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Subjects
In: Short Stories·American Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #74942.
The opening · free to read
“It is _that_—_she_—_it_—makes me ashamed—to lazy.”
She was twenty, he barely twenty-one, when they were married. She was a basket-maker, he a laborer. They lived in a little town on “the Border.” Differing with the utmost good nature in everything but one—in that they were exactly alike. They had no future—absolutely none! They refused to have one. Strong with the vigor of youth—happy with the unreason of happiness—content with what came—wishing for nothing they had not—ambitious for nothing but a home—they lived but from day to day again—sleeping soundly, working gayly, thinking not. Why should they be vexed about a future—at twenty—twenty-one?
Once in a while they went hungry—and laughed about it. But, usually, there was sufficient demand for her dainty wares; and he was digging trenches in the streets of the adjoining town for the pipes of the new gas company. He made as much as forty cents a day when he worked, while she averaged nearly twice as much. You can see that there was no reason why they should go hungry very often. And, indeed, once, when he felt particularly opulent, John bought Betsy a gold-plated brooch for her birthday. It was in 1835.
But did I say that there was one thing upon which they agreed—in that rejected future? Yes. A home—they wanted a home—a roof over their heads, they called it—that was all. But, even this was forgotten as the happy years went by.
“Home is wherever we are!” laughed Betsy.
Then came the children, and John began to talk and act and think like a very proper father—even though Betsy laughed at him.
“Betsy,” said John, once upon a time, pulling down his face, “we’d ought to begin thinking of the—” Betsy began to smile, but John went on, like a husband and father doing his duty—“er—think of the—er—roof!”
He almost shouted the last word—it seemed so ridiculous when he came to it.
“At twenty-two?” said Betsy.
John was rocking the cradle.
“But when a man gits to be a father—”
“_Papa!_” laughed Betsy at him, and John blushed and stopped.
But that wasn’t Betsy’s way—to chill John with an argument so irrefutable—and at such a distance! She flung her basket away, snatched the baby from the cradle, and, next, John had his whole family in his lap. His wife was laughing, the baby was blinking, and John was very happy.
“Roof!”—she was talking to the baby “do you know what that is? I don’t. You haven’t any yet—neither have I. I’ve forgotten it. We are going to have one, of course—after a while—if your papa wants one—_now_—if he can’t wait—a minute—”
John put his hand on her mouth. She bit it and he kissed her. Then they were tangled in an embrace for a moment—the baby getting the worst of it.
“Look here,” said Betsy, then, “don’t you think you’ve got enough with us? Roof!”
“Yes,” confessed John, shamefacedly, “I don’t want you to bother no more about it.”
“I won’t,” said Betsy.
“We’ll have it—some day!” declared John, in his lazy way, “without any bothering!”
Four more were born—boys all—goodly and ruddy—like their little mother. But, one and all, they surprised and delighted her by growing tall like their father.
“You see, John,” said Betsy, “they are going to be big like you, and good like me.”
Well, one by one, they went out into the world—but never very far from the romping comrade-mother. Away from her the world was neither so gay nor so tender. They never found another woman so altogether lovely.
There was no work for any of them on Sunday, so they would all come home. Indeed, in the country of the Germans of Pennsylvania, no one ever worked on Sunday in that day and generation. And such Sundays as they were! No going to church, I fear—a heinous omission perhaps. But how could they? There was gentle revelry in the little house from the first moment—not a soul of them would have missed that for any church on earth—and no church on earth would have done them so much good—then a feast. Sometimes—when all had work and wages were good—a stewed turkey! And, after it all, kisses and hugs and good-nights—till one thought it would never end.
And, after they were gone, Betsy would cry—and John would take her in his lap and say never a word—leaving her to fall asleep there.
But once, instead of sleeping, she sat up and took John by the throat.
“John! I’m glad they’re not girls—_any_ of them.” For this used to be a complaint of Betsy’s—that none of them were girls.
“Yes,” said John, meekly.
She gripped his throat a little tighter and shook him.
“They’d git married if they were. Girls always do. But boys often have better sense. Ours have, anyhow.”
“We got married,” ventured John.
“Well—_of course_!” said Betsy, choking him.
But the thing was in her mind all the week. There seemed danger. The next Sunday, at the table, she said:
“Look here! Why don’t some of yous git—git—married?”
Her hand shook as she dealt out the gravy and waited for their answer.
They looked from one to the other. No one knew.
“Funny,” laughed Ben, “but I never thought of it.”
“Nor I,” said Bart.
“Hanged if I know,” piped Fred. “Don’t see no girls like you—”
“Can I marry you, mammy?” laughed Tom, putting his arm around her as she came over to him. It was Tom she was most afraid of. For he was the youngest—and to her he was little short of a god. He had rebellious yellow hair and blue eyes—and little patches of whiskers were beginning to grow on his face.
“Yes,” said his mother, sweeping his girlish lips with a kiss.
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