"Jesus'll kerry me through!" the widow went on, rocking herself back and forth. "Dust and ashes, and Jordan rollin' past, rollin' past!" Her eyes glittered, and her voice rose in a sing-song whine.
"Hold on there, old lady," said Calvin Parks. "Come out o' that now, and let's be sociable Christmas night. I dono as you'd think it right and proper to allow of me smokin', what?"
The glitter died out of the old lady's eyes; she stopped rocking, and cackled gleefully; this time-worn joke never failed to delight her. With eager, trembling fingers she brought out a cob pipe from a corner behind the stove, and handed it to Calvin, who filled it from his own pouch and returned it to her. Then he lighted his own pipe, and soon they were puffing in concert. In the pantry close by Miss Phrony was rattling dishes; they sounded like dry bones.
"There!" said Calvin comfortably. "Now you feel better, don't you, old lady?"
The old lady nodded like a Salem mandarin.
"Jordan ain't rollin' so fast now, is it?"
"Nothin' like!" said the old lady.
"Then, since we're all comfortable and peaceful," said Calvin, "I've half a mind to tell you something, old lady."
He paused and seemed to listen; his next words were spoken silently.
"What say? Oh, you go along! I tell you I've got to tell some one, or I shall bust. I can't fetch hossy into the settin'-room, can I? 'Tis betwixt sawdust and kindlin's with these two, but yet I like the old one best."