ned rocker
on the south side of the porch. Jasper had given us both a mint julep,
and Uncle Peter was much Jess thirsty than he had been for a long time.
Aunt Augusta is as temperate in all things as a steel ramrod.

"You see, Uncle Peter, I needed you so that I just had to kidnap you," I
said to him, as he wiped his lips with a pocket-handkerchief, as stiffly
starched as was his wife herself.

"Why didn't you go over and live in James's hennery--live with James--hey?"
he snapped, with the precision of a pistol cap.

To be just, I suppose Aunt Augusta's adamant disposition accounts, to
some extent, for Uncle Peter's explosive way of thinking and speaking. A
husband would have to knock Aunt Augusta's nature down to make any
impression whatever on it. Uncle Peter always has the air of firing an
idea and then ducking his head to avoid the return shot.

"His house is so full, and I need a lot of space to carry on my work," I
answered him, with the words I have used so often in the last two weeks
that they start to come when the Petunia asks me if I want waffles or
batter-cakes for supper.

"Well, Sallie Carruthers will get him, and then there'll be a dozen more
to run the measure over--children--hey? All girls! A woman like Sallie
would not be content with producing less than a dozen of her
kind--hey?"

His chuckle was so contagious that I couldn't help but join him, though
I didn't like it so very much. But why shouldn't I? Sallie is such a
gorgeous woman that a dozen of her in the next generation will be of
value to the State. Still, I didn't like it. I didn't enjoy thinking of
Cousin James as so serving his country.

"Carruthers left her to James--he'll have to take care of her. Henry
turned toes in good time. Piled rotten old business and big family on to
James's shoulders, and then died--good time--hey? Get a woman on your
hands, only thing to do is to marry or kill her. Poor James--hey?" He
peered at me with a twinkle in his eyes that demanded assent from me.

"Why, Uncle Peter, I don't know that Sallie has any such idea. She
grieves dreadfully over Mr. Carruthers, and I don't believe she would
think of marrying again," I answered, trying to put enough warmth in my
defense to convince myself.

"Most women are nothing but gourd-vines, grow all over a corn-stalk,
kill it, produce gourds until it frosts, and begin all over again in the
next generation. James has to do the hoeing around Sallie's roots, and
feed