The old maid put her hand on his shoulder, and said, with her blandest smile:
“Put the squash in my lap, Sim, and hang the bundle on the horn; you may call me Polly—I don’t mind that, though I don’t know,” she added, with virtuous reflection, “whether it’s just the thing afore people are married.”
“It can’t do no hurt,” returned Sim, sagely turning his tobacco over in his mouth, “even if they don’t intend to get married.”
“Yes, it can!” retorted the spinster. “No man shall ever call me Polly that don’t want to marry me right out, now, I tell you!”
Sim retreated a little, and did not exhibit that eagerness to pronounce the euphonious syllable which Aunt Polly seemed to expect, and she chirruped to General Washington with renewed displeasure.
“Are you a-coming up to the wedding?” she asked, sharply.
“I s’pose so; Edward Clark wanted me to play the fiddle for them to dance a little.”
“Wal, I jest wish you wouldn’t go—it makes it very unpleasant for me.”
“Why on ’arth shouldn’t I go, Miss Carter?”
“They all laugh at me so,” said Aunt Polly, with interesting confusion.