ince 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 t