I joined Betsey by the door, and says I, “Less go on to once.”
“But,” says she, to me in a low mysterious voice; “Josiah Allen’s wife, do you suppose they would want to let me have a straw colored silk dress, and take thier pay in poetry?”
Says I, “for the land’s sake Betsey, don’t try to sell any poetry here. I am wore out. If they won’t take any sacks and mittens, or good butter and eggs, I know they won’t take poetry.”
She argued a spell with me, but I stood firm, for I wouldn’t let her demean herself for nothin’. And finally I got her to go on.
A HARROWIN’ OPERATION.
All I could do and say, Betsey would keep a goin’ into one store after another, and I jest trailed round with her ’till it was pitch dark. Finally after arguin’ I got her headed towards her cousin’s.
It was as late as half past eight when I got back to Miss Asters’es. As I went by the parlor door, I heard a screechin’ melankoly hollerin’. Thinks’es I to myself, “somebody’s hurt in there, some female I should think, by the voice.” I thought at first I wouldn’t interfere, as there was enough to take her part, for the room seemed to be chuck full. So I was goin’ on up to my room, when it come to my ears agin, louder and more agonizin’ than ever. I couldn’t stand it. As a female who was devoted to the cause of Right, I felt that in the behalf of my sect I would see what could be done. I kinder squeezed my way in, up towards the sound, and pretty soon I got where I could see her. Then I knew she was crazy.
She looked bad. Her dress seemed to be nice silk, but it jest hung on to her shoulders, and she had strung a lot of beads and things round her neck—you know how such poor critters will rig themselves out—and she had tore at her hair so she had got it all streamin, down her neck. Her face was deathly white, only in the middle of her cheeks there was a feverish spot of fire red. Her eyes was rolled up in her head. She looked real bad.