Hepsey Burke

“Purl two, knit two, an inch and a half—” Mrs. Burke muttered to herself as she read the printed directions which lay in her lap, and then she added encouragingly:

“So you get lonesome, do you, Jonathan, durin’ the long evenin’s, when it gets dark early.”

“Oh, awful lonesome,” Jonathan responded. “Don’t you ever get lonesome yourself, Hepsey?”

“I can’t say as it kept me awake nights. ’Tisn’t bein’ alone that makes you lonesome. The most awful lonesomeness in the world is bein’ in a crowd that’s not your kind.”

“That’s so, Hepsey. But two isn’t a crowd. Don’t 163 you think you’d like to get married, if you had a right good chance, now?”

Hepsey gave her visitor a quick, sharp glance, and inquired:

“What would you consider a right good chance, Jonathan?”

“Oh, suppose that some respectable widower with a tidy sum in the bank should ask you to marry him; what would you say, Hepsey?”

“Can’t say until I’d seen the widower, to say nothin’ of the bank book—one, two, three, four, five, six—”

Jonathan felt that the crisis was now approaching; so, moving his chair a little nearer, he resumed excitedly:

“You’ve seen him, Hepsey; you’ve seen him lots of times, and he don’t live a thousand miles away, neither.”

“Hm! Must be he lives in Martin’s Junction. Is he good lookin’, Jonathan?”

“Oh, fair to middlin’. That is—of course—I well—I—I should think he was; but tastes differ.”

“Well, you know I’m right particular, Jonathan. Is he real smart and clever?”

“I don’t know as—I ought to—to—say, Hepsey; but I rather guess he knows enough to go in when it rains.” 164

“That’s good as far as it goes. The next time you see him, you tell him to call around and let me look him over. Maybe I could give him a job on the farm, even if I didn’t want to marry him.”

“But he doesn’t want any job on the farm, Hepsey. He just wants you, that’s all.”

“How do you know he does? Did he ever tell you?”

“Hepsey Burke, don’t you know who I’m alludin’ at? Haven’t you ever suspected nothin’?”

“Yes, I’ve suspected lots of things. Now there’s Jack Dempsey. I’ve suspected him waterin’ the milk for some time. Haven’t you ever suspected anythin’ yourself, Jonathan?”

“Well, I guess I’m suspectin’ that you’re tryin’ to make a fool of me, all right.”

“Oh no! Fools come ready-made, and there’s a glut in the market just now; seven—eight—nine—ten; no use makin’ more until the supply’s exhausted. But what made you think you wanted to marry? This is so powerful sudden.”

Now that the point was reached, Jonathan got a little nervous: “To—to tell you the truth, Hepsey,” he stuttered, “I was in doubt about it myself for some time; but bein’ as I am a Christian man I turned to the Bible for light on my path.” 165

“Hm! And how did the light shine?”

“Well, I just shut my eyes and opened my Bible at random, and put my finger on a text. Then I opened my eyes and read what was written.”

“Yes! What did you find?”

“I read somethin’ about ‘not a man of them escaped save six hundred that rode away on camels.’”

“Did that clear up all your difficulties?”

“No, can’t say as it did. But those words about ‘no man escapin’’ seemed to point towards matrimony as far as they went. Then I tried a second time.”

“Oh did you? I should think that six hundred camels would be enough for one round-up. What luck did you have the second time?”

“Well, I read, ‘Moab is my wash pot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe.’ You’ve seen ’em cast shoes at the carriages of brides and grooms, haven’t you, Hepsey? Just for luck, you know. So it seemed to point towards matrimony again.”

“Say, Jonathan, you certainly have a wonderful gift for interpretin’ Scripture.”

“Well, Scripture or no Scripture, I want you, Hepsey.”

“Am I to understand that you’re just fadin’ and pinin’ away for love of me? You don’t look thin.” 166

“Oh, we ’aint neither of us as young as we once was, Hepsey. Of course I can’t be expected to pine real hard.”

“I’m afraid it’s not the real thing, Jonathan, unless you pine. Don’t it keep you awake nights, or take away your appetite, or make you want to play the banjo, or nothin’?”

“No, Hepsey; to tell you the plain truth, it don’t. But I feel awful lonesome, and I like you a whole lot, and I—I love you as much as anyone, I guess.”

“So you are in love are you, Jonathan. Then let me give you some good advice. When you’re in love, don’t believe all you think, or half you feel, or anything at all you are perfectly sure of. It’s dangerous business. But I am afraid that you’re askin’ me because it makes you think that you are young and giddy, like the rest of the village boys, to be proposin’ to a shy young thing like me.”

“No, Hepsey; you aren’t no shy young thing, and you haven’t been for nigh on forty years. I wouldn’t be proposin’ to you if you were.”

“Jonathan, your manners need mendin’ a whole lot. The idea of insinuatin’ that I am not a shy young thing. I’m ashamed of you, and I’m positive we could never get along together.”

“But I can’t tell a lie about you, even if I do want 167 to marry you. You don’t want to marry a liar, do you?”

“Well, the fact is, Jonathan, polite lyin’s the real foundation of all good manners. What we’ll ever do when we get to heaven where we have to tell the truth whether we want to or not, I’m sure I don’t know. It’ll be awful uncomfortable until we get used to it.”

“The law says you should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth,” persisted the literal wooer.

“Now, see here, Jonathan. Would you say that a dog’s tail was false and misleadin’ just because it isn’t the whole dog?”

This proposition was exceedingly confusing to Jonathan’s intelligence, but after careful consideration he felt obliged to say “No.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Burke continued triumphantly, quickly following up her advantage. “You see a dog’s tail couldn’t be misleading, ’cause the dog leads the tail, and not the tail the dog. Any fool could see that.”

Jonathan felt that he had been tricked, although he could not see just how the thing had been accomplished; so he began again:

“Now Hepsey, we’re wanderin’ from the point, 168 and you’re just talkin’ to amuse yourself. Can’t you come down to business? Here I am a widower, and here you are a widowess, and we’re both lonesome, and we–”

“Who told you I was lonesome, I’d like to know?”

“Well, of course you didn’t, ’cause you never tell anything to anyone. But I guessed you was sometimes, from the looks of you.”