TAKING THE CENSUS.

Characters:

Scene.—A house in the country. Mrs. Touchwood at a wash-tub hard at work.

Enter Inquisitor.

Inquisitor.

Good morning, madam. Is the head of the family at home?

Mrs. Touchwood. Yes, sir, I’m at home.

Inq. Haven’t you a husband?

Mrs. T. Yes, sir, but he ain’t the head of the family, I’d have you to know.

Inq. How many persons have you in your family?

Mrs. T. Why, bless me, sir, what’s that to you? You’re mighty inquisitive, I think.

Inq. I’m the man that takes the census.

Mrs. T. If you was a man in your senses you wouldn’t ask such impertinent questions.

Inq. Don’t be offended, old lady, but answer my questions as I ask them.

Mrs. T. “Answer a fool according to his folly!”—you know what the Scripture says. Old lady, indeed!

Inq. Beg your pardon, madam; but I don’t care about hearing Scripture just at this moment I’m bound to go according to law and not according to gospel.

Mrs. T. I should think you went neither according to law nor gospel. What business is it to you to inquire into folks’ affairs, Mr. Thingumbob?

Inq. The law makes it my business, good woman, and if you don’t want to expose yourself to its penalties, you must answer my questions.

Mrs. T. Oh, it’s the law, is it? That alters the case. But I should like to know what the law has to do with other people’s household matters?

Inq. Why, Congress made the law, and if it don’t please you, you must talk to them about it.

Mrs. T. Talk to a fiddle-stick! Why, Congress is a fool, and you’re another.

Inq. Now, good lady, you’re a fine, good-looking woman; if you’ll give me a few civil answers I’ll thank you. What I wish to know first is, how many are there in your family?

Mrs. T. Let me see [counting on her fingers]; there’s I and my husband is one——

Inq. Two, you mean.

Mrs. T. Don’t put me out, now, Mr. Thinkummy. There’s I and my husband is one——

Inq. Are you always one?

Mrs. T. What’s that to you, I should like to know. But I tell you, if you don’t leave off interrupting me I won’t say another word.

Inq. Well, take your own way, and be hanged to you.

Mrs. T. I will take my own way, and no thanks to you. [Again counting her fingers.] There’s I and my husband is one; there’s John, he’s two; Peter is three, Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. And then there’s Mr. Jenkins and his wife and the two children is six; and there’s Jowler, he’s seven.

Inq. Jowler! Who’s he?

Mrs. T. Who’s Jowler! Why, who should he be but the old house dog?

Inq. It’s the number of persons I want to know.

Mrs. T. Very well, Mr. Flippergin, ain’t Jowler a person? Come here, Jowler, and speak for yourself. I’m sure he’s as personable a dog as there is in the whole State.

Inq. He’s a very clever dog, no doubt. But it’s the number of human beings I want to know.

Mrs. T. Human! There ain’t a more human dog that ever breathed.

Inq. Well, but I mean the two-legged kind of beings.

Mrs. T. Oh, the two-legged, is it? Well, then, there’s the old rooster, he’s seven; the fighting-cock is eight, and the bantam is nine——

Inq. Stop, stop, good woman, I don’t want to know the number of your fowls.

Mrs. T. I’m very sorry indeed, I can’t please you, such a sweet gentleman as you are. But didn’t you tell me—’twas the two-legged beings——

Inq. True, but I didn’t mean the hens.

Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. The old gobbler, he’s seven, the hen turkey is eight; and if you’ll wait a week there’ll be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs.

Inq. Blast your turkeys!

Mrs. T. Oh, don’t now, good Mr. Hipper-stitcher, I pray you don’t. They’re as honest turkeys as any in the country.

Inq. Don’t vex me any more. I’m getting to be angry.

Mrs. T. Ha! ha! ha!

Inq. [striding about the room in a rage.] Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of my skin.

Mrs T. If you do, I don’t know who will fly in.

Inq. You do all you can to anger me. It’s the two-legged creatures who talk I have reference to.

Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. Well then, our Poll Parrot makes seven and the black gal eight.

Inq. I see you will have your own way.

Mrs. T. You have just found out, have you! You are a smart little man!

Inq. Have you mentioned the whole of your family?

Mrs. T. Yes, that’s the whole—except the wooden-headed man in front.

Inq. Wooden-headed?

Mrs. T. Yes, the schoolmaster what’s boarding here.

Inq. I suppose if he has a wooden head he lives without eating, and therefore must be a profitable boarder.

Mrs. T. Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken there. He eats like a leather judgment.

Inq. How many servants are there in the family?

Mrs. T. Servants! Why, there’s no servants but me and my husband.

Inq. What makes you and your husband servants?

Mrs. T. I’m a servant to hard work, and he is a servant to rum. He does nothing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle; while I’m working, and stewing, and sweating from morning till night, and from night till morning.

Inq. How many colored persons have you?

Mrs. T. There’s nobody but Dinah, the black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter Sue.

Inq. Is your daughter a colored girl?

Mrs. T. I guess you’d think so if you was to see her. She’s always out in the sun—and she’s tanned up as black as an Indian.

Inq. How many white males are there in your family under ten years of age?

Mrs. T. Why, there ain’t none now; my husband don’t carry the mail since he’s taken to drink so bad. He used to carry two, but they wasn’t white.

Inq. You mistake, good woman; I meant male folks, not leather mails.

Mrs. T. Let me see; there’s none except little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins’ two little girls.

Inq. Males, I said, madam, not females.

Mrs. T. Well, if you don’t like them, you may leave them off.

Inq. How many white males are there between ten and twenty?

Mrs. T. Why, there’s nobody but John and Peter, and John ran away last week.

Inq. How many white males are there between twenty and thirty?

Mrs. T. Let me see—there’s the wooden-headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his wife is two, and the black girl is three.

Inq. No more of your nonsense, old lady; I’m heartily tired of it.

Mrs. T. Hoity toity! Haven’t I a right to talk as I please in my own house?

Inq. You must answer the questions as I put them.

Mrs. T. “Answer a fool according to his folly”—you’re right, Mr. Hippogriff.

Inq. How many white males are there between thirty and forty?

Mrs. T. Why, there’s nobody but I and my husband—and he was forty-one last March.

Inq. As you count yourself among the males, I dare say you wear the breeches.

Mrs. T. Well, what if I do, Mr. Impertinence? Is that anything to you? Mind your own business, if you please.

Inq. Certainly—I did but speak. How many white males are there between forty and fifty?

Mrs. T. None.

Inq. How many between fifty and sixty?

Mrs. T. None.

Inq. Are there any between this and a hundred?

Mrs. T. None except the old gentleman.

Inq. What old gentleman? You haven’t mentioned any before.

Mrs. T. Why, gramther Grayling—I thought everybody knew gramther Grayling—he’s a hundred and two years old next August, if he lives so long—and I dare say he will, for he’s got the dry wilt, and they say such folks never dies.

Inq. Now give the number of deaf and dumb persons.

Mrs. T. Why, there is no deaf persons, excepting husband, and he ain’t so deaf as he pretends to be. When anybody axes him to take a drink of rum, if it’s only in a whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he’s as deaf as a horse-block.

Inq. How many dumb persons?

Mrs. T. Dumb! Why, there’s no dumb body in the house, except the wooden-headed man, and he never speaks unless he’s spoken to. To be sure, my husband wishes I was dumb, but he can’t make it out.

Inq. Are there any manufactures carried on here?

Mrs. T. None to speak on, except turnip sausages and tow cloth.

Inq. Turnip-sausages!

Mrs. T. Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there anything so wonderful in that?

Inq. I never heard of them before. What kind of machinery is used in making them?

Mrs. T. Nothing but a bread-trough, a chopping-knife and a sausage filler.

Inq. Are they made of clear turnips?

Mrs. T. Now you’re terrible inquisitive. What would you give to know?

Inq. I’ll give you the name of being the most communicative and pleasant woman I’ve met with for the last half-hour.

Mrs. T. Well, now, you’re a sweet gentleman, and I must gratify you. You must know we mix with the turnip a little red cloth, just enough to give them a color, so they needn’t look as if they were made of clear fat meat; then we chop them up well together, put in a little sage, summer savory, and black pepper; and they make as pretty little delicate links as ever was set on a gentleman’s table; they fetch the highest price in the market.

Inq. Indeed! Have you a piano in the house?

Mrs. T. A piany! What’s that?

Inq. A musical instrument.

Mrs. T. Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down at the Corners, has one—you see. Sary got all highfalutin about the great Colushun down to Bosting, and down she went; an’ when she came back the old man got no rest until she had one of the big square music boxes with white teeth—’spose that’s what you call a piany.

Inq. You seem to know what it is, then.

Mrs. T. Yes, sir. Have you anything more to ax?

Inq. Nothing more. Good morning, madam.

Mrs. T. Stop a moment; can’t you think of something else? Do now, that’s a good man. Wouldn’t you like to know what we’re a-going to have for dinner; or how many chickens our old white hen hatched at her last brood; or how many—

Inq. Nothing more—nothing more.

Mrs. T. Here, just look in the cupboard, and see how many red ants there are in the sugar-bowl; I haven’t time to count them myself.

Inq. Confound your ants and all your relations.

[Exit in a huff.