“Wouldn’t mind bein’ a cat myself,” soliloquized Avery. “Nothin’ to do but eat and sleep and feel plumb sat’sfied with everything. ’Specially a he cat what ain’t got no young ones to raise and nuss. But it’s diff’runt with me. Now, there’s my Swickey—but what’s the good of talkin’! Young folks is goin’ to do jest the same as their pas and mas done, if they don’t do no wuss.”
The old man bent busily over the racquette, which was nearly completed. Finally, he tossed it to the floor and stood up, pushing back his spectacles and yawning sonorously.
“Wal, it do beat the old scortch how things keeps a-proddin’ a man to keep him movin’. A’ter suthin’ happens and he ain’t got nuthin’ to do but jest live and wait fur—wal, gits settled kind of easy and comf’table a’ter one shakin’ up, long comes suthin’ unexpected-like and says, ‘Here, you’re takin’ it too all-fired easy’; and then, like enough, he gits over thet, and gits settled ag’in, and afore he’s got his feet on the stove and his pipe lit, long comes, wal, mebby a railrud and runs slam-bang through a feller’s barn. Now, he’s either got to hire a man to open and shet the doors every time a train comes rippety-clickin’ through or sell out and move on like a Injun. And if the hired man happened to fergit to open the door—suthin’ ’ud git busted, so I reckon we’ll sell out and move over to Timberland, hey, Beelzebub?”
“Yas,” he continued, moving to the window, “young folks likes new things and ole folks likes ole things and both on ’em likes to live as long as they kin, even if they be some one over yonder, back of them clouds up thar on the mountain, callin’ and callin’ like as if they’d been expectin’ a feller fur a long time. Wal, I reckon it ain’t a-goin’ to be a long time afore Swickey comes blushin’ up to her Pop and says she’s a-goin’ away fur a spell—with Dave. Things are pintin’ thet way, howcome they ain’t said nothin’ yit. Shucks! but I be gettin’ as fussy as a hen sca’d offen eggs. God-A’mighty never set out to make a better man than Dave, or a healthier gal than my Swickey, and come so clus to finishin’ the job. ’Course, Dave come from the city—thet’s the only thing ag’in’ him marryin’ my gal, fur she ain’t never goin’ to be like them city kind; howcome he says he ain’t a-goin’ back ag’in to stay, and he never bruk his word yit. Wal, they’ll git married and raise half a dozen strappin’ fine young ones, like as not, and they’s things wuss than thet happenin’ every day. Reckon I ought to be as happy as a pockapine in a bar’l of apples, but I ain’t. Feel like as if I was losin’ suthin’ I was never goin’ to git back ag’in.
“Used to calc’late if I had a lot of money, they’d be nothin’ to fuss about. Now I got money and more a-comin’ in and it’s jest good for buyin’ vittles and buildin’ houses and sech, and gettin’ things ready to be comf’table in, but thar’s jest where it lays back and folds its hands and says, ‘Now go ahead and be comf’table’—and thet’s diff’runt.”
The big iron kettle on the stove simmered contentedly. Avery rammed a stick of wood into the fire and poked the door shut with another. The short winter afternoon crept into the sombre cavern of the forest, and each pallid star took on a keener edge as twilight swiftly lost itself in the dusk of a December night. Over the silence came the sound of voices—a laugh—and Avery was at the door.
“Here they be, Beelzebub!” he exclaimed, “racin’ fur the camp like a couple of young ones thet’s killed a snake.”
“That’s not fair!” cried Swickey, as she stumbled, and David passed her, a cloud of silvery dust swirling up from his snowshoes.
He turned back, laughing, and helped her from the drift. “Now, we’ll start again. Are you ready—one—two—three!”
He allowed her a generous start and she beat him to the doorway.