'T was n't that we hated children. Far from it. We just thought that when we saw all the extra worry and trouble and expense that other people's children brought about, we were right satisfied to live the way we had lived the five years since we was married—our neighbors still called us the “Bride and Groom.” Nor I can't say that we were happier than the other folks in our end of town, but we was more care-free. We lived more joyous, as you might say.
One night when I come home from the store Marthy met me at the corner, and when I had tucked her arm under mine, I asked her what was the news. Bobby Jones had cut his finger bad; Stell Marks had took the measles; little Tot Hemingway had run off, and her ma had gone near crazy until the kid was found again; the Wallaces was n't goin' to take no vacation this year at all because Fred was to go off to school in the fall, and they could n't afford both. It was the usual lot of news of children bein' trouble and expense.
I was feelin' fine, the next day bein' a holiday, and Marthy, with the slick way women has, sprung a favor on me just when she set the broiled steak on the table. Extry thick, and burnt brown—that's my favorite steak—and whenever I see it that way my mouth waters, and I look out for a favor to be asked.
“Hiram,” she says, quite as if she was openin' up a usual bit of talk, “did you take notice of Mrs. Hemingway's silk dress last Sunday?”
“Why no, Marthy,” I says, “I didn't. Was it new?”
“New!” she laughed. “The idee! That's just what it wasn't. I believe she has had that same silk ever since we have lived in this end of town, and no one knows how much longer. It's a shame. She puts every cent she can dig up on those children of hers, and has hardly a decent thing of her own. I feel right sorry for her.”
“I feel sorry for Hemingway,” says I. “The old boy is workin' himself to death. He never gits home until supper is all over, and he told me just now that he felt it his bounden duty to work to-morrow. I tell you, Marthy, children is an expensive luxury!”
“That's just what they are,” she agreed. “If it wasn't for their children, the Hemingways could live every bit as good as we do, and he wouldn't have to work of nights, poor fellow. But, Hiram,” she says, as if the idee had just hit her, “do you recall to mind when this end of town has seen a new silk dress?”
“Why, no—no,” I said; “when was it?”
“Years ago!” says the little woman. “I was figgerin' it up to-day, and it was full two years ago. Ain't it awful?”