“Eight sticks, some fence rails and three barrels,” chanted Martha, to the wood-basket on the hearth.
“And the last timber sold for the mortgage,” I ruminated. “How’s the caravansary: the food, O faithful Achates? I can eat less.”
“For the land’s sake, don’t, Miss Enid! You don’t weigh more’n a sparrow now. It’s a long road that’s got no turnin’, but joy cometh in the mornin’, as the hymn says.” Martha stood over me, her hands under her apron, her little shawl crossed and tied behind. “There’s some corn meal left—”
“Too fattening.”
“A quart of vinegar—”
“Ah, now we are arriving! Socrates and the hemlock!”
“No, miss, vinegar. Half a ham, some rice—”
“And you call it low rations!” I rebuked. “I’ll bet my hard-earned subscription that your grandfather wasn’t a highwayman, Martha.”
“My soul, no, miss! There wasn’t nothin’ of the kind in our family. He was a elder.”
“I feared so. There is nothing of the pirate concealed about you, else you’d not be toasting starvation with half a ham and a pound of rice in reserve. You and Dr. Prince could do ensemble work as star pessimists. Now, nature contrived me in a perverse and whimsical mood. Give me a black night and a star’s twinkle, and I’ll dig for doubloons; a red sunset and a dark woods converts me into a doughty knight, ready to hew his way through the thorny hedge of the world! Eight sticks and half a ham! Woman, we’re good for flood or barricade.”