“Simon Slimpsey,” says he, “They was married last night--as I was comin’ by the old cider mill----”
“I see all through it,” says I mournfully. “He and seven or eight of his children have been sick, and Betsey would go and take care of ’em.”
“Yes,” says Josiah, “As I was comin’ past the old cider mill----”
Says I with spirit, “It ought to be looked into. He was a helpless old man, and she has took the advantage of him.” I went on warmly, for I thought of his gloomy fourbodin’s, and I always felt for the oppressted and imposed upon. I had went on I presume as much as 2 minutes and a ½ when Josiah says he,
“I wouldn’t take on so about it Samantha, anybody to hear you talk would think you was a perfect farrago.”
Says I, “If I was a goin’ to abuse my wife and call her names I would do it accordin’ to grammar, you mean “virtigo” Josiah.”
“Wall I said virtigo, didn’t I?” Josiah never will own that he is in the wrong.
“And I didn’t say you _was_ a virtigo Samantha, only anybody would take you for a virtigo, that didn’t know you.”
I remained almost lost in sad thoughts for pretty nigh ½ a minute, and then I says, in mournful tones,
“Have you heard any of the particulars Josiah? Have you seen any of the relatives? was the old man any more reconciled to the last?”
“Yes,” says Josiah, “As I was comin’ by the old cider mill--”
“Wall do for conscience sake _come_ by the old cider mill, and be done with it,” says I, feelin’ worried out in my mind and by the side of myself.
“How be I goin’ to _get_ by Samantha? you are so agravatin’, you’ll never let me finish a story peacible, and I should think it was about dinner time.”
“So ’tis,” says I, soothin’ly, hangin’ on the tea-kettle, and puttin’ the potatoes over the stove in the summer kitchen. For a long and arduous study of the sect has convinced me that good vittles are more healin’ than oil to pour onto a man’s lacerated feelin’s. And the same deep study has warned me _never_ to get mad at the same time Josiah does, on these 2 great philisofical laws, hangs all the harmony of married life. Then I stepped out onto the stoop agin, and says to him in calm, affectionate accents,
“What is it about the old cider mill, Josiah?”
“Nothin’” says he, “Only I met one of the first mourners--I mean one of old Slimpsey’s sisters there, and she told me about it, she said that sense the Editer of the Auger was married, and sense Betsey had got back from New York she had acted like a wild critter. She seemed to think it was now or never. The awful doom of not bein’ married at all, seemed to fall upon her, and craze her with wild horror. And findin’ Slimpsey who was a weak sort of a man any way, and doubly weakened now by age and inflamatory rheumatism, she went and took care of him, and got the upper hand of him, made him a victim and married him, at his own house, Sunday night at half past seven.”