Sez he, “It seems to me you’ve writ enough on em.”
And I sez, “Wall, Josiah, I’d hate to sadden the world by sayin’ I wouldn’t write any more.”
And he sez, “How do you know it would sadden the world—how do you know it would?” And he continued: “Samantha, I hain’t wanted to dampen you, but I have always considered your writin’s weak; naterally they would be, bein’ writ by a woman; and,” sez he, as he looked longin’ly towards the buttery door and the plump chicken, “a woman’s spear lays in a different direction.”
And I sez, “I thought I’d write some of our adventures in our trip abroad—that happy time,” sez I, lookin’ inquirin’ly at him.
“Happy time!” sez he, a-kinder ’nashin’ his teeth—“happy! gracious Heavens! Do you want to bring up my sufferin’s agin, when I jest lived through ’em?”
“Wall,” sez I, a-gittin’ up and approachin’ the buttery, and takin’ down the tea-kettle and fryin’-pan and coffee-pot, “I have writ other things in the book that I am more interested in myself.”
He sot kinder still and demute as I put the chicken on to fry in butter, and put the cream biscuit in the oven, and poured the bilein’ water on the fragrant coffee; his mean seemed to grow softer, and he sez:
“Mebby I wuz too hash a-sayin’ what I did about your writin’s, Samantha; I guess you write as well as you know how to; I guess you mean well;” and as he see me a-spreadin’ the snowy table-cloth on the little round table, and a-puttin’ on some cream cheese and some peach sass, he sez further:
“Nobody is to blame for what they don’t know, Samantha.”
I looked down affectionately and pityin’ly on his old bald head and then further off—way off into mysterious spaces no mortal feet has ever trod, and I sez: