University of Virginia Library

LETTER III.

THE UPSHOT OF THE STORY ABOUT MOVING.

Dear Aunt Keziah,—As I was a saying in my
last letter, Miss Pinkham tumbled headforemost
among the barrels and bedsteads, and heaps o'
things in our fore-room, and screamed out, “Oh
dear, Miss Downing, have you got any camfire?
oh, I'm half killed.”

At that, Polly sprung out of bed like a shot.
There's no body has more feelin' for a fellow-creeter
than Polly has, tho' I say it myself; and
the way she runs when she sees anybody in distress
is a caution, I can tell ye, to all the chairs and
barrels and bed-posts that stand in the way. Polly
was kind of half awake and half asleep: I don't
think she'd fairly got her eyes open, and if she had
it wouldn't a made much odds, for it was dark as
Egypt. And being waked all of a sudden right
out of a sound sleep, for she'd got to sleep, though
I hadn't, she'd forgot all about the trumpery that
was piled about the room, and startin' off the bed
like a stream of lightning, the first thing that brought
her up was a basket of Miss Pinkham's crockery
stuff. She pitched right over it and went sprawling
on to the floor; and the tea-cups and the mugs
and the pitchers flew as if they'd been struck with
a thunder squall. At that, Miss Pinkham bawled
out again, and by the sound I knew she was up 'n
eend and climbled over the barrels; and says she,

“Now, Miss Downing, what have you done? If
you've broke my new blue set, you'll wish you
hadn't I can tell ye.”

Polly didn't make no answer, but only groaned;
and I knew in a minute she was hurt pretty bad;
so I thought it was time for me to begin to muster.
I got out of bed as careful as I could, and went
feelin' my way along into the kitchen, and at last I
found a loco-foco match and lit a candle.

“Don't bring that light here,” says Miss Pinkham
says she, “'till you hand me my gownd.”

Says I, “I don't know nothin' about your gownd,
nor I can't stop to look for't now.” So I threw a
blanket to her, and told her she might rap herself
up in that. I found Polly wasn't hurt quite so bad
as I was afraid she was. She had bruised one of
her arms considerable, and struck the side of her
head pretty hard when she fell. But she soon begun
to get over it, and said she guessed she wasn't
hurt much.

Miss Pinkham took on as bad as ever, and said
she should die if she didn't have some camfire to
put on her head; and she clim along over the things
and threw herself right on to our bed.

“Poor creetur,” says Polly, “we must do something
for her as quick as we can. Do, Jack, hand
me that bottle of camfire on the upper shelf in the
closet.”

So I went and got the camfire and Polly sot to
and rubbed the old lady's head about a quarter of
an hour, and she got to sleep and lay and snored
like a hoss. I told Polly I guessed she better lay
down aside of her and try to get some sleep tu,
and I'd set up the rest of the night and be ready
airly in the morning to go to packing up. But
Polly said she was afraid of disturbin' of her, so
she laid down on the rugs in the kitchen to rest her
and get a little nap. I knew there wasn't no more
sleep for me that night; so arter Polly got to sleep
I concluded to go out and take a run; for I always
found that was the best way to keep my eyes open

when there wasn't no chance to sleep. The long
rows of lamps was still burning by the sides of the
streets, and I walked round and round from one
street to another, till it got to be daylight, and then
I turned to go home, for I meant to be driven business
pretty airly.

When I got along within two or three streets of
home, there was a couple men turned the corner
right afore me, and I walked along arter 'em.
Pretty soon I saw one of 'em was that short, stout,
fat landlord that I see the night afore talking with
'Squire Sharp. And says he to the man that was
with him,

“You've got your warrant, haint ye?”

“Yes,” says the other, who I begun to think by
this time, was a constable or some kind of an officer,
for he carried a great, heavy cane in his hand,
and looked kind of savage-like.

“Well,” says the stout landlord, “you must take
every single thing there is in the house, and hold
on to it, and if they don't settle the rent, we'll sell
'em at vendue to-morrow. Here's the house; now
do your duty. I'll stand here on the steps till you
get fairly in and take possession.”

At that, thinks I, I'll stop a little and see what's
going on here. I stood over on t'other side of the
street, but it was so still I could hear all they said,
for it was so airly in the morning there wasn't but
very few folks a stirrin'. The officer stepped up
to the door and rung the bell. He waited a minute
and nobody didn't come, and then he rung again.
Nobody didn't come that time, and then he rung
again, harder than he did afore. Then the landlord
stepped up to the door and thumped on to it
with his fist, and says he,

“There's none so deaf as them that won't hear;
but they needn't think to work us in this way.
This door's got to come open by fair means or foul,

and I'll be the first person that goes through it, if I
have to stand here all day.”

And then he thumped on to the door again with
his fist, and the officer rung the bell harder than
ever. And they kept at it pretty tight, first one
and then t'other, for about ten minutes, and they
made sich a racket that the neighbors begun to
open their blinds and window-shutters, and look
out to see what was the matter. And a little old
man poked his bald head out of the third story
window, right over where I stood, and says he,

“What are ye making all that clatter over there
for? I don't believe you'll raise anybody if you
thump all day.”

“Why, aint Miss Pinkham and her family to
home?” says the landlord.

“Well, I don't believe there's a soul in the house,”
said the little old man—“if there had been you'd
raised 'em long ago.”

“But they haven't moved, have they?” says the
landlord.

“It's a wonder to me if they haven't,” said the
old man over my head, “for they was to work till
almost midnight, last night, carrying out their
things.”

At that the landlord and the officer looked kind
of thunderstruck.

“Do you know where they've moved to?” says
the officer.

“I don't know nothing about it,” said the little
old man, “nor I don't care, if they wont come back
to our neighborhood again; for of all the women
to get into every's mess and upset everybody's dish,
Miss Pinkham beats all that ever I see.”

“And I don't see but she's dished us too,” said
the officer. “Well, Mr. Brown, what shall we do?
How shall we find out where she's gone to?”

“Oh, I can find that out easy enough,” says Mr.

Brown, “for she's took one of 'Squire Sharp's
houses. But we'll go in by hook or by crook;
may be she hasn't got all her things away yet.”

So they went down to the basement door—that
means a door that goes into a room about half way
between a cellar and a room above ground—most
all the houses here in New York have 'em—and
they both give a shove against the door as tight as
they could, and bust it right open. And they went
in and looked all over the house, and come out
again looking sour enough. Mr. Brown used some
pretty harsh words, and swore a little.

“That's always my luck,” says he. “Now she's
gone with two quarter's rent, and the house is damaged
as much as another quarter's rent besides.
This is too bad; I had no idea but I should be airly
enough to grab her furniture this morning.”

Thinks I, Mr. Brown, getting up airly one morning
in the year aint quite enough, where a man has
slippery folks to deal with, for sich folks commonly
want looking after every day, airly and late.

They turned and went away, and I turned tother
way and went home. It had now got to be all
broad daylight, and there begun to be considerable
of a bustle in the streets, and the doors and
windows began to be opened, and the hoss-carts
began to rattle along over the stones in the streets,
and to back up to the doors, and folks was lugging
out their housen-stuff and piling it on the carts,
as fast as we used to pitch hay in haying-time in
Downingville when there was a shower coming
up. So I thought it was time for me to begin to
hurry, for I hadn't got any of my things packed up
yet, though I meant to a had 'em pretty much all
packed up the night afore, if Miss Pinkham hadn't
bothered us so. When I got up stairs, I found the
whole biling of 'em was up, and in pretty considerable
kind of a muss. Things was all pitch-poled,

helter-skelter, and mixed up as thick again as they
was when I went out. Polly sot in the corner,
looking as if she hadn't a friend in the world, and I
believe she was crying a little. Her arm was quite
lame. Miss Pinkham was stavin' about like a
house-a-fire. She'd pulled our children out of bed,
and they was scuddin' about half-dressed, and the
little ones was crying; and then she'd pulled and
hauled all our things out of the two bed rooms, and
piled 'em about in the fore-room and kitchen, so
that it was no small job to get across the rooms
anywhere; and she was fast a getting some of her
bedsteads and things into the bed-rooms to set up.

“Says I, “Miss Pinkham, what upon airth are
you doing?”

“What am I doing?” says she—“why, I'm putting
things to rights. I want to get 'em all out of
the way snug, so as not to be any trouble to you;
for I don't s'pose there anybody in this world that
hates to be a trouble to anybody in this world
worse than I do. And I wouldn't have you think,
because you let me bring my things in here before
it was my time to come in, that I mean to be the
least trouble to you in the world.”

“Oh, no,” says I, “Miss Pinkham, I don't think
no such thing, by no means. But perhaps if you'd
let my things stand till I got ready to pack 'em up,
I might know better where to take hold of 'em.”

“Oh no,” says she, “they're all out on the floor
there now as handy as can be for ye. And I've
got your closet all cleared out too; and now if
you'll jest take hold of t'other side of this ere basket
of crockery, and help me carry it in the closet,
I'll be settin' it up.”

So I took hold of the basket, and helped her along
with it, and says I—

“Miss Pinkham, I was very sorry about the accident

that happened to your dishes last night. I
hope it didn't break much.”

“Only three cups and two sarcers and a mug,”
says she, “and Miss Downing's was so much like
em we've matched em again very well out of hern
this morning all but the mug, and that I told her
she might pay me the money for. It cost fifteen
pence when 'twas new, but bein it had an old crack
in it, I told her she needn't pay me but a shilling for
it.”

The fact was, Polly had got so kind of nervous,
and so afraid of Miss Pinkham, that I dont believe
but what she would a gin her up every dish we
had in the house if she'd asked for em. I didn't
like this way of settling the business very well, and
couldn't help thinking about the hedge-hog that begged
his way into the woodchuck's hole, only jest to
lay and rest him a little while, and then crowded
and crowded until he drove the woodchuck clear
out, and kept possession of the nest and all there
was in it. But I see Miss Pinkham was sich a fiery
piece, and as long as we had got to go out, I thought
the cheapest way was to say nothing and get away
as easily as we could. And it wasn't long before
I was still more confirmed in this opinion; for we
hadn't but jest set the basket of crockery into the
closet, when somebody knocked at the door.

“Come in,” says I. And who should come in,
but the fat landlord, Mr. Brown, and the officer
that I'd seen with him. Miss Pinkham's face turned
as red as fire in a minute, and she shet the
closet door and took a chair and sot down.

“You've moved, haven't you, Miss Pinkham?”
said Mr. Brown, looking pretty starn at her.

“Yes, I have,” says she, looking as starn as he
did.

“Well, when are you going to pay that rent?”

says he, gritting his teeth together, and edging
along up to her.

“When I get it,” says she, sticking her chin out
at him, and showing her teeth, like a cat that turns
round to fight a dog that's drove her into a corner.
“And I guess I shant worry myself about it, if
'taint paid very soon,” says she, “for you never
kept that house in any kind of repairs, Mr. Brown,
and you know it. 'Taint scarcely fit to live in.”

“Every thing was in good order when you went
into it,” says he, and all the rent you've ever paid,
I've laid out in repairs; and now it wants fifty dollars
more laid out right upon it before it will be fit
for any body to go into. There isn't a window in
the house but what's got glass broke out of it.'

“Well, I don't know nothing about how that
come,” says she, “we didn't break none of it.”

“Well,” says he, “I must have this rent or some
security for it, before I leave the house, or I shall
take some of your furniture and sell it for what
t'will fetch. You've got lots of it piled about here.”

At that Miss Pinkham begun to rave. She
sprung up on her feet, and stood and looked Mr.
Brown in the face, and she grew as red as a blaze.
And says she.

“You touch any of this furniture if you dare.
And these things about here aint mine neither,
they're Mr. Downing's.”

At that Mr. Brown turned to me, and says he,
“Mr. Downing, is this furniture yourn?”

I wasn't no notion of telling a lie for any of 'em.
So, says I, “Some on't 's mine, and some on't isn't.”

“Well,” says he, “which is yourn, and which is
Miss Pinkham's.”

Says I, `She's got matters so mixed up here,
'twould take pretty considerable of a spell to pick
em out I guess. But most of these things about the
middle of the room is mine, and most of them are

things heaped along that side of the fore-room and
that side of the kitchen is hern.

Then he stepped along, and began to look em over,
and told the officer to take this thing and that thing
and 'tother thing. But Miss Pinkham ketched up
a chair and went at him like a tiger, and says she,

“Mr. Brown, if you aint out of this house in one
minute, I'll break this chair over your head.” And
she fetched a blow at him, that, if he hadn't a
dodged it, would a laid him sprawlin. He sprung
for the door, and she after him pell-mell. He
scrabbled down stairs as fast as he could waddle
his heavy fat sides along, and she arter him, holding
the chair up jest ready to strike. When they
got about half-way down stairs, she happened to
slip, and pitched forward against Mr. Brown, and
that knocked him down, and away they rolled like
a couple of hogsets of molasses clear to the bottom
of the stairs. Mr. Brown was rather more scared
than hurt, for he thought the old woman had
jumped right on to him and knocked him down stairs,
and he roared out and called for the officer to come
and help him. But the officer was making his way
as fast as he could down the back stairs, and got
out into the street before Mr. Brown did. I looked
out of the window, and I see em both jest turning
round the next corner, and Mr. Brown was limping
along so lame, he couldn't but jest go. Presently
Miss Pinkham came puffing along up the stairs,
and muttering to herself, “I'll larn him to come here
to meddle with my things; a good-for-nothing
brute; I'll larn him, I will.” And says she, “Mr.
Downing, I broke your chair driving of him out, but
I spose you won't mind that, as I did it as much
for your good as for mine; for there's no knowing
how many of your things he might a carried off if
I hadn't a drove him out.”

I told her it wan't but little consequence about

the chair, especially as she had some pretty much
like it, and when we come to load up, she could jest
put in one of hern, and that would make it square
again. At that she turned round and give me such
a look right in the face, that I declare I started back
as much as three feet before I knew it; and says
she,

“Mr. Downing, if you haint no more gratitude
than that, you aint fit to live among Christian
people. Do as you would be done by; that's my
rule. After I've drove that brute out of your
house, and no doubt kept him from carrying off
some of your things, do you dare to ask me to pay
for that old chair?”—and she stuck her chin out
and flashed her eyes jest as she did to Mr. Brown.

“Oh no, mam,” says I, “I don't wish it by no
means, Miss Pinkham.”

So we dropt the subject and said no more about
it. If it had been a man I should a known what
to a done pretty quick; for I never was made to
be drove by a man. But I thought I wouldn't get
into a scrape with a woman if she broke all the
chairs in the house. So at it I went to packin up.
Polly and Cousin Nabby took hold in good arnest,
and Jacky and Ichabod handed and fetched things,
so that we got 'em into shape pretty fast. About
nine o'clock we'd got our boxes and barrels and
chests full, and the small ware and dishes put
into the wash-tubs and pots and kettles, and I went
out to find a team to haul us. I could find teams
fast enough, but the trouble was to get 'em. There
wasn't no ox teams sich as we have in Downingville;
but there was no end to the one hoss teams,
haulin little carts, and goin like split all over the
city. I run arter one that I see a little ways off
with nothin on his cart, and called out to him to
stop. He looked round to me and shook his head,
and drove on as tight as ever. But I pulled arter

him and hollered again, and swung my hat, and at
last he stopt and let me come up to him. Says I,

“Mister, I want to hire you to go and haul up
my housen-stuff, if you and I can agree.”

He put his thumb up against his nose, and shook
his fingers at me, and says he,

“You must be a green one, and no mistake.”
And he gin his hoss a cut, and his wheels flew over
the stones again as fast, and made as much of a
rattlin, as cousin John Smith's drumsticks when
he's beatin for the regiment muster days.

Then I see another drivin along full chisel, but his
cart was empty, so I hollered arter him. He slackened
his hoss a minute, and when I told him what I
wanted, he said he couldn't go no how, for he'd got
fourteen loads engaged to-day, and that was as
much as he could possibly get through with, and
work half the night too. So he whipped up, and
off he went like smoke. I called arter another, and
he only shook his head and drove on. I run round
from one street to another for about an hour, and
my stars! I wouldn't a believed there was so much
housen-stuff in America. Every street was full of
loaded carts and empty carts. All the empty ones
was driving like Jehu, and some of the loaded ones
was goin so fast I thought they'd smash every
thing all to atoms, except now and then one, where
the owner of the housen-stuff was going along with it
to watch it. At last, after trying a good many of 'em,
I found one that said he didn't know but he might go.

“Well,” says I, “Mister, what'll ye ask?”

“Two dollars and a half a load,” says he.

“But that's a most unreasonable price,” says I.

“Can't help that,” says he, “nobody don't take
any less to-day. And some of 'em gets three or
four dollars a load. Come, speak quick, if you
want me,” says he, “for I can't wait.”

“Well, now,” says I, “Mister, that price is beyond

all reason. Couldn't you and I work it so as to
change works? I'm sure I should be willing to do
you as good a turn as you would me. If you'll go
and work for me half a day with yourself and
hoss, I'll work for you a whole day, and take my
Jacky with me, and he's a smart boy most fourteen
years old.”

At that, I'll be hanged if he didn't put his thumb
up agin his nose, jest as that teamster did that I
stopt first; it seems to be a kind of a way they
have here when they want to be very sassy; and
says he,

“Rather green, I guess; when d'ye come down?”
and he gin his hoss a cut and along he went.

Arter a while I found an old man with a lean old
hoss, that had sort of gridiron ribs, and he said he'd
go for two dollars a load. I found I was getting
into a corner, for it had got to be eleven o'clock,
and I'd seen enough of Miss Pinkham to expect
she'd begin to reign as soon as the clock struck
twelve. So I told the old man he might go; and
we drove home and went to loading. We laid the
bedsteads on lengthways, and then the buro on
crossways and back down, and next to that come
a chist of clothes, and then two tables bottom upwards,
and then two flour barrels full of little
things on behind, and a light stand between 'em
bottom upwards. And then we filled in a laying
of little things all the way from one end to 'tother;
and then we laid on the feather bed that you give
Polly when we came away from Downingville;
and then we put on some baskets, the tubs of dishes
and things, and rounded off towards the top with
bed-clothes, and light truck and then we hung a
row of chairs all round on the stakes. By running
a rope round the stakes and binding up pretty well,
the cart took on more than I expected, and I begun
to be in hopes we might carry it all to one load.

The old man said he could carry it all well enough,
if I'd mind to resk it's staying on. So we went
to piling on again, and chucking in and filling up
all the holes between things. Some of the top
things was rather loose and tottlish, so we put Jacky
right up top and let him set straddle of the
load to steady it. And then we had to give him a
basket full of tumblers and glass things to hold in
his hand. Cousin Nabby took little Joshy, and
Polly took the looking glass, and I took the military
coat that Gineral Jackson give me when I lived to
Washington, and hung it across my arm, for I never
allow that coat to be jammed away into a chist or
buro; and uncle Joshua's portrait, that I've had put
into a nice brass frame since we've been here, I
took in t'other hand. Then I told the old man he
might start along, and we'd walk behind and keep
watch. I felt a little anxious about Jacky on top
of the load; but he's a smart boy, and he hung on
and managed things pretty well. But sich a sight of
teams and folks as there was all along the streets,
carryin all sorts of housen-stuff, I don't think you
ever see or dreampt of. The streets was full of
carts goin' and comin, and the side-walks was full
of men, women and children carrying things in
their hands.

When we had got about half way, the cart had
got along a little ways a head of us, and I was looking
back at the crowd behind us, when all to once
Polly screamed out “there goes Jacky.”

I looked, and Jacky was flying in the air like a
toad from a trap-stick. One of them great hoss
wagons they call omnibusses here, had run full tilt
right against the cart, and knocked every thing into
a kind of a cocked hat. It didn't exactly upset the
cart, but it knocked off about one half the top-load,
and sent Jacky clear from the middle of the street on
to the side walk. The omnibus fellow drove on as

fast as he could drive, and never stopt to look back.
I was afraid Jacky was almost killed, and I run as
hard as I could to pick him up; but he struck
pretty much on his feet, and wasn't hurt much arter
all. He held on to the basket, but the glass was
smashed all to pieces. When Polly came up she
couldn't help cryin. But I told her it was no use to
cry for spilt milk. Jacky was saved alive, and
therefore we had a great deal more to be thankful
for than we had to cry for. As for the glass dishes
and things we could soon go to work and earn some
more, and the best way was to pick up the things
and get 'em home as well as we could and make the
the best of it. So Polly wiped up, and we all went
to work to put things to rights as well as we
could. A good many of the things was broke, and
some was jammed and twisted out of all shape. We
had to pile 'em up on the side walk, and Polly
and Nabby stay by 'em and watch 'em, while we
went along to the house and onloaded what there
was left on the cart; and then we went back and
picked up the fragments, and about sunset we got
'em all tumbled into the house in heaps, and never
was I so glad to get through with a job afore in all
my life. We made up some beds on the floor that
night, and if we didn't sleep I think it's a pity.

I would tell you a great many queer things, how
the great rich folks moved, and how the poor folks
moved, and about landlords nabbing housen-stuff
and selling it at vendue, and about some poor creeters
bein turned out of doors, and no house to put
their heads into, and setting and crying all day and
all night out on the side walk. Polly's cried about
it a half a dozen times since, she pitied 'em so.
But I haint got time to write no more to-day. I
hope you and uncle Joshua will come and make us
a visit this summer, and then we can tell you all
about it. But there's no day in this world, aunt

Keziah, like May-day in New York, you may depend
on't. Give my love to Uncle Joshua, and I
remain,