JOBE is able to be up. We have been foreclosed, and ex-Congressman Richer has the farm back.
We have a notice in writin to vacate these premises on or before the first day of March.
Jobe bein sick, neither of us was to town the day our old home was sold by the sheriff.
I felt bad all that day—felt jist like somethin awful was about to happen. Jobe seemed weaker and more restless than usual.
Bill Bowers rode by our place in the evenin, stopped at the gate and hollered.
I went to the door, hopin agin hope that maybe for some unknown reason the foreclosin hadent been done. But as soon as I laid eyes on Bill I knode our home was gone.
He hemmed and hawed and stammered, tryin to say somethin that was hard for him to say. Says I:
“Out with it, Bill; we are prepared for the wust.”
“Well, Betsy,” says he, “its gone. Congressman Richer bought it in, at jist what the mortgage and interest amounted to, and you people will have to pay the costs. Mr. Richer seemed pleased to get the old farm back agin.”
