This free pass of Josiah Allen's wus indeed a strange incident, and it made sights and sights of talk.
But of course there wus considerable lyin' about it, as you know the way is. Why, it does beat all how stories will grow.
Why, when I hear a story nowadays, I always allow a full half for shrinkage, and sometimes three-quarters; and a good many times that hain't enough. Such awful lyin' times! It duz beat all.
But about this strange thing that took place and happened, I will proceed and relate the plain and unvarnished history of it. And what I set down in this epistol, you can depend upon. It is the plain truth, entirely unvarnished: not a mite of varnish will there be on it.
A little over two years ago Josiah Allen, my companion, had a opportunity to buy a wood-lot cheap. It wus about a mild and a half from here, and one side of the lot run along by the side of the railroad. A Irishman had owned it previous and prior to this time, and had built a little shanty on it, and a pig-pen. But times got hard, the pig died, and owing to that, and other financikal difficulties, the Irishman had to sell the place, “ten acres more or less, runnin' up to a stake, and back again,” as the law directs.
Wall, he beset my companion Josiah to buy it; and as he had plenty of money in the Jonesville bank to pay for it, and the wood on our wood-lot wus gettin' pretty well thinned out, I didn't make no objection to the enterprize, but, on the other hand, I encouraged him in it. And so he made the bargain with him, the deed wus made out, the Irishman paid. And Josiah put a lot of wood-choppers in there to work; and they cut, and drawed the wood to Jonesville, and made money. Made more than enough the first six months to pay for the expenditure and outlay of money for the lot.
He did well. And he calculated to do still better; for he said the place bein' so near Jonesville, he laid out, after he had got the wood off, and sold it, and kep' what he wanted, he calculated and laid out to sell the place for twice what he give for it. Josiah Allen hain't nobody's fool in a bargain, a good deal of the time he hain't. He knows how to make good calculations a good deal of the time. He thought somebody would want the place to build on.
Wall, I asked him one day what he laid out to do with the shanty and the pig-pen that wus on it. The pig-pen wus right by the side of the railroad-track.
And he said he laid out to tear 'em down, and draw the lumber home: he said the boards would come handy to use about the premises.
Wall, I told him I thought that would be a good plan, or words to that effect. I can't remember the exact words I used, not expectin' that I would ever have to remember back, and lay 'em to heart. Which I should not had it not been for the strange and singular things that occurred and took place afterwards.
Then I asked my companion, if I remember rightly, “When he laid out to draw the boards home?” For I mistrusted there would be some planks amongst 'em, and I wanted a couple to lay down from the back-door to the pump. The old ones wus gettin' all cracked up and broke in spots.
And he said he should draw 'em up the first day he could spare the team. Wall, this wus along in the first week in April that we had this talk: warm and pleasant the weather wus, exceedingly so, for the time of year. And I proposed to him that we should have the children come home on the 8th of April, which wus Thomas J.'s birthday, and have as nice a dinner as we could get, and buy a handsome present for him. And Josiah was very agreeable to the idee (for when did a man ever look scornfully on the idee of a good dinner?).
And so the next day I went to work, and cooked up every thing I could think of that would be good. I made cakes of all kinds, and tarts, and jellys. And I wus goin' to have spring lamb and a chicken-pie (a layer of chicken, and a layer of oysters. I can make a chicken-pie that will melt in your mouth, though I am fur from bein' the one that ort to say it); and I wus goin' to have a baked fowl, and vegetables of all kinds, and every thing else I could think of that wus good. And I baked a large plum-cake a purpose for Whitfield, with “Our Son” on it in big red sugar letters, and the dates of his birth and the present date on each side of it.
I do well by the children, Josiah says I do; and they see it now, the children do; they see it plainer every day, they say they do. They say, that since they have gone out into the world more, and seen more of the coldness and selfishness of the world, they appreciate more and more the faithful affection of her whose name wus once Smith.
Yes, they like me better and better every year, they say they do. And they treat me pretty, dretful pretty. I don't want to be treated prettier by anybody than the children treat me.
And their affectionate devotion pays me, it pays me richly, for all the care and anxiety they caused me. There hain't no paymaster like Love: he pays the best wages, and the most satisfyin', of anybody I ever see. But I am a eppisodin', and to resoom and continue on.
Wall! the dinner passed off perfectly delightful and agreeable. The children and Josiah eat as if—Wall, suffice it to say, the way they eat wus a great compliment to the cook, and I took it so.
Thomas J. wus highly delighted with his presents. I got him a nice white willow rockin'-chair, with red ribbons run all round the back, and bows of the same on top, and a red cushion,—a soft feather cushion that I made myself for it, covered with crimson rep (wool goods, very nice). Why, the cushion cost me above 60 cents, besides my work and the feathers.
Josiah proposed to get him a acordeun, but I talked him out of that; and then he wanted to get him a bright blue necktie. But I perswaided him to give him a handsome china coffee cup and saucer, with “To My Son” painted on it; and I urged him to give him that, with ten new silver dollars in it. Says I, “He is all the son you have got, and a good son.” And Josiah consented after a parlay. Why, the chair I give him cost about as much as that; and it wuzn't none too good, not at all.
Wall, he had a lovely day. And what made it pleasanter, we had a prospect of havin' another jest as good. For in about 2 months' time it would be Tirzah's Ann's birthday; and we both told her, Josiah and me, both did, that she must get ready for jest another such a time. For we laid out to treat 'em both alike (which is both Christian and common sense). And we told 'em they must all be ready to come home that day, Providence and the weather permittin'.
Wall, it wus so awful pleasant when the children got ready to go home, that Josiah proposed that he and me should go along to Jonesville with 'em, and carry little Samantha Joe. And I wus very agreeable to the idee, bein' a little tired, and thinkin' such a ride would be both restful and refreshin'.
And, oh! how beautiful every thing looked as we rode along! The sun wus goin' down in glory; and Jonesville layin' to the west of us, we seemed to be a ridin' along right into that glory—right towards them golden palaces, and towers of splendor, that riz up from the sea of gold. And behind them shinin' towers wus shadowy mountain ranges of softest color, that melted up into the tender blue of the April sky. And right in the east a full moon wuz sailin', lookin' down tenderly on Josiah and me and the babe—and Jonesville and the world. And the comet sot there up in the sky like a silent and shinin' mystery.
The babe's eyes looked big and dreamy and thoughtful. She has got the beautifulest eyes, little Samantha Joe has. You can look down deep into 'em, and see yourself in 'em; but, beyond yourself, what is it you can see? I can't tell, nor nobody. The ellusive, wonderful beauty that lays in the innocent baby eyes of little Samantha Joe. The sweet, fur-off look, as if she wus a lookin' right through this world into a fairer and more peaceful one.
And how smart they be, who can answer their questioning,—questionin' about every thing. Nobody can't—Josiah can't, nor I, nor nobody. Pretty soon she looked up at the comet; and says she, “Nama,”—she can't say grandma,—“Nama, is that God's comma?”
Now, jest see how deep that wuz, and beautiful, very. The heavens wuz full of the writin' of God, writin' we can't read yet, and translate into our coarser language; and she, with her deep, beautiful eyes, a readin' it jest as plain as print, and puttin' in all the marks of punctuation. Readin' the marvellous poem of glory, with its tremblin' pause of flame.
Josiah says, it is because she couldn't say comet; but I know better. Says I, “Josiah Allen, hain't it the same shape as a comma?”
And he had to gin it up that it was. And in a minute or two she says agin,—
“Nama, what is the comma up there for?”
Now hear that, how deep that wuz. Who could answer that question? I couldn't, nor Josiah couldn't. Nor the wisest philosopher that ever walked the earth, not one of 'em. From them that kept their night-watches on the newly built pyramids, to the astronimers of to-day who are spending their lives in the study of the heavens. If every one of them learned men of the world, livin' and dead, if they all stood in rows in our door-yard in front of little Samantha Joe, they would have to bow their haughty heads before her, and put their finger on their lips. Them lips could say very large words in every language under the sun; but they couldn't answer my baby's question, not one of 'em.
But I am eppisodin' fearfully, fearfully; and to resoom.
We left the children and the babe safe in their respective housen', and happy; and we went on placidly to Jonesville, got our usual groceries, and stopped to the post-office. Josiah went into the office, and come out with his “World,” and one letter, a big letter with a blue envelope. I thought it had a sort of a queer look, but I didn't say nothin'. And it bein' sort o' darkish, he didn't try to open it till we got home. Only I says,—
“Who do you s'pose your letter is from, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, “I don't know: the postmaster had a awful time a tryin' to make out who it was to. I should think, by his tell, it wus the dumbdest writin' that ever wus seen. I should think, by his tell, it went ahead of yourn.”
“Wall,” says I, “there is no need of your swearin'.” Says I, “If I wus a grandfather, Josiah Allen, I would choose my words with a little more decency, not to say morality.”
“Wall, wall! your writin' is enough to make a man sweat, and you know it.”
“I hadn't disputed it,” says I with dignity. And havin' laid the blame of the bad writin' of the letter he had got, off onto his companion, as the way of male pardners is, he felt easy and comfortable in his mind, and talked agreeable all the way home, and affectionate, some.
Wall, we got home; and I lit a light, and fixed the fire so it burnt bright and clear. And I drawed up a stand in front of the fire, with a bright crimson spread on it, for the lamp; and I put Josiah's rockin'-chair and mine, one on each side of it; and put Josiah's slippers in front of the hearth to warm. And then I took my knittin'-work, and went to knittin'; and by that time Josiah had got his barn-chores all done, and come in.
And the very first thing he did after he come in, and drawed off his boots, and wondered “why under the gracious heavens it was, that the bootjack never could be found where he had left it” (which was right in the middle of the settin'-room floor). But he found it hangin' up in its usual place in the closet, only a coat had got hung up over it so he couldn't see it for half a minute.
And after he had his warm slippers on, and got sot down in his easy-chair opposite to his beloved companion, he grew calmer again, and more placider, and drawed out that letter from his pocket.
And I sot there a knittin', and a watchin' my companion's face at the same time; and I see that as he read the letter, he looked smut, and sort o' wonder-struck: and says I,—
“Who is your letter from, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, lookin' up on top of it,—
“It is from the headquarters of the Railroad Company;” and says he, lookin' close at it agin, “As near as I can make out, it is a free pass for me to ride on the railroad.”
Says I, “Why, that can't be, Josiah Allen. Why should they give you a free pass?”
“I don't know,” says he. “But I know it is one. The more I look at it,” says he, growin' excited over it,—“the more I look at it, the plainer I can see it. It is a free pass.”
Says I, “I don't believe it, Josiah Allen.”
“Wall, look at it for yourself, Samantha Allen” (when he is dretful excited, he always calls me Samantha Allen), “and see what it is, if it hain't that;” and he throwed it into my lap.
I looked at it close and severe, but not one word could I make out, only I thought I could partly make out the word “remove,” and along down the sheet the word “place,” and there wus one word that did look like “free.” And Josiah jumped at them words; and says he,—
“It means, you know, the pass reads like this, for me to remove myself from place to place, free. Don't you see through it?” says he.
“No,” says I, holdin' the paper up to the light. “No, I don't see through it, far from it.”
“Wall,” says he, highly excited and tickled, “I'll try it to-morrow, anyway. I'll see whether I am in the right, or not.”
And he went on dreamily, “Lemme see—I have got to move that lumber in the mornin' up from my wood-lot. But it won't take me more'n a couple of hours, or so, and in the afternoon I'll take a start.”
Says I, “What under the sun, Josiah Allen, should the Railroad Company give you a free pass for?”
“Wall,” says he, “I have my thoughts.”
He spoke in a dretful sort of a mysterious way, but proud; and I says,—
“What do you think is the reason, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, “It hain't always best to tell what you think. I hain't obleeged to,” says he.
And I says, “No. As the poet saith, nobody hain't obleeged to use common sense unless they have got it;” and I says, in a meanin' tone, “No, I can't obleege you to tell me.”
Wall, sure enough, the next day, jest as quick as he got that lumber drawed up to the house, Josiah Allen dressed up, and sot off for Jonesville, and come home at night as tickled a man as I ever see, if not tickleder.
And he says, “Now what do you think, Samantha Allen? Now what do you think about my ridin' on that pass?”
And I says, “Have you rode on it, Josiah Allen?”
And he says, “Yes, mom, I have. I have rode to Loontown and back; and I might have gone ten times as fur, and not a word been said.”
And I says, “What did the conductor say?”
And he says, “He didn't say nothin'. When he asked me for my fare, I told him I had a free pass, and I showed it to him. And he took it, and looked at it close, and took out his specks, and looked and looked at it for a number of minutes; and then he handed it back to me, and I put it into my pocket; and that wus all there was of it.”
Says I, “How did the conductor look when he was a readin' it?”
And he owned up that he looked dubersome. But, says he, “I rode on it, and I told you that I could.”
“Wall,” says I, sithin', “there is a great mystery about it.”
Says he, “There hain't no mystery to me.”
And then I beset him agin to tell me what he thought the reason wus they give it to him.
And he said “he thought it was because he was so smart.” Says he, “I am a dumb smart feller, Samantha, though I never could make you see it as plain as I wanted to.” And then says he, a goin' on prouder and prouder every minute,—
“I am pretty-lookin'. I am what you might call a orniment to any car on the track. I kinder set a car off, and make 'em look respectable and dressy. And I'm what you might call a influential man, and I s'pose the railroad-men want to keep the right side of me. And they have took the right way to do it. I shall speak well of 'em as long as I can ride free. And, oh! what solid comfort I shall take, Samantha, a ridin' on that pass! I calculate to see the world now. And there is nothin' under the sun to hender you from goin' with me. As long as you are the wife of such a influential and popular man as I be, it don't look well for you to go a mopein' along afoot, or with the old mare. We will ride in the future on my free pass.”
“No,” says I. “I sha'n't ride off on a mystery. I prefer a mare.”
Says he, for he wus that proud and excited that you couldn't stop him nohow,—
“It will be a dretful savin' of money, but that hain't what I think of the most. It is the honor they are a heapin' onto me. To think that they think so much of me, set such a store by me, and look up to me so, that they send me a free pass without my makin' a move to ask for it. Why, it shows plain, Samantha, that I am one of the first men of the age.”
And so he would go on from hour to hour, and from day to day; and I wus that dumbfoundered and wonderin' about it, that I couldn't for my life tell what to think of it. It worried me.
But from that day Josiah Allen rode on that pass, every chance he got. Why, he went to the Ohio on it, on a visit to his first wive's sister; and he went to Michigan on it, and to the South, and everywhere he could think of. Why, he fairly hunted up relations on it, and I told him so.
And after he got 'em hunted up, he'd take them onto that pass, and ride round with 'em on it.
And he told every one of 'em, he told everybody, that he thought as much agin of the honor as he did of the money. It showed that he wus thought so much of, not only in Jonesville, but the world at large.
Why, he took such solid comfort in it, that it did honestly seem as if he grew fat, he wus so puffed up by it, and proud. And some of the neighbors that he boasted so before, wus eat up with envy, and seemed mad to think he had come to such honor, and they hadn't. But the madder they acted, the tickleder he seemed, and more prouder, and high-headeder.
But I could not feel so. I felt that there wus sunthin' strange and curius about it. And it wus very, very seldom that Josiah could get me to ride on it. Though I did take a few short journeys on it, to please him. But I felt sort o' uneasy while I was a ridin' on it, same as you feel when you are goin' up-hill with a heavy load and a little horse. You kinder stand on your feet, and lean forward, as if your bein' oncomfortable, and standin' up, helped the horse some.
I had a good deal of that restless feelin', and oneasy. And as I told Josiah time and time again, “that for stiddy ridin' I preferred a mare to a mystery.”
Wall, it run along for a year; and Josiah said he s'posed he'd have to write on, and get the pass renewed. As near as he could make out, it run out about the 4th day of April. So he wrote down to the head one in New-York village; and the answer came back by return mail, and wrote in plain writin' so we could read it.
It seemed there wus a mistake. It wuzn't a free pass, it wus a order for Josiah Allen to remove a pig-pen from his place on the railroad-track within three days.
There it wuz, a order to remove a nuisence; and Josiah Allen had been a ridin' on it for a year, with pride in his mean, and haughtiness in his demeanor.
Wall, I never see a man more mortified and cut up than Josiah Allen wuz. If he hadn't boasted so over its bein' gin to him on account of his bein' so smart and popular and etcetery, he wouldn't have felt so cut up. But as it was, it bowed down his bald head into the dust (allegory).
But he didn't stay bowed down for any length of time: truly, men are constituted in such a way that mortification don't show on 'em for any length of time.
But it made sights and sights of talk in Jonesville. The Jonesvillians made sights and sights of fun of him, poked fun at him, and snickered. I myself didn't say much: it hain't my way. I merely says this: says I,—
“You thought you wus so awful popular, Josiah Allen, mebby you won't go round with so haughty a mean onto you right away.”
“Throw my mean in my face if you want to,” says he. “But I guess,” says he, “it will learn 'em another time to take a little more pains with their duck's tracks, dumb 'em!”
Says I, “Stop instantly.” And he knew what I meant, and stopped.
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