Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke they make
The better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare.
Ben Jonson.
So the time walked away, for this family was not now of those "whom time runneth withal,"--to the second summer of Mr. Didenhover's term.
One morning Mrs. Rossitur was seated in the breakfast-room at her usual employment, mending and patching; no sinecure now. Fleda opened the kitchen door and came in folding up a calico apron she had just taken off.
"You are tired, dear," said Mrs. Rossitur sorrowfully;--"you look pale."
"Do I?"--said Fleda, sitting down. "I am a little tired!"
"Why do you do so?"
"O it's nothing" said Fleda cheerfully;--"I haven't hurt myself. I shall be rested again in a few minutes."
"What have you been doing?"
"O I tired myself a little before breakfast in the garden, I suppose. Aunt Lucy, don't you think I had almost a bushel of peas?--and there was a little over a half bushel last time, so I shall call it a bushel. Isn't that fine?"