“Crazier ’n a bedbug!” declared Grandma Owens, whose ninety years allowed her to speak definitely.
“Love, Grandma,” said Mrs. Bellew.
“Same thing, Annie. I’ve watched ‘em for ninety year, and they ain’t no difference—love and lunacy. Has the preacher come yet?”
“Not yet. Listen!”
From the kitchen came the sound of voices raised in song.
“Wa-a-a-ay do-o-o-on yon-n-n-n-der in the co-o-orn-field.”
“Drunk!” said Grandma flatly.
“Drinking,” corrected Aunt Emma. “Most of ’em can stand more than Hozie can, and he ain’t drunk until he insists on soloin’ ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold’. Up to that time he can undress himself and hang up his shirt, but when he starts on ‘Silver Threads’ he can’t even take off his own boots.”
“I wish they’d quit before Reverend Lake comes,” said Mrs. West. “He might not be in accord with such doings.”
“Won’t he?” Aunt Emma laughed softly. “Henry Lake may be pious, but he ain’t Puritanical. If he hears ’em, he’ll probably come in through the kitchen. Henry Lake has been givin’ us the gospel for twenty-five years, and no man can do that in this country, if he goes too strong against liquor.”