I had a letter from Serepta yesterday. She is a gettin’ along first rate; her time is her own; her childern are gettin’ more’n half civilized; and she has gained a pound a week.
A VISIT TO PHILANDER SPICER’SES FOLKS.
Knowin’ that Philander Spicers’es folks was well off, and wouldn’t be put to it for things to wait on us, we thought we wouldn’t write to tell ’em we was a comin’, but give ’em a happy surprise. They owned five hundred acres of land, and had oceans of money out at interest. Well, it was about the middle of the afternoon, P. M. when we arrove at their dwellin’ place. It was a awful big, noble lookin’ house, but every winder and winder blind was shut up tight, and it looked lonesome, and close; but I haint one to be daunted, so I stepped up and rung at the bell. Nobody come. Then I rung at it again, and Josiah took my umberell and kinder rapped on the door with it, pretty considerable loud; and then a dejected lookin’ man hollered at us from the barn door, and says he:
“You wont get in there.”
Says I, “Why not, is it the house of mournin’?” says I; for there was sunthin’ strange and melancholly in his tone.
“Because you might let in a fly,” says he.
He didn’t say nothin’ more, but stood a lookin’ at us dretful dejected and melancholly-like, and Josiah and me stood lookin’ at him, and we felt curious, very. But pretty soon I found and recovered myself, and I says in pretty firm tones:
“If Mahala Spicer, she that was Mahala Allen lives here, I lay out to see her before I leave these premises.”
“Well,” says the man, “foller up that path round the back side of the house, and you’ll find her; we live in the wood-house.” As he said that, he seemed to kinder git over into the manger, and I laid holt of Josiah, and says I: