FullReads

On up to the garret we groped, and bumped our heads against the rafters. The light was dim, but we could make out more apples on strings, and roots and herbs in bunches hung from the peak. Here was a three-legged chair and a broken spinning-wheel, and the junk that is too valuable to throw away, yet not good enough to keep, but “some day may be needed.”

Down the narrow stairway we went, and in the little kitchen, Sammy, the artist, and Mr. Spear, the custodian, were busy at the fireplace preparing dinner. There is no stove in the house, and none is needed. The crane and brick oven and long-handled skillets suffice. Sammy is an expert camp-cook, and swears there is death in the chafing-dish, and grows profane if you mention one. His skill in turning flapjacks by a simple manipulation of the long-handled griddle means more to his true ego than the finest canvas.

June offered to set the table, but Sammy said she could never do it alone, so together they brought out the blue china dishes and the pewter plates. Then they drew water at the stone-curbed well with the great sweep, carrying the leather-baled bucket between them.

I was feeling quite useless and asked, “Can’t I do something to help?”

“There is the lye-leach–you might bring out some ashes and make some soft soap,” said June pointing to the ancient leach and soap-kettle in the yard, the joys of Mr. Spear’s heart.

Sammy stood at the back door and pounded on the dishpan with a wooden spoon to announce that dinner was ready. It was quite a sumptuous meal: potatoes baked in the ashes, beans baked in the brick oven, coffee made on the hearth, fish cooked in the skillet, and pancakes made on a griddle with a handle three feet long.

Mr. Spear had aspirations toward an apple-pie and had made violent efforts in that direction, but the product being dough on top and charcoal on the bottom we declined the nomination with thanks.

June suggested that pies should be baked in an oven and not cooked on a pancake griddle. The custodian thought there might be something in it–a suggestion he would have scorned and scouted had it come from me.

To change the rather painful subject, Mr. Spear began to talk about John and Abigail Adams, and to quote from their “Letters,” a volume he seems to have by heart.

“Do you know why their love was so very steadfast, and why they stimulated the mental and spiritual natures of each other so?” asked June.

“No, why was it?”

“Well, I’ll tell you: it was because they spent one-third of their married life apart.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, and in this way they lived in an ideal world. In all their letters you see they are always counting the days ere they will meet. Now, people who are together all the time never write that way, because they do not feel that way–I’ll leave it to Mr. Spear!”

But Mr. Spear, being a bachelor, did not know. Then the case was referred to Sammy, and Sammy lied and said he had never considered the subject.

“And would you advise, then, that married couples live apart one-third of the time, in the interests of domestic peace?” I asked.

“Certainly!” said June, with her Burne-Jones chin in the air. “Certainly; but I fear you are the man who does not understand; and anyway I am sure it will be much more profitable for us to cultivate the receptive spirit and listen to Mr. Spear–such opportunities do not come very often. I did not mean to interrupt you, Mr. Spear; go on, please!”

And Mr. Spear filled a clay pipe with natural leaf that he crumbled in his hand, and deftly picking a coal from the fireplace with a shovel one hundred fifty years old, puffed five times silently, and began to talk.