But in spite of all this, I spoze there is a good deal of cuttin’ up and behavin’ there.
And I don’t spoze that the name of the river that runs through it has anything to do with that, though Josiah thought it did. He said: “You couldn’t expect many morals or much stiddy behavior round a river Spree.”
But I don’t spoze the name made a mite of difference. The water seemed to run along as smooth and placid as Dove Creek, that bathes the streets of Loontown at home. Indeed, the waters of the Spree runs along real slow and quiet. And I spoze the inhabitants there are about on a equality with the dwellers in other cities in the old and new world. Human nater is a good deal the same wherever you find it. And I’ve always said that if I wanted to write a heart-searchin’, heart-meltin’ tragedy, I had just as soon turn away from the big cities and go into some lonesome hamlet of New England, into some big faded farmhouse standin’ by a dark weed-bordered sluggish creek, shaded by tall pollard willers. And there, behind the scraggly lilocks and cinnamon roses, and closed blinds of solid wood, with a little heart-shaped hole in the centre that casts strange shadders on the clean painted floor within, there I would find my tragedy material.
Mebby in some tall, scrawny woman’s form, clad in brown calico, with scanty gray hair drawed tightly back from a pale face and imprisoned in a little hard knob at the back.
When that hair wuz brown, and the mornin’ sun wuz ketched in its glistenin’, wavin’ tendrils, and the sunken cheeks wuz round and pink as one of the cinnamon roses, and the faded ambrotype of the young soldier in her red wooden chest upstairs wuz materialized in a handsome young man, who walked with her under the old willows when the slow-moving brook run swift with fancy’s flight and her heart beat happily, and life wuz new and radiant with love and joy–––
Before the changes come that swept them apart and left only a hollow, empty chamber in each heart, echoin’ with footsteps that are walkin’ heavily fur apart.
Then, if I could write the full history of that life, its joys and its sorrows, its aspirations, its baffled hopes, its compensations that didn’t compensate, the bareness of the life, the dagger-sharp trials with what is called small things, the wild heart struggles veiled by the New England coldness of expression, some as her sharp crags and stuns are covered with the long reign of ice and snow. The heartsick loneliness of oncongenial surroundin’s, the gradual fading away of hope and fears into the dead monotonous calm of hopelessness and despair.
There is a tragedy ready for the pen that would stand out as much more striking and sharp-edged as the stun on a ontravelled highway is rougher than one worn down to smoothness by the feet of the multitude, a tragedy that would move the world could I tell it as it really is.
But good land! What a hand to eppisode I be when I git to goin’. I must stop this very minute, or I’ll have the tragedy Alfred Tennyson speaks on “Dyin’ a Listener,” on my hands.