by Kate Sanborn
“I can’t find nothing of Johnny’s shoe!” “Here’s a shoe in the water-pitcher—is this it?” “My side-combs are gone!” exclaims a nymph with dishevelled curls. “Massy! do look at my bonnet!” exclaims an old lady, elevating an article crushed into as many angles as there are pieces in a mince-pie. “I never did sleep so much together in my life,” echoes a poor little French lady, whom despair has driven into talking English.
But our shortening paper warns us not to prolong our catalogue of distresses beyond reasonable bounds, and therefore we will close with advising all our friends, who intend to try this way of travelling for pleasure, to take a good stock both of patience and clean towels with them, for we think that they will find abundant need for both.
CHAPTER IV.
“SAMPLES” HERE AND THERE.
Next comes Mrs. Caroline M. Kirkland with her Western sketches. Many will remember her laughable description of “Borrowing Out West,” with its two appropriate mottoes: “Lend me your ears,” from Shakespeare, and from Bacon: “Grant graciously what you cannot refuse safely.”
“‘Mother wants your sifter,’ said Miss Ianthe Howard, a young lady of six years’ standing, attired in a tattered calico thickened with dirt; her unkempt locks straggling from under that hideous substitute for a bonnet so universal in the Western country—a dirty cotton handkerchief—which is used ad nauseam for all sorts of purposes.
“‘Mother wants your sifter, and she says she guesses you can let her have some sugar and tea, ‘cause you’ve got plenty.’ This excellent reason, ”cause you’ve got plenty,’ is conclusive as to sharing with neighbors.
“Sieves, smoothing-irons, and churns run about as if they had legs; one brass kettle is enough for a whole neighborhood, and I could point to a cradle which has rocked half the babies in Montacute.
“For my own part, I have lent my broom, my thread, my tape, my spoons, my cat, my thimble, my scissors, my shawl, my shoes, and have been asked for my combs and brushes, and my husband for his shaving apparatus and pantaloons.”
Mrs. Whither, whose “Widow Bedott” is a familiar name, resembles Mrs. Kirkland in her comic portraitures, which were especially good of their kind, and never betrayed any malice. The “Bedott Papers” first appeared in 1846, and became popular at once. They are good examples of what they simply profess to be: an amusing series of comicalities.
I shall not quote from them, as every one who enjoys that style of humor knows them by heart. It would be as useless as copying “Now I lay me down to sleep,” or “Mary had a little lamb,” for a child’s collection of verses!
There are many authors whom I cannot represent worthily in these brief limits. When, encouraged by the unprecedented popularity of this venture, I prepare an encyclopaedia of the “Wit and Humor of American Women,” I can do justice to such writers as “Gail Hamilton” and Miss Alcott, whose “Transcendental Wild Oats” cannot be cut. Rose Terry Cooke thinks her “Knoware” the only funny thing she has ever done. She is greatly mistaken, as I can soon prove. “Knoware” ought to be printed by itself to delight thousands, as her “Deacon’s Week” has already done. To search for a few good things in the works of my witty friends is searching not for the time-honored needle in a hay-mow, but for two or three needles of just the right size out of a whole paper of needles.
“The Insanity of Cain,” by Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, an inimitable satire on the feebleness of our jury system and the absurd pretence of “temporary insanity,” must wait for that encyclopaedia. And her “Miss Molony on the Chinese Question” is known and admired by every one, including the Prince of Wales, who was fairly convulsed by its fun, when brought out by our favorite elocutionist, Miss Sarah Cowell, who had the honor of reading before royalty.
I regretfully omit the “Peterkin Letters,” by Lucretia P. Hale, and time famous “William Henry Letters,” by Mrs. Abby Morton Diaz. The very best bit from Miss Sallie McLean would be how “Grandma Spicer gets Grandpa Ready for Sunday-school,” from the “Cape Cod Folks;” but why not save space for what is not in everybody’s mouth and memory? This is equally true of Mrs. Cleaveland’s “No Sects in Heaven,” which, like Arabella Wilson’s “Sextant,” goes the rounds of all the papers every other year as a fresh delight.
Marietta Holley, too, must be allowed only a brief quotation. “Samantha” is a family friend from Mexico to Alaska. Mrs. Metta Victoria Victor, who died recently, has written an immense amount of humorous sketches. Her “Miss Slimmens,” the boarding-house keeper, is a marked character, and will be remembered by many.
I will select a few “samples,” unsatisfactory because there is so much more just as good, and then give room for others less familiar.
MISS LUCINDA’S PIG.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
“You don’t know of any poor person who’d like to have a pig, do you?” said Miss Lucinda, wistfully.
“Well, the poorer they was, the quicker they’d eat him up, I guess—ef they could eat such a razor-back.”
“Oh, 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?”
“I think it’s likely it would wake him up,” said he, demurely. “Killin’ ‘s killin’, and a critter can’t sleep over it ‘s though ‘twas the stomachache. 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 ain’t nobody as I knows of would like a hog to be a-rootin’ round among 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 bought him, Israel! Do you remember how pink his pretty little nose was—just like a rosebud—and how bright his eyes were, 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 too 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.”
“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 piggie, 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!”
“Oh, 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 mean, I shall be,” said she.
“Well, I’m glad enough to wash my hands on ‘t,” said Israel. “I shall hanker arter the critter some, but he’s a-gettin’ too big to be handy; ‘n it’s one comfort about critters, you ken git rid on ‘em somehaow when they’re more plague than profit. But folks has got to be let alone, excep’ the Lord takes ‘em; an’ He generally don’t see fit.”—_From Somebody’s Neighbors._
A GIFT HORSE.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
“Well, he no need to ha’ done it, Sary. I’ve told him more’n four times he hadn’t ought to pull a gun tow’rds him by the m
uzzle on’t. Now he’s up an’ did it once for all.”
“He won’t never have no chance to do it again, Scotty, if you don’t hurry up after the doctor,” said Sary, wiping her eyes on her dirty calico apron, thereby adding an effective shadow under their redness.
“Well, I’m a-goin’, ain’t I? But ye know yerself ‘twon’t do to go so fur on eend, ‘thout ye’re vittled consider’ble well.”
So saying, he fell to at the meal she had interrupted, hot potatoes, cold pork, dried venison, and blueberry pie vanishing down his throat with an alacrity and dispatch that augured well for the thorough “vittling” he intended, while Sary went about folding chunks of boiled ham, thick slices of brown bread, solid rounds of “sody biskit,” and slab-sided turnovers in a newspaper, filling a flat bottle with whiskey, and now and then casting a look at the low bed where young Harry McAlister lay, very much whiter than the sheets about him, and quite as unconscious of surroundings, the blood oozing slowly through such bandages as Scott Peck’s rude surgery had twisted about a gunshot-wound in his thigh, and brought to close tension by a stick thrust through the folds, turned as tight as could be borne, and strapped into place by a bit of coarse twine.
It was a long journey paddling up the Racquette River, across creek and carry, with the boat on his back, to the lakes, and then from Martin’s to “Harri’tstown,” where he knew a surgeon of repute from a great city was spending his vacation. It was touch-and-go with Harry before Scott and Dr. Drake got back. Sary had dosed him with venison-broth, hot and greasy, weak whiskey and water, and a little milk (only a little), for their cow was old and pastured chiefly on leaves and twigs, and she only came back to the shanty when she liked or needed to come, so their milk supply was uncertain, and Sary dared not leave her patient long enough to row to the end of Tupper’s Lake, where the nearest cow was kept. But youth has a power of recovery that defies circumstance, and Dr. Drake was very skilful. Long weeks went by, and the green woods of July had brightened and faded into October’s dim splendor before Harry McAlister could be carried up the river and over to Bartlett’s, where his mother had been called to meet him. She was a widow, and he her only child; and, though she was rather silly and altogether unpractical, she had a tender, generous heart, and was ready to do anything possible for Scott and Sarah Peck to show her gratitude for their kindness to her boy. She did not consult Harry at all. He had lost much blood from his accident and recovered strength slowly. She kept everything like thought or trouble out of his way as far as she could, and when the family physician found her heart was set on taking him to Florida for the winter, because he looked pale and her grandmother’s aunt had died of consumption, Dr. Peet, like a wise man, rubbed his hands together, bowed, and assured her it would be the very thing. But something must be done for the Pecks before she went away. It occurred to her how difficult it must be for them to row everywhere in a small boat. A horse would be much better. Even if the roads were not good they could ride, Sarah behind Scott. And so useful in farming, too. Her mind was made up at once. She dispatched a check for three hundred dollars to Peter Haas, her old coachman, who had bought a farm in Vermont with his savings, and retired, with the cook for his wife, into the private life of a farmer. Mrs. McAlister had much faith in Peter’s knowledge of horses and his honesty. She wrote him to buy a strong, steady animal, and convey it to Scott Peck, either sending him word to come up to Bartlett’s after it, or taking it down the river; but, at any rate, to make sure he had it. If the check would not pay all expenses, he was to draw on her for more. Peter took the opportunity to get rid of a horse he had no use for in winter; a beast restive as a racer when not in daily use, but strong enough for any work, and steady enough if he had work. Two hundred and fifty dollars was the price now set on his head, though Peter had bought him for seventy-five, and thought him dear at that. The remaining fifty was ample for expenses; but Peter was a prudent German and liked a margin. There was no difficulty in getting the horse as far as Martin’s, and by dint of patient insistence Peter contrived to have him conveyed to Bartlett’s; but here he rested and sent a messenger down to Scott Peck, while he himself returned to Bridget at the farm, slowly cursing the country and the people as he went his way, for his delays and troubles had been numerous.
“Gosh!” said Scott Peck, when he stepped up to the log-house that served for the guides, unknowing what awaited him, for the messenger had not found him at home, but left word he was to come to Bartlett’s for something, and the first thing he saw was this gray horse.
“What fool fetched his hoss up here?”
The guides gathered about the door of their hut, burst into a loud cackle of laughter; even the beautiful hounds in their rough kennel leaped up and bayed.
“W-a-a-l;” drawled lazy Joe Tucker, “the feller ‘t owns him ain’t nobody’s fool. Be ye, Scotty?”
“Wha-t!” ejaculated Scott.
“It’s your’n, man, sure as shootin’!” laughed Hearty Jack, Joe Tucker’s brother.
“Mine? Jehoshaphat! Blaze that air track, will ye? I’m lost, sure.”
“Well, Bartlett’s gone out Keeseville way, so’t kinder was lef’ to me to tell ye. ‘Member that ar chap that shot hisself in the leg down to your shanty this summer?”
“Well, I expect I do, seein’ I ain’t more’n a hundred year old,” sarcastically answered Scott.
“He’s cleared out South-aways some’eres, and his ma consaited she was dredful obleeged to ye; ‘n I’m blessed if she didn’t send an old Dutch feller up here fur to fetch ye that hoss fur a present. He couldn’t noways wait to see ye pus’nally, he sed, fur he mistrusted the’ was snows here sometimes ‘bout this season. Ho! ho! ho!”
“Good land!” said Scott, sitting down on a log, and putting his hands in his pockets, the image of perplexity, while the men about him roared with fresh laughter. “What be I a-goin’ to do with the critter?” he asked of the crowd.
“Blessed if I know,” answered Hearty Jack.
“Can’t ye get him out to ‘Sable Falls or Keeseville ‘n sell him fur what he’ll fetch?” suggested Joe Tucker.
“I can’t go now, noways. Sary’s wood-pile’s nigh gin out, ‘n there was a mighty big sundog yesterday; ‘nd moreover I smell snow. It’ll be suthin’ to git hum as ‘tis. Mabbe Bartlett’ll keep him a spell.”
“No, he won’t; you kin bet your head. His fodder’s a-runnin’ short for the hornid critters. He’s bought some up to Martin’s, that’s a-comin’ down dyrect; but ‘tain’t enough. He’s put to’t for more. Shouldn’t wonder ef he had to draw from North Elby when sleddin’ sets in.”
“Well, I dono’s there’s but one thing for to do; fetch him hum somehow or ‘nother; ‘nd there’s my boat over to the carry!”
“You’d better tie the critter on behind an’ let him wade down the Racket!”
Another shout of laughter greeted this proposal.
“I s’all take ze boat for you!” quietly said a little brown Canadian—Jean Poiton. “I am go to Tupper to-morrow. I have one hunt to make. I can take her.”
“Well said, Gene. I’ll owe you a turn. But, fur all, how be I goin’ to get that animile ‘long the trail?”
“I dono!” answered Joe Tucker. “I expect, if it’s got to be did, you’ll fetch it somehow. But I’m mighty glad ‘tain’t my job!”
Scott Peck thought Joe had good reason for joy in that direction before he had gone a mile on his homeward way! The trail was only a trail, rough, devious, crossed with roots of trees, brushed with boughs of fir and pine, and the horse was restive and unruly. By nightfall he had gone only a few miles, and when he had tied the beast to a tree and covered him with a blanket brought from Bartlett’s for the purpose, and strapped on his own back all the way, the light of the camp-fire startled the horse so that Scott was forced to blind him with a comforter before he would stand still. Then in the middle of the night, a great owl hooting from the tree-top just above him was a fresh scare, and but that the strap and rope both were
new and strong he would have escaped. Scott listened to his rearing, trampling, snorts, and wild neigh with the composure of a sleepy man; but when he awoke at daylight, and found four inches of snow had fallen during the night, he swore.
This was too much. Even to his practised woodcraft it seemed impossible to get the horse safe to his clearing without harm. It was only by dint of the utmost care and patience, the greatest watchfulness of the way, that he got along at all. Every rod or two he stumbled, and all but fell himself. Here and there a loaded hemlock bough, weighed out of its uprightness by the wet snow, snapped in his face and blinded him with its damp burden; and he knew long before nightfall that another night in the woods was inevitable. He could feed the horse on young twigs of beech and birch; fresh moss, and new-peeled bark (fodder the animal would have resented with scorn under any other conditions); but hunger has no law concerning food. Scott himself was famished; but his pipe and tobacco were a refuge whose value he knew before, and his charge was tired enough to be quiet this second night; so the man had an undisturbed sleep by his comfortable fire. It was full noon of the next day when he reached his cabin. Jean Poiton had tied his boat to its stake, and gone on without stopping to speak to Sarah; so her surprise was wonderful when she saw Scott emerge from the forest, leading a gray creature, with drooping head and shambling gait, tired and dispirited.
“Heaven’s to Betsey, Scott Peck! What hev you got theer?”
“The devil!” growled Scott.
Sary screamed.
“Do hold your jaw, gal, an’ git me su’thin’ hot to eat ‘n drink. I’m savager’n an Injin. Come, git along.” And, tying his horse to a stump, the hungry man followed Sarah into the house and helped himself out of a keg in the corner to a long, reviving draught.
