This marnin’ wen I wint to open the door to tak in the papers a strange site greeted me eyes. “My God!” ses I aloud, “is it snowing in Orgust.”
Thin I seen Mr. John. He had wun of me dish pans in his hands and it seemed to be full of holes, fer sumthing white do be scattering from the bottom of it all over the place. I throwed up me hands in horrow. Just thin I seen the widdy, and she likewise had a pan and was scattering the white doost in another place. She guv me a smile:
“Good marning Delia!” ses she, “we’re goin’ to surprise Mr. Jimmy. We’re pooting sumthing on his drives wich will kill all grass and weeds. It’s salt,” ses she. “My conshunse John Wolley!” she screemed, “what are you doing?”
Mr. John was bizzy wid his pan around Miss Claire’s floury hidge wich is a sorry enuff looking hidge, being that the weeds and grarss have grown out thick wid only a poor little flour to pike up its hed here and there. Mr. John do be throwing the salt wid a ginerous hand over the sad looking hidge.
“Why,” ses he, “I’m killing the weeds in poor little Claire’s garden.”
The widdy threw doon her pan and set upon it.
“You do beat the dooch!” ses she, “why you gander,” ses she, “doant you know ye’ll kill the flours too. John Wolley, I’ve harf a mind to shake you and I will too!” ses she. Wid that she roon acrost to him, wid her hands hild out—but befure she can tooch him, he grabbed her aboot the waste, and kissed her plump on the lips.
“You retch!” ses she, “and befure Delia too! Oh-h!” ses she, and stamps her foot.
Its cleening day. Nobody but a dummed eediot wud put the desateful looking matting down on dacint flures. The doost and dirt finds a natchell place to settle down betwane the cracks. As I was rubbing it over wid a damp cloth in Mr. Wolley’s stoody he came in wid the male. In wan hand he held a grate boonch of letters, in the other one ploomp fine looking litter by itsilf. He looks queer.
“Has Mr. James gone to town yet?” he asks.