“I tell ye, Abby, I will swear. It’s a swearin’ matter. Ever since I heard of ’em I wanted ter try ’em. An’ here they are now ’most ter my own door an’ I hain’t even been in ’em once. Look a’ here, Abby, jest because we’re ’most eighty ain’t no sign we’ve lost int’rest in things. I’m spry as a cricket, an’ so be you, yet Frank an’ Jennie expect us ter stay cooped up here as if we was old--really old, ninety or a hundred, ye know--an’ ’t ain’t fair. Why, we will be old one of these days!”
“I know it, Hezekiah.”
“We couldn’t go much when we was younger,” he resumed. “Even our weddin’ trip was chopped right off short ’fore it even begun.”
A tender light came into the dim old eyes opposite.
“I know, dear, an’ what plans we had!” cried Abigail; “Boston, an’ Bunker Hill, an’ Faneuil Hall.”
The old man suddenly squared his shoulders and threw back his head.
“Abby, look a’ here! Do ye remember that money I’ve been savin’ off an’ on when I could git a dollar here an’ there that was extra? Well, there’s as much as ten of ’em now, an’ I’m agoin’ ter spend ’em--all of ’em mebbe. I’m agoin’ ter ride in them ‘lectric-cars, an’ so be you. An’ I ain’t goin’ ter no old country fair, neither, an’ no more be you. Look a’ here, Abby, the folks are goin’ again ter-morrer ter the fair, ain’t they?”
Abigail nodded mutely. Her eyes were beginning to shine.
“Well,” resumed Hezekiah, “when they go we’ll be settin’ in the sun where they say we’d oughter be. But we ain’t agoin’ ter stay there, Abby. We’re goin’ down the road an’ git on them ‘lectric-cars, an’ when we git ter the Junction we’re agoin’ ter take the steam cars fer Boston. What if ’tis thirty miles! I calc’late we’re equal to ’em. We’ll have one good time, an’ we won’t come home until in the evenin’. We’ll see Faneuil Hall an’ Bunker Hill, an’ you shall buy a new cap, an’ ride in the subway. If there’s a preachin’ service we’ll go ter that. They have ’em sometimes weekdays, ye know.”
“Oh, Hezekiah, we--couldn’t!” gasped the little old woman.