—The·Buzz÷Saw·Girl.—
I just must talk! I must talk all the time! Of course I talk entirely too much—no one knows that any better than I do—yet I can not help it! I know that my continual cackling is dreadful, and I know just exactly when it begins to bore people, but somehow I can't stop myself, but go right on and on in spite of myself.
Aunt Patsey says I am simply fearful, and just like a girl she used to know, who lived down-East, a Miss Polly Blanton, who talked all the time; told every thing, every thing she knew, every thing she had ever heard; and then when she could think of nothing else, boldly began on the family secrets. Well, I believe I am just like that girl—because I am constantly telling things about our domestic life which is by no means pleasant. Pa and ma lead an awful kind of an existence—live just like cats and dogs. Now I ought never to tell that, yet somehow it will slip out in spite of myself!
My pa says I really do act as if I did not have good sense, and I am, for the world, just like ma. And ma, she says I am without delicacy, manners, or any of the other new touches that most girls have. As for Aunt Patsey, she is always after me! She is "Old Propriety" itself! She goes in heavy for good form. "Not good form, my dear, not good form!" is what I hear from morning until night. I do get so tired of it! They are all real hard on me! No body ever gives me encouragement, and yet every body is ready with heavy doses of admonition! Now ma is a powerful big talker herself, although she won't acknowledge it; but she always seems to know just what not to say! I call that real talking-luck! I am so unlucky talking.
But the big power in our house is Aunt Patsey Wing! There is always bound to be such a person in every well-furnished house! They seem to be just as necessary as the sofas and easy-chairs—but not quite so comfortable to have around. We are all deathly afraid of her! She is rich, stingy, and says that she has made a will, leaving every dollar to the "Widows and Orphans' Home"—a nice way to do her relations! So of course we are on the strain; on our best behavior to effect a change in our favor. Ma says she will never, in this world, change it—and changes made in any other world won't do us any good. But pa says he knows how to break it! Mr. Meggley, her lawyer, who drew up the will, has made an agreement to sell pa the flaw—for of course there is one in it, for all wills have flaws—then he will employ another lawyer and break it without any trouble. My, it will be so exciting! I suppose we will have to prove that Aunt Patsey was of unsound mind. Pa will give us our testimony to learn by heart! Pa is a real enterprising man! Some people say he is a regular schemer, but Aunt Patsey says that he is a brilliant financier! He has made and lost two or three big fortunes! He lost one not long ago, and it is so hard just now to make both ends meet. But Aunt Patsey pays a little board; that helps along, at least with the table!
Pa gives me a small allowance—when he has the money; then not one cent more! I believe every body in town knows just how much he allows me! Pa says I told it, myself. Perhaps I did; one can't remember every thing one chances to say. Although my amount is small, yet I have quite a little way of fixing myself, and always looking real nice. Aunt Patsey says I do pretty well, until I open my big mouth and begin to rattle, rattle, rattle! She says I talk more and say less than any body she has ever known, except that down-East girl, Polly Blanton, who always told—when in want of any other topic—the family secrets. Aunt Patsey is forever-and-a-day preaching to me about good form; what I ought, and what I ought not to do; sometimes repeats long passages from the prayer-book—nearly all the morning service—then says, "It's no use, no use; just like pouring water on a duck's back!" But she must love to do useless things, for she just keeps right on. She says that I ought to be able to keep silent once in a while, anyhow; but I don't know how to keep silent.
Some body had to come and tell her—Aunt Patsey—that I talked a great deal, and very loud, at the theater, between acts. Now the idea of finding fault with girls, or any body, who talk between acts! Why it's just perfectly delightful! I begin the moment the curtain drops; I don't even wait for the music to begin—it is such a waste of time! I know that I do talk a little too loud; but just lots of real nice persons talk real loud at the theater—it comes natural. When people turn around and look at me as if I was really doing something dreadful, then I talk ever and ever so much more! People can't frown me down—no indeed, double deed, not if Alice Wing knows any thing about herself! People who know me never try; except my family, headed by Aunt Patsey, who always says, "We are prompted by a deep sense of duty, my dear, duty!"
I am almost engaged! Even Aunt Patsey likes the man, and O, so do I! He is nice and quiet, and just loves to hear me talk—never interrupts me, but lets me go on, and looks at me so admiring-like all the time! Ma says I am sure to spoil every thing by too much talking! He is so timid! I encourage him, though, all I can; he seems to like encouragement so much! He understands and appreciates me, too, and that is a great deal; for most of the other men act so funny when they are left alone with me! They nearly always have a solemn, almost scared look—but I really don't know why! I must confess that I like stupid men; they may not talk much, yet they seem real eager to listen! Then stupid men always have such good manners, which, in society, counts for a great deal! People who have good manners are so safe—they never do any thing startling! I wish my manners were better—but they are not! After one of Aunt Patsey's talks on good form, and strict propriety, I try to improve—regenerate, if possible. I often watch Miss Lena Searlwood, one of the older girls, who is a great favorite with Aunt Patsey—but it is no use! She is a self-contained woman, never ill at ease, and who puts you, and at once, at rights with yourself. She is a most beautiful and discreet talker! She would rather die, burn at the stake, suffer on the rack, than tell even the suspicion of a family secret! Aunt Patsey is always talking her up to me, wishing that I would be only a little bit like her anyhow. So the other night, at a party, I took special care to notice the attractive Lena. She is so graceful; quiet grace, ma calls it. She leaned against a heavy, carved chimney-piece, with dark-red plush hangings, and she looked for all the world just like a tall, white flower, slender, beautiful! She was slowly picking to pieces, leaf by leaf, a pale-pink rose, which she had stolen away from somewhere about her willowy, white throat. And while she was doing all this—and it took quite a while, too—she looked full in the face of the man by her side, that rather good-looking, stuck-up Calburt Young, and said nothing—absolutely not a word! She did this long enough to make me almost lose my breath. I could not do a thing like that; it would give me nervous prostration sure! Yet, I know it is very effective! It was just like some picture you read about, and it was beautiful, striking, down to the smallest detail. But situations effective, and details pleasing, are not in my line, and they are just as much a mystery as improper fractions used to be when I was a schoolgirl. I hated my school! It was called a "Young Ladies' Seminary." It was a fashionable, intellectual hot-house, where premature, fleeting blooms were cultivated regardless of any future consequence. But I was a barren bush! I never fashion-flowered into a profusion of showy blossoms. Aunt Patsey said that I did not reap the harvest of my golden opportunities; but pa, he growled and grumbled a good deal when the bills came pouring in, but paid them, and roundly swore that he was glad he had no more fool-daughters to finish off in a fashionable seminary.
I have a keen sense of the ridiculous, and it gets me in trouble all the time. I don't mean any harm; but I can't help telling a good thing when I hear it or see it myself. Now that same Calburt Young can't bear me; he hates me in good fashion because I made fun of his doleful air, and said that he had the looks and the manners of a man who had, in a desperate mood, shot down his sweetheart, concealed the fact, and was suffering the pangs of deep remorse for the dreadful deed. He heard about it and got angry! He does look awful gloomy! He says I am crude, very crude, and put people on edge; and that I am so good-natured, so good-humored all the time that it reduces less fortunate people into a state of most desperate defiance—defiance against my everlasting flow of animal spirits, unchecked by any thing. He told all that to Sophia Gilder, and Sophia is my bosom-friend; so she told me! Aunt Patsey has a great admiration for her mother, Mrs. John Robert Gilder, but says that Sophia, poor girl, is a milk-sop—weak, weak! and taps her shining forehead knowingly. Auntie has a most alarming way of disposing of people! I know all about her methods—gracious goodness! I ought by this time.
About two or three months after I was finished off at the Seminary, Miss Lena Searlwood gave a little affair in my honor. She called it a tea—it really was more like a dinner! They do entertain so well! I was taken home afterward by that Calburt Young—a great privilege I suppose! He was in a bad humor anyhow; had not seen enough of Miss Lena! He let me do all of the talking, never once suggesting a new topic, and listened with an air, not of attention, but enforced toleration. It made me furious! Two or three times he said "Yes?" which was really worse than nothing! Finally, when near home, he turned to me and in a tired, indifferent tone, said: "Beg pardon, Miss Wing; you are just out, I believe! What did you study while at school?" It was a fling—I knew it—so I answered, "I studied how to be rude to arrogant, patronizing people who are forever asking impudent questions with a desire to give pain, sir!" He placed my night-key in the door deliberately, calmly; pushed open the door, lifted his hat, turned on his heel, without even closing one half of the storm-doors, like other men always do, and said: "Miss Wing, you have been well taught! You were, indeed, a very apt scholar! I congratulate you! I have the honor to bid you good-night!" I could have picked a dozen pale-pink roses to pieces just then, but not leaf by leaf; I could have torn up a whole rose-tree by the roots! They say Mr. Young is so smart, wonderful deep, and all that; but he is just a mean, rude man, and I won't ever have any thing more to do with him; and when I say I won't, I won't!
How some people do ruffle me into a fever-heat of dislike and ardent opposition. Of course I know that it is all wrong, yet after all there is a certain kind of satisfaction. Now, for instance, that Mrs. Babbington Brooks, with her smooth, oily tongue, abominable phrases, "Yes, my sweet loves," and her "O! my dear doves," sets me fairly wild. She is such a vulgar, low-born person! I always feel tempted to fly right at her and tear off her load of tawdry, costly finery, exhaling a strong, close odor of greenbacks. How people have taken them up! all on account of their money. They are invited every where; and only last season people were turning up their noses and asking, "Who, pray, are the Brookses?" Thanks to a cook from somewhere, and a butler from somewhere else, their entertainments are said to be really delightful, and their dinners perfection itself. They are not yet quite sure of their position! They are afraid it will not be permanent! But they will succeed. I know they will, because I feel it! To me there is always something very fascinating about these desperate social strugglers—especially when they are successful. Aunt Patsey, too, she says they will succeed, and Aunt Patsey knows! But she don't know every thing, for Mrs. John Robert Gilder has fooled her. But I am not surprised; she would have fooled me, also, if I was not so intimate with Sophia, who tells me every thing—the only person who ever did; and there is just nothing I would not do for her. I know Sophia Gilder's other secret! She is caring a great deal too much for a man who don't take overmuch interest in her. But the man don't even know that she cares any thing for him, and I don't believe he will ever know—unless I tell him myself! Now I call that real tragedy; just as good as any you ever see on the stage, or read about in books. I would love to tell him; but that is one thing I have never told, and I never will, either! As they say in novels, it will go down to my grave with me. I am so anxious about Sophia, I am afraid it may take her there. But I have my doubts, she is right healthy-looking yet. Aunt Patsey says that love hurts a powerful lot, but don't often kill out and out. Robert Fairfield is the man. Ma says she never could understand why he don't pay me devoted attention. His father was one of her old beaus. She was engaged to him; Aunt Patsey broke it off—she was scheming for pa—she could break off any thing, that ancient female! Mr. Fairfield is polite to me, and that is about all. When I was a school-girl I used to dream about him! In my dreams he was always dressed like a knight, and rode a milk-white steed, waved his hand toward me, and then I always waked up. It was so provoking. I never could get any further into the dream. I know I would like him if I knew him real well. He is quiet, but not one bit stupid. He talks little, but oh, he is such an attentive listener! He don't come after me, so I can't run after him. For I don't know, and I don't want to know any thing about catching men—as if they were wild animals, fish, or something. Aunt Patsey calls it diplomacy! Diplomacy? Fiddle-sticks! It is down right deception of the very worst kind. I know that I talk too much, tell a great many things that ought to be left unsaid, but I do not tell lies—there is no other name for them—and knowingly, with malice aforethought, make an injury or do a wrong to any body.
But, my, my! I am always in trouble. Tom, my little brother, ran into the room just now, nearly out of breath, and made a little speech which almost gave me a nervous chill: "Oh, sister Alice! Won't you catch it, though? Aunt Patsey is just in from her meeting of the 'Cruelty to Animals' Association. She is in a dreadful way! She is just talking ma black and blue! She is giving you 'Hail Columbia!' She met Mrs. Par-dell, the manicure, the woman who ma says goes around fixing finger nails for fifty cents, and gives you five dollars' worth of gossip, sometimes scandal—to those who like it. She told Aunt Patsey a long tale about what you had certainly said: that Aunt Patsey was seven years older than she acknowledged; had been dyeing her hair for years; did not have a real tooth of her own in her head, and was a regular old tyrant here at home, and that all of us were afraid as death of even her thin, old shadow. Oh, but won't you catch it, though! Sis, you had better skip, and pretty quick, too! I think she's coming up-stairs now!"
It is awful, but I suppose I must have been telling just such a tale, but to whom I can not, for the life of me, think. See now, all this comes of telling the family secrets. That Mrs. Par-dell is a dangerous woman! I refused flatly to have her make bird-claws out of my finger-nails. This is her revenge! I am powerless! But it was not a slander, it was all the truth; just as true as gospel. That's the reason she is in such a rage. But she is coming; this house won't hold us both just now, so I am off via back stairs—to dine with my dear Sophia Gilder, if I don't find that fraud, Mrs. Babbington Brooks, there ahead of me. She and Mrs. John Robert G. are inseparable. The old dragon draws near—I am gone, leaving behind a smile and a kiss for my ancient female relative. Ah, Aunt Patsey, not good form, you know, to get angry with people—even with your niece,
