Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 49, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 December 1895 — A PAIR OF TWINS. [ARTICLE]

A PAIR OF TWINS.

. Eccentricities of Maiden Ladies Who Amused an Eastern sown. I Tlie curious streak of obstinacy which crops out iu many New England families, especially in small places, where the range of ideas and occupations is small, lias been brought Into prominence through the tales of a gifted group of story writers, notably by Miss Mary E. Wilkins. People living in other parts of the country often think her stories must be exaggerations, but , dwellers iu New England towns can I parallel most of them from their own knowledge. In one Massachusetts village there dwelt not many years ago two maiden ladies, called, though they were over forty years of age. "the Hatfield girls.” Beside this youthful appellation, they retained a youthful taste for gay colors. As they were tw ins, very tall, very lean, always wearing skirts conspicuously short to avoid dust, and hat brims unusually wide to avoid injuring their eyes, they wotHri have been rather remarkable figures even if they had not chosen to dress, school girl fashion, in clothes exactly alike to the slightest detail. They were- always together, and it was one of the characteristic sights of the village to see the Hatfield girls plodding through the snow to the postoffice iu their green-and-red plaid gowns,, black-braided coats and big, broton, fuzzy felt hats with great peaj green bows. Their muffs, mittens, tipwristers, barege veils, even their rubber boots, were duplicates of each other. In fact the sisters were as absolutely alike as the twin paper dolls which little girls cut from a piece of paper folded double. In summer it was the same. They floated by to church in duplicate blue muslins, or watered their flower beds iu the early morning in indistinguishable hideous purple wrappers. Suddenly, the village was stirred by an exciting event; the Hatfield girls had quarreled! They quarreled because Mary Abby, who overheard a small boy making jokes at their expense, suggested to Ann Eliza that perhaps it would be as well if henceforth they dressed just a little differently. Ann Eliza received the suggestion as the cruelest of insults; but she said hotly that, after that, she wouldn’t for a kingdom wear a dress off the same piece as Mary Abby's. Sure enough, the sisters ceased to dress alike. Furthermore, they did not dress harmoniously. They were together as much as ever —but if Mary Abby wore pink. Ann Eliza had on scarlet; if she wore green, Ann Eliza wore blue; if it were yellow, she decked herself in magenta; if it were brown or gray, she tried to get a shade of the same color that would make her sister’s appear dingy and faded. It was a war of colors waged furiously for a week, bitterly for a month, spitefully for a year; then perseveringly, resolutely, obstinately, for one —two—three—four—five years; from five to ten; ten to twelve; twelve to thirteen.

Neither sister would give in. for after a brief exhibition of colors Mary Abby bad tried to fight her offended twin with her own weapons, and to array herself la hues too violent to be overwhelmed. They were as gay as parrakeets, the two poor bitter old twins, and the interested village had quite given up expectation of a change, when at length a change came. One morning the “Hatfield girls,” side by side, and dressed in new and glossy black, entered the postoffice amid a crowd of staring villagers, and calle'd for their mall. They were in mourning evidently—hut nobody could think who had died. At length the postmistress ventured to inquire. “Yes,” said Ann Eliza, sobeply, smoothing down her new cape, “we are in mourning. It wa’n’t strictly necessary, I presume, but we thought it best. It’s Cousin John’s wife out in Montana. We’ve never seen her, but we hear khe was a very worthy woman, and a credit to the family.” And whether or not the Hatfield girls mourned deeply for the unknown wife of Cousin John, it is certain that for the remaining years of their lives their clothes were black, and were cut alike, and the village guessed that they had found a way to end their warfare, without acknowledging surrender, or proclaiming peace.