The Wit and Humor of America Volume VIII Part 23

BY ELIZABETH HYER NEFF

"An-ndrew! An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"Andrew, what be you doin' out there? You've ben sayin' 'Yes, Marthy,'

for the last ten minutes."

The patient, middle-aged face of Andrew appeared in the doorway, its high, white forehead in sharp contrast with the deeply tanned features below it.

"I've jest ben takin' your buryin' clothes off the line an' foldin' 'em up. It is such a good day to air 'em for fall--and, then,--I jest hate to tell you!--the moths has got into the skirt of your shroud. I sunned it good, but the holes is there yet."

"Moths!" screamed the thin voice, sharpened by much calling to people in distant rooms. "Then they've got all over the house, I presume to say, if they've got into that. Why don't you keep it in the cedar chist?"

"Because it's full of your laid-by clothes now, and I keep my black suit that you had me git for the funeral in there, too. There ain't room. You told me allus to keep your buryin' clothes in a box in the spare room closet, so's they'd be handy to git if they was wanted in the night. You told me that four or five years ago, Marthy."

"So I did. And I presume to say that my good three-ply carpet that mother gave me when we was married is jest reddled with moths--if they're in that closet. If it wasn't for keepin' that spare room ready for the cousins in Maine when they come to the buryin', I'd have you take up that carpet and beat it good and store it in the garret. My, oh, my, what worries a body has when they can't git around to do for themselves! Now it's moths, right on top of Mr. Oldshaw's death after he'd got my discourse all prepared on the text I picked out for him. He had as good as preached it to me, and it was a powerful one, a warnin'

to the unG.o.dly not to be took unawares. I advised him to p'int it that way. Then, Jim Woodworth's Mary is leavin' the choir to marry and go west, and I jest won't have Palmyra Stockly sing 'Cool Siloam' over me.

I can settle that right now, for I couldn't abide the way she acted about that church fair--and she sings through her nose anyway.

An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"You oughtn't to go walkin' off when a body is talkin' to you. You allus do that."

"I c'n hear you, Marthy. I'm jest in the kitchen. I thought the dinner had b'iled dry."

"Are you gittin' a b'iled dinner? It smells wonderful good. What you got in it?"

"Corned beef and cabbage and onions and potatoes and turnips. I've het up a squash pie and put out some of the cider apple sauce that will spile if it isn't et pretty soon. I'll put the tea a-drawin' soon's the kittle b'iles."

Andrew's voice came into the sick room in a mechanical recitative, as if accustomed to recount every particular of the day's doings.

"Well, I guess you can bring me some of it. You bring me a piece of the corned beef and consid'able of the cabbage and potaters and an onion or two. And if that cider apple sauce is likely to spile, I might eat a little of it; bring me a cooky to eat with it. And a piece of the squash pie. What else did you say you had?"

"That's all."

"Don't forgit to put on consid'able of bread. It's a good while till supper, and I don't dast to eat between meals."

Andrew brought the tray to the bedside and propped up the invalid before he ate his own dinner. He had finished it and cleared up the table before the high voice called again: "An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"Is there any more of the corned beef? You brought me such a little mite of a piece."

"Yes, there's plenty more, but I knew you'd object if I brought it first. Like it, did you?"

"Yes, it was tol'able. Them vegetables was a little rich, but maybe they won't hurt me. You might bring me another cooky when you come.--Now, you set down a minute while you're waitin' for my dishes. I've ben worryin'

'bout them moths every minute since you told me, and somethin' has got to be done."

"I know it. I hated to tell you, but I thought you ought to know. I guess I c'n clean 'em out the next rainy spell when I have to stay in."

"No, you can't wait for that. And you can't do it anyway. There's things a man can do, and then again there's things he can't. You're uncommon handy, Andrew, but you're a man."

Andrew's deprecatory gesture implied that he couldn't help it.

"I've thought of that ever so much in the years that I've ben layin'

here, and I've worried about what you're goin' to do when I ain't here to plan and direct for you. Those moths are jest an instance. Now, what you goin' to do when you have to think for yourself?"

"I do' know, but you ain't goin' to git up a new worry 'bout that, I hope?"

"No, it is not a new worry. It's an old one, but it's such a delicate subject, even between man and wife, that I've hesitated to speak of it.

Andrew, I don't want you to stay single but jest six months--jest six months to the very day after I'm laid away. I've spoken to Hannah Brewster to come in and do for you twice a week, same as she does now, and to mend your socks and underclothes for six months, and then I want you to--git married."

"Why, Marthy!"

"You needn't gasp like you was struck. I presume to say you'd do it anyway without thinkin' it over well beforehand. I've allus planned and thought things over for you till I don't know whether you'd be capable of attendin' to that or not. And I'd go off a sight easier if I knew 'twas all settled satisfactory. I'd like to know who's goin' to keep my house and wear my clothes and sun my bed quilts, and I could have her come and learn my ways beforehand."

"Good gracious, Marthy! There's a limit to plannin'--and directin'--even for as smart a woman as you be. You're not goin' to know whether she'll--consent or not, not while--while you're here, yet. And you're gittin' no worse; it does seem like you're gittin' better all the time.

Last time Aunt Lyddy was here she said you was lookin' better'n she ever see you before. I told her you'd picked up in your appet.i.te consid'able.

You'll git up yet and be my second wife yourself."

"Yes, Aunt Lyddy allus thinks great things 'bout me; she never would believe how low I've ben, but I guess I know how I be. No, you can't head me off that way, with the moths in my best things and one of my grandmother's silver spoons missin'. If there's one thing a forethoughtful woman ought to plan beforehand, it's to pick out the woman who's to have her house and her things and her husband."

Andrew wriggled uncomfortably. "I shouldn't wonder if the dish water was a-b'ilin', Marthy."

"No, it isn't. You haven't got fire enough. And we'd better settle this matter while we're at it."

"Settle it! Why, Marthy, you talk 's if you wanted me to go 'n' git married on the spot and bring my second wife home to you before--while you're still here. I'm no Mormon. Like's not you've got her selected; you're such a wonderful hand to settle things."

"I can't say 's I've got her selected--not the exact one--but I've ben runnin' over several in my mind. We'd better have several to pick from, and then if some refused you, we'd still have a chance."

"But how would you git any of 'em to consent?" asked Andrew with a show of interest.

"How else but ask 'em? They would understand how I feel about you. The hull town knows how I've laid here expectin' every day to be to-morrow, and if I want that thing settled before I go, I don't see how it could make talk."

"Now, who had you sorted out to pick from?" and Andrew leaned back comfortably in his chair. His wife punched up her pillow to lift her head higher.

"Well, there's the widows first. I've sorted them over and over till I've got 'em down to four that ain't wasteful cooks nor got too many relations. There's Widow Jackson--"

"She's weakly," promptly decided Andrew.

"And Mary Josephine Wilson--"

"She don't go to our church. What about the old maids?"

"I don't take much stock in old maids. The likeliest person I know, and I wouldn't call her an old maid, either, is Abilonia Supe. Her mother was counted the best breadmaker in North Sudbury, and Abby was the neatest darner in her cla.s.s at sewing school."