The Burial of the Guns | Page 5

sky, and let them fall into her lap with a sort of long,
sighing breath, and slowly interlaced her fingers. The next second some
one jocularly fired this question at her: "Well, Cousin Fanny, give us
your views," and her expression changed back to that which she
ordinarily wore.
"Oh, my views, like other people's, vary from my practice," she said.

"It is not views, but experiences, which are valuable in life. When I
shall have been married twice I will tell you."
"While there's life there's hope, eh?" hazarded some one; for teasing an
old maid, in any way, was held perfectly legitimate.
"Yes, indeed," and she left the room, smiling, and went up-stairs.
This was one of the occasions when her eyes looked well. There were
others that I remember, as sometimes when she was in church;
sometimes when she was playing with little children; and now and then
when, as on that evening, she was sitting still, gazing out of the window.
But usually her eyes were weak, and she wore the green shade, which
gave her face a peculiar pallor, making her look old, and giving her a
pained, invalid expression.
Her dress was one of her peculiarities. Perhaps it was because she made
her clothes herself, without being able to see very well. I suppose she
did not have much to dress on. I know she used to turn her dresses, and
change them around several times. When she had any money she used
to squander it, buying dresses for Scroggs's girls or for some one else.
She was always scrupulously neat, being quite old-maidish. She said
that cleanliness was next to godliness in a man, and in a woman it was
on a par with it. I remember once seeing a picture of her as a young girl,
as young as Kitty, dressed in a soft white dress, with her hair down
over her ears, and some flowers in her dress -- that is, it was said to be
she; but I did not believe it. To be sure, the flowers looked like it. She
always would stick flowers or leaves in her dress, which was thought
quite ridiculous. The idea of associating flowers with an old maid! It
was as hard as believing she ever was the young girl. It was not,
however, her dress, old and often queer and ill-made as it used to be,
that was the chief grievance against her. There was a much stronger
ground of complaint; she had NERVES! The word used to be strung
out in pronouncing it, with a curve of the lips, as "ner-erves". I don't
remember that she herself ever mentioned them; that was the
exasperating part of it. She would never say a word; she would just
close her thin lips tight, and wear a sort of ill look, as if she were in
actual pain. She used to go up-stairs, and shut the door and windows
tight, and go to bed, and have mustard-plasters on her temples and the
back of her neck; and when she came down, after a day or two, she
would have bright red spots burnt on her temples and neck, and would

look ill. Of course it was very hard not to be exasperated at this. Then
she would creep about as if merely stepping jarred her; would put on a
heavy blue veil, and wrap her head up in a shawl, and feel along by the
chairs till she got to a seat, and drop back in it, gasping. Why, I have
even seen her sit in the room, all swathed up, and with an old parasol
over her head to keep out the light, or some such nonsense, as we used
to think. It was too ridiculous to us, and we boys used to walk heavily
and stumble over chairs -- "accidentally", of course -- just to make her
jump. Sometimes she would even start up and cry out. We had the
incontestable proof that it was all "put on"; for if you began to talk to
her, and got her interested, she would forget all about her ailments, and
would run on and talk and laugh for an hour, until she suddenly
remembered, and sank back again in her shawls and pains.
She knew a great deal. In fact, I recall now that she seemed to know
more than any woman I have ever been thrown with, and if she had not
been an old maid, I am bound to admit that her conversation would
have been the most entertaining I ever knew. She lived in a sort of
atmosphere of romance and literature; the old writers and their
characters were as real to her as we were, and she used to talk about
them to