No More Learning

(
(


## p. 8263 (#463) ###########################################

DOUGLAS JERROLD
8263
(
«CA jackass with sense to choose a thistle from a toadstool
will be a reasoning creature to you! for consider, my poor soul,'
said Lotus in a compassionate voice,- in this world of tribula-
tion we inhabit, consider what a benighted nincompoop is man,
if he cannot elect a good shilling from a bad one. '
« I have not a sharp eye for money,' said Pugwash modestly.
It's a gift, sir; I'm assured it's a gift. '
«A sharp eye! an eye of horn,' said Lotus. (Never mind,
I can remedy all that; I can restore you to the world and to
yourself. The greatest physicians, the wisest philosophers, have
in the profundity of their wisdom made money the test of wit.
A man is believed mad; he is a very rich man, and his heir has
very good reason to believe him lunatic: whereupon the heir, the
madman's careful friend, calls about the sufferer a company of
wizards to sit in judgment on the suspected brain, and report a
verdict thereupon. Well, ninety-nine times out of the hundred,
what is the first question put as test of reason? Why, a question
of money. The physician, laying certain pieces of current coin
in his palm, asks of the patient their several value. If he answer
truly, why truly there is hope; but if he stammer or falter at the
coin, the verdict runs, and wisely runs, mad— incapably mad. '
« I'm not so bad as that,' said Pugwash, a little alarmed.
« Don't say how you are — it's presumption in any man,'
(
-
cried Lotus. Nevertheless, be as you may, I'll cure you if you'll
give attention to my remedy. '
«I'll give my whole soul to it,' exclaimed Pugwash.
««Very good, very good; I like your earnestness: but I don't
want all your soul,' said Father Lotus smiling,-'I want only
part of it; that, if you confide in me, I can take from you with
no danger,-ay, with less peril than the pricking of a whitlow.
Now then, for examination. Now to have a good stare at this
soul of yours. ' Here Father Lotus gently removed the white
cat from his knee,- for he had been patting her all the time he
talked,- and turned full round upon Pugwash. “Turn out your
breeches pockets,' said Lotus; and the tractable Pugwash imme-
diately displayed the linings. So! ' cried Lotus, looking narrowly
at the brown holland whereof they were made, very bad indeed;
very bad: never knew a soul in a worse state in all my life. '
Pugwash looked at his pockets, and then at the conjurer; he
was about to speak, but the fixed, earnest look of Father Lotus
held him in respectful silence.
>
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## p. 8264 (#464) ###########################################

8264
DOUGLAS JERROLD
« Yes, yes,' said the wizard, still eying the brown holland,
I can see it all: a vagabond soul; a soul wandering here and
there, like a pauper without a settlement; a ragamuffin soul. ”
"Pugwash found confidence and breath. Was there ever
such a joke ? he cried: know a man's soul by the linings
of his breeches pockets! ) and Pugwash laughed, albeit uncom-
fortably.
“Father Lotus looked at the man with philosophic compas-
sion. Ha, my good friend! ” he said, that all comes of your
ignorance of moral anatomy. '
"Well, but, Father Lotus-
« (Peace! ' said the wizard, and answer me. You'd have this
soul of yours cured? '
« If there's anything the matter with it,' answered Pugwash.
'Though not of any conceit I speak it, yet I think it as sweet
and as healthy a soul as the souls of my neighbors. I never did
wrong to anybody. '
« Pooh! ) cried Father Lotus.
«I never denied credit to the hungry,' continued Pugwash.
« Fiddle-de-dee! ' said the wizard very nervously.
« I never laid out a penny in law upon a customer; I never
refused small beer to-
«<< Silence! ' cried Father Lotus: don't offend philosophy by
thus bragging of your follies. You are in a perilous condition;
still you may be saved. At this very moment, I much fear
it, gangrene has touched your soul; nevertheless, I can separate
the sound from the mortified parts, and start you new again as
though your lips were first wet with mother's milk. )
Pugwash merely said, — for the wizard began to awe him,-
I'm very much obliged to you. '
«Now,' said Lotus, answer a few questions, and then I'll
proceed to the cure. What do you think of money?
«A very nice thing,' said Pugwash, though I can do with
as little of it as most folks. '
“Father Lotus shook his head. Well, and the world about
(
you ? ?
«<A beautiful world,' said Pugwash; 'only the worst of it is,
I can't leave the shop as often as I would, to enjoy it. I'm shut
in all day long, I may say, a prisoner to brick-dust, herrings, and
bacon.
Sometimes when the sun shines and the cobbler's lark
over the way sings as if he'd split his pipe, why then, do you


## p. 8265 (#465) ###########################################

DOUGLAS JERROLD
8265
know, I do so long to get into the fields; I do hunger for a bit
of grass like any cow. '
« The wizard looked almost hopelessly on Pugwash. (And
that's your religion and business? Infidel of the counter! Saracen
of the till! However — patience,' said Lotus, and let us con-
clude. — And the men and women of the world, what do you
think of them ? )
«God bless 'em, poor souls! ' said Pugwash. It's a sad
scramble some of 'em have, isn't it? '
« Well,' said the conjurer, for a tradesman, your soul is in
a wretched condition. However, it is not so hopelessly bad that
I may not yet make it profitable to you. I must cure it of its
vagabond desires, and above all make it respectful of money.
You will take this book. ) Here Lotus took a little volume from
a cupboard, and placed it in the hand of Pugwash. Lay it
under your pillow every night for a week, and on the eighth
morning let me see you. '
«Come, there's nothing easier than that,' said Pugwash with
a smile; and reverently putting the volume in his pocket (the
book was closed by metal clasps, curiously chased), he descended
the garret stairs of the conjurer.
“On the morning of the eighth day Pugwash again stood
before Lotus.
« How do you feel now? ' asked the conjurer with a knowing
look.
"I haven't opened the book — 'tis just as I took it,' said Pug-
wash, making no further answer.
«I know that,' said Lotus: the clasps be thanked for your
ignorance. Pugwash slightly colored; for to say the truth, both
he and his wife had vainly pulled and tugged, and fingered
and coaxed the clasps, that they might look upon the necro-
mantic page. “Well, the book has worked, said the conjurer;
I have it. "
« Have it! what? ) asked Pugwash.
«« Your soul,' answered the sorcerer. In all my practice, he
added gravely, I never had a soul come into my hands in worse
condition. '
« Impossible! ' cried Pugwash. If my soul is as you say,
'
(
in your own hands, how is it that I'm alive? How is it that I
can eat, drink, sleep, walk, talk, do everything, just like anybody
else ? )
(
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## p. 8266 (#466) ###########################################

8266
DOUGLAS JERROLD
(
-
.
« Ha! ' said Lotus, (that's a common mistake. Thousands
and thousands would swear, ay, as they'd swear to their own
noses, that they have their souls in their own possession: bless
you,' and the conjurer laughed maliciously, it's a popular error.
Their souls are altogether out of 'em. '
«Well,' said Pugwash, if it's true that you have indeed my
soul, I should like to have a look at it. '
« (In good time,' said the conjurer, “I'll bring it to your
house and put it in its proper lodging. In another week I'll
bring it to you: 'twill then be strong enough to bear removal. '
« (And what am I to do all the time without it? asked
Pugwash in a tone of banter. Come,' said he, still jesting, if
you really have my soul, what's it like? What's its color? - if
indeed souls have colors. '
“Green - green as a grasshopper, when it first came into
my hands,' said the wizard; 'but 'tis changing daily. More: it
was a skipping, chirping, giddy soul; 'tis every hour mending.
In a week's time, I tell you, it will be fit for the business of the
world.
«And pray, good father,--for the matter has till now escaped
me, -- what am I to pay you for this pain and trouble; for this
precious care of my miserable soul? '
« <
Nothing,' answered Lotus, nothing whatever. The work
is too nice and precious to be paid for; I have a reward you
dream not of for my labor. Think you that men's immortal
souls are to be mended like iron pots, at tinker's price? Oh
no! they who meddle with souls go for higher wages. '
"After further talk Pugwash departed, the conjurer promising
to bring him home his soul at midnight that night week. It
seemed strange to Pugwash, as the time passed on, that he never
seemed to miss his soul; that in very truth he went through the
labors of the day with even better gravity than when his soul
possessed him. And more: he began to feel himself more at
home in his shop; the cobbler's lark over the way continued to
sing, but awoke in Isaac's heart no thought of the fields; and
then for flowers and plants, why, Isaac began to think such mat-
ters fitter the thoughts of children and foolish girls than the
attention of grown men, with the world before them. Even Mrs.
Pugwash saw an alteration in her husband; and though to him
she said nothing, she returned thanks to her own sagacity that
made him seek the conjurer.


## p. 8267 (#467) ###########################################

DOUGLAS JERROLD
8267
(
"At length the night arrived when Lotus had promised to
bring home the soul of Pugwash. He sent his wife to bed, and
sat with his eyes upon the Dutch clock, anxiously awaiting the
conjurer. Twelve o'clock struck, and at the same moment Father
Lotus smote the door-post of Isaac Pugwash.
« Have you brought it? ' asked Pugwash.
« (Or wherefore should I come ? ' said Lotus. 'Quick: show a
light to the till, that your soul may find itself at home. '
« « The till! ' cried Pugwash; 'what the devil should my soul
do in the till ? )
« «Speak not irreverently,' said the conjurer, but show a
light. '
« May I live forever in darkness if I do! cried Pugwash.
“It is no matter,' said the conjurer; and then he cried,
'Soul, to your earthly dwelling-place! Seek it-you know it. '
Then turning to Pugwash, Lotus said, It is all right. Your
soul's in the till. )
« (How did it get there? ' cried Pugwash in amazement.
« Through the slit in the counter,' said the onjurer; and ere
Pugwash could speak again, the conjurer had quitted the shop.
“For some minutes Pugwash felt himself afraid to stir. For
the first time in his life he felt himself ill at ease, left as he was
with no other company save his own soul. He at length took
heart, and went behind the counter that he might see if his soul
was really in the till. With trembling hand he drew the coffer,
and there, to his amazement, squatted like a tailor upon a crown
piece, did Pugwash behold his own soul, which cried out to him
in notes no louder than a cricket's, “How are you? I am com-
fortable. '
“It was a strange yet pleasing sight to Pugwash, to behold
what he felt to be his own soul embodied in a figure no bigger
than the top joint of his thumb. There it was, a stark-naked
thing with the precise features of Pugwash; albeit the complex-
ion was of a yellower hue. The conjurer said it was green,'
cried Pugwash: as I live, if that be my soul - and I begin
to feel a strange, odd love for it — it is yellow as a guinea, .
Ha! ha! Pretty, precious, darling soul! ' cried Pugwash, as the
creature took up every piece of coin in the till, and rang it with
such a look of rascally cunning, that sure I am Pugwash would
in past times have hated the creature for the trick.
day Pugwash became fonder and fonder of the creature in the
But every


## p. 8268 (#468) ###########################################

8268
DOUGLAS JERROLD
till: it was to him such a counselor and such a blessing. When-
ever the old flower-man came to the door, the soul of Pugwash
from the till would bid him pack with his rubbish; if a poor
woman - an old customer it might be — begged for the credit
of a loaf, the Spirit of the Till, calling through the slit in the
counter, would command Pugwash to deny her. More: Pugwash
never again took a bad shilling. No sooner did he throw the
pocket-piece down upon the counter than the voice from the till
would denounce its worthlessness. And the soul of Pugwash
never quitted the till. There it lived, feeding upon the color of
money, and capering and rubbing its small scoundrel hands in
glee as the coin dropped -- dropped in. In time the soul of Pug.
wash grew too big for so small a habitation, and then Pugwash
moved his soul into an iron box; and some time after he sent
his soul to his banker's, the thing had waxed so big and strong
on gold and silver. ”
"And so,” said we, « the man flourished, and the conjurer
took no wages for all he did to the soul of Pugwash ? ”
“Hear the end,” said the Hermit. « For some time it was
a growing pleasure to Pugwash to look at his soul, busy as it
always was with the world-buying metals. At length he grew
old, very old; and every day his soul grew uglier. Then he
hated to look upon it; and then his soul would come to him,
and grin its deformity at him. Pugwash died, almost rich as an
Indian king; but he died shrieking in his madness to be saved
from the terrors of his own soul. ”
"And such the end, we said; "such the Tragedy of the Till?
A strange romance. ”
«Romance! ” said the Sage of Bellyfule: "sir, 'tis a story true
as life.
For at this very moment how many thousands, blind and
deaf to the sweet looks and voice of nature, live and die with
their souls in a Till! »
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## p. 8269 (#469) ###########################################

8269
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
(1849-)
are
HE deeds of young authors, like the deeds of young soldiers,
a continual surprise to the mature. We forget that
Gal characters and situations which pass before us unheeded
from their very familiarity, strike the apprehension of youth from
their very novelty.
Sarah Orne Jewett was born in South Berwick, Maine, in 1849; a
product of the best New England birth and breeding. Besides the
usual school training, she received a deeper culture from her father,
a physician and a man of wide attainments
and keen observation. A country doctor,
he had to make excursions inland and along-
shore to visit his scattered patients; and the
young girl sitting beside him learned to
know the characters she was to immortal-
ize in literature, as she knew the landscape
and the sky. She was a girl not past her
youth when her first book, Deephaven,'
was published in 1877. This was a story of
New England life, told in the form of an
autobiography; and slight as it was in inci-
dent, betrayed a breadth and a refinement
which seemed to come from careful train- SARAH ORNE JEWETT
ing, but which were really the unerring
product of a genuine gift for literature, kindled by the observation
of a fresh mind and an affectionate sympathy.
The effect upon her many readers was like the gift of sight to the
blind. Frequenters of the town — for Deephaven' stands for any
-
fisher village on the Maine coast — recollected having seen “Mrs.
Bonny” searching for a tumbler, the meek widow with the appear-
ance of a black beetle and the wail of a banshee, the funeral pro-
cession on its sad journey, the Captains, the interesting ladies “Mrs.
Kew” and “Mrs. Dockum. ” “Deephaven' was followed by a series
of stories, all breathing forth an air of calm leisure that in its avoid-
ance of hurry or catastrophe suggests the almost forgotten note of
Goldsmith and Irving.
Miss Jewett's portrayal of character, habits, traits, speech, was all
perfectly true, although drawn from that very rural and village New

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## p. 8270 (#470) ###########################################

8270
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
England life which other writers, clever and merciless, had convinced
the world to be wholly sordid and melancholy. With wider compre-
hension, she showed that there are differing points of view of any
given conditions, and that a life in these pinched and narrow sur-
roundings may be as complex an affair as one passed in the heart of
London. Her patriotic and kindly part was to portray it with a good
deal of horizon, a clear sky, and vital human interest.
Her gift has been exercised, for the most part, in the field in
which America has only France as her rival, - that of the short story.
She has written one novel, A Country Doctor' ;- for Deephaven'
is a series of figures, landscapes, and interiors, rather than a woven
scheme. Perhaps the rare intuition which taught her the secrets of
her shy reserved characters, revealed to her that her strength does
not lie in the constructive power which holds in its grasp varied and
complex interests, terminating in an inevitable conclusion.
A simple incident suffices for her machinery; her local color is a
part of the substance of her creation, not imposed upon it, and no
more than Hawthorne does she seem to be conscious of the necessity
of making it a setting for her figures. She writes of that into which
she was born; and her creations - even when they are in such foreign
settings as Irish-American life, in the inimitable stories The Bro-
gans,' Between Mass and Vespers,' and A Little Captive Maid'-
glow with that internal personality which is never counterfeited, as
has been said of Hawthorne's Marble Faun. '
The emotion of love as a passion, the essential of a novel, is
almost absent from her sketches; or, treated as one of many other
emotions and principles, has a certain originality due to its abstemi-
ousness. Life indeed, as portrayed by her, proceeds so exactly as it
would naturally proceed, that when the incident has been told, and
the quiet, veracious talk has been retailed, the story comes to an end
because it could not go on without being a different story. This
method would not do for a novel: and yet, little composition as there
seems to be about them, Miss Jewett's stories are as delicately con-
structed, with as true a method and as perfect a knowledge of tech-
nique, as Guy de Maupassant's; and they are permeated with a humor
he never knew.
It is not only the delightful mood in which these
little masterpieces are written,” says Mr. Howells of "The King
of Folly Island, “but the perfect artistic restraint, the truly Greek
temperance without one touch too much, which render them exquisite,
make them perfect in their way. ”
Her lovely spirit, sweet and compassionate, is a tacit appeal for
the characters at which her humor bids us smile. Her people are
introduced sitting in their quiet New England homes, going about
their small affairs: housewives, captains unseaworthy through time or


## p. 8271 (#471) ###########################################

SARAH ORNE JEWETT
8271
stress of weather, the village schoolmistress or seamstress, the old
soldier, the heroine with blue eyes and rosy cheeks, walking through
the scene without one fluttering ribbon of coquetry,— all these appear
with as little grouping as if we had walked into “Deephaven” or
“Winby” itself. With perfect sympathy she takes under her pro-
tection all those whom irreverence or thoughtlessness has flouted,
or whom personal peculiarities have made ridiculous. With her we
are amused by their quaintness; but human nature, even forlorn
and fallen human nature, is dignified into its true likeness under her
serene and compassionate touch. Her charm is the charm which
Richard Dole found in "A Marsh Island," where he was so willingly a
prisoner; and is that which comes from the view of a landscape,
broad, unaccented, lying under a summer sky, breathing the fragrance
of grass and wild flowers. It does not invite criticism any more
than it deprecates close scrutiny.
If artist may be compared with artist, Miss Jewett may be de-
scribed as a water-colorist; her sketches - resting for their value not
upon dramatic qualities or strong color, but upon their pure tone and
singleness of effort. And she is not sensibly in her story, any more
than a painter is in his picture. It is in this that her engaging
modesty and admirable self-restraint lie.
Miss Jewett is the author of a dozen volumes of fiction, among
the more important of which are —A Marsh Island (1885); 'A White
Heron and Other Stories) (1886); (The King of Folly Island, and
Other People (1888); Strangers and Wayfarers' (1890): A Native
of Winby, and Other Tales' (1893); (The Life of Nancy' (1895); and
(The Country of the Pointed Firs,' 1896.
MISS TEMPY'S WATCHERS
From The King of Folly Island, and Other People. ' Copyright 1888, by
Sarah 0. Jewett. Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ,
publishers, Boston.
T"
HE time of year was April; the place was a small farming
town in New Hampshire, remote from any railroad. One
by one the lights had been blown out in the scattered
houses near Miss Tempy Dent's; but as her neighbors took a
last look out of doors, their eyes turned with instinctive curiosity
toward the old house, where a lamp burned steadily. They gave
a little sigh. "Poor Miss Tempy! ” said more than one bereft
“
acquaintance; for the good woman lay dead in her north cham-
ber, and the light was a watchers' light. The funeral was set for
the next day at one o'clock.


## p. 8272 (#472) ###########################################

8272
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
The watchers were two of the oldest friends, Mrs. Crowe and
Sarah Ann Binson. They were sitting in the kitchen, because
it seemed less awesome than the unused best room; and they
beguiled the long hours by steady conversation. One would think
that neither topics nor opinions would hold out, at that rate, all
through the long spring night; but there was a certain degree of
excitement just then, and the two women had risen to an unusual
level of expressiveness and confidence. Each had already told
the other more than one fact that she had determined to keep
secret; they were again and again tempted into statements that
either would have found impossible by daylight. Mrs. Crowe
was knitting a blue yarn stocking for her husband; the foot was
already so long that it seemed as if she must have forgotten to
narrow it at the proper time. Mrs. Crowe knew exactly what she
was about, however; she was of a much cooler disposition than
Sister Binson, who made futile attempts at some sewing, only
to drop her work into her lap whenever the talk was most
engaging
Their faces were interesting,—of the dry, shrewd, quick-witted
New England type, with thin hair twisted neatly back out of the
way.
Mrs. Crowe could look vague and benignant, and Miss Bin-
son was, to quote her neighbors, a little too sharp-set; but the
world knew that she had need to be, with the load she must
carry of supporting an inefficient widowed sister and six unprom-
ising and unwilling nieces and nephews. The eldest boy was at
last placed with a good man to learn the mason's trade. Sarah
Ann Binson, for all her sharp, anxious aspect, never defended
herself when her sister whined and fretted. She was told every
week of her life that the poor children never would have had to
lift a finger if their father had lived; and yet she had kept her
steadfast way with the little farm, and patiently taught the young
people many useful things, for which, as everybody said, they
would live to thank her. However pleasureless her life appeared
to outward view, it was brimful of pleasure to herself.
Mrs. Crowe, on the contrary, was well-to-do; her husband
being a rich farmer and an easy-going man. She was a stingy
woman, but for all that she looked kindly; and when she gave
away anything, or lifted a finger to help anybody, it was thought
a great piece of beneficence, and a compliment indeed, which
the recipient accepted with twice as much gratitude as double the
gift that came from a poorer and more generous acquaintance.


## p. 8273 (#473) ###########################################

SARAH ORNE JEWETT
8273
Everybody liked to be on good terms with Mrs. Crowe. Socially
she stood much higher than Sarah Ann Binson. They were
both old schoolmates and friends of Temperance Dent, who had
asked them one day, not long before she died, if they would
not come together and look after the house, and manage every-
thing when she was gone. She may have had some hope that
they might become closer friends in this period of intimate part-
nership, and that the richer woman might better understand the
burdens of the poorer. They had not kept the house the night
before; they were too weary with the care of their old friend,
whom they had not left until all was over.
There was a brook which ran down the hillside very near the
house, and the sound of it was much louder than usual. When
there was silence in the kitchen, the busy stream had a strange
insistence in its wild voice, as if it tried to make the watchers
understand something that related to the past.
«I declare, I can't begin to sorrow for Tempy yet. I am so
glad to have her at rest,” whispered Mrs. Crowe. “It is strange
to set here without her, but I can't make it clear that she has
gone. I feel as if she had got easy and dropped off to sleep, and
I'm more scared about waking her up than knowing any other
feeling. ”
“Yes,” said Sarah Ann, it's just like that, ain't it? But I
tell you we are goin' to miss her worse than we expect. She's
helped me through with many a trial, has Temperance. I ain't
the only one who says the same neither. ”
These words were spoken as if there were
a third person
listening; somebody beside Mrs. Crowe. The watchers could not
rid their minds of the feeling that they were being watched
themselves. The spring wind whistled in the window crack now
and then, and buffeted the little house in a gusty way that had
a sort of companionable effect. Yet on the whole it was a very
still night, and the watchers spoke in a half-whisper.
“She was the freest-handed woman that ever I knew,” said
Mrs. Crowe decidedly. According to her means, she gave away
more than anybody. I used to tell her 'twa'n't right. I used
really to be afraid that she went without too much,- for we have
a duty to ourselves. ”
Sister Binson looked up in a half-amused, unconscious way,
and then recollected herself.
XIV-518
»


## p. 8274 (#474) ###########################################

8274
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
>
Mrs. Crowe met her look with a serious face. “It ain't so
easy for me to give as it is for some,” she said simply, but with
an effort which was made possible only by the occasion. «I
should like to say, while Tempy is laying here yet in her own
house, that she has been a constant lesson to me. Folks are too
kind, and shame me with thanks for what I do. I ain't such a
generous woman as poor Tempy was, for all she had nothin' to
do with, as one may say. ”
Sarah Binson was much moved at this confession, and was
even pained and touched by the unexpected humility. You
“
have a good many calls on you,” she began, and then left her
kind little compliment half finished.
« Yes, yes; but I've got means enough. My disposition's more
of a cross to me as I grow older, and I made up my mind this
morning that Tempy's example should be my pattern henceforth. ”
She began to knit faster than ever.
“'Tain't no use to get morbid; that's what Tempy used to
«
say herself,” said Sarah Ann, after a minute's silence. "Ain't it
strange to say used to say '? ” and her voice choked a little.
“She never did like to hear folks git goin' about themselves. ”
« «'Twas only because they're apt to do it so as other folks
will say 'twasn't so, an' praise 'em up,” humbly replied Mrs.
Crowe, «and that ain't my object. There wa'n't a child but
what Tempy set herself to work to see what she could do to
please it.
One time my brother's folks had been stopping here
in the summer, from Massachusetts. The children was all little,
,
and they broke up a sight of toys, and left 'em when they were
going away. Tempy come right up after they rode by, to see
if she couldn't help me set the house to rights, and she caught
me just as I was going to fling some of the clutter into the
stove. I was kind of tired out, starting 'em off in season.
give me them! ' says she, real pleading; and she wropped 'em
up and took 'em home with her when she went, and she mended
'em up and stuck 'em together, and made some young one
other happy with every blessed one. You'd thought I'd done her
the biggest favor. (No thanks to me. I should ha' burnt 'em,
Tempy,' says I. ”
“Some of 'em came to our house, I know," said Miss Binson.
"She'd take a lot o' trouble to please a child, 'stead o' shoving
of it out o' the way, like the rest of us when we're drove. "
Oh,
or


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SARAH ORNE JEWETT
8275
"I can tell you the biggest thing she ever gave, and I don't
know's there's anybody left but me to tell it. I don't want it
forgot,” Sarah Binson went on, looking up at the clock to see
how the night was going. "It was that pretty-looking Trevor
girl, who taught the Corners school, and married so well after-
wards, out in New York State. You remember her, I dare-
say ? »
«Certain,” said Mrs. Crowe, with an air of interest.
“She was a splendid scholar, folks said, and give the school a
great start; but she'd overdone herself getting her education, and
working to pay for it, and she all broke down one spring, and
Tempy made her come and stop with her awhile,- you remem-
ber that? Well, she had an uncle, her mother's brother out in
Chicago, who was well off and friendly, and used to write to
Lizzie Trevor, and I daresay make her some presents; but he
was a lively, driving man, and didn't take time to stop and think
about his folks. He hadn't seen her since she was a little girl.
Poor Lizzie was so pale and weakly that she just got through the
term o' school. She looked as if she was just going straight off
in a decline. Tempy she cosseted her up awhile, and then, next
thing folks knew, she was tellin' round how Miss Trevor had
gone to see her uncle, and meant to visit Niagary Falls on the
way and stop over night. Now I happened to know, in ways I
won't dwell on to explain, that the poor girl was in debt for
her schoolin' when she come here, and her last quarter's pay had
just squared it off at last, and left her without a cent ahead
hardly: but it had fretted her thinking of it, so she paid it all;
they might have dunned her that she owed it to. An' I taxed
Tempy about the girl's goin' off on such a journey, till she owned
up, rather'n have Lizzie blamed, that she'd given her sixty dol-
lars, same's if she was rolling in riches, and sent her off to have
a good rest and vacation. "
Sixty dollars! ” exclaimed Mrs. Crowe. «Tempy only had
ninety dollars a year that came in to her; rest of her livin' she
got by helpin' about, with what she raised off this little piece o'
ground, sand one side an' clay the other. An' how often I've
heard her tell, years ago, that she'd rather see Niagary than any
other sight in the world! ”
The women looked at each other in silence; the magnitude
of the generous sacrifice was almost too great for their compre-
hension.
»


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8276
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
(
I suppose
"She was just poor enough to do that! ” declared Mrs. Crowe
at last, in an abandonment of feeling. “Say what you may, I
feel humbled to the dust;” and her companion ventured to say
nothing. She never had given away sixty dollars at once, but it
was simply because she never had it to give. It came to her
very lips to say in explanation, «Tempy was so situated;” but
she checked herself in time, for she would not break in upon her
own loyal guarding of her dependent household.
"Folks say a great deal of generosity, and this one's being
public-sperited, and that one free-handed about giving,” said Mrs.
Crowe, who was a little nervous in the silence.
we can't tell the sorrow it would be to some folks not to give,
same's 'twould be to me not to save. I seem kind of made for
that, as if 'twas what I'd got to do. I should feel sights better
about it if I could make it evident what I was savin' for. If I
had a child, now, Sarah Ann," and her voice was a little husky,
—“if I had a child, I should think I was heapin' of it up because
he was the one trained by the Lord to scatter it again for good.
But here's Crowe and me, we can't do anything with money, and
both of us like to keep things same's they've always been. Now
Priscilla Dance was talking away like a mill-clapper, week before
last. She'd think I would go right off and get one o' them new-
fashioned gilt-and-white papers for the best room, and some new
furniture, an' a marble-top table. And I looked at her, all struck
up. Why,' says I, Priscilla, that nice old velvet paper ain't
hurt a mite. I shouldn't feel 'twas my best room without it.
Dan'el says 'tis the first thing he can remember rubbin' his little
baby fingers on to it, and how splendid he thought them red
roses was. ' I maintain,” continued Mrs. Crowe stoutly, that
folks wastes sights o' good money doin' just such foolish things.
Tearin' out the insides o' meetin'-houses, and fixin' the pews dif-
ferent; 'twas good enough as 'twas, with mendin': then hard times
come, an' they want to put it all back same's 'twas before. ”
This touched upon an exciting subject to active members of
that parish. Miss Binson and Mrs. Crowe belonged to opposite
parties, and had at one time come as near hard feelings as they
could and yet escape them. Each hastened to speak of other
things and to show her untouched friendliness.
"I do agree with you,” said Sister Binson, that few of us
know what use to make of money beyond every-day necessities.
You've seen more o' the world than I have, and know what's


## p. 8277 (#477) ###########################################

SARAH ORNE JEWETT
8277
expected. When it comes to taste and judgment about such
things, I ought to defer to others; ” and with this modest avowal
the critical moment passed when there might have been an
improper discussion.
In the silence that followed, the fact of their presence in a
house of death grew more clear than before. There was some-
thing disturbing in the noise of a mouse gnawing at the dry
boards of a closet wall near by. Both the watchers looked up
anxiously at the clock; it was almost the middle of the night,
and the whole world seemed to have left them alone with their
solemn duty. Only the brook was awake.
“Perhaps we might give a look up-stairs now,” whispered
Mrs. Crowe, as if she hoped to hear some reason against their
going just then to the chamber of death; but Sister Binson rose,
with a serious and yet satisfied countenance, and lifted the small
lamp from the table. She was much more used to watching than
Mrs. Crowe, and much less affected by it. They opened the door
into a small entry with a steep stairway; they climbed the creak-
ing stairs, and entered the cold upper room on tiptoe. Mrs.
Crowe's heart began to beat very fast as the lamp was put on a
high bureau, and made long fixed shadows about the walls. She
went hesitatingly toward the solemn shape under its white
drapery, and felt a sense of remonstrance as Sarah Ann gently,
but in a business-like way, turned back the thin sheet.
«Seems to me she looks pleasanter and pleasanter,” whispered
Sarah Ann Binson impulsively, as they gazed at the white face
with its wonderful smile. « To-morrow 'twill all have faded out.
I do believe they kind of wake up a day or two after they
die, and it's then they go. ” She replaced the light covering, and
they both turned quickly away; there was a chill in this upper
room.
« 'Tis a great thing for anybody to have got through, ain't
it ? ” said Mrs. Crowe softly, as she began to go down the stairs
on tiptoe. The warm air from the kitchen beneath met them
with a sense of welcome and shelter.
“I don't know why it is, but I feel as near again to Tempy
down here as I do up there,” replied Sister Binson. "I feel as
if the air was full of her, kind of. I can sense things now and
then that she seems to say. Now I never was one to take up
with no nonsense of sperits and such, but I declare I felt as if
she told me just now to put some more wood into the stove. "
»


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8278
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
Mrs. Crowe preserved a gloomy silence. She had suspected
before this that her companion was of a weaker and more credu-
lous disposition than herself. « 'Tis a great thing to have got
through,” she repeated, ignoring definitely all that had last been
said. “I suppose you know as well as I that Tempy was one
that always feared death. Well, it's all put behind her now; she
knows what 'tis. ” Mrs. Crowe gave a little sigh, and Sister Bin-
son's quick sympathies were stirred toward this other old friend,
who also dreaded the great change.
"I'd never like to forgit almost those last words Tempy spoke
plain to me,” she said gently, like the comforter she truly was.
«She looked up at me once or twice, that last afternoon after I
come to set by her and let Mis' Owen go home; and I says,
'Can I do anything to ease you, Tempy? ' and the tears come
into my eyes so I couldn't see what kind of a nod she give me.
No, Sarah Ann, you can't, dear,' says she; and then she got her
breath again, and says she, looking at me real meanin', 'I'm only
a-gettin' sleepier and sleepier; that's all there is,' says she, and
smiled up at me kind of wishful, and shut her eyes. I knew well
enough all she meant. She'd been lookin' out for a chance to tell
me, and I don't know's she ever said much afterwards. ”
Mrs. Crowe was not knitting; she had been listening too
eagerly. “Yes, 'twill be a comfort to think of that sometimes,”
she said in acknowledgment
« I know that old Dr. Prince said once in evenin' meetin'
that he'd watched by many a dyin' bed, as we well knew, and
enough o' his sick folks had been scared o' dyin' their whole
lives through; but when they come to the last, he'd never seen
one but was willin', and most were glad, to go. ( 'Tis as natural
as bein' born or livin' on,' he said. I don't know what had
moved him to speak that night. You know he wa’n’t in the
habit of it, and 'twas the monthly concert of prayer for foreign
missions anyways,” said Sarah Ann; “but 'twas a great stay to
the mind to listen to his words of experience. ”
« There never was a better man," responded Mrs.