Autumnal leaves: tales and sketches in prose and rhymeChild, Lydia Maria
General
Autumnal leaves: tales and sketches in prose and rhyme
Child, Lydia Maria
American essays -- 19th century; American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, American
There was a cabin for sale, built by one of the earliest settlers, who
had died of fever. Its picturesque situation, on a rising ground
overlooking the river, was attractive to Mr. Bradford and his wife, and
it became their home. It consisted of one long room with a loft above,
from which it was separated by a floor of loosely-laid boards. The long
room was converted into two, by a cotton curtain running on iron rings;
and the loft was divided into two apartments in the same manner. When
these arrangements were completed, it afforded a temporary shelter for
the two families of Katie and Alice, including eight persons. In the
absence of closets, it was necessary to hang all sorts of articles from
the boards above. A dried salt fish was near neighbour to a very pretty
work-basket, and a bag of potatoes was suspended between a new quilt and
a handsome carpet-bag.
“I hope we shall soon be able to stow the salt fish and potatoes away
somewhere,” said Alice.
“Oh, never mind!” replied Katie, laughing. “If Hans Christian Andersen
would only come this way, he would make a fine story about the salt fish
falling in love with the pretty basket, and becoming thinner every day,
because his genteel neighbour preferred the carpet-bag, and took no
pains to conceal her disgust of his vulgar appearance and disagreeable
breath. _She_ listen to the vows of a salt fish? Not she! Did’nt he
know that her handsome relative, the carpet-bag, from Brussels, had done
as good as make proposals to her? Then the poor fish would be stimulated
to hunt up a pedigree. He might claim to have descended from Jonah’s
whale. He, on his part, might feel his dignity offended by the
neighbourhood of dirty potatoes. And the potatoes, like sturdy
republicans, might tell him they did not care a darn for his pedigree.
They should like to know whether he could _grow_; if he could’nt, he was
an old fogy, and the less he said the better; for he was among folks
that believed in growing, and did’nt believe in any thing else.” Alice
laughed at her conceits, and said it was a blessing to have such a
lively companion in a lonesome place.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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