Second Syllable: Well.
Scene.—Out of doors. Tools lying about. Mr. Benson, a dark-whiskered Yankee, in working-clothes and overalls, is at work on a pump. The pump is a man or boy incased in brown paper. He is topped by a bandbox-cover, or by any thing which will bear resemblance to the capping of a wooden pump. One arm is used for the pump-handle: the other, as far up as the elbow, represents the spout. A small tub should be put underneath. There must be a large bottle of water hid in the coat-sleeve, with the thumb pressed over its mouth for a stopper. At the proper time, the water is allowed to run out. (This operation should be first practised in the ante-room.) While Mr. Benson is at work, Squire Reed enters. He is well dressed; has gray whiskers, tall hat, and a cane; is a little pompous and condescending.
Squire Reed. Well, Benson, how do you prosper? Always at work, hey? What! covered up your well?
Mr. Benson. Yes, and got in a pump (works the handle); but ’twon’t draw. Something’s the matter.
Squire R. I’m very sorry; not sorry the pump won’t draw, but sorry to lose the well,—sorry, I mean, to lose it out of the landscape. It was a very striking feature, with its long sweep.
Mr. B. Wal, to tell the truth, it did go agin my feelings. We’d got used to seeing it. My gran’ther dug it and stoned it up; and I’ve hoisted up a good deal o’ water out of it since I was boy, counting washing-water and all. But then ’twas a heap o’ trouble. (Works the handle.) Why don’t the critter draw?
Squire R. How did it trouble you?
Mr. B. (resting on the pump). Oh! things kept falling down it. I’d be out in the field, working, you know; and ’twould be all the time, “Mr. Benson, this thing’s tumbled down the well, and that thing’s tumbled down the well.” Then I’d leave, and run; and maybe ’twould be my little gal’s doll, or bub’s hat, or clean clothes off the line. And all the neighbors wanted to hang their things down it to keep cool. Course it put us out; but course we didn’t like to speak: so we had to say, “No trouble at all, no trouble at all;” though ’twasn’t true, you know.
Squire R. Very true; that is, it wasn’t very true.
Mr. B. And then ’twas a master place to c’lect young folks together, as ever was. First the gals would come with their pails, and stand talking; then the beaux would come, ’specially about sundown. Says I to my wife, “Guess I’ll break up that haunt.” (Pumps with short quick stroke.) But this new-fangled thing won’t draw a mite.