Sweet Cicely — or Josiah Allen as a Politician, Marietta Holley [best books to read ever txt] 📗

And how smart they be, who can answer their questioning,—questionin' about every thing. Nobody can't—Josiah can't, nor I, nor nobody. Pretty soon she looked up at the comet; and says she, “Nama,”—she can't say grandma,—“Nama, is that God's comma?”

Now, jest see how deep that wuz, and beautiful, very. The heavens wuz full of the writin' of God, writin' we can't read yet, and translate into our coarser language; and she, with her deep, beautiful eyes, a readin' it jest as plain as print, and puttin' in all the marks of punctuation. Readin' the marvellous poem of glory, with its tremblin' pause of flame.

Josiah says, it is because she couldn't say comet; but I know better. Says I, “Josiah Allen, hain't it the same shape as a comma?”

And he had to gin it up that it was. And in a minute or two she says agin,—

“Nama, what is the comma up there for?”

Now hear that, how deep that wuz. Who could answer that question? I couldn't, nor Josiah couldn't. Nor the wisest philosopher that ever walked the earth, not one of 'em. From them that kept their night-watches on the newly built pyramids, to the astronimers of to-day who are spending their lives in the study of the heavens. If every one of them learned men of the world, livin' and dead, if they all stood in rows in our door-yard in front of little Samantha Joe, they would have to bow their haughty heads before her, and put their finger on their lips. Them lips could say very large words in every language under the sun; but they couldn't answer my baby's question, not one of 'em.

But I am eppisodin' fearfully, fearfully; and to resoom.

We left the children and the babe safe in their respective housen', and happy; and we went on placidly to Jonesville, got our usual groceries, and stopped to the post-office. Josiah went into the office, and come out with his “World,” and one letter, a big letter with a blue envelope. I thought it had a sort of a queer look, but I didn't say nothin'. And it bein' sort o' darkish, he didn't try to open it till we got home. Only I says,—

“Who do you s'pose your letter is from, Josiah Allen?”

And he says, “I don't know: the postmaster had a awful time a tryin' to make out who it was to. I should think, by his tell, it wus the dumbdest writin' that ever wus seen. I should think, by his tell, it went ahead of yourn.”

“Wall,” says I, “there is no need of your swearin'.” Says I, “If I wus a grandfather, Josiah Allen, I would choose my words with a little more decency, not to say morality.”

“Wall, wall! your writin' is enough to make a man sweat, and you know it.”

“I hadn't disputed it,” says I with dignity. And havin' laid the blame of the bad writin' of the letter he had got, off onto his companion, as the way of male pardners is, he felt easy and comfortable in his mind, and talked agreeable all the way home, and affectionate, some.

Wall, we got home; and I lit a light, and fixed the fire so it burnt bright and clear. And I drawed up a stand in front of the fire, with a bright crimson spread on it, for the lamp; and I put Josiah's rockin'-chair and mine, one on each side of it; and put Josiah's slippers in front of the hearth to warm. And then I took my knittin'-work, and went to knittin'; and by that time Josiah had got his barn-chores all done, and come in.

And the very first thing he did after he come in, and drawed off his boots, and wondered “why under the gracious heavens it was, that the bootjack never could be found where he had left it” (which was right in the middle of the settin'-room floor). But he found it hangin' up in its usual place in the closet, only a coat had got hung up over it so he couldn't see it for half a minute.

And after he had his warm slippers on, and got sot down in his easy-chair opposite to his beloved companion, he grew calmer again, and more placider, and drawed out that letter from his pocket.

And I sot there a knittin', and a watchin' my companion's face at the same time; and I see that as he read the letter, he looked smut, and sort o' wonder-struck: and says I,—

“Who is your letter from, Josiah Allen?”

And he says, lookin' up on top of it,—

“It is from the headquarters of the Railroad Company;” and says he, lookin' close at it agin, “As near as I can make out, it is a free pass for me to ride on the railroad.”

Says I, “Why, that can't be, Josiah Allen. Why should they give you a free pass?”

“I don't know,” says he. “But I know it is one. The more I look at it,” says he, growin' excited over it,—“the more I look at it, the plainer I can see it. It is a free pass.”

Says I, “I don't believe it, Josiah Allen.”

“Wall, look at it for yourself, Samantha Allen” (when he is dretful excited, he always calls me Samantha Allen), “and see what it is, if it hain't that;” and he throwed it into my lap.

I looked at it close and severe, but not one word could I make out, only I thought I could partly make out the word “remove,” and along down the sheet the word “place,” and there wus one word that did look like “free.” And Josiah jumped at them words; and says he,—

“It means, you know, the pass reads like this, for me to remove myself from place to place, free. Don't you see through it?” says he.

“No,” says I, holdin' the paper up to the light. “No, I don't see through it, far from it.”

“Wall,” says he, highly excited and tickled, “I'll try it to-morrow, anyway. I'll see whether I am in the right, or not.”

And he went on dreamily, “Lemme see—I have got to move that lumber in the mornin' up from my wood-lot. But it won't take me more'n a couple of hours, or so, and in the afternoon I'll take a start.”

Says I, “What under the sun, Josiah Allen, should the Railroad Company give you a free pass for?”

“Wall,” says he, “I have my thoughts.”

He spoke in a dretful sort of a mysterious way, but proud; and I says,—

“What do you think is the reason, Josiah Allen?”

And he says, “It hain't always best to tell what you think. I hain't obleeged to,” says he.

And I says, “No. As the poet saith, nobody hain't obleeged to use common sense unless they have got it;” and I says, in a meanin' tone, “No, I can't obleege you to tell me.”

Wall, sure enough, the next day, jest as quick as he got that lumber drawed up to the house, Josiah Allen dressed up, and sot off for Jonesville, and come home at night as tickled a man as I ever see, if not tickleder.

And he says, “Now what do you think, Samantha Allen? Now what do you think about my ridin' on that pass?”

And I says, “Have you rode on it, Josiah Allen?”

And he says, “Yes, mom, I have. I have rode to Loontown and back; and I might have gone ten times as fur, and not a word been said.”

And I says, “What did the conductor say?”

And he says, “He didn't say nothin'. When he asked me for my fare, I told him I had a free pass, and I showed it to him. And he took it, and looked at it close, and took out his specks, and looked and looked at it for a number of minutes; and then he handed it back to me, and I put it into my pocket; and that wus all there was of it.”

Says I, “How did the conductor look when he was a readin' it?”

And he owned up that he looked dubersome. But, says he, “I rode on it, and I told you that I could.”

“Wall,” says I, sithin', “there is a great mystery about it.”

Says he, “There hain't no mystery to me.”

And then I beset him agin to tell me what he thought the reason wus they give it to him.

And he said “he thought it was because he was so smart.” Says he, “I am a dumb smart feller, Samantha, though I never could make you see it as plain as I wanted to.” And then says he, a goin' on prouder and prouder every minute,—

“I am pretty-lookin'. I am what you might call a orniment to any car on the track. I kinder set a car off, and make 'em look respectable and dressy. And I'm what you might call a influential man, and I s'pose the railroad-men want to keep the right side of me. And they have took the right way to do it. I shall speak well of 'em as long as I can ride free. And, oh! what solid comfort I shall take, Samantha, a ridin' on that pass! I calculate to see the world now. And there is nothin' under the sun to hender you from goin' with me. As long as you are the wife of such a influential and popular man as I be, it don't look well for you to go a mopein' along afoot, or with the old mare. We will ride in the future on my free pass.”

“No,” says I. “I sha'n't ride off on a mystery. I prefer a mare.”

Says he, for he wus that proud and excited that you couldn't stop him nohow,—

“It will be a dretful savin' of money, but that hain't what I think of the most. It is the honor they are a heapin' onto me. To think that they think so much of me, set such a store by me, and look up to me so, that they send me a free pass without my makin' a

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