A tall old man, lean-faced and closely shaven, with a hawk’s-beak nose straddled by a huge pair of silver-bowed spectacles, came out of the shop at that moment, a jack-plane in his hand. He saw Mr. Stagg and, turning sharply on his heel, went indoors again.
“Who is he, Uncle Joe?” repeated the little girl. “And, if I asked him, do you s’pose he’d give me some of those nice, long, curly shavings?”
“That’s Jed Parlow—and he wouldn’t give you any shavings; especially after having seen you with me,” said the hardware merchant brusquely.
The pretty lady whose name was Parlow and the queer-looking old carpenter, whose name was likewise Parlow, would neither look at Uncle Joe! Even such a little girl as Carolyn May could see that her uncle and the Parlows were not friendly. It puzzled her, but she did not feel that she could ask Uncle Joe about it. So she trudged by his side, holding to his hand and to the dog’s leash.
The street soon became a country road, and there were now no passers-by. A half-cleared forest lay on either hand—rough pasture land. By-and-by they came in sight of The Corners—a place where another road crossed this one at right angles. Both were wide roads, and a little green park had been left in the middle of the way at their intersection, around which was a rusty iron railing.
In one corner was a white church with a square tower and green blinds. This was railed around by rusty iron pipe, as was the graveyard behind it. At one side was a row of open horse sheds. In another of the four corners was set a big store, with a covered porch all across the front, on which were sheltered certain agricultural tools, as well as a row of more or less decrepit chairs—at this hour of the day unoccupied.
A couple of country wagons stood before the store, but there was no sound of life at The Corners save a rhythmic “clank, clank, clank” from the blacksmith shop on the third corner. Carolyn May had a glimpse of a black-faced man in a red shirt and a leather apron, and with hairy arms, striking the sparks from a rosy iron on the anvil next the forge, the dull glow of the forge fire making a background for this portrait of “The Village Blacksmith.”
On the fourth corner of the crossroads stood the Stagg homestead—a wide, low-roofed house of ancient appearance, yet in good repair. The grass was lush under the wide-spreading maples in the front yard, and the keys which had fallen from these trees were carefully brushed into heaps on the brick walk for removal. Neatness was the keynote of all about the place.
“Is this where you live, Uncle Joe?” asked Carolyn May breathlessly. “Oh, what a beautiful big place! Aren’t there any other families with flats here, too?”
“Bless me! No, child,” returned the hardware dealer. “I never noticed the house was any too big for one family.”