Betsey seemed to kinder hate to go, but I started her off. For no burdock bur ever stuck to a horse’s mane, as Josiah Allen’s wife sticks to a companion, a drawin’ ’em along with her in the cause of Right. As we wended our way along, walkin’ afoot, she wanted to know what tavern I was a goin’ to put up to, and I told her “Mr. and Miss Asters’es tavern.” Says she, “If it was not jest as it was, I would ask you to go to cousin Ebenezah’s with me. But in the future it may be I shall be freer to act, than I be now. If I was a married female and had a home of my own heah, how happy I should be to welcome Jonesville to its blessed presincts. As deah Tuppah observes—”
But I interrupted her by sayin’ coolly, “Betsey, I have made up my mind to put up to Mr. Aster’ses, for Johnothan Beans’es ex-wife, Josiah’s 2nd cousin, is Miss Aster’ses hired girl.”
“Is she a widow?” says Betsey.
“She does a little in that line,” says I in a cautious tone. “She is a vegetable widow.” I wasn’t goin’ to say “grass widow” right out, though she is clear grass. For her husband, Johnothan Bean, run away with another woman 3 years ago this comin’ fall, it was all printed out in the World at the time. At that very minute we turned on to Broadway, and Betsey was a sailin’ on ahead of me in gay spirits, a laughin’, and a talkin’, and a quotin’ Tupper, jest as happy as you please. But as we turned the corner, I stopped her by ketchin’ holt of her Greek bender, and says I,
“I’d have a little respect into me, Betsey Bobbet,” says I. “Less stand still here, till the funeral procession goes by.”
So we put a funeral look onto our faces, and stood still a spell, and they streamed by. I thought my soul there was no end to the mourners. It seems as if we stood there decently and in order, with a solemn look onto our faces, becomin’ the solemn occasion, for pretty nigh ½ an hour. Finally I whispered to Betsey, and says I,
“Betsey, did you ever see such a gang of mourners in your life?”
I see her eyes looked kinder sot in her head, and she seemed to be not really sensin’ what I said. She looked strange. Finally says she, “It is a sorrowful time, I am composin’ a funeral owed, and I will repeat it to you soon.”
I wanted to get her mind off’en that idee, and I continued on a talkin’,
“It must be some awful big man that is dead. Like as not it is the Governor of the United States or some deacon or other. Do see ’em stringin’ along. But how some of the mourners are a behavin’, and how gay some of the wimmen are dressed. If I had known there was goin’ to be a funeral in the village, while I was here, some of the mourners might have had my black bombazeen dress, and my crape viel jest as well as not. I always make a practice of lendin’ ’em on funeral occasions.”