Harriet Beecher Stowe : Three Novels (183 page)

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Authors: Harriet Beecher Stowe

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Page 1047
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 lent me his'n. Wal, to be sure, his hoss has got the spring-halt, that kind o' twitches up the wag-

 

Page 1048
gin, 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' 'curred to me, as Hepsy was in one o' her spells, it would be a 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

 

Page 1049
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 with these 'ere children. Sol says they 're real putty children,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."

 

Page 1050
"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

 

Page 1051
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 last week, and the little critters might have took shelter 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

 

Page 1052
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 this 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 of our fields, nor beat off all our olive-berries, but leave 'em for 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

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