n sofa between_
JENNY _and_ BESSIE.)

_Enter_ JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! dars Missis Gabble a runnin up de walk like all
possessed. Speck her house afire, sure for sartin. _Exit_, R.

_Sadie._ (_Tasting pickle._) O, ain't it nice! Bessie, run and get
one.

_Bessie._ No, indeed; I shall do no such thing.

_Jenny._ O, Sadie, I wouldn't believe you could do such a thing.

_Sadie._ O, pshaw! It's all envy; you know it is.

_Enter_ R., JUNO, _followed by_ MRS. GABBLE, _who wears a calico
dress, has her sleeves rolled up, her apron thrown over her head, and
has altogether the appearance of having just left the wash-tub._

_Mrs. G._ Yes, Juno, poor Mr. Brown has shuffled off this
mortal--what's it's name? (_Looks_ _at girls._) O, how do you do? I
don't know how much he's worth, but they do say--Why, Juno, you've
got a new calico--Fine day, young ladies.--They do say--Well, there, I
oughtn't to speak of it. Got your washing out, Juno? I've been all day
at that tub; and--Where's Miss Pease? I can't stop a minute; so don't
ask me to sit down. (_Sits in rocking-chair and rocks violently._)

_Juno._ Yes, Missy Gabble, Missy Pease to home. Send her right up,
sure for sartin. Bress my soul, how that woman do go on, for sartin.
_Exit_, L.

_Mrs. G._ Ah, poor Mrs. Brown, with all them young ones. I wonder
where my Sis is.

_Jenny._ I think she's in the kitchen, Mrs. Gabble.

_Mrs. G._ You don't say so? Stuffing herself, I'm sure. And poor Mr.
Brown lying dead in the next house--and there's my washing waiting for
soap--and there's Mrs. Jones hasn't sent my ironing-board home; and
mercy knows how I'm to get along without it.

_Enter_ MISS PEASE, L. _During the dialogue between_ MISS PEASE _and_
MRS. G., SADIE _slyly eats her pickle, offering it to_ JENNY _and_
BESSIE, _who at first shake their heads, afterwards taste; the pickle
is passed among them, and devoured before the conclusion of the
conversation._

_Miss P._ Ah, Mrs. Gabble! I'm glad to see you. (_Takes chair and sits
beside her._)

_Mrs. G._ And poor Brown is gone!

_Miss P._ Mr. Brown dead? This is sad news.

_Mrs. G._ I should think it was--and there's Skillet, the butcher,
chopped off his thumb--and Miss Pearson fell down stairs and broke her
china sugar-bowl--sp'ilt the whole set. As I told my husband, these
expensive dishes never can be matched--and speaking of matches, Mrs.
Thorpe is going to get a divorce. Jest think of it! I met her going
i