Part II
Time: Same morning.
Place: Store in Washington.
Second Monologue, by Mrs. Trimble:
“Why, howdy, Mis’ Blakes—howdy, Mis’ Phemie—howdy, all. Good-mornin’, Mr. Lawson. I see yo’ sto’e is fillin’ up early. Great minds run in the same channel, partic’larly on Christmus Eve.
“My old man started off this mornin’ befo’ day, an’ soon ez he got out o’sight down the Simpkinsville road, I struck out for Washin’ton, an’ here I am. He thinks I’m home seedin’ raisins. He was out by starlight this mornin’ with the big wagon, an’, of co’se, I know what that means. He’s gone for my Christmus gif’, an’ I’m put to it to know what tremenjus thing he’s a-layin’ out to fetch me—thet takes a cotton-wagon to haul it. Of co’se I imagine everything, from a guyaskutus down. I always did like to git things too big to go in my stockin’. What you say, Mis’ Blakes? Do I hang up my stockin’? Well, I reckon. I hadn’t quit when I got married, an’ I think that’s a poor time to stop, don’t you? Partic’larly when you marry a man twice-t yo’ age, an’ can’t convince him thet you’re grown, noways. Yes, indeedy, that stockin’ goes up to-night—not mine, neither, but one I borry from Aunt Jane Peters. I don’t wonder y’all laugh. Aunt Jane’s foot is a yard long ef it’s a’ inch, but I’ll find it stuffed to-morrer mornin’, even ef the guyaskutus has to be chained to the mantel. An’ it’ll take me a good hour to empty it, for he always puts a lot o’ devilment in it, an’ I give him a beatin’ over the head every nonsensical thing I find in it. We have a heap o’ fun over it, though.
“He don’t seem to know I’m grown, an’ I know I don’t know he’s old.
“Listen to me runnin’ on, an’ you all nearly done yo’ shoppin’. Which do you think would be the nicest to give him, Mr. Lawson—this silver card-basket, or that Cupid vase, or——?
“Y’all needn’t to wink. I seen you, Mis’ Blakes. Ef I was to pick out a half dozen socks for him like them you’re a-buyin’ for Mr. Blakes, how much fun do you suppose we’d have out of it? Not much. I’d jest ez lief ’twasn’t Christmus—an’ so would he—though they do say his first wife give him a bolt o’ domestic once-t for Christmus, an’ made it up into nightshirts an’ things for him du’in the year. Think of it. No, I’m a-goin’ to git him somethin’ thet’s got some git-up to it, an’—an’ it’ll be either—that Cupid vase—or—lordy, Mr. Lawson, don’t fetch out that swingin’ ice-pitcher. I glimpsed it quick ez I come in the door, an’, says I, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ an’ turned my back on it immejiate.
“But of co’se I ca-culated to git you to fetch it out jest for me to look at, after I’d selected his present. Ain’t it a beauty? Seems to me they couldn’t be a more suitable present for a man—ef he didn’t hate ’em so. No, Mis’ Blakes, it ain’t only thet he don’t never drink ice-water. I wouldn’t mind a little thing like that.
“You ricollec’ ol’ Mis’ Meredy, she used to preside over one thet they had, an’ somehow he taken a distaste to her an’ to ice-pitchers along with her, an’ he don’t never lose a chance to express his disgust. When them new folks was in town last year projec’in’ about the railroad, he says to me, ‘I hope they won’t stay, they’d never suit Simpkinsville on earth. They’re the regular swingin’ ice-pitcher sort. Git folks like that in town an’ it wouldn’t be no time befo’ they’d start a-chargin’ pew rent in our churches.’ We was both glad when they give out thet they wasn’t a-goin’ to build the road. They say railroads is mighty corruptin’, an’ me, with my sick headaches, an’ a’ ingine whistle in town, no indeed! Besides, ef it was to come I know I’d be the first one run over. It’s bad enough to have bulls in our fields without turnin’ steam-ingines loose on us. Jest one look at them cow-ketchers is enough to frustrate a person till he’d stand stock still an’ wait to be run over—jest like poor crazy Mary done down here to Cedar Springs.
“They say crazy Mary looked that headlight full in the face, jes’ the same ez a bird looks at a snake, till the thing caught her, an’ when the long freight train had passed over her she didn’t have a single remain, not a one, though I always thought they might’ve gethered up enough to give her a funeral. When I die I intend to have a funeral, even if I’m drownded at sea. They can stand on the sho’e, an’ I’ll be jest ez likely to know it ez them thet lay in view lookin’ so ca’m. I’ve done give him my orders, though they ain’t much danger o’ me dyin’ at sea, not ef we stay in Simpkinsville.
“How much are them willer rockers, Mr. Lawson? I declare that one favors my old man ez it sets there, even without him in it. Nine dollars? That’s a good deal for a pants-tearin’ chair, seems to me, which them willers are, the last one of ’em, an’ I’m a mighty poor hand to darn. Jest let me lay my stitches in colors, in the shape of a flower, an’ I can darn ez well ez the next one, but I do despise to fill up holes jest to be a-fillin’. Yes, ez you say, them silver-mounted brier-wood pipes is mighty purty, but he smokes so much ez it is, I don’t know ez I want to encourage him. Besides, it seems a waste o’ money to buy a Christmus gif’ thet a person has to lay aside when company comes in, an’ a silver-mounted pipe ain’t no politer to smoke in the presence o’ ladies than a corncob is. An’ ez for when we’re by ourselves—shucks.
“Ef you don’t mind, Mr. Lawson, I’ll stroll around through the sto’e an’ see what you’ve got while you wait on some o’ them thet know their own minds. I know mine well enough. What I want is that swingin’ ice-pitcher, an’ my judgment tells me thet they ain’t a more suitable present in yo’ sto’e for a settled man thet has built hisself a residence an’ furnished it complete the way he has, but of co’se ’twouldn’t never do. I always think how I’d enjoy it when the minister called. I wonder what Mr. Lawson thinks o’ me back here a-talkin’ to myself. I always like to talk about the things I’m buyin’. That’s a mighty fine saddle-blanket, indeed it is. He was talkin’ about a new saddle-blanket the other day. But that’s a thing a person could pick up almost any day, a saddle-blanket is. A’ ice-pitcher now——
“Say, Mr. Lawson, lemme look at that tiltin’-pitcher again, please, sir. I jest want to see ef the spout is gold-lined. Yes, so it is—an’ little holes down in the throat of it, too. It cert’n’y is well made, it cert’n’y is. I s’pose them holes is to strain out grasshoppers or anything thet might fall into it. That musician thet choked to death at the barbecue down at Pump Springs last summer might ’a’ been livin’ yet ef they’d had sech ez this to pass water in, instid o’ that open pail. He’s got a mighty keerless way o’ drinkin’ out open dippers, too. No tellin’ what he’ll scoop up some day. They’d be great safety for him in a pitcher like this—ef I could only make him see it. It would seem a sort o’ awkward thing to pack out to the well every single time, an’ he won’t drink no water but what he draws fresh. An’ I s’pose it would look sort o’ silly to put it in here jest to drink it out again.
“Sir? Oh, yes, I saw them saddle-bags hangin’ up back there, an’ they are fine, mighty fine, ez you say, an’ his are purty near wo’e out, but lordy, I don’t want to buy a Christmus gif’ thet’s hung up in the harness room half the time. What’s that you say? Won’t you all never git done a-runnin’ me about that side-saddle? You can’t pleg me about that. I got it for his pleasure, ef it was for my use, an’, come to think about it, I’d be jest reversin’ the thing on the pitcher. It would be for his use an’ my pleasure. I wish I could see my way to buy it for him. Both goblets go with it, you say—an’ the slop bowl? It cert’n’y is handsome—it cert’n’y is. An’ it’s expensive—nobody could accuse me o’ stintin’ ’im. Wonder why they didn’t put some polar bears on the goblets, too. They’d ’a’ had to be purty small bears, but they could ’a’ been cubs, easy.
“I don’t reely believe, Mr. Lawson, indeed I don’t, thet I could find a mo’ suitable present for him ef I took a month, an’ I don’t keer what he’s a-pickin’ out for me this minute, it can’t be no handsomer’n this. Th’ ain’t no use—I’ll haf to have it—for ’im. Jest charge it, please, an’ now I want it marked. I’ll pay cash for the markin’, out of my egg money. An’ I want his full name. Have it stamped on the iceberg right beside the bear. ‘Ephraim N. Trimble.’ No, you needn’t to spell out the middle name. I should say not. Ef you knew what it was you wouldn’t ask me. Why, it’s Nebuchadnezzar. It’d use up the whole iceberg. Besides, I couldn’t never think o’ Nebuchadnezzar there an’ not a spear o’ grass on the whole lan’scape. You needn’t to laugh. I know it’s silly, but I always think o’ sech ez that. No, jest write it, ‘Ephraim N. Trimble, from his wife, Kitty.’ Be sure to put in the Kitty, so in after years it’ll show which wife give it to him. Of co’se, them thet knew us both would know which one. Mis’ Mary Jane wouldn’t never have approved of it in the world. Why, she used to rip up her old crocheted tidies an’ things an’ use ’em over in bastin’ thread, so they tell me. She little dremp’ who she was a-savin’ for, poor thing. She was buyin’ this pitcher then, but she didn’t know it. But I keep a-runnin’ on. Go on with the inscription, Mr. Lawson. What have you got? ‘From his wife, Kitty’—what’s the matter with ‘affectionate wife’? You say affectionate is a purty expensive word? But ‘lovin’’ ’ll do jest ez well, an’ it comes cheaper, you say? An’ plain ‘wife’ comes cheapest of all? An’ I don’t know but what it’s mo’ suitable, anyhow—at his age. Of co’se, you must put in the date, an’ make the ‘Kitty’ nice an’ fancy, please. Lordy, well, the deed’s done—an’ I reckon he’ll threaten to divo’ce me when he sees it—till he reads the inscription. Better put in the ‘lovin’,’ I reckon, an’ put it in capitals—they don’t cost no more, do they? Well, good-bye, Mr. Lawson, I reckon you’ll be glad to see me go. I’ve outstayed every last one thet was here when I come. Well, good-bye! Have it marked immejiate, please, an’ I’ll call back in an hour. Good-bye, again!”