Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 301, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 December 1913 — NOT A BAD MATCH [ARTICLE]

NOT A BAD MATCH

By DON LA' GRANGE. O»s day the good Qeacon Pennybone, of the village of Delhi, found It necessary to drive over to the village of Wharton, six miles away. He was hitching up his horse and buggy when Mrs. Hannah Savage came to the house to say: "Deacon, they say you are going to drive over to Wharton today?” “Yes, I am,” was the reply. ; “Got a load?” I “Only a jug to be filled with tfle.” “You know my sister Sarah lives over there?” “Yep, guess she do, though I hain’t much of a hand to keep track of folks' sisters.” “Well, Sarah’s got a baby a year old, and she writes me that it can’t walk yet Something seems to be the matter with his knees or back.” “It sure orter be walkin' at a year old. They say I wasn’t quite ten months old when I could trot right out doors. Do you want to send any word to Sarah?” “I want to drive over and back with you.”

“All right You be ready in fifteen minutes. Guess the old mare can take us both and not git tuckered out." Deacon Pennybone was a widower. Hannah Savage was a widow. They had both lived in Delhi for years, and both belonged to the same Church, but gossip had never even hinted a marriage between them. It had never hinted that either one of them would marry again. The drive to Wharton was made. The deacon went to get his jug filled with oil, and the widow to see her sister and the baby. The baby was walking all right. The next day after its mother had written about its walkless condition it had got choked on a spool of thread and been shook and dangled head downwards with vigorous hand! Ten minutes later it was taking its first steps. The drive out and back was pleasant The widower and widow talked about the new spire for the meeting bouse that was going to be erected — the death of Silas White’s cow—the plentitude of potato-bugs—the success of the late -Sunday school picnic and oven the best way of killing off burdocks so they would stay killed, but not a word nor a hint of anything closer. They were just neighbors. If 'the subject of the heathen of Africa bad been brought up they might have discussed it for miles to the excluaion of all else. The deacon's sister was his housetkeeper. She was a sour-faced old maid with a sharp tongue, and when her brother got back home she felt it her duty to say something. She therefore remarked: “I suppose the match was at least half-made today?” “What match?” asked the deacon. “She’s been trying to catch a man for the last five years.” “Ruth, who you talkin’ about?” I “Why, the widow Savage.” “What’s wrong with her?” “She’d like ,to change her name to Fenny boae!”

“Say, now,” replied the deacon as he'fired up, “you quit talkin’ that way! She hain’t the slightest idea of it. If ahe has I hain’t.” "All widders want to marry again,” said the sister. “Then let ’em marry, but none of ’em will marry me!” When the widow Savage got home Mrs. Goodhue, a neighbor, dropped in to ask about the baby over at Wharton that couldn’t walk. She was given, full information, and then she remarked: „ “Lots of folks thought it funny." "What was?” “Your riding over there with Deacon Pennybone.” “But I don’t see anything funny about that” "Well, you hadn’t been gone half an hour when the story was around that you and the deacon had gone away to get married.” "Upon my soul! The deacon and me get married! Why, he don’t want me, and I don’t want him. If the fool-killer would come along he’d find plenty to do in this town!” “Then—then—” “Then nothing!” What a curious thing is human nature! Here were two people who ■were neighbors and friends —nothitft more. They hadn’t thought of each -other once a week, unless happening to meet. But now, because a sourtempered old maid and a gossipy neighbor made a few remarks they began thinking of each other. "By gosh!" said the deacon to himself as he sat down to milk the cow that evening, “the widder Savage wouldn’t be such a bad match if a feller wanted to marry agin. She’s purty good lookin’ when she’s got her Sunday duds on, and she can talk like a streak and talk sense too. I’ve heard she was a savin’ woman, and had money in the bank.” And as the widow Savage cleared away her supper dishes she smiled and mused: “So they thought the deacon arji me were going to elope and get married! Um! Guess he’d be the last man I’d think of, though I will say for him that he’s good-tempered and upright. He pays his debts and never says anything mean of anybody. If 1 wanted to get married again, which I don’t and the deacon wanted to get married again, which he don’t —why— why—” It is highly probalde that the dea«m did some iao{<) thinking, as in

about four weeks after that drive to Wharton and back ffe called at the house of his pastor and said: “Pastor, I know a widder woman in this town.” “Yes?” was replied. “She’s a church member,” “Yes?" » ' “She’s a darned nice woman!” “Be careful, deacon!” “I’m kinder thinkin’ that as I am a widower and she a widder we might make a match.” “Yes?” “She’s purty well off, and Tin purty well off, and —and —’’ “And what?” “Why, I've come to ask you what you think about it.” “Do you love her?” asked the pastor after a silence. “Can’t say that thinking about her has kept me awake nights.” “Have you courted her?” “Not a darned court!” “Deacon, must I caution you again about your profanity! Have you spoken to her about marriage?" “Not a darned —I mean not a word.” “Then, as I gather from your words, if you marry this widow it is a selfish sort of marriage on your part.” “Why, I’d get a good woman and her property, and she’d get a good man and be cared for.” “Such matches are made every day,” said the parson, “and I regard each and every one as an evil. Every marriage should be based upon love. If you should find yourself loving this woman then it would be right and proper to offer marriage. Unless this is the case I shall hope there will be no marriage.” “I guess. that cuts me out, parson. I hain’t got no more romance about me than a bump on a dead log." And it is highly probable that the widow Savage did some more thinking, for within a week she followed the deacon’s 'trail to the parsonage and said to the pastor: , “I am terribly embarrassed, but I want' your advice.” "What is the trouble, sister Savage?” was asked. “If a man—if a good man —if a widower asked me to mary him, and I did not exactly love him, would I be doing right to mary him?” '“Not according to my lights, sister. You must learn to love him first.” “But if I don’t have the chance to learn ?” “I sometimes think that Providence has a hand in those things,” replied the good man, though there was a bit of doubt in his tones. It was two weeks later and the widow was returning from the sawmill, where she had been to order some boards to repair her pig-pen. She met Deacon face to face. He was bound for. the mill to. order some shingles for the roof of his kitchen. “Hope I see you well, widder.” "And the same to you.” “Did the frost last night nip your garden any?” ♦ “Not a spec.” And then, as the deacon was about to say that he guessed the frost had killed off the horse-flies for good and all, there came warning shouts of: “Mad dog! Mad dog! Look out, deacon!” He turned to see a mastiff that was surely suffering with the rabies coming down the street full at them. He didn’t lose a second. He picked the widow up and threw her over a picket fence, and then sprang after her. The mad animal came racing up and would have made the jump had not a big. club knocked him down and afterwards battered the life out of him. After the marriage, which took place a month later, the deacon asked: % “Hahner, dear, when did you first feel that you loved me with all your heart?” “Why, it was when you chucked me over the fence!” she replied as she gave him a kiss that lifted him off his heels. (Copyright, „ 1913, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)