ARMAZINDY

Armazindy;—fambily name Ballenger,—you’ll find the same, As her Daddy answered it, In the old War-rickords yit,— And, like him, she’s airnt the good Will o’ all the neighborhood.— Name ain’t down in History,— But, i jucks! it ort to be! Folks is got respec’ fer her— Armazindy Ballenger!— ’Specially the ones ’at knows Fac’s o’ how her story goes From the start:—Her father blowed Up—eternally furloughed— When the old “Sultana” bu’st, And sich men wuz needed wusst.— Armazindy, ’bout fourteen- Year-old then—and thin and lean As a killdee,—but—my la!— Blamedest nerve you ever saw! The girl’s mother’d allus be’n Sickly—wuz consumpted when Word came ’bout her husband.—So Folks perdicted she’d soon go— (Kind o’ grief I understand, Losin’ my companion,—and Still a widower—and still Hinted at, like neighbers will!) So, app’inted, as folks said, Ballenger a-bein’ dead, Widder, ’peared-like, gradjully, Jes grieved after him tel she Died, nex’ Aprile wuz a year,— And in Armazindy’s keer Leavin’ the two twins, as well As her pore old miz’able Old-maid aunty ’at had be’n Struck with palsy, and wuz then Jes a he’pless charge on her— Armazindy Ballenger. Jevver watch a primrose ’bout Minute ’fore it blossoms out— Kindo’ loosen-like, and blow Up its muscles, don’t you know, And, all suddent, bu’st and bloom Out life-size?—Well, I persume ’At’s the only measure I Kin size Armazindy by!— Jes a child, one minute,—nex’, Woman-grown, in all respec’s And intents and purposuz— ’At’s what Armazindy wuz! Jes a child, I tell ye! Yit She made things git up and git Round that little farm o’ hern!— Shouldered all the whole concern;— Feed the stock, and milk the cows— Run the farm and run the house!— Only thing she didn’t do Wuz to plough and harvest too— But the house and childern took Lots o’ keer—and had to look After her old fittified Grandaunt.—Lord! ye could’a’ cried, Seein’ Armazindy smile, ’Peared-like, sweeter all the while! And I’ve heerd her laugh and say:— “Jes afore Pap marched away, He says, ‘I depend on you, Armazindy, come what may— You must be a Soldier, too!’” Neighbers, from the fust, ’ud come— And she’d let ’em help her some,— “Thanky, ma’am!” and “Thanky, sir!” But no charity fer her!— “She could raise the means to pay Fer her farm-hands ever’ day Sich wuz needed!”—And she could— In cash-money jes as good As farm-produc’s ever brung Their perducer, old er young! So folks humored her and smiled, And at last wuz rickonciled Fer to let her have her own Way about it.—But a-goin’ Past to town, they’d stop and see “Armazindy’s fambily,” As they’d allus laugh and say, And look sorry right away, Thinkin’ of her Pap, and how He’d indorse his “Soldier” now! ’Course she couldn’t never be Much in young-folks’ company— Plenty of in-vites to go, But das’t leave the house, you know— ’Less’n Sund’ys sometimes, when Some old Granny’d come and ’ten’ Things, while Armazindy has Got away fer Church er “Class.” Most the youngsters liked her—and ’Twuzn’t hard to understand,— Fer, by time she wuz sixteen, Purtier girl you never seen— ’Ceptin’ she lacked schoolin’, ner Couldn’t rag out stylisher— Like some neighber-girls, ner thumb On their blame’ melodium, Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed Round the old back-porch and washed Their clothes fer ’em—rubbed and scrubbed Fer girls’d ort to jes be’n clubbed! —And jes sich a girl wuz Jule Reddinhouse.—She’d be’n to school At New Thessaly, i gum!— Fool before, but that he’pped some— ’Stablished-like more confidence ’At she never had no sense. But she wuz a cunnin’, sly, Meek and lowly sort o’ lie, ’At men-folks like me and you B’lieves jes ’cause we ortn’t to.— Jes as purty as a snake, And as pizen—mercy sake! Well, about them times it wuz, Young Sol Stephens th’ashed fer us; And we sent him over to Armazindy’s place to do Her work fer her.—And-sir! Well— Mighty little else to tell,— Sol he fell in love with her— Armazindy Ballenger! Bless ye!—’Ll, of all the love ’At I’ve ever yit knowed of, That-air case o’ theirn beat all! W’y, she worshipped him!—And Sol, ’Peared-like, could ’a’ kissed the sod (Sayin’ is) where that girl trod! Went to town, she did, and bought Lot o’ things ’at neighbers thought Mighty strange fer her to buy,— Raal chintz dress-goods—and ’way high!— Cut long in the skyrt,—also Gaiter-pair o’ shoes, you know; And lace collar;—yes, and fine Stylish hat, with ivy-vine And red ribbons, and these-’ere Artificial flowers and queer Little beads and spangles, and Oysturch-feathers round the band! Wore ’em, Sund’ys, fer a while— Kindo’ went to Church in style, Sol and Armazindy!—Tel It was noised round purty well They wuz promised.—And they wuz— Sich news travels—well it does!— Pity ’at that did!—Fer jes That-air fac’ and nothin’ less Must ’a’ putt it in the mind O’ Jule Reddinhouse to find Out some dratted way to hatch Out some plan to break the match— ’Cause she done it!—How? they’s none Knows adzac’ly what she done; Some claims she writ letters to Sol’s folks, up nigh Pleasant View Somers—and described, you see, “Armazindy’s fambily”— Hintin’ “ef Sol married her, He’d jes be pervidin’ fer Them-air twins o’ hern, and old Palsied aunt ’at couldn’t hold Spoon to mouth, and layin’ near Bedrid’ on to eighteen year’, And still likely, ’pearantly, To live out the century!” Well—whatever plan Jule laid Out to reach the p’int she made, It wuz desper’t.—And she won, Finully, by marryun Sol herse’f—e-lopin’, too, With him, like she had to do,— ’Cause her folks ’ud allus swore “Jule should never marry pore!” This-here part the story I Allus haf to hurry by,— Way ’at Armazindy jes Drapped back in her linsey dress, And grabbed holt her loom, and shet Her jaws square.—And ef she fret Any ’bout it—never ’peared Sign ’at neighbers seed er heerd;— Most folks liked her all the more— I know I did—certain-shore!— (’Course I’d knowed her Pap, and what Stock she come of.—Yes, and thought, And think yit, no man on earth ’S worth as much as that girl’s worth!) As fer Jule and Sol, they had Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!— Her folks let her go.—They said, “Spite o’ them she’d made her bed And must sleep in it!”—But she, ’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free As she ust to—ner so late, Ner so fine, I’m here to state!— Sol wuz pore, of course, and she Wuzn’t ust to poverty— Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes ’Filiate with lonesomeness,— ’Cause Sol he wuz off and out With his th’asher nigh about Half the time; er, season done, He’d be off mi-anderun Round the country, here and there, Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit Jule a bit!—and then, to boot, She had now the keer o’ two Her own childern—and to do Her own work and cookin’—yes, And sometimes fer hands, I guess, Well as fambily of her own.— Cut her pride clean to the bone! So how could the whole thing end?— She set down, one night, and penned A short note, like—’at she sewed On the childern’s blanket—blowed Out the candle—pulled the door To close after her—and, shore- Footed as a cat is, clumb In a rigg there and left home, With a man a-drivin’ who “Loved her ever fond and true,” As her note went on to say, When Sol read the thing next day. Raally didn’t ’pear to be Extry waste o’ sympathy Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit, Sake o’ them-air little bit O’ two orphants—as you might Call ’em then, by law and right,— Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and Tried to hold him out their hand Same as allus: But he’d flinch— Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch, He let all holts go; and so Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,— Tel, to make a long tale short, He wuz fuller than he ort To ’a’ be’n, at work one day ’Bout his th’asher, and give way, Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched In the beltin’. ... Rid and fetched Armazindy to him.—He Begged me to.—But time ’at she Reached his side, he smiled and tried To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died.... Hands all turned and left her there And went somers else—somewhere. Last, she called us back—in clear Voice as man’ll ever hear— Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me, As her old Pap’s ust to be.— Give us orders what to do ’Bout the body—he’pped us, too. So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed In Armazindy’s hands at last. More’n that, she claimed ’at she Had consent from him to be Mother to his childern—now ’Thout no parents anyhow. Yes-sir! and she’s got ’em, too,— Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do— So they let her have her way— Like she’s doin’ yit to-day! Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her— Armazindy Ballenger— To in-large her fambily Jes one more by takin’ me— Which I’m feared she never will, Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still.