And then she says, going back to the old subject agin, “I hear that Josiah Allen has political hopes: can I canvass him?”
And I says, “Yes, you can for all me.” But I mentioned cautiously, for I believe in bein' straightforward, and not holdin' out no false hopes,—I said “she must furnish her own canvass, for I hadn't a mite in the house.”
But Josiah didn't get home till after her folks come after her. So he wuzn't canvassed.
But she talked a sight about her children, and how bad she felt to be parted from 'em, and how much she used to think of her husband, and how her hull life wus ruined, and how the Whiskey Ring had done it,—that, and wimmen's helpless condition under the law. And she cried, and wept, and cried about her children, and her sufferin's she had suffered; and I did. I cried onto my apron, and couldn't help it. A new apron too. And right while I wus cryin' onto that gingham apron, she made me promise to carry them two errents of hern to the President, and to get 'em done for her if I possibly could.
“She wanted the Whiskey Ring destroyed, and she wanted her rights; and she wanted 'em both in less than 2 weeks.”
I wiped my eyes off, and told her I didn't believe she could get 'em done in that length of time, but I would tell the President about it, and “I thought more'n as likely as not he would want to do right by her.” And says I, “If he sets out to, he can haul them babys of yourn out of that Ring pretty sudden.”
And then, to kinder get her mind off of her sufferin's, I asked her how her sister Susan wus a gettin' along. I hadn't heard from her for years—she married Philemon Clapsaddle; and Dorlesky spoke out as bitter as a bitter walnut—a green one. And says she,—
“She is in the poorhouse.”
“Why, Dorlesky Burpy!” says I. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say. My sister, Susan Clapsaddle, is in the poorhouse.”