"Hadn't the second gown to her back," added Mrs. Bird.
"Foller'd sowing, too, for a livin'," hinted Mrs. Beagle.
"And glad enough to get it, too," sputtered Mrs. Bird.
"Couldn't-er worn Squire Longbow's old shoes, then," said Mrs. Beagle.
"And now she puts on more ker-ink-tums than the governor's darter," spit out Mrs. Bird.
"Starve a child!" exclaimed another.
"Yes, starve a child!" chimed in all the rest, in a most furious tone of malicious spite that almost raised the roof. When the storm had spent itself on the head of Mrs. Swipes, who stood it with philosophy, for she liked it, all hands "set in" to tell her of the barbarous cruelty of Mrs. Longbow.
Mrs. Swipes replied, "that nothin' more could have been expected on her—old Longbow might-er known she'd-er taken the very hide off on him, and off all on 'em—if he didn't know what Poll Graves was, then it was his fault; if he hadn't liv'd long-er enough in this community to find her out, then the old fool ought-er suffer—good 'nough for him. He tried to get our Mary Jane Arabella, 'fore he went arter her—but I let him know that I was the mother of that gal. He found that Mrs. Swipes had a word to say, and it took me to send the old codger adrift—it jest did. It's 'nough to make one's blood run cold to see the highty-tighty airs that woman puts on. Last Sunday she had on all of old Mrs. dead and gone Longbow's finery-finery—that bunnit, the very same that she bought at Whistle and Sharp's store—price, twenty shillings and sixpence—bought it not mor'n two weeks afore she died. That drab of her'n, you know; the dear good woman never worn it mor'n onct or twict, 'tended Deacon Pettibone's funeral with it, I remember—that very same bunnit, and she had it on; and she had on, at the same time, old Mrs. Longbow's gown, and shawl too; and she did come—a—sailing right inter church, jest as if she was lord of the manor! I thought old Mrs. Longbow had rose from her grave, and I shed tears on the spot. It made my blood run cold. Thinks I to myself, old critter, if Mrs. Longbow should jest come back agin, she'd make you scatter, she would—she'd tear them clothes off on you—she'd let you know where your place was; she'd learn you to dress up inter her clothes. You'd rue the day you ever tried that game with her. Starve a child? Why, of course she will; anybody that don't care nothin' 'bout dead folkses clothes don't care nothin' 'bout folkses children."
At this point, the whole pack made another dead set at Mrs. Longbow, with the exception of Aunt Sonora, who sat rocking violently, and taking snuff. It is impossible to repeat the jargon that made up the hurly-burly that followed. All the troop were firing together, all kinds of shot, and epithets, and sentences were violently broken up into fragments by each other, and hurled in a mass at Mrs. Longbow's head with the hottest vengeance.
It might have looked something like the following: "Nobody!" "Who cares!" "I'll let her!" "Just to think!" "Starve!" "Yes, starve!" "A child!" "That new bonnit!" "Twenty shillings!" "Sowed for a livin'!" "And sixpence!" "Yes, and sixpence!" "Right in church!" "Hardly cold in!" "The poor child!" "And gown, too!" "Her grave!" "Hardly cold in her grave!" "Marry!" "Was as poor!" "Marry my Mary!" "As poor as Job's!" "Marry my Mary Jane Arabella!" "Was as poor as Job's turkey!" "I can see!" "I only wish!" "I can see how it!" "I only wish old Mrs. Longbow could!" "Goes!" "Rise from her!" "Starve!" "Grave!" "I'll complain!" "I wonder!" "To the town!" "If she thinks!" "Starve!" "I'll knuckle!" "A child!" "To her!" "Poll!" "No!" "Old!" "Not as long as my—" "Poll!" "Name is—" "Graves!" "Bird!"