POOR JOE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 11800, 1 November 1901, Page 3

POOR JOE.

Fronting Milton Green, to the left of the old standards of the stocks where, within living memory, evil-doers were pinned by the legs, stands Mrs. Joe Walton's cottage, a pretty little place with arched windows which the village folk call "The Chapel House." The stonework of the front is entirely concealed by creepersjasmine ant. clematisand in summer white convolvulus festoons the latticed porch. In fair weather a magpie in a wickei cage hangs neat the door (crying "Jack! Jack to all who pause), and an obese tabby, with traces o, Persian descent, lies purring on the threshold. There is an atmosphere of perfect peace about the place. One associates the dainty cleanliness with serene old age, unroarreu by any trouble. And if a glimpse be caught of Mrs. Joe sitting beside her window, knitting cloth hearthrugs for hoi poorer neighbours, her bland face lighted with a patient smile, one longs for the art of the almanack painter. , The young students at the Dissenters College by Darrund side often visit her; she brews tea well and makes pleasant cakes strongly flavoured with pudding-spice. When she expects them she spreads freshly washed hop sacks over the parlour carpet, and places a comfortable kneeling hassock neai each armchair. She is, moreover, one of the most generous women in the parish; innocent children unblushingly ask her for halfpence whenever they meet her out of her doors. Matrons uphold her as the phoenix of her sex; there's no better creature to be found for the performance of the first and last duties to humankind. The menfolk, however, view her with a loss favourable regard; for this her nextdoor neighbour, Pym Slack, an unmarried retired cobbler, is alone responsible. More than 10 years have passed since this couple last spoke to each other, but oven to-day the good woman occasionally offers a petition that Pym's wicked heart may be changed. He has been heard to say that he hopes he may die of a sudden, lest m his weakness she might minister to his departing moments. Every third month Pym makes a long journey for a man of his years, and for at least a week following each return wears a perplexed and uneasy countenance. It is well known that lie goes to Derby to see his old crony, .Toe, who has spent, ten years, and will probably spend the remainder of his life, in the county asylum. And after his last visit, some few days ago, he was moved to" speak plainly of Joe's tragedy. I bad met him taking the air along the ridge-road, and he nad very politely accepted a pipeful of tobacco. Ay. mester," he said, "I've been frettin' abaat Joe, though Lord knows why I should, for he seems coomf'table enew, poor lad." Then his smile quivered away, and, turning aside, he drew a red and white cotton handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his eyes. ' . I'm full up. I am." lie remarked, in a broken voice. " Poor Joe ! Poor, poor Joe!" My house being near by, I invited him to enter, and, whilst ho sipped from, a hi" tumbler of what he called "brown cream," but what is known in more genteel circles as Jamaica rum, he told me the following story: — " I've always had my daats abaat his brains softenin'," he said; "but una I daat no more. Joe's as clear-headed a chap as lives onywheere. When lie weere pu' away I said as much to his weefe; bu' hoo cocked her eyer> an' mumbled sum mat abaat th' will o' Providence, an' then we branded an' hoo bade me ne'er speak to her ony more. . . ' "Yo' see, him an' me had been friends fo. well-neegh fifty year afore he married Hannah, who'd lived sarvant wi' th' Squire e'er since I can ree'lect, an' had saved a good bit o' money. None as .Toe wanted th' money, though; for he'd gotten more o' his own, through heirin', an' leekewise through whatten he'd pu' by aat o'- his earnin's i' makin 1 cloathes for all Milton par'sh. An' I'll none say as Hannah weerena coomely, for hoo weere same as hoo is naa, liavin' scarce changed for th' last twenty year. Hoo's i' soome respects one o' th' kindest an' thriftiest bodies yo' could meet onywheere. _ " Th' fault weere i' two fowk as had kept single for so long e'er gettin' wed at all. 'Twcere to be expected as both weere set i' theer ways, an' yo' know as well as onyone as bachelors' ways arena same as owd maids' ways. He'd lived aloane for so long that he'd gotten to care nowt whether th' haase weere clean or dirty, or whether he'd a cloth on th' table at mealtimes or none. I will say, though, as whene'er he stirred aat o' doors lie weere always dressed very smart, wi' his shoon well blacked, an' his collars wheete as driven snow. Bu' at • snc>; times as none bu' his friends could see him, he looked vastly different—his breeches all ragged, no coat on, bu' a knitted vest, an' his slippers daan at. heel, an' great holes i' his stockin's. Bu' all th' same, lie weere th' cheeriest an' th' merriest lad as I e'er did know. "I used to warn him, wheelst he coorted Hannah, as hoo 'Id mak' a change i' all that, an' poor Joo he 'Id laugh an' say: ' Loove blinds a 'ooman,' though afterwards he 'Id add: ' Hannah's gotten an eye as '11 draw a duck off th' water !' "To my thinkin' tweere a great mistak' i' Joe none to mak' th' 'ooman coome an' look at th' haase afore they went to church together. Ho did mention it, so he town me, bu' Hannah seemed shy, an' talked soome stuff abaat it none bein* proper for her to go, so he said no more. Yo' mun understand as hoo cared for proper things more nor for owt else in leefe. Bu' I howd as if hoo' seen th' condition th' haase weere in, hoo 'Id ha' broken th' engagement theere an' then. "None as poor Joe didna streeve his best to pu' things i' order. For a whole fortneeghfr afore th' weed in' he swept an' scaared an' yaller-washed, an' made all (to those who weerena curious) as breeght as a new pin. If I said as he didna lieede away mucky floorclaats an' such-leeke i' th' drawers aside o' th' new linen he'd bowt, 'twould be a lee; still 'tweere done more fro' thowtlessness nor owt else.

" Bu' when parson, bad made 'em man ail' wecfe, ail' they cam' wlioame after a few days spent wi' Joe's sister i' th' Woodlands, Hannah declared, gently enew, as th' spot weerensi. fit for a decent body to beede in, an' began ri,ddin' things aat wi' a vengeance. An' for a full month lioo did nowt bu' clean an' clean an' clean. Joe said as 'tweere surprisiri' whatten a peele o' dust an' flew* had drifted into th' corners. He weere none very comf'table, to be sure, bu' he used for to chuckle an' say ' new brooms sweep clean,' an' oother owd proverbs. Hannah ne'er grum'led—l will gie her that credit—bu' went abaat wi' a stricken look, just as if someone lay a-deein'. Hoo weere very patient— th' surface—l dunna be'lieve as all th' wheele they kept haase together, hoo gied him as much as a hard word. Jin' all that teemo hoo weere settiis' things straight, hoo weere inakin' up her nieend abaat th' future; an' once hoo'd made up her meend, none all th' prayers i' th' world 'Id change her. At. last th' job weere done, an' th' Chapel Haase made as 'tis naa, wi' lace curtains an' wheete bleends an' pots o' fuchsias i' th' windows, an' antimacassars on every chair. An' one neeght, just afore Kirsmas, Joo came in to see me smock-faced, an tremblin' leeke a leaf. 'Pym,' he says, 'I'm i' great trouble o' meend,' an' then ho fairly beldercd, laad as a toothin' babby. 'Tweero a good bit afore I could mak' aafc whatten wo era wrong, but after he'd had ft sup «' ya ale, I learned as he'd gone indoors wi' muddy feet, an' made a few stains on th' haaso-placo floor.

" Hoo didna' open her maath, bu' laid a hand tin his shoulder, an' pointed to th' mat aseedo o' th' door; then, seein' as he were gapin' foolishly, hoo very cawmly marched him back an' made him clean every atom dirt fro' his shoon. An' when he got in his chair by th' hearth, hoo faand an owd newspaper, an' set it under th' soles, so as th' rug shouldna' be soiled. Poor Joe, he sat for a few minutes daazed-leeke, then up he gets an' males for rue. Hannah ne'er fancied his coomin' after that —I reckon he towd her whatten I. said abaat letlin' a oonian wear th' breeches.

' A man mini be a man an' none a maase'—l towd him that scores o' teoines. Bu lie weere timid by nayture, an' theere's no gettin' owcr that. An' th' upshot o' it all weere, as for a twelvomoonth Joe lived leeke to a wax fiaar under a glass shade. Hannah weere fond o' him, theere's no gainsayin that; bu' as teeme passed her care grew more nor he could stand, an' bein' a whoame-bird, an' none a tavern-tattler, he began to mope, an' had scarce a word for ouy o' his owd coompanions. Lord ! I've seen him sittiu' theere coovered wi' a. dustsheet, wheelst Hannah swept up th' ashes — which hoo did abaat once i' every three haars !

An at last he got into th' way o' mimimowkin at fowk—pullin' such wry faces as yo ne or did see ! Sometimes he'd burst into song— 'tweere— then stop short wi' a cackle. Doctor Hancock (he'd only been i' Milton a few moonths), lieerd him at it, an' said as 'tweere melinky madness, so i' coorse o' teeme Joe weere sent to th 'sylimi—though, Hannah, to do her justice, begged 'em to let him be."

Pym had drunk ail his rum; ho drew out his handkerchief again, and mopped streaming eyes.

' Oh, dall it !" he said. " Poor Joe ! poor Joe ! I've always jealoused as he weerena so mad as they thowt, an* t,other day, when I went to see him, I faand pluck enow to tell him so. (He has nowt to com-

plain o' theere, seem' as he's paid for, an' they let him ha' plenty o' liberty.) After I'd said it, ho buttonholed me, an' laughed as cheery as a lad. " ' I weerena crocked one jot,' says he; ' bu' I soon should ha' been if I'd stayed. I couldna' i' decency leave her or.v oother way. I sham a bit queer sometimes, for fear they'ld send me back else. Bu' yo munna tell Hannah, none on no accaant."