“Oh, that’s all right,” she cried. “Don’t think another minute about that. I’ll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I’ll get you some lunch in a minute.”
We were somewhat relieved by Pomona’s statement that it was “all right” in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any questions.
As soon as she had made ready our lunch she asked us as a particular favor to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, said she, “I’ll have everything looking just as if it was to-morrow.”
We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room until she appeared and announced that she was ready for us to go about. We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.
“Would you rather,” said she, “hear it altogether, when you come in, or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?”
I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect order—the garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy enough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid the taxes—however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she was in a hurry to hear Pomona’s account of things. So I went in, and we sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.
“I wrote down the things of any account what happened,” said she, “as you told me to, and while I was about it I thought I’d make it like a novel. It would be jus’ as true, and p’r’aps more amusin’. I suppose you don’t mind?”
No, we didn’t mind. So she went on.
“I haven’t got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don’t read the first chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage, and my early adventures. I’ll just come down to what happened to me while you was away, because you’ll be more anxious to hear about that. All that’s written here is true, jus’ the same as if I told it to you, but I’ve put it into novel language because it comes easier to me.”