CHAPTER XXXVII.BETSY FAINTS. A VISION.
THE other day ex-Congressman Richer’s lawyer brought a man out to look at the farm. They driv into the gate, out through the bars back of the barn, across fust one field then another, the lawyer a pintin and layin it off, the feller a lookin and noddin his head.
Arter a while they come back and come up into the yard, the lawyer still a pintin, the feller still a lookin and noddin. I heerd the lawyer say:
“We want you to clear this all up. Clear away these bushes, and sow the yard down in lawn grass.”
As soon as I heerd that word “bushes,” I thought all of a suddint of poor “little Jane’s white rose-bush.”
I felt faint like—smothered—and a tear came a rollin down my cheek and dropped on the floor before I could git my apron to my eyes, and they kept a comin, no matter how hard I wiped.
When I use to read and hear of “sheriff sales” I dident take time to think what an awful thing it is to have the only place one knows on airth as “home” sold away from you. But now, when I know of what it is, I think of all the tears and sobs and heartaches and sich that has been a goin on around us, and we dident know anything about it.
Sometimes I find myself stoppin and standin still and lookin up in the sky and sayin:
“O Lord, is there no other way to do? Is there no way to save the women and children and hard-workin men from bein turned out of their homes, where they have lived and loved and been born?”
And every time I think I can hear a whisperin voice, jist a little piece away from me, a sayin:
“Yes, by reducin interest.”
And then in a minit or so it seems as though I hear a ringin in my ears, in words jist a little further away than the other, a sayin:
“It—will—be—done. It—will—be—done.”
If I only knew where we are to go to, and what Jobe can git to do, I might bear it easier. It seems as though an old man haint wanted to do work, and it seems every place is taken up.
Jobe has been out, ever since he has been able to go about, lookin for work and some place to move to.
Everybody seems to a heard of our bein foreclosed, and they dont seem to trust Jobe like they use to, though God knows he is as honest as he ever was.
Well, arter the lawyer had gone all around the place, givin his orders to the feller, he come up to the door and knocked. I opened the door and says:
“Come in.”
“No,” says he, “I jist wanted to know if you intended to git out by March the fust.”
Says I: “We will if we can find a place.”
“Well, you must git out whether you find a place or not,” says he, “as we want this gentleman to move in and commence spring work.”
“We will, Mistur Lawyer, if we can possibly find a place,” says I.
“Well, look here, Mrs. Gaskins,” says he, short like, “we dont want any ‘ifs’ about it. I notify you now, in the presence of this gentleman, that if you are not out by March the fust, I will see that the law puts you out. Now, take warnin.”
And at that he turned on his heel and walked off.
“‘O, Lord, is there no other way to do?’”
“‘O, Lord, is there no other way to do?’”
“‘O, Lord, is there no other way to do?’”
I am an old woman, and have had many hardships, but, Mistur Editure, in all my life I never had anything to strike my heart like them words did. It jist seemed like everything turned black before me, and I sunk down in the doorway and must a fell to sleep, for arter a while I woke up, or come to, as it were.
I had a dream while I lay there that I will never forgit.
I thought that a great, large man stood before me, and jist behind him stood two other good-sized fellers. The big man said to me, in a cruel, coarse voice: “Ive come to turn you out.” I thought I bursted out a cryin, and turned my eyes up toward the sky, as I had done before, and right there, a flyin through the air, come my dear little Jane, lookin jist as she did years ago before she died. I thought she throwed her little arms around my neck, and laid her little soft face agin my cheek, and says: “Dont cry, mamma. If no one else cares for you, I do,” jist as plain as I ever heerd her little voice in life.
I clasped my arms around her, and begin to feel a thrill of happiness as I once did, when the big sheriff stepped up and grabbed her by the neckband of her little dress, and, with a mighty jerk, threw her behind him, sayin: “Stop this sentimentalism. The law must have its way.”
I paid no attention to his cruel words, but jumped toward my little Jane, who laid there with the blood a runnin out of her little head jist above the left eye. Her eyes were open and starin, and, with a scream of agony, I cried: “Oh, my child! My child is dead!”
I was so shocked that it woke me up, and I found myself a layin there in the door, and, bein cold, I got up and went in, all a shakin.
From that day to this I can hardly think of anything but my little girl a comin through the air and throwin her baby arms around my neck.