light, wiry woman, who acted and talked easily and
unceasingly, spread out a fresh linen cloth and laid a stone on each
corner to hold it down, and then looked into each lunch basket in
turn, to acquaint herself with its contents.

"I see you brought cake and cookies and jam, Mrs. Ballard, besides all
the corn and cream--you always do too much, and all your own work to
look after, too. Well, I brought a lot of ham sandwiches and that
brown bread your husband likes so much. I always feel so proud when
Mr. Ballard praises anything I do; he's so clever it makes me feel as
if I were really able to do something. And you're so clever too. I
don't know how it is some folks seem to have all the brains, and then
there's others--good enough--but there! As I tell Mr. Dean, you can't
tell why it is. Now where are the spoons? Every one brings their own,
of course; yes, here are yours, Mrs. Walters. It's good of you to
think of that sweet corn, Mr. Ballard.--Oh, he's gone away; well,
anyway, we're having a lot more than we can eat, and all so good and
tempting. I hope Mr. Dean won't overeat himself; he's just a boy at a
picnic, I always have to remind him--How?"

"Did you bring the cups for the coffee?" It was Mrs. Walters who
interrupted the flow of Mrs. Dean's eloquence. She was portly and
inclined to brevity, which made her a good companion for Mrs. Dean.

"I had such a time with my jell this summer, and now this fall my
grape jell's just as bad. This is all running over the glasses. There,
I'll set it on this paper. I do hate to see a clean cloth all spotted
with jell, even if it is a picnic when people think it doesn't make
any difference. I see Martha has a friend. Well, that's nice. I wish
Clara cared more for company; but, there, as I tell Mr. Dean--Oh, yes!
the cups. Clara, where are the cups? Oh, she's gone. Well, I'm sure
they're in that willow basket. I told Clara to pack towels around them
good. I do hate to see cups all nicked up; yes, here they are. It's
good of you to always tend the coffee, Mrs. Walters; you know just how
to make it. I tell Mr. Dean nobody ever makes coffee like you can at a
picnic. Now, if it's ready, I think everything else is; well, it soon
will be with such a fire, and the corn's not done, anyway. Do you
think the sun'll get round so as to shine on the table? I see it's
creeping this way pretty fast, and they're all so scattered over the
woods there's no telling when we will get every one here