John rubs the water out of his eyes, muttering a few unmentionable words. Susan and Mary make a transient visit to the looking-glass, and descend the stair’s just as the coffee smokes upon the table. Mrs. Quip frightens the chickens into the barrel again with her calico long-short and the great bell that she ring at the barn-door to “call the men folks to breakfast,” and takes her accustomed seat at the table.
“Brown bread or white? baked beans or salt meat? doughnuts, cheese, or apple-pie? which’ll you have?” said Mrs. Quip to little Fanny.
“Ma’am?” said Fanny, with a bewildered look.
“Oh, dear; Susan Quip, for gracious’ sake find out what that peddler’s child wants; hurry, all of you. Baking to be done to-day; yesterday’s ironing to finish; them new handkerchers to hem; John’s trowsers to mend; buttery shelves to scour; brown bread sponge to set; yeast to make; pickles to scald; head-cheese to fix: hurry, all of you. Susan Quip, there’s the cat in the buttery, smack, and—scissors—right into that buttermilk, arter a mouse. Scat—scat; Susan Quip, that’s your doings—leaving the buttery door open. John Quip, do you drownd that cat to-day. Don’t talk to me of kittens; kittens is as plenty as peddlers’ children. Hand me that coffee, Susan Quip. Lord-a-mercy, there’s the fishman: run, John—two mackerel, not more than sixpence a-piece; pinch ’em in the stomach, to see if they are fresh. If they are flabby, don’t take ’em; if they ain’t, do. Yes, every thing to do, to-day, and a little more beside. Soft soap to——Heavens and earth, John Quip, that mackerel man hasn’t given you the right change by two cents. Here, stop him! John Quip—Susan—get out of the way, all of you; I’ll go myself,” and the calico long-short started in full pursuit of the mackerel defaulter.
Poor little Fanny! no Green Mountain boy, set down in the rush of the city, ever felt half so crazy. Mrs. Quip, with her snap-dragon, touch-me-not-manners, high-pitched voice, and heavy tramp, was such a contrast to her dear grandmother, with her soft tones, noiseless step, and gentle ways. Fanny was afraid to move for fear she should cross Mrs. Quip’s track. She did not know whether she were hungry or thirsty. She marveled at the railroad velocity with which the food disappeared, and pitied Mrs. Quip so much for having such a quantity of things to do all in a minute!
The next day after Fanny’s arrival at Butternut farm, was Sunday. Mrs. Quip was up betimes, as usual, but her activity took a devotional turn. She was out to the barn fifty times a minute, to see “if the horse and waggin was getting harnessed for meetin’,”—not but Mr. Quip was still above ground, but as far as he had any voice in family matters, he might as well have been under. Mrs. Quip was up in Susan’s room (or, as she pronounced it, Sewsan), to see if she was learning her catechise; she was padlock-ing John Quip’s Sunday temptation, in the shape of the “Thrilling Adventures of Jack Bowsprit;” she was giving the sitting-room as Sabbatical and funereal an aspect as possible, by setting the chairs straight up against the walls, shutting all the blinds, and putting into the cupboard every thing that squinted secular-wise.
Fanny, oppressed by the gloom within doors, crept out into the warm sunshine, and seating herself under a tree in the yard, was looking at a few clover blossoms which she had plucked beside her. She was thinking of the pleasant Sundays she had passed with her dear grandmother, and how she used to sit on the door-step of the cottage, and tell her how God taught the little birds to build their cradle nests, and find their way through the air; and how He provided even for the little ants, who so patiently, grain by grain, built their houses in the gravel walk; and how He kept the grass green with the dew and showers, and ripened the fruit, and opened the blossoms with the warm sunshine, and how He was always watching over us, caring for our wants, listening to our cries, pitying us for our sorrows, and making His sun to shine even on those who forget to thank Him for it. But see—Fanny has dropped her clover blossoms, for Mrs. Quip has seized her by the arm, and says,
“You wicked child, you! To think of picking a flower Sunday! What do you expect will become of you when you die? What do you think the neighbors will think? Sinful child! There”—slamming her down on a cricket in the sitting-room—“sit down, and see if you can learn what the chief end of man is, afore meeting time. Flowers of a Sunday! or flowers any day, for the matter of that, I never could see the sense of ’em. Even the Bible says, ‘they toil not, neither do they spin.’ Gracious goodness—Sewsan Quip, Mrs. Snow’s kerriage has just started for meetin’. Get your things, all of you. Sewsan, see to that peddler’s child; mind that she don’t take no flowers to the Lord’s temple; John Quip, you shan’t wear them gloves; they cost twenty-five cents at the finding-store; and if you think that I bought ’em for you to drive in, you are mistaken; now put ’em in your pocket till you get into the meetin’-us porch; that will save ’em a sight; them leather reins will wear ’em all threadbare in less than no time. Mercy on us, the string is off my bunnet. Sewsan, that’s your doing. Run and bring me a pin off the third shelf in the buttery, under the yellow quart bowl. I picked it up and put it there this morning. Make haste, now. John Quip, stop cracking your whip that way on the holy Sabbath day. What do you suppose your dead grandpa would think, if he should hear it?”
The wagon was brought, and its living freight stowed carefully away in the remote corners. The oil-cloth covering was buttoned carefully down on all sides, as it had been during the winter; Mrs. Quip said it was hot, but maybe it would crack the oil-cloth to roll it up for the breeze to play through. Susan, Mary, and Fanny, therefore, took a vapor bath, on the back seat. Mrs. Quip, seated at John’s side, excluded, with her big black bonnet, any stray breeze which might have found entrance that way, to the refreshing of the gasping passengers. Dobbin moved on; he had been up that hot, dusty hill, many a Sunday before, and understood perfectly well how to keep his strength in reserve for the usual accession to his load on the village green, in the shape of the Falstaffian Aunt Hepsibah, Miss Butts, the milliner, and Deacon Tufts, who were duly piled in on the gasping occupants behind. Mrs. Quip being also on the alert to fill up any stray chinks in the “waggin” with “them children who stopped to rest in the road, when they oughter go straight to meetin’.”