The house was low, built of lichen-covered stone, an old buttonwood-tree
tenting it over; in the sunny back-yard you could see fat pullets and
glossy-backed Muscovy ducks wabbling in and out through the
lilac-bushes. Comfortable and quaint the old place looked, with no bald
white paint about it, no unseemly trig new fences to jar against the
ashen and green tones of color in house and woods. The gate by which you
passed through the stone wall was made of twisted boughs; and wherever a
tree had been cut down, the stump still stood, covered with
crimson-leaved ivy. "I'd like things nattier," Andy used to say; "but
it's Jane's way."
The Quaker woman herself, as she stood in the gateway in her gray
clothes, the hair pushed back from her sallow face, her brown, muscular
arms bare, suited the quiet, earnest look of the place.
"Thee'll take neighbor Wart into town, Andrew?" she said.
"More noosances?" he growled.
"Thee'd best take her in, Andrew. It costs thee nothing," with a dry,
quizzical smile.
Andy's face grew redder than his shirt, as he climbed up on the
wagon-wheel.
"H'ist me up her basket here, then. A'n't I kind to her? I drink my
coffee every noon at her stall, though 't's the worst in the market.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130