Serepta’s face looked red as blood, but she didn’t answer a word back. Serepta Simmons is a Christian. I believe it as much as I believe I am J. Allen’s wife. And I spoke right up and says I:
“Bein’ a searcher after information, and speakin’ as a private investigater, and a woman that has got a vow on her, I ask what are the Marthas expected to do?”
Says Miss Horn, “They are expected to be cumbered all the time with cares; to be ready any time, day or night, to do anything the public demands of ’em; to give all their time, their treasure if they have got any, and all the energies of their mind and body to the public good, to be cumbered by it in any and every way.”
Says I, “Again, I ask you as a private woman with a vow, aint it hard on the Marthas?”
She said it was; but she was proud to be one of ’em, proud to be cumbered. And she said—givin’ Serepta a awful searchin’ look—“That when a certain person that ort to be a pattern, and a burnin’ and a shinin’ light, wouldn’t put their name down, there was weaker vessels that it would be apt to break into—it would make divisions and sisms.”
That skairt Serepta and she was jest about puttin’ her name down, but she couldn’t help murmurin’ sunthin’ about time, “afraid I won’t have time to do jest right by everybody.”
“Time!” says Miss Horn, scornfully and angrily,—“Time! ‘Go to the ant thou sluggard, consider her ways and be wise.’”
But jest as Miss Horn was a finishin’ repeatin’ her poetry, and before Serepta had time to put her name down, all of a sudden the door opened, and another great tall woman marched in. I noticed there didn’t none of ’em knock, but jest opened the door and stalked in, jest as if the minister’s house, as well as he and his wife belonged to ’em and they had a perfect right to stream in every minute. I declare, it madded me, for I say if home means anything it means a place where anybody can find rest, and repose and freedom from unwelcome intrusion. And I say, and I contend for it, that I had jest as lives have anybody steal anything else from me, as to steal my time and my comfort. There probable haint a woman standin’ on feet at the present age of the world, (with or without vows on ’em) that is more horsepitable, and gladder to see her friends than Samantha Allen, late Smith. There are those, whose presence is more restful, and refreshin’ and inspirin’, than the best cup of tea or coffee that ever was drunk. The heart, soul, and mind send out stronger tendrils that cling closer and firmer even than some of the twigs of the family tree. Kindred aims, hopes, and sympathies are a closer tie than 4th cousin.
There is help, inspiration and delight in the presence of those who are more nearly and truly related to us than if they was born on our father’s or mother’s side unbeknown to them. And friends of our soul, it would be a hard world indeed, if we could never meet each other. And I would advise Serepta as a filler of the bottle she was brought up on, and a well-wisher, to visit back and forth occasionally, at proper times and seasons, and neighbor considerable with all who might wish to neighbor, be they aliens or friends, Horns or softer material. Standin’ firm and steadfast, ready to borry and lend salaratus, clothes-pins, allspice, bluein’ bags, and etcetery, and in times of trouble, standin’ by ’em like a rock, and so 4th.
The Bible says, “Iron sharpeneth iron, so does a man the countenance of his friend.” But in the words of the Sammist (slightly changed), there is a time for visitin’ and a time for stayin’ to home. A time to neighbor, and a time to refrain from neighborin’,—a time to talk, and a time to write sermons, wash dishes, and mop out the kitchen. And what I would beware Miss Horn and the rest of ’em is, of sharpenin’ that “iron” so uncommon sharp that it will cut friendship right into in the middle; or keep on sharpenin’ it, till they git such a awful fine pint on it, that before they know it, it will break right off so blunt that they can’t never git an age put on it again.