University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

Aunt Roxy and Aunt Ruey Toothacre lived in a little
one-story gambrel-roofed cottage, on the side of Harpswell
Bay, just at the head of the long cove which we have already
described. The windows on two sides commanded
the beautiful bay and the opposite shores, and on the other
they looked out into the dense forest, through whose deep
shadows of white birch and pine the silver rise and fall of
the sea daily revealed itself.

The house itself was a miracle of neatness within, for the
two thrifty sisters were worshippers of soap and sand, and
these two tutelary deities had kept every board of the house-floor
white and smooth, and also every table and bench and
tub of household use. There was a sacred care over each
article, however small and insignificant, which composed
their slender household stock. The loss or breakage of one
of them would have made a visible crack in the hearts of the
worthy sisters, — for every plate, knife, fork, spoon, cup, or
glass was as intimate with them, as instinct with home feeling,
as if it had a soul; each defect or spot had its history,
and a cracked dish or article of furniture received as tender
and considerate medical treatment as if it were capable of
understanding and feeling the attention.

It was now a warm, spicy day in June, — one of those
which bring out the pineapple fragrance from the fir-shoots,
and cause the spruce and hemlocks to exude a warm, resinous

perfume. The two sisters, for a wonder, were having a day
to themselves, free from the numerous calls of the vicinity
for twelve miles round. The room in which they were sitting
was bestrewn with fragments of dresses and bonnets,
which were being torn to pieces in a most wholesale way,
with a view to a general rejuvenescence. A person of unsympathetic
temperament, and disposed to take sarcastic
views of life, might perhaps wonder what possible object
these two battered and weather-beaten old bodies proposed
to themselves in this process, — whether Miss Roxy's gaunt
black-straw helmet, which she had worn defiantly all winter,
was likely to receive much lustre from being pressed over
and trimmed with an old green ribbon which that energetic
female had colored black by a domestic recipe; and whether
Miss Roxy's rusty bombazette would really seem to the
world any fresher for being ripped, and washed, and turned,
for the second or third time, and made over with every
breadth in a different situation. Probably after a week of
efficient labor, busily expended in bleaching, dyeing, pressing,
sewing, and ripping, an unenlightened spectator, seeing them
come into the meeting-house, would simply think, “There
are those two old frights with the same old things on they
have worn these fifty years.” Happily the weird sisters
were contentedly ignorant of any such remarks, for no duchesses
could have enjoyed a more quiet belief in their own
social position, and their semiannual spring and fall rehabilitation
was therefore entered into with the most simple-hearted
satisfaction.

“I 'm a-thinkin', Roxy,” said Aunt Ruey, considerately
turning and turning on her hand an old straw bonnet, on
which were streaked all the marks of the former trimming in
lighter lines, which revealed too clearly the effects of wind

and weather, — “I 'm a-thinkin' whether or no this 'ere
might n't as well be dyed and done with it as try to bleach
it out. I 've had it ten years last May, and it 's kind o'
losin' its freshness, you know. I don't believe these 'ere
streaks will bleach out.”

“Never mind, Ruey,” said Miss Roxy, authoritatively,
“I 'm goin' to do Mis' Badger's leg'orn, and it won't cost
nothin'; so hang your'n in the barrel along with it, — the
same smoke 'll do 'em both. Mis' Badger she finds the
brimstone, and next fall you can put it in the dye when we
do the yarn.”

“That ar straw is a beautiful straw!” said Miss Ruey, in
a plaintive tone, tenderly examining the battered old headpiece,
— “I braided every stroke on 't myself, and I don't
know as I could do it ag'in. My fingers a'n't quite so limber
as they was! I don't think I shall put green ribbon on
it ag'in; 'cause green is such a color to ruin, if a body gets
caught out in a shower! There 's these green streaks come
that day I left my amberil at Captain Broad's, and went to
meetin'. Mis' Broad she says to me, `Aunt Ruey, it won't
rain.' And says I to her, `Well, Mis' Broad, I 'll try it;
though I never did leave my amberil at home but what it
rained.' And so I went, and sure enough it rained cats and
dogs, and streaked my bonnet all up; and them ar streaks
won't bleach out, I 'm feared.”

“How long is it Mis' Badger has had that ar leg'orn?”

“Why, you know, the Cap'n he brought it home when he
came from his voyage from Marseilles. That ar was when
Phebe Ann was born, and she 's fifteen year old. It was
a most elegant thing when he brought it; but I think it
kind o' led Mis' Badger on to extravagant ways, — for gettin'
new trimmin' spring and fall so uses up money as fast as

new bonnets; but Mis' Badger 's got the money, and she 's
got a right to use it if she pleases; but if I 'd a-had new
trimmin's spring and fall, I should n't a-put away what I
have in the bank.

“Have you seen the straw Sally Kittridge is braidin' for
Mara Lincoln's weddin' bonnet?” said Miss Ruey. “It 's
jist the finest thing ever you did see, — and the whitest. I
was a-tellin' Sally that I could do as well once myself, but
my mantle was a-fallin' on her. Sally don't seem to act a
bit like a dissip'inted gal. She is as chipper as she can be
about Mara's weddin', and seems like she could n't do too
much. But laws, everybody seems to want to be a-doin' for
her. Miss Emily was a-showin' me a fine double damask
table-cloth that she was goin' to give her; and Mis' Pennel,
she 's been a-spinnin' and layin' up sheets and towels and
table-cloths all her life, — and then she has all Naomi's
things. Mis' Pennel was talkin' to me the other day about
bleachin' 'em out 'cause they 'd got yellow a-lyin'. I kind o'
felt as if 't was unlucky to be a-fittin' out a bride with her
dead mother's things, but I did n't like to say nothin'.”

“Ruey,” said Miss Roxy impressively, “I ha' n't never
had but jist one mind about Mara Lincoln's weddin', — it 's
to be, — but it won't be the way people think. I ha' n't
nussed and watched and sot up nights sixty years for
nothin'. I can see beyond what most folks can, — her
weddin' garments is bought and paid for, and she 'll wear
'em, but she won't be Moses Pennel's wife, — now you see.”

“Why, whose wife will she be then?” said Miss Ruey;
“'cause that ar Mr. Adams is married. I saw it in the
paper last week when I was up to Mis' Badger's.”

Miss Roxy shut her lips with oracular sternness and
went on with her sewing.

“Who 's that comin' in the back-door?” said Miss Ruey,
as the sound of a footstep fell upon her ear. “Bless me,”
she added, as she started up to look, “if folks a'n't always
nearest when you 're talkin' about 'em. Why, Mara; you
come down here and catched us in all our dirt! Well now,
we 're glad to see you, if we be,” said Miss Ruey.