They laughed as they sped along the open country road, skirted on either side by a rail fence. From a fence corner here and there arose tall sumac, like candelabra bearing aloft their burning tapers. The poke-weed flung out its royal purple banners while golden-rod and asters were blooming everywhere. Suddenly Mary exclaimed, “I'm going to get out of the buggy this minute.”
“What for?”
“To gather those brown bunches of hazelnuts.”
“Mary, I positively will not wait for you.”
“John, I positively don't want you to wait for me,” said Mary, putting her foot on the step, “I'm going to stay here and gather nuts till you come back. See how many there are?” and she sprang lightly to the ground.
“It will be an hour or more before I can get back. I've got to take up that pesky artery.”
“It won't seem long. You know I like to be alone.”
“Good-bye, then,” and the doctor started off.
“Wait! John,” his wife called after him. “I haven't a thing to put the nuts in, please throw me the laprobe.” The doctor crushed the robe into a sort of bundle and threw it to her.
She spread the robe upon the ground and began plucking the bunches. Her fingers flew nimbly over the bushes and soon she had a pile of the brown treasures. Dear old times came trooping back. She thought of far-off autumn days when she had taken her little wagon and gone out to the hazel bushes growing near her father's house, and filled it to the top and tramped it down and filled it yet again. Then a gray October day came back when three or four girls and boys, all busy in the bushes, talked in awed tones of the great fire—Chicago was burning up! Big, big Chicago, which they had never seen or dreamed of seeing—all because a cow kicked over a lamp.