Turnover
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY JAMES FRENCH, REDDING AND COMPANY, HOTCgRKIS AND COMPANY. 1853. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to Act of CoOnpere, In the year 1863, Dr JAYxe Fai'zNOc, In the Clerk'e Office o the District Court of Massachusetts. PRESS OF THE FRANKLIN PRINTING HOUSE, No. 210 Washngton Street, 'BOSTON. CHAPTER I. THE STORE. ON the banks of the beautiful and winding Connecticut, is situated the quiet town of Turnover. The principal village borders on the river bank, where a bridge usually spans its waters; though this communication with the Vermont shore is sometimes swept away by a spring flood of more than ordinary force. This part of the town is indifferently designated by the names of "The Bridge," "The River Road,' aiud 'The Street." It is the centre of most of the trade and manufacturing busi- ness of the town. Although these are not large, yet they have the effect to communicate a perceptible distinction in air and feeling between the somewhat aristocratic residents here, and the less polished inhabitants of other sections of the same township. Two or three miles further back, is a sort of suburb, called Squashville. Here, in the village store, on the evening of a stormy winter's day, theusual number of loungers was assem- bled. The store was a respectable wooden edifice, whose exter- nal walls, as well as the counter within, were painted a sober page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] 4 TURNOVER. i red; and was a common resort for the villagers who desired discuss the ordinary affairs of their neighbors. The count extended from one of the front windows towards the rear the room; then, with the exception of a passage-way, it reache across the floor and around another corner, until stopped in i further progress by a partition, which separated the sleepir room of the clerk from the main room. Across the passage ws was a movable lid, which was used when necessary, as a co3 tinuation of the counter, and to keep the fingers of the custon ers from making too free with the tobacco, nuts and raisins b( hind it. A desk was elevated upon the counter at the extren ity by the front window, and behind it the "storekeeper " c his clerk alternately stood, or sat perched upon a high stoo while entering charges in the day-book, or "posting" thei into the ledger. The shelves and drawers behind it, on thi side, contained the dry goods department of the store, with th exception of ribbons, laces and other small articles, which wer exhibited in a glass-covered show-case. An iron railing, formed of a single wire or bar, was fixe about four inches above 'the front of the counter, for the pum pose of preventing the annoying habit, which the frequenters o the store seemed to have an irresistible propensity to fall into ofplacing themselves upon this elevated position, instead c the more appropriate but, less conspicuous seats, provided fo them in the centre ofte room. The proprietor of the stor disliked -t have the attractions of his wares obscured by a: array of idlers upon the counter, and was compelled4o adop this remedy for the evil. The expedient succeeded to sorm extent; but now and then, an inveterate-lounger would deposi his person upon the precincts sacred to the display of merchan dise, and allow his nether extremities to dangle over the bar regardless of the stoppage of circulation, or the uneasy inden ture of the flesh, which it occasioned. The majority, however were content to make no other-use of the iron bar, than, whil discussing the news of the village, or the price of commodities ll! ,THE STORE. to test its flexibility and toughness, by seizing it firmly in their hands, and bracing their feet against the counter, swinging themselves alternately with a jerking motion to the right and left. The strong iron rivets were frequently forced from their places by some experimental philosopher of this sort; on which occasion he would quietly remark, that "it was not so strong as he thought it was;" or that "he was more vigarious in the arms than he cat'lated for;" and the proprietor, with a surly growl, would as quietly proceed to repair the damage. A tin lamp, aided in its effect by a circular steel plate be- hind it, marked off like a checker-board, was fastened to a post in the rear, and threw a mellowed radiance around. Two or three lesser lights feebly glimmered from different parts of the room. An iron box stove adorned the central space, well sup- plied with hemlock wood, which snapped and crackled vigor- ously within. A wooden settee extended between it and the counter on the shortest side; several chairs, whose seats were made of basket work, flanked it on-the other; and a large tin can, of the capacity of a barrel, and filled with the " best win- ter strained oil," was placed in its rear, in order to receive the benefit of its warmth, and thereby avoid the liability of contra- dieting the promise of its name, by congealing in the "fasset," and refusing to run. From time to time, as a new comer arrived, a vigorous stamping of the feet would be heard, to free them from the snow which clung to them, and a rough-looking figure would enter, crested with white upon the head and shoulders, and, switching off a long knit yarn muffler from around the neck and ears with one hand, and a seal or hogskin cap from the head with the other, would shake them smartly, and scatter their powdery coating about the room. There were about half a dozen free and easy individuals assembled, with their chairs elevated upon the hinder legs, and their feet upon the upper edge of the stove; where they would hold them, until the steam ,of the melting snow was mingled with the smoke of the burn- page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] 6 TURNOVER. ing leather, the peculiar odor of which operated as a warning to remove the boot from its dangerous proximity. The clerk of the store had just placed a tin dipper of water upon the stove, and taken off his coat, vest and neck-cloth, in order to shave and dress for a "party," or " kissing-bee," at a customer's house, some three miles off among the hills. A se- date young friend of his, who had agreed to take him in his sleigh, was patiently waiting for him in one corner of the set- tee. Alexander Davis; or "Ellick," as he was always called, was one of those quiet; steady young men, against whom no one has anything to say, and who are therefore never noticed or cared for. He had a high opinion of the standing and abil- ities of Cook Stevens, the clerk; not merely on account of the property left him in his orphan infancy, by his father, which he was now learning how he should improve when he might come into possession, by an apprenticeship, during his minority, in the store of Mr. Hookem; but rather on account of his su- perior assurance and volubility of tongue, which Ellick had for a long time regarded and listened to, with mingled admira- tion, envy and despair. He was especially grateful for the kindness of Cook, in allowing him occasionally to be useful to him, by carrying him in his sleigh to any places of recreation or convivial meeting, for which invitations should happen to be dispensed to both. There, unable to participate, except as a silent spectator, in any of the sport, Ellick was contented to witness the merriment of others, and drink in the reflected light of their enjoyment. "Cook," said the last comer, "my old woman says she wants me ter git a haff a paound a' shushawn tea; an you ma' weigh me aout a paound a' yure terbackur. Lem me try a chaw on't, fust, ter see'f it's 'baout right." "You wait on him, Jess," said Cook, "for Ellick is as raving as a bedbug now; I've kept him waiting so long." Jess, who was thus addressed, was an inhabitant of the vil- lage. He spent most of his leisure time, that is to say, on an THE STORE. 7 average, one half of his waking hours, in the store. He was, or had been, by turns, and sometimes all at once, a butcher, a. meat peddler, a eattle drover, a horse-jockey, a speculator in sheep, in wool, in ,' pelts," (that is, sheep-skins, cured with the wool on,) and any other article of traffic that promised a profit. Without any particular manual dexterity, except in butchering, at which he claimed to have " consid'able of a sleight," he could make himself valuable in almost any busi- ness. Having a long, loud, voluble and untiring, though tiresome tongue, an assurance which was never abashed, and a pretty correct judgment of the size, weight and quality of dif- ferent kinds, of animals, he was exceedingly useful as an agent for other speculators; although his want of education and cap- ital prevented his embarking in any undertaking on his own account, with profit to himself.. Jess had several times at- tempted something of the kind, but the luck had usually been against him; and in one enterprise of considerable magnitude he was so hopelessly swamped, that he gave up all idea of ever paying his debts, mortgaged all his property to his largest and most friendly creditor, and lived at his ease. His mortgagee allowed him the use of a house and lot in the vil- lage for. an almost nominal rent. It was cultivated, however, if at all, by the labor of some individual still less favored by fortune, and whose service was purchased with an occasional joint of meat, or glass of grog. Jess was too independent, and too shrewd, to work upon the soil himself. On the evening in question, the cold being pretty severe, Jess was in his shirt sleeves; for it was one of his peculiari- ties to go without his coat whenever it was unusually cold. The appearance of Jess in hi; shirt-sleeves was always re. garded by the neighbors as a sign of decidedly cold weather. Jess was short, stout, and humpbacked. His right hand possessed great muscular strength, but his left hand consisted merely of three or four half formed and inflexible stumps, drawn together at the ends, the whole fist composing a clump page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 TURNOVER. about as large as a turkey's egg. He was once riding in a stage coach, when a woman, a stranger to him, after watching his apology for a hand with torturing curiosity, as long as she could possibly endure it, at last burst forth with the irrepres- sible interrogatory, "D Du tell me, mister, what you du with that air hand?" "That," bawled Jess, thrusting it into her face and eyes, " that is to tickle the gals with." The woman pursued the inquiry no further. Jess was sufficiently acquainted with all the contents of the grocery department of the store, to wait upon any customers who might call during the evening; and he considered it rather a pleasant variation of occupation to do so. "Ellick," said he, as he passed him on his way behind the counter, " is fairce as, a bull dog, to be among them air gals, aout to uncle Josh's." A "Ellick knows what he's abaout, don't ye, Ellick?" said a plump, gray haired, red faced old gentleman, who sat with his chair supported on two legs, with the back reclining against the counter; while he cocked his head on one side with a quizzical assumption of gravity. "Ellick is like a singed cat; better than he looks." "It's the still saow that drinks up all the buttermilk, uncle Kellup," said Jess. "Don't know about that," said Ellick, blushing,-but evi- dently flattered by the imputation of gallantry, which he was conscious could not be truthfully laid to his charge. "Ellick is a perfect tiger among the girls," said Cook. "If I had a family of girls where he was round, I'd lock 'em up, i and stand guard over 'em, with a double barrel gun. I don't stand no sort of a chance, when he's with me. I can't begin. I a'n't nowhere." "'Tain't them that makes the most noise that ketches the most fish," said Uncle Caleb, or "Kellup," as it was univer- 1i sally pronounced. "Cook found that aout, when uncle Jo's i gal gin him the mitten, to the singin' school." "That was the night, Uncle Kellup," sail Cook, A" that you got a little top-heavy in to the street, and when you was driving Slippery Whiskey home, you run off the bank by 'Siah Andrus's saw-mill. Uncle Kellup- said he thought the old mill was the tavern, coming round to head him off by the back road, and he turned out to keep from being run over." "You'd better put a little cream on that air upper lip a' yourn," retorted Uncle Kellup, as Cook was about applying the lather to his face, " an' then let the cat lick it off." "Don't give yourself any uneasiness," said Cook; ("I should be sorry to have you make yourself unhappy on my account. Uncle Kellup don't like to hear about 'Siah Andrus's saw-mill. He sold poor Slippery Whiskey the very next chance he had. He says it was because she was never rightly broke." "Did ye ever hear, Jess," said Uncle Kellup, as ifhe had not heard Cook's last speech, " the answer that old Spike; the stove man, gin Cook, when he was here settlin' up for his stoves, last fao1?" - "'Baout the three cents wuth a' lam ' black T? said Jess; "haw, haw!" "O, that's all wore out, years ago," said Cook; , do ty and say something new." "What was it?" said another of the company; "le'ss have it." "Why, ye see," said Uncle Kellup, "old Spike ;-you know old Spike,- the man that left a lot of stoves with iHookem to sell;-wal, ye see, old Spike was here, an' reckonin' up with Hookem an' Cook abaout the stoves. Wal, Cook he kept both- erin' the' old man, all the time Hookem -an' him was goin' over the accaounts, an' caountin' the stoves, an' so on; an' kep' a run- nin' on him abaout his bein' sich a leetle runt of a thing. Ye know Cook always was a sarcy, impurdent skunk; an' he'd ask old Spike, when he was standin' ter the desk, if he didn't want a sheet a' paper ter stand on, so's't he could see better; an' all sich sarcy stuff as that. At last says old Spike, says he ter page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 TURNO VER. Hookem, don't ye want me tertell ye haow ye can make a thaous- and dollars, clear profit? Says Hookem, says he, haow's that? says he. Naow ye know Cook hain't gut the smallest maouth that ever was. At any rate I think I have seen a smaller maouth than his. So old Spike, says he, I'll tell ye. Yew jest take three cents wuth a' lamin' black, an' fix up this feller's face here a 'yourn, an' jest take an' send him daown Saouth, an' he'll bring ye a thaousand dollars as quick as wink. Cook never gut over that three cents wuth a' lam' black. It shawt him up com-pletely." "Come, Ellick," said Cook, "fly round and fetch up your horse; I shall be all ready by the time you are. Be careful, Uncle Kellup," he added as he started to go, " and don't run off the bank as you go home. Remember you can't lay it to Slippery Whiskey, now, if you do." "Shah!" said Uncle Kellup, with whom Cook was some- thing of a favorite; "shah!" said he, after Cook was gone, "if his mother had a took an ' spanked him oftener, when he was a little shaver, he wouldn't a' hen so sarcy haow. But it's jest as ye bring up a young one; abaout that. He's a leetle afraid to tackle me, though. I gin it to him a leetle harder than he expected. Guess he'll be a leetle careful haow he wakes the old man up, next time," CHAPTER II. THE PARTY. THE stately two story mihsion of Uncle Josh Davis was brilliant with tallow candles and female beauty. It was a building of the third, or middle order of Yankee architec- ture; a science which commenced with the log house; was improved to the simplest form of. farm house, or cottage, whose chamber, entirely above the eaves, had its only two windows in the two gable ends; and finally expanded into the two story edifice, sometimes with a roof rising from each of the four sides, and sometimes with the simple gable end. A more modern taste would prefer a coat of paint, instead of letting the exterior deepen in hue from brown to black-with age; and would wish the eaves a trifle higher than the top of the windows, instead of resting, as they apparently did, upon the immovable upper sash. But, after all, Uncle Josh's dwel- ling made a respectable and dignified appearance;- and Uncle Josh was a substantial, thriving farmer. The two front rooms of the house were filled with company. In one of them, distinguished by the appellation of the "t'other room," a wood fire, supported on a pair of frass tipped andirons, blazed merrily in the brick chimney, desti- tute of a mantel-piece; a pair of simple glass lamps were stationed upon a pine table, which latter was covered with a painted cloth, or " oil cloth," as it was usually termed; and a number of unpretending painted wooden chairs were ar- ranged around the room. A looking-glass which might have cost two dollars, and two or three ninepenny prints, whose frames were made and-painted by Uncle Josh himself, consti- tuted the only remaining furniture. The floors of this and the corresponding room, and of the "front entry" between them, page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 TURNOVER. were painted yellow; and the furniture of the second, which g was usually called the "settin' room," differed no otherwise from the first, than in having a comfortable bed, a small light j stand, and a cheaper looking-glass; while the andirons were of unadorned iron, and the lights were tallow candles in iron candlesticks. No carpet had ever been known in Uncle Josh's premises. In the rear, and communicating with the two front apart- ments, was teo roomy kitchen, whose unpainted floor was kept white by daily scouring. In its ample fire-place a tea-kettle, hanging by hooks from the "crane," sung its well-known and! oft-spoken-of note of cheerful welcome. Four flat poles, forming a square over head, were suspended by an equal num- ber of hooks from the ceiling, and were garnished with the family linen, and various festoons of dried apple and " pump. kin." From the kitchen, one door led to the " wood shed" in the rear, two others to side bed-rooms, another "up-charmber," another to the "buttery," and still another "down sullar," in which latter ample receptacle was stored an inexhaustible supply of salted pork and beef, and of potatoes, turnips, squashes, " pungkins," apples and cider. Ellick drove his horse under the shelter of the wood-shed, "hitched" him securely by the halter, covered him with one of his two ample " bu loes,' -(as the cured skins othe American bison are commonly called,) tucked the corners of it into the harness to make it keep its place, and followed Cook into the kitchen. Here they were heartily greeted by Uncle Josh, a tall, sturdy farmer, and his wife, Aunt Esther, a comely, portly matron; and after throwing off their outer garments, sat down to warm themselves by the fire. After chatting cosily for a while, the old man suddenly ex- claimned, "Cook has jined, hain't he, Ellick?" "Jined what?" said Ellick, staring. "Joined the Lodge," said uncle Josh. "The Lodge?" said Ellick, inquiringly, for he could not guess what the old man was driving at. "'Cause if he ha'n't," said Uncle Josh, " it's high -time he was made a mason on. You je'st look here, boys; I want to show ye my model for a patent winnerin' mill." So saying he led the way into the "butt'ry," where the perfect neatness of the dishes and other utensils, the broad pans of clean, wholesome milk, and the whiteness of the well scoured shelves, bore token to the housekeeping talent of Aunt Esther. Upon one of the shelves was a goodly array of de- canters and bottles, with tumblers and plenty of sugar. The old man, pointing them out to the two guests, gravely re- marked, "There;-there is what I call the very best inven- tion for gittin' red a' the dust and chaff, that has ever ben contrived up. It will work to a charm. And I tell ye what, now, if the boys an' gals to-night kick up too much of a dust for ye,' an' it gets inter yer eyes and throats, you jest slip in here,-you know the way in, naow,-an' take and give the patent winnerin' mill two or three whirls, an' I'll warrant ye, you'll be all right-agin, as slick as ile." These events, gentle reader, occurred aboutfifteen years ago, when it was just becoming unfashionable to be seen imbibing in public. Uncle Josh, therefore, thought it judicious to remove this portion of his hospitable stores from the unaccustomed eyes of his lady visitors; but we may imagine that Cook and his companion did proper honor to the virtues of the " patent winnowing-mill." The sports of the evening had been for some time begun. The company were now forming a procession, under the-author- itotive direction of Miss Betsey Rude, a young lady of lively and spirited appearance, the daughter of Aunt Esther by a for- mer husband. Betsey was neither handsome, nor ill-looking. She had a pouting upper lip, which gave a peculiar piquancy to her countenance; and she had, besides, a saucy, roguish eye. Her hair, like that of nearly all the youug ladies present, was page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " TURNOVER. combed down over the sides of the forehead and cheeks, nearly concealing both, after a silly fashion which had just been intro- duced from Boston; and which has since,-thanks to the re- awakening of a better taste,-been entirely exploded. Betsey was singing, in a strong, even voice, the following lines, in which several others joined; the females in unison, and the males an octave below: Arise, my true love, and present me your hand, And we'll march in procession to some far distant land. To some far distant land, my true love and we will go; And we'll dwell on the banks of the pleasant O-hi-o. At the beginning of every repetition of the verse, she motion- ed to some one of the beaux to start from his seat, select a part- ner from the fairer sex, and with her join the company who were marching through the room. The procession was moving in measured step to the music, through the front rooms, entry and kitchen, in an endless circle, which lasted until all were on their feet in obedience to the call. Betsey then stationed her- self at the head of the column, in company. with the last gen- tleman who had been called up, and taking his right hand in her left, and his left in her right, formed an arch, under which the company were to pass, sidewise, hand in, hand, and one by one, first a gentleman, and then a lady. The song was then changed to the following:- The needle's eye it is so small, It bears its thread so true, It has caught many a lively lass, And now it has caught you. With a bow so neat, And a kiss so sweet, We do intend, before we part, to see this couple meet. At the close of the first four lines, the trap was sprung up- on such lady in the procession as the standing gentleman chose to catch, unless the lady so marked out for capture eluded his arm by stooping low, and shooting out of reach. When fairly caught, the lady submitted to her fate, as shadowed forth in the concluding lines of the song, and then took the place of her predecessor in the arch, who was thereupon "out of the play," and had nothing to o'but to sit down. The song was then re- peated with corresnding action, except that the word "lad" was substituted r "lass," and a gentleman was caught instead of a lady; and so on alternately, until all had been through the fated noose. During the progress of this game, the old folks had quietly gone to bed, and Cook Stevens joined in the sport, receiving, as he passed Betsey, a careless and half sarcastic nod of re- cognition. Ellick stood by the chimney, endeavoring to muster up courage to go forward and pay the customary salu-. tations to acquaintances, but he found himself unequal to the effort. When the play was ended, and while Cook was attracting the attention of the company by some frolicsome nonsense, Betsey passed by Ellick, and without looking at him, glanced' her eye towards a chair on the other side of the fire place, saying in a low tone, "Don't look round. Sit down and warm you." She then passed into the next room, and pres- ently returned to the company. Ellick started and colored; but, not perceiving that any one was looking at him, in a few minutes did as he had been commanded. Betsey now ordered all the ladies to assemble in one of the front rooms, and all the gentlemen in the other, except Cook, and shut the door between them. "Here, Cook Stevens," said she, "you have been late and lazy, to-night; stir yourself, and see if you can't be useful. Come in here, and give each of these ladies the name of some gentleman; then call in the gentlemen, one by one, and tell them to take a seat by the side of the lady who has been named after them. Those who don't guess right must just walk out again." page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 TURNOVER. "Well," said Cook, "I suppose I must obey orders; so I'll begin with you;" at the same time approaching to take her hand. "'No, you won't begin with me," said she, drawing back her hand suddenly; " attend to your business. Excuse me for half a second," said she to the company, and passed out of the room. Ellick was still seated by the kitchen fire. The cat was reclining comfortably in the corner; and, as he bent over and passed his hand across her head, she expressed her apprecia- tion of his attentions by slightly uncoiling herself, and giving utterance to an indolent purr. Hearing a slight rustling, he looked up, andsaw Betsey, regarding him with a roguish look of inquiry. "Ellick," said she, " are you fond of parties?" "I should be," he replied, " if I were able to enjoy them as much as some others do." "That is to say, you would like them, if you did like them. 'But why can't you enjoy them? Are you too bashful?" "O, I don't know," said he, turning very red, as if accused of some grievous offence; "I sometimes think I shall always be bashful; but Cook Stevens says that he felt as bad, once, about going into company, himself, and he has got all over it now. Perhaps I shall." "At any rate," said she, he don't appear to be much troubled by it at present, judging from the way he is training in the next room. I don't think a little of your modesty would injure him seriously. But some people say it is noth- ing but pride that makes you so stiff and reserved." "O, no," said he, "I am not proud. To be sure, every body ought to have a proper degree of pride; but I mean that I hav'n't got that kind of pride that you referred to." "And what kind was that?" "Why, the kind of pride that makes any one proud of,- that makes people-I mean that- " THE PARTY. 17 "O, I understand you perfectly," interrupted she; "yours is the right kind of pride; and not the wrong kind. I thought there couldn't be anything wrong in the pride that you have." Ellick again turned very red. "I perceive you have taken Cook under your tuition," said she. "Are you going to teach him the right kind of pride?" "O, I hope he don't need any teaching," said Ellick. Betsey looked fixedly at him for a few moments, and then said, in a tone in which earnestness and mockery were doubt- fully mingled, "Be careful, Ellick, that you don't lead him into any bad habits. You know I have an interest in him; I shall call you to a close account." Ellick looked up. with evident surprise and curiosity. "Now, mind," said she, hastily, ," don't you repeat a word of my nonsense, for the world. If you do, I will never speak to you again, as long as I 'live. That good-for-nothing Nat Sleeper was mean enough to repeat something that I said in that way, and put a great deal of meaning to it, when I meant nothing at all. I never was so provoked in my life. I some- times talk and rattle on, without thinking; but I find it is necessary to be very cautious what kind of people I talk to in that way." "What was it that Nat repeated?" "No matter what it was. He won't have another chance to make mischief. 'A great, tall, poking, ill-looking fool! By the way, how did you find Martha and Mary Brown, last Sun- day evening? You and Cook were seen riding in that direc- tion." Ellick again colored to the very roots of his hair. He had his reasons for not wishing to speak of the adventures of that evening. "O," said Betsey, "I don't want to inquire into any of your love secrets; especially if it will make you-feel bad. You have a right to see Mary, and court her, and marry her too, if you choose; and I am sure she is a good, likely girl. She 2* page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 TURNOVER. may have a little temper of her own; but we can't expect per- fection. " "I am sure," said Ellick, I have no reason to entertain any hopes-- " ' ' "Indeed!" said she; "then you have been entertaining wishes in relation to her, or you, would not speak in that way ,about hopes. I am sure I don't know any reason you have for being afraid of not succeeding. I know you are not handsome; and you know you are a little awkward and green; but after all, you have more sense than a great many who make much more noise in the world. To be honest, I don't think Mary is likely to do much better than to take you. She is here to- night, though Martha didn't think it best to come herself. You can guess the reason why. Have you spoken to Mary to- night?"' lEllick, who had been several times desperately resolving, but in vain, to speak to the young lady indicated, simply re- plied in the negative. "O, well, you will have plenty of opportunities to whisper sweet things in her ear, and I would advise you to improve ihem. But let me tell you one thing, Ellick; don't go to see Mary in company with Cook Stevens. It won't be of any ad- vantage to you, I can assure you.- It will set her to thinking, at once, that you will be just about as true and constant to her, as Cook has been to Martha. I am surprised that a young man of your sense should not have thought of that yourself. How could you have been so foolish, as to have gone there with him last Sunday evening?" "' I never did," said Ellick, startled out of his caution by the vehemence of her warning. "And I think that. Cook has used Martha very meanly indeed."' "Why?" said Betsey; " what do you call mean usage?" 4"Why," said'he, "I call it mean usage for a young man to visit a lady regularly, pay her attentions, wait upon her to parties, and promise to marry her,-and then afterwards leave her, without any substantial reason." -; -t K'A1" TA . " "'I should call such treatment very base -and dishonorable, myself," she replied, "and would despise a man who should be guilty of it. I am sure I would not be so fond of him as Martha is of Cook Stevens; nor try so hard to coax him back." "You are mistaken," said Ellick. "She wouldn't have any- thing to say to him, now." "Indeed!" said Betsey, sarcastically. "I don't think she would, unless she had an opportunity. But did Cook tell you, himself, that he had been guilty of such conduct?" " O, no," said Ellick, hastily; but, perceiving Betsey's eyes fixed upon him with a peculiar meaning, as if she guessed the source of his information, he again felt the blood mounting to his temples. "Never mind," said she; "but remember that there are always two sides to a story. And now we had better go and join the play; for I see they have finished the game that I started. I shall find out, by another way, where you went last Sunday evening." As Ellick went into the other room to Join the company, and try to find a quiet corner, he noticed that Cook was covertly, but closely observing him; and, as he thought, with a disturbed and somewhat angry expression of countenance. He saw him, however, turn suddenly away, without remark.. The only vacant seat was just behind Nat Sleeper, who was conversing with Mary Brown; and there Ellick placed himself, silent and unnoticed. Ellick was not prepossessed in favor of Nat; and to find him so sociably situated with Mary was not calculated to increase his good will. Nat was a tall muscular fellow, with hard fea- tures, and an immovable gravity of face. By means of some slyness, and a habitual oddity of expression, he passed with some of his acquaintances for a wag, or, as they would term it, a "droll chicken." "Come, Mary," said a lively little miss, "le's play odd and even. You, an' me, an' Nat will play; an' then we must find ; . ^ . page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] - V TUKRNVER. / somebody else too. 'There's Ellick Davi," she added in a whisper, but loud enough to be heard by him, "but I don't like him; he's so dull and stupid." "Wal," said Mary, "get anybody you like; " and off danced the little miss in search of another beau. She soon came back, in considerable ill humor, scolding at her want of success, and pettishy remarking, " we shall have to take Ellick, after all." "Very well," said Mary, "jest as you please." "O, here he is," said Nat, looking over his shoulder, with an appearance of indifference; "here he sets, as demure as a pussy cat. Come, Miss Nancy, jest inter-conduct us into the highfangletum gyrations of this 'ere business." The game consisted mainly in placing the hands in a certain prescribed succession, upon the hand of one of the others, which rested upon Nat's knee; and the one who mistook the proper order had a forfeit to pay. Ellick was already sufficiently mortified at the remarks which he had heard; but he was still further vexed to find that Ngt's hand was always between his and Mary's. At last he committed a mistake, and was adjudg- ed to pay a forfeit. "There, ye'r' down," said Nat; chuse yer judge, an' pay yer fine." "I choose Miss Brown," said Ellick timidly. "O, can't think of anything for ye to do," said Mary, care- lessly; "you judge him, Nat." "Wal, then, young scape-gallows," said Nat, "for this hein- ious offta' the fence, you are sentenced to make a goose-yoke with Miss Mary." "How is it to be done?" said Ellick, starting up with delici- ous trepidation, at the idea of giving a salute to Mary. "I'll show ye," said Nat. Then, making Ellick kneel on one knee, and take one hand of Mary, he told Mary to give the other hand to himself, while he leaned over Ellick's shoulder, and gaveher a hearty smack. "That," said Nat, ",is the way to make a goose-yoke." 9 Poor Ellick acknowledged the propriety of the name, and slunk away to another corner of the room, feeling very much like a goose. After a few other games had been played, with the usual mixture of paying forfeits, by ingeniously contrived variations of kissing, the company were indulged with a feast of cakes and pies, nuts and sugar plums; and were afterwards treated to a supply of large rosy apples, from the bountiful stores of Uncle Josh. The introduction of the supper interrupted Cook Stevens in a journey which he was making "to Rome;" that is, a cir- cuit of the room in which, in payment of a forfeit, he was to kiss ' every lady present; and also saved Ellick from a less agreeable penalty, that of going "to Egypt," or kissing every gentleman in the room. He was alto pleased to observe, that it cut short the measuring off of twety-five yards of tape, by Nat Sleeper and AIary Brown; which was done by joining their hands to. gether, and then, by extending them to the right and left, al- lowing their faces to approach each other, while Nat " cut it off at every yard," by imprinting a smack upon her cheek. Indeed, Nat declared himself to be in tall clover; and said that the change was like being called from a rich "parstur," to the stable, to be fed on hay and grain. The company were now busy in naming apples. Betsey's apple wasenamed, by most of the company, "Cook Stevens;" but Cook himself, with a quiet look of malicious meaning, named it "Ellick Davis." Ellick, feeling called upon to do something, tried to laugh; but Nat Sleeper cried abruptly, "mustn't laugh, boy!" and disconcerted him. When Mary Brown's apple came to be named, no one thought of Ellick, except Betsey; and when she gave it his name, Mary looked so quietly indifferent that no one else paid the least attention to i; though his own heart throbbed faster beneath his vest. While the apples were eaten, each one carefully extracted the seeds from the core, and counted them, in order to test the accuracy of the oracular lines, by which the number of seeds page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] ;a- TURNOVEUR. in an apple was supposed to foretell the destiny of the holder in love and matrimony. "One,-I love, - Two,-I love, Three,-I love, I say; Four,-I love with all my heart, Five,-I cast away. Six,-He loves, Seven, She loves, Eight,-They both love; Nine,--He comes, Ten,-He tarries, Eleven,-He courts, Twelve,--He marries. Mary's apple had but five seeds, while Betsey's had ten; the announcement of which was received with shouts of laughter, that almost put Cook Stevens out of countenance. The plays of "Button, button, who's gut the button," Rolling the platter, and various others, were then. introduced, but the interest began to flag; notwithstanding some iof the company, including Nat Sleeper, paid an unobtrusit visit to the patent winnowing-mill, which invention Nat pronounced to be " well worthy a retrospective view, on this lemon and solemncholy occasion." - Cook Stevens seized an opportunity, while -they were break. ing up into little sets, and chatting, previousl to departing to their several homes, to secure a few minutes' conversation with Betsey Rude. He had, for some time, considered her as a prize worthy of his attention; for, besides having some little prop- erty by inheritance from her father, she had added to it by her 'industry and good management, during her residence with her step-father; and, though not handsome, was sprightly and clear. headed. But Cook had acquired a notion, that he could mar- ry any one when he might choose; and he was not disposed to commit himself in this affair too soon; especially, as he had v , once before been too hasty, and had been severely condemned by many for his unexplained desertion of Martha Brown. He had, therefore, been careful so to temper his advances towards Betsey, as to leave open the door for an honorable retreat. It may naturally be supposed, that Betsey, while sensible that Cook was generally considered "an excellent match," was secretly indignant at his presumption, in regarding her as- a prize, to be taken or left, at his option. He had been very careful to avoid any expression of his reasons for hesitation; but a less sharp-sighted woman than herself ight have read his thoughts without much difficulty; an ess spirited wo- man might have felt considerably piqued at the discovery. Betsey was also annoyed by the recollection of Martha Brown. She well knew that Martha was in equally good standing with herself, being respectable and respected, be- sides being pitied for a desertion which was undeserved, and for which no excuse had ever been offered. She could not help regarding Cook's flirtation with Marthabeas a precedent fraught with warning to the woman who should rely upon his promises afterwards. To balance this, however, she had a certain internal consciousness of her power to retain a loVer, if once decidedly caught; and she was unwilling to admit the possibility of any future diminution of her influence. With all his assurance, Cook felt uneasy at the prospect of any interference, on the part of another, with a conquest, the choice of which he was determined to reserve to himself, and at his own time. He would have laughed at the idea of Ellick's presuming to be a rival to him, in the affections of a woman; but still; he did not like the appearance of a confi- dential interview between Betsey and his bashful friend. He knew that, as Uncle Josh was the brother of Ellick's deceased father, the young man had the privilege of calling in, without ceremony, whenever he chose; and,- although there was no actual relationship between him and-Betsey herself, his visits would never be thought of, or spoken of, by the gossips page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] of the town. Therefore, in spite of his low estimate of the modest youth's attractions, he experienced more annoyance than he chose to acknowledge; and he secretly resolved to put an end to any influence from that quarter, which might en- danger the success of his designs. "I must congratulate you, Miss Rude," said he, "o onyour late conquest. I. should think you would feel flattered with your new bean." "You are very stingy in your compliments, Mr. Stevens," she replied; "I never feel flattered with the conquest of one; and I don't thank you for insinuating that. I have gained but one, among so many. I am not satisfied with less than half a dozen. I like to have a good number, to make a selection from." "But this one is worth a dozen others," said he. "I ad- mire your choice. Ellick will make a safe and gentle team -to drive. You won't find him hard to manage." "I am glad to receive your approbation," she replied. "But I am afraid he has been a little too much in your company. He can hardly be likely to have learned any good, there." "He?" said Cook; "he has taught me more evil than I ever began to know before. If you see anything vicious about him, don't lay it to me. You must rather overlook my faults, on his account." "Doubtless," said she, drily. "But when are you going to be published?" said he. "I have not yet accepted you," said she; "and I have very serious doubts whether I shall." "Don't refuse me before you are asked," said he; "that would be doubly distressing. I was merely inquiring about your engagements with Ellick." "O, you were, were you?" said she. "I wasn't sure but you were asking for yourself. It is not the first time that you have been in something of a hurry." "But I am afraid that I am now a little too late," said he. A\ "I ought to have spoken before this fatal evening. I was not aware that Ellick stood so high in your good graces." "Not so high, perhaps, as you imagine," said she. "He has kept bad company-lately." "I guess you would think so," said Cook, "if you had seen him the other evening." "I might think that somebody else, besides him, was where he had no business to be," said she, emphatically. "I know that you, Cook Stevens, were at a place last Sunday evening, which you would be ashamed to have known. You do not dare to tell me where you were. But I know very well: for all that." I "What story has he been telling you?" said Cook, suddenly startled from his assumed calmness. "O, you needn't fear his betraying your secrets," said she. "But you must remember that you are as deep in the mud as he is in the mire." "You have been pumping him, then, I see," said he. "I begin to see how the land lies." "Then I hope you feel easier in your mind," said she. "But I would thank you, Mr. Stevens, when you want to find out anything from me, to ask me directly; and not go such a round- about way to work. I can read you; and. I can always tell what you are trying to discover. I never evade any question which you have a right to ask; and, as for any others, you ought to know better than to ask them. You may laugh at Ellick Davis; but I say that no young lady ought to be ashamed of him; and I am sure that I should not be. I should prefer him to some young men that I know of, a thousand times over. And I think that a young man who leads another into improper company, had better not say much about it." "I wasn't aware that I had asked any impertinent questions, Miss Rude," said Cook, in a soothing tone; "' but if I have, I am very willing to be forgiven. I didn't suppose you had any serious affection for Mr. Davis; and I was only joking when I 3 I page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 TURNOVER. spoke of it. If I had known that it had got to be a settled affair between you, I would not have quizzed you so hard." "Yes, Sir," said she, with a low bow, "I am extremely grateful for the delicacy of your feelings. It is a pity you were not always so careful of offending. How long is it since you became so thoughtful?" "Come, come," said he, "don't be foolish. You know I had no intention of displeasing you." "I will endeavor not to be foolish, Mr. Stevens, but, I am afraid foolishness is a little catching; so I will move away from the 'danger." And with another low bow, she left him. Cook was considerably puzzled. He had confidently relied upon his power ascertaining, by closely observing Betsey's manner, when eplying to his raillery, something definite in relation to the state of her feelings towards himself; and also of satisfying himself that his fears from Ellick were entirely baseless. But Betsey had answered him in such a way, as sot to remove a single doubt. Cook was certainly puzzled. The company soon after broke up. When they were all gone, Betsey sat down, and compensated herself for her previous restraint by having a "real good cry." She found much con- solation in the flow of tears; and sought her pillow considerably refreshed. Meanwhile the sleigh bells jingled merrily, as the young men and maidens were borne rapidly homeward. Ellick had experienced so many mortifications in the course of the evening, that he hardly spoke during the ride. Cook was in too ill humor to talk with him; and he had not fully decided upon the line of conduct to be adopted toward him; therefore, he also remained mostly silent. They stopped a moment before Jess's house, w'here Cook took down the key of the store from behind the door. Ellick then drove to the store, left his com- panion there, went home, put up his horse, crept shivering into his own bed, went- to sleep, and dreamed of Betsey Rude and Mary Brown. CHAPTER III. THE AVOWAL. IT was a clear, bright afternoon in winter. The sun let fall his unclouded rays upon' the wide spread fields of white and stainless snow, which reflected a light so brilliant as to be almost painful to the eye. A gentle breeze from the south occasionally lifted the floating powder from the summit of some massive drift, and sifted it along the level waste. Occa- sionally the expressive music of the bells would be heard, and as the sleigh glided smoothly by, a shining red face would be seen peering out from the midst of a heap of furs. Ellick, attired in a striped woolen frock, with a knit sash of variegated colors around his waist, and another tied loosely around his neck, a substantial pair of cowhide boots on his feet, and a fur cap, with pendent ear pieces, surmounting his person, was marching along at the side of his oxen, who were slowly drawing after them a stout sled-load of maple and birch wood, from his wood lot, situated some two miles distant from his house. The road passed by the dwelling of Uncle Peter Brown; and Ellick very naturally turned his eyes to see if Mary were in sight. She was not; but Martha was looking from the window, and beckoning to him to come in. Ellick "hawed to ". his oxen out of the road, just far enough to leave a free passage for other teams; and, with his goad stick in his hand, entered the house as Martha came to meet him at the door.' She took him into a comfortable, cosy " settin' room," which fronted upon the road, with a cheerful fire in a neat little fire- place, and a worsted carpet of her mother's own weaving on the floor. The carpet was littered with the materials of some page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 28 TURNOVER. kind of sewing, and the brick hearth was pretty well covered with the ashes that had fallen down, and lay scattered about; and Martha herself partook a little, but not to a great degree, of the general air of untidiness. She was, on the whole, an agreeable looking girl enough, but had rather too much peev- ishness in the tone of her voice to be permanently pleasing. Her mother, Aunt Sally, was, as usual, storming away in the kitchen. "There," she was saying, "there is another 'mess of tracks, clear acrost the' clean floor, that I have only jest ben an' washed up. I declare, them rotten men folks air enough to spile the patience of a' saint. They do nothin' under the sun but rake thru' the haouse; into one door an aout to the t'other; track; track, track, track, from mornin' till night. They don't hardly git their breakfast swallow'd, afore back agin they come for luncheon; an' if I was to die I can't git the dishes washed up, afore its time to git dinner. They're jest like a pack of hogs; eat, eat, eat, eat, all the whole time; an' I have to slave, slave myself to death to git their victuals, an' clear away agin after 'em. Here, Mary, where a plague air ye? Do come an' help me off with this kettle, can't ye? for I feel as if I should drop daown. It wun't hurt ye to take hold and help a little, I know; for you hain't killed yerself with work, this mornin', any way. You can jest as well help me, as you can go off to parties, an' to scrapes, an' set up till twelve o'clock at night, carryin' on, an' foolin', an' cuttin' up capers, an' makin' yerself sick, so't ye have to lay abed all day the next day." A Martha began to think her mother's harangue was becoming a little too pointed to be suitable for her visitor's ears; she therefore closed the door which led into the kitchen. Aunt Sally, taking the hint, moderated her voice, which could still be heard in indistinct mutterings in the distance. Martha began to overwhelm Ellick with questions about the party; who was there; whether Cook Stevens attended; how he apppeared; whether he seemed attentive to Betsey Rude; THE AVOWAL. 29 how Betsey looked and acted; and what Cook said on the way home; to all of which he made answer as satisfactorily as he thought judicious and proper, and no further. After some additional chat, he ventured timidly to inquire where Mary was. Martha replied that she was helping her mother in the kitchen; and soon after she went out herself, and Mary came in. Mary was a rather plump, pretty girl, with a fair complex- ion and laughing blue eyes.' She had on a yellowish brown flannel dress, fitting loosely, and a calico cape, which had be- come displaced, in the course of her work, so that the opening which belonged in front was turned round over one shoulder. Her mass of light brown hair was drawn together in a careless manner, or, as her mother said, was "wapsed up" on the back of her head, and held in place by a plain horn comb. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, displaying a pair of round, though rather reddish arms. She greeted Ellick kindly, and leaning her elbow upon a small shelf which pro- jected across the chimney above the little fireplace, began speaking about the late party, which she said she had enjoyed very much. "Don't you think we had a very pleasant time?" said she. "O, yes, it was very pleasant," said he. "But, after all, where there are so many together, it isn't so agreeable to me, as it is to converse with one alone. When there are a number of people together, somehow or other, I don't enjoy myself so much as when I am in company with one friend, whom I am fond of. Do you like it as well?" 4"Wal, I don't know," said she meditatively, as if it was a point on which she had not reflected sufficiently to enable her to decide. Ellick was standing on the opposite side of the little fire- place, and was looking into her face. He thought it had never looked so tempting. Her eyes had never looked so blue. Her mouth had never looked so rosy. Her lips were slightly part- 8* page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 30 TURNOVER. ed by something between a smile and an unspoken thought. Her whole air seemed to say, that she would not bite any one's head off, if he should venture a little nearer. -He could not resist the impulse. He stepped forward as if to look out of the window, and see if his oxen were standing quietly where he had left them; and when he stepped back to the fireplace, he unac- countably found himself on the other side of it, and next to Mary. His hand, he hardly knew how, rested upon the shelf just behind her; then, finding that there was a hard spot there "ithe shelf, it moved a little forward, and his arm came in con- tact with her shoulder. Then his face began to feel a peculiar magnetic attraction towards hers; it kept drawing nigher and nigher; and finally, before he knew it, his lips were stopped in their further progress by her chee#. Heavens! wasn't it a delicious meeting? and what was remarkable, she did not bie, nor scratch, nor strike. She did not cveh scold, nor frown, nor look alarmed. Her eyes were half closed, and cast down, but her lips looked quite as much like smiling as before. In short, she took it like a lamb. I should be afraid to swear, that he didn't kiss her but once. ' Mary," he exclaimed, transported by a torrent of delicious sensations; "Mary," said he, not loudly, not vociferously, but in a tremulous, subdued tone, "I love you dearly. I love you better than all the world." Still she did not look offended. She did not even look as if she doubted the truth of what he was saying. The reader may perhaps inquire, whether he was emboldened to a further repe- tition of the salute. To borrow a favorite expression of Uncle Kellup's, "I don't want to say anything laoud abaout it;" but I am inclined to think that the chances were strongly in favor of it. Marry said nothing. She kept as quiet as a kitten. She did not blush, but she looked imeek and innocent. Ellick thought he was in heaven. The worsted carpet seemed fragrant with all the flowers of Paradise; and the sunshine without was nothing THE AVOWAL. 31 to the sunshine in his soul. But the approaching footsteps of Martha aroused him from this intoxication of happiness; and - before she had entered the room, he was again standing modest- ly on the other side of the fireplace. Martha showed no disposition to leave the room again in a hurry; and he accordingly soon took his leave. But his heart was still in a flutter of delight. He seemed to swim--to fly. He could not feel his feet touch the earth. His goad-stick was a fairy's wand in his hand; his oxen were the winged steeds of the morning. The whole earth was bright with joy. In the new- born amiability of his soul, he could have almost hugged Nat Sleeper himself, whom he now met, driving a spirited horse, and scarcely deigning to look at him. But after Nat had passed by, Ellick felt a slight damper to his joy, as, on turning round, he saw the horse's head pointing towards Uncle Peter's door. / page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] CHAPTER IV. THE -REVEL. Two or three days of warm January weather, assisted by a shower or two, had produced a marked effect upon the heavy masses of snow which mantled the wintry earth. Streams of water ran down the sides of the hills, and settled in the valleys, sparkling in the bright sunshine; and when the brief day was closed, and the stars shone out upon the sleeping^world, they hardened into a solid pavement of ice. The foundations of the road were soon reduced by day to a bed of'yielding mud, which was frozen by night into ridges and "hubbies," twisting the ankles and wearying the feet of the patient pedestrian; and wagons went jolting, toilsomely and clumsily along, where sleighs had lately glided with ease. It was about-ten o'clock in the evening. The usual throng of loungers in the store had begun to develop the symptoms of breaking up. Uncle Kellup, having finished a long-winded story of some of his youthful pranks, filled his pipe again, took a few vigorous sucks with the bowl turned up to one of the tin lamps, gave a few stout puffs to satisfy himself that it was well lighted, and started for the door. Two or three stiff-looking farmers followed his example, and they all lingered-before the door step, and chatted while the farmers "onhitched" their horses. At last they got into their wagons, and rattled slowly away. Jess and Ellick came out also, and went in one direc- tion, while Uncle Kellup went in another towards his own house. Mr. Hookem had gone home early, and had now been an hour abed. Cook Stevens closed the heavy wooden shutters on the out- side, passed an iron bolt through them, which he fixed in its at E A I vjj ilj. 33 'place by a pin on the inside; locked the front door; turned the key round in the same position as when first put in the door,.so that the wards would cover the whole space of the 'keyhole; laid apiece of sheeting against one crack in the shutters, hung his old coat against another, and then sat down to smoke a cigar. Presently he heard the back door of the store, which he had left unbolted, cautiously opened, and Jess and Ellick came stumbling along in the dark, over a pile of salt fish, and a heap of logwood sticks, anl endeavoring to steer clear of the large scales, the salt bin, the bags of ground salt, and the miscellaneous collection of barrels and boxes, with which the back room was stored. "You've gut red on 'em at last, hain't ye?" said Jess. "I begun to tlink they was goin' to stay forever. Uncle Kellup had'nt no notion a' hurryin'. The old cuss acted astif he smelt somethin'. Guess he remembers some of his old capers; but, darn him, he's too old a rat naow." "Where's the rest of 'em?" said Cook. "Have you seen Nat and Baby?" i "O, they'll be along;' said Jess. "They're 'raound some. wheres abaout." Cook then produced an ample tin dish, to serve as a frying pan, loaded a plate from one of several tubs of butter in the back room, and told Jess to bring out the eggs from the drawer. A package of iron spoons was then opened; and Jess, setting the dish upon the well heated stove, and putting in a portion of the buttei, began breaking the eggs separately into a cup, in order to be certain that they contained no embryo chickens, before turning them into the dish. "When I have eggs, I want eggs," said Jess , "and when I have chickens, I want chickens. I don't want 'em mixed." "No," said Cook; "you remember that egg you sucked under Crackem's barn too well; when you swallowed feathers and all. Cuss him, says Jess, why didn't he cheep afore? ha', page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] Raw chickens never have set well on his stomach since. That was a settler, wasn't it, Jess?" "By Godfrey mighty!" said Jess, "I never see the day, yit, but what I could tell a bad egg from a good one; an' nobody never ketched me a swallerin' a chicken, that- warn't growed up, an' pooty darned well cooked too. Ye needn't try to saddle off none a' yer own mistakes on to me, when you went aout a hookin' eggs; 'cause I can tell a better story than all that comes to." "You seem afraid to trust to your own judgment, now, though," said Cook. "O, wal," said Jess; "I didn't know that ye loved yourn mixed up together, chickens an' all. If ye want 'em so ye can have 'em; but I guess ye'd better have 'em in a dish ter yerself. I tell ye what; if I find any jest ready to cheep, I'll save it aout for ye. Der yer like 'em best raw or biled? haw, haw, haw." "O, I won't rob you," said Cook. "What's all this, carryins on in my store?" said a voice from the back room, in imitation of Mr. Hookem's; "I ain't a goin' to have no sitch works; an' if you can't behave better'n this, Cook Stevens, you may jest take an' clear aout, quicker'n shot, ye good for nothin' young sarpent." "O, naow, Mr. Hookem," said Cook, imitating the reply of a certain poor customer, when dunned pretty sharply by the trader, after having been indulgent for an unusual space of time; "naow don't go to bein' ugly; you've been good so long." "That's the thanks I git for bein' good, is it?" said Nat Sleeper, now making his appearance; " after lettin' on ye run, 'till ye've gut to the very furder eend a' yer rope, Ye must want it let aout another rod longer. Give ye an inch,'an' ye'll take a half a mile. Come in, Baby, an' jest take an' bolt that air door arter ye." Baby, as the individual thus addressed was nicknamed, was * ' ,. ' a large, powerfully built young fellow, with an arm as large and strong as a bear's, and a fist that might knock down an ox. But his mild, good-natured face, surrounded with a luxuriant crop of sandy hair and whiskers, dispelled any unpleasant sensations, which his great strength might have excited, if coupled with a less amiable physiognomy. The company was now full. Jess, having broken a sufficient supply of eggs for the expected feast, began busily stirring it about with the spoon, as the heat of the stove hardened it into consistency; while Cook Stevens took down a large earthen vessel and a number of plates from the shelves. He then pulled forward a box in which goods had been brought from Boston' on the team wagon, and set it in the floor for a table. The addition of a few crackers from the barrel behind the counter, and some salt fish from the pile in the back room, completed the arrangement for the feast. By this time the eggs were done to a delicious combination of the crisp and the buttery; and were transferred by Jess to the earthen vessel, and placed in the centre of the board. "Naow, boys, don't go to makin' hogs a' yourselves," said Nat. "You all jest take an' stand back and let the oldest per- form the interestin' ceremony. Come, Jess, le's see you officiate; for you are the oldest in sin an' iniquity, if nawthin' else." Jess replied by some coarse joke or other, and dealt out the rations with an equitable hand. "By the all-smashin' woodchuck," said Nat, "I've heerd 'em tell of a feast of raisins an' overflowing of the gall; but I tell ye what 'tis, Cook, ye don't-git sitch fodder as this, aout to Zeb Darby's. I heerd you gut into some tall grass, there, though, you and Ellick, t'other Sunday night. Hadw was it, hey?" "O," said Cook, "you must ask Ellick about that. I only stood by and let him amplify. I had no idea he was so much of a coon." page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] be fr TURNOVER. "What, little Moses in the swamp grass, there?" said Nat "Then he has gut somethin' in him, has he? He don't look as if he could say boo. I'm sure, t'other night, at Uncle Josh's he acted as if he was going to faint away, whenever a gal lookerd at him. I felt so conwarned abaout him, that I stood with/a pail a' water, ready to sHash over him, in case he should tip c(ver." "tew can't toll haow fur a toad can jump by his looks," said Jess. \k I'll bet on Ellick's head,; any day." "But what was it abaout the Zib Darby scrape?" said Nat. "Did ye have any gals there?" "O," said Cook, 'twas nothing at all worth mentioning. You see Hookem wanited to-hire Zeb's horse to put into a pod team with Ike Marston's sorrel, and send Ike away to Boston with a load of hogs, early Monday morning, before the thaw; and so he asked me to go out there, Sunday, and bring the horse in. So I put sorrel into the sleigh, and happened to come across Ellick on the way, and asked him to go out with me. Well, we got out to Zeb's, and found the house full; and they were having a time of it, over a jug of rum. Zeb was as mel- low as a last year's squash; and Jo Blake and Jerry Simonds and two or three others were sitting round, setting him on, and then laughing at his drunken nonsense. Two of the Blake girls were there, and that little spurt of a Flint girl, the little black- eyed one; she was on hand, I tell you. Well, we got to talking, and chatting, and laughing; and one thing brought on another; and finally we got to singing camp meeting hymns, and some of them started marching to the tune of old Canaan." "Wal, I tell ye what," said Jess; " if we're a goin to march to Canaan's land, we'd better take a little somethin' to start on. Can't ye give us somethin' to wash down this 'ere chicken fodder? I'm gittin' awful dry." "That's the kind a' talk I like," said Nat. "That's what starts the idees. That's what makes our meek little Moses s- , ' ^' ' - THE REVEL. 37 here, as fairce as a lion. Eatin' eggs and salt fish is dry work, aint it, Moses?" Moses could not deny it; and, accordingly, from some undis- coverable nook in the rear of the store, a jug of brandy and another of gin were produced, and submitted to the tastes and judgments of the company. Cook and Nat were rather cautious in the quantity imbibed; but Jess and Baby could trust them. selves with any amount, without the slightest risk; and they turned down the liquor as if it were so much water. Ellick was not so strong-headed as the latter two, and he did not understand the art of "shirking" so well as the former. Before he was aware of what he wasg doing, he began to feel a swimming in his head, and an exaltation of spirits, which he had never experienced before. "But what did little Moses do?" said Nat, pursuing his former train of inquiry. "Jest tell us the whole story. Never spile a story for relations' sake. Ye aint relations, yit, nuther." "O0" said Cook, wincing a little at the last remark; "'Ellick only trained a little with the Flint girl; that's all. Whether she winked at him, as she was marching by, or whether he asked her to march with him, I wouldn't undertake to say; but he didn't hang back much. But, then, all the girls take such a shine to Ellick, that he don't ever have to ask them anything himself." "O, Moses, Moses," said Nat, "you make us turn up our noses." "Good! good!" cried Baby, stamping his foot at what appeared tohim a happy stroke of wit. Ellick, by this time, began to feel his brain spin round strangely; and the room, and the lights, and the company, seemed to join in the whirl.. Then a flood of ideas, new and grotesque, came pouring rapidly into his mind, and as rapidly gliding away, without giving him time to examine and analyze them.' His facility of language was wonderfully increased; 4 page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] U .JLi V Y M.. o the words came readily and abundantly to clothe his thoughts. He was not conscious of thinking or speaking; he merely opened his mouth, and the stream of utterance flowed sponta- neously forth. He had sometimes, before, attempted to manu- facture verses, and had never succeeded without considerable difficulty and study. But now his language ran, of itself, into a doggerel arrangement, to which the rhymes tagged themselves without an effort or thought; forming a maudlin compound, which seemed to himself like the fruits of an unwonted inspiration. : "And call you that good?" said he, with the ludicrous air which a man half intoxicated always assumes, when he wishes to appear dignified; "and call you that good, which that blunderhead rude, Nat Sleeper the lewd, by chance now imbued, with bad liquor, the food of the dull stupid brood, whose heads never could, or at least never would, understand what they should, does with effort obtrude, in a rhyme, chance pursued, harsh, silly and crude, like sour beet ill-brewed, or raw meat ill-stewed, ill-digested, ill-chewed? You set up a shout, loud and senseless, without either question-or doubt, as if you would spout admiration devout, for that great clumsy lout, tall, awk- ward and stout, who, I think, is about the worst looking scout, from the toe to the snout, that I've ever seen out." "Hear him! hear him!- " goo good! " three cheers for Moses in the swamp grass!" "order! order!" exclaimed the company, confusedly. "Moses: is coming to his senses. He begins to tell along. Go on, Moses, go on. This is as good as a cattle show." Ellick looked around upon them, with a superb feeling of condescension, as he thus addressed them;-"Poor, pitiful vermin, who are wriggling and squirmin,' like a hot fire a worm in, I kindly determine, to give you a sermon." So saying he mounted a rickety chair, and, with one foot braced against the box, to keep himself steady; began, in as nearly a measured tone as his thickening tongue would permit;- "Poor grovellers in the mire of drinking, Yielding to brutishness unthinking, While lamps and stars are dimly blinking, And almost into darkness shrinking, You keep the bowls and glasses clinking, Each corner of your stomachs chinking, Your faces and your noses pinking, While all your sense, to nonsense sinking, And wit and reason off are slinking, And red and dull your eyes are winking; Shut up that coarse and vulgar noise, That shows you're rough, untutored boys, Unworthy of the richer joys, Which one of nobler mind employs. Your pastime low the sense but cloys, The relish of the taste destroys, And from all high delight decoys. True genius, filled with thoughts sublime, O'erleaps the bounds of space and time, And, heedless of a mortal pang "- "Comes tumblin' daown onter the floor, slam-bang!" said Nat, finishing the line for him; for Ellidk, while attempting to give the greater effect to his versified homily, had not been attending sufficiently to the unsteadiness of his own position; riad one leg of his chair, proving faithless to 'its trust, had slipped out, and let both the speaker and his eloquence sud- denly down. Instead of falling directly upon the floor, how- ever, as Nat's too hasty conclusion would seem to imply, he pitched headlong into the lap of Baby, who was just lifting a glass of brandy to his lips; and the three, brandy, Baby and Ellick, rolled over together, without any serious injury beyond the spilling of the liquor. "Well done, Moses! ellll done, Baby!" shouted Nat. "I thought we should git him waked up, afore we gut thru." "He reels it off, hand over fist," said Jess. "I love to hear any body speak pieces; and had I a' had the, advantages of a good edication, there an't nawthi' I should a' liked half / \ page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] so well myself. But I never had no chance for schoolin', when 1 was a boy; not to speak on. But I've gut a boy, now,--my little Tom, there,-.he's a real buster to speak pieces. The little cuss will stind up, and reel it off to ye, as bold as a lion, so 't'll do a man good to hear him. I always loved to hear pieces spoke." 'Ellick has quite a knack at making verses," said Cook; "or else he has learnt his lesson pretty well. If I was he, I would keep beer'd up all the time, if it made me so much brighter. He is dull enough when he is sober; you can't get a sensible speech out of him." Ellick had speedily gathered himself up from the floor, and was still dizzy with excitement. He could not exactly comr prehend his situation; but he could not help feeling that some- thing was wrong, somewhere. It occurred to him, that he must be, himself, in a much deeper state of intoxication than the rest, and that they were a little disposed to make game of him. As this thought was just flashing through his mind, and awakening a slumbering feeling of indignation, Nat passed him the brandy jug, saying, "Come, take another drink. You ain't fairly started yit. Pass the jug along, an' we'll have a suck all raound." Ellick fancied that he detected a quick and almost impercep. tible glance exchanged between Nat Sleeper and Cook Stevens; and his wrath at the idea that they were entrapping him into a fit of drunkenness, for the purpose of making him ridiculous, was,-in his present excited condition, rendered ungovernable. Nat appeared doubly odious to him, from recent associations; and he regarded him as an insidious enemy to his character, and his hopes. Aroused to sudden fury, he caught up the jug, then nearly empty, and hurled it with all his force at the head of his rival. If Nat had not shown himself a proficient in the art of dodging, the problem of the relative hardness of his scull and the earthen ware would have been speedily solved. The vessel just grazed his hair, struck with full force against the stove-pipe, A %*.E* V fJJt , 41 and knocked th1 lower part of it from its resting-place upon the stove. The uper portions, deprived of support, swung over, and came tumbling down, scattering the hot ashes and soot over the company; while the smoke from the stove poured out into the room, and filled it with the choking fume. The conspira- tors, if indeed there-had been any conspiracy in the matter, began to think the joke was becoming too serious; and that Ellick was notonly a little more intoxicated than was necessary, but becoming decidedly dangerous, and uncomfortable to manage. "Come, come," said Cook; "this won't answer. This will never do. We can't have this." "Hold on there, stop him, stop him, Baby," said Nat, " he'll do mischief." Baby quietly reached over, seized Ellick with one huge paw, drew him into his lap, and, putting his arms around him, held him wil a grip like a bear's. He could not stir hand or foot. Meanwhile Jess and Cook were busily engaged in restoring the stove pipe to its place, which, after some trouble, filling their eyes with smoke, and burning their fingers, they succeeded in doing; but a pretty looking pair of chimney sweeps they looked when they had finished. Let me out, let me out," said Ellick; "I am suffocating, choking, strangling. Let me out into the open air." "It is a stiflin', smoky hole, here," said Nat. "Can't you give us all some fresh air, Cook?" "Wait a minute," said Cook. "Hold on, a second, Baby, while I open a window, and air this old den, and then wash off this smut; then we'll all go out and try to walk off some of this liquor." "That's the way to git red on't *," said Jess. "We're all so styved up here, it's enough to git any man drunk, jest a' the smell pn't." Cook unbolted the back door, and they all cautiously stole * To get rid of it. 4* r page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 TURNOVER. out. Ellick sought the support of the corner of the horse shed, and leaned against it, while his stomach, which had received a burden disproportioned to its capacity, began relieving itself in a very summary manner. "Hullo, here!" said Baby, as the rest were disappearing in the darkness. "Come back here, an' 'tend ter yer sick man. He's a heavin' up Jonah, like all git aout." "Glad on't," said Jess. "'T'll do him good. He'd gut rather too much daown, for a feller that ain't used to 't. That brandy was all-fired strong. You take hold on him, boys, an' lead him up an' daown the road. That's the best way to set him ter rights." "Yes," said Baby; " they say that's a fust rate way. But jest take him off a' my hands. I wan't never cut aout for a Inus." Cook accordingly took Ellick by one arm; and Nat, who be- tn to feel a little compunction in the matter, although all the time he was laughing internally at the pickle his rival was in took the other; and they started rapidly down the road. The village, but for them, was entirely silent. Its inhabitants were all buried in their profoundest sleep. The stars twinkled above like the tipsy eyes of a set of jolly companions, already hal seas over; but were not bright enough to reveal to the ey, what was passing at two rods distance from the observer. Th feet of the little party rattled sonorously over the froze] ground; but might easily have been mistaken, by any chant awakener, for those of cattle who had strayed from their prope yard. Jess and Baby had nothing further to detain or interest then They had had fun enough for one night, and liquor enough ft a week. They were not in the least intoxicated, but they be gan to feel a little tired and sleepy. Their presence was r longer necessary; for Cook and Nat-were enough to take chart of the ailing youth, and besides, could have more of a fellow feeling for his situation. They, therefore, separated, and b took themselves to their respective beds. THE REVEL. 48 Meanwhile the three promenaders continued their walk. Nat felt in his own stomach some symptoms of an insurrection; while Cook's kept up, as he said, a " cuss-ed hiccupping," which he could not subdue; and poor Ellick's was in open rebellion. An interesting set they would have appeared to the eyes of the villagers, if the light of day could, just at that moment, have been poured upon the'scene, and could have revealed them to public view., The thought occurred simultaneously to all. "What 'u'd these darned cooters think," said Nat, " if they could see us naow, jest as we air? Guess they'd think we was the flaower a' the young men a' Turnover." "By the great Jehoshaphat!" said Cook, "I wouldn't be seen in thi-hic-this situation for the best store full of goods in the sta-hic-ate. The d-1 take this hiccupping! I can't speak two wor-hic-ords straight."- Poor Ellick could sympathize with these feelings, but he had not the heart to express them. His head was still swimming; but the exultation, the exhilarating energy had gone. He kept in motion, but it seemed to be without any effort of his own will. He hardly knew whether he was asleep or awake. Eve- rything appeared dreamy and confused. Just at the outskirts of the village lived Ambrose Jenkins, a poor, drunken, dishonest mechanic. His wife was a stout, red faced old woman, against whom not much could be alleged, yet whom nobody particularly respected. But she was indus- trious, and was found useful in the neighborhood when any hard work was to be done. Their children, three daughters, just growing up towards womanhood, were generally well-behaved, and good-looking. The eldest, unfortunately, as it turned out for herself, was quite handsome. Her charms attracted the eyes of a loose young fellow of the town, who had some money and much leisure; she was unprotected by the restraints which a higher standing, and a more respectable parentage would have thrown around her; she trusted too easily, and was deceived. But the neighbors were too just to visit the sins of her betray- page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] q: - TURNI OVER. e/upon her. He was compelled to contribute to her support; and then their silent and spoken scorn drove him from the place. She herself sought, in another town, and among comparative strangers, a livelihood that would be less embittered by the too manifest pity of her associates. There, at a period subsequent to the date of our story, she was wooed by a sturdy young black- smith, who was willing to assume the burden of supporting both her and her child, and who made her his wife; and her subse- quent career was, so far as the world knew, blameless. It was just after her departure from home, that the date of our story commences. A shade of reflected disgrace still rest- ed upon the dwelling of Ambrose, and hung around its inmates. As our little party of midnight walkers came opposite the house, the opportunity of playing a scurvy trick upon his rival, occur- red to the scheming mind of Nat Sleeper. He looked for en- couragement to his associate; but Cook, in the dim starlight, did not at first read the purport of his glance. They passed on a few steps, and returned. Nat looked again at his coadjutor, and tIhis time an answering gleam of understanding met his eye. Just as they came before the dilapidated door of the old hut, Cook, who was on that side, accidentally stumbled and fell; while Nat, losing his balance, lurched against Ellick so violent- ly, as to send him against the door. Its crazy fastenings gave way before his weight, and he fell his whole length into the entry. ( Ellick, Ellick," said Nat, in a disguised and husky voice; "don't, for goodness' sake, go in there naow. This ain't no time to see the folks." "O dear! O massy! O Lord! what on airth is that?" scream- ed old Mrs. Jenkins, starting from a heavy sleep. Ellick waited to hear no more, but sprang up, and fled like a frightened deer over the frozen ground, followed by his two companions, who could hardly keep within hearing of his steps. They were soon far beyond the danger of any possible pursuit; but Ellick continued his race, and would have distanced the oth- ers completely, but for an unlucky accident. In the height of v / his speed, he hit his toe against a ridge of earth, hardened by the frost, and more elevated than the rest, and he was thrown forcibly upon the rough pavement, bruising his arm, and giving his cheek a hard blow, that marred and discolored its complex- ion. The play was now over, and nothing remained but to go home and go to bed. As Ellick was the least able to rely upon his own resources for making his way safely to his house, which was still about a mile distant, his companions undertook, and this time in good faith, to see him safely sheltered. He would have declined their assistance; but he could not convince them that he was sufficiently sober to b trusted to himself. They land- ed him safely within his o doors, where he threw himself up- on his bed, and was soon in a heav' slumber, unconscious of the coming morrow. Nat accompa ied Cook to the store, and shared with him his couch for the remainder of the night. t page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] CHAPTER V. THE CONSEQUENCES. THE next morning! what a world of repentance--of sad, bitter, self-reproachful reflection,- is contained in that little phrase! Whaa bright and beautiful existence this might be; of flowery, sparkling, brilliant, joyous, happy evenings, gay with life, and social mirth, and exhilarating enjoyment, if there were no next morning, to darken, with its cold, blank, dismal, joyless fog, the sunshine of our being! But if the intoxication of company, and dance, and song, is followed by a dull and dreary morrow, what shall we say of the waking after the intoxication of strong drink, when the brain has been maddened with draughts of the fierce and fiery liquid? O, that headache! when the scull is bursting with the pressure of the brain within; when every fibre of the head is swollen with excitement, and still compressed within a bony prison, that binds it hard and fast, as in an iron vice; the throat dry, parched, and husky; the stomach sick and heaving, with that deathly sickness, that loathes the sight and smell of food! Who, that has experienced this, does not wonder, at the time, how any man, in his senses, can ever be tempted to reduce him- self, a second time, to a state of such unmitigated misery? But man is ingenious in the art of self-torture; and, perhaps, relishes better the brief intoxication, from knowing it to be purchased by the pangs which follow it. He that has expe- rienc6d the cost, can best appreciate the value. Ellick had never before been decidedly, unquestionably drunk f He had been a little, a very little, "set up," perhaps, at sone free and easy, convivial occasion; but only a very little, and not more than once or twice. Tlhe heights and ' , *;4 i,- VVU- ^47j ^jn . 7 - depths of intoxication had been unknown and unexplored regions to him. He had witnessed drunkenness in others; but he could perceive nothing in common, between the apparent condition of a dirty, shabby, stupid-looking inebriate, with his mouth down at the corners, his eyes rolling about without meaning or intelligence, his head lolling, and his limbs slouch- ing and swaying from side to side without control from his will; -he could perceive nothing in common, between the probable feelings of such a scarcely human object, on the one hand, and on the other, the wild, ungovernable, soaring, and from their very exaltation, bewildering sensations, which had swept with the rapidity of lightning through his own mind, under the novel excitement of too much brandy. But, now that the temporary delirium was over, the two cases became more nearly parallel. And, as he lay, weak and feverish, on his bed, with scarcely strength to turn his eyes in their sockets, with an intense, continual and overmastering pain racking every nerve in his head, -he felt that the veriet brute, who drowned the little humanity he ever had in daily drink, might unblushingly accost him as an equal, and a brother. And then the shame of his situation, and of his conduct; the recollection that his rival, Nat Sleeper, and his companion, who fancied him a rival, Cook Stevens,. had seen, and ridiculed, and pitied, his miserable infirmity. If any additional torture were needed, here was an ample store. And then, how could he bear to look his mother in the face? His mother, who had always been kind and gentle to him; who knew his dis- position, and appreciated his better qualities; who had always been proud of him, when others had sneered and laughed. He knew that she would have too much consideration to reprove him; that she would see the effect of the lesson he had received, and know it to be sufficient, without any attempt on her part "to improve the occasion" by reading a lecture of her own. Be knew that sh'e so well understood his' nature, as to, know that the pain and mortification he suffered would secure him page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 TRtOVthR. from a repetition of his folly; and that a sermon from her would only gall him into opposition. While thus sensible of her kindness and discretion, he was the more ashamed to show himself so unworthy of them. As she bathed his throbbing temples with a cooling liquid, and gave him, --for the last time, as he promised himself,-" a hair of the same dog that bit him," from the little store which she kept in rServe for a chance occasion of sickness, he had ample time to reflect upon the blessing of having one person who would always be considerate and loving, however faulty he might have been. Leaving him in the best of hands, until his languid frame recovers its wonted elasticity and strength, and the deepening blue of the bruise upon his cheek disappears in the lapse of time, we must now turn our attention to another quarter, where his character was undergoing a discussion, as little flattering as his own self-examination. * A short time after the nocturnal revel at the store, Uncle Kellup had some business which called him to one of the adjoining villages, the road to which led by Uncle Peter Brown's. His wife, Aunt Lyddy, was a cousin of Aunt Sal- ly's. Aunt Lyddy, and her maiden sister, Aunt Nabby Perkins, wished to take advantage of the occasion, by paying a visit to their relative, and spending an afternoon in social gossip. There had just been another liberal descent of snow, so that the travelling was again easy. Uncle Kellup accordingly harnessed his two horses to his double sleigh, which was merely an oblong box on runners, containing' two movable seats inside, one be- hind the other, and a bountiful supply of " buffaloes." When all was ready, he packed his "( women folks " on the seat in the rear, took the front himself, and drov9 off. On reaching Uncle Peter's, he handed out his passengers, and, leaving them to find their own way into the house, proceeded on his road, promising to call and take them again upon his return. "Why, Lyddy, haow do you dew?" said Aunt Sally, seizing ,/ THE. CONSEQUENCES. 49 and shaking the hands of her visitors, as she met them at the door. "Haow glad I be to see ye! Haow have you ben? An' haow's all the folks to home? An' haow's Uncle Kellup? Why didn't he come in an' stop awhile? An' haow dew yew dew, Nabby? Haow've ye ben this long time? I hain't seen ye this age. I'm real glad you've come. We'll have a real, nice, good, long set daown together. Come, take off yer things, an' set right daown an' warm ye to the fire. We're all head over heels, here, but, law sakes! you wun't mind it. You know what farmer's work is. Set right daown an' warm yer feet. I know ye must be 'most froze, ridin' so fur. Marthy, you jest go an' slick up a little in-that t'other room. It doos look as if the hogs had ben there; but law! dear soul! we've ben all in the suds, havin' so much work to do; an' the men folks make thejwork as hard agin as there's any need on. An' Mary, you jest go an' bring in a han'ful of wood, will ye, an' make up a good raousin' fire in there. Here's yer Aunt Lyddy an' Nabby, Mary, don't ye see 'em? We'll have it all fixed for ye in a minute. Law! haow long it doos seem sence you was here! But there, -I suppose you're .jest abaout as busy all the time as I am; an' I have to work like a neeger slave all the time, an' don't git nawthin' for it nuther. But never mind. We all on us have gut enough to be thankful for, after all; an' we ought to know enough to be thankful. I hope I be, for I try hard enough to be; but, there, I do git kind a' wore aout, sometimes, an' feel desp'ate aout a' sorts; but, law de massy, the best on us can't help it, once in a while." Aunt Lyddy and Aunt Nabby reciprocated the greeting of their relative; and, after exchanging kindly alutations with the daughters, and getting comfortably warm, and clooking at the dairy room of Aunt Sally, and being asked if they had 'ben to dinner," and answering in the affirmative, the company inally adjourned to the ' t'other room," to have a cosy, sociable time with Aunt Sally and Martha, leaving Mary to superintend affairs in the kitchen. page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] yVt TURNOVER. Aunt Lyddy was rather under the medium height, but plump, bustling and lively; and she would not acknowledge the slight- est symptom of approaching age, by allowing a pair of specta- cles to hide the light of her still sparkling eyes. Aunt Nabby was larger, as well as older; and on her capacious nose her heavy bowed spectacles rested as naturally as if they had always formed a part of her physiognomy. Her knowing look, as she bent her head a little on one side, and peered over their rims, to look at you, was really refreshing to see. She had had trials, and crosses, and tribulations, and disappQintments in her younger days, and would have pined away under them, if her physical organization would have permitted. But sorrow made her hungry; and hunger made her eat; and eating made her stout. She'could not help it. At last she resigned herself to her destiny, and settled herself down into a comfortable, good- natured, talkative old maid; very fond of gossip, and always ready to extract a moral from the failings and misfortunes 'f others. The ladies, each and all, produced their knitting-work, and made the polished needles fly as fast as their tongues, while they exchanged their respective portions of the news of the village. As often as one would reach the " seam needle," or the one on which a seam was to be marked at the side of the stocking, by a slight variation of the stitch, she would, according to a good and well established custom, raise it, and scratch her head with the point. "Dew tell us," said Aunt Sally, " what has ben goin' on, daown to the village? Do they carry on, and act as ugly as ever, daown there?" "Law de massy," said Aunt Lyddy, "some on' 'em act more likea pack a' wild Injuns than anything else. It doos seem, sometimes, as if they would turn the world upside daown." "Boys will be boys," said Aunt Nabby; " but I'm desp'ate 'faid some on 'em 'll take a great while, afore they'll be any- thing else but boys. That air Cook Stevens has, put more mis- ), An. VVx- U y UBNCES. 51 chief, an' diviltry, into 'em, than all the ministers, an' preachin', an' Sunday Schools 'll ever git aout on em. I do think he had ought to be ashamed of himself. But, oh dear, law, it's no use to talk to him. He'll be so good nater'd abaout it, and laugh right in yer face. I s'pose it don't hurt your feelin's any, naow, Marthy, to hear him run daown?" "O bless yer soul an' body, no," said Aunt Sally. "She's got over carin' anything abaout him, long ago; an' I do think she's lucky to a' gut red on him. I do hate an' despise a'man that hain't got no principle; I don't care a snap who 'tis. I always thought he was a great, yawpin', noisy thing; an' I pity the gal that gits him; that's all I've gut to say." "They dew say," said Aunt Nabby, ," that Betsey Rude is in a terrible fever to git him. But she'll have to primp up, an' work raound a long time, I guess, afore she'll be sartain on him." "O, yes," said Aunt Sally; "I'll wa'ant shes took pains enough to ketch him. She's always ben a fussin raound him, like a great silly fool as she is. I'm glad noan a' my darters ever run arter anybody like that; an' she'd better be in better business. If a gal goes to runnin' arter a feller, she don't never make aout much, I tell ye naow. I know all abaout that. Ye never ketched me a runnin' arter any body, when I was a gal. No, no. I'd always too much spunk for that. An' if Bets Rude wants any a' Marthy's leavins, she's welcome to try for it; that's all I've gut to say. She wun't git no great ketch, anyway." "O, wal, I do' know," said Aunt Nabby. "I don't think Cook Stevens is the ugliest feller that ever was. I guess he would make a pooty decent kind of a husband, after he was fairly ketched. The great stick abaout him is in ketchin' on him. He's a good deal like an eel abaout that; he slips aout a' yer fingers, when you think you're sure you've gut him. But, law, there, he's gut his wild oats to sow yit; an' when he's gut 'em. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52 TURNOVER. all sowed, meb-be he'll turn over a new leaf, an' settle daown, an' be quite a decent, stiddy kind of a man." l"I should think he'd a' ben long enough a sowin' on 'em," said Aunt Lyddy. "He must have had a dreadful lot on 'em to sow. It's abaout time for him to begin to think of harrerin' on 'em in. I do think he's a pesky scamp, there!" "O, law, wal," said Aunt Nabby, " there's wuss fellers than he, that's always ben looked upon as pooty likely young men, till they showed aout what they was. I think Cook Stevens shows aout what he is, pooty plain." Wal," said Aunt Lyddy, " you know I always had a kind a' consate that he wa'n't everything that he'd ought to be. An' I told you, Sally, when I he fust begun to come an' see Marthy, that you'd have to look aout for him. I think she's gut off pooty well; but she'd better a' let him alone in the fust place, an' not a' had nawthin' to do with him." "Wal, I don't think Marthy's gut anything to blame herself for," said Aunt Sally. "I'm sure 'taint her fault that he didn't turn aout to be what folks took him for. Every body was a crackin' on him up, an' tellin' what a grand ketch 'twould be to git him. But, dear me, suz, the best on us git taken in, once in a while, in judgin' a' characters. There ain't nobody but the Lord can look into the hearts a' mankind, an' see what they're made on." "I guess Marthy's pooty well satisfied whatU Cook's heart's made on," said Aunt Lyddy; " ain't ye, Marthy?" ' I am satisfied he's a deceitful man," said Martha; " and I -shouldn't want to trust him a great ways." "Wall," said Aunt Nabby, "it wtn't do to trust none on 'em too fur. There's a good deal a' desatefulness in the world; an' some a' the honestest lookin' ones turn aout to be the very ones that need the most watchin.' There's another young feller, naow, that you ;wouldn't think butter'd melt in his mouth, that they say-is a gittin' to be as ugly as 'Cook Stevens, every bit 40 ITH CONSEQUENCES. 53 an' grain; an' wuss too. Cook has bore the bell a good while, but he'll have to give it up naow." "Why, haow you talk!" said Aunt Sally. "Who, on airth, can it be?" "Wal," said Aunt Nabby, "4 its one a' Lyddy's nice, likely, stiddy young men, that she thinks so much on. But I guess she begins to think, naow, that she was a leetle bit mistaken; don't ye, Lyddy " "O, law, wal," said Aunt Lyddy, "'I never stuck up for him a grea' deal. I always said he appeared well, an' wa'n't so sarcy an' noisy as a good many boys air. An' you know, yourself, that Ellick has always appeared well, whenever we've seen him, if:he has acted like the dragon, somewhere else." "What! Ellick Davis!" exclaimed Aunt Sally and Martha, in a breath. "Ellick Davis," replied Aunt Nabby; " that smooth-spoken, modest young man, that always looked as if he was jest ready to sink into-the graound, if a gal only jest spoke to him. But I guess there's more gals spoke to him than everybody knows on; an' it didn't kill him, nuther." "Goodness' sake!" exclaimed Aunt Sally. "Why haow you talk! wal, there, I thought if there ever was a young feller that bid fair to be a likely man, an' be stiddy, it was Ellick Davis. What has he ben a doin' on? Who would a' supposed that he,-wal, there, he's the last person in the world that I should a' picked aout, that would a' ben cuttin' up any didoes. O, dear me, suz! wal, wal, this is a dreadful world, an' I don't know what we're all a comin' to. We can't depend upon nobody under the sun. Wal, there, that is too bad naow. Ellick Davis! But what has he ben a doin'?" "Wal, I should think he'd ben a goin on pooty well," said Aunt Nabby. "He seems to a' faound aout where 'most all the wust gals in taown air; an' I guess he spends a good share- of his time with 'em. An' he don't seem to make no bones on't, nuther. He hain't gut much shame abaout it." 5* page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 TURNOVER. "Why, what on airth can you mean, Nabby " said Aunt Sally. Who is it that he goes to'see so ofteni Wal, there, there, I'm glad he hain't ben here much.", "Wal, they say,. them that knows pooty well," said Aunt Nabby, "that he spends a good deal of his time aout to Zeb Darby's, along a' that air dirty, good for nothin' Flint gal. Ugh! I should like to shake her. You know she can't be much; an' a feller like Ellick can't be thinkin' much of himself, that goes every Sunday night to train along a' such a gal as she is; an' aout to Zeb Darby's too." "The mis'able skunk!" cried Aunt Sally, in a rage. "He'd betternot let me ketch him here agin. I wun't have him havin' anything to say to my gals, if he can't find anybody better to go ;aa' set up with, Sunday nights, than 'Cindy Flint. Dirty trollop! I'd like to see all her hair tore aout of her head. An' don't let me ketch you, Marthy, a talkin' with him agin, when lie comes by the haouse.- I should think you'd have more pride abaout ye, for my part. But, law, suz, the gals, naowadays, ain't what they used to be. I'm sure I've done my duty with rem, an' taked enough to 'em, an' told 'em. But what doos it all signify?" \ Why, Marthy," said Aunt Nabby, "I hope yol hain't ben after him? Wal, there, naow, that doos teat all. I should a' thought you'd a' had enough a' sich kind a' fellers. Why, he's as much wuss than the t'other one as you can think." "O, no, I assure you," said Martha; "I've nothing to do with him at all. He hain't been here to see me. O, no." "What, alive!" said Aunt Nabby. "You don't mean to say he's ben here a courtin' Mary? Wal, there!" And she held up her hands in blank astonishment, as if she thought depravity could go no further. "No, he hain't ben a courtin' Mary," said Aunt Sally; "an' it wouldn't be healthy for anybody to tell any such story as that. I'll break his head, for him, fust, all' hern too. She wun't take any a' 'Cindy Flint's leavins', 1 tell ye naow." THE CONSEQUENCES 55 "But how do you -know he's been to see Lucinda Flint?" said Martha. "Haow do I know it?" said Aunt Nabby; i why, it's the taown talk. Everybody knows it. But that ain't the wust on't, nuther. It seems he can't be satisfied with one, but wants two or three to once, an' goes pokin' into Armbus Jinkins's arter his gals." "You don't say so," cried Aunt Sally. "Po, sho, naow; why, haow you talk! wal, wal, what wun't turn up next?" "Yes," continued Aunt Nabby, "the other night he went traipsin' off daown there, after twelve o'clock at nighIt an' I kind a' guess he'd ben a takin' somethin', too, 'cause he went an' bust the door right in, an' scairt old Miss Jinkins aout of her seven senses. Sims to me he must a' ben pooty well sprung to a' done that; I guess he'd ben a' takin' somethin' pooty strong. That's what puts the old Jack into the young fellers. If they'd only let liquor alone they wouldn't act half so bad as they do." "He must a' ben terrible sot up,". said Aunt Lyddy, " to a' had to a' bust the door in, at old Armbus's; for they do say folks don't always have to bust in the door there. But, there, I don't s'pose they're half so bad as folks make 'em aout to be. Ye know folks always love to make aout anybody to be Wuss than they air." "You surprise me very much by this story," said Martha., " Do tell me all about it, and what it all means." "Why," said Aunt Nabby, " as old Miss Jinkins tells the story, an' I don't know why she should lie abaout it, the t'other night, long after midnight, a parcel a' fellers come daoun ar. aound their haouse. She don't know haow many there was on 'em, but they made noise enough for a dozen; an' she heerd one on 'em callin' another 'Ellick.' -That's the way she knowed 'twas him. An' byme-by, one on 'em, that she was very sure was him, come an' bust the door right in, as if he was going to stave the whole haouse daown. She jumped up, an' yelled, an' scream- ed, an' holler'd, an' waked up Armbus; an' she ketched up the ) page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 TURNOVER. broom, an' he ketched up the boot-jack, an' run aout into the en- try, to see what on airth was to pay. The fellers they legged it, an' run as if the Old Boy was after 'em; but they say Arm- bus did ketch Ellick, an' gin him a 'most an awful paoundin', so't his face was allblack an' blue. I shouldn't pity him, not one bit nor grain, if he did. 'Twould a' sarved him jest right." "I don't hardly believe," said Aunt Liddy, " that Armbus Jinkins has gut courage enough to tackle anybody; especially when he didn't know haow many on 'em the' was. I never thought he had so much spunk as an old settin' hen. I should a' sooner a' thought 'twas Miss Jinkins that gin it to him; for the old woman has gut some fire an' tow abaout her. She wouldn't a' run, for any on 'em. She makes Armbus stand raound pooty well, too." "Wal," said Aunt Nabby, "this 'ere scrape gin him a good chance to brag a' what he done; an' they do say that Ellick's face was marked up han'somely; at any rate, he's kep' pooty still ever sence, an' hain't showed himself away from home, not once." -"Wal, there," said Aunt Sally; " that doos beat all. Tsut, tsut! O dear, me, suz! Wal, I shan't git over this for a whole week." "But who was the other fellers?" said Martha. "It seems there was more of 'em in the scrape." You may well ask who they was," said Aunt Lyddy. "I'm a little jealous that Ellick wa'n't the ringleader on 'em, after all. I-guess that air Cook Stevens could tell something abaout it, if he was a' mind to. There ain't much iniquity goin' on, but what he has some hand in't" "So Ellick comes off as bad as poor Tray," said Martha; "and is punished fdr being in bad company." "Wal," said Aunt Nabby, " it's company of his own huntin' 'up. He knowed all abaout Zeb Darby an' the Flint gal, and he went aout there fairceenough; an' he knowed all abaout the THE CONSEQUENCES. 57 Jinkins gals, ah' he went daown there a little too fairce; an', between you an' I, I guess he gut enough on't." "Wal, I hain't gut but one thing to say," said Aunt Sally; "he don't come here any more, an' so, there, now; that's a set- tled pint. An' Marthy, don't let me ketch you havin' any- thing to do with him agin; an' as for Mary, if she dares to do it, I'll wring her neck for her." This decision appeared conclusive, so'far as Ellick's present prospects were concerned; and the subject was soon changed, for others of less immediate connection with our story. We will not pursue the conversation further, therefore, but will leave the ladies to the enjoyment of their tea, which Mary had now got ready for them in the kitchen. / 8 page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] CHAPTER VI. THE RE-APPEARANCE. IT was not until Ellick had fairly recovered his former health, and time had erased from his cheek all traces of his unlucky fall, that he ventured to show himself in the village. He had heard various flying rumors, and exaggerations, of his supposed scandalous practices; and he determined to give no countenance to then, by exposing to public view a face marked up with discolored bruises. But he knew that he would be obliged to "face the music," sooner or later; and having an errand at " the river road," and another at Mr. Hookem's store, he harnessed his horse, and drove off, stopping at the latter place on his way. It seemed to be a lazy day at the village; although that was not so unusual a condition of things as to be very remarkable. A number of idlers were seated in the store. The weather was fine, and there was nothing to prevent one industriously disposed from pursuing his usual avocations. But Jess made it. a mat- ter of principle not to work unless he got double wages; and such were not to be obtained every day. Uncle Kellup had toiled hard enough, and made money enough, in his younger days; he therefore could afford to)sit still, and let his boys attend to his business, while he merely gave it an occasional oversight, occupying but a small portion of his time. Baby happened to-be out of employment for that day;. but it was an exceptional occurrence with Baby; he was usually a steady laborer. Several boys were also collected, with various excuses for idleness; and, in Mr. Hookem's absence, they were observ- ing, with some interest, two of their number, who were practising gymnastics over the back of a chain Uncle Kellup was also I,- . Z., 1 V..n * Du watching the sport attentively; but it turned out that he was only waiting for an opportunity to tell a story. "When you git tired a' jumping," said he, "I want to tell ye what a terrible smart brother I had." The boys accordingly collected around to hear; and Uncle Kellup, cocking his eye on one side, and leaning back in his chair, began his story. "My brother Bill was a terrible smart feller to jump. You know Bill. Why, you've seen him here. He was daown here last fall, you know, on a visit. You see him here in the store, along a' me. A short, stubbid, feller. Lives up to Newhury. Why, you know him. Wal. Wal, Bill is) gittin' old and stiff now; he's older than I be; but when Bill was a boy he could stand and jump the length of a pole. He would stand at one end of a pole and jump clear to the t'other end. And the pole would measure twelve feet, all aout. I've seen him do it a hundred times. I was a match for him to runnin'. Set us to runnin, an' I could tucker him; but he would beat me to jump. in', all holler." "Wal, Bill used to be always a braggin' haow fur he could jump; an' used to laugh at me, 'cause I could'nt come upto him. Wal, I kept still, an' didn't say nawthin'; but I couldn't help thinkin' it would all come right, some time or 'nother. Wal, one Sunday afternoon, the old man sent us aout to hunt up a caow that had gut aout into the medder. It was in the summer time, an' there was a little crick run thru' the medder. There. Jest as if the medder laid here away; and thele away was where we had to go; and the crick laid abaout here. Wal, I knew we had gut to go acrost that 'air crick. So, as we was agoin' along, I se a rail layin' to the side of the path, and I picks it up and puts it on my shoulder.' 'Why, Kellup,' says Bill, says he, ' what on airth air ye agoin' to do with that? What ar' you luggin' along that great heavy rail for?' ' Wal,' says I, 'you know we've gut to git acrost that 'air crick; an' I'm a goin' to put this daown for a bridge.' 'Wal,' says he, page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 TURNOVER. ' you must be a cuss-ed fool. Why, any nimshi can jump acrost that little crick; an' you must be a mis'able cry-baby, if you can't.' Very wal,' says I, ' you may jump if you're a mind to, but I shall carry the rail.' Wal, Bill he kep' a laughin' at me, an' callin' me a gump. Says he, ' if I couldn't git acrost a little crick, withaout takin' so much pains as all that comes to, I wouldn't never try to go anywhere.' "Wal, at last we come to the crick, an' I put daown my rail, and laid it acrost. It was jest abaout long enough to reach the other side, fairly; so's't it jest touched the water in the middle as it laid on the bank to each end; an' when I stood on't, the water jest run over, so's't I could jest walk on it, with- aout wettin' on'y jest the bottoms of my shues. 'Now take yer darned old rail aout a' the way,' says Bill, says he, 'an' let me jump.' ' Bill,' says I, 'I would advise you, as a friend, not to try to jump aerost that crick, but jest foller my example, an' come aerost on the rail.' But Bill was so stuffy, an' so consaited, that he wouldn't hear a word to 't. "Now, the bank was pooty steep on both sides, an' the water wa'n't deep enough to come over his head, but it was jest deep enough to wet anybody pooty well, if they gut into 't. So says I, 'Bill,' says I, 'naow you'd better take my advice, an' not try to jump; for jest as like as not you'll git wet all over; an' you can jest as well come acrost on the rail. But no. Says he,' I should be ashamed to be seen walkin' on that little fid- dlin' rail, acrost such a little, narrer, fushy brook as this is. Take yer old rail away, an' let me jump.' 'Wal, Bill,' says I, 'you've a right to do as you're a mind to. You've a right to do't, as long as you're set upon it; but I would advise you, as a ,friend, not to try it. You may git wet all over; an' you can jest as well prevent it as not. An' I would advise you, as a friend, not to try to jump!' Wal, Bill, he wouldn't hear to me, but he wet back a few steps, an' started, an' took, a run to jump acrost. Jest as he'd gut under pooty good headway, so't he could'n't stop himself very jumped up towards him, an' spread aout my arms, an' holler, 'Boo-oo-oo!' It scairt him so that he tried to stop, but he'd gut agoin' so't he couldn't, an' he pitched head-first right into the water. He wet himself nice, I tell you plainly. He did wet him all over com-pletely." "I guess he licked you for that," said Jess. "No he didn't," said Uncle Kellup, "'cause he couldn't ketch me, I knew I could, keep aout of his way. I could beat him to runnin', if I couldn't to jumpin.' I legged it home, abaout the quickest. I don't want to say anything laoud abaout it, but I guess I streaked it full as fast as Ellick an' you other fellers did t'other night. I cut it straight home, as straight as I could go. Afore Bill gut there, I was sittin' in the room along a' my father an' mother, as sober as a minister." "Wal," said Jess, "I guess he paid ye for It afterwards, some time or 'nother." "No, he didn't," said Uncle Kellup. "He never come up with me for that. I used to love to tell him on't. Whenever he begun to brag abaout his jumpin', after that, I used to ask him if he couldn't jump acrost the crick. That would shet him up dreadful quick. He wouldn't brag no more abaout jumpin'." "There's Ellick comin'," said one of the boys,-looking out at the door; " this is the first time he's ben aout since his scrape with the Jinkins gals." Ellick was heartily greeted by the boys, who seemed to respect him more highly for the late reports of his frolics; and an abundance of coarse and hard jokes were' showered upon him without mercy. "But I would a' had more spunk," said one of them, " than to let old Armbus mauled ye so. Why didn't ye bat his nose for him? He would a' turned an' run like a two-ye'r-old." "Hullo! I vum, here's Armbus himself," shouted another. " Here, Armbus, Armbus; there's a man here wants to see ye. Come in, quick." Old Ambrose was shuffling along up the road, as he heard the 6 . page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] call; and, unsuspicious of the real motive, came, twisting his neck, jerking his head about, and smacking his lips, into the store. "Here, Armbus," said the boys together; "here's the man you give that thunderin' larrupin' to, t'other night. Come, set daown here, and tell us all abaout it, naow he's here." Ambrose started, as if he was shot, on seeing Ellick, and, turning on his heel, hastened out of the store, in spite of every remonstrance. "Here, hullo!" cried the boys, who wanted to see some fun on foot; "here, stop, Armbus, stop. What are ye 'fraid on? we wun't let him lick ye. Stop, you old coward, you! Darsn't ye look a feller in the face-? Wal, go to thunder, thep, you stupid old goose parster. We don't wan't ye; an' we'll kick ye aout if ye come back." Ambrose neither answered, nor looked around; but rapidly placed as great a distance as possible between himself and the store. "I guess there's no occasion to be. much alarmed at him," said Cook, laughing; "he don't seem to be very ferocious," "Now, Ellick, you've gut to treat," cried the boys. "Ellick must treat, mustn't he? Baby, hain't Ellick gut to treat?" Baby, of course, decided in favor of the treat; and Ellick accordingly called for as many pounds of raisins and English walnuts as the boys could eat. There is nothing so likely to cure a man of his nervous dread of ridicule, as to be subjected to the hottest fire of the world's dread laugh, and to know, all the time, that it is deserved. Ellick could feel the process of induration going on. Having finished his business there, he drove off, in a more comfortable frame of mind. At "the river road," he was told that preparations were making for a balD to be held at the village tavern, before the lapse of many days. The gossip of the back village was not much regarded in the more consequential part of the town; and, as Ellick had attended a dancing school, he was presented with a card of invitation. CHAPTER VII. THE MTTEN. ELLICK did not sleep very soundly that night. Some pur- pose, upon which he had not fully decided, or respecting which, -when decided upon, he felt a strange trepidation at his heart, made him nervous and restless. He rose early the next morn- ing, but kept yawning drearily, as he attended to his usual chores. At breakfast he several times came near upsetting his coffee, from the unsteadiness of his hand; and his want of appetite and absence of mind were unusually apparent. During all the forenoon he was unable to pursue any regular or sys- tematic labor. He would roll down a log to chop, and leave it half finished; then he would work away to split an obstinate, cross-grained " butt," that had been chopped off, and having filled it with wedges, leave it gaping in sullen defiance. In fact, the fruits of his half day's work might have been esti- mated at a very moderate value. After dinner, Ellick told his mother, that, as he had nothing very pressing to do that afternoon, he would harness up his horse, and go out to Uncle Josh's, and bring home a couple of cheeses which he had bargained for. His mother could not help thinking, that he took much more pains in washing, shav- ing, dressing, and making himself look smart, than he usually did, when going upon an ordinary errand to Uncle Josh's. She was not in the habit of annoying and perplexing him with ill-timed questions; but she could not help thinking that something was in the wind besides Aunt Esther's cheeses. At last he finished his preparations, though not at all to his satisfaction, and was ready to set off. But, he did not move with the slightest alacrity. He could not have stirred more page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " TURNOVER. drowsily, or looked more dismally, if he had been going to a funeral. He yawned a desperate yawn as he got into his sleigh. As he turned his horse's head, and started, his heart felt like a lump of lead in his bosom. A shiver ran through his limbs. He pulled the buffalo closer around him, but the chill, damp air pierced through to his bones. The day was entirely over- cast with a dull gray canopy. It was not, certainly, an auspi-. cious day for any important enterprise. "But it must be done," said Ellick. "There is no backing out now." lHe drew nigh the dwelling of Uncle Josh, but the horse did not slacken his speed, or turn his head. He came opposite the house, but he did not stop. Surely, Ellick must have forgotten his ostensible errand. Perhaps the horse was a little head- strong, and he did not like to rein him up too shortly. Per- haps he was in an absent mood, and did not notice the house. At any rate, he passed directly by. The horse persevered, at a steady, sober jog, until he reached Uncle Peter's. There was no one in -sight, out of doors, or at-the window, looking a welcome. Ellick stopped at the shed, and was a much longer time than usual in fastening and covering up his horse. At last he moved towards the door, feeling, all the while, like a criminal about to receive a flogging. He rapped faintly at the door; so faintly that no one heard him; and no one came. He waited awhile, his heart all the time sinking lower and lower in his breast; then, getting des- perate, he gave a louder rap. After a short pause, Martha came to the door. "How do you do, Ir. Davis?" said she in a half frozen tone. Aunt Sally was lookihg through the open kitchen door, solemn and stern, but she said nothing. Ellick huskily answered Martha's greeting, and she waited, as if to hear what his errand was. But he disclosed none; and feeling the awkwardness of the position, she asked him if he would not walk in. He answered by following her into the same room, where he had, a few days-before, found so much unexpected hap- piness; but it seemed dull and cheerless now. The silence kept THE MXTTEN, 65 creeping over him, and binding him as with. a stronger and stronger spell. "This will not answer," thought he to himself. "I must break through this, or I shall die of suffocation." "Martha," said he abruptly, "I would like to see Mary a few minutes," Martha stared a little, and looked grave, but replied, "I will see where she is;" and left the room. Two do three minutes elapsed, but they seemed ages to Ellick. As they passed away, his trepidation began gradually to leave him, and a benumbing torpor to pervade all his faculties. The door opened at last, and Mary entered. She was as pretty as ever, and calm and quiet. Her calmness appeared to be of a more settled character than usual. She spoke to him pleasant; ly, and when he kissed her, she received the salute with self- possession. "Mary," said he, beginning at once upon his errand, for he feared an interruption, and could not endure a longer suspense; "I have received an invitation to a ball, which is totake place at the street next week, and should feel very proud to wait up- on you, if you will honor me with your company." ("I am much obliged to you," said she; " and should like very much to go with you, if I could; but I shall have to de. dine." Ellick's spirits had already sunk so low, that they could not easily attain a lower depth, at any reverse of fortune. But he was disappointed, and surprised too. Without stopping to con- sider whether or not he had any right to inquire into her mo- tives, he could not help asking,-- "Don't you think it proper to attend balls, and dancing parties?" "O," said she, "I don't think there is any harm in dancing. At any rate, I shouldn't refuse on that account, if there were no other reasons." Ellick stood in blank astonishment. He was too much be- wildered to know what he would wish to ask. "I am afraid you will think hard of me," said she, in answer 6 , page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " TURNOVER. to his looks, for he said nothing; "but you hadn't ought to. I ain't allowed to act as I am a mind to, but am obliged to obey my parents. They say that I mustn't receive any more atten- tions from you; and I must do as they say. I can't have any peace of my life, if I don't." He had some difficulty in so far restraining his emotions, as tto be able to utter a word; but at lastyhe succeeded in saying, in a choking voice, "then I am to conclude, that you don't wish me ever to call here again." "' My parents say," she replied, "that I am not old enough to be waited on by anybody. I don't want you to think hard of me; but I have been talked to so much, for the last week, that I am;sick and tired to death of hearing it. There has ben-a geat deal said; and I have only one course left to take. If I wan't to enjoy my life at all, I must mind my parents." "But what have they against me?" said Ellick, mortified at this rejection of his attentions. '"I asked them," said she, "if they had anything against you, but they said no. They only said I was too young to be waited upon." "If I were sure," said he, hoarsely, " that there was no oth- er reason for this refusal except yqur youth, I should know better what course to pursue." -"Wal, that is all I can tell you," said she, with an air of simple sincerity. "It wasn't till in the course of last week that I heard anything about it; and I tell you of it now, be- cause I think it is wrong to keep anybody in suspense. As I told you before, there has ben a great deal said about your coming here; and I can't have any peace, or enjoy any happi- ness, if I don't do as my parents tell me." "I cannot blame you, certainly, for doing your duty," said Ellick, recovering sufficiently from his discomfiture to perceive that there was something reasonable in what she said. "But if you are too young to encourage, you ought not to exercise the power of inspiring, attachment. Mary," said he, taking her hand, i, my pride would have prevented my calling here to see you, if I had not supposed that our feelings were mutual. I never would follow a lady with attentions, unless I supposed that she received them with pleasure." "No," said she, "I do not think you would." "If I had known thevhole at first," continued he, "I should have felt very little. We did not often meet, until very re- cently, and I had no opportunities of seeing you except at'a distance. But I have lately become better acquainted with you; an of course have admired you more. I love you, Mary; and tha ve has become so strong, that it is impossible for me now to over e it." "And I as re you," said Mary, evidently desirous of ad- ministering som balm of consolation, "I have always had a high opinion of your charater. I have always heard you well spoken of." "I was afraid," said he, " that somebody had been reporting some slanderous story about me. There are people, I am satis- fied, who would be very willing-to do so. If it should ever be so; if you should ever hear anything which would"bo likely to injure -me in your estimation, I don't want you to believe a word of it, until I have had a chance to deny it, or explain it." "I have no doubt that would be the best way," said she; "for we can't believe half we hear. But I never heard the leastest word against you. I have heard you called a stiddy, honest, likely young man; and I have always respected you." "It is pleasant enough to be respected, Mary," said he sadly; "but respect alone is rather a cold return. I had hoped that you felt for me something more kindly than mere respect." "Wal, I did," said she, very honestly. "Mary," said he, with newly awakened hopes, " you know I love you. I have told you so repeatedly, and sincerely. I am naturally apt to entertain a low opinion of my capacity for pleasing, and to fear that others despise or disregard me; but in your case, I am afraid I went to the other extreme, and page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 TURNOVER. cherished hopes too quickly, and on too slight a foundation. I have dared to believe that you looked upon me with favor. How much was I mistaken! ' "You wa'n't mistaken," said she. "I did like you, and do now." "Then what reason is there for despairing?" said he. "You are young, it is true; but I am not old; and the time will come when you will be free from all restraint, and can act your own pleasure. Why should we not entertain the brightest- hopes for the future, and promise eternal fidelity to each other?" "I don't think it would be right to encourage any hopes, or make any promises," said she placidly, but rather decidedly, "when I am not sure of fulfilling them. We are both so young, and so ignorant of what is coming, that we can't look ahead, and say what we will do, and what we won't do, when we are older. We may die, or we may be separated by some circum- stances that we don't know nothing about now, or we may change our minds, when we learn more of the world. -I don't think it is best to make any promises." "But, must this be our last interview?" said he, unwilling to abandon the field, while a single chante remained. "I am forbidden to call here; and we have so few social meetings and amusements, that we may not see each other again for months. I cannot bear the idea of giving you up so easily." "It don't seem as though that would be very hard," said she. "I don't think I am of much consequence, anyway.". "You are the only one who has so humble an opinion of your good qualities," said he;' The more I have seen of you, the more I admire you. Mary, there has been, and is now, a con- flict in my heart, between love and pride. My pride would have prevented me from coming here at all, or saying one word to you, if I had not believed that my love was returned. And now, when you so flatly reject my attentions, nothing but the strongest love could i/duce me to say another word upon the subject." THE MTTEN. 69 ",I think," said she, " it would be better for both of us not to say anything more about it. I won't make no promises at all; -for I don't know as I shall be allowed to keep them." "It would be wrong for me to ask you to make any," said Ellick, attempting to be, magnanimous, now that there was nothing further to lose. "I know you are only doing what you think is your duty." "I say again, as I said before," said she; ",I don't want you to feel hard towards me; though I expect you will. I have only done what it was my duty to do; and I have ben honest and sincere about it. I won't lie to anybody. I am much obliged to you for your attentions, and am sorry it is not in my power to treat you better." "I shall not cherish any hard feelings towardc you," said he. "I wish I could. I wish I could forget you too; but I cannot. I perceive I have already detained you too long. Good-bye, and may Heaven bless you. This may be our last kiss, our last embrace; but I hope not. Good-bye." "Good-bye," said she; and he tore himself away. The animation imparted by her presence had sustained him during the conversation; but when he had left her, he seemed to leave all life and hope behind. It was not grief 6r anguish that he felt; the blow was too sudden and too stunning to per. mit him yet to be sensible of pain. It was rather a listless apathy, an indifference to everything past, present and to come, which absorbed all his faculties, and rendered him unconscious of what he was doing, or where he was going. He was aroused as from a trance, by finding himself again before Uncle Josh's door. This time he forced himself to stop, and go in. Aunt Esther was busy in some other part of the house, and Betsey was alone in the kitchen. "Ah, sly dog!" said she, when she saw him, " our modest bashful young man is getting to be really quite a lion among the ladies. How is Mary? I saw you driving out post-haste towards Uncle Peter's. How did she look? What did she say? page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 :URNOVER. Is she going to the ball with you? Have you popped the uiestion yet? Did she blush, and cast down her eyes, and say, yes if you please? Or did she answer you boldly, and say, yes and thank you too? When is it coming off? Have you fixed the happy day? Are you going to call upon the ] minister, or shall you put up with a justice of the peace? But 1 how dismal you look! One would think you had lost all the friends you ever had. She hasn't been and refused you, has c she? You couldn't look more down in the mouth, if you had really got the mitten. Never mind, Ellick, never mind. There tl are more girls in the world than Mary Brown. But has she h given you the mitten, now, really and truly?" e "I don't know anything about Mary Brown," said he pet- lc tishy; " and what is more, I don't care anything about her. I wouldn't give one of Aunt Esther's cheeses for all the girls be- tween here and Canada line; always excepting you." "Now that is very handsomely said," she replied. ." I shouldn't have liked it at all, if you hadn't made the exception in my favor. But are the grapes so very sour? or did they only hang a little too high?" "It makes but very little difference," said Ellick. "I shan't try to reach them." ,t I thought," said she, "! you were going to ask Mary to go with you to the ball. Why don't you invite her It would be an excellent ebnce to show your preference; and you could make love to her, you know, on the way." "I certainly shall not do it," said Ellick. "That point is settled. I would carry you, with great pleasure, if you would go; but I suppose you will go with Cook:Stevens." i Not unless he gives me an invitation," said she; "and I have no reason to think that he will. I sha'n't cry my eyes out if he don't." ( Then go with me," said Ellick, suddenly brightening up. "I shall be very proud of your company, and will treat you like a queen," 'I am much obliged for the offer," said she, " and will go h much pleasure." ' And you don't know how much I am obliged to you," said ick. You are a kind, generous, good girl, and I like you.' i he threw his arms around her, and gave her a hearty kiss. kle boy! and with the fragrance of Mary's breath still ;ering upon his lips! He was hardening, rapidly Lunt Esther now came in. Ellick stated his errand, got his ses, and drove home. 1 the evening, feeling restless and uneasy, he sat down by table, and endeavored to tranquillize his mind by weaving lorrows into the web of verse. After many unsatisfactory ts, and much pains, he succeeded in producing the fol. rg:- Farewell, my pretty one, farewell; Our adverse fate divides us now; Though moistening eyes thy sadness tell, 'Tis to thy own command I bow. E'en for your love I will not bend Unwilling favor to entreat; Or fawn on each officious friend, Or stoop at thy proud kindred's feet. Yet didst thou not with fear restrain Thy young affection, native flow; Or didst'thou dare, with firm disdain, Afar these slavish bonds to throw; Wert thou to thy own wishes true, I'd die ere I'd forsake thy track; For love our souls together drew, Ere others' pride had warned us back. But that soft, gentle spirit bows To fancied duty's stern behest; And lightly holds a lover's vows, Nor weighs the anguish of his breast. i page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 TURNOVER. It costs a sigh to hope no more For hours of bliss like thosewe knew, When, tasting of your lips' sweet store, 'Round that fair neck my arm I threw. It costs a tear to bid farewell To bliss that falsely smiled on me; That sigh and tear have burst the spell, And now my heart again is free. Having finished these lines, he felt better, and went to bed. vm\ CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER DISAPPOINTMENT. COOK STEVENS calculated, as a matter of course, upon carry- ing Betsey Rude to the ball. But he did not wish to go directly to her residence, in a straight forward manner, to give her the invitation. Every body would know it, if he did; and that was not his way of doing business. Mrs. Ilookem had a maiden sister stopping with her, Miss Bailey, a pious worthy woman. She looked with horror upon dances and fiddling; but she had some acquaintance with Betsey, and rather liked her on the whole. She thought if Betsey would set her mind more upon religious subjects, she might become an instrument of much good in the world and in the church. Cook had heard Miss Bailey say, that she wanted a pattern of something that Betsey had, or that Betsey knew how to cut. By dropping the merest hint in the world, he obtained from her a request that he would ask Betsey to step in and see her, the next time she came into the store; Mr. Hookem's house being but a few rods distant. Cook had ascertained, by means of quiet observation, and one or two apparently careless questions, which no one noticed, when Uncle Josh or some other acquaintance was in the store, that Betsey would have some shopping to do, on the afternoon of the day subsequent to that of. Ellick's unsuccessful and successful invitations. After dinner, before returning to the store, he put on a newest, allowing his penknife and pocket- scissors to remain in the pocket of the one which he left at the house. Betsey soon arrived. Cook came out, fastened her horse for her, gallantly handed her out of the sleigh, followed her into 7 - page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 TURNOVER. the store, hastened behind the counter, and assumed the air of a complaisant shopman, as he displayed his wares. for her selection. In the course of the bargaining, he mentioned to her, in an indifferent tone, that Miss Bailey wanted to see her, if she was not in too much of a hurry to stop. Betsey wasf not; and, having concluded her purchases, she told Cook that he might put her articles into the sleigh for her, and she pro- ceeded, herself, to Mr. Hookem's. Soon after she was gone, Cook told his employer that he had lost his scissors, and had been obliged to use a clumsy pair of shears which lay upon the counter. He then went searching along the floor, feeling all the while in his pockets, and in that way passed out of the door, and round by an unobserved path, to the back door of the house. "Miss Bailey," said he, as he came in, "I have lost my penknife and scissors, somewhere. Can't you find them for me? That's a good girl, now; come. I think I must have left them in my other jacket." Miss Bailey, who was engaged in some consultation with Betsey in the parlor, readily undertook the task. Cook im- proved the occasion by proceeding at once to the room where she had left her companion. "Betsey," said he, " you were rather cross towards me the other evening. Now, if you will be good-natured, I will carry you to the ball next Thursday." "You ought to know, sir," said she, " that when I accom- pany any one, I confer a favor, instead of receiving one;" "That is setting it rather high, isn't it?" said he. "But you would like to go, wouldn't you?" t That depends somewhat upon the company I go with," said she. "I intend to go, however; and mean to enjoy myself, if I can." "Well, any way you like," said he. "We will then consider it settled." "Consider what settled?" said she. "I don't understand you." "Why, that we are going to the ball, of course," said he. "I invited you to accompany me, and you said you would go." "But I did not say I would go with you," said she; " and I have no expectation of doing so." "I concluded, of course," said he, " that you would go with me. What other inference could I draw?" "I think you are altogether too presuming, Mr. Stevens," said she. "Do you mean that to one else would invite me? or that I should value your company so much higher than that of any one else, that I would reject them all for you? The first vDew of the matter would imply a very low opinion of me; and the second, a very exalted opinion of yourself. I would have you know, that I don't accept such off-hand invitations." "I find Lam always getting into hot water," said he, "when I undertake to say anything to you. I will try, then, to be civil and obsequious. Miss Rude, I shall be exceedingly happy to have the high honor of escorting you to the assembly. Will you graciously condescend to accept the invitation?" "I am very sorry to disappoint you," said she. "And it becomes doubly painful, when you have made such an extraor- r dinary effort to be polite. It is out of my power to gratify you." "What the d-1 do you mean?" said he, "begging your pardon for the hard word. You said you were going.)' "I certainly did," said she, " but another gentleman has been more prompt than you were, and my word is passed to him." "This is a pretty piece of business," cried he, beginning to be very indignant. "I should like to know who has been meddling with my affairs. I'll thrash him within an inch of his life. Betsey, I don't like this in you at all. It isn't right." page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 TURNOVER. "And what right have you to talk in this way to me?" said she. "What claim, or shadow of a claim, have you to control my actions? And what right have you to make use of threats to me,':respecting another person, which you dare not make to him?" "But only think," said he, "what a chance it will give people to talk. Everybody expects of course; that I shall wait upon you." "Then everybody is deceived," said she, "and everybody expects what everybody has no right to expect. You are no more to me than any other gentleman; and I am sure you have been very careful not to say any more to me, it the way of civility, than any other gentleman might have said." "But I will make that all right," said he. "You- shall have nothing to complain of on that score. Only, for Heaven's sake, get yourself out of this cursed engagement." "I have nothing to complain of, now," said she. "I am very well satisfied; and certainly shall not break an engage. ment, to please you, or any one else." "But only think what a talk it will make," said he. "Just think of the stories that are flying about, of Ellick and his girls; for of course, it. is he that you are going with. You have heard of the scrapes he has been engaged in; and I should think you would be a little careful, for your own sake." "I know," said she, "that stories quite as bad were told of you, as are now'told of him. And, besides, you cannot say yourself, and won't say to me, that he has been engaged in any folly or excess, where he was not led on by you." "Here are your knife and scissors, Cook," said Miss Baily, coming in. Cook could hardly contain his vexation at this interruption; but, with a powerful effort, he succeeded in partially smoothing his countenance, thanked her, and, saying in a low tone to Bet- sey I will see you again," hurried back to the store. ANOTHER DISAPPOINTMENT. " He watched eagerly for her return, and, as he handed her into the sleigh, renewed his entreaties that she would recon. sider her determination, on which, he-said, more depended than she was aware of. She replied, "I always keep my promises." Uncle Kellup and Jess came along, just at that moment, and their presence effectually prevented any further conversa. tion. She drove off, leaving Cook nearly beside himself with concealed mortification and rage. 7* page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] CHAPTER IX. THE BALL. THE hall of the village hotel, at Turnover, was well lighted up with oil lamps, hung at intervals upon the bare walls. The four musicians were stationed at one end, with, a little shelf be- fore them on which to place their written parts. Mr. Gracie, the dancing master, presided over this department. He was a -gentleman of about fifty years old, respectable himself, and de- termined to consider his profession respectable. He was digni- fied, yet easy in his manners; and had the air of a man who was "well off," or, as others would phrase it, "well ont; having derived a substantial income from his business. He- was healthy and hearty; and, notwithstanding his years, he was more light and graceful than any of the younger beaux there present, whom he had instructed in the rudiments of his art. His voice had a clear, strong, musical ring; and the violin, in his hands, sent forth a joyous, lively tone, which of itself was enough to set all the feet in motion within hearing of its sound. He never attempted any of those complicated difficulties, which have made other fiddiers the admiration and the bore of a suffer- ing, concert-going public; but for dancing music, for that music which comes home to the feet and ankles, 1 never knew his equal. And in calling the changes of a cotillion, he was far above any comparison. His voice did not come athwart the music in a speaking tone, breaking up the melody with its rising and fall- ing inflexions, sliding up and sliding down, and making con- tinual discord; nor was his utterance so indistinct that half the words were lost. He sung the changes upon a single note, taking usually the key note or the dominant of the tune; and his voice rang out, so loud, so clear, so distinct, so musical, THE BALL. )9 that every word and every syllable were heard to the furtest corner of the hall. It was really a delight to hear him. Besides Mr. Gracie, there was a stout, jovial young t low with a clarionet, an immensely tall young fellow with a second violin, and a sober looking old gentleman with a- bass viol. All except the last participated by turns in the dances; and gener- ally had the best dancers among the ladies for their partners. And such ladies! For complexions of dazzling fairness; the clear, pure, unsullied white, set off by the delicate "celestial rosy red," I will match the valley of the Connecticut against the world. No need, there, of pearl powders or paint,-so essential to the toilet of some of the stove-baked, furnace-dried, and smoke-tanned city dames. I say some of them; for far be it from me to venture upon the shocking heresy, that our cities have not their share of beauty. But in the delightful village of Turnover, the elements are in favor of the sex; the fogs from the river, in the morning, keep them white and pure; and the fresh air of the mountains sends the rich hue of health to their cheeks. In the Cities, the influences of heaven and of earth are against them. Shut up in steaming, ill-ventilated rooms at home, and suffocated with gas, and coal smoke, and all sorts of impure smells abroad, the ladies really have not a fair chance. Nat Sleeper could not dance, and he had no invitation to the ball; but he, and Jess, and Baby, and Uncle Kellup, and several others, stood at the lower end of the hall, in the earlier part of the evening, to see how it was done. Nat opened his eyes very wide to see Ellick dancing the first set with Betsey Rude; and he was a little puzzled to see Cook Stevens, as bold as brass, lead out Miss Kelley, the daughter of the rich man of the village, who rarely condescended to mix in general society, and was thought to confer a distinguished honor upon him whom she accepted as a partner. Cook was determined to make the most of the opportunity, as a retaliation upon Betsey for the slight he had received. But though Miss Kelley was ".- page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80 TURNOVER. very gracious, and smiled and answered gaily to his nonsense, and although he saw that Betsey observed it all, he could not detect any symptoms of vexation. And when, in the course of the evening, he asked her to dance, she readily complied, and conversed with him as affably as if he had paid court to her alone. He chafed, inwardly, but he knew it would not answer to give expression to his feelings there. Before the dancing was over, one or two attempts were made, by Cook and some of his companions, when the young men visited, in a quiet way, the private room where wines and liquors were served, to repeat upon Ellick'the experiment which had succeeded so well on the night of the revel. But Ellick was as firm as a rock. Though he was ready to " treat," that being the usual and satisfactory expiation for any folly like his, and though he took his glass with the rest, he was careful that none of the liquor went down his throat. It disappeared, it is true; but either into the fire-place, or under the table, or out of the window. The dancing commenced at "early candle-lighting," and contin- ued until long, long after midnight. There was no schottische, nor polka, nor even a waltz, to diversify the amusement; but cotillions and old-fashioned country dances succeeded each oth- er as the evening wore away; and the only interruption was the usual'intermission for a supper. The longest night must have an end. ' At last the ball was over, and those who had participated with the greatest delight in its enjoyments, exchanged them for brief and disturbed slum- bers during the remainder of the night, and fatigue and drowsi- ness the succeeding day. CHAPTER X. THE SEQUEL. COOK Stevens took time to deliberate upon his position, and his future course. From day to day, new and different views of the subject presented themselves. His prominent idea had been, that he must tot be too precipitate. He had felt assured, that nothing was to be lost by a little cautious delay. Recent circumstances had thrown some doubt upon the correctness of this theory; He began to feel the necessity of examining the state of affairs anew, for the purpose of determining his line of policy by the light of his additional experience. He was intensely angry that Ellick should have superseded him in the invitation to the ball. In the first transports of his in- dignation, he swore he would have nothing further to do with Bet- sey Rude, and would let them both go to Jericho together. But, aside from the unquestionable fact that Betsey was a very de- sirable match, and that her spirited manners and conversation were just what he liked in a woman, he could not endure the thought of submitting to a defeat. He knew that if he per- mitted Ellick to carry off the prize, all the world, that is to say, that part of it within the limits of Turnover, would say that his quiet rival had "cut him aout." This was not to be borne. r: He would have been glad to be able to punish Ellick severe- ly for his presumption; but he was very much puzzled to know what to do about it. .The customs of New Hampshire did not permit him to take him off in a duel. The sending of a chal- lenge would have made him the laughing stock of the town. And it would not be much" better to undertake to give him a thrashing. In a just cause, or under a direct personal provo- page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 ' TURNOVER. cation, Cook Stevens would not have feared the face of man; but to pick a quarrel with one whose only offence was carrying a mutual acquaintance to a ball, and then attempt to pummel him, without being sure that he would not himself get pum- meled in return, was not exactly a proper undertaking for a person of his standing in society. In such a contest, victory would be disgraceful, and defeat would bring with it tenfold mortification and shame. His resort to insidious temptation to excess, and setting in motion scandalous reports, had already recoiled upon his own head. If it had not been for those, El- lick's invitation might have been accepted by Mary Brown; and in that case he would have had no occasion to trespass-up- on what Cook considered his own peculiar rights. Thus, upon a careful survey of the whole ground; he came to the conclusion to let Ellick alone, for the present, and see how , matters would turn. As for the lady, he was more in doubt. Sometimes he thought he would make a declaration'at once, and bring the affair to a crisis. Then, again, he thought it better to try the effect of time; and see if his own apparent indiffer' ence would not subdue her too independent spirit. He finally concluded to pursue this method of tactics for a while; reserv- ing the other plan for a future emergency. Weeks, months, passed away. Winter disappeared, and was succeeded- by chilly, sloppy spring, and reviving, awaken- ing summer. One lazy afternoon, when all was still and quiet in the store, and there was no one around except two bare- footed urchins who were playing with a little dog before the door, Cook stood at the desk, desperately engaged in fashion- ing a letter, the answer to which should decide the question, not of the whole happiness of his life, exactly, but of his prox- imate abandonment of the condition of a bachelor. He had not, since the ball, paid any particular attentions to Betsey, but he had kept a sharp watch to see that no one else was occupying the position he had thus left vacant; and he had occasionally dropped in at Uncle Josh's for a friendly chat THE SEQUEL. 83 with the family. But he had been growing more and more uneasy, every day; and now he thought the time had arrived for a decided demonstration. He acted unwisely, however, in choosing the epistolary mode of declaration; for he did not excel in the exercise of the pen. He kept the books of the store with tolerable correctness; but his handwriting was rather inelegant, and his proficiency in grammar and composi- tion was not equal to that in the more practical science of arithmetic. After tearing up two or three half-finished letters, he finally decided upon sending the following: Thursday, June 5. Miss BETSEY RUDE :-Impelled by a feeling of Affection and Respect-which does as much honor to my own judg- ment as to your own excellent and estimable Qualities-- I cannot refrain from making that Proposal to you--which I should have made long ago--had I not have been apprehen- Sive that you would not respond to the sentiments which are supreme in my Heart- Those sentiments are of- such a char- acter - which- under all the influences that I am surround- ed by- it is impossible for me longer to Resist them-- It is with the utmost sincerity that I assure you--I prefer you to any other Lady of my Acquaintance--and should consider myself highly honored by your Company- and earnestly hope that my attentions may be considered acceptable by you--I shall await your answer with much Anxiety--and beg leave to ask that you will grant me an Interview-whereby I shall be permitted to express my sentiments to you in Person-and shall ever remain - Your devoted lover, J. 0. STEVENS. Cook went to the post-office at the river road, the next day, and brought out some newspapers belonging to Uncle Josh; and he sent them, with the letter, by a neighbor who was to page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 TURNOVER. pass by the house, as if they had all come by mail together. In due time he received the following answer: Sunday, June 8. MR. STEVENS:-Your favor of last Thursday was duly received. I am not sure,that I perfectly understand it; but I have thought it best to adopt that construction which it naturally seems to bear, and to answer it accordingly. It is impossible not to feel flattered by the preference which you express; although it is the preference of a second judgment, instead of being a first choice. I am sensible of the honor which you do me; an honor which many would appreciate more highly, on account of your respectable position in the world. It is, therefore, with much regret, that I find myself unable to reciprocate the sentiments which you express. I would not intimate any doubt of their sincerity, but take it for granted, not only that you are, this time, in earnest, but that you have reflected carefully upon the step which you have taken. My reply is not founded upon any distrust of you, or any want ol respect for your character or standing, but simply upon the state of my personal feelings. I have not, and am satisfied thai I never can have, that particular preference for you, which would justify my giving you any encouragement. I can, see no possible benefit to either of us, from such ai interview as you request. You are aware that you have always been received here as a friend; and have never been deprive( of the opportunity of being heard, whenever you had anything to say. I shall always be happy to see you as an acquaint ance and neighbor; but, as for anything further, I wish yol to consider this answer final and conclusive. Please accept my thanks for your past civility, and my high appreciation of the honor which I am compelled to decline. I am, with much respect, Your obliged humble servant, BETSEY RUDE. When Cook read this letter, he tore it up, and burnt the fragments, in a new transport of rage. He then poured forth a volley of oaths and execrations against all womankind, which, after a while, appeared to relieve him. Without some such vent for his exasperated feelings, we cannot say what the con- sequences would have been. We will now change the scene to the garden and fruit yard adjoining Ellick's farm house; and the time to one pleasant Sunday afternoon, at a later period in the summer. The service at church was over for the day, and everybody had returned home. Betsey had been staying a few days at the house, in order to do the work for Ellick's mother, during a short illness which disabled the old lady, for the time, from pursuing her usual avocations. There was a beautiful green spot, newly mown, and surrounded by cherry trees, still heavily laden with delicious fruit, although all the neighbors and passers-by had been allowed to help themselves freely to the red and tempting feast. Ellick Davis and Betsey Rude were seated together upon a grassy knoll, shaded from the rays of the sun. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers and new mown hay; and musical with the song of birds, and the dreamy note of the untiring grasshopper. Ellick and Betsey might have been regaling themselves with cherries, but they certainly were not so engaged now. Prom their attitude, and their looks, a shrewd observer might have drawn the inference, that they had been exchanging a mutual declaration of attachment. "But tell me," said Ellick, "how you ever came to admit into your heart any sentiment of fondness for me." "To tell you truth," said she, "I pitied you so much, when Mary Brown had made you so miserable, that I undertook to cure you of your unhappy passion, and enliven your melancholy spirits, even at the risk of transferring your affections to another object, my own unworthy self. Not that I wanted any- thing of you, of course; but I thought if I could cure you of 8 page: 86-87 (Advertisement) [View Page 86-87 (Advertisement) ] 86 TURNOVER. one love, you could easily cure yourself of another. I was not much afraid of your dying the second time." "You were very kind," said Ellick. "Yes," said she; "so kind to you, that I forgot the danger to myself. I found you so good-tempered, so kind, so sincere, and so sensible, that, before I knew it, I was myself taken cap. tive, instead of taking you. But are you perfectly sure that you don't love that blue-eyed girl a very little after all?" ,Just about as sure," said he, " as you are that you don't love my friend the trader, who didn't carry you to the ball." A few Sundays afterwards, immediately after the minister had finished pronouncing the benediction, the congregation were struck with surprise to hear the town clerk, in a sonorous voice, call out, "Take notice. A marriage is intended between Alexander Davis and Betsey Rude, both of Turnover." Cook Stevens remained unmarried -for several years longer As for Mary Brown, she knew too much to take up with Na Sleeper. She refused him most positively; and he finally con eluded to marry Martha. We have not the time, or space, a present, to give the particulars of Mary's subsequent fortune She was too good and too pretty a girl to be summarily dis posed of in the last chapter of this story. 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