Samantha at Saratoga [0]
Samantha at Saratoga
by Marietta Holley
Dedication:
TO THE GREAT ARMY OF
SUMMER TRAMPS
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY THEIR COMRADE AND FELLOW WANDERER
THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. SAMANTHA AT SARATOGA
CHAPTER II. ARDELIA TUTT AND HER MOTHER
CHAPTER III. THE CHERITY OF THE JONESVILLIANS
CHAPTER IV. ARDELIA AND ABRAM GEE
CHAPTER V. WE ARRIVE AT SARATOGA
CHAPTER VI. SARATOGA BY DAYLIGHT
CHAPTER VII. SEEING THE DIFFERENT SPRINGS
CHAPTER VIII. JOSIAH AND SAMANTHA TAKE A LONG WALK
CHAPTER IX. JOSIAH'S FLIRTATIONS
CHAPTER X. MISS G. WASHINGTON FLAMM
CHAPTER XI. VISIT TO THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT
CHAPTER XII. A DRIVE TO SARATOGA LAKE
CHAPTER XIII. VISITS TO NOTABLE PLACES
CHAPTER XIV. LAKE GEORGE AND MOUNT McGREGOR
CHAPTER XV. ADVENTURES AT VARIOUS SPRINGS
CHAPTER XVI. AT A LAWN PARTY
CHAPTER XVII. A TRIP TO SCHUYLERVILLE
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING
CHAPTER XIX. ST. CHRISTINA'S HOME
CHAPTER XX. AN ACCIDENT WITH RESULTS
A SORT OF PREFACE WHICH IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO READ
When Josiah read my dedication he said "it wuz a shame to dedicate a book that it had took most a hull bottle of ink to write, to a lot of creeters that he wouldn't have in the back door yard." But I explained it to him, that I didn't mean tramps with broken hats, variegated pantaloons, ventilated shirt-sleeves, and barefooted. But I meant tramps with diamond ear-rings, and cuff-buttons, and Saratoga trunks, and big accounts at their bankers. And he said, "Oh, shaw!" But I went on nobly, onmindful of that shaw, as female pardners have to be, if they accomplish all the talkin' they want to. And sez I, "It duz seem sort o' pitiful, don't it, to think how sort o' homeless the Americans are a gettin'? How the posys that blow under the winders of Home are left to waste their sweet breaths amongst the weeds, while them that used to love 'em are a climbin' mountain tops after strange nosegays." The smoke that curled up from the chimbleys, a wreathin' its way up to the heavens -- all dead and gone. The bright light that shone out of the winder through the dark a tellin' everybody that there wuz a Home, and some one a waitin' for somebody -- all dark and lonesome. Yes, the waiter and the waited for are all a rushin' round somewhere, on the cars, mebby, or a yot, a chasin' Pleasure, that like as not settled right down on the eves of the old house they left, and stayed there. I wonder if they will find her there when they go back again. Mebby they will, and then agin, mebby they won't. For Happiness haint one to set round and lame herself a waitin' for folks to make up their minds. Sometimes she looks folks full in the face, sort o' solemn like and heart-searchin', and gives 'em a fair chance what they will chuse. And then if they chuse wrong, shee'll turn her back to 'em, for always. I've hearn of jest such cases. But it duz seem sort o' solemn to think -- how the sweet restful felin's that clings like ivy round the old familier door steps -- where old 4 fathers feet stopped, and stayed there, and baby feet touched and then went away -- I declare for't, it almost brings tears, to think how that sweet clingin' vine of affection, and domestic repose, and content -- how soon that vine gets tore up nowadays. It is a sort of a runnin' vine anyway, and folks use it as sech, they run with it. Jest as it puts its tendrils out to cling round some fence post, or lilock bush, they pull it up, and start off with it. And then its roots get dry, and it is some time before it will begin to put out little shoots and clingin' leaves agin round some petickular mountain top, or bureau or human bein'. And then it is yanked up agin, poor little runnin' vine, and run with -- and so on -- and so on -- and so on. Why sometimes it makes me fairly heart-sick to think on't. And I fairly envy our old 4 fathers, who used to set down for several hundred years in one spot. They used to get real rested, it must be they did.