CHAPTER III
It was the last month of the year, and the month was waning. The winds had rifled the woods and the sere leaves all had fallen. Yet still a bright after-thought of the autumnal sunshine glowed along the mountain spurs, for the tardy winter loitered on the way, and the silver rime that lay on the black frost-grapes melted at a beam.
“The weather hev been powerful onseasonable an’ onreasonable, ter my mind,” said old Jonas Scruggs, accepting a rickety chair in his neighbor’s porch. “’Tain’t healthy.”
“Waal, ’tain’t goin’ ter last,” rejoined Mrs. Knox, from the doorway, where she sat with her knitting. “’Twar jes’ ter-day I seen my old gray cat run up that thar saplin’ an’ hang by her claws with her head down’ards. An’ I hev always knowed ez that air a sure sign of a change.”
Presently she added, “The fire air treadin’ snow now.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the deep chimney-place, where a dull wood fire was sputtering fitfully with a sound that suggested footfalls crunching on a crust of snow.
“I dunno ez I need be a-hankerin’ fur a change in the weather, cornsiderin’ the rheumatiz in my shoulder ez I kerried around with me ez a constancy las’ winter,” remarked Jonas Scruggs, pre-empting a grievance in any event.
“Thar’s the wild geese a-sailin’ south,” Hilary said, in a low, melancholy drawl, as he smoked his pipe, lounging idly on the step of the porch.