Rensselaer Union, Volume 8, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 January 1876 — POLLY’S MISTAKE. [ARTICLE]

POLLY’S MISTAKE.

BY E. A. MATTIERS.

“I always thought you liked me, Polly!” ‘ * J ' So I do, John; I’m very fond of you,, but not irn that way.” ‘‘Not in what way, Polly? I only know'one way of being found of people.’! ‘Only one way! Why, there are doz- . ens of ways.” ‘‘Well, Polly, just say you’ll marry me, and you may hq fond of me in your own w’ay or in a dozen ways. I’m not particular.” But that was just what Polly would not do. All John’s eloquence could not induce her to utter that simple little word “ yes.” At last John’s stock of patience, never v£ry large, gave out, and he told Polly that she was a flinty-hearted little flirt, to pretend to be fond of him in any way, when it was plain to be seen she did not care a button for him. That was too much, to be called a flirt and a flintyhearted flirt, and by John! Polly’s" eyes sparkled and a sharp retort was on the tip of hiir tongue, when the kitchen door opendd and Uncle Silas entered. “ Be you two holdin’ Quaker meetin’?” said he, as he was going out after filling and lighting.his pipe at Polly’s ironingplace, “or be you savin’ up for the singin’ to-night? Don’t over-do it, tho’, Polly, or maybe your tongue ’ll git stift in the jints. Queer things is women’s tongues.” And Uncle Silas went oft chuckling over his little joke. Of course after that Polly was not going to be in any hurry to speak. Perhaps John thinks she can’t hold her tongue, too! She will show him! And Polly bites her lips very hard and tries to look very resolute indeed. But John had been busy repenting for ten minutes; he got up as Ms father shut the door and said, quite gently: “I'm sorry, Polly, for what

I ’ said a while ago. I didn’t mean it, dear.” No answer—unless a; big tear that dropped on Polly’s iron just then might be taken for one. “Well, Polly, never mind, I’ll try to get over being fond of you if it makes you so unhappy; you need not cry about it; I hope it is not so bad as that.” And with that John went out to his woodchopping and Polly finished ironing and nobody was any the wiser. That is, nobody but Paul Pry, the parrot, who had heard every word and startled Polly dreadfully that same evening by calling out suddenly at the supper-table: “ Hillo! Polly, never mind! never mind! never mind! Poor Polly! pretty polly! don’t -cry!” However, neither Uncle Silas nor Aunt Debby paid the least regard to Paul Pry’s rather personal and slightly impertinent remarks; but they made Polly so nervous with dread of what he might say next that she could not eat, and thereby attracted Aunt Debby’s attention to herself. “Be you sick, child ? You don’t seem ! to have no appetite and your face is red as a beet this minute. Ido hope to goodness you ain’t going to be took down with fever. Simon’ Brown says it’s dretlul bad over 1o Rockaway.” “ Polly’s cheeks is alius like pink hollyhocks,'” said Uncle Silas, with a glance of affectionateiadmiratiou in Polly’s digction. “ Some folks admire to see red cheeks, and then 'again some doesn’t. There’s Alice Brown, now; she ain’t got no more color nor a stattoo; but mos’ folks ’lows she’s drefful hansum; that young painter chap from ork was alius a drawin’ of her picter. For my part, I think red cheeks is healthy;” and Aunt Debby stirred her tea meditatiqely.

“Alice Brown ain’t no more to be compared to our Polly for looks nor them bleached potato-sprouts down cellar is fit to be put in a posey along o’ pinks and gillyflowers,” said Uncle Silas, indignantly. “ Well, father, I dunno; last Sabbath to church when I look up in the core and see Alice in her white frock and with all them yellow curls hangin’ round her face and singin’ so sweet-like, why, I couldn’t help thinkin’of the angels.” “Polly ain’t no angel, sure-ly. But don’t you be downhearted, Polly; pretty gals ain’t goin’ out of fashion this year. No, nor next year nuther.” “La! father, how you do talk! As if Polly didn’t know better nor to set store by her good looks. Why, there was Clarissy Hunter, when I was a girl; all perfect wax doll, all pink and white, and hair the color o’ sunshine. Well, she went down to Falbridge to visit her mother’s relations, and took small-pox, and that was the last of her good looks. But that wa’n’t the wust of it; she was promised to Hiram Barber, and when he sees she wa’n’t a bit like herself, he up and married Kitty Gibson. If it had a’ been me I’d a’ ruther had Clarissy, if she was humbly, for she was a sweet-tempered critter and a mighty- neat housekeeper; but Kitty Barber—lvitty Gibson that was —was a Tartar and a slattern to boot; which ain’t common. For you’ll mostly see a slack, easy-goin’ woman ain’t got no more snap in her nor a dish-clout; while a woman that’s sutliin’ ;>f a spitfire is apt to be mortal spry and generally has two cleanin’ days to a week.” Polly, who had begun to clear off the supper-table, stopped midway to the pantry to hear the last of Aunt Debby’s reminiscences, and she could not help wondering if it would make any difference to John if she should lose her good looks; that is, supposing they had been engaged like Clarissa and Hiram. Of course as things were John would not care if her eyes should suddenly turn crooked in her head or if her pretty little nose were to assume gigantic proportions on the instant.

John was what women call “handy” about the house and often helped Polly wash dishes and peel potatoes; and on wash days in very cold weather he had even been known to hangout the clothes; all of which his mother and the neigli--bor women put down to the score of John’s kind heart, and they were all agreed that he would make a model husband. Perhaps it was all abstract goodness on John’s part; but if so, why was it that nobody had ever known him to show the least concern about old Mrs. Moss’ rheumatic hands when she took Polly’s place at the washtub; though he has been seen to hold Polly’s rosy digits for five minutes just to warm them, you know, and then send her indoors while he battled manfully with wet, flapping sheets and stringy towels. As time went on, however, he seemed to lose all his little helpful ways about the house; the water-bucket 3 might stand empty half the day without his perceiving it—Polly might reduce her fingers to pink jelly driving nails to train her roses— John never seemed to know it or to imagine that any assistance was needed or expected from him. He was not actually unkind, but there was a difference; he did not appropriate Polly as he used to do; he always gave way when Simeon Brown or Hall Burton or any other of the young men came about. He was away a good deal in the evenings, and when lie did remain at home was usually absorbed in the newspapers or a book; or else he was busy with accounts and must not be disturbed. Polly wonders sometimes if John has forgotten all about that little scene in the old kitchen, one spring morning, not so very long ago. She does not wonder if he. nas gotten over being fond of her—as he said he would endeavor to do —she is quite sure that he has. Though why she should cry about it is not quite so clear to Polly; but she does, nevertheless, and the briny drops fall slowly and mournfully into the dish-pan. When she has “done up” the dishes and wept her “little weep, she bathes her face ' in cool spring water, and without even one tiny peep into the little cracked looking-glass goes into the sitting-room. Uncle Silas was enjoying his pine and the newspaper together, and Aunt Debby was counting off the loops on her knitting needles preparatory to “setting-up” the heel in a gray yarn stocking, whose dimensions proclaimed that it was intended to warm and comfort, during the storms of the coming winter, one of a pair of feet

at present reposing inside of Uncle Silas’ far-from Liliputian slippers. John is not present, so the room is very still; it is worse even than the great empty kitchen, for the crickets keep that from being utterly dreary, but the ticking of the tall clock in its dim corner only makes the sitting-room seem more lonesome. Polly takes her work and sits down in her little sewing-chair, and wonders what ails herself and everybody and everything. She longs to throw her work into the fire and herself on the floor and cry her ayes out; but what would Aunt Debby say to such doings? Ah, if the Aunt Deb by s could but look beneath the surlace, oftentimes, what an uplifting of hands and eyes would take place, to be sure! But Aunt Debby “set-up” her heel undisturbed, and, getting into plain sailing, she remarked how quiet everyone was. This eliciting no response, she next supposed it would be late before John got home; then Polly asked where John was? “ He’s gone to Deacon Brown’s to core meetin’; Simeon cum along this afternoon and gin him notice. I think you’d a better went too, Polly; you don’t seem pert; thereinnuthin’ like a bit o’ company to ’liven young folks up, or old one's either.”

Polly did not say anything, but a pang shot through her heart and she wanted to cry worse tlrnn ever—what could ail her ? Uncle Silas laid his paper down and cast a shrewd glance at Polly ; fover his f lasses, then hemmed and said: “ Mother, o you think it’s the singin’ and nutliin’ else that takes our John to Deacon Brown’s so oft’n of an evenin’?” “Why, what should it be? You don’t think lie’s under ‘ conviction,’ do you ? I shouldn’t wonder, though, now that you mention it, if he was. Them’s powerful sarmons Parson Hammond’s been preachin’ lately, most enough to wake the dead, ’specially in the grave's under the meetin’house winders. Well, if it’s the Lord’s will to call him, it would be a ’mazin’ comfort to me to see him brought into the fold before I die. Not but what John’s alius been a good son as things is—tho’ .rather fond o’ fiddlin’ and dancin’, maybe, and carin’ less for prayer-meetin’s than I could wish, still I dunno as he’s much differ’nt to most young folks in that way; I used to be ruther chipper myself when I was a gal.” “You’re on. the wrong track, motligr, entirely. How would you like the Deacon’s Alice for a darter?” “La, suz!” and Aunt Debby dropped her knitting and stared at Uncle Silas with wide-distended eyes for the space of thirty seconds; but nothing short of paralysis could longer deprive that excellent woman of the use of her tongue.

“Deary me! Well, to be sure! But why not? Alice is a good, sensible gal as well as a hansum one, and not a bit spilt with bein’ an only darter, as gals is apt to be; and then the Deacon’s forehanded, and his medder jines ourn. , Well, father, considerin’ everythin’, John might go further and fare wus.” “Sol think, mother; not that Alice would be my cli’ice—she’s too still and white; but then it’s not me that’s goin’ to marry her; if John fancies her it’s all right—l shan’t ask him to look at her thro’ my glasses. No, no; let him please himself and he’ll please me.” Polly tried to say something to keep her silence from being observed; but if her life had depended on the articulation of a dozen syllables she could not have spokfti them. Poor Polly! she had found out at last what ailed her; she loved John with her whole warm little heart, and now he would go and marry Alice Brown and—a lump got into Polly’s throat just here and threatened to choke her, and before she knew it a sob escaped and Polly took refuge in a deceitful fit of coughing, which, jike all falseness, carried its own punishment with it—for it distracted Aunt Debby’s attention from her future daugh-ter-in-law and concentrated it on Polly’s self.

“Why,child, you’ve caught adrefful hard cold all to onct! y«u must take a tablespoonful of lioarhound balsam right away. 1 never hear a , drier cough nor that of yourn—it sounds just like Cynthy Besom’s did the winter she took the gallopin’ consumption, and was dead and buried all inside of six months.” And Aunt Debby bustled about and got out the big bottle from the chimney-cupboard, aud measured out a dose of the* hoarhound balsam. Polly knew that remonstrance would be worse than useless, so she swallowed the bitter-sweet mixture without protest. Then she was sent to bed with directions to go to sleep right away, and with the comforting assurance' that if the cough aid not succumb to balsam before morning John should go for old Dr. Drugen first thing alter breakfast. Polly’s mistake was one that is often made by young girls who are too much taken up with the pleasant story of tlieir own lives to stop to think or ask questions of their hearts. We are none of us much given to introspection in our “salad days;” and when at last we do take to soul-probing it is usually too late to benefit by our discoveries. Polly—the orphan child of a far-away cousin—had been adopted by Uncle Silas and Aunt Debby when very small, so she and John had grown up together like brother and sister, and she had really nevpr once thought of John as a lover, or a possible husband, until his rather abrupt proposal had startled her into the declaration that she did not love him, when the truth was she had been loving him every day of her life without in the least suspecting it. Polly did not go off in a galloping consumption like Cynthia Besom, nor uid she pine away and die of a broken heart—healthy people never, do either—she just lived on from day to day, as we all do and must in spite of disappointment and heartbreak. She did not even droop, but held tip her head like a brave, little fiower that will not heed the rude' winds, but smiles through all their buffeting. Perhaps hope was not yet plucked up by the roots; for hope is a sturdy plant that flourishes in sterile soils, and will sustain life for a very long time on very scant nourishment. It was December now, aud the young folks of Sleepy Hollow were met in Uncle Silas Briggs’ woodsfora skating frolic on the woodland pond. When the nierri ment was at at its height, and me waters .flying in all directions, every ear was startled by thel»ud cracking of the frozen

surface; then came a crash—a heavy cry—and in a few moments later John Briggs lay at Polly’s feet, dead! At least so it seemed to Polly; then the sun went down and night came in a moment, and there lay Polly in a swoon on the dead man’s breast! But John*was not dead, or even much hurt, only chilled to insensibility, and consciousness returned before anyone had recovered presence of mind to remove Polly from her resting place on his bosom. “ Good gracious! Polly’s fainted!” cried Susy Brown; “ run quick, somebody, and fetch some water.” The girls nad rallied by this time and crowded round Polly like bees round a crocus bed in spring, and she was in danger of being killed by kindness, when Simeon Brown rushed up with his cap full of icy water and dashed it slap in Polly’s face. That waked her up in a hurry—she gasped, opened her eyes, and seeing the group of frightened faces about her asked: “ What’s the mater ?” Poor Polly! she knew' immediately what the matter was—she had made a fool of herself—and now everybody would know that she w r as in love with John —with Alice Brown’s lover! Oh, dear! and to mend matters Polly began to cry. But where is John ? Polly cannot see him anywhere. Polly’s senses had not come back fully, it seemed, for she did not know that she w r as reposing quite comfortably in John’s arms. “ Don’t cry, Polly,” said that audacious youth himself as he kissed her on the mouth as bold as brass, or, as Susy Brown said, afterward, “Just as if Polly had been a baby and John had been her mother;” then turning to the skaters: “See here, I’nj going to take Polly home now, and you’d best be spry if you mean to keep Christmas in my style this year.” And with that he gathered Polly up and carried her off. I suppose that Polly’s mistake w r as rectified on the way home, for there was a w'edding at Uncle Silas Briggs’ on Christmas Eve, on which occasion Aunt Debby w*as heard to deliver herself after the following characteristic manner: “ You never kin tell till arterward how a weddin’s goin’ to turn out, ’specially these days when things is gp oncertain, and married folks don’t think no more o’ cuttin’ loose from each other nor men does o’ quittin’ the grocery business. Why, divorce bills is getting to be about as common as peddlers’ licenses and as easy to be got. For my part I don’t think much o’ sfech folks. I say it’s pesky mean not to stick to a bargain when it’s made and signed and sealed, even if it wa’n’t a wicked sin and flat agin’ Scripter. Thank goodness! 1 ain’t afeared o’ John and Polly never wantin’ no bill.” — N. Y. Graphic.