FullReads

“Most of ’em are. See that house over there? Mrs. Jane Harrison lives there. Her husband took tantrums every few days or so and wouldn’t get out of bed. She had to do all the barn work till he’d got over his spell. That’s men for you. When he died, people writ her letters of condolence but I just sot down and writ her one of congratulation. There’s the Presbyterian manse in the hollow. Mr. Bentwell’s our minister. He’s a good man and he’d be a rather nice one if he didn’t think it was his duty to be a little miserable all the time. He won’t let his wife wear a fashionable hat, and his daughter can’t fix her hair the way she wants to. Even being a minister can’t prevent a man from being a crank. Here’s Ebenezer Milgrave coming. You take a good look at him. He used to be insane for years. He believed he was dead and used to rage at his wife because she wouldn’t bury him. I’d a-done it.”

Aunt Philippa looked so determinedly grim that I could almost see her with a spade in her hand. I laughed aloud at the picture summoned up.

“Yes, it’s funny, but I guess his poor wife didn’t find it very humorsome. He’s been pretty sane for some years now, but you never can tell when he’ll break out again. He’s got a brother, Albert Milgrave, who’s been married twice. They say he was courting his second wife while his first was dying. Let that be as it may, he used his first wife’s wedding ring to marry the second. That’s the men for you.”

“Don’t you know any good husbands, Aunt Philippa?” I asked desperately.

“Oh, yes, lots of ’em–over there,” said Aunt Philippa sardonically, waving her whip in the direction of a little country graveyard on a distant hill.

“Yes, but living–walking about in the flesh?”

“Precious few. Now and again you’ll come across a man whose wife won’t put up with any nonsense and he has to be respectable. But the most of ’em are poor bargains–poor bargains.”

“And are all the wives saints?” I persisted.

“Laws, no, but they’re too good for the men,” retorted Aunt Philippa, as she turned in at her own gate. Her house was close to the road and was painted such a vivid green that the landscape looked faded by contrast. Across the gable end of it was the legend, “Philippa’s Farm,” emblazoned in huge black letters two feet long. All its surroundings were very neat. On the kitchen doorstep a patchwork cat was making a grave toilet. The groundwork of the cat was white, and its spots were black, yellow, grey, and brown.

“There’s Joseph,” said Aunt Philippa. “I call him that because his coat is of many colours. But I ain’t no lover of cats. They’re too much like the men to suit me.”

“Cats have always been supposed to be peculiarly feminine,” I said, descending.

“‘Twas a man that supposed it, then,” retorted Aunt Philippa, beckoning to her hired boy. “Here, Jerry, put Prince away. Jerry’s a good sort of boy,” she confided to me as we went into the house. “I had Jim Spencer last summer and the only good thing about him was his appetite. I put up with him till harvest was in, and then one day my patience give out. He upsot a churnful of cream in the back yard–and was just as cool as a cowcumber over it–laughed and said it was good for the land. I told him I wasn’t in the habit of fertilizing my back yard with cream. But that’s the men for you. Come in. I’ll have tea ready in no time. I sot the table before I left. There’s lemon pie. Mrs. John Cantwell sent it over. I never make lemon pie myself. Ten years ago I took the prize for lemon pies at the county fair, and I’ve never made any since for fear I’d lose my reputation for them.”