“That man is Philander Spicer, and he has seen trouble.”
“Bein’ a married man he might expect to—”
“Expect to what Josiah Allen?” says I, lookin’ at him with a mean that was like a icicle for stiffness and coolness.
“Oh! I meant he might expect to lay up property. What a big house! I declare Samantha, I haint seen so big and nice a house sense we left Jonesville.”
And truly, it was awful big and nice; big enough for half a dozen families, but it was shet up fearfully close and tight, as tight as if air and sunshine and Josiah and me was deadly pisen. And as we meandered on round the house by winder after winder and door after door, shet up as tight as glass and blinders could make ’em, I’ll be hanged if it didn’t seem some as if it was war time, and Josiah and me was two Hessian troopers, a tryin’ to break in and couldn’t.
At last, way on the back side of the house, we come to a little wood-house built on, and there we see the first sign of life. The door was open and three little childern sot out in a row by the side of the house, on a clean board. They looked lonesome; they was ruffled off dretful nice, and their shoes shone like glass bottles, but they looked awful old and care-worn in their faces.
“Does Mahala Spicer, she that was Mahala Allen live here?” says I to the oldest one. She looked in her face as if she might be a hundred years of age, but from her size she wasn’t probable more’n nine or nine and a half.
“Yes mom,” says she, sort o’ turnin’ her eyes at me, but she never moved a mite.
Says I, “Is she to home?”
“Yes mom.”