Sarah had on her best black silk and the white apron with lace edges. She had cooked some hot biscuit and dished up some of her famous plum preserve and actually skimmed a pan of milk to serve thick cream.
“Maine is gone Democratic!” she cried. “Hurrah for Hancock! Bread and water’s good enough for Republicans in this hour of triumph, but I know the fat of the land will taste like gall to both of you. Sit right down and feast, because the country’s safe!”
Physically that supper was perfect. There never were finer hot biscuits or better plum preserve or finer cold chicken! Spiritually it was the saddest and most depressing meal on record. We made a full meal. I can go back into the years and see that big farmer gnawing half a chicken under command of his wife. You remember “King Robert of Sicily” in Longfellow’s poem:
“The world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch.”
And so with poor John. That fine chicken tasted exactly like crow as Sarah sat by and “rubbed it in.” Oh, politics, where are the charms we formerly saw in thy face?
John and I surely dawdled over our chores that night. We had no great desire to go in and hear the news. Finally Sarah came to the door and called us.
“Say,” said John to me as we started for the house, “you go to college. Have you ever studied logic or what they call psychology?”
“While I am no expert at either subject, I know what they mean.”