I says I would; and when we went on,
“What struck her,” I says, puzzled, “to spread my name on to what she said like that, I wonder? I feel like I’d been planted in that sentence of hers in three hills.”
Then I see Mis’ Holcomb’s eyes was full of tears.
“Mis’ Sykes was trying to slight me,” she says. “She done that so’s to kind of try to seem to leave me out.”
“Well,” I says, “I must say, she sort of succeeded. But what for?”
“I give her potato bread receipt away,” she says miserable, “and it seems she didn’t expect it of me.”
“Is that it?” I says. “Well, of course we both know Mis’ Sykes ain’t the one to ever forgive a thing like that. I s’pose she’ll socially ostrich-egg you—or whatever it is they say?”
“I s’pose she will,” says Mis’ Holcomb forlorn. “You know how Mis’ Sykes is. From now on, if I say the sky is blue, Mis’ Sykes’ll say no, pink.”
They was often them feuds in Friendship Village—like this one, and like Mis’ Merriman’s and my new one. It hadn’t ought to be so in a village family, but then sometimes it is. I s’pose in cities it’s different—they always say it makes folks broader to live in cities, and they prob’ly get to know better. But it’s like that with us.
Well, of course the back-bone had dropped out of the morning for Mis’ Holcomb, and she didn’t take no more interest in going down street than she would in darning—I mention darning because I defy anybody to pick out anything uninterestinger. Up to the time I got to the Post-Office Hall store, I was trying to persuade her to come in with me to see Silas.