THE OLD FORT. BY C. S. SWAIN. The roofless wreck is on a height, And peasants pass the place at night, Old ivy mantles round about, And rustles on the walls; And through the chambers of the past, Like drunken blusterer, the blast The bats are scared to hear it shout, And lazy lizards from the moat The children come and take the place By storm, when at their play, Before grey twilight comes, to chase Their noisy troop away. And so our thoughts and wishes change This moment Fancy will estrange TO SOME VIOLETS. (Sent me in a Letter by a Lady.) I greet with a glad heart the fragrance and joy That encircle your petals, sweet gems of the spring; And the incense ye scatter, your bloom and your smiles, About my heart throbs of wild flower love bring. But though rich is the fragrance ye wantonly wave, Though dear to mine eye are your petals of blue, The friend-love that sent me a greeting so prized Transcends all your fragrance and fairness of hue! Ye bid me remember the moss-bank and dell, Where spring breezes wanton among the young flowers Where the wild bird his glad song is carolling free, Amid young spring-buds that will form summer bowers. Ye bid me rejoice that the sunshiny time, The voice of the lark, and the hum of the bee, The soft breeze, the blue sky, the white-breasted cloud, Are coming to gladden all nature and me. TIMOTHY PETTIGREW'S WIFE'S HUSBAND. (An American Sketch.) BY MISS LESLIE. It was twelve o'clock at noon, and the family of Hilary Corndaffer (a substantial farmer in one of the middle states) were seated round the dinner-table, and partaking of such fare as was customary in farm-houses thirty or forty years ago. In those days no country people were dyspeptic; and men, women, and children could eat pie upon pudding, and pudding upon pie. In the present instance the first course was a "bag-pudding," with abundance of cream-dip, to be followed by a vast pot-pie, piling a vast dish with plenty of soft crust and hard crust | well steeped in thick gravy. The last course was a great peach pie. Massy slices of the pudding had just been helped round, when the attention of the eaters was diverted by an unusual tramp of horses, and Gideon and Martin Corndaffer (two tall young men, commonly called "the boys") ran to the porch-door to ascertain what was going by. Their laughing exclamation of "Look! look-come and look at the moving!" brought out immediately all the rest of the family, including Betsey Buffum, the spinninggirl. Passing slowly along the road, they beheld the strangest cavalcade that had ever greeted their eyes. On horse the first rode a woman in a dingy calico gown and a battered black bonnet, carrying upright before her a small circular teatable, turned up perpendicularly, and screening her face like a great heavy sun-shade. At the pommel of her saddle hung by a loop an ancient band-box, tied round with a long strip of red flannel, that scarcely kept it from falling to pieces. It went bumping against the shoulder of the horse in a manner that could not be agreeable to him, notwithstanding that he looked like an animal accustomed to all the rubs of life, except those of rubbing down. And the pommel carried double, sustaining, in addition | to the band-box, a large bundle tied up in a checked handkerchief. Attached to the crupper hung a tin coffee-pot, balanced on the other side by a pair of tall iron candlesticks tied together by a strip of rag. Horse the second was occupied by a thin, stoop-shouldered, yellow-faced man, carrying crossways before him a cradle, beneath which was folded an old quilt. Within the cradle was tied a baby, its head jogging from side to side; but happily it had jogged itself to sleep. In his hand the man carried a frying-pan, and a gridiron dangled from his saddle. High behind him, and close at his back, so as to bend him uncomfortably forward, rose a mysterious pile | of strangely irregular form, its contents concealed beneath a blanket. After the man came horse the third, with a big boy, who carried a small girl before him, and a large one behind him; the foremost girl holding on by the horse's tangled mane, the hindmost by the boy's jacket, thereby pulling it nearly off his shoulders; the spare hand of the boy shouldering an old gun, the tall girl conveying a long broom, and the little one a patched calibash. The rear was brought up by what at first seemed a sumpter horse, that appeared to be following of his own accord, and who was nearly hidden by beds and bedding tied up in old coverlets, and diversified by all manner of things stuck in here and there, and which it must have required some ingenuity to tie on and about, and to stuff down here and stand up there. But on a nearer view, a little boy might be discerned in the midst. The four steeds seemed paragons of meekness, all looking as if long since resigned to their condition, and the expression of their countenances having a great resemblance to that of their master. The costume of the whole family was shabby, ill-assorted, and inconvenient. There was something so grotesque in this strange procession,* that the Corndaffers found it difficult to keep their countenances "within the limits of becoming mirth." The equestrians perceived this as they rode along. The woman raised her head sternly and proudly; the man bent his still lower. The tall girl looked straight forward; and the big boy shouted—“ Hurrah for all of us!" A turn in the road soon carried the strangers out of sight, and the Corndaffers all went back to their dinners; the men laughing, and the women ejaculating, "Well, if ever!"-" Well, I never!" "A goodly company," said Martin Corndaffer, who had read some books; though in those days books were scarce among country people. "A handsome moving, an't it, Margy?" said the farmer to his wife. Carrying their goods in such an unchristian way, all upon horses, and never a cart or waggon." "Poor things!" said Margy. "I wish we had asked them to stop and get some dinner. Victuals never comes amiss to travellers." "I don't know," replied her husband. "Do you remember the two English beggars that you called in last summer? One despised Indian pudding, and the other would not touch pumkin-pie; and both of them laughed at hominy.' * The writer has witnessed one exactly similar. "Well, well," resumed the good Margy, "these an't English. They belong to our own people; but where they come from it's hard to guess. "I've a notion," said Gideon Corndaffer, 'they're the people that have taken Stony Lonesome. If so, I heard of them yesterday at John Downer's mill. A man who came to look at the new wheel was telling about them; and this is the account he gives: "One time or another, they have lived in every county of the state, and next move they'll have to progress out of it, for they're pretty near the border now." "Did you learn their name?" inquired the farmer. Now, what I say is this," observed the farmer; "I doubt they're an idle, worthless pack, and ought not to be encouraged. If such people were not always better treated than they deserve, there would not be so many of them; for they'd have to turn to and help themselves as their betters are obliged to do. Now, take notice all of you, I insist on it, that nothing shall be done for these Pettigrews." "After to-day," said his wife, entreatingly; "after to-day, Hilary. You know dinner is always welcome to folks that are moving." 66 "I don't know," replied her husband, we've always lived in being my father's before "having never moved myself-this home that me. However, the dinner business' is no con"He that an't the head of the family," replied Gideon," is known in all their neighbour-where's the use of asking me? Come, boys, cern of mine. If you want to send them any, hoods as Timothy Pettigrew's wife's husband." "That's enough," said Martin. "It gives at once his character in all its double-distilled henpeckery." “It's plain to be seen they're a queer family," said Hilary Corndaffer. "And what do they do?" "Nothing." “ And why?” "The man can do nothing because he is a poor creature; and the wife will do nothing because she comes of a great family. One of her grandfathers was a squire, and the other an assembly man. There was nothing grand about Timothy Pettigrew, but she married him for his beauty-he is said to have had some once. He did not make his fortune by marrying, for his wife brought him nothing but the glory of her grandfathers; her own father being a worthless, broken down scamp. Timothy has tried to get along in various ways, but never could manage it. And they have now taken to depending on luck, comforting themselves with the notion that the world is always moving on, and that nobody sticks by the way." "Yet it takes hard shoving to get some people along," observed Corndaffer. Timothy owned a bit of a farm once," pursued Gideon," away on the other side of the state; but it was sold by the sheriff'; and ever since they have been nothing but renters, only they never pay their rent. Still, nobody distresses them for it, as they never have anything worth seizing. Latterly, each of the children has had a legacy of an old horse left them by an uncle that kept a tavern and owned stages. Having worn out their last neighbourhood, they've come now to live in ours. The man and his wife were in these parts reconnoitring about a week ago, and so they took the old red house down at Stony Lonesome, that has had nobody living in it these three years, and is to be pulled down and built upon when young Ira Green comes of age; and, he says, till then they may live in it for nothing." "So we shall truly have them for neighbours," said Margy Corndaffer. 'Well, it's very good of young Ira. But who can be hard with such poor do-less creatures ?" come; it's time to go to work again." who, after reaching the door, turned back and The boys departed, followed by their father, said to his wife, "Margy, you may as well send trouble me about it. And it may be right to them enough for their suppers too, only don't see if they've candles to put in their old candlesticks, or wood to make a fire." "To be sure they have not," replied Margy. "Then send them some; only don't ask me which pile the wood's to be taken from. They may as well have some that's dry enough to kindle quick; but I've other things to think of than house trifles. And," again turning back, 'you may send Nace, as soon as he has done his dinner, with the wheelbarrow to take the victuals and the wood, and whatever else they don't deserve, down to Stony Lonesome." 66 When the men were gone, and the table cleared, Mrs. Corndaffer began preparing to fill a large basket for the benefit of the strangers, when a man came in at the gate, and ascending the porch walked straight into the front room, gave her a short nod, and seating himself in a rocking-chair, spoke, and said, "How are you, neighbour?" "As well as common,' was her reply; and she recognized him as the father of the nomade family. After he had sat a long time in silence (a practice which was not the least new to Mrs. Corndaffer, as it prevailed among most of her neighbours when they volunteered a visit), she commenced conversation by inquiring if he had come to live at Stony Lonesome? To this he replied in the affirmative. "And what business are you going to carry on there?" was her next question. "I think of doing a little at farming." "The place an't much of a farm.” "Then maybe I may try my hand at something else." "If you'll take and do any job that offers, you may get along middling well," observed Mrs. Corndaffer. me up here to borrow some meal to make, mumma herself is coming, and will be here griddle-cakes." right away." Margy," said Betsy Buffum, the spinninggirl, "just step here a bit and look at this yarn. Maybe it a'nt quite fine enough.” and going close to Betsey at the farthest exMrs. Corndaffer complied understandingly; tremity of the room, the latter said to her in a low voice, "For goodness gracious, Margy! put a stop to all this. In all my born days, I never saw the like of this impudence. The more "Cheese would give a relish. A good sized you give them the more they'll want, for ever chunk of cheese." "You can have some." Presently came in, very unceremoniously, a boy, who seemed about nine or ten years old. Pappy," said he, walking up to the man Timothy, "mumma sent me to put you in mind to ax the woman to lend us some bacon to fry." "You haven't got no bacon, have you?" said Timothy to Margy. "I should be sorry if we had not," said Mrs. Corndaffer. Pappy," resumed the boy, "tell her fried bacon an't nothing without eggs." "You can't spare us no eggs?" inquired Timothy. "I don't think I can. We an't very plenty of eggs just now." man. Just to borrow for a day or two," said the The boy grinned at the word "borrow." Next came walking in the youngest girl, who, pulling the boy by the jacket, said "Jem, mumma sent me after you to bid you ax the woman for a making of tea or two. She says she can never eat her dinner without a dish of tea along with it." "She's had to many a time," grinned the boy. And she wants to borrow some sugar, too, and some cream for her tea," pursued the girl. "She likes her cream rich." "Well, if ever!" exclaimed, from the other end of the room, the spinning-girl, who was a privileged person. "This beats all the bor rowing I ever heard of." Hush, Betsey, hush!" said Mrs. Corndaffer, making a sign of silence. Then turning to the Pettigrews, the good dame of the farmstead proceeded, "Well, I had thought, of my own accord, to send you some victuals and other things for your first day, before you have time to get settled and comfortable." "We're never settled," replied Timothy Pettigrew; "and we're never comfortable as I know of. But what are them other things you talk of sending?" "Oh, some fire-wood and candles, and such like; beside the basket of victuals. Indeed, I've thought of a whole wheelbarrow load." "Pile it high," said the boy. "But," turning to his little sister, he inquired, "Sall, where's Poll? I thought she was coming herself to ax the woman for pickles. She can't eat no meal without them." "Polly has to stay and mind the baby; for and ever. Pleasant neighbours you'll find them! If you begin by encouraging them this way, mark my words, you'll rue the hour they ever came to Stony Lonesome." "Come, come, Betsey," replied Mrs. Corndaffer, "don't be too hard upon the poor creatures. We can spare them a little and not miss it. And there must be many wants in a family at moving time." Well," resumed Betsey, "one comfort is, that from the character Gideon heard of them, they're always a moving, so there is the more chance of their soon moving off again, away from these parts." "Here comes mumma," said the girl. of And Mrs. Corndaffer, turning round, saw the tall, bony figure and sharp features of Mrs. Pettigrew, whose first act was to jerk up the unfortunate Timothy (who looked as if he should sink upon the floor from her grasp), and assail him with, "So here I find you, sitting as if your feet had took root in the floor, and never coming home with nothing. And I sending child after child to hurry you. I'll break staying of errands, that I will. And learning the children to do the same, too. Thank heaven! none of them takes after me or my side of the house. They're all Pettigrews, every one of them. Not a bit of the Loudenslager about them. But it serves me right for bemeaning myself to a Pettigrew, when I was Miss Hulda Loudenslager." you Then seating herself in the chair from which she had ejected her husband (who had retreated behind her, and stood looking at his feet), Mrs. Pettigrew reached over to a palm-leaf fan which hung on the wall near a window, and taking it down, commenced using it violently, and rocking her chair with all her might. The children retired to a corner. "Pray sit down, neighbour Corndaffer," said Mrs. Pettigrew, graciously, to her hostess. "There an't no need of your standing. I an't on no ceremony." Mrs. Corndaffer coloured and bit her lip, and plumped directly into a chair. Betsey Buffum spun furiously and broke her yarn. "Neighbour Corndaffer," pursued Mrs. Pettigrew, just give Timothy and the children the things they've borrowed, and let them get off home; I mean to stay and rest myself awhile. I 'spose it will be agreeable?" "It an't," murmured Betsey Buffum at the end of the room. "They need not wait," replied Mrs. Corn daffer. "I am going to pack a basket with things that you are likely to want on this your first day at your new home; and I shall send it on a wheelbarrow by Nace, our black boy." "Oh! if you've a black boy, we should like to borrow him to help us to fix up, and get our house in order." "Now, Margy! Margy!" exclaimed Betsey Buffum, raising her hand deprecatingly; "you know your husband said at dinner that Nace was to take Sorrel to be shoed at the blacksmith's this very afternoon." "I am afraid I cannot spare the boy any longer than to wheel the barrow to Stony Lonesome," said Mrs. Corndaffer. "But I'll go at once and put the things into the basket." And she rose, and was leaving the room, when Mrs. Pettigrew rose also, saying, "Come, Margy, I'll go with you and see you pack the basket, and tell you what to put into it. I shall have to borrow a good deal to-day. You, Timothy, clear off, and go home with you, and take care of the baby, that Polly may get at something else. Children, you may stay till I go. Maybe you'll have something to carry. While you're waiting, you may as well go in the garden and eat some currants. I'll call you in when I want you.” him more than three-quarters of an hour "helping them fix." When the farmer and his son came in to supper, Mrs. Corndaffer amused them with an account of the visit of the Pettigrews; and the whole family resolved (strongly backed by Betsey Buffum) that they would not encourage their new neighbours in depending too much on borrowing, and too little on work. They had just taken their seats at the table, when Mrs. Pettigrew unexpectedly walked in, and familiarly taking off her bonnet and drawing a chair, placed herself among them, saying 66 Well, Margy, you see I'm determined to be neighbourly. Everything is so at sixes and sevens in our own house, that I thought I'd come up here and take tea with you. I like a comfortable tea. It's what the Loudenslagers were always used to, and the Shackletons also. My mother was a Shackleton. It must seem strange to you all that I should have stooped to a Pettigrew. But, when young, Timothy was as pretty a young man as ever you laid your eyes on, and as mild as a lamb. But 'tis a fact (though I did not believe it then), that lambs always turn into sheep." "We have noticed that in farming," said her host, drily. At length Hulda Pettigrew got through her supper, and rose to depart, borrowing as many things as she could conveniently put into her pockets. She then looked round, and saidYou an't got such a thing as somebody to see me home, have you?" She then went after Mrs. Corndaffer into the kitchen. The children scampered away into the garden; and their father (always hard to move) still lingered in the room, till Betsey Buffum called out to him from her wheel," "You, Timothy, clear off with you! Go home and mind the baby." Timothy Pettigrew always tried to be a bold man when not in presence of his wife; but Betsey Buffum's imitation of her tone was so good, that he sneaked away as if it was really the voice of Hulda Loudenslager. "It will be so late before we get a fire made and everything cooked," said Mrs. Pettigrew to Mrs. Corndaffer; "that we may as well keep the raw things for supper, and borrow some ready cooked victuals for our dinners." "I have been thinking of that," said the good Mrs. Corndaffer. To be brief, the basket was well stored with eatables, both raw and cooked, not forgetting the pickles for Polly. "If there an't Timothy, who's not gone yet, and sauntering about at the end of the lane!" exclaimed his wife looking out at the kitchen window. "I'll make him carry that basket, and then the barrow will hold the more wood and other things. And as the children need not go empty handed, I may as well borrow a jug of molasses, and a jug of vinegar," Then, seeing her son James in the garden, she sent him after his father to bring him back to carry the basket. At last all was ready for Stony Lonesome. The father departed with the basket, the children with the jugs, and Nace wheeled along the barrow load of wood, having had strict injunctions from his mistress to return immediately to take Sorrel to be shoed. So they did not detain "I expect we have," answered Mrs. Corndaffer, glancing at her sons; but they sat in silence and did not move. "There's Nace," said Betsey Buffum. “I suppose he'll do?" "I an't used to be squired by black boys," replied Mrs. Pettigrew, tossing her head. "Are my sons going to sit still and let their father walk home with a neighbour?" said the farmer, in a low voice, to the young men; who, ashamed of the reproof, jumped up instantly and took their hats, while Betsey Buffum exclaimed, "Well, if I ever! Both boys going!" Just then the meek form of Timothy Pettigrew appeared within the door; and the boys laid aside their hats, looking much relieved. "And, pray, what brings you here?" asked the wife of Timothy. "I thought maybe wifey would like to come home," was the trembling reply. "And what put that thought into your wise head?" "Nothing; only the baby's a crying." "Well! is that anything new? Go back, and tell them I'm coming presently." 66 Boys, you'd better get your hats again," said Betsey. Mrs. Corndaffer now interfered. "If the baby's crying, poor thing," said she to Mrs. Pettigrew, "I think you had better go now, at once, without waiting another minute; above all, as your husband's here just in the nick of time to take charge of you." |