"Well, I don't know," interposed Mrs. Chadwick. "When I was a little girl I just hated verses, perhaps because I was compelled to learn them by heart, and occasionally speak a piece for the entertainment of my mother's friends. Stories were considered very demoralizing and giving children and young people false views of life. We were allowed 'Rosamond and the Purple Jar,' on account of the fine moral."
"Rosamond—" I repeated doubtfully.
"Oh, haven't you ever seen that?"
"No, ma'am," I admitted frankly.
"Oh, Abner, do read it to the child," she exclaimed smilingly.
Mr. Harris had lighted two candles and stood them on a stand that I remember was painted green, and a gay-colored mat on it.
So I heard Rosamond and her unwise choice. I had seen some glass jars with colored liquid in them at Mr. Carpenter's drug store, but I couldn't understand even then how any one could make such a sacrifice to possess one.
"Why, I should have found some poke berries and mashed them up and put some water on them," I said, "and there are dye stuffs—"
"Perhaps poke didn't grow in Rosamond's country," said Mrs. Chadwick with a laugh.