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“WE have an invitation to a party,” said Mrs.
Sparrowgrass, “on Friday next, and I think a party
is a very pleasant thing in the country. There is
more sociability, more hospitality, warmer welcomes,
less dress, and less style than there is in the
city.” Here Mrs. Sparrowgrass handed me an engraved
card of rather formidable dimensions, which
I must confess looked anything but rural. I took
the missive with some misgivings, for I have a
natural horror of parties. “I wonder,” said I, in
the most playful kind of bitter irony, “whether we
will meet out here that young lady that never sings
herself, but is always so passionately fond of music?”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought not; she
said she heard she was married.

“And that gentleman,” I continued, “who was

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a stranger to me, that always wanted to be presented
to some young lady that I didn't know?”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she believed he had gone
to California.

“And that lady who prized confectionery above
good-breeding, and went home with her pockets
well stuffed with mottoes, in defiance of the eighth
commandment, and the laws of propriety?”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she knew the lady to
whom I alluded, but she assured me she was yet in
New York, and had not been seen about our
village.

“Then,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, we will go
to the party. Put my best shirt, and the white
waisteoat in Monday's wash. Never mind expense.
Get me a crumb of bread, and bring me my old
white gloves. I am going to be gay.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “that a party
in town is nothing but an embarrassment.” “True,”
said I. “Don't you remember,” said she, “what
a fuss I used to make about getting my hair flxed,
and how put out I was that night when you forgot
the japonica?” “Certainly.” “And then, when
we were all dressed and ready, how we used to
wait for fear of getting there too early, and after we

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did reach the house, how we always got in a corner,
and made happy wall-flowers of ourselves, and some
old friends.” “Of course I do.” “Where nobody
took any notice of us.” “Exactly.” “Then what
difference did it make how I was dressed—whether
I wore Honiton lace or cotton edging?” “I am
afraid,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, if you had
made a point of wearing cotton lace, you would
not have been invited.” At this palpable double
entendre I felt that secret satisfaction which every
man must feel when he has said a good thing. It
was lost upon Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “Here,” she
continued, “we expect a simple, old-fashioned
entertainment.” Then I chimed in—“No gas-lights
to make your eyes ache—no patent-leather
to make your feet ache—no fashionable follies to
make your heart ache—and no overheated, ill-ventilated
rooms, boned-turkies, game, ice-cream, Charlotte
Russe, pâtés, champagne, and chicken-salad,
to make your head ache next morning.” “There
will be oysters and ice-cream,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
dubiously. “I wish,” said I, “there was
a prospect of apples and cider instead. The moment
I get inside the doors, and breathe the mingled
odors of oysters and geraniums, it will carry

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me back to town, and for one evening, at least, I
shall forget that we are living in the country.


—`I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods;'
but we must succumb; we will go like plain, sensible
people, won't we?”

“If you were me, what would you wear?” said
Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

“Something very plain, my dear.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “I have nothing
very plain, suitable for a party, and to-morrow I
must go to town and do a little shopping.”

“I am afraid,” said I (after the second day's
hard shopping in town) “your dress is going to be
too plain, my dear. Every hour brings a fresh boy,
with a fresh bundle, and a fresh bill, to my office.”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, “that if I thought so, perhaps
she had better get something expensive when
she went to buy the trimmings.” I told her I
thought her dress would do without trimming. She
said, “it would be ridiculous without gimp or galloon;
but perhaps I would prefer velvet ribbon,

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on account of the flounces?” I told her she had
better get the velvet ribbon, and omit the gimp and
galloon. Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, “very well,”
and the next day another boy brought another bundle,
and another bill, which convinced me that
extras form an important item in rural architecture.
Then we had a dressmaker for several days, and
the stitching went on by sun-light and lamp-light,
and on the last day Mrs. S. discovered that she had
nothing for her head, and the new bonnet was taken
to pieces to get at the feathers for a coiffure. Then
when the night fell, there fell, too, a soaking rain;
and I had forgotten the carriage, so I was obliged
to go a mile in the mud to order one from the village
livery stable. Then I had to walk back, as
the man said “it was out;” but he promised to
send it for us right straight off. Then I had to get
dressed over again. Then Mrs. Sparrowgrass could
not find her best handkerchief, and I dropped five
spermacetti blotches on the new silk dress looking
for it. Then she found the handkerchief. Then
our girl said that the new dog had run off with one
of my boots. Then I had to go out in the mud in
my slippers after the dog. Then I got the boot and
put it on so as to make that sure. Then we waited

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for the carriage. We were all dressed and ready,
but no carriage. We exercised all the patience we
could muster, on account of the carriage, and listened
at the windows to see if we could hear it.
Two months have elapsed, and it hasn't come yet.
Next day we heard that the party had been an elegant
affair. That everybody was there, so we concluded
the carriage had not been able to come for
us on account of business.

I have bought me another dog. I bought him
on account of his fine, long ears, and beautiful
silky tail. He is a pup, and much caressed by the
young ones. One day he went off to the butcher's,
and came back with no more tail than a toad. The
whole bunch of young Sparrowgrasses began to
bawl when he reached the cottage, on account of
his tail. I did not know him when I came home,
and he could not recognize me—he had lost his
organ of recognition. He reminded me of a dog I
once heard of, that looked as if he had been where
they wanted a tail merely, and had taken his, and
thrown the dog away. Of course I took my stick,
and went to see the butcher. Butcher said “he
supposed I was something of a dog fancier, and
would like to see my dog look stylish.” I said on

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the contrary, that I had bought him on account of
his handsome silky tail, and that I would give ten
dollars to have it replaced. Then the idea of having
it replaced seemed so ludicrous that I could not
restrain a smile, and then the butcher caught the
joke, and said there was no way to do it except
with fresh putty. I do love a man who can enjoy
a joke, so I took a fancy to that butcher. When I
got home and saw the dog, I thought less of the
butcher, but put a piece of black court-plaster on
the dog, and it improved his appearance at once.
So I forgave the butcher, and went to bed at peace
with all mankind.

I love to lie a-bed in these autumnal mornings,
and see the early sunlight on those grim old Palisades.
A vast stretch of rock, gaunt and grey, is
not a cheerful view from the south window. Shut
your eyes for a minute, and now look. That faint
red cornice, reaching rough-cast along the rugged
tops, ten miles or more, from Closter to Tillietudlum,
is not unpicturesque. And although we have
not the odor of spring lilacs and summer roses,
breathing through the windows, yet there is something
not less delightful to the senses in this clear
frosty atmosphere. Below, the many-colored woods

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that burgeon on the sides seem to retain the verdure
of early spring in those cool depths of shadow.
As the sunlight broadens on the crags, the illusion
disappears, and we behold once more the brilliant
vagaries of vegetation, the hectic hints of yesterday.
I wish Kensett could see that pure blue sky
and yonder melancholy sloop on the river, working
her passage down, with bricks from Haverstraw,
and a sail like an expanded rose leaf. It is a pleasant
thing to watch the river craft in these autumnal
mornings. Sometimes we see a white breasted
covey coming up in the distance—from shore to
shore a spread of dimity. Here and there are
troops of shining ones with warm illuminated wings,
and others creeping along in shadow with spectral
pinions, like evil spirits. Yonder schooner is not
an unfair image of humanity; beating up against
adverse winds with one black and one white sail.
That dogged old craft, just emerging from obscurity
into sunlight, is but a type of some curmudgeon
passing from poverty to affluence, and there is another,
evidently on the wrong track, stretching
away from the light of prosperity into the gloom
of misfortune. I do not love the country less
because of her teachings by these simple symbols.

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There are many things to be learned from watching
the old wood-sloops on the river.

Our neighbor has been making an improvement
in his house. He has had a drain made in the
kitchen, with a long earthen pipe ending in a cess-pool
at the end of his garden. The object of it is
to carry off the superfluous water from the house.
It was a great convenience, he said, “on wash
days.” One objection might be urged, and that
was, after every heavy rain he found a gully in his
garden path, and several cart loads of gravel in his
cess-pool. Besides, the pipe was of an equal width,
and one obstruction led to another; sometimes it
was a silver spoon and a child's frock; sometimes
it was a scrubbing-brush, a piece of soap, and a
handkerchief. I said that if he had made a square
wooden trough, gradually widening from end to
end, it would have cleared itself, and then I thought
it would be a good thing for me to have such a one
myself. Then I had a cess-pool built at the bottom
of the wall, under the bank, which is about
one hundred and fifty feet from the kitchen, and
told my carpenter to make a trough of that length.
Carpenter asked me “how big I wanted it?” I
told him about eight inches in diameter at the end

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nearest to the house, and then gradually widening
all the way for the whole length. As I said this,
my carpenter smiled, and said he never heard of
such a thing. I told him no, that the idea was an
original one of my own. He asked me how much
I would like to have it widened. I thought for a
moment, and said, “about half an inch to the foot.”
He said very well, and the next week he came with
two horses, and an edifice in his cart that looked
like a truncated shot-tower. I asked him what that
was? He said it was the big end of my pipe.
When he laid it on the ground on its side I walked
through it, and could not touch the upper side
with my hand. Then I asked the carpenter what
he meant by it, and he said it was made according
to directions. I said not at all, that I told him to
increase the diameter at the rate of half an inch to
the foot, and he had made it about a foot to the
foot, as near as I could judge. “Sparrowgrass,”
said he, a little nettled, “jest take your pencil and
put down eight inches.” “Well, that's the diameter
of the small end, I believe?” I told the carpenter
he was right so far. “Now, for every foot
there is an increase of half an inch in the width,
that's according to directions, too, ain't it?” Yes.

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“Well, then, put down one hundred and fifty half
inches, how much does that make, altogether, in
feet?” Six feet eleven inches. “Now,” said he,
“jest you take my rule, and measure the big end
of that 're pipe.” “Carpenter,” said I, “I see it
all; but the next time I build an aqueduct I will
be a little more careful in the figures.” “Sparrowgrass,”
said he, pointing to the pipe, “didn't
you tell me that that was an original idea of your
own?” I answered that I believed I did make a
remark of that kind. “Well,” said he, with a sort
of muffled laugh, “that is the first time that I see
an original idea come out at the big end.”

p529-061

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