"That's so," she gravely grunted.
"But tell me," said Mr. P., "where in the world can you be going?"
At this the maiden took a straw, and ramming it down the chimney of her lamp, stirred up the flies until they glittered like dollar jewelry. Then she chanted, in plaintive, tones, the following legend:
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"Three women came, one moonlight night, And tempted me away. They said, 'No longer on this lake, Good maiden, must you stay. We're SUSAN A. and ANNA D., And LUCY S. also, And what a lone female can do We want the world to know. No better instance can we give, Oh, Indian maid! than you, How woman can, year after year. Paddle her own canoe.'" |
"Just so," said Mr. P., "but don't you think that as you are--that is to say--that not being of corporeal substance--by which I mean having been so long departed, as it were; or, to speak more plainly--"
"Oh, yes! I know.--Dead, you mean," said the maiden. "But that makes no difference. They'll be glad enough of a ghost of an example."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. P. "And yet their cause is good enough. I don't see why they should make up--"
He would have said more, but turning, he saw that the Indian maid, despairing of her tickets, had gone.
The next day Mr. P. went home himself. He communed with his own soul, as it were, for a little while, and has no doubt it did him a deal of good. But it would take so long to get back to his office, you see.
As a cheap watering place, where there are no fancy drives or fancy horses; no club-houses; no big hotels; no gay company; nor anything to tempt a man to sacrifice health and money in the empty pursuit of pleasure, Mr. P. begs to recommend the Dismal Swamp.