Everybody would be out of debt and happy. But Ime talkin crazy agin and will have to stop until Jobe and me gits back from town.
CHAPTER VII.
THEY DRIVE OLD TOM.
JOBE and me have been to town and we are back alive, thank goodness. There is no place like home—if it is mortgaged.
Last Tuesday mornin, bright and airly, Jobe and me got up and got ready to go to town to raise some more interest money.
I wore that blue cambric dress that Simon Kinsey’s wife got me for helpin her make apple butter last fall three years ago, and the lace cap mother knit and gave me the year John Sherman fust begin to borrow greenback money on bonds and burn it up, and that black straw hat Mrs. Vest Hummel traded me for that half dozen of dominic hens the spring she was married.
While I was a standin before the lookin glass gittin ready Jobe come in, as men allers do, and says, says he:
“Betsy, are you ever goin to git ready?”
Then he begin to comment on my clothes. Says he:
“I hope you haint a goin to wear that cap? Why, its out of fashion ten years ago. Haint you got a dress with bigger sleeves in? Why dont you borrow a hat more becomin you?”
I stood it as long as I could, then I jist up and says, says I: