“But Dad 'lowed ez Peter Petrie shouldn't hev none o' his gear,” Medora's eyes flashed with a responsive sentiment.
“His gran'mam's warpin' bars!” suggested the elder woman.
“The spinnin'-wheels she brung from No'th Carliny,” enumerated Medora, “the loom an' the candle-moulds.”
“The cheers his dad made fur his mam whenst they begun housekeeping” said Jane Gilhooley's muffled voice.
“The press an' the safe,” Medora continued.
“The pot an' the oven,” chokingly responded the apron.
“The churn an' the piggins!”
“The skillet an' the trivet!”
Medora, fairly flinching from the inventory of all the household goods, so desecrated and “leveled on,” returned to the salient incident of the day. “Dad jes' tuk an axe an' bust up every yearthly thing in the house!”
“An' now we-uns ain't got nuthin'.” The elder woman looked about in stunned dismay, her little black eyes a mere gleam of a pupil in the midst of their swollen lids and network of wrinkles.