The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today. Марк Твен
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JOLLY GOOD COMPANY 135. SUPPER OR BREAKFAST? 136. TAIL PIECE 137. A LADY-KILLER TAMED 138. CONSUMING LOVE 139. A CONVERT TO WOMEN’S RIGHTS 140. OPENING NEGOTIATIONS 141. NOT JUST YET 142. WELL POSTED 143. MR. TROLLOP THINKS IT OVER 144. DILWORTHY GIVES LAURA HIS BLESSING 145. UNNECESSARY PRECAUTION 146. WHERE THE PROTECTION IS NEEDED 147. AN OBJECT OF SYMPATHY 148. CHILDREN OF HOPE 149. THE EDITOR 150. PHILIP LEAVING LAURA 151. CHAIRMAN OF THE COMMITTEE 152. THE HOUSE 153. COL SELLERS ASLEEP IN HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES 154. A HEARTY SHAKE 155. SENATOR DILWORTHY TRANQUIL 156. "SHE AIN’T DAH, SAR" 157. AS THE WITNESSES DESCRIBED IT 158. THE LEARNED DOCTORS 159. IMPORTANT BUSINESS 160. COL. SELLERS AND WASHINGTON IN LAURA’S CELL 161. PROMISED PATRONAGE 162. NO LOVE LIKE A MOTHER’S 163. CLEANED OUT BUT NOT CRUSHED 164. THE LANDLORD TAKING LESSONS 165. TAILPIECE 166. "WE’VE STRUCK IT" 167. THE MINE AT ILIUM 168. THE HERMIT 169. TAIL PIECE 110. ONE CHANCE OPEN 171. WHAT HE EXPECTED TO BE 172. ALAS! POOR ALICE 173. HOW HE WAS DRAWN IN 174. EVERYTHING 175. TAIL PIECE 176. "COME NOW, LETS CHEER UP" 177. A SHINING EXAMPLE 178. THE SEWING SOCIETY DODGE 179. DILWORTHY ADDRESSES A SUNDAY SCHOOL 180. TAIL PIECE 181. THE JUDGE 182. LAURA ON TRIAL 183. MICHAEL LANIGAN 184. PATRICK COUGHLIN 185. ETHAN DOBB 186. MR HICKS 187. SEARCH FOR A FATHER 158. TAKING ADVANTAGE OF A LULL 189. TERM EXPIRED 190. RE-ELECTED 191. THE “FAITHFUL OLD HAND" 192. A FIRE BRAND 193. TAIL PIECE 194. COL. SELLERS AND WASHINGTON RETURN HOME AFTER THE VOTE 195. A COURT-IN SCENE 196. POPULAR ENDORSEMENT 197. ONE OF THE INSULTED MEMBERS 195. TOUCHED BY THE SIRUGGLES OF THE POOR 199. MR NOBLE ASKS QUESTIONS 200. THE WORN OUT STYLE OF SENATOR 201. THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE 202. THE LAST LINK BROKEN 203. THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL 204. RETROSPECTION 205. GOOD-BYE TO WASHINGTON 206. TAIL PIECE 207. THE PARTING BLAST OFFERED 208. THE LAST BLAST 209. STRUCK IT AT LAST 210. THE RICH PROPRIETOR 211. THE SICK CHAMBER 212. ALICE
CHAPTER I.
June 18—. Squire Hawkins sat upon the pyramid of large blocks, called the “stile,” in front of his house, contemplating the morning.
The locality was Obedstown, East Tennessee. You would not know that Obedstown stood on the top of a mountain, for there was nothing about the landscape to indicate it—but it did: a mountain that stretched abroad over whole counties, and rose very gradually. The district was called the “Knobs of East Tennessee,” and had a reputation like Nazareth, as far as turning out any good thing was concerned.
The Squire’s house was a double log cabin, in a state of decay; two or three gaunt hounds lay asleep about the threshold, and lifted their heads sadly whenever Mrs. Hawkins or the children stepped in and out over their bodies. Rubbish was scattered about the grassless yard; a bench stood near the door with a tin wash basin on it and a pail of water and a gourd; a cat had begun to drink from the pail, but the exertion was overtaxing her energies, and she had stopped to rest. There was an ash-hopper by the fence, and an iron pot, for soft-soap-boiling, near it.
This dwelling constituted one-fifteenth of Obedstown; the other fourteen houses were scattered about among the tall pine trees and among the corn-fields in such a way that a man might stand in the midst of the city and not know but that he was in the country if he only depended on his eyes for information.
“Squire” Hawkins got his title from being postmaster of Obedstown—not that the title properly belonged to the office, but because in those regions the chief citizens always must have titles of some sort, and so the usual courtesy had been extended to Hawkins. The mail was monthly, and sometimes amounted to as much as three or four letters at a single delivery. Even a rush like this did not fill up the postmaster’s whole month, though, and therefore he “kept store” in the intervals.
The Squire was contemplating the morning. It was balmy and tranquil, the vagrant breezes were laden with the odor of flowers, the murmur of bees was in the air, there was everywhere that suggestion of repose that summer woodlands bring to the senses, and the vague, pleasurable melancholy that such a time and such surroundings inspire.
Presently the United States mail arrived, on horseback. There was but one letter, and it was for the postmaster. The long-legged youth who carried the mail tarried an hour to talk, for there was no hurry; and in a little while the male population of the village had assembled to help. As a general thing, they were dressed in homespun “jeans,” blue or yellow—here were no other varieties of it; all wore one suspender and sometimes two—yarn ones knitted at home—some wore vests, but few wore coats. Such coats and vests as did appear, however, were rather picturesque than otherwise, for they were made of tolerably fanciful patterns of calico—a fashion which prevails thereto this day among those of the community who have tastes above the common level and are able to afford style. Every individual arrived with his hands in his pockets; a hand came out occasionally for a purpose, but it always went back again after service; and if it was the head that was served, just the cant that the dilapidated straw hat got by being uplifted and rooted under, was retained until the next call altered the inclination; many hats were present, but none were erect and no two were canted just alike. We are speaking impartially of men, youths and boys. And we are also speaking of these three estates when we say that every individual was either chewing natural leaf tobacco prepared on his own premises, or smoking the same in a corn-cob pipe. Few of the men wore whiskers; none wore moustaches; some had a thick jungle of hair under the chin and hiding the throat—the only pattern recognized there as being the correct thing in whiskers; but no part of any individual’s face had seen a razor for a week.
These neighbors stood a few moments looking at the mail carrier reflectively while he talked; but fatigue soon began to show itself, and one after another they climbed up and occupied the top rail of the fence, hump-shouldered and grave, like a company of buzzards assembled for supper and listening for the death-rattle. Old Damrell said:
“Tha hain’t no news ’bout the jedge, hit ain’t likely?”
“Cain’t tell for sartin; some thinks he’s gwyne to be ’long toreckly, and some thinks ’e hain’t. Russ Mosely he tote ole Hanks he mought git to Obeds tomorrer or nex’ day he reckoned.”
“Well, I wisht I knowed. I got a ‘prime sow and pigs in the cote-house, and I hain’t got no place for to put ’em. If the jedge is a gwyne to hold cote, I got to roust ’em out, I reckon. But tomorrer’ll do, I ’spect.”
The speaker bunched his thick lips together like the stem-end of a tomato and shot a bumble-bee dead that had lit on a weed seven feet away. One after another the several chewers expressed a charge of tobacco juice and delivered it at the deceased with steady, aim and faultless accuracy.
“What’s a stirrin’, down ’bout the Forks?” continued Old Damrell.
“Well, I dunno, skasely. Ole Drake Higgins he’s ben down to Shelby las’ week. Tuck his crap down; couldn’t git shet o’ the most uv it; hit wasn’t no time for to sell, he say, so he ’fotch it back agin, ’lowin’ to wait tell fall. Talks ’bout goin’