The Wit of Women

water.” He glanced furtively at the girl, then looked quickly away at the gallant red-bird, still gayly parading among the leaves.

The old woman grinned with delight. “Now, ef that ain’t s’prisin’,” she declared. “Ef we hed knowed ez Lost Creek war a-goin’ dry over yander a-nigh the shop, so ye an’ Pete would hev ter kem hyar thirstin’ fur water, we-uns would hev brung suthin’ down hyar ter drink out’n. We-uns hain’t got no gourd hyar, hev we, Cynthy?”

“‘Thout it air the little gourd with the saft-soap in it,” said Cynthia, confused and blushing. Her mother broke into a high, loud laugh.

“Ye ain’t wantin’ ter gin ‘Vander the soap-gourd ter drink out’n, Cynthy! Leastwise, I ain’t goin’ ter gin it ter Pete. Fur I s’pose ef ye hev ter kem a haffen mile ter git a drink, ‘Vander, ez surely Pete’ll hev ter kem, too. Waal, waal, who would hev b’lieved ez Lost Creek would go dry nigh the shop, an’ yit be a-scuttlin’ along like that hyarabouts!” and she pointed with her bony finger at the swift flow of the water.

He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretence of thirst. “Lost Creek ain’t gone dry nowhar, ez I knows on,” he admitted, mechanically rolling the sleeve of his hammer-arm up and down as he talked.

From Miss Woolson’s story of “Anne,” I give the pen-portrait of the precise

“MISS LOIS.”

“Codfish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of course,” said Miss Lois, “and fried hasty-pudding. On Wednesdays, a boiled dinner. Pies on Tuesdays and Saturdays.”

The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion; three times each week every room in the house was swept, and the floors, as well as the furniture, dusted. Beans were baked in an iron pot on Saturday night, and sweet-cake was made on Thursday. Winter or summer, through scarcity or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her established routine, thereby setting an example, she said, to the idle and shiftless. And certainly she was a faithful guide-post, continually pointing out an industrious and systematic way, which, however, to the end of time, no French-blooded, French-hearted person will ever travel, unless dragged by force. The villagers preferred their lake trout to Miss Lois’s salt codfish, their tartines to her corn-meal puddings, and their eau-de-vie to her green tea; they loved their disorder and their comfort; her bar soap and scrubbing-brush were a horror to their eyes. They washed the household clothes two or three times a year. Was not that enough? Of what use the endless labor of this sharp-nosed woman, with glasses over her eyes, at the church-house? Were not, perhaps, the glasses the consequence of such toil? And her figure of a long leanness also?

The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss Lois’s life in her persistent effort to employ Indian servants. Through long years had she persisted, through long years would she continue to persist. A succession of Chippewa squaws broke, stole, and skirmished their way through her kitchen, with various degrees of success, generally in the end departing suddenly at night with whatever booty they could lay their hands on. It is but justice to add, however, that this was not much, a rigid system of keys and excellent locks prevailing in the well-watched household. Miss Lois’s conscience would not allow her to employ half-breeds, who were sometimes endurable servants; duty required, she said, that she should have full-blooded natives. And she had them. She always began to teach them the alphabet within three days after their arrival, and the spectacle of a tearful, freshly-caught Indian girl, very wretched in her calico dress and white apron, worn out with the ways of the kettles and the brasses, dejected over the fish-balls, and appalled by the pudding, standing confronted by a large alphabet on the well- scoured table, and Miss Lois by her side with a pointer, was frequent and even regular in its occurrence, the only change being in the personality of the learners. No one of them had ever gone through the letters, but Miss Lois was not discouraged.

THE CIRCUS AT DENBY.

BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT.

I cannot truthfully say that it was a good show; it was somewhat dreary, now that I think of it quietly and without excitement. The creatures looked tired, and as if they had been on the road for a great many years. The animals were all old, and there was a shabby great elephant whose look of general discouragement went to my heart, for it seemed as if he were miserably conscious of a misspent life. He stood dejected and motionless at one side of the tent, and it was hard to believe that there was a spark of vitality left in him. A great number of the people had never seen an elephant before, and we heard a thin, little old man, who stood near us, say delightedly: “There’s the old creatur’, and no mistake, Ann ‘Liza. I wanted to see him most of anything. My sakes alive, ain’t he big!”

And Ann ‘Liza, who was stout and sleepy-looking, droned out: “Ye-es, there’s consider’ble of him; but he looks as if he ain’t got no animation.”

Kate and I turned away and laughed, while Mrs. Kew said, confidentially, as the couple moved away: “She needn’t be a reflectin’ on the poor beast. That’s Mis’ Seth Tanner, and there isn’t a woman in Deep Haven nor East Parish to be named the same day with her for laziness. I’m glad she didn’t catch sight of me; she’d have talked about nothing for a fortnight.” There was a picture of a huge snake in Deep Haven, and I was just wondering where he could be, or if there ever had been one, when we heard a boy ask the same question of the man whose thankless task it was to stir up the lions with a stick to make them roar. “The snake’s dead,” he answered, good-naturedly. “Didn’t you have to dig an awful long grave for him?” asked the boy; but the man said he reckoned they curled him up some, and smiled as he turned to his lions, that looked as if they needed a tonic. Everybody lingered longest before the monkeys, that seemed to be the only lively creatures in the whole collection….

Coming out of the great tent was disagreeable enough, and we seemed to have chosen the worst time, for the crowd pushed fiercely, though I suppose nobody was in the least hurry, and we were all severely jammed, while from somewhere underneath came the wails of a deserted dog. We had not meant to see the side shows; but when we came in sight of the picture of the Kentucky giantess, we noticed that Mrs. Kew looked at it wistfully, and we immediately asked if she cared anything about going to see the wonder, whereupon she confessed that she never heard of such a thing as a woman’s weighing six hundred and fifty pounds; so we all three went in. There were only two or three persons inside the tent, beside a little boy who played the hand-organ.

The Kentucky giantess sat in two chairs on a platform, and there was a large cage of monkeys just beyond, toward which Kate and I went at once. “Why, she isn’t more than two thirds as big as the picture,” said Mrs. Kew, in a regretful whisper; “but I guess she’s big enough; doesn’t she look discouraged, poor creatur’?” Kate and I felt ashamed of ourselves for being there. No matter if she had consented to be carried round for a show, it must have been horrible to be stared at and joked about day after day; and we gravely looked at the monkeys, and in a few minutes turned to see if Mrs. Kew were not ready to come away, when, to our surprise, we saw that she was talking to the giantess with great interest, and we went nearer.

“I thought your face looked natural the minute I set foot inside the door,” said Mrs. Kew; “but you’ve altered some since I saw you, and I couldn’t place you till I heard you speak. Why, you used to be spare. I am amazed, Marilly! Where are your folks?”

“I don’t wonder you are surprised,” said the giantess. “I was a good ways from this when you knew me, wasn’t I? But father, he ran through with every cent he had before he died, and ‘he’ took to drink, and it killed him after a while; and then I begun to grow worse and worse, till I couldn’t do nothing to earn a dollar, and everybody was a-