Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1876-07-14
NO. l65.
Tales and Sketehes.
way MRS. JONES DIDN'T MOVE.
CONTINUED FROM YEsTERDAY.1


"Of course, of course" said Mrs. Jones.
Glad you'd be delighted to have your
own flesh and blood in the street to ac-
commodate foreigner"
Rosalie, who was sitting on the arm of
her papa's chair, here pressed his hand
warningly. and presently went over to
her mother, and began to comb the whit
ening but abundant locks of that poor
tired house-hunting woman.
Yes, Heaven knows she was weary and
sick at heart with her undertaking. Day
after day she had plodded on with that
dogged pluck and perseverance which
were the main points in her character, and
day after day she became more and more
disheartened and hopeless.
None but suburban house-hunters and a
plying Creator can conceive the dreari-
ness with which Mrs. Jones set out on the
day after Joes revelation that he had
taken the house for himself.
She hurried breathlessly to the train, to
wait full nour at the depot, and studied
in the meanwhile the meagre advertise
ment of the rural landholder. Leaving
the train at a station overhanging the rail-
road, seemingly part thereof, and hav-
ing no apparent connection with collec-
ton of houses in the distance, she began
to walk and walk-past empty lots and
sunken commons, through streets just be-
gun and others half completed, all of them
ending in high chaotic pits, where the
filling-in process had been temporarily
abandoned. Not creature within sight,
except a goat or two, which animal is
always suggestive of misery to the deni-
zens of a city.
At last she reached the shed set apart
for real estate office, and found it closed.
The agent was away; no hotel or restau-
rant near. The March wind began to rise
and roar. and blow the red dust of these
desert streets into her eyes and nostrils.
Faint with hunger and WEAKNESS, she
dragged herself back to the station lust in
time to hear the toot of the engine and
see the outgoing Of the homeward train.
'Just an hour and half to watt" said
the station-master; and back in search of
the house agent went Mrs. Jones. This
time he was in, and urbanely desirous of
taking her to the desired premises. Then
they began to walk and walk again, till
her head seemed to leave her shoulders
and go up in the air, and her BODY to leave
her legs, which went walking and walk
ing on. AT last row of new brick houses
reared themselves before her on the brink
of one of those dismal gorges, the back
Kitchens propped up by posts. the chin
neys topped by queer monsters to induce
them to draw-a whole row of staring
brick houses, with little court-yards in
front. and a funeral urn in the middle of
what looked like newly-made grave.
The agent opened the first of the rusty
iron gates to these little court yards. and
entered.
why, this isn't the cottage advertised,
is it ?" said poor Mrs. Jones-"this isn't
cottage at all It's house, a regular
brick house,
"We call them cottages out here" said
the agent, mildly; I'VE call them brick
cottages. But walk in"
Which was easier said than done, the
occupant opening the door an inch and
parleying with the agent.
you'll be coming here before break
tast, and after we go to bed, the next
thing" she said. But seeing the white.
wan face OF Mrs. Jones, she added, Come
in and sit down; you do look beat out.
Yes, ma am, there's three rooms on this
floor"
-Four" said the agent.
"Well, if you call that cubby-hole under
the stairs room, all right-and they're ev-
cry one as damp as they can be. With this
roarin' fire here, you can see for yourself
the papers all peelin off the walls.
There's laundry down stairs-yes" (to
the agent.) Don't you be afraid III
forget the laundry. It's very handy
laundry, cause the waters knee-deep
there all the time: leastways, it comes
and goes with the tide in the back lots
there. There's four rooms up stairs-as
cold as Greenland in winter, and hot as
Africa in summer. There amt garret
or lot that you can tuck away as much
as an old hoop skirt. But come on up
stairs; I'll show you the hull premises"
Mrs. Jones declined. She was not quite
able to continue her work that day. Could
she Cunning to the agent) get hack in
the vicinity to take her to the station
again? She didn't feel very well, and a
storm had gathered. The snow began to
whirl around in the front lots and back
lots that comprised the view, covering up
the ashes and garbage, falling into the
pits from whence dirt had been taken, and
upon the heaps where dirt had been
thrown.
A hack? Well, no; there wasn't any
haSho " oC hau' "A conveyance OI d0V
kind, for which she would willingly payp
Well, no, he didn't know OF any, Ii she'd
take his arm he'd help her down to the
station. And, more dead than alive, the
poor lady found herself again walking.
The agent put her on the train, glad to be
rid of what seemed an impending evil;
for she looked bad, very bad. and there
was no place in Rosedale for people to be
sick that he knew of.
But hack was to be got in the metrop-
oils, which Mrs. Jones reached at night
fall, and she fell from the steps OF the
coach into the aims of her astonished and
terrified husband.
Don't be alarmed. DEAR she whis-
pored; don't mind. Toffy; but I'm going
to die, | think"
Hold on cried Mr.. Jones to the hack
man. Then he carried his wife into the
house, and jumping into the cab, went af-
ter the family physician.
''She must be very bad" whispered Mr..
Jones to himself. ''She hasn't called me
'Totfy,' nor put her arms about me in
that waV since 0ur hOnavmoop - Au1