“Wall,” sez I, “let’s bear up under it the best we can—it’s all paid for.”
“What good duz payin’ for a thing do that kills you?” Sez he, “When you’re killed, payin’ for things hain’t a-goin’ to help you! Oh! if I ever set foot on my farm agin,” sez he, “I’ll never leave it to go to meetin’, or anywhere.”
No megumness here, as I could see, but I pitied him and sympathized with him deeply.
Sez I, “It would seem dretful good, wouldn’t it, Josiah, to see you a-comin’ in with two pails of milk? It would be jest about this time you’d want the milk scum for the calves.”
“Don’t mention it!” he groaned, “them happy times wuz too happy to last; we didn’t appreciate ’em.”
“No,” sez I; “don’t you remember how you ust to dum the calves, and barn chores?”
“I praised ’em always,” sez he stoutly, “and I’d ruther milk my hull herd of Jerseys now this minute than to eat!”
Sez I, “I don’t believe I appreciated how happy I wuz a-standin’ by the buttery winder, calm and peaceful, a-washin’ dishes, or a-skimmin’ milk, and a-seein’ the red sun a-sinkin’ low beneath Balcom’s hill; and the sweet south wind a-wavin’ the mornin’-glory vines, and my snow-white strainer spread on the blossomin’ rose-bush under the winder. And the sight of the barns lookin’ so good, and sort o’ settled down and at rest, and the hen-house, and the ash-house, and the garden—”
“And how I ust to ketch the old mair,” sez Josiah, “and we’d ride over and see the children after the chores wuz done. Oh! happy days,” sez he, “we never shall see you agin!”
“Yes you will, Josiah Allen,” sez I; “bear up, and we will anon be back in our own peaceful home.”