Armazindy

ARMAZINDY

Armazindy;—fambily name

Ballenger,—you’ll find the same,

As her Daddy answered it,

In the old War-rickords yit,—

And, like him, she’s airnt the good

Will o’ all the neighborhood.—

Name ain’t down in History,—

But, i jucks! it ort to be!

Folks is got respec’ fer her—

Armazindy Ballenger!—

’Specially the ones ’at knows

Fac’s o’ how her story goes

From the start:—Her father blowed

Up—eternally furloughed—

When the old “Sultana” bu’st,

And sich men wuz needed wusst.—

Armazindy, ’bout fourteen-

Year-old then—and thin and lean


As a killdee,—but—my la!—

Blamedest nerve you ever saw!

The girl’s mother’d allus be’n

Sickly—wuz consumpted when

Word came ’bout her husband.—So

Folks perdicted she’d soon go—

(Kind o’ grief I understand,

Losin’ my companion,—and

Still a widower—and still

Hinted at, like neighbers will!)

So, app’inted, as folks said,

Ballenger a-bein’ dead,

Widder, ’peared-like, gradjully,

Jes grieved after him tel she

Died, nex’ Aprile wuz a year,—

And in Armazindy’s keer

Leavin’ the two twins, as well

As her pore old miz’able

Old-maid aunty ’at had be’n

Struck with palsy, and wuz then

Jes a he’pless charge on her—

Armazindy Ballenger.

Jevver watch a primrose ’bout

Minute ’fore it blossoms out—


Kindo’ loosen-like, and blow

Up its muscles, don’t you know,

And, all suddent, bu’st and bloom

Out life-size?—Well, I persume

’At’s the only measure I

Kin size Armazindy by!—

Jes a child, one minute,—nex’,

Woman-grown, in all respec’s

And intents and purposuz—

’At’s what Armazindy wuz!

Jes a child, I tell ye! Yit

She made things git up and git

Round that little farm o’ hern!—

Shouldered all the whole concern;—

Feed the stock, and milk the cows—

Run the farm and run the house!—

Only thing she didn’t do

Wuz to plough and harvest too—

But the house and childern took

Lots o’ keer—and had to look

After her old fittified

Grandaunt.—Lord! ye could’a’ cried,

Seein’ Armazindy smile,

’Peared-like, sweeter all the while!


And I’ve heerd her laugh and say:—

“Jes afore Pap marched away,

He says, ‘I depend on you,

Armazindy, come what may—

You must be a Soldier, too!’”

Neighbers, from the fust, ’ud come—

And she’d let ’em help her some,—

“Thanky, ma’am!” and “Thanky, sir!”

But no charity fer her!—

“She could raise the means to pay

Fer her farm-hands ever’ day

Sich wuz needed!”—And she could—

In cash-money jes as good

As farm-produc’s ever brung

Their perducer, old er young!

So folks humored her and smiled,

And at last wuz rickonciled

Fer to let her have her own

Way about it.—But a-goin’

Past to town, they’d stop and see

“Armazindy’s fambily,”

As they’d allus laugh and say,

And look sorry right away,

Thinkin’ of her Pap, and how

He’d indorse his “Soldier” now!


’Course she couldn’t never be

Much in young-folks’ company—

Plenty of in-vites to go,

But das’t leave the house, you know—

’Less’n Sund’ys sometimes, when

Some old Granny’d come and ’ten’

Things, while Armazindy has

Got away fer Church er “Class.”

Most the youngsters liked her—and

’Twuzn’t hard to understand,—

Fer, by time she wuz sixteen,

Purtier girl you never seen—

’Ceptin’ she lacked schoolin’, ner

Couldn’t rag out stylisher—

Like some neighber-girls, ner thumb

On their blame’ melodium,

Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed

Round the old back-porch and washed

Their clothes fer ’em—rubbed and scrubbed

Fer girls’d ort to jes be’n clubbed!

—And jes sich a girl wuz Jule

Reddinhouse.—She’d be’n to school

At New Thessaly, i gum!—

Fool before, but that he’pped some—


’Stablished-like more confidence

’At she never had no sense.

But she wuz a cunnin’, sly,

Meek and lowly sort o’ lie,

’At men-folks like me and you

B’lieves jes ’cause we ortn’t to.—

Jes as purty as a snake,

And as pizen—mercy sake!

Well, about them times it wuz,

Young Sol Stephens th’ashed fer us;

And we sent him over to

Armazindy’s place to do

Her work fer her.—And-sir! Well—

Mighty little else to tell,—

Sol he fell in love with her—

Armazindy Ballenger!

Bless ye!—’Ll, of all the love

’At I’ve ever yit knowed of,

That-air case o’ theirn beat all!

W’y, she worshipped him!—And Sol,

’Peared-like, could ’a’ kissed the sod

(Sayin’ is) where that girl trod!

Went to town, she did, and bought

Lot o’ things ’at neighbers thought


Mighty strange fer her to buy,—

Raal chintz dress-goods—and ’way high!—

Cut long in the skyrt,—also

Gaiter-pair o’ shoes, you know;

And lace collar;—yes, and fine

Stylish hat, with ivy-vine

And red ribbons, and these-’ere

Artificial flowers and queer

Little beads and spangles, and

Oysturch-feathers round the band!

Wore ’em, Sund’ys, fer a while—

Kindo’ went to Church in style,

Sol and Armazindy!—Tel

It was noised round purty well

They wuz promised.—And they wuz—

Sich news travels—well it does!—

Pity ’at that did!—Fer jes

That-air fac’ and nothin’ less

Must ’a’ putt it in the mind

O’ Jule Reddinhouse to find

Out some dratted way to hatch

Out some plan to break the match—

’Cause she done it!—How? they’s none

Knows adzac’ly what she done;

Some claims she writ letters to

Sol’s folks, up nigh Pleasant View


Somers—and described, you see,

“Armazindy’s fambily”—

Hintin’ “ef Sol married her,

He’d jes be pervidin’ fer

Them-air twins o’ hern, and old

Palsied aunt ’at couldn’t hold

Spoon to mouth, and layin’ near

Bedrid’ on to eighteen year’,

And still likely, ’pearantly,

To live out the century!”

Well—whatever plan Jule laid

Out to reach the p’int she made,

It wuz desper’t.—And she won,

Finully, by marryun

Sol herse’f—e-lopin’, too,

With him, like she had to do,—

’Cause her folks ’ud allus swore

“Jule should never marry pore!”

This-here part the story I

Allus haf to hurry by,—

Way ’at Armazindy jes

Drapped back in her linsey dress,

And grabbed holt her loom, and shet

Her jaws square.—And ef she fret


Any ’bout it—never ’peared

Sign ’at neighbers seed er heerd;—

Most folks liked her all the more—

I know I did—certain-shore!—

(’Course I’d knowed her Pap, and what

Stock she come of.—Yes, and thought,

And think yit, no man on earth

’S worth as much as that girl’s worth!)

As fer Jule and Sol, they had

Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!—

Her folks let her go.—They said,

“Spite o’ them she’d made her bed

And must sleep in it!”—But she,

’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free

As she ust to—ner so late,

Ner so fine, I’m here to state!—

Sol wuz pore, of course, and she

Wuzn’t ust to poverty—

Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes

’Filiate with lonesomeness,—

’Cause Sol he wuz off and out

With his th’asher nigh about

Half the time; er, season done,

He’d be off mi-anderun


Round the country, here and there,

Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air

Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit

Jule a bit!—and then, to boot,

She had now the keer o’ two

Her own childern—and to do

Her own work and cookin’—yes,

And sometimes fer hands, I guess,

Well as fambily of her own.—

Cut her pride clean to the bone!

So how could the whole thing end?—

She set down, one night, and penned

A short note, like—’at she sewed

On the childern’s blanket—blowed

Out the candle—pulled the door

To close after her—and, shore-

Footed as a cat is, clumb

In a rigg there and left home,

With a man a-drivin’ who

“Loved her ever fond and true,”

As her note went on to say,

When Sol read the thing next day.

Raally didn’t ’pear to be

Extry waste o’ sympathy

[13]

Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit,

Sake o’ them-air little bit

O’ two orphants—as you might

Call ’em then, by law and right,—

Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and

Tried to hold him out their hand

Same as allus: But he’d flinch—

Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch,

He let all holts go; and so

Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,—

Tel, to make a long tale short,

He wuz fuller than he ort

To ’a’ be’n, at work one day

’Bout his th’asher, and give way,

Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched

In the beltin’.

... Rid and fetched

Armazindy to him.—He

Begged me to.—But time ’at she

Reached his side, he smiled and tried

To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died....

Hands all turned and left her there

And went somers else—somewhere.

Last, she called us back—in clear

Voice as man’ll ever hear—

[14]

Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me,

As her old Pap’s ust to be.—

Give us orders what to do

’Bout the body—he’pped us, too.

So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed

In Armazindy’s hands at last.

More’n that, she claimed ’at she

Had consent from him to be

Mother to his childern—now

’Thout no parents anyhow.

Yes-sir! and she’s got ’em, too,—

Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do—

So they let her have her way—

Like she’s doin’ yit to-day!

Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her—

Armazindy Ballenger—

To in-large her fambily

Jes one more by takin’ me—

Which I’m feared she never will,

Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still.