Samantha at Saratoga Part 3

I see Ardelia wuz used to obeyin' her ma. She opened the sheet to once, and begun.

Jest the minute Ardelia stopped readin' Miss Tatt says proudly: "There! haint that a remarkable poem,?"

Sez I, calmly, "Yes it is a remarkable one."

"Did you ever hear anything like it?" says she, triumphly.

"No," sez I honestly, "I never did."

"Ardelia, read the poem on Little Ardelia Cordelia; give Miss Allen the treat of hearin' that beautiful thing."

I sort a sithed low to myself; it wuz more of a groan than a common sithe, but Miss Tutt didn't heed it, she kep' right on --

"I have always brought up my children to make other folks happy, all they can, and in rehearsin' this lovely and remarkable poem, Ardelia will be not only makin' you perfectly happy, givin' you a rich intellectual feast, that you can't often have, way out here in the country, fur from Tuttville; but she will also be attendin'

to the business that brought us here. I have always fetched my children up to combine joy and business; weld 'em together like bra.s.s and steel. Ardelia, begin!"

So Ardelia commenced agin'. It wuz wrote on a big sheet of paper and a runnin' vine wuz a runnin' all 'round the edge of the paper, made with a pen.

Jest as soon as Ardelia stopped rehearsin' the verses, Miss Tutt sez agin to me:

"Haint that a most remarkable poem?"

And agin I sez calmly, and trutbfully, "Yes, it is a very remarkable one!"

"And now," sez Miss Tutt, plungin' her hand in the bag, and drawin' out a sheet of paper, "to convince you that Ardelia has always had this divine gift of poesy -- that it is not, all the effect of culture and high education -- let me read to you a poem she wrote when she wuz only a mere child," and Miss Tutt read:

"LINES ON A CAT

"WRITTEN BY ARDELIA TUTT, "At the age of fourteen years, two months and eight days.

"Oh Cat! Sweet Tabby cat of mine; 6 months of age has pa.s.sed o'er thee, And I would not resign, resign The pleasure that I find in you.

Dear old cat!"

"Don't you think," sez Miss Tutt, "that this poem shows a fund of pa.s.sion, a reserve power of pa.s.sion and constancy, remarkable in one so young?"

"Yes," sez I reasonably, "no doubt she liked the cat. And," sez I, wantin' to say somethin' pleasant and agreeable to her, "no doubt it was a likely cat."

"Oh the cat itself is of miner importance," sez Miss Tutt. "We will fling the cat to the winds. It's of my daughter I would speak. I simply handled the cat to show the rare precocious intellect. Oh! how it gushed out in the last line in the unconquerable burst of repressed pa.s.sion -- `Dear old cat!'

Shakespeare might have wrote that line, do you not think so?"

"No doubt he might," sez I, calmly, "but he didn't."

I see she looked mad and I hastened to say: "He wuzn't aquainted with the cat."

She looked kinder mollyfied and continued:

"Ardelia dashes off things with a speed that would astonish a mere common writer. Why she dashed off thirty-nine verses once while she wuz waitin' for the dish water to bile, and sent 'em right off to the printer, without glancin' at 'em agin.'

"I dare say so," sez I, "I should judge so by the sound on 'em."

"Out of envy and jealousy, the rankest envy, and the shearest jealousy, them verses wuz sent back with the infamous request that she should use 'em for curl papers. But she sot right down and wrote forty-eight verses on a `Cruel Request,' wrote 'em inside of eighteen minutes. She throws off things, Ardelia does, in half an hour, that it would take other poets, weeks and weeks to write."

"I persume so," sez I, "I dare persume to say, they never could write 'em."

"And now," sez Miss Tutt, "the question is, will you put Ardelia on the back of that horse that poets ride to glory on? Will you lift her onto the back of that horse, and do it at once? I require nothin' hard of you," sez she, a borin' me through and through with her eyes. "It must be a joy to you, Josiah Allen's wife, a rare joy, to be the means of bringin' this rare genius before the public. I ask nothin' hard of you, I only ask that you demand, demand is the right word, not ask; that would be grovelin'

trucklin' folly, but demand that the public that has long ignored my daugther Ardelia's claim to a seat amongst the immortal poets, demand them, compel them to pause, to listen, and then seat her there, up, up on the highest, most perpendiciler pinnacle of fame's pillow. Will you do this?"

I sat in deep dejection and my rockin' chair, and knew not what to say -- and Miss Tutt went on:

"We demand more than fame, deathless, immortal fame for 'em. We want money, wealth for 'em, and want it at once! We want it for extra household expenses, luxuries, clothing, jewelry, charity, etc. If we enrich the world with this rare genius, the world must enrich us with its richest emmolients. Will you see that we have it! Will you at once do as I asked you to? Will you seat her immegately where I want her sot?

Sez I, considerin', "I can't get her up there alone, I haint strong enough." Sez I, sort a mekanikly, "I have got the rheumatez."

"So you scoff me do you? I came to you to get bread, am I to get worse than a stun -- a scoff?"

"I haint gin you no scoff," sez I, a s.p.u.n.kin' up a little, "I haint thought on it. I like Ardelia and wish her well, but I can't do merikles, I can't compel the public to like things if they don't."

Sez Miss Tutt, "You are jealous of her, you hate her."

"No, I don't," sez I, "I haint jealous of her, and I like her looks first-rate. I love a pretty young girl," sez I candidly, "jest as I love a fresh posy with the dew still on it, a dainty rose-bud with the sweet fragrance layin' on its half-folded heart.

I love 'em," sez I, a beginnin' to eppisode a little unbeknown to me, "I love 'em jest as I love the soft unbroken silence of the early spring mornin', the sun all palely tinted with rose and blue, and the earth alayin' calm and unwoke-up, fresh and fair. I love such a mornin' and such a life, for itself and for the unwritten prophecis in it. And when I see genius in such a sweet, young life, why it makes me feel as it duz to see through all the tender prophetic beauty of the mornin' skies, a big white dove a soarin' up through the blue heavens."

Sez Miss Tutt, "You see that in Ardelia, but you wont own it, you know you do."

"No!" sez I, "I would love to tell you that I see it in Ardelia; I would honest, but I can't look into them mornin' skies and say I see a white dove there, when I don't see nothin' more than a plump pullet, a jumpin' down from the fence or a pickin' round calmly in the back door-yard. Jest as likely the hen is, as the white dove, jest as honerable, but you mustn't confound the two together."

"A hen," sez Miss Tutt bitterly. "To confound my Ardelia with a hen! And I don't think there wuz ever a more ironieler `hen' than that wuz, or a scornfuller one."

"Why," sez I reasonably. "Hens are necessary and useful in any position, both walkin' and settin', and layin'. You can't get'em in any position hardly, but what they are useful and respectable, only jest flyin'. Hens can't fly. Their wings haint shaped for it. They look some like a dove's wings on the outside, the same feathers, the same way of stretchin' 'em out. But there is sunthin lackin' in 'em, some heaven-given capacity for soarin' an for flight that the hens don't have. And it makes trouble, sights and sights of trouble when hens try to fly, try to, and can't!

"At the same time it is hard for a dove to settle down in a back yard and stay there, hard and tegus. She can and duz sometimes, but never till after her wings have been clipped in some way.

Poor little dove! I am always sorry for 'em to see 'em a walkin'

round there, a wantin' to fly -- a not forgettin' how it seemed to have their wings soarin' up through the clear sky, and the rush of the pure liquid windwaves a sweepin' aginst 'em, as they riz up, up, in freedom, and happiness, and glory. Poor little creeters.

"Yes, but doves can, if you clip their wings, settle down and walk, but hens CAN'T fly, not for any length of time they can't.

No amount of stimulatin' poultices applied to the ends of their tail feathers and wings can ever make 'em fly. They can't; it haint their nater. They can make nests, and fill them with pretty downy chicks, they can be happy and beautiful in life and mean; they can spend their lives in jest as honerable and worthy a way as if they wuz a flyin' round, and make a good honerable appearance from day to day, till they begin to flop their wings, and fly -- then their mean is not beautiful and inspirin'; no, it is fur from it. It is tuff to see 'em, tuff to see the floppin', tuff to see their vain efforts to soar through the air, tuff to see 'em fall percepitously down onto the ground agin. For they must come there in the end; they are morally certain to.

"Now Ardelia is a sweet pretty lookin' girl, she can set down in a cushioned arm-chair by a happy fireside, with pretty baby faces a cl.u.s.terin' around her and some man's face like the sun a reflectin' back the light of her happy heart. But she can't sit up on the pinnacle of fame's pillow. I don't believe she can ever get up there, I don't. Honestly speakin', I don't."

"Envy!" sez Miss Tutt, "glarin', shameless envy! You don't want Ardelia to rise! You don't want her to mount that horse I spoke of; you don't want to own that you see genius in her. But you do, Josiah Allen's wife, you know you do -- "

"No," sez I, "I don't see it. I see the sweetness of pretty girlhood, the beauty and charm of openin' life, but I don't see nothin' else, I don't, honest. I don't believe she has got genius," sez I, "seein' you put the question straight to me and depend a answer; seein' her future career depends on her choice now, I must tell you that I believe she would succeed better in the millionary trade or the mantilly maker's than she will in tryin' to mount the horse you speak on.

"Why," sez I, candidly, "some folks can't get up on that horse, their legs haint strong enough. And if they do manage to get on, it throws 'em, and they lay under the heels for life. I don't want to see Ardelia there, I don't want to see her maimed and lamed and stunted so early in the mornin' of life, by a kick from that animal, for she can't ride it," sez I, "honestly she can't.

"There is nothin' so useless in life, and so sort a wearin' as to be a lookin' for sunthin' that haint there. And when you pretend it is there when it haint, you are addin' iniquity to uselessness; so if you'll take my advice, the advice of a wellwisher, you will stop lookin', for I tell you plain that it haint there."

Sez Miss Tutt, "Josiah Allen's wife, you have for reasens best known to your conscience baulked my hopes of a speedy immortality.

You have willfully tried to break down my hopes of an immense, immediate income to flow out of them poems for luxuries, jewelry, charity, etc. But I can at least claim this at your hands, I demand honesty. Tell me honestly what you yourself think of them poems."