CHAPTER XIX.
THE CROOKED LOG.
“
I tell you what, Chicago’s a-growing. First we come; then Gaspar; then Kitty and him get married; and I go to keeping tavern in the parson’s house; and his son, One, goes up north to take a place in Gaspar’s business; and Gaspar sends Two and Three east to study law and medicine; and Four and his pa come to board in our tavern; and Osceolo——”
“For the land’s sake, Abel Smith, do hold your tongue. Here you’ve got to be as big a talker as old Deacon Slim, that I used to hear about, who begun the minute he woke up and never stopped till his wife tied his mouth shut at night. Even then——”
“Mercy, Mercy! Take care. Set me a good example, if you can; but don’t go to denying that this is a growin’ village.”
“I’ve no call to deny it. Why should I? But, say, Abel, just step round to the store, won’t you, an’ buy me some of that turkey red calico was brought in on the last team from the East. I’d admire to make Kitty a rising sun quilt for her bedroom. ’Twould be so ’propriate, too.”
“Fiddlesticks! Not a yard of stuff will I ever buy for you to set an’ snip, snip, like you used to in the woods. We’ve got something else to do now. As for Kit, between the Fort folks and the Indians, she’s had so many things give her a’ready, she won’t have room to put ’em. The idee! Them two children gettin’ married. Seems just like play make believe.”
“Well, there ain’t no make believe. It’s the best thing ’t ever happened to Chicago. Wonderful how they both ’pear to love the old hole in the mud,” answered Mercy.