Sweet Cicely — or Josiah Allen as a Politician by Marietta Holley (novels for teenagers .txt) 📗

It was a lovely mornin' about three weeks after Cicely's death. Josiah had to go to Jonesville to mill, and the boy wanted to go to; and so I put on his little cloak and hat, and told him he might go.

We didn't act cast down and gloomy before the boy, Josiah and me didn't. He had worried for his ma dretfully, at first. But we had made every thing of him, and petted him. And I had told him that she had gone to a lovely place, and was there a waitin' for him. And I would say it to him with as cheerful a face as I could. (I knew I could do my own cryin', out to one side.)

And he believed me. He believed every word I said to him. And he would ask me sights and sights of questions about “the place.”

And “if it was inside the gate, that uncle Josiah had read about,—that gate that was big and white, like a pearl? And if it would float down through the sky some day, and stand still in front of him? And would the gate swing open so he could see into the City? and would it be all glorious with golden streets, and shining, and full of light? And would his mamma Cicely stand just inside, and reach out her arms to him?—those pretty white arms.”

And then the boy would sob and cry. And I'd soothe him, and swaller hard, and say “Yes,” and didn't think it was wicked, when he would be a sobbin' so.

And then he'd ask, “Would she take him in her arms, and be glad to see her own little boy again? And would he have long to wait?”

And I'd comfort him, and tell him, “No, it wouldn't be but a little time to wait.”

And didn't think it was wicked, for it wuzn't long anyway. For “our days are but shadows that flee away.”

Wall, he loved us, some. And we loved him, and did well by him; and bein' a child, we could sometimes comfort him with childish things.

And this mornin' he wus all excitement about goin' to Jonesville with his uncle Josiah. And I gin him some pennys to get some oranges for him and the babe, and they set off feelin' quite chirk.

And I sot down to mend a vest for my Josiah. And I was a settin' there a mendin' it,—one of the pockets had gin out, and it was frayed round the edges.

And I sot there a sewin' on that fray, peaceful and calm and serene as the outside of the vest, which was farmer's satin, and very smooth and shinin'. The weather also wus as mild and serene as the vest, if not serener. I had got my work all done up as slick as a pin: the floor glittered like yellow glass, the stove shone a agreable black, a good dinner was a cookin'. And I sot there, happy, as I say; for though, when I had done so much work that mornin', if that vest had belonged to anybody else, it would have looked like a stent to me, I didn't mind it, for it was for my Josiah: and love makes labor light,—light as day.

I was jest a thinkin' this, and a thinkin' that though I had jest told Josiah, from a sense of duty, that “he had broke that pocket down by luggin' round so much stuff in it, and there was no sense in actin' as if he could carry round a hull car-load of things in his vest-pocket;” though I had spoken to him thus, from a sense of duty, tryin' to keep him straight and upright in his demeaner,—still, I was a thinkin' how pleasant it wuz to work for them you loved, and that loved you: for though he had snapped me up considerable snappish, and said “he should carry round in his pockets as much as he was a minter; and if I didn't want to mend it, I could let it alone,” and had throwed it down in the corner, and slammed the door considerable hard when he went out, still, I knew that this slight pettishness was only the light bubbles that rises above the sparkling wine. I knew his love for me lay pure and clear and sparklin' in the very depths of his soul.

I was a settin' there, thinkin' about it, and thinkin' how true love, such as mine and hisen, glorified a earthly existence, when all of a sudden I heard a rap come onto the kitchen door right behind me; and I says, “Come in.” And a tall, slim feller entered, with light hair, and sort o' thin, and a patient, determined countenance onto him. A sort of a persistent look to him, as if he wuzn't one to be turned round by trifles. I didn't dislike his looks a mite at first, and sot him a chair.

But little did I think what was a comin'. For, if you will believe it, he hadn't much more than got sot down when he says to me right there, in the middle of the forenoon, and right to my face,—the mean, miserable, lowlived scamp,—says he, right there, in broad daylight, and without blushing, or any thing, says he,—

“I called this morning, mom, to see if I couldn't sell you a feller.”

“Sell me a feller!” I jest made out to say, for I wus fairly paralyzed by his impudence. “Sell me a feller!”

“Yes: I have got some of the best kinds they make, and I didn't know but I could sell you one.”

Sez I, gettin' my tongue back, “Buy a feller! you ask me, at my age, and with my respectability, and after carryin' round such principles as I have been carryin' round for years and years, you ask me to buy a feller!”

“Yes: I didn't know but you would want one. I have got the best kind there is made.”

“I'll let you know, young man,” says I, “I'll let you know that I have got a feller of my own, as good a one as was ever made, one I have had for 20 years and over.”

“Wall, mom,” says he, with that stiddy, determined way of hisen, “a feller that you have had for 20 years must be out of gear by this time.”

“Out of gear!” says I, speakin' up sharp. “You will be out of gear yourself, young man, if I hear any more such talk out of your head.”

“I hope you will excuse me, mom,” says he, in that patient way of hisen. “It hain't my way to run down anybody's else's fellers.”

“Wall, I guess you hadn't better try it again in this house,” says I warmly. “I guess it won't be very healthy for you.”