Mitch Potts said furthermore, that he was tired of Cal’line’s foolishness. She had to stay where he put her. His African soup-bone (arm) was too strong to let a woman run over him. ’Nough was ’nough. And he did some fancy cussing, and he was the fanciest cusser in the county.
So the town waited and the longer it waited, the odds changed slowly from the wife to the husband.
One Saturday, Mitch knocked off work at two o’clock and went over to Maitland. He came back with a rectangular box under his arm and kept straight on out to the barn and put it away. He ducked around the corner of the house quickly, but even so, his wife glimpsed the package. Very much like a shoe-box. So!
He put on the kettle and took a bath. She stood in her bare feet at the ironing board and kept on ironing. He dressed. It was about five o’clock but still very light. He fiddled around outside. She kept on with her ironing. As soon as the sun got red, he sauntered out to the barn, got the parcel and walked away down the road, past the store and out into the piney woods. As soon as he left the house. Cal’line slipped on her shoes without taking time to don stockings, put on one of her husband’s old Stetsons, worn and floppy, slung the axe over her shoulder and followed in his wake. He was hailed cheerily as he passed the sitters on the store porch and answered smiling sheepishly and passed on. Two minutes later passed his wife, silently, unsmilingly, and set the porch to giggling and betting.
An hour passed perhaps. It was dark. Clarke had long ago lighted the swinging kerosene lamp inside.
XIV
Once ’way back yonder before the stars fell all the animals used to talk just like people. In them days dogs and rabbits was the best of friends—even tho both of them was stuck on the same gal—which was Miss Nancy Coon. She had the sweetest smile and the prettiest striped and bushy tail to be found anywhere.
They both run their legs nigh off trying to win her for themselves—fetching nice ripe persimmons and such. But she never give one or the other no satisfaction.
Finally one night Mr. Dog popped the question right out. “Miss Coon,” he says, “Ma’am, also Ma’am which would you ruther be—a lark flyin’ or a dove a settin’?”
Course Miss Nancy she blushed and laughed a little and hid her face behind her bushy tail for a spell. Then she said sorter shy like, “I does love yo’ sweet voice, brother dawg—but—but I ain’t jes’ exactly set in my mind yit.”