 | CHAPTER XVI.
SAM LAWSON'S DISCOVERIES. Oldtown folks |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
SAM LAWSON'S DISCOVERIES.
THE evening was closing in sharp and frosty, with a lowering
of wind and cloud that rendered fire-light doubly dear and
welcome, as we all drew our chairs round the great, glowing fire
in my grandmother's kitchen. I had my little block of wood,
which served as a footstool, far in the cavernous depths of one
end of the fireplace, close by Black Cæsar, who was busy making
me a popgun, while my grandmother sat at the other end
in her rocking-chair, rattling her knitting-needles. Uncle Fly
had just frisked in, and was perched, as was his wont, on the
very tip of his chair, where he sat fussily warming and rubbing
his hands, much as a meditative blue-bottle performs the same
operation with his fore feet.
“So,” said my grandmother to my grandfather, in reproachful
tones, “you 've gone and shut the calf up from its mother.”
“To be sure,” said my grandfather; “that was foreordained
and freely predetermined.”
“Well, I say it 's a shame,” sputtered my grandmother, —
“poor creturs!”
It was a part of the farming ordinance, when the calf was
fated to be killed, to separate it for a day from its mother, a proceeding
which never failed to excite the indignation of my grandmother,
which she expressed always with as much life and freshness
as if she had never heard of such a matter before in her life.
She was not, to be sure, precisely aware what was to be done
about it; but in a general way she considered calf-killing as an
abominable cruelty, and the parting of calf and cow for a day
beforehand as an aggravation. My grandfather was fond of meeting
her with a sly use of some of the Calvinistic theological terms
which abounded in her favorite writers. The most considerate of
husbands often enjoy any quiet method of giving a sly tweak to
the least suggestion of a smile hovering over my grandfather's
face, — which smile, in your quiet man, means two things, —
first, that he is going to have his own way in spite of all you can
say, and, secondly, that he is quietly amused by your opposition.
“I say it 's a shame,” quoth my grandmother, “and I always
shall. Hear that poor cow low! She feels as bad as I should.”
“Mother,” said Aunt Lois, in an impatient tone, “I wonder
that you can't learn to let things go on as they must. What
would you have? We must have fresh meat sometimes, and you
eat as much as any of us.”
“I don't care, it 's too bad,” said my grandmother, “and I always
shall think so. If I had things my way, folks should n't eat
creatures at all.”
“You 'd be a Brahmin,” said my grandfather.
“No, I should n't be a Brahmin, either; but I know an old
cow's feelings, and I would n't torment her just to save myself a
little trouble.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Sam
Lawson, who came in with a long, lugubrious face, and an air of
solemn, mysterious importance, which usually was the herald of
some communication.
“Well, Sam,” said my grandfather, “how are you?”
“Middlin', Deacon,” said Sam, mournfully, — “only middlin'.”
“Sit down, sit down,” said my grandfather, “and tell us the
news.”
“Wal, I guess I will. How kind o' revivin' and cheerful it
does look here,” said Sam, seating himself in his usual attitude,
with his hands over the fire. “Lordy massy, it 's so different to
our house! Hepsy hain't spoke a railly decent word to me since
the gineral trainin'. You know, Deacon, Monday, a week ago,
was gineral trainin' day over to Hopkinton, and Hepsy, she was
set in the idee that I should take her and the young uns to muster.
`All right, Hepsy,' says I, `ef I can borrow a hoss.' Wal,
I walked and walked clean up to Captain Brown's to borrow a
hoss, and I could n't get none, and I walked clean down to Bill
Peters's, and I could n't get none. Finally, Ned Parker, he
that kind o' twitches up the waggin, and don't look so
genteel as some; but, lordy massy, 't was all I could get. But
Hepsy, she blamed me all the same. And then she was at me
'cause she had n't got no gloves. Wal, I had n't no gret o'
change in my pocket, and I wanted to keep it for gingerbread
and sich for the young uns, so I thought I 'd jest borrow a pair
for her, and say nothin'; and I went over and asked Mis' Captain
Brown, and over to Mis' Dana's, and round to two or three
places; and finally Lady Lothrop, she said she 'd give me a old
pair o' hern. And I brought 'em to Hepsy; and do you believe,
she throwed 'em right smack in my face. `S'pose I 'm goin' to
wear such an old dirty pair as that?' says she. Wal, arter all, we
sot out, and Hepsy, she got clear beat out; and when Hepsy does
get beat out she has spells, and she goes on awful, and they last
day arter day. Hepsy's spells is jest like these 'ere northeast
storms, — they never do railly clear off, but kind o' wear out, as
't were, — and this 'ere seems to be about one of her longest.
She was at me this mornin' fust thing 'fore I was out o' bed, cryin'
and goin' on, and castin' on it up at me the men she might 'a'
hed if she had n't 'a' hed me, and the things they 'd 'a' done for
her, jest as if 't was my fault. `Lordy massy, Hepsy,' says I, `I
ain't t' blame. I wish with all my heart you hed 'a' hed any on
'em you 'd ruther.' You see I wa' n't meanin' no 'fence, you
know, but just a bein' kind o' sympathizin' like, and she flew at
me 't oncet. Massy to us! why, you 'd 'a' thought all them old
Sodom and Gomorrah sinners biled down wa' n't nothin' to me.
She did talk ridiculous. I tried to reason with her. Says I,
`Hepsy, see here now. Here you be in a good bed, in your own
house, and your kindlin's all split to make your fire, — and I
split every one on 'em after twelve o'clock last night, — and you
a goin' on at this 'ere rate. Hepsy,' says I, `it 's awful.' But,
lordy massy, how that 'ere woman can talk! She begun agin,
and I could n't get in a word edgeways nor crossways nor noways;
and so I jest got up and went round to the tavern, and
there I met Bill Moss and Jake Marshall, and we had some
crackers and cheese and a little suthin' hot with it, and it kind o'
good time to go kind o' Indianing round the country a spell till she
kind o' come to, ye know. And so I thought I 'd jest go t' other
side o' Hopkinton and see Granny Walkers, — her that was
housekeeper to Lady Frankland, ye know, — and see if I could n't
rake out the pertickelars of that 'ere Dench house. That 'ere
house has been a lyin' on my mind considerable, along back.”
My ears began to prick up with great liveliness and animation
at this sound; and, deserting Cæsar, I went over and stood by
Sam, and surveyed him with fixed attention, wondering in the
mean time how a house could lie on his mind.
“Well,” said my grandfather, “what did you hear?”
“Wal, I did n't get over to her house; but when I 'd walked a
pretty good piece I came across Widdah Peters's son, Sol Peters,
— you know him, Mis' Badger, he lives over in Needmore with
a great, spankin' old gal they call Miss Asphyxy Smith. You 've
heard of Miss Sphyxy Smith, hain't you, Mis' Badger?”
“Certainly I have,” said my grandmother.
“Miss Asphyxia Smith is a smart, industrious woman,” said
Aunt Lois; “it is n't worth while to talk so about her. The world
would be better off,” she continued, eying Sam with an air of
didactic severity, “if there were more people in it that keep to
their own business, like Miss Sphyxy.”
“Wal, spuz so,” said Sam Lawson, with an innocent and virtuous
droop, not in the slightest degree recognizing the hint; “but
now, you see, I 'm coming to a pint. Sol, he asked me if anybody
over to Oldtown had seen or heard anything of a couple of children
that had run away from Needmore. There was a boy and
a gal about nine or ten or under, that had been put out by the
parish. The boy was livin' with Old Crab Smith, and the gal
with Miss Sphyxy.”
“Well, I pity the child that Miss Sphyxy Smith has taken to
bring up, I must say,” said my grandmother. “What business
have old maids a taking children to bring up, I want to know?
Why, it is n't every hen that 's fit to bring up chickens. How
came the children there, anyway?”
“Wal, you see, there come a woman along to Crab Smith's
— putty-behaved as ever he see. The woman, she was took
down and died there. And so Old Crab, he took the boy; and
Miss Sphyxy, she took the gal.”
“Too bad,” said my grandmother; “poor motherless babes,
and nobody but Crab and Sphyxy Smith to do for 'em! Somebody
ought to see about it.”
“Wal, ye see, Sol, he said that Miss Sphyxy was as hard as a
grindstone on this gal, and they kep' the boy and gal apart, and
would n't let 'em see nor speak to each other; and Sol says he
never did pity any poor, lonesome little critter as he did that 'ere
little gal. She used to lie abed nights, and sob and cry fit to
break her little heart.”
“I should like to go and talk to that woman!” said my grandmother,
vengefully. “I wonder folks can be so mean! I wonder
what such folks think of themselves, and where they expect
to go to!”
“Wal, you see,” continued Sam, “the young un was spicy;
and when Miss Sphyxy was down on her too hard, the child, she
fit her, — you know a rat 'll bite, a hen will peck, and a worm
will turn, — and finally it come to a fight between 'em; and Miss
Sphyxy, she gin her an awful whippin'. `Lordy massy, Sol,'
says I, when Sol was a tellin' me, `you need n't say nothin' about
it. That 'ere gal 's got arms like a windmill; she 's a regular
brown thrasher, she is, only she ain't got no music in her; and
ef she undertook to thrash me, she 'd make out.'”
“Well, what became of the children?” said my grandmother.
“Wal, you see, they run off together; fact is, Sol says he
helped 'em off, and told 'em to come over to Oldtown. He says
he told 'em to inquire for Deacon Badger's.”
“I believe so,” said Aunt Lois, severely. “Every man,
woman, and child that wants taking care of is sent straight to
our house.”
“And good reason they should, Lois,” said my grandmother,
who was wide awake. “I declare, people ought to be out looking
for them. 'Liakim, you are always flying about; why don't
you look 'em up?”
Uncle Fly jumped up with alacrity. “To be sure, they ought
to be looked after,” he said, running to the window. “They
ought to be looked after right off; they must be attended to.”
And Uncle Fly seemed to have an indefinite intention of pitching
straight through the window in pursuit.
Sam Lawson eyed him with a serene gravity. He felt the
importance of being possessed of all the information the subject
in question admitted of, which he was determined to develop in
an easy and leisurely manner, without any undue hurry or heat.
“Mr. Sheril,” he said, “the fust thing you 'll hev to find out is
where they be. It 's no use tearin' round gen'lly. Where be
they? — that 's the question.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said Uncle Fly. “Well, what you
got to say about that?”
“Wal, you jest set down now, and be kind o' composed. I 'm
a comin' to that 'ere pint in time,” said Sam. “That 'ere 's jest
what I says to Sol. `Sol,' says I, `where be they?' And Sol,
he says to me, `I dunno. They might 'a' gone with the Indians,'
says Sol, `or they might 'a' got lost in the Oldtown woods'; — and
jest as we was a talkin', we see old Obscue a comin' along. He
was out on a tramp over to Hopkinton, Obscue was, and we asked
him about 'em. Wal, Obscue, he says that a gal and boy like
what we talked of had slep' in his wife's hut not long sence. You
know Obscue's wife; she makes baskets, and goes round sellin'
on 'em. I could n't fairly get out o' Obscue what day 't was, nor
which way they went arter; but it was clear that them was the
ones.”
“Then,” said Uncle Fly, “they must be somewhere. They
may have lost their way in the Oldtown woods, and wandered up
and down. There ought to be a party started out to look for
'em to-morrow morning.”
“Now look here, Mr. Sheril,” said Sam, “I think we 'd
better kind o' concentrate our idees on some one pint afore we
start out, and I 'll tell you what I 'm a thinkin' of. You know I
was a tellin' you that I 'd seen smoke coming out o' the chimbly
of the Dench house. Now I jest thought them poor little robins
might have jest got in there. You know it stormed like vengeance
in that 'ere lonesome old house.”
“Poor babes!” said my grandmother. “'Liakim, you go up
there and see.”
“Well, I tell you,” said Uncle Eliakim, “I 'll be up bright and
early with my old horse and wagon, and go over to the Dench
house and see about it.”
“Wal, now,” said Sam, “if you would n't mind, I 'll just ride
over with you. I wanted to kind o' go over that 'ere house.
I 've had it on my mind a good while.”
“Is that the haunted house?” said I, in a whisper.
“Wal, it 's the one they call haunted, but 't ain't best to be
'fraid of nothin',” said Sam, surveying me paternally, and winking
very obviously with one eye at Uncle Eliakim; quite forgetting
the long roll of terrible suggestions he had made on the
same subject a few evenings before.
“But you told about the man in a long red cloak, and the boy
they threw in a well, and a woman in white.”
“Lordy massy, what ears young ones has!” said Sam, throwing
up his hands pathetically. “I never thought as you was
round, Horace; but you must n't never mind nothin' about it.
There ain't really no such thing as ghosts.”
“I want to go over and see the house,” said I.
“Well, well, you shall,” said Uncle Fly; “but you must wake
up bright and early. I shall be off by six o'clock.”
“Well, now, mother,” said Aunt Lois, “I just want to know
if you are going to make our house an asylum for all the trampers
and all the stray children in the neighboring parishes?
Have we got to keep these children, or are we going to send 'em
back where they belong?”
“Send 'em back to Old Crab Smith and Miss Sphyxy?” said
my grandmother. “I 'd like to see myself doing that.”
“Well, then, are we going to maintain 'em?” said Aunt
Lois; “because I want to know definitely what his is coming
to.”
“We 'll see,” said my grandmother. “It 's our business to
do good as we have opportunity. We must n't reap the corners
the poor, the fatherless, and the widow, Scripture says.”
“Well, I guess our olive-berries are pretty well beaten off
now, and our fields reaped, corners and all,” said Lois; “and I
don't see why we needs must intermeddle with children that the
selectmen in Needmore have put out.”
Now Aunt Lois was a first-rate belligerent power in our
family circle, and in many cases carried all before her; but my
grandmother always bore her down on questions like these, and
it was agreed, nem. con., that the expedition to look up the
wanderers should take place the next morning.
The matter being thus arranged, Sam settled back with a jocular
freedom of manner, surveying the fire, and flopping his hands
over it, smiling to himself in a manner that made it evident that
he had a further reserve of something on his mind to communicate.
“This 'ere Miss Sphyxy Smith 's a rich old gal, and 'mazin'
smart to work,” he began. “Tell you, she holds all she gets.
Old Sol, he told me a story 'bout her that was a pretty good
un.”
“What was it?” said my grandmother.
“Wal, ye see, you 'member old Parson Jeduthun Kendall,
that lives up in Stonytown: he lost his wife a year ago last
Thanksgiving, and he thought 't was about time he hed another;
so he comes down and consults our Parson Lothrop. Says he,
`I want a good, smart, neat, economical woman, with a good
property. I don't care nothin' about her bein' handsome. In
fact, I ain't particular about anything else,' says he. Wal, Parson
Lothrop, says he, `I think, if that 's the case, I know jest the
woman to suit ye. She owns a clear, handsome property, and
she 's neat and economical; but she 's no beauty.' `O, beauty is
nothin' to me,' says Parson Kendall; and so he took the direction.
Wal, one day he hitched up his old one-hoss shay, and
kind o' brushed up, and started off a courtin'. Wal, the parson
he come to the house, and he was tickled to pieces with the looks
o' things outside, 'cause the house is all well shingled and painted,
and there ain't a picket loose nor a nail wantin' nowhere.
`This 'ere 's the woman for me,' says Parson Kendall. So he
Wal, you see, Miss Sphyxy, she was jest goin' out to help get in
her hay. She had on a pair o' clompin' cowhide boots, and a
pitchfork in her hand, just goin' out when she heard the rap.
So she come jest as she was to the front door. Now you know
Parson Kendall 's a little midget of a man; but he stood there
on the step kind o' smilin' and genteel, lickin' his lips and lookin'
so agreeable! Wal, the front door kind o' stuck, — front doors
gen'ally do, ye know, 'cause they ain't opened very often, — and
Miss Sphyxy, she had to pull and haul and put to all her strength,
and finally it come open with a bang, and she 'peared to the parson,
pitchfork and all, sort o' frownin' like.
“`What do you want?' says she; for you see Miss Sphyxy
ain't no ways tender to the men.
“`I want to see Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says he, very civil,
thinking she was the hired gal.
“`I 'm Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says she. `What do you want
o' me?'
“Parson Kendall, he jest took one good look on her, from top
to toe. `Nothin',' says he, and turned right round and went
down the steps like lightnin'.
“The way she banged that 'ere door, Sol said, was lively.
He jumped into his shay, and I tell you his old hoss was waked
up for once. The way that 'ere old shay spun and bounced was
a sight. And when he come to Oldtown, Parson Lothrop was
walkin' out in his wig and cocked hat and ruffles, as serene as a
pictur, and he took off his hat to him as handsome as a gentleman
could; but Parson Kendall, he driv right by and never
bowed. He was awful riled, Parson Kendall was; but he
could n't say nothing', 'cause he 'd got all he asked for. But the
story got out, and Sol and the men heard it, and you 'd a thought
they 'd never be done laughin' about it. Sol says, if he was to
be hung for it the next minute, he never can help laughin' when
he thinks how kind o' scared little Parson Kendall looked when
Miss Asphyxia 'peared to him on the doorstep.”
“Well, well, well,” said Uncle Eliakim, “if we are going to
the Dench house to-morrow morning, you must all be up early,
With which remark he fluttered out of the kitchen.
“'Liakim 'll be along here by ten o'clock to-morrow,” said my
grandfather, quietly. “I don't suppose he 's promised more than
forty people to do something for them to-morrow morning.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Lois, “and the linch-pins of the wagon are
probably lost, and the tire of the wheels sprung; but he 'll
be up before daylight, and maybe get along some time in the
forenoon.”
| CHAPTER XVI.
SAM LAWSON'S DISCOVERIES. Oldtown folks | |