“Ain’t she a Pistopal cow, gran’daddy?”
“I ’low she is, gran’son, but she’s got a whole rotation of stomachs and when they’re all hungry at once it must give her a powerful gone feelin’. I’ll put on a new frock for old Mis’ Jimson. I don’t reckon she ever had a store frock in her life and she ain’t so old yet but what she can turn out of her loom a frock that’ll outwear three of the store kind, but it’ll be a change for her.”
“O but, gran’daddy! gran’daddy! them Pistopals is right mean, they are, and ole Mis’ Jimson’s a Pistopal!”
“So she is, Grover Cleveland, so she is. I never thought of that”—for a minute they jogged along in silence—“I can’t somehow ’count for that, gran’son; thar’s a mistake somewhar—Mis’ Jimson’s a good woman. Anyway she can’t git down to the Pistopal meetin’-house a-Christmas; she’s got a risin’ on her leg.”
“Why, gran’daddy, old Mis’ Jimson can’t go anywhere! She couldn’t even git into this yer wagon so as we-all could carry her!”
“I’m ’feared you’re right, Grover Cleveland; now that’s another difficulty——”
“And all them other old women, gran’daddy—how’re they going to git down to our Chrisamus tree, and how’re they goin’ to git back again?”
“That certainly is a puzzler, gran’son. I reckon we-all will have to sleep on to that. If your mother was alive now, she’d know just how to take hold”——the old man dropped his elbows upon his knees, doubling himself in sad retrospection, and the little boy slipped off the seat in an effort to imitate the position. On his knees, holding to the front of the wagon box, he solved the problem.
“Hi, gran’daddy!” he shouted, clutching the old man’s trouserlegs to help himself to his feet, “me and you’ll stand that ar Chrisamus tree up in the wagon and we’ll hitch Bonaparte and Butterfly to it and we’ll carry it round an’ pick it as we go!”
“That’s the talk, Grover Cleveland!” the old man brought down upon his knee a big emphatic hand covering there two little wincing ones; “your ma’d have thought of that, too.”