Eldridge had to give her child ; for they had both 
 worked hard for their living after the husband and 
 father left them, and this money was the price of the 
 farm, which had been sold at his death. It was some- 
 thing to get so much cash into his own hands ; and the 
 deacon accordingly wrote at once to Mabel, and offered 
 her a home in his house, intimating, that, the interest of 
 her money not being enough to board and clothe her, 
 he would, out of family affection, supply these necessi- 
 ties for that inadequate sum, if she was willing to help 
 a little about the house. Mabel was friendless enough 
 to grasp eageiiy this hope of a home ; and very soon 
 the stage stopped at Deacon Flint's door, and a new 
 inmate entered his house. 
 
 Mabel Eldridge was a capable, spirited, handsome 
 girl, and, before she had been a week in the Flint 
 lamily, understood her position, and resolved only to 
 endure it till something better could be found. In 
 her heart she pitied Aunt Flint, as she called her, as 
 much as she detested the deacon ; and her fresh girlish 
 heart fairly ached with compassion and indignation 
 over the poor woman. But she was a great com- 
 fort and help while she staid; though she made that 
 stay as short as possible, and utterly refused to give 
 up her savings-bank book to the deacon, who was 
 unable legally to claim it, since her mother left no will,
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 401 
 
 having only asked him, in a letter written just before 
 her death, to act as Mabel's guardian. Her three 
 months' sojourn in the house made her thoroughly 
 aware of Deacon Flint's character and his wife's suf- 
 ferings. She could not blame Mrs. Flint that she 
 snapped back at the deacon's snarls, or complained 
 long and bitterly of her wants and distresses. 
 
 "You don't know nothing what it is, Mabel," she 
 said one day, sobbing bitterly. "I'm put upon so 
 hard ! I want for clothes, and for vittles, and for some 
 time to rest, so's't I don't know but what 'twill clean 
 kill me : and, if 'twa'u't for the childern, I'd wish to 
 die ; but I do cleave to them amazingly." 
 
 Indignant tears filled Mab's eyes. " I don't know 
 how you bear it, aunty," she said, putting her arms 
 about the old lady's neck. " Can't you get away from 
 him anyhow ? ' ' 
 
 " I could, but I suppose I hadn't ought to. There's 
 a house on my farm that ain't goiii' to be in use como 
 next April. Hiram Smith him that's rented it along 
 back wants some repairiu' done ou't, and Mr. Flint 
 won't hear to't : so Hi he's been and gone and bought 
 a piece of ground acrost the road, an' put up a buildiu' 
 for himself. He's got a long lease of the land ; but 
 he don't want the house no more, and he won't pay 
 for't. I s'pose I might move over there for a spell, 
 and have some peace. There's enough old furnitoor 
 there that was father's. But then, agin, I do suppose I 
 haven't no right to leave my husband." 
 
 "Haven't you got any right to save your life?" 
 indignantly asked Mabel. 
 
 " It ha'n't come to that, not quite," said Mrs. Flint 
 sadly.
 
 402 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 But before April she began to think it was a matter 
 of life and death to stay any longer with the man. 
 Mabel had left her some months before, and gone 
 into the family of Sam Pratt' s mother, in Colebrook, 
 promising her aunt, that, if ever the tune came when 
 she needed her in another home, she would come and 
 take care of her. 
 
 Toward the middle of February Mrs. Flint was 
 seized with congestion of the lungs, and was very ill 
 indeed. A fear of public opinion made Deacon Flint 
 send for the doctor ; but nothing could induce him to 
 let a nurse enter the house, or even to send for Mind- 
 well Pratt. He was able to do for his wife, he said, 
 and nobody could interfere. 
 
 It was the depth of winter ; and the communication 
 between Bassett and Colebrook was not frequent in 
 the best weather, neither place being dependent on the 
 other for supplies ; and now the roads were blocked 
 with heavy drifts, and the inhabitants of both places 
 had hibernated, as New-Englanders must in winter. It 
 was a matter of congratulation with Deacon Flint that 
 he had no out-door work to do just now, and so was 
 spared the expense of a woman to care for his wife. 
 He could do it, too, more economically than a nurse. 
 It did not matter to him that the gruel was lumpy, or 
 burned, or served without flavoring. Sick folks, par- 
 ticularly with serious sickness, ought not to pamper the 
 flesh : their souls were the things to be considered. 
 He did not want to have Sarepta die, for she had an 
 income that helped him much ; but he did not want 
 her to be a "bill of expense," as he phrased it. So 
 while he read the Bible to her twice a day, and prayed 
 to, or rather at, her by the hour, he fed her on sloppy
 
 MBS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 403 
 
 gruel and hard bread, sage-tea, and cold toast with- 
 out butter, and just kept life flickering within her 
 till she could get about and help herself, unknown to 
 hun, to draughts of fresh milk, and now and then a 
 raw egg. 
 
 But she did not get well : she was feeble, and 
 wasted a long time. The village doctor, knowing 
 what Deacon Flint was, and filled with pity for his 
 wife, called often, carefully stating that his visits were 
 those of a friend, but urging, also, that Mrs. Flint 
 should have a generous diet, and a glass of wine daily, 
 to restore her strength. The deacon heard him through 
 in silence, and when he left began to growl. 
 
 "Well, fools a'n't all dead yet. Wine! I guess 
 not. A good drink o' thorough wort- tea's wuth all the 
 wine in creation. ' Wine's a mocker, an' strong drink 
 is ragin'.' Dr. Grant don't read his Bible as he'd 
 ought to." 
 
 "There ain't nothin' in the Bible aginst beef-tea, I 
 guess," feebly piped his wife. "I do feel as though 
 that would fetch me up. Can't you get a piece o' 
 :ueat down to the slaughter, deacon? " 
 
 "I don't see no need on't, Sarepty: you're doin' 
 reasonable well. Meat is reel costly ; an' pomperin* 
 the flesh is sinful. I'll git another cod-fish next time I 
 go to the store: that's nourishin'. I don't hold to 
 Grant's idees entire. Besides, 'twa'n't nothin' what 
 he said : he come as a friend." 
 
 The poor woman burst into tears. Indignation gave 
 her momentary strength : she did not hear the shed- 
 door open behind her ; but she rose in her chair like a 
 spectre, and looked at him with burning eyes. 
 
 " Amasy Flint, I b'lieve you'd a sight rather I'd die
 
 404 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 than lire. I hain't had decent vittles since I was took 
 sick, nor no care whatever. You're a loud pray-er an' 
 reader ; but, if 'twa'n't for the name of it, I b'lieve 
 you'd kill me with the axe instead of starvation. I've 
 a good mind to send for Squire Battle, and swear th< 
 peace against ye." 
 
 Deacon Flint at this moment saw a shocked face 
 behind his wife's chair : it was Polly Morse. His 
 acuteness came to the rescue. " She's a leetle out," 
 he said, nodding to the unexpected guest. "Come, 
 right along, Polly." 
 
 This was too much for the weak woman to bear. She 
 fell back, and fainted. Her indignation had overborne 
 her weakness for a moment, but exhausted it also. 
 And, when she awoke to life, Polly was rubbing her, 
 and crying over her ; but her husband had gone. Those 
 tears of sympathy were more than she could endure 
 silently. She put her arms round Polly's neck, and, 
 sobbing like a child, poured out the long list of her 
 sorrows into that faithful ear. 
 
 "Bless your dear soul!" said Polly, wiping her 
 eyes, "you can't tell me nothing new about him. 
 Didn't I summer an' winter him, so to speak, afore you 
 come here ? Don't I know what killed the fust woman ? 
 'Twa'n't no fever, ef they did call it so. 'Twas livin' 
 with him want o' food, an' fire, an' lovin'-kindncss. 
 Don't tell me. I pitied ye afore ye was married, an' I 
 hain't stopped yit." 
 
 But Polly's words were not words only. From that 
 day on, many a cup of broth, vial of currant-wine, 
 or bit of hot stewed chicken, found its way surrepti- 
 tiously to Mrs. Flint ; and her strength of mind and 
 body returned fast, with this sympathy for one, and
 
 MKS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 405 
 
 food for the other. She made up her mind at last 
 that she would leave her husband, at least for a time, 
 and in her own house endeavor to find the peace and 
 rest necessary to her entire recovery. If she could 
 have seen Mind well and Sam, and taken counsel with 
 them, her course might have been different ; but the 
 roads were now well-nigh impassable from deep mud, 
 and she could not get to Colebrook, and in sheer des- 
 peration she resolved to leave her present home as 
 soon as Hiram Smith moved from the farmhouse. 
 Fortunately for her, the deacon had to attend town- 
 meeting, three miles off, on the first Monday in April ; 
 and, with Polly and Israel to help her, Mrs. Flint was 
 established in the other house before he returned, and 
 found her flown. His wrath was great but still. He 
 said and did nothing, never went near her, and, for 
 very shame's sake, did not speak of her for what 
 could he say? 
 
 Perhaps in that solitary house, whose silence was 
 like balm to her weary and fevered soul, she might 
 have starved but for the mercy of her neighbors. 
 Polly Morse had a tongue of swiftness, and it never 
 wagged faster than in Mrs. Flint's behalf. Dr. Grant 
 sent half a barrel of flour to that destitute dwelling, 
 and Israel, a bushel of apples. Polly, out of her pov- 
 erty, shared her kit of pork with the poor woman ; and 
 Hiram Smith brought in a barrel of potatoes and a bag 
 of meal, which he duly charged against her account 
 with the farm. But there were many who dared not 
 help her ; for the deacon held notes and mortgages on 
 many a house and of many a man in Bassett who could 
 not afford to offend him. And old Parson Roberts wag 
 just then shut up with an attack of low fever : so he
 
 406 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 knew nothing about the matter. However, the deacon 
 was not long to be left nursing his wrath. Food and 
 fire are not enough for life sometimes. The old house 
 was leaky, damp, comfortless ; and in a few weeks 
 Mrs. Flint was taken again with disease of the lungs, 
 and Polly Morse found her in her bed, unable to speak 
 loud, her fire gone out, and the rain dripping down in 
 the corner of her bedroom. Polly had come to tell 
 her that Israel was going to Colebrook to buy a pig, 
 and would take any message. She did not tell her, 
 but, stepping to the door, called to him across the yard 
 to tell Sam Pratt he must come over to Bassett directly. 
 This done, she hunted about for something to make a 
 fire, and then looked for the tea ; but there was none. 
 Nothing like food remained but a half-loaf of bread 
 and some cold potatoes : so she had to break the bread 
 up in some hot water, and feed the exhausted woman 
 slowly, while she chafed her icy feet, and covered her 
 closely with her own shawl. The next day Sam and 
 Mindwell came over, shocked and indignant, their 
 wagon loaded with provisions ; and the old house was 
 soon filled with odors of beef-broth, milk-porridge, 
 fragrant tea and toast, and the sharp crackle of a great 
 fire in two rooms ; while, best of all, tender hands fed 
 and soothed the poor woman, and soft filial kisses 
 comforted her starved soul. 
 
 Mindwell could not stay, there was a little baby at 
 home, but Sam would be left behind while old Israel 
 drove her back to Colebrook, and fetched Mabel 
 Eldridge to take her place. 
 
 Mab burst into a passion of tears when she entered 
 -.he kitchen. 
 
 " I knew it ! " she sobbed : "I knew that old wretch
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 407 
 
 kill her !" And it was long before Sam could 
 calm her anger and grief, and bring her in to the 
 invalid. 
 
 In the course of two or three weeks, however, Mab's 
 faithful nursing, and Sam's care and providing, brought 
 back life and some strength to the perishing woman. 
 And meanwhile Polly's tongue had wagged well : it 
 flew all over Bassett that Deacon Flint's wife had left 
 him, and almost died of cold and hunger. 
 
 To-day such a rumor would have had some direct 
 effect on its object ; but then to find fault with authori- 
 ties was little less than a sin, and for a wife to leave 
 her husband, a fearful scandal. In spite of the facts 
 and all their witnesses, the sentiment of Bassett went 
 with the deacon. Conjugal subjection was the fashion, 
 or rather the principle and custom, of the day, and 
 was to be upheld in spite of facts. Ilowever, Parson 
 Roberts by this time had heard of the matter, aud 
 called Deacon Flint to account, thinking it to be his 
 duty. 
 
 "This is the hull sum and substance on't, parson," 
 explained the deacon : " Miss Flint is a miser 'ble hys- 
 tericky female, a dreadful weak vessel, and noways 
 inclined to foller Scripter in the marriage- relation. 
 I've gin her the same liviu' I had myself. I hain't 
 denied her food an' raiment wherewith she had ought 
 to be content, as the 'Postle Poll says. But she is real 
 peruickity, and given to the lusts of the flesh about her 
 eatin' ; and I feel it to be my dooty to be a faithful 
 stooard of my substance, and not pomper up our poor 
 perishin' bodies, while there is forty million more or 
 less o' heathen creturs lyin' in wickedness in foreign 
 parts. Ye know, parson, I hain't never stcnted my
 
 408 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 contributions to them things : I've ben constant to 
 means of grace allus, and I may say a pillar mabb 
 a small and creaky one, but still a pillar in the tem- 
 ple sech as 'tis. I don't know as I had ought to be 
 disturbed by this strife of tongues." 
 
 Parson Roberts was a little confounded. He himself 
 loved a bit of good eating, a cantle of chicken-pie, a 
 tender roast pig, a young chicken broiled on hickory 
 coals, or a succulent shad from the Connecticut, washed 
 down with sparkling cider or foaming flip, and the 
 consciousness of this mild weakness gave undue exal- 
 tation to Deacon Flint's boasted asceticism. The par- 
 son was too honestly humble to see that Deacon Flint 
 loved money with a greed far surpassing that of any 
 epicure ; that his own fault was but a failing, while the 
 other was a passion. Besides, he considered that Mrs. 
 Flint had made light of the sacred ordinance of mar- 
 riage, and set an awful example to the wives of the 
 parish : so he went away from this interview convinced 
 that the deacon was a stern saint, and his wife a weak 
 sinner. 
 
 Next day, however, the deacon himself was sur- 
 prised by another visit. Pale and worn, clinging tight 
 to Sam Pratt's arm, and followed by Mabel carrying a 
 cushion, his wife entered the kitchen, where he sat de- 
 vouring salt pork and potatoes with the zest of a dog 
 who gnaws his bone unmolested. 
 
 "I come back, Amasy, to see if we couldn't agree 
 to get along together agin," she said weakly and 
 meekly. " I hear there's ben consider'ble talk about 
 my leavin' on ye, and I don't want to cast no reflec- 
 tions. I was tired all out, an' I wanted to rest a spell. 
 Sam an' Mab has nursed me up, so't I could get along 
 now, I guess."
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 409 
 
 The man turned his cold green-gray eyes on her 
 slowly. " I don't know what you want to come back 
 for now," he said. 
 
 " Why, I want for to do my duty so far as I can." 
 
 "You had oughtcr have considered that afore you 
 went off," was the dogged answer. 
 
 Tears ran down the poor woman's face : she could 
 not speak. Mabel's beautiful eyes blazed with wrath : 
 she made a step forward ; but Sam Pratt gently put 
 her back, and said, 
 
 " Look here, Deacon Flint. Mother left you because 
 she hadn't food, nor care, nor nothing she needed, 
 nyther when she was sick, nor when she was gettin' 
 better. She thought a spell, o' rest would do her good. 
 She knowed by that smart contrack you got out of her 
 that you owed her a livin' anyhow ; and you hain't 
 done a thing to'rds it sence she went' to her own house. 
 Now, I don't call that conduct honest, by no means, 
 much less Christian." 
 
 "Jedge not, Samwell Pratt. Scripter, no less' n 
 statoot law, commands a wife to be subjeck to her hus- 
 band. Sarepty had what I had. I done what I jedged 
 best for her ; and, instead of submittin' to her head, 
 she up and went off to live by herself, and lef ' me to 
 git along as I could. I wa'n't noway bound by no law 
 nor no contrack to supply her with means, so long as 
 she went away from her dooties, and made me an as- 
 tonishment an' a hissin' in Israel, so to speak." 
 
 " Stop right there ! " broke in Mabel, furious. ' ; I've 
 heard say the Devil could feteh Scripter to further his 
 own purposes, and I b'lieve it. Didn't you have no 
 duties to your wife? Don't the Bible say you've got 
 to love and cherish her? Don't tell me ! I lived here
 
 410 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 long enough to see you starve and browbeat and tor- 
 ment her. I know your mean, hateful, crabbed ways ; 
 and I don't know how she lived with you so long. She 
 ought to have run away years ago ; and, if folks do hiss 
 at you, it's more'n time they did. Christian ! you a 
 Christian ! You're a dyed-in-the-wool hypocrite. If 
 you're pious, I hope I shall be a reprobate." 
 
 "I ha'n't no doubt but what you will be, young 
 woman," answered the deacon with cold fury. 
 " You'd ought to be put under the pump this minnit, 
 for a common scold. Get out of my house, right 
 off!" 
 
 And with this he advanced upon her. But Sam 
 Pratt, lifting the old lady in his arms, carried her away, 
 and gently shoved Mabel, glowing with rage, before 
 them till they reached the wagon. Then he himself 
 went back, and tried to make terms with the deacon. 
 At last, moved by the worldly wisdom of Sam's argu- 
 ment, that it would put him in a bad light before peo- 
 ple if he refused to do any thing for his wife, he did 
 agree to let her have half of his share of the produce 
 from her farm, if Sam and Mindwell would provide for 
 her other wants. And, making the best of a bad bar- 
 gain, the poor woman retired to the old house, which 
 Sam had repaired, so that most of it was habitable ; 
 and Mabel, who had agreed to teach the district school 
 the next year, took up her abode with her. 
 
 Now the deacon had a clear field, and appeared in 
 the arena of Bassett in the character of an injured and 
 forsaken husband. His prayers at meeting were longer 
 and more eloquent than ever ; and the church, sym- 
 pathizing, with his sorrows, the male members espe- 
 cially deprecating Mrs. Flint's example, lest it should
 
 MES. FLINT'S MAKKIED EXPERIENCE. 411 
 
 some time be followed by their own wives, unani- 
 mously agreed to withdraw their fellowship from Mrs. 
 Flint, a proceeding in kind, if not in degree, like the 
 anathema of the papacy. The poor old woman quiv- 
 ered under the blow, imparted to her by Parson Rob- 
 erts, awful in the dignity of his office and a new wig. 
 But the parson was human ; and the meek grief of the 
 woman, set off by Mab's blazing indignation, worked 
 upon his honest soul, and caused him to doubt a little 
 the church's wisdom. Mab had followed him across 
 the door-yard to the gate in order to " free her mind." 
 
 " I want to know what you wanted that poor woman 
 to do, Parson Roberts. She was dyin' by inches for 
 want of vittles fit to eat, and the care most folks would 
 give a sick ox. Do you think, now, honest, she'd 
 ought to have staid with that old wretch? " 
 
 " Speak not evil of dignities, young woman. Amasy 
 Flint is a deacon of Bassett church. It does not 
 become you so to revile him." 
 
 This glittering generality did not daunt Mab a 
 moment. 
 
 "I don't care if he was deacon in the New Jerusa- 
 lem, or minister either. If he was the angel Gabriel, 
 and acted the way he did act, I shouldn't have no faith 
 in his piety, nor no patience with his prayers." 
 
 Parson Roberts glared at her over his spectacles with 
 pious horror. " What, what, what ! " he sternly cried. 
 " Who be you that set in judgment on your elders 
 and betters?" 
 
 "I'm one that's seen him where you haven't, any- 
 way, nor your church-members. I've lived to his 
 house, and I know him like a book." 
 
 Was it possible, the parson thought, that brother
 
 412 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Flint might have been in fault, just a little? But he 
 was faithful to his dogmas and his education. 
 
 " Do not excuse the woman's sin. She has left her 
 lawful husband, threatened to swear the peace against 
 a Christian man whom she was bound by human and 
 divine law to obey, and caused a scandal and a dis- 
 turbance in the fold of Christ. Is this a light matter, 
 you daughter of Belial? " 
 
 Mab laughed, laughed in the parson's face, in full 
 front of his majestic wig, his awful spectacles, his 
 gold-headed cane uplifted in the heat of argument. 
 He could not see that she was a little hysterical. He 
 grew red with ungodly rage, but Mab did not care a 
 pin. 
 
 "You ain't a fool, Parson Roberts," she said un- 
 dauntedly. " You've got eyes in your head ; and you'd 
 know, if you'd use 'em, that Aunt Flint is a weak 
 sister anyway. She wouldn't turn no sooner'n the 
 least worm that ever was ; but they will turn, if you 
 tread right on 'em. And, whatever you say, you know, 
 jest as well as I do, that Amasy Flint drove her into 
 leavin' him, and drove her with a whip of scorpions, 
 as the Bible tells about." 
 
 "Woman, do you mean to say I lie?" thundered 
 the parson. 
 
 "Well, yes if you don't tell the truth," returned 
 Mab, completely at bay now. An audible chuckle be- 
 trayed some listener ; and the parson, turning round, 
 beheld old Israel silently unloading a wheelbarrow-load 
 of potatoes at the corner of the fence, and wondered 
 in his soul how long the man had been there, but con- 
 sidered it the better part of valor to leave the scene, 
 now that it had ceased to be a tete-a-tete : so he waved
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 413 
 
 his band at Mab with a gloomy scowl, and went his 
 way. 
 
 " Land o' liberty ! " ejaculated the old man, drawing 
 the back of his hand across his mouth to smother a 
 laugh. "Didn't you give him jesse ! I swan you're 
 the gal for a free fight, now. He's heerd the fac's in 
 the case, if he never did afore. Of all things J What 
 be you a-cryin' for now, eh?" For Mab, a real 
 woman, had flung her apron over her face, and was 
 sobbing violently. Uncle Israel gently tried to pull the 
 check screen away ; but she held on to it. 
 
 " Let me cry," she said. " I ain't sorry : I'm mad, 
 and I've got to cry it out." 
 
 "Well," said Israel, returning to his potatoes, and 
 slowly shaking his head, " women- folks air the beat- 
 eree. I don't know nothing about 'em, and I'm five 
 an' sixty year old come Friday. Lordy ! there ain't no 
 riddles nor Chinee puzzle-rings to compare with 'em. 
 I've hed a wife, an' lost a wife, praise the Lord ! but I 
 never was sure o' her even. I wouldn't no more try 
 it agin than I'd slip down into a bee-tree ; for there's 
 full as much stings as hone}' to 'em, and, take an ever- 
 idge, I guess there's more." 
 
 Whether or not the parson's silent ideas coincided 
 with those Israel expressed is not for the ignorant 
 chronicler to say ; but it is certain that his candid and 
 generous soul was so far moved by Mab's tirade, how- 
 ever he denied and defied it during its delivery, that 
 the next day he resolved to call in a council of his 
 neighboring brethren to discuss the matter, and indorse 
 or reprobate the action of his own church. 
 
 So he wrote to the Rev. Ami Dobbins of Dorset, 
 and the Rev. Samuel Jehoram Hill of Bassington,
 
 414 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 better known as Father Hill ; and, in compliance witl 
 his request, they repaired to Bassett, and investigated 
 the matter. Being advised of the pastor, who had had 
 his experiences, they went to Mrs. Flint's during school- 
 hours ; and Mabel had no chance to pour out her soul 
 before them. They encountered only a pale, depressed, 
 weak woman, who was frightened out of what little 
 heart was left her by past trials, when these two august 
 personages came into her presence, and with severe 
 countenances began their catechism of her life with 
 Deacon Flint. As in the case of many another woman, 
 her terror, her humiliation, and a lingering desire to 
 shield her husband from his own misdeeds, all conspired 
 against her. Her testimony was tearful, confused, and 
 contradictory ; though through it all she did feebly insist 
 on her own sufferings, and depicted them in honest 
 colors. From her they went to the deacon, whom they 
 found resigned, pious, and loftily superior to common 
 things ; then he was a man, and a deacon ! Is it to be 
 wondered at that their letter to the church at Bassett 
 was in the deacon's favor? They did indeed own that 
 Mrs. Flint had " peculiar trials," but went on to say, 
 " Nevertheless, she cannot be fully justified, but has 
 departed from meekness and a Christian spirit . . . 
 particularly in indulging angry and passionate expres- 
 sions, tending to provoke and irritate her husband ; and, 
 however unjustifiable his conduct may be, that doth not 
 exculpate her. We think that it would be proper and 
 suitable for her to make suitable reflections, acknowl- 
 edge she hath given her brethren and sisters of the 
 church occasion of stumbling and to be dissatisfied ; 
 and, upon her manifesting a becoming spirit of meek- 
 uess and love, we think they ought to restore her but.
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 415 
 
 if she should refuse to make such reflections, they can- 
 not consistently receive her." 
 
 And with a few added remarks on the perplexity of 
 the case, and advising the church to call the ecclesias- 
 tical council, the Rev. Ami Dobbins and Father Hill 
 retired for the present. 
 
 But Bassett was not content. "Weeks passed, and no 
 act of confession or contrition came from this poor old 
 offender. To tell the truth, Mabel stood behind her 
 now, afire with honest rage at the way she had been 
 put upon. 
 
 "You sha'n't do it, aunty! " she said, with all her 
 native vehemence. 
 
 "You confess! I like that! It is that old hypo- 
 crite's place to confess. Pie drove you out, now when 
 you get down to it ; and he hain't asked you to come 
 back, that I've heard tell. I'd let him and the church, 
 and Bassett too, go to thunder, if they're a mind to. 
 If you make ' suitable reflections,' they'll reflect on old 
 Flint and Bassett church-members. Dear me ! I know 
 one thing : I'd rather be an old maid ten times over 
 than married to that man." 
 
 A faint smile crept over the old woman's pale face. 
 From her high pillows she had a good outlook, and 
 more than once she had seen an interview by the little 
 gate that did not augur long maidenhood for Mab. 
 
 " Well, Mabel, if that's your say, why, it behooves 
 you to be real cautious, though I don't know as Sam 
 Pratt' s brother could be anyways other than good." 
 
 Mab blushed like a Provence rose, but said nothing, 
 yet iay after day kept hardening her aunt's heart as 
 tfeli as she knew how ; and Parson Roberts, receiving 
 no "reflections" from the offender, and having great
 
 416 SOMEBODY'S KETGHBORS. 
 
 faith in Father Hill's power of persuasion, invited him 
 to come again by himself, and hold a conversation with 
 sister Flint on the subject of her trials and her contu- 
 macy. 
 
 Father Hill was a quaint, gentle, sweet-natured old 
 man, steeped, however, in the prejudices of his time 
 and his faith. He, too, went to the house mailed with 
 his fixed assurance of ecclesiastical dignity and marital 
 supremacy. Sympathy, pity, comprehension of her 
 side of the case, would have disarmed Mrs. Flint com- 
 pletely ; she would have sobbed, confessed, laid her 
 hand on her mouth, and her mouth in the dust, and 
 been ready to own herself the chief of sinners : but to 
 be placed in the wrong from the first, reproved, ad- 
 monished, and treated as an impenitent and hardened 
 culprit, made it easier for her weak nature to accept 
 the situation than to defy or to deny it. Nothing 
 Father Hill could say moved her, but her dull and 
 feeble obstinacy stirred his tender heart to its depths : 
 he felt a despair of human means and a yearning ten- 
 derness that could find no outlet but in prayer. He fell 
 on his knees before the chair in which he had been 
 sitting, and lifted his earnest face to heaven. 
 
 " O dear Lord and Master," he said, speaking even 
 as a man unto his friend, " thou hast borne our griefs, 
 and carried our sorrows. Thou knowest by heart 
 every pain and woe that we feel. A stranger cannot 
 intermeddle, but, O thou Hope of Israel, why shouldst 
 thou be as a stranger that passeth by, and a wayfar- 
 ing man that tarrieth but a night, in this dwelling of 
 thy handmaid? Dear Lord, it is not in man that walk- 
 eth to direct his own steps, how much less the steps of 
 others ! Come thou in the might of thy great gentle-
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 417 
 
 ness and thine all-knowing sympathy and love, and 
 show this child of thine the right way, saying, ' Walk 
 ye in it.' Thou knowest every sorrow she has passed 
 through, every bitter draught she has drunk, every sin 
 she has been led into : yea, when she said there was 
 no comforter, thine eye pitied and thine arm waited 
 to save her, though the eye of flesh saw it not. Come 
 now, and place beneath her weary heart and failing 
 flesh the everlasting arms of thy overflowing love and 
 care ; give her peace and rest ; give her an understand- 
 ing heart; above all, with thy love and pity redeem 
 her, as thou didst the elder Israel, and bring her with 
 tender leading and divine affection, not only into thy 
 fold on earth, but to the general assembly and church 
 of the first-born in heaven. And to thee shall be 
 praise and love and glory forever. Amen." 
 
 When he arose, his old face fair with the shining of 
 the mount from whence he came down, the poor 
 woman, who had dropped her head on her hand, lifted 
 it, and tried to thank him ; but streaming tears choked 
 her, and behind the door into the shed a stifled sob 
 betrayed some hidden auditor. 
 
 "Farewell!" said Father Hill, and with a look of 
 heavenly benignity went out from the house. His deep 
 and earnest piety had got the better of his dogmas ; 
 and, so strange is human nature, he was a little 
 Ashamed of it. But on his departing steps the shed- 
 door opened, and Mab came in, her face all washed 
 with tears. 
 
 " TJiat man's got religion," she said decisively. 
 "I never heerd a mortal creature pray like that: 
 seemed as though he see right into glory, and talked 
 face to face with the Lord. If that's bein' pious, I 
 wish I was as pious as fury myself."
 
 418 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 "He's a good man," sobbed Mrs. Flint; "one of 
 the Lord's an'inted, I make no doubt. And, Mabel, 
 I don't know but what I have did wrong. I ain't 
 noways heavenly-minded like him : mabbe I had ought 
 to have put up with every thing." 
 
 " No, you hadn't : that ain't so. But if it's goin' to 
 make you easier, aunty, to 'make reflections,' as old 
 Parson Roberts says, why, make 'em : only don't tell 
 no lies to the church because you've got into a heav- 
 enly mood all to once. Folks that ain't just to them- 
 selves don't never get justice elsewheres, now I tell 
 you." 
 
 Father Hill, despairing of having impressed Mrs. 
 Flint, had cast the matter into his Master's hands, 
 and from his study in Bassington sent a letter to Par- 
 son Roberts, running thus : 
 
 "REV'D AND DEAR BROTHER, I have had Opportunity 
 with Mrs. Flint, and find that she conceived her leaving the 
 Deacon was a real duty at that time ; that her Recovery under 
 Providence turned upon it; that she did not then foresee the 
 Consequences that such a step would issue in her final Sepa- 
 ration. . . ..She stands ready to reflect upon herself as far as 
 she can be convinced she ought to do so, but thinks the fault 
 is not on her Side as things now are. 
 
 "I feel unable to direct or advise further. The cause of 
 Religion, the cause of the Christian Church, you are very sen- 
 sible, is of more Consequence than the Honor or Pease of any 
 individual. If such a settlement can be made as may secure 
 Religion from suffering, it must be an object to be desired. 
 ... Sensible of the Embarrassments you and the church 
 labor under, and desirous to contribute my mite, I use this 
 Freedom. 
 
 " This from your affectionate Brother, 
 
 "SAMUEL J. HILL. 
 "To REV'D MR. ROBERTS. 
 
 " To be communicated if you think expedient."
 
 MRS. FLINT'S MARRIED EXPERIENCE. 419 
 
 But, while the ministers were in this strait about 
 their obstinate parishioner, the Lord had answered 
 Father Hill, unknown to himself, while he was yet 
 speaking. Moved, and indeed melted, by the love 
 and sympathy that prayer showed, Mrs. Flint, no 
 longer hindered by Mabel, prepared herself to write 
 "proper reflections" to the church; but in doing so 
 was also perpetually prompted by Mabel not to traitor- 
 ously deny her own cause, or slip aside from the truth 
 in a voluntary humility ; and in due time the following 
 confession was laid before that august body : 
 
 "I, the subscriber, Sarepta Flint, a member of the church 
 of Christ in Bassett, sensible that the Church are dissatisfied 
 with me on account of the Separation that has taken place 
 between Deacon Flint and myself, and that they are Appre- 
 hensive that I have not been innocent as to measures which 
 have led to this unhappy Event, whereby Religion is wounded 
 and the Pease of the Church disturbed, take this opportunity 
 to publickly acknowledge myself a poor, imperfect Creture, 
 and to own that under my Weak state of Body and weakness 
 of mind, with which I was attended at one Time or another, 
 I no doubt manifested on certain Occasions an unsuitable 
 Temper of mind, said and Did things which under other Cir- 
 cumstances I should not have said or done. I am far from 
 justifying myself in all my conduct. Particular I would 
 reflect on myself for that Expresion in regard to swearing the 
 Pease against Deacon Flint. ... I ask the Forgivness of God 
 and this church, and of all others who are aggrieved, and 
 request the prayers of my Christian Brethren and Sisters that 
 I henceforth conduct as a true and faithful Disciple of Christ, 
 and adorn the Solem Vocation by which I am called. 
 
 "SABEPTA FLINT. 
 
 "P.S. I stand ready also to return to my Husband as 
 BOOH as a suitable Door opens for that Purpose." 
 
 Perhaps something in the self-respecting yet honest 
 humility of this document touched the heart of Bassett
 
 420 SOMEBODY'S NEIGHBORS. 
 
 church ; or perhaps only their self-love and pride of 
 place was soothed by it. Be that as it may, the confes- 
 sion was accepted ; and Parson Roberts, with a valoi 
 and persistence that did him honor, insisted that 
 Deacon Flint should go with him to inform his wife 
 of her release from interdict, and also to open that 
 " Door " of reconciliation to which she had so patheti- 
 cally alluded. The parson's wig was fresh buckled, the 
 deacon's cue new wound and tied, and their sabbath-day 
 garments prim and speckless, as the next morning they 
 opened the door of the old house where Sarepta Flint 
 had taken refuge from her oppressor. A scene they 
 little expected met their eyes. On the low bed, covered 
 with its rough blue homespun spread, lay an evidently 
 dying figure. A more " Solem Vocation" than life 
 had called Deacon Flint's wife, and she was about to 
 obey. Mindwell and Sam Pratt upheld her as she 
 gasped for breath, and the two children clung together 
 sobbing at her feet ; while Mabel, with Joe Pratt's arm 
 about her, and her face streaming with tears she did 
 not feel, stood by the bedside gazing at her friend. 
 Her face blazed as the deacon and Parson Roberts 
 entered ; but, roused by the click of the latch, Mrs. 
 Flint opened her eyes, and looked at the youthful pair 
 with a gentle smile. They had been the one bright 
 outlook of her latter life, and to them she gave her 
 last smile ; for, as her eyes turned toward her husband, 
 a cold terror filled them, the lids fell, her head drooped 
 on Mind well's shoulder, and with one long, shuddering 
 sigh she escaped forever. The forgiveness of the 
 church and the condescension of her husband came too 
 late : she was already safe where the wicked cease 
 from troubling, and the Consoler dries all mortal tears
 
 MBS. FLINT'S MAKKIED EXPEKIENCE. 421 
 
 Deacon Flint stood like a stone. Did remorse 
 trouble him? Was regret busy at his heart? Or did 
 he feel a bitter and deep chagrin at the loss of so much 
 income ? 
 
 Mabel's tears ceased : she withdrew from Joe's arm, 
 and went round to where Deacon Flint stood. "Are 
 you proper pleased now ? ' ' she said in a low voice cf 
 concentred contempt and rage. "You've got her 
 turned out of church, and into heaven. You won't 
 never see her again, no, never ! not to all eternity. 
 But you've killed her as good as if you took an axe to 
 her. You can take that hum to sleep on." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Parson Roberts, with all the dignity 
 a little man could give to his voice and manner. 
 "When the Lord giveth quietness, who, then, can 
 make trouble?" 
 
 But even as he spoke, Joe Pratt his face full of 
 black wrath set his hand to the deacon's collar, 
 and walked him summarily into the road. Mabel had 
 spoken truth : never again did he see his wife's face, 
 not even in the fair peace of death. Whether ever, in 
 that far world of souls, they met again, is perhaps 
 doubtful : let us pray not. Mrs. Flint's married expe- 
 rience was over in this world a hundred years ago, 
 and in the next " they neither marry nor are given iii 
 marriage."
 
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