Papers from Overlook House Part 10

Not to an infant could Kate gentle be, As to a creature, meek and kind as he.

How could she tear the vine that round her grew, Ready to fall with every wind that blew.

The wife made battle for him with his friends; And fighting them, she thus made good amends For all her patience with him. Thus with care She spread her s.h.i.+eld, and said, attack, who dare.

Strange, how 'mid peace we make the show of war, And shout unto the battle from afar, And her defense at last such habit wrought Had she a.s.sailed him, she herself had fought.

In time, ill-temper wrought upon her mind, And illness, too, its miseries combined.

Oh! sad to read of intellect o'erthrown!

Sometimes all blank. Sometimes one train alone Of thought, declares that reason is denied.

We hear of one who said, I must abide Behind the door, because I am a clock.

And there he stood, and ticked. And one was shocked To feel a rat within his stomach run.

The doctor heard: the story being done, He wisely smiled, and said, "I soon can cure.

You need not be a rat-trap long I'm sure."

"Why how, O doctor, can you reach the rat?"

"'Tis easy: down your throat I'll send a cat."

The man at such a pill must need rebel.

And with good sense he quietly got well.

Kate had her fancies--said she soon would die, And wasting seemed to prove her prophecy.

"Poor Will," she said, "you soon my loss will mourn, The wife who s.h.i.+elded you from many a thorn; I'm glad the pigs are killed, the sweet-meats made, Our turnips gathered, and our butcher paid.

I'm glad I sent away to Jericho, That lazy Bess, that tried my temper so.

I'm glad I told my mind to Jane Agree, About that scandal that she said of me: That I was jealous, to my ap.r.o.n string Tied you--distrustful of my marriage ring.

I'm glad I told her that it was a lie, And somewhat sorry, since it made her cry.

"And, Oh! poor Will--so helpless when alone, What wilt thou do, dear one, when I am gone?

How would I love, a spirit round thy way, To move, and be thy blessing every day!

To fan thy forehead, and to dry thy tears, To nerve thy soul, and banish all thy fears.

All I can do for thee, thou patient one, So gentle, tender, loving, all is done.

I feel so lonely, in thy loneliness.

This is, in death, my very great distress.

Some one will fill my place, ere long, I trow, Your clothes are whole--in perfect order now.

Be sure you get a wife that is like me, In gentle temper, and sweet sympathy.

For you, so long to gentleness allied, Could not a bristling woman, sure, abide."

Poor Will! At first his tears fell down like rain Most at the time when she inflicted pain, By her unkind surmise, that he would take Another wife--did she the world forsake.

"You are a wife," he said, "so fond, so true, I cannot have another--none but you.

You made me what I am the people say; Another wife might make me; what I pray?

An eight-day clock, they say, I am most like, Wound up by you, and by you taught to strike.

Another wife might keep the time too late, Take out the wheels, and s.n.a.t.c.h away each weight: And I, neglected, come to a dead stop, Like some old time-piece in a lumber shop.

But if you think, dear wife, that I must wed, When you, at last, are numbered with the dead, As I depend upon your good advice, Choose you the bride. Shall it be Susan Price?"

Never had Bill so great a blunder made; Never had demon so his cause betrayed.

Changed in her view--a villain lost to shame-- She scarced believed that he could bear his name.

She saw the future. Susan Price was there.

With hazel eyes, and curls of Auburn hair.

The rooms she swept would that vile Susan sweep?

The cup-board key would that bad Susan keep?

With those same pans would Susan cook their food, For that fool Bill, and for some foolish brood?

Would Susan drink the wine that she had made?

Would all those pickles be to her betrayed?

"Shall that vain thing sit there,--a pretty pa.s.s!

Neglecting work, to simper in that gla.s.s?

Will she cut down that silk frock, good, though old, And puff it out with pride in every fold?

And of all other insults, this the worst,-- My beating heart is ready here to burst-- She'll use my blue-edged china,--yes she will-- Oh! I could throw it piece by piece at Bill.

"I see her, proud to occupy my chair, To pour out tea, to smile around her there, While my false friends will praise her half-baked cake, And Bill will chuckle o'er each piece they take.

And while his grief is lettered o'er my grave, He'll laugh, and eat, and show himself a knave."

Hast thou on some huge cliff, with oaks around, Heard the full terror of the thunder sound?

Hast thou at sea, all breathless heard the blast Rolling vast waves on high whene'er it past?

Then mayst thou form some thought of her dread ire Poured on the man to burn his soul like fire.

But soon the burst of anger all was o'er,-- And softened, she could speak of death once more.

"And Susan Price can marry whom she will, And,"--so she argued, "will not marry Bill."

One day she said,--"It is revealed to me That ere I die, a warning there shall be."

Will looked, and saw her mind now wandered more, As thus she spake, than it had done before.

"Yes," she exclaimed, "before I leave this scene, Death will appear,--the warning intervene.

Death will appear in this our quiet home-- A chicken without feathers will he come."

Fame spreads the great, and fame will spread the small, Fame gives us tears,--for laughter it will call.

Fame spreads this whim,--this foolish crazy fear,-- The neighbors laughed, and told it far and near.

There dwelt close by, a restless heedless wight-- Mischief to him was ever a delight.-- He heard the story, and his scheme prepared, And what his brain had purposed, that he dared.

He from a rooster all his feathers tore, --Had he been learned in the Grecian lore Heard of the Cynic, old Diogenes, Who, lying in his tub, in dreamy ease, Said to the hard-brained conqueror of old time, With heedlessness to human wants sublime, When he inquired, "What shall for you be done?"

"All that I ask, hide not from me the sun."

He might have thought of him; and Plato's scowl, When in the school he hurled the unfeathered fowl, And said, ere murmuring lips reproof began, "There, Plato, is, as you defined, a man."

But of the Greeks our wight had not a thought.

Under his arm the fowl, all plucked, was brought, And forced to enter into Katy's door: Who spied him wandering o'er her sanded floor.

She looked upon him, and began to weep.

Bill sat not far off on a chair asleep.

"And so," she said, "Oh death! and thou art come To take my spirit far away from home."

Then as inspired a sudden hope to trace, She waved the unfeathered monster from its place.

Would drive far off from her the coming ill,-- "Shoo shoo, thou death, now leave me, go to Bill."

'Twas overheard--and wide the story spread.

It reached John Jones, and to his wife he said, In precious wrath,--"They slander thus our Kate; Some foe devised this in malicious hate; And you, perhaps, were one to make the lie."

Thus deeply stung, she made a fierce reply.

"She did it, I am sure," replied the wife, "She did it, sure as I have breath and life."

"No--Katy didn't," said the man in rage.

"Yes, Katy did," she said. And so they wage A war of words, like these upon my page.

The Indian Fairy spirit heard the din, And first to patience strove them both to win, Sent the cool breeze to fan the burning brow, Volcanic fires to die by flakes of snow.

In war incessant, still the clamor rose, Still Katy did, and didn't, and fierce blows.