by Kate Sanborn
“Du tell!” said Sarah, when the pork began to frizzle in the pan. “What upon airth did you buy a hoss for?” (She had discovered it was a horse.)
“Buy it! I guess not. I ain’t no such blamed fool as that comes to. That feller you nussed up here a spell back, he up an’ sent it roun’ to Bartlett’s, for a present to me.”
“Well! Did he think you was a-goin’ to set up canawl long o’ Racket?”
“I expect he calc’lated I’d go racin’,” dryly answered Scott.
“But what be ye a-goin’ to feed him with?” said Sary, laying venison steaks into the pan.
“Lord knows! I don’t. Shut up, Sary! I’m tuckered out with the beast. I’d ruther still-hunt three weeks on eend than fetch him in from Sar’nac, now I tell ye. Ain’t them did enough? I could eat a raw bear.”
Sary laughed and asked no more questions till the ravenous man had satisfied himself with the savory food; but, if she had asked them, Scott would have had no answer, for his mind was perplexed to the last degree. He fed the beast for a while on potatoes; but that was taking the bread out of his own mouth, though he supplemented it with now and then a boat-load of coarse, frost-killed grass, but the horse grew more and more gaunt and restive. His eyes glared with hunger and fury. He kicked out one side of the cowshed and snapped at Scott whenever he came near him. Want of use and food had restored him to the original savagery of his race. Hitherto Scott had never acknowledged Mrs McAlister’s gift; but Sary, who had a vague idea of good manners, caught from the picture papers and occasional dime novels the tribe of Adirondack travellers strew even in such a wilderness, kept pecking at him.
“Ta’n’t no more’n civil to say thank ye, to the least,” she said, till Scott’s temper gave way.
“Stop a-pesterin’ of me! I’ve hed too much. I ain’t a speck thankful! I’m mightily t’other thing, whatever ‘tis. Write to her yourself, if you’re a mind tu. You can make a better fist at it, anyways. Comes as nateral to women to lie as sap to run. I’ll be etarnally blessed ef I touch paper for to do it.” And he flung out of the door with a bang.
Of course Sary wrote the letter, which one balmy day electrified Harry and his mother as they sat basking in Southern sunshine:
“MIS MACALLISTUR: This is fur to say wee is reel
obliged to ye fur the HOSS.”
“Good gracious, mother! Did you send them a horse?” ejaculated Harry.
“Why, my dear, I wanted to show my sense of their kindness, and I could not offer these people money. I thought a horse would be so useful!”
“Useful! in the Adirondack woods!” And Harry burst into a fit of laughter that scarcely permitted his mother to go on; but at last she proceeded:
“But Scotty and me ain’t ackwainted So to speak with
Hoss ways; he seems kinder Hum-sick if you may say that
of a Cretur. We air etarnally gratified to You for sech
a Valewble Pressent, but if you was Wiling we shood
Like to swapp it of in spring fur a kow, ourn Being
some in years.
“yours to Command, SARY PECK.”
But long before Mrs. McAlister’s permission to “swap” the horse reached Scott Peck, the creature took his destiny into his own hands. Scott had gone away on a desperate errand, to fetch some sort of food for the poor creature, whose bones stared him in the face, and Sary went out one morning to give him her potato-peelings and some scraps of bread, when, suddenly, he jerked his head fiercely, snapped his halter in two, and wheeled round upon the frightened woman, rearing, snorting, and showing his long, yellow teeth. Sary fled at once and barred the door behind her; but neither she nor Scott ever saw their “gift horse” again. For aught I know he still roams the Adirondack forest, and maybe personates the ghostly and ghastly white deer of song and legend. Who can tell? But he was lifted off Scott Peck’s shoulders, and all Scott said by way of epitaph on the departed, when he came home to find his white steed gone, was, “Hang presents!”
“Samantha Allen” will now have “a brief opportunity for remark.”
Admire her graphic description of the excitement Josiah caused by voting, at a meeting of the “Jonesville Creation Searchers,” for his own spouse as a delegate from Jonesville to the “Sentinel.” She reports thus:
“It was a fearful time, but right where the excitement was raining most fearfully I felt a motion by the side of me, and my companion got up and stood on his feet and says, in pretty firm accents, though some sheepish:
”’I did, and there’s where I stand now; I vote for Samantha!’
“And then he sot down again. Oh, the fearful excitement and confusion that rained down again! The president got up and tried to speak; the editor of the Auger talked wildly; Shakespeare Bobbet talked to himself incoherently, but Solomon Cypher’s voice drowned ‘em all out, as he kep’ a-smitin’ his breast and a hollerin’ that he wasn’t goin’ to be infringed upon, or come in contract with no woman!
“No female woman needn’t think she was the equal of man; and I should go as a woman or stay to home. I was so almost wore out by their talk, that I spoke right out, and, says I, ‘Good land! how did you s’pose I was a-goin’?’
“The president then said that he meant, if I went I mustn’t look upon things with the eye of a ‘Creation Searcher’ and a man (here he p’inted his forefinger right up in the air and waved it round in a real free and soarin’ way), but look at things with the eye of a private investigator and a woman (here he p’inted his finger firm and stiddy right down into the wood-box and a pan of ashes). It war impressive—VERY.”
MISS SLIMMENS SURPRISED.
A Terrible Accident.
BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.
“Dora! Dora! Dora! wake up, wake up, I say! Don’t you smell something burning? Wake up, child! Don’t you smell fire? Good Lord! so do I. I thought I wasn’t mistaken. The room’s full of smoke. Oh, dear! what’ll we do? Don’t stop to put on your petticoat. We’ll all be burned to death. Fire! fire! fire! fire!
“Yes, there is! I don’t know where! It’s all over—our room’s all in a blaze, and Dora won’t come out till she gets her dress on. Mr. Little, you shan’t go in—I’ll hold you—you’ll be killed just to save that chit of a girl, when—I—I—He’s gone—rushed right into the flames. Oh, my house! my furniture! all my earnings! Can’t anything be done? Fire! fire! fire! Call the fire-engines! ring the dinner-bell! Be quiet! How can I be quiet? Yes, it is all in flames. I saw them myself! Where’s my silver spoons? Oh, where’s my teeth, and my silver soup-ladle? Let me be! I’m going out in the street before it’s too late! Oh, Mr. Grayson! have you got water? have you found the place? are they bringing water?
“Did you say the fire was out? Was that you that spoke, Mr. Little? I thought you were burned up, sure; and there’s Dora, too. How did they get it out? My clothes-closet was on fire, and the room, too! We would have been smothered in five minutes more if we hadn’t waked up! But it’s all out now, and no damage done, but my dresses destroyed and the carpet spoiled. Thank the Lord, if that’s the worst! But it ain’t the worst. Dora, come along this minute to my room. I don’t care if it is cold, and wet, and full of smoke. Don’t you see—don’t you see I’m in my night-clothes? I never thought of it before. I’m ruined, ruined completely! Go to bed, gentlemen; get out of the way as quick as you can Dora, shut the door. Hand me that candle; I want to look at myself in the glass. To think that all those gentlemen should have seen me in this fix! I’d rather have perished in the flames. It’s the very first night I’ve worn these flannel nightcaps, and to be seen in ‘em! Good gracious! how old I do look! Not a spear of hair on my head scarcely, and this red nightgown and old petticoat on, and my teeth in the tumbler, and the paint all washed off my face, and scarred besides! It’s no use! I never, never can again make any of those men believe that I’m only twenty-five, and I felt so sure of some of them.
“Oh, Dora Adams! you needn’t look pale; you’ve lost nothing. I’ll warrant Mr
. Little thought you never looked so pretty as in that ruffled gown, and your hair all down over your shoulders. He says you were fainting from the smoke when he dragged you out. You must be a little fool to be afraid to come out looking that way. They say that new boarder is a drawing-master, and I seen some of his pictures yesterday; he had some such ridiculous things. He’ll caricature me for the amusement of the young men, I know. Only think how my portrait would look taken to-night! and he’ll have it, I’m sure, for I noticed him looking at me—the first that reminded me of my situation after the fire was put out. Well, there’s but one thing to be done, and that’s to put a bold face on it. I can’t sleep any more to-night; besides, the bed’s wet, and it’s beginning to get daylight. I’ll go to work and get myself ready for breakfast, and I’ll pretend to something—I don’t know just what—to get myself out of this scrape, if I can….
“Good-morning, gentlemen, good-morning! We had quite a fright last night, didn’t we? Dora and I came pretty near paying dear for a little frolic. You see, we were dressing up in character to amuse ourselves, and I was all fixed up for to represent an old woman, and had put on a gray wig and an old flannel gown that I found, and we’d set up pretty late, having some fun all to ourselves; and I expect Dora must have been pretty sleepy when she was putting some of the things away, and set fire to a dress in the closet without noticing it. I’ve lost my whole wardrobe, nigh about, by her carelessness; but it’s such a mercy we wasn’t burned in our bed that I don’t feel to complain so much on that account. Isn’t it curious how I got caught dressed up like my grandmother? We didn’t suppose we were going to appear before so large an audience when we planned out our little frolic. What character did Dora assume? Really, Mr. Little, I was so scared last night that I disremember. She took off her rigging before she went to bed. Don’t you think I’d personify a pretty good old woman, gentlemen—ha! ha!—for a lady of my age? What’s that, Mr. Little? You wish I’d make you a present of that nightcap, to remember me by? Of course; I’ve no further use for it. Of course I haven’t. It’s one of Bridget’s, that I borrowed for the occasion, and I’ve got to give it back to her. Have some coffee, Mr. Grayson—do! I’ve got cream for it this morning. Mr. Smith, help yourself to some of the beefsteak. It’s a very cold morning—fine weather out of doors. Eat all you can, all of you. Have you any profiles to take yet, Mr. Gamboge? I may make up my mind to set for mine before you leave us; I’ve always thought I should have it taken some time. In character? He! he! Mr. Little, you’re so funny! But you’ll excuse me this morning, as I had such a fright last night. I must go and take up that wet carpet.”
CHAPTER V.
A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN.
By the courtesy of Harper Brothers I am allowed to give you “Aunt Anniky’s Teeth,” by Sherwood Bonner. The illustrations add much, but the story is good enough without pictures.
AUNT ANNIKY’S TEETH.
BY SHERWOOD BONNER.
Aunt Anniky was an African dame, fifty years old, and of an imposing presence. As a waffle-maker she possessed a gift beyond the common, but her unapproachable talent lay in the province of nursing. She seemed born for the benefit of sick people. She should have been painted with the apple of healing in her hand. For the rest, she was a funny, illiterate old darkey, vain, affable, and neat as a pink.
On one occasion my mother had a dangerous illness. Aunt Anniky nursed her through it, giving herself no rest, night nor day, until her patient had come “back to de walks an’ ways ob life,” as she expressed the dear mother’s recovery. My father, overjoyed and grateful, felt that we owed this result quite as much to Aunt Anniky as to our family doctor, so he announced his intention of making her a handsome present, and, like King Herod, left her free to choose what it should be. I shall never forget how Aunt Anniky looked as she stood there smiling and bowing, and bobbing the funniest little courtesies all the way down to the ground.
And you would never guess what it was the old woman asked for.
“Well, Mars’ Charles,” said she (she had been one of our old servants, and always called my father ‘Mars’ Charles’), “to tell you de livin’ trufe, my soul an’ body is a-yearnin’ fur a han’sum chany set o’ teef.”
“A set of teeth!” said father, surprised enough. “And have you none left of your own?”
“I has gummed it fur a good many ye’rs,” said Aunt Anniky, with a sigh; “but not wishin’ ter be ongrateful ter my obligations, I owns ter havin’ five nateral teef. But dey is po’ sogers; dey shirks battle. One ob dem’s got a little somethin’ in it as lively as a speared worm, an’ I tell you when anything teches it, hot or cold, it jest makes me dance! An’ anudder is in my top jaw, an’ ain’t got no match fur it in de bottom one; an’ one is broke off nearly to de root; an’ de las’ two is so yaller dat I’s ashamed ter show ‘em in company, an’ so I lif’s my turkey-tail ter my mouf every time I laughs or speaks.”
Father turned to mother with a musing air. “The curious student of humanity,” he remarked, “traces resemblances where they are not obviously conspicuous. Now, at the first blush, one would not think of any common ground of meeting for our Aunt Anniky and the Empress Josephine. Yet that fine French lady introduced the fashion of handkerchiefs by continually raising delicate lace mouchoirs to her lips to hide her bad teeth. Aunt Anniky lifts her turkey-tail! It really seems that human beings should be classed by strata, as if they were metals in the earth. Instead of dividing by nations, let us class by quality. So we might find Turk, Jew, Christian, fashionable lady and washerwoman, master and slave, hanging together like cats on a clothes-line by some connecting cord of affinity—”
“In the mean time,” said my mother, mildly, “Aunt Anniky is waiting to know if she is to have her teeth.”
“Oh, surely, surely!” cried father, coming out of the clouds with a start. “I am going to the village to-morrow, Anniky, in the spring wagon. I will take you with me, and we will see what the dentist can do for you.”
“Bless yo’ heart, Mars’ Charles!” said the delighted Anniky; “you’re jest as good as yo’ blood and yo’ name, and mo’ I couldn’t say.”
The morrow came, and with it Aunt Anniky, gorgeously arrayed in a flaming red calico, a bandanna handkerchief, and a string of carved yellow beads that glittered on her bosom like fresh buttercups on a hill-slope.
I had petitioned to go with the party, for, as we lived on a plantation, a visit to the village was something of an event. A brisk drive soon brought us to the centre of “the Square.” A glittering sign hung brazenly from a high window on its western side, bearing, in raised black letters, the name, “Doctor Alonzo Babb.”
Dr. Babb was the dentist and the odd fish of our village. He beams in my memory as a big, round man, with hair and smiles all over his face, who talked incessantly, and said things to make your blood run cold.
“Do you see this ring?” he said, as he bustled about, polishing his instruments and making his preparations for the sacrifice of Aunt Anniky. He held up his right hand, on the forefinger of which glistened a ring the size of a dog-collar. “Now, what d’ye s’pose that’s made of?”
“Brass,” suggested father, who was funny when not philosophical.
“Brass!” cried Dr. Babb, with a withering look; “it’s virgin gold, that ring is. And where d’ye s’pose I found the gold?”
My father ran his hands into his pockets in a retrospective sort of way.
“In the mouths of my patients, every grain of it,” said the dentist, with a perfectly diabolical smack of the lips. “Old fillings—plugs, you know—that I saved, and had made up into this shape. Good deal of sentiment about such a ring as this.”
“Sentiment of a mixed nature, I should say,” murmured my father, with a grimace.
“Mixed—rather! A speck here, a speck there. Sometimes an eye, oftener a jaw, occasionally a front. More than a hundred men, I s’pose, have helped in the cause.”
“Law, doctor! you beats de birds, you does,” cries Aunt
Anniky, whose head was as flat as the floor, where her reverence should have been. “You know dey snatches de wool from ebery bush to make deir nests.”
“Lots of company for me, that ring is,” said the doctor, ignoring the pertinent or impertinent interruption. “Often as I sit in the twilight, I twirl it around and around, a-thinking of the wagon-loads of food it has masticated, the blood that has flowed over it, the groans that it has cost! Now, old lady, if you will sit just here.”
He motioned Aunt Anniky to the chair, into which she dropped in a limp sort of way, recovering herself immediately, however, and sitting bolt upright in a rigid attitude of defiance. Some moments of persuasion were necessary before she could be induced to lean back and allow Dr. Babb’s fingers on her nose while she breathed the laughing-gas; but, once settled, the expression faded from her countenance almost as quickly as a magic-lantern picture vanishes. I watched her nervously, my attention divided between her vacant-looking face and a dreadful picture on the wall. It represented Dr. Babb himself, minus the hair, but with double the number of smiles, standing by a patient from whose mouth he had apparently just extracted a huge molar that he held triumphantly in his forceps. A gray-haired old gentleman regarded the pair with benevolent interest. The photograph was entitled, “His First Tooth.”
“Attracted by that picture?” said Dr. Alonzo, affably, his fingers on Aunt Anniky’s pulse. “My par had that struck off the first time I ever got a tooth out. That’s par with the gray hair and the benediction attitude. Tell you, he was proud of me! I had such an awful tussle with that tooth! Thought the old fellow’s jaw was bound to break! But I got it out, and after that my par took me with him round the country—starring the provinces, you know—and I practised on the natives.”
