“Th-that would be perfectly ridiculous. A polar bear’d look like a fool on a buttermilk pitcher. N-n-no, the place for pitchers like them is in halls, on tables, where anybody comin’ in can see ’em, an’ stop an’ git a drink. They couldn’t be nothin’ tackier’n pourin’ buttermilk out of a’ ice-pitcher.”
“Of co’se, if you say so, we won’t—I jest thought maybe—or, I tell you what we might do. I could easy take out a panel o’ banisters out of the side po’ch, an’ put in a pair o’ stair-steps, so ez to make a sort o’ side entrance to the house, an’ we could set one of ’em in it. It would make the pitcher come a little high, of co’se, but it would set off that side o’ the house lovely, an’ ef you say so——
“Lemme go git ’em all out here together.”
As he trudged in presently loaded up with the duplicate set he said, “I wonder ef you know what time it is, wife?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall.
“Don’t look at that. It’s six o’clock last night by that. I forgot to wind her up. No, it’s half-past three o’clock—that’s all it is.” By this time he had placed his water-set beside hers upon the table. “Why, honey,” he exclaimed, “where on earth? I don’t see a sign of a’ inscription on this—an’ what is this paper in the spout? Here, you read it, wife, I ain’t got my specs.”
“Too busy to mark to-day—send back after Christmas—sorry.
“Rowton.”
“Why, it—an’ here’s another paper. What can this be, I wonder?”
“To my darling wife, from her affectionate husband.”