Grandpa, too, pined and put away his food. He used to look across the table at me, with a feeble appeal for sympathy in his expression. Oftentimes he sighed deeply, and related anecdotes redolent of "red salmon" and "deer flesh," "strawberries as big as teacups" and "peaches as big as pint bowls," in places where he had sailed.
Once, he ventured to remark, apologetically, referring to the beans and pumpkins, that "bein' sich a mild winter, somehow he didn't hanker arter sech bracin' food, and he guessed he'd go over to Ware'am, and git some pork."
"Wall, thar' now, pa!" said Grandma; "seems to me we'd ought ter consider all the fruits o' God's bounty as good and relishin' in their season."
"I call that punkin out of season," said Grandpa, recklessly. "Strikes me so."
"I was talkin' about fruits. I wasn't talkin' about punkins," said Grandma, with derisive conclusiveness.
"Wall," said Grandpa, very much aroused, "if you call them tarnal white beans the fruits of God, I don't!"
"Don't you consider that God made beans, pa?"
"No, I don't!"
"Who, then—" continued Grandma, in an awful tone—"do you consider made beans, pa?"
Grandpa's eyes, as he glared at the dish, were large and round, and significant of unspeakable things.