That madded me. I give that man a piece of my mind. I told him plainly that it “was bad enough to have such infirmities without bein’ made a public circus of. And I didn’t have no opinion of anybody that enjoyed such a scene and made fun of such poor critters.”
He looked real pert, and said somethin’ about my “not havin’ a ear for music.”
That madded me agin. And says I, “Young man, tell me that I hain’t got any ears agin if you dare!” and I ontied my bonnet strings, and lifted up the corner of my head dress. Says I, “What do you call that? If that hain’t a ear, what is it? And as for music, I guess I know what music is, as well as anybody in this village.” Says I, “you ought to hear Tirzah Ann sing jest between daylight and dark, if you want to hear music.” Says I, “her organ is a good soundin’ one everybody says. It ought to be, for we turned off a good two year old colt, and one of our best cows for it. And when she pulls out the tremblin’ stopple in front of it, and plays psalm tunes Sunday nights jest before sundown, with the shadders of the mornin’ glory vines a tremblin’ all over her, as she sings old Corinth, and Hebron, I have seen Josiah look at her and listen to her till he had to pull out his red bandanna handkerchief and wipe his eyes.”
“Who is Josiah?” says he.
Says I, “It is Tirzah Ann’s father.” And I continued goin’ on with my subject. “No medder lark ever had a sweeter voice than our Tirzah Ann. And when she sings about the ‘Sweet fields that stand dressed in livin’ green,’ she sings it in such a way, that you almost feel as if you had waded through the ‘swellin flood,’ and was standin’ in them heavenly medders. Tell me I never heard music! Ask Whitfield Minkley whether Tirzah Ann can sing Anna Lowery or not, on week day evenin’s, and old Mr. Robin Grey. Ask Whitfield Minkley, if you don’t believe me. He is a minister’s only son, and he hadn’t ought to lie.”
The little conceited feller’s face looked as red as a beet. He was a poor lookin’ excuse any way, a uppish, dandyfied lookin’ chap, with his moustache turned up at the corners, and twisted out like a waxed end. He pretended to laugh, but he showed signs of mortification, as plain as I ever see it. And he put up his specs, and I’ll be hanged if he hadn’t broke one eye off’en ’em, and looked at me through it. But I wasn’t dawnted by him, not a bit. I didn’t care how close he looked at me. Josiah Allen’s wife hain’t afraid to be examined through a double barreled telescope.
Just then a good lookin’ man with long sensible whiskers and moustache, hangin’ the way the Lord meant ’em to, and who had come up while I was a speakin’ this last—spoke to me and says he,
“I am like you madam, I like ballads better than I do opera music for the parlor.”
I didn’t really know what he meant, but he looked good and sensible lookin’ and so says I in a blind way,
“Yes like as not.”