Off the Turnpike
Good ev’nin’, Mis’ Priest.I jest stepped in to tell you Good-bye.Yes, it’s all over.All my things is packedAn’ every last one o’ them boxesIs on Bradley’s teamBein’ hauled over to th’ depot.No, I ain’t goin’ back agin.I’m stoppin’ over to French’s fer to-night,And goin’ down first train in th’ mornin’.Yes, it do seem kinder queerNot to be goin’ to see Cherry’s Orchard no more,But Land Sakes! When a change’s comin’,Why, I al’ays say it can’t come too quick.Now, that’s real kind o’ you,Your doughnuts is always so tasty.Yes, I’m goin’ to Chicago,To my niece,She’s married to a fine man, hardware business,An’ doin’ real well, she tells me.Lizzie’s be’n at me to go out ther for the longest while.She ain’t got no kith nor kin to Chicago, you knowShe’s rented me a real nice little flat,Same house as hers,An’ I’m goin’ to try that city livin’ folks say’s so pleasant.Oh, yes, he was real generous,Paid me a sight o’ money fer the Orchard;I told him ‘twouldn’t yield nothin’ but stones,But he ain’t farmin’ it.Lor’, no, Mis’ Priest,He’s jest took it to set and look at the view.Mebbe he wouldn’t be so stuck on the viewEf he’d seed it every mornin’ and night for forty yearSame’s as I have.I dessay it’s pretty enough,But it’s so pressed into meI c’n see’t with my eyes shut.No. I ain’t cold, Mis’ Priest,Don’t shut th’ door.I’ll be all right in a minit.But I ain’t a mite sorry to leave that view.Well, mebbe ’tis queer to feel so,An’ mebbe ‘taint.My! But that tea’s revivin’.Old things ain’t always pleasant things, Mis’ Priest.No, no, I don’t cal’late on comin’ back,That’s why I’d ruther be to Chicago,Boston’s too near.It ain’t cold, Mis’ Priest,It’s jest my thoughts.I ain’t sick, only—Mis’ Priest, ef you’ve nothin’ ter take yer time,An’ have a mind to listen,Ther’s somethin’ I’d like ter speak aboutI ain’t never mentioned it,But I’d like to tell yer ‘fore I go.Would you mind lowerin’ them shades,Fall twilight’s awful grey,An’ that fire’s real cosy with the shades drawed.Well, I guess folks about here think I’ve be’n dret’ful onsociable.You needn’t say ‘taint so, ’cause I know diff’rent.An’ what’s more, it’s true.Well, the reason is I’ve be’n scared out o’ my life.Scared ev’ry minit o’ th’ time, fer eight year.Eight mortal year ’tis, come next June.’Twas on the eighteenth o’ June,Six months after I’d buried my husband,That somethin’ happened ter me.Mebbe you’ll mind that afore thatI was a cheery body.Hiram was too,Al’ays liked to ask a neighbor in,An’ ev’n when he died,Barrin’ low sperrits, I warn’t averse to seein’ nobody.But that eighteenth o’ June changed ev’rythin’.I was doin’ most o’ th’ farmwork myself,With jest a hired boy, Clarence King, ’twas,Comin’ in fer an hour or two.Well, that eighteenth o’ JuneI was goin’ round,Lockin’ up and seein’ to things ‘fore I went to bed.I was jest steppin’ out t’ th’ barn,Goin’ round outside ‘stead o’ through the shed,’Cause there was such a sight o’ moonlightSomehow or another I thought ‘twould be pretty outdoors.I got settled for pretty things that night, I guess.I ain’t stuck on ’em no more.Well, them laylock bushes side o’ th’ houseWas real lovely.Glitt’rin’ and shakin’ in the moonlight,An’ the smell o’ them rose right upAn’ most took my breath away.The colour o’ the spikes was all faded out,They never keep their colour when the moon’s on ’em,But the smell fair ‘toxicated me.I was al’ays partial to a sweet scent,An’ I went close up t’ th’ bushesSo’s to put my face right into a flower.Mis’ Priest, jest’s I got breathin’ in that laylock bloomI saw, layin’ right at my feet,A man’s hand!It was as white’s the side o’ th’ house,And sparklin’ like that lum’nous paint they put on gate-posts.I screamed right out,I couldn’t help it,An’ I could hear my screamGoin’ over an’ overIn that echo be’ind th’ barn.Hearin’ it agin an’ agin like thatScared me so, I dar’sn’t scream any more.I jest stood ther,And looked at that hand.I thought the echo’d begin to hammer like my heart,But it didn’t.There was only th’ wind,Sighin’ through the laylock leaves,An’ slappin’ ’em up agin the house.Well, I guess I looked at that handMost ten minits,An’ it never moved,Jest lay there white as white.After a while I got to thinkin’ that o’ course’Twas some drunken tramp over from Redfield.That calmed me some,An’ I commenced to think I’d better git him outFrom under them laylocks.I planned to drag him in t’ th’ barnAn’ lock him in ther till Clarence come in th’ mornin’.I got so mad thinkin’ o’ that all-fired brazen trampAsleep in my laylocks,I jest stooped down and grabbed th’ hand and give it an awful pull.Then I bumped right down settin’ on the ground.Mis’ Priest, ther warn’t no body come with the hand.No, it ain’t cold, it’s jest that I can’t abear thinkin’ of it,Ev’n now.I’ll take a sip o’ tea.Thank you, Mis’ Priest, that’s better.I’d ruther finish now I’ve begun.Thank you, jest the same.I dropped the hand’s ef it’d be’n red hot‘Stead o’ ice cold.Fer a minit or two I jest laid on that grassPantin’.Then I up and run to them laylocksAn’ pulled ’em every which way.True es I’m settin’ here, Mis’ Priest,Ther warn’t nothin’ ther.I peeked an’ pryed all about ’em,But ther warn’t no man therNeither livin’ nor dead.But the hand was ther all right,Upside down, the way I’d dropped it,And glist’nin’ fit to dazzle yer.I don’t know how I done it,An’ I don’t know why I done it,But I wanted to git that dret’ful hand out o’ sightI got in t’ th’ barn, somehow,An’ felt roun’ till I got a spade.I couldn’t stop fer a lantern,Besides, the moonlight was bright enough in all conscience.Then I scooped that awful thing up in th’ spade.I had a sight o’ trouble doin’ it.It slid off, and tipped over, and I couldn’t bearEv’n to touch it with my foot to prop it,But I done it somehow.Then I carried it off be’ind the barn,Clost to an old apple-treeWhere you couldn’t see from the house,An’ I buried it,Good an’ deep.
I don’t rec’lect nothin’ more o’ that night.Clarence woke me up in th’ mornin’,Hollerin’ fer me to come down and set th’ milk.When he’d gone,I stole roun’ to the apple-treeAnd seed the earth all new turnedWhere I left it in my hurry.I did a heap o’ gardenin’That mornin’.I couldn’t cut no big sodsFear Clarence would notice and ask me what I wanted ’em fer,So I got teeny bits o’ turf here and ther,And no one couldn’t tell ther’d be’n any diggin’When I got through.They was awful days after that, Mis’ Priest,I used ter go every mornin’ and poke about them bushes,An’ up and down the fence,Ter find the body that hand come off of.But I couldn’t never find nothin’.I’d lay awake nightsHearin’ them laylocks blowin’ and whiskin’.At last I had Clarence cut ’em downAn’ make a big bonfire of ’em.I told him the smell made me sick,An’ that warn’t no lie,I can’t abear the smell on ’em now;An’ no wonder, es you say.I fretted somethin’ awful ’bout that handI wondered, could it be Hiram’s,But folks don’t rob graveyards hereabouts.Besides, Hiram’s hands warn’t that awful, starin’ white.I give up seein’ people,I was afeared I’d say somethin’.You know what folks thought o’ meBetter’n I do, I dessay,But mebbe now you’ll see I couldn’t do nothin’ diff’rent.But I stuck it out,I warn’t goin’ to be downedBy no loose hand, no matter how it come therBut that ain’t the worst, Mis’ Priest,Not by a long ways.Two year ago, Mr. Densmore made me an offer for Cherry’s Orchard.Well, I’d got used to th’ thought o’ bein’ sort o’ blighted,An’ I warn’t scared no more.Lived down my fear, I guess.I’d kinder got used to th’ thought o’ that awful night,And I didn’t mope much about it.Only I never went out o’ doors by moonlight;That stuck.Well, when Mr. Densmore’s offer come,I started thinkin’ ’bout the placeAn’ all the things that had gone on ther.Thinks I, I guess I’ll go and see where I put the hand.I was foolhardy with the long time that had gone by.I know’d the place real well,Fer I’d put it right in between two o’ the apple roots.I don’t know what possessed me, Mis’ Priest,But I kinder wanted to knowThat the hand had been flesh and bone, anyway.It had sorter bothered me, thinkin’ I might ha’ imagined it.I took a mornin’ when the sun was real pleasant and warm;I guessed I wouldn’t jump for a few old bones.But I did jump, somethin’ wicked.Ther warn’t no bones!Ther warn’t nothin’!Not ev’n the gold ring I’d minded bein’ on the little finger.I don’t know ef ther ever was anythin’.I’ve worried myself sick over it.I be’n diggin’ and diggin’ day in and day outTill Clarence ketched me at it.Oh, I know’d real well what you all thought,An’ I ain’t sayin’ you’re not right,But I ain’t goin’ to end in no county ‘sylumIf I c’n help it.The shiv’rin’ fits come on me sudden like.I know ’em, don’t you trouble.I’ve fretted considerable about the ‘sylum,I guess I be’n frettin’ all the time I ain’t be’n diggin’.But anyhow I can’t dig to Chicago, can I?Thank you, Mis’ Priest,I’m better now. I only dropped in in passin’.I’ll jest be steppin’ along down to French’s.No, I won’t be seein’ nobody in the mornin’,It’s a pretty early start.Don’t you stand ther, Mis’ Priest,The wind’ll blow yer lamp out,An’ I c’n see easy, I got aholt o’ the gate now.I ain’t a mite tired, thank you.Good-night.