And Josiah, feelin’ clever, consented not to, and sot still, and I went to knittin’ again. But it was a scene of almost fearful confusion, and excitement. No sooner had the President sot down, sayin’ he denied me the right “in tato toto,” than Simon Slimpsey got up (with difficulty) and says he, in a almost thick tone:
“I think taint best to give her the potato.”
He had been a drinkin’ and didn’t know what he was sayin’. He sot down again right off—had to—for he couldn’t stand up. But as he kinder fell back on his seat, he kep’ a mutterin’ that “she didn’t ort to have the potato give her; she didn’t know enough to plant the tater, or hoe it—she hadn’t ort to have it.”
Nobody minded him. But Solomon Cypher jumped up, and says he, smitin’ his breast with his right hand:
“I motion she haint no right to talk.” And again he smote his breast almost severely.
“I motion you tell on what grounds you make the motion!” says the Editor of the Gimlet, jumpin’ up and throwin’ his head back nobly.
“I motion you set down again,” says the President,—takin’ aim at him as if he was a mushrat—“I motion you set down and give him a chance to git up and tell why he made the motion.”
So the Editor of the Gimlet sot down, and Solomon Cypher riz up:
“I stand on this ground,” (says he, stampin’ down his right foot,) “and on this ground I make my motion:” (says he, stampin’ down his left one, and smitin’ himself a almost dangerous blow in the breast,) “that this society haint no place for wimmen. Her mind haint fit for it; ‘fur frummit,’ as my honored friend, the President observes,—‘fur frummit.’ There is deep subjects a goin’ to be brung up here, that is all my mind can do, to rastle with and throw ’em; and for a female woman’s mind to tackle ’em, it would be like settin’ a pismire to move a meetin’ house. Wimmen’s minds is weak.”
Here he smote himself a fearful blow right in the pit of his stomach, and repeated the words slowly and impressively: