Myrtle Reed - At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern

The chickens were clucking peacefully in their corner of Uncle Ebeneezer’s dooryard, and the newly acquired bossy cow mooed unhappily in her improvised stable. Harlan had christened the cow “Maud” because she insisted upon going into the garden, and though Dorothy had vigorously protested against putting Tennyson to such base uses, the name still held, out of sheer appropriateness.

Harlan was engaged in that pleasant pastime known as “pottering.” The instinct to drive nails, put up shelves, and to improve generally his local habitation is as firmly seated in the masculine nature as housewifely characteristics are ingrained in the feminine soul. Never before having had a home of his own, Harlan was enjoying it to the full.

Early hours had been the rule at the Jack-o’-Lantern ever since the feathered sultan with his tribe of voluble wives had taken up his abode on the hilltop. Indeed, as Harlan said, they were obliged to sleep when the chickens did – if they slept at all. So it was not yet seven one morning when Dorothy went in from the chicken coop, singing softly to herself, and intent upon the particular hammer her husband wanted, never expecting to find Her in the kitchen.

“I – I beg your pardon?” she stammered, inquiringly.

A gaunt, aged, and preternaturally solemn female, swathed in crape, bent slightly forward in her chair, without making an effort to rise, and reached forth a black-gloved hand tightly grasping a letter, which was tremulously addressed to “Mrs. J. H. Carr.”

“My dear Madam,” Dorothy read.

“The multitudinous duties in connection with the practice of my profession have unfortunately prevented me, until the present hour, from interviewing Mrs. Sarah Smithers in regard to your requirements. While she is naturally unwilling to commit herself entirely without a more definite idea of what is expected of her, she is none the less kindly disposed. May I hope, my dear madam, that at the first opportunity you will apprise me of ensuing events in this connection, and that in any event I may still faithfully serve you?

“With kindest personal remembrances and my polite salutations to the distinguished author whose wife you have the honour to be, I am, my dear madam,

“Yr. most respectful and obedient servant,

“Oh,” said Dorothy, “you’re Sarah. I had almost given you up.”

“Begging your parding, Miss,” rejoined Mrs. Smithers in a chilly tone of reproof, “but I take it it’s better for us to begin callin’ each other by our proper names. If we should get friendly, there’d be ample time to change. Your uncle, God rest ’is soul, allers called me ‘Mis’ Smithers.’”

Somewhat startled at first, Mrs. Carr quickly recovered her equanimity. “Very well, Mrs. Smithers,” she returned, lightly, reflecting that when in Rome one must follow Roman customs; “Do you understand all branches of general housework?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be makin’ no attempts in that direction,” replied Mrs. Smithers, harshly. “I doesn’t allow nobody to do wot I does no better than wot I does it.”

Dorothy smiled, for this was distinctly encouraging, from at least one point of view.

“You wear a cap, I suppose?”

“Yes, mum, for dustin’. When I goes out I puts on my bonnet.”

“Can you do plain cooking?” inquired Dorothy, hastily, perceiving that she was treading upon dangerous ground.

“Yes, mum. The more plain it is the better all around. Your uncle was never one to fill hisself with fancy dishes days and walk the floor with ’em nights, that’s wot ’e wasn’t.”

“What wages do you have, Sa – Mrs. Smithers?”

“I worked for your uncle for a dollar and a half a week, bein’ as we’d knowed each other so long, and on account of ’im bein’ easy to get along with and never makin’ no trouble, but I wouldn’t work for no woman for less ’n two dollars.”

“That is satisfactory to me,” returned Dorothy, trying to be dignified. “I daresay we shall get on all right. Can you stay now?”

“If you’ve finished,” said Mrs. Smithers, ignoring the question, “there’s a few things I’d like to ask. ’Ow did you get that bruise on your face?”

“I – I ran into something,” answered Dorothy, unwillingly, and taken quite by surprise.

“Wot was it,” demanded Mrs. Smithers. “Your ’usband’s fist?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Carr, sternly, “it was a piece of furniture.”

“I’ve never knowed furniture,” observed Mrs. Smithers, doubtfully, “to get up and ’it people in the face wot wasn’t doin’ nothink to it. If you disturb a rockin’-chair at night w’en it’s restin’ quiet, you’ll get your ankle ’it, but I’ve never knowed no furniture to ’it people under the eye unless it ’ad been threw, that’s wot I ain’t.

“I mind me of my youngest sister,” Mrs. Smithers went on, her keen eyes uncomfortably fixed upon Dorothy. “’Er ’usband was one of these ’ere masterful men, ’e was, same as wot yours is, and w’en ’er didn’t please ’im, ’e ’d ’it ’er somethink orful. Many’s the time I’ve gone there and found ’er with ’er poor face all cut up and the crockery broke bad. ‘I dropped a cup’ ’er’d say to me, ‘and the pieces flew up and ’it me in the face.’ ’Er face looked like a crazy quilt from ’aving dropped so many cups, and wunst, without thinkin’ wot I might be doin’ of, I gave ’er a chiny tea set for ’er Christmas present.

“Wen I went to see ’er again, the tea set was all broke and ’er ’ad court plaster all over ’er face. The pieces must ’ave flew more ’n common from the tea set, cause ’er ’usband’s ’ed was laid open somethink frightful and they’d ’ad in the doctor to take a seam in it. From that time on I never ’eard of no more cups bein’ dropped and ’er face looked quite human and peaceful like w’en ’e died. God rest ’is soul, ’e ain’t a-breakin’ no tea sets now by accident nor a-purpose neither. I was never one to interfere between man and wife, Miss Carr, but I want you to tell your ’usband that should ’e undertake to ’it me, ’e’ll get a bucket of ’ot tea throwed in ’is face.”

“It’s not at all likely,” answered Dorothy, biting her lip, “that such a thing will happen.” She was swayed by two contradictory impulses – one to scream with laughter, the other to throw something at Mrs. Smithers.

“’E’s been at peace now six months come Tuesday,” continued Mrs. Smithers, “and on account of ’is ’avin’ broke the tea set, I don’t feel no call to wear mourning for ’im more ’n a year, though folks thinks as ’ow it brands me as ’eartless for takin’ it off inside of two. Sakes alive, wot’s that?” she cried, drawing her sable skirts more closely about her as a dark shadow darted across the kitchen.

“It’s only the cat,” answered Dorothy, reassuringly. “Come here, Claudius.”

Mrs. Smithers repressed an exclamation of horror as Claudius, purring pleasantly, came out into the sunlight, brandishing his plumed tail, and sat down on the edge of Dorothy’s skirt, blinking his green eyes at the intruder.

“’E’s the very cat,” said Mrs. Smithers, hoarsely, “wot your uncle killed the week afore ’e died!”

“Before who died?” asked Dorothy, a chill creeping into her blood.

“Your uncle,” whispered Mrs. Smithers, her eyes still fixed upon Claudius Tiberius. “’E killed that very cat, ’e did, ’cause ’e couldn’t never abide ’im, and now ’e’s come back!”

“Nonsense!” cried Dorothy, trying to be severe. “If he killed the cat, it couldn’t come back – you must know that.”