“It is the most astonishin’ thing I ever see, that so good a man as Uncle Zebulin, should have a family that turned out so bad. It seems to be a mysterious dispensation of Providence.”
“Yes!” says Elam Pitkins. “It is Providence that done it, I haint a doubt of it.”
This made me so agitated, that entirely unbeknown to myself I riz right up in the wagon, and says I:
“Josiah Allen if you lay any more such doin’s to Providence, I’ll know the reason why.” Says I, “Not bein’ Elam Pitkins’es natural gardeun, if he’s a mind to slander Providence I can’t help it, but you shant, Josiah Allen. You shall not talk ag’inst Providence, and abuse him by layin’ conduct to him that He is as innocent of as a infant babe.
“Well! well! do set down Samantha. How it does look for you to be a standing up a ridin’.”
The democrat give a awful jolt jest that minute, and truly I did what my companion advised me to, I sot down. But though my body was a settin’ down my mind was up and a doin’, for I see what was before me. I see that as a Promiscous Advisor there was a job ahead of me to tackle in the cause of Right.
When Elam Pitkins sot us down in front of Uncle Zebulin Coffin’ses house door, (two miles and a half almost, from Loon Town), the sun was jest a goin’ to bed for the night; a settlin’ down into a perfect pile of gold and purple and crimson bed clothes and comforters. But it seemed as if after he had pulled up the great folds of shinin’ drapery over him and covered his head up, he was a laughin’ to himself down under the bed-clothes, to think he had left the world lookin’ so beautiful and cheerful. Everything seemed to appear sort of happy and peaceful and still, still as a mouse, almost. It was the time of daisies and sweet clover, and all along the quiet country road, the white daisies was a smilin’ and noddin’ their bright heads. And the sweet clover, and the wild roses with their pretty red lips that the bees had been a kissin’ the biggest heft of the day, seemed to take a solid comfort in lookin’ bright, and makin’ the air sweet as honey, and sweeter.
There had been a shower of rain in the mornin’, and old Nater’s face was all washed off as clean as a pink; not a mite of dust on it. The medder was green as green could be, and the wavin’ wheat fields, looked first-rate. There was a strip of woods towards the west, quite a considerable ways off, shady and still it looked, and beyond that we could see the lake, part of it blue and serene like, and part of it lookin’ like them streets of gold, we read about.
The birds was a singin’ sort o’ low and sweet in the trees in the orchard. The sky overhead blushed up kinder pink, but the east was blue and clear, and the moon was sailin’ up in it like a silver boat that had sot out for the land of Pure Delight and expected to get there in a few moments. I don’t know when I ever see a handsomer time.
There are times you know, when it seems as if heaven and earth got so near to each other, that the stream of the Unknown that divides our world from the world of eternal light and beauty, could be spanned by one minute, if you could fix that minute onto an arrer, and aim it right, and shoot it straight. Oh! how beautiful and consolin’ and inspirin’ and happyfyin’ every thing looked, and I remarked to my pardner in tones of rapped admiration and extacy: