It was now old Captain Jones’ turn, the grandfather. Being roused from a doze by the bustle and rattle, he opened both his eyes, at first with wonder and astonishment. At last, he began to halloo so loud that you could hear him a mile, for he took it for granted that everybody is just as exactly deaf as he is.
“Who is it, I say? Who in the world is it?”
Mrs. Jones going close to his ear, screamed out, “It’s Johnny Blunt!”
“Ho, Johnny Blunt! I remember he was one summer at the siege of Boston.”
“No, no, father; bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that’s been dead and gone this twenty years!”
“Ho! But where does he come from?”
“Daown taown.”
“Ho! And what does he foller for a livin’?”
And he did not stop asking questions after this sort, till all the particulars of the Blunt family were published and proclaimed by Mrs. Jones’ screech. Then he sunk back into his doze again.
The dog stretched himself before one andiron, the cat squat down before the other. Silence came on by degrees, like a calm snowstorm, till nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping time with a sappy yellow birch forestick. Sally sat up prim as if she were pinned to the chairback, her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her eyes looking straight into the fire.