by Kate Sanborn
By this time Aunt Anniky was well under the influence of the gas, and in an incredibly short space of time her five teeth were out. As she came to herself I am sorry to say she was rather silly, and quite mortified me by winking at Dr. Babb in the most confidential manner, and repeating, over and over again: “Honey, yer ain’t harf as smart as yer thinks yer is!”
After a few weeks of sore gums, Aunt Anniky appeared, radiant with her new teeth. The effect was certainly funny. In the first place, blackness itself was not so black as Aunt Anniky. She looked as if she had been dipped in ink and polished off with lamp-black. Her very eyes showed but the faintest rim of white. But those teeth were white enough to make up for everything. She had selected them herself, and the little ridiculous milk-white things were more fitted for the mouth of a Titania than for the great cavern in which Aunt Anniky’s tongue moved and had its being. The gums above them were black, and when she spread her wide mouth in a laugh, it always reminded me of a piano-lid opening suddenly and showing all the black and white ivories at a glance. Aunt Anniky laughed a good deal, too, after getting her teeth in, and declared she had never been so happy in her life. It was observed, to her credit, that she put on no airs of pride, but was as sociable as ever, and made nothing of taking out her teeth and handing them around for inspection among her curious and admiring visitors. On that principle of human nature which glories in calling attention to the weakest part, she delighted in tough meats, stale bread, green fruits, and all other eatables that test the biting quality of the teeth. But finally destruction came upon them in a way that no one could have foreseen. Uncle Ned was an old colored man who lived alone in a cabin not very far from Aunt Anniky’s, but very different from her in point of cleanliness and order. In fact, Uncle Ned’s wealth, apart from a little corn crop, consisted in a lot of fine young pigs, that ran in and out of the house at all times, and were treated by their owner as tenderly as if they had been his children. One fine day the old man fell sick of a fever, and he sent in haste for Aunt Anniky to come and nurse him. He agreed to give her a pig in case she brought him through; should she fail to do so, she was to receive no pay. Well, Uncle Ned got well, and the next thing we heard was that he refused to pay the pig. My father was usually called on to settle all the disputes in the neighborhood; so one morning Anniky and Ned appeared before him, both looking very indignant.
“I’d jes’ like ter tell yer, Mars’ Charles,” began Uncle Ned, “ob de trick dis miser’ble ole nigger played on me.”
“Go on, Ned,” said my father, with a resigned air.
“Well, it wuz de fift night o’ de fever,” said Uncle Ned, “an’ I wuz a-tossin’ an’ a-moanin’, an’ old Anniky jes’ lay back in her cheer an’ snored as ef a dozen frogs wuz in her throat. I wuz a-perishin’ an’ a-burnin’ wid thirst, an’ I hollered to Anniky; but Lor’! I might as well ‘a hollered to a tombstone! It wuz ice I wanted; an’ I knowed dar wuz a glass somewhar on my table wid cracked ice in it. Lor’! Lor’! how dry I wuz! I neber longed fer whiskey in my born days ez I panted fur dat ice. It wuz powerful dark, fur de grease wuz low in de lamp, an’ de wick spluttered wid a dyin’ flame. But I felt aroun’, feeble like an’ slow, till my fingers touched a glass. I pulled it to me, an’ I run my han’ in an’ grabbed de ice, as I s’posed, an’ flung it in my mouf, an’ crunched, an’ crunched—”
Here there was an awful pause. Uncle Ned pointed his thumb at Anniky, looked wildly at my father, and said, in a hollow voice: “It wuz Anniky’s teef!”
My father threw back his head and laughed as I had never heard him laugh. Mother from her sofa joined in. I was doubled up like a jack-knife in the corner. But as for the principals in the affair, neither of their faces moved a muscle. They saw no joke. Aunt Anniky, in a dreadful, muffled, squashy sort of voice, took up the tale:
“Nexsh ting I knowed, Marsh Sharles, somebody’s sheizin’ me by de head, a-jammin’ it up ‘gin de wall, a-jawin’ at me like de Angel Gabriel at de rish ole sinners in de bad plashe—an’ dar wash ole Ned a-spittin’ like a black cat, an’ a-howlin’ so dreadful dat I tought he wash de debil; an’ when I got de light, dar wash my beautiful chany teef a-flung aroun’, like scattered seed-corn, on de flo’, an’ Ned a-swarin’ he’d have de law o’ me.”
“An’ arter all dat,” broke in Uncle Ned, “she pretends to lay a claim fur my pig. But I says no, sir; I don’t pay nobody nothin’ who’s played me a trick like dat.”
“Trick!” said Aunt Anniky, scornfully, “whar’s de trick? Tink I wanted yer ter eat my teef? An’ furder-mo’, Marsh Sharles, dar’s jes’ dis about it: when dat night set in dar warn’t no mo’ hope fur old Ned dan fur a foundered sheep. Laws-a-massy! dat’s why I went ter sleep. I wanted ter hev strengt’ ter put on his burial clo’es in de mornin’. But don’ yer see, Marsh Sharles, dat when he got so mad it brought on a sweat dat broke de fever! It saved him! But, fur all dat, arter munchin’ an’ manglin’ my chany teef, he has de imperdence ob tryin’ to ‘prive me ob de pig I honestly ‘arned.”
It was a hard case. Uncle Ned sat there a very image of injured dignity, while Aunt Anniky bound a red handkerchief around her mouth and fanned herself with her turkey-tail.
“I am sure I don’t know how to settle the matter,” said father, helplessly. “Ned, I don’t see but that you’ll have to pay up.”
“Neber, Mars’ Charles, neber.”
“Well, suppose you get married?” suggested father, brilliantly. “That will unite your interests, you know.”
Aunt Anniky tossed her head. Uncle Ned was old, wizened, wrinkled as a raisin, but he eyed Anniky over with a supercilious gaze, and said with dignity: “Ef I wanted ter marry, I could git a likely young gal.”
All the four points of Anniky’s turban shook with indignation. “Pay me fur dem chany teef!” she hissed.
Some visitors interrupted the dispute at this time, and the two old darkies went away.
A week later Uncle Ned appeared with rather a sheepish look.
“Well, Mars’ Charles,” he said, “I’s about concluded dat I’ll marry Anniky.”
“Ah! is that so?”
“‘Pears like it’s de onliest way I kin save my pigs,” said Uncle Ned, with a sigh. “When she’s married she boun’ ter ‘bey me. Women ‘bey your husbands; dat’s what de good Book says.”
“Yes, she will bay you, I don’t doubt,” said my father, making a pun that Uncle Ned could not appreciate.
“An’ ef ever she opens her jaw ter me ‘bout dem ar teef,” he went on, “I’ll mash her.”
Uncle Ned tottered on his legs like an unscrewed fruit-stand, and I had my own opinion as to his “mashing” Aunt Anniky. This opinion was confirmed the next day when father offered her his congratulations. “You are old enough to know your own mind,” he remarked.
“I’s ole, maybe,” said Anniky, “but so is a oak-tree, an’ it’s vigorous, I reckon. I’s a purty vigorous sort o’ growth myself, an’ I reckon I’ll have my own way with Ned. I’m gwine ter fatten dem pigs o’ hisn, an’ you see ef I don’t sell ‘em nex’ Christmas fur money ‘nouf ter git a new string o’ chany teef.”
“Look here, Anniky,” said father, with a burst of generosity, “you and Ned will quarrel about those teeth till the day of doom, so I will make you a wedding present of another set, that you may begin married life in harmony.”
Aunt Anniky expressed her gratitude. “An’ dis time,” she said, with sudden fury, “I sleeps wid ‘em in.”
The teeth were presented, and the wedding preparations began. The expectant bride went over to Ned’s cabin and gave it such a clearing up as it had never had. But Ned did not seem happy. He devoted himself entirely to his pigs, and wandered about looking more wizened every day. Finally he came to our gate and beckoned to me mysteriously.
“Come over to my house, honey,” he whispered, “an’ bring a pen an’ ink an’ a piece o’ paper wid yer. I wants yer ter write me a letter.”
I ran into the house for my little writ
ing-desk, and followed Uncle Ned to his cabin.
“Now, honey,” he said, after barring the door carefully, “don’t you ax me no questions, but jes’ put down de words dat comes out o’ my mouf on dat ar paper.”
“Very well, Uncle Ned, go on.”
“Anniky Hobbleston,” he began, “dat weddin’ ain’t a-gwine ter come off. You cleans up too much ter suit me. I ain’t used ter so much water splashin’ aroun’. Dirt is warmin’. ‘Spec I’d freeze dis winter if you wuz here. An’ you got too much tongue. Besides, I’s got anudder wife over in Tipper. An’ I ain’t a-gwine ter marry. As fur havin’ de law, I’s a leavin’ dese parts, an’ I takes der pigs wid me. Yer can’t fin’ dem, an’ yer can’t fin’ me. Fur I ain’t a-gwine ter marry. I wuz born a bachelor, an’ a bachelor will I represent myself befo’ de judgment-seat. If you gives yer promise ter say no mo’ ‘bout dis marryin’ business, p’r’aps I’ll come back some day. So no mo’ at present, from your humble worshipper,
“NED CUDDY.”
“Isn’t that last part rather inconsistent?” said I, greatly amused.
“Yes, honey, if yer says so; an’ it’s kind o’ soothin’ to de feelin’s of a woman, yer know.”
I wrote it all down and read it aloud to Uncle Ned.
“Now, my chile,” he said, “I’m a-gwine ter git on my mule as soon as der moon rises, an’ drive my pigs ter Col’ Water Gap, whar I’ll stay an’ fish. Soon as I am well gone, you take dis letter ter Anniky; but min’, don’t tell whar I’s gone. An’ if she takes it all right, an’ promises ter let me alone, you write me a letter, an’ I’ll git de fust Methodis’ preacher I run across in der woods ter read it ter me. Den, ef it’s all right, I’ll come back an’ weed yer flower-garden fur yer as purty as preachin’.”
I agreed to do all uncle Ned asked, and we parted like conspirators. The next morning Uncle Ned was missing, and, after waiting a reasonable time I explained the matter to my parents, and went over with his letter to Aunt Anniky.
“Powers above!” was her only comment as I got through the remarkable epistle. Then, after a pause to collect her thoughts, she seized me by the shoulder, saying: “Run to yo’ pappy, honey, quick, an’ ax him ef he’s gwine ter stick ter his bargain ‘bout de teef. Yer know he pintedly said dey wuz a weddin’ gif’.”
Of course my father sent word that she must keep the teeth, and my mother added a message of sympathy, with a present of a pocket-handkerchief to dry Aunt Anniky’s tears.
“But it’s all right,” said that sensible old soul, opening her piano-lid with a cheerful laugh. “Bless you, chile, it wuz de teef I wanted, not de man! An’, honey, you jes’ sen’ word to dat shif’less old nigger, ef you know whar he’s gone, to come back home and git his crap in de groun’; an’, as fur as I’m consarned, yer jes’ let him know dat I wouldn’t pick him up wid a ten-foot pole, not ef he wuz to beg me on his knees till de millennial day.”—_From “Dialect Tales,” published in 1883 by Harper Brothers._
It is not easy to tell what satire is, or where it originated. “In Eden,” says Dryden, “the husband and wife excused themselves by laying the blame on each other, and gave a beginning to those conjugal dialogues in prose which poets have perfected in verse.” Whatever it may be, we know it when it cuts us, and Sherwood Bonner’s hit on the Radical Club of Boston was almost inexcusable.
She was admitted as a guest, and her subsequent ridicule was a violation of all good breeding. But like so many wicked things it is captivating, and while you are shocked, you laugh. While I hold up both hands in horror, I intend to give you an idea of it; leaving out the most personal verses.
THE RADICAL CLUB.
BY SHERWOOD BONNER.
Dear friends, I crave attention to some facts that I shall mention
About a Club called “Radical,” you haven’t heard before;
Got up to teach the nation was this new light federation,
To teach the nation how to think, to live, and to adore;
To teach it of the heights and depths that all men should explore;
Only this and nothing more.
It is not my inclination, in this brief communication,
To produce a false impression—which I greatly would deplore—
But a few remarks I’m makin’ on some notes a chiel’s been takin,’
And, if I’m not mistaken, they’ll make your soul upsoar,
As you bend your eyes with eagerness to scan these verses o’er;
Truly this and something more.
And first, dear friends, the fact is, I’m sadly out of practice,
And may fail in doing justice to this literary bore;
But when I do begin it, I don’t think ‘twill take a minute
To prove there’s nothing in it (as you’ve doubtless heard before),
But a free religious wrangling club—of this I’m very sure—
Only this and nothing more!
‘Twas a very cordial greeting, one bright morning of their meeting;
Such eager salutations were never heard before.
After due deliberation on the importance of the occasion,
To begin the organization, Mr. Pompous took the floor
With an air quite self-complacent, strutted up and took the floor,
As he’d often done before!
With an air of condescension he bespoke their close attention
To an essay from a Wiseman versed in theologic lore;
He himself had had the pleasure of a short glance at the treasure,
And in no stinted measure said we had a treat in store;
Then he waved his hand to Wiseman and resigned to him the floor;
Only this and nothing more.
Quick and nervous, short and wiry, with a look profound, yet fiery,
Mr. Wiseman now stepped forward and eyed us darkly o’er,
Then an arm-chair, quaint and olden, gay with colors green and golden,
By the pretty hostess rolled in from its place behind the door,
Was offered to the reader, in the centre of the floor,
And he took the chair be sure.
Then with arguments elastic, and a voice and eye sarcastic,
Mr. Wiseman into flinders the Holy Bible tore;
And he proved beyond all question that the God of Moses’ mention
Was a fraudulent invention of some Hebrews, three or four,
And the Son of God’s ascension an imaginary soar!
Only this and nothing more.
Each member then admitted that his part was well acquitted,
For his strong, impassioned reasoning had touched them to the core;
He felt sure, as he surveyed them through his specs, that
he had “played” them,
And was proud that he had made them all astonished by his lore;
Not a continental cared he for the fruits such lessons bore,
So he bowed and left the floor.
Then a Colonel, cold and smiling, with a stately air beguiling,
Who punctuates his paragraphs on Newport’s sounding shore,
Said his friend was wise and witty, and yet it seemed a pity
To destroy in this old city the belief it had before
In the ancient superstitions of the days of yore.
This he said, and something more.
Orthodoxy, he lamented, thought the Christian world demented,
Yet still he felt a rev’rence as he read the Bible o’er,
And he thought the modern preacher, though a poor stick for a teacher,
Or a broken reed, like Beecher, ought to have his claims looked o’er,
And the “tyranny of science” was indeed, he felt quite sure,
Our danger more and more.
His remarks our pulses quicken, when a British Lion, stricken
With his wondrous self-importance—he knew everything and more—
Said he loathed such moderation; and he made his declaration
That, in spit
e of all creation, he found no God to adore;
And his voice was like the ocean as its surges loudly roar;
Only this and nothing more.
But the interest now grew lukewarm, for an ancient Concord book-worm
With authoritative tramping, forward came and took the floor,
And in Orphic mysticisms talked of life and light and prisms,
And the Infinite baptisms on a transcendental shore,
And the concrete metaphysic, till we yawned in anguish sore;
But still he kept the floor.
Then uprose a kindred spirit almost ready to inherit
The rare and radiant Aiden that he begged us to adore;
His smile was beaming brightly, and his soft hair floated whitely
Round a face as fair and sightly as a pious priest’s of yore;
And we forgave the arguments worn out years before,
For we loved this saintly bore.
Then a lively little charmer, noted as a dress reformer,
Because that mystic garment, chemiloon, she wore,
Said she had no “views” of Jesus, and therefore would not tease us,
But that she thought ‘twould please us to look her figure o’er,
For she wore no bustles anywhere, and corsets, she felt sure,
Should squeeze her nevermore.
This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religion
Demanded ease of body before the mind could soar;
But that no emancipation could come unto our nation
Until the aggregation of the clothes that women wore
Were suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore,
Plain behind and plain before!
Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season,
And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore,