Martha proceeded with her work.
"Well, that's the way it goes! When a fella's been cryin' wolf for years an' years, the chances are he'll attrac' some kinda thing his way, if it's only a meazly little skunk, which is more embarrassin' than dangerous. Meazles is a kinda come-down, for a party Hiram Parkinson's age an' ambitions. He's been walkin' around with, as you might say, one foot in the gravey,—poor soul! I bet it makes'm sore to feel he's with both feet in the soup. Meazles! I guess I'll send'm a glass or two o' my slip-go-down jelly to cool his throat."
"I guess he didn't be expectin' that, whatever it was he did be expectin'," Ma dropped complacently.
"Well, you gener'ly get sump'n, if you expect it long enough. That's why it's up to us to be sure we like our order before it goes in, for in the end we'll have to chew it, anyhow."
Martha drew her chair to the center-table, seated herself, and taking paper, pen and a bottle of ink from the drawer, prepared to write.
"Goin' to write, Martha?" queried Ma, peering over at her curiously.
"Looks like it, don't it?"
"A letter?"
"Maybe, or else my last will an' prayer-book, as they say."
"I wonder——"