Short stories; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
Next time they would expect to do it, and after a while it would
become a habit. She said no one knew what terror women had of being run
over and trampled on.
She was, as I have said, an awful coward. She used to stand still on the
edge of the street and look up and down both ways ever so long, then go
out in the street and stand still, look both ways and then run back; or
as like as not start on and turn and run back after she was more than
half way across, and so get into real danger. One day, as she was
passing along, a driver had in his cart an old bag-of-bones of a horse,
which he was beating to make him pull up the hill, and Cousin Fanny,
with an old maid’s meddlesomeness, pushed out into the street and caught
hold of him and made him stop, which of course collected a crowd, and
just as she was coming back a little cart came rattling along, and
though she was in no earthly danger, she ran so to get out of the way of
the horse that she tripped and fell down in the street and hurt herself.
So much for cowardice.
The doctor finally told her that she had nothing the matter with her,
except something with her nerves and, I believe, her spine, and that she
wanted company (you see she was a good deal alone). He said it was the
first law of health ever laid down, that it was not good for man to
be alone; that loneliness is a specific disease. He said she wanted
occupation, some sort of work to interest her, and make her forget her
aches and ailments. He suggested missionary work of some kind. This
was one of the worst things he could have told her, for there was no
missionary work to be had where she lived. Besides, she could not have
done missionary work; she had never done anything in her life; she was
always wasting her time pottering about the country on her old horse,
seeing sick old darkies or poor people in the pines. No matter how bad
the weather was, nor how deep the roads, she would go prowling around
to see some old “aunty” or “uncle”, in their out-of-the-way cabins,
or somebody’s sick child. I have met her on old Fashion in the rain,
toiling along in roads that were knee-deep, to get the doctor to come
to see some sick person, or to get a dose of physic from the depot. How
could she have done any missionary work?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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