“Thursday mornin’,” says I in a tone as cold as a grindstone in January, for I see what was before me.
She clasped her two hands and smiled on me two times, and cried out agin, “Oh, what anotheh coincidence! jest the day I was intending to embark. Oh,” says she, “how sweet it will be for you to have a congenial companion on the way, as the poet Robinson Selkirk sweetly singeth,
‘Oh solitude, where are the charms
Mr. Sage hath seen in thy face?’
Don’t you say so, Josiah Allen’s wife?”
“I respect Mr. Sage,” says I, “he is a man I admire, and Mr. Selkirk don’t know beans,” and I added in frigid tones, “when the bag is untied.” I see that my emotions was a gettin’ the better of me, I see my principals was a totterin’. I recollected that I was a member of the Methodist meetin’ house, and the words of a him come back to me, with a slight change in ’em to suit the occasion.
“Shall I be carried to New York,
On floury bags of ease?”
I turned and shouldered my cross.
“Betsey we will set sail together Thursday mornin’.” I then turned silently and left the store, for I felt than any further effort would have been too much for me.