Mis' State Senator Pettigrew, she chimed in.
"So was the park. So was paving Main Street. So was getting pure milk. So was cleaning up the slaughter house—parse them and they're both genders, all of them. Of course let's us take men into the Sodality," says she.
Mis' Sykes put her hand over her eyes.
"My g-g-grandmother organized and named Sodality," she said. "I can't bear to see a change."
"Cheer up, Mis' Sykes," I says, "you'll be a grandmother yourself some day. Can't you do a little something to let your grandchildren point back to? Awful selfish," I says, "not to give them something to brag about."
We didn't press the men proposition any more. We see it was too delicate. But bye and bye we talked it out, that we'd have a big meeting of everybody, men and women, and discuss over what the town needed, and what the Sodality ought to undertake.
"That'll be real democratic," says Mis' Sykes, contented. "We'll give everybody a chance to express their opinion—and then afterwards we can take up just what we please."
And we decided that was another reason for sending a delegate to the woman's convention, to get ahold of somebody, somehow, to come down to Friendship Village and talk to us.
"Be kind of nice to show off to somebody, too," says Mis' Fire Chief Merriman, complacent, "what a nice, neat, up-to-date little town we've got."
"Without the help of no great big clumsy convention either," Mis' Sykes stuck in.