“Now Josiah Allen will go out into that lot,” says I, glancein’ out of the north window “and plough right straight along, furrow after furrow, no sweat of mind about it at all; his mind is in that free calm state that he could write poetry.”
“Speaking of poetry, reminds me,” said Betsey, and I see her hand go into her pocket; I knew what was a comin’, and I went on hurriedly, wavin’ off what I knew must be, as long as I could. “Now, I, a workin’ jest as hard as he accordin’ to my strength, and havin’ to look 40 ways to once, and 40 different strains on my mind, now tell me candidly, Betsey Bobbet, which is in the best condition for cooin’, Josiah Allen or me? but it haint expected of him,” says I in agitated tones, “I am expected to do all the smilin’ and cooin’ there is done, though you know,” says I sternly, “that I haint no time for it.”
“In this poem, Josiah Allen’s wife, is embodied my views, which are widely different from yours.”
I see it was vain to struggle against fate, she had the poetry in her hand. I rescued the twins from beneath a half a bushel of beans they had pulled over onto themselves—took off my preserves which had burnt to the pan while I was a rescuin’, and calmly listened to her, while I picked up the beans with one hand, and held off the twins with the other.
“There is one thing I want to ask your advice about, Josiah Allen’s wife. This poem is for the Jonesville Augah. You know I used always to write for the opposition papah, the Jonesville Gimlet, but as I said the othah day, since the Editah of the Augah lost his wife I feel that duty is a drawing of me that way. Now do you think that it would be any more pleasing and comforting to that deah Editah to have me sign my name Bettie Bobbet—or Betsey, as I always have?” And loosin’ herself in thought she murmured dreamily to the twins, who was a pullin’ each other’s hair on the floor at her feet—
“Sweet little mothahless things, you couldn’t tell me, could you, deahs, how your deah Pa would feel about it?”
Here the twins laid holt of each other so I had to part ’em, and as I did so I said to Betsey, “If you haint a fool you will hang on to the Betsey. You can’t find a woman nowadays that answers to her true name. I expect,” says I in a tone of cold and almost witherin’ sarcasm, “that these old ears will yet hear some young minister preach about Johnnie the Baptist, and Minnie Magdalen. Hang on to the Betsey; as for the Bobbet,” says I, lookin’ pityingly on her, “that will hang on for itself.”
I was too well bread to interrupt her further, and I pared my potatoes, pounded my beefsteak, and ground my coffee for dinner, and listened. This commenced also as if she had been havin’ a account with Love, and had come out in his debt.
OWED TO LOVE.