Bold Words at the Bridge

"Bold Words at the Bridge" is a short story by Sarah Orne Jewett, exploring themes of communication, connection, and the power of words in shaping relationships. Set against the backdrop of a quaint New England landscape, it delves into the interactions between characters who navigate the complexities of their emotions and experiences. Through rich descriptions and evocative dialogue, Jewett captures the intricacies of human connection, reflecting on how language can both bridge and divide. The story invites readers to contemplate the significance of expression in their own lives.

• Short story

								
I.

"'Well, now,' says I, 'Mrs. Con'ly,' says I, 'how ever you may tark,
'tis nobody's business and I wanting to plant a few pumpkins for me cow
in among me cabbages.  I 've got the right to plant whatever I may
choose, if it's the divil of a crop of t'istles in the middle of me
ground.'  'No ma'am, you ain't,' says Biddy Con'ly; 'you ain't got anny
right to plant t'istles that's not for the public good,' says she; and
I being so hasty wit' me timper, I shuk me fist in her face then, and
herself shuk her fist at me.  Just then Father Brady come by, as luck
ardered, an' recomminded us would we keep the peace.  He knew well I 'd
had my provocation; 't was to herself he spoke first.  You'd think she
owned the whole corporation.  I wished I 'd t'rown her over into the
wather, so I did, before he come by at all.  'T was on the bridge the
two of us were.  I was stepping home by meself very quiet in the
afthernoon to put me tay-kittle on for supper, and herself overtook
me,--ain't she the bold thing!

"'How are you the day, Mrs. Dunl'avy?' says she, so mincin' an'
preenin', and I knew well she 'd put her mind on having words wit' me
from that minute.  I 'm one that likes to have peace in the
neighborhood, if it wa'n't for the likes of her, that makes the top of
me head lift and clat' wit' rage like a pot-lid!"

"What was the matter with the two of you?" asked a listener, with
simple interest.

"Faix indeed, 't was herself had a thrifle of melons planted the other
side of the fince," acknowledged Mrs. Dunleavy.  "She said the pumpkins
would be the ruin of them intirely.  I says, and 'twas thrue for me,
that I 'd me pumpkins planted the week before she'd dropped anny old
melon seed into the ground, and the same bein' already dwining from so
manny bugs.  Oh, but she 's blackhearted to give me the lie about it,
and say those poor things was all up, and she 'd thrown lime on 'em to
keep away their inemies when she first see me come out betune me
cabbage rows.  How well she knew what I might be doing!  Me cabbages
grows far apart and I 'd plinty of room, and if a pumpkin vine gets
attention you can entice it wherever you pl'ase and it'll grow fine and
long, while the poor cabbages ates and grows fat and round, and no harm
to annybody, but she must pick a quarrel with a quiet 'oman in the face
of every one.

"We were on the bridge, don't you see, and plinty was passing by with
their grins, and loitering and stopping afther they were behind her
back to hear what was going on betune us.  Annybody does be liking to
got the sound of loud talk an' they having nothing better to do.  Biddy
Con'ly, seeing she was well watched, got the airs of a pr'acher, and
set down whatever she might happen to be carrying and tried would she
get the better of me for the sake of their admiration.  Oh, but wa'n't
she all drabbled and wet from the roads, and the world knows meself for
a very tidy walker!

"'Clane the mud from your shoes if you 're going to dance;' 't was all
I said to her, and she being that mad she did be stepping up and down
like an old turkey-hin, and shaking her fist all the time at me.  'Coom
now, Biddy,' says I, 'what put you out so?' says I.  'Sure, it creeps
me skin when I looks at you!  Is the pig dead,' says I, 'or anny little
thing happened to you, ma'am?  Sure this is far beyond the rights of a
few pumpkin seeds that has just cleared the ground!' and all the folks
laughed.  I 'd no call to have tark with Biddy Con'ly before them idle
b'ys and gerrls, nor to let the two of us become their laughing-stock.
I tuk up me basket, being ashamed then, and I meant to go away, mad as
I was.  'Coom, Mrs. Con'ly!' says I, 'let bygones be bygones; what's
all this whillalu we 're afther having about nothing?' says I very
pleasant.

"'May the divil fly away with you, Mary Dunl'avy!' says she then,
'spoiling me garden ground, as every one can see, and full of your bold
talk.  I 'll let me hens out into it this afternoon, so I will,' says
she, and a good deal more.  'Hold off,' says I, 'and remember what fell
to your aunt one day when she sint her hins in to pick a neighbor's
piece, and while her own back was turned they all come home and had
every sprouted bean and potatie heeled out in the hot sun, and all her
fine lettuces picked into Irish lace.  We 've lived neighbors,' says I,
'thirteen years,' says I; 'and we 've often had words together above
the fince,' says I, 'but we 're neighbors yet, and we 've no call to
stand here in such spectacles and disgracing ourselves and each other.
Coom, Biddy,' says I, again, going away with me basket and remimbering
Father Brady's caution whin it was too late.  Some o' the b'ys went
off, too, thinkin' 't was all done.

"'I don't want anny o' your Coom Biddy's,' says she, stepping at me,
with a black stripe across her face, she was that destroyed with rage,
and I stepped back and held up me basket between us, she being bigger
than I, and I getting no chance, and herself slipped and fell, and her
nose got a clout with the hard edge of the basket, it would trouble the
saints to say how, and then I picked her up and wint home with her to
thry and quinch the blood.  Sure I was sorry for the crathur an' she
having such a timper boiling in her heart.

"'Look at you now, Mrs. Con'ly,' says I, kind of soft, 'you 'ont be fit
for mass these two Sundays with a black eye like this, and your face
arl scratched, and every bliguard has gone the lingth of the town to
tell tales of us.  I 'm a quiet 'oman,' says I, 'and I don't thank
you,' says I, whin the blood was stopped,--'no, I don't thank you for
disgracin' an old neighbor like me.  'T is of our prayers and the grave
we should be thinkin', and not be having bold words on the bridge.'
Wisha! but I fought I was after spaking very quiet, and up she got and
caught up the basket, and I dodged it by good luck, but after that I
walked off and left her to satisfy her foolishness with b'ating the
wall if it pl'ased her.  I 'd no call for her company anny more, and I
took a vow I 'd never spake a word to her again while the world stood.
So all is over since then betune Biddy Con'ly and me.  No, I don't look
at her at all!"

II.

Some time afterward, in late summer, Mrs. Dunleavy stood, large and
noisy, but generous-hearted, addressing some remarks from her front
doorway to a goat on the sidewalk.  He was pulling some of her
cherished foxgloves through the picket fence, and eagerly devouring
their flowery stalks.

"How well you rache through an honest fince, you black pirate!" she
shouted; but finding that harsh words had no effect, she took a
convenient broom, and advanced to strike a gallant blow upon the
creature's back.  This had the simple effect of making him step a
little to one side and modestly begin to nibble at a tuft of grass.

"Well, if I ain't plagued!" said Mrs. Dunleavy sorrowfully; "if I ain't
throubled with every wild baste, and me cow that was some use gone dry

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