FullReads

“It’s a dretful thick year for fol’age,” mumbled grandpa Bascom, appearing in the door with his vacant smile. “I declare some o’ the maples looks like balls in the air.”

“That’s the twentieth time he’s hed that over since mornin’,” said Diadema. “Here, father, take your hat off ‘n’ set in the kitchen door ‘n’ shell me this mess o’ peas. Now think smart, ‘n’ put the pods in the basket ‘n’ the peas in the pan; don’t you mix ’em.”

The old man hung his hat on the back of the chair, took the pan in his trembling hands, and began aimlessly to open the pods, while he chuckled at the hens that gathered round the doorstep when they heard the peas rattling in the pan.

“Reuben needs a wife bad enough, if that’s all,” remarked the Widow Buzzell, as one who had given the matter some consideration.

“I should think he did,” rejoined old Mrs. Bascom. “Those children ’bout git their livin’ off the road in summer, from the time the dand’lion greens is ready for diggin’ till the blackb’ries ‘n’ choke-cherries is gone. Diademy calls ’em in ‘n’ gives ’em a cooky every time they go past, ‘n’ they eat as if they was famished. Rube Hobson never was any kind of a pervider, ‘n’ he’s consid’able snug besides.”

“He ain’t goin’ to better himself much,” said Almira. “Eunice Emery ain’t fit to housekeep for a cat. The pie she took to the pie supper at the church was so tough that even Deacon Dyer couldn’t eat it; and the boys got holt of her doughnuts, and declared they was goin’ fishin’ next day ‘n’ use ’em for sinkers. She lives from hand to mouth Eunice Emery does. She’s about as much of a doshy as Rube is. She’ll make tea that’s strong enough to bear up an egg, most, and eat her doughnuts with it three times a day rather than take the trouble to walk out to the meat or the fish cart. I know for a fact she don’t make riz bread once a year.”

“Mebbe her folks likes buttermilk bread best; some do,” said the Widow Buzzell. “My husband always said, give him buttermilk bread to work on. He used to say my riz bread was so light he’d hev to tread on it to keep it anywheres; but when you’d eat buttermilk bread he said you’d got somethin’ that stayed by you; you knew where it was every time. . . . For massy sake! there’s the stage stoppin’ at the Hobson’s door. I wonder if Rube’s first wife’s mother has come from Moderation? If ‘t is, they must ‘a’ made up their quarrel, for there was a time she wouldn’t step foot over that doorsill. She must be goin’ to stay some time, for there’s a trunk on the back o’ the stage. . . . No, there ain’t nobody gettin’ out. Land, Hannah Sophia, don’t push me clean through the glass! It beats me why they make winders so small that three people can’t look out of ’em without crowdin’. Ain’t that a wash-boiler he’s handin’ down? Well, it’s a mercy; he’s ben borrowin’ long enough!”

“What goes on after dark I ain’t responsible for,” commented old Mrs. Bascom, “but no new wash-boiler has gone into Rube Hobson’s door in the daytime for many a year, and I’ll be bound it means somethin’. There goes a broom, too. Much sweepin’ he’ll get out o’ Eunice; it’s a slick ‘n’ a promise with her!”

“When did you begin to suspicion this, Diademy?” asked Almira Berry. “I’ve got as much faculty as the next one, but anybody that lives on the river road has just got to give up knowin’ anything. You can’t keep runnin’ to the store every day, and if you could you don’t find out much nowadays. Bill Peters don’t take no more interest in his neighbors than a cow does in election.”