“’Lisbeth, can’t ye leave off churnin’ a minute? I want my specs.”
“All right, father, I’ll find ’em for ye: ’s—almost—come!” The last words were emphasized by such an energetic pounding that the window-sashes, with their small, old-fashioned panes, rattled like cymbals.
“There! there! ye needn’t knock the bottom out’n the churn,” said the first speaker, with a movement among the wrinkles of his face that betokened a smile. “I c’n hold on a spell longer, I guess. Jest bring me in a mug o’ the buttermilk when ye’ve got threw.” The keen air swept through the porch and lifted the leaves of a yellow-covered almanac that hung against the wall. The old man took it down from its nail, and closed the door with a shiver. “Wind’s shiftin’ back,” he mused. “Soon’s ever I git my glasses I’ll see what the almanac says. ’T ain’t much use fer Wesley to break out the road, even ’f the Hill-folks is comin’. ’Twill be over the walls ’fore the train’s in.” He walked slowly to a pile of wood that lay near the fireplace, paused before it a moment, with a shrewd look, whistling in a sort of whisper, then picked out a stout birch stick with the bark hanging in strips and laid it with great deliberation on the fire, which was already crackling and roaring up the chimney in a broad blaze and sending its generous glow to the farthest corner of the room.
A few moments later the door opened and showed a quiet little figure and a cheery face that irresistibly suggested Thanksgiving, Christmas, comfort, and reliableness, all in one. It was evident that if her forty years or so had brought her many sorrows they had given a wonderful inward peace and strength that is not afraid of evil tidings. She was dressed plainly, with her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Here’s your milk, father; and there’s your glasses now, right on top of your head,” she said, stooping forward a little and speaking in loud, clear tones.
“Lor’ sakes! so they be. I declare, I’m gittin’ so forgitful, ’n’ I can’t hear no one ’bout the house but you, ’Lisbeth. Strange how my hearin’ ’s failed me this year! If’t wa’n’t for you”—Here his voice quavered a little, but he was happily interrupted by the entrance of a broad-shouldered, clear-eyed young fellow, who advanced to the fire, and, holding out his hands to its genial warmth, stamped off upon the brick hearth a few bits of snow that had clung to his stout boots.
“Well, grandfather, we’ve got a ‘spell o’ weather’ this time,” he shouted. “Old Bonny Beag has her nightcap on, and I saw two or three flakes as I came in. ’Lisbeth,” he continued, “the visitors up at the Hill won’t any more than get there to-day, I guess. Sam Fifield, down at the depot, says he has orders to have a pung ready for a lot of boxes and a sleigh for the women and children that are coming down to Christmas. I’ve broken out as far as the Corner; beyond that it’s good roading for quite a piece. The steers are as near being tired out as ever I saw them. Breakfast ’most ready?”
In a few minutes more the table was pulled out from the wall, and a chip thrust under one of its feet to offset the unevenness of the floor. Upon the spotless cloth were set three blue china plates, with pictures of stately castles rising from lambent seas and numerous swans disporting themselves therein; then came brown-jacketed potatoes, a big pot of coffee, a pile of yesterday’s doughnuts, an apple pie with one piece cut out, a plate of smoking hot biscuit, and a dish of golden butter. A small platter, containing two or three slices of “frizzled” pork, was placed by the old man’s plate.
