Part 1 (1/2)
Sweet Cicely.
by Josiah Allen's Wife (Marietta Holley).
PREFACE.
Josiah and me got to talkin' it over. He said it wuzn't right to think more of one child than you did of another.
And I says, ”That is so, Josiah.”
And he says, ”Then, why did you say yesterday, that you loved sweet Cicely better than any of the rest of your thought-children? You said you loved 'em all, and was kinder sorry for the hull on 'em, but you loved her the best: what made you say it?”
Says I, ”I said it, to tell the truth.”
”Wall, what did you do it for?” he kep' on, determined to get a reason.
”I did it,” says I, a comin' out still plainer,-”I did it to keep from lyin'.”
”Wall, when you say it hain't right to feel so, what makes you?”
”I don't know, Josiah,” says I, lookin' at him, and beyend him, way into the depths of emotions and feelin's we can't understand nor help,-
”I don't know why, but I know I do.”
And he drawed on his boots, and went out to the barn.
CHAPTER I.
It was somewhere about the middle of winter, along in the forenoon, that Josiah Allen was telegrafted to, unexpected. His niece Cicely and her little boy was goin' to pa.s.s through Jonesville the next day on her way to visit her aunt Mary (aunt on her mother's side), and she would stop off, and make us a short visit if convenient.
We wuz both tickled, highly tickled; and Josiah, before he had read the telegraf ten minutes, was out killin' a hen. The plumpest one in the flock was the order I give; and I wus a beginnin' to make a fuss, and cook up for her.
We loved her jest about as well as we did Tirzah Ann. Sweet Cicely was what we used to call her when she was a girl. Sweet Cicely is a plant that has a pretty white posy. And our niece Cicely was prettier and purer and sweeter than any posy that ever grew: so we thought then, and so we think still.
[Ill.u.s.tration: JOSIAH TELLING THE NEWS TO SAMANTHA.]
Her mother was my companion's sister,-one of a pair of twins, Mary and Maria, that thought the world of each other, as twins will. Their mother died when they wus both of 'em babies; and they wus adopted by a rich aunt, who brought 'em up elegant, and likely too: that I will say for her, if she wus a 'Piscopal, and I a Methodist. I am both liberal and truthful -very.
Maria wus Cicely's ma, and she wus left a widow when she wus a young woman; and Cicely wus her only child. And the two wus bound up in each other as I never see a mother and daughter in my life before or sense.
The third year after Josiah and me wus married, Maria wusn't well, and the doctor ordered her out into the country for her health; and she and little Cicely spent the hull of that summer with us. Cicely wus about ten; and how we did love that girl! Her mother couldn't bear to have her out of her sight; and I declare, we all of us wus jest about as bad. And from that time they used to spend most all of their summers in Jonesville. The air agreed with 'em, and so did I: we never had a word of trouble. And we used to visit them quite a good deal in the winter season: they lived in the city.
Wall, as Cicely got to be a young girl, I used often to set and look at her, and wonder if the Lord could have made a prettier, sweeter girl if he had tried to. She looked to me jest perfect, and so she did to Josiah.
And she knew so much, too, and wus so womanly and quiet and deep. I s'pose it wus bein' always with her mother that made her seem older and more thoughtful than girls usially are. It seemed as if her great dark eyes wus full of wisdom beyend-fur beyend-her years, and sweetness too. Never wus there any sweeter eyes under the heavens than those of our niece Cicely.
She wus very fair and pale, you would think at first; but, when you would come to look closer, you would see there was nothing sickly in her complexion, only it was very white and smooth,-a good deal like the pure white leaves of the posy Sweet Cicely. She had a gentle, tender mouth, rose-pink; and her cheeks wuz, when she would get rousted up and excited about any thing; and then it would all sort o' die out again into that pure white. And over all her face, as sweet and womanly as it was, there was a look of power, somehow, a look of strength, as if she would venture much, dare much, for them she loved. She had the gift, not always a happy one, of loving,-a strength of devotion that always has for its companion- trait a gift of endurance, of martyrdom if necessary.
She would give all, dare all, endure all, for them she loved. You could see that in her face before you had been with her long enough to see it in her life.