everythin' square in the face, 'n' no one as has got eyes could look the deacon in the face 'n' want him. 'N' the more they turned him round 'n' round, the less they'd want him. It ain't in reason's the friend could be found to deny 't he 's as bow-legged as they make 'em. An' then there's his ears! A woman could, maybe, overlook the bow-legs if she held the newspaper high enough; but I don't believe 's any one in kingdom come could overlook them ears. Mr. Kimball says Belgian hares an' Deacon White 's both designed to be catched by their ears. I looked at him to-day 'n' figured on maybe tryin' to tame 'em in a little with a tape nightcap; but then I says to myself, I says: 'No; if he 's to be my husband, I 'll probably have so much to overlook that them ears 'll soon be mice to the mountain o' the rest,' an' so I give up the idea. I had bother enough with tryin' to see where I 'd put him, fer I certainly would n't consider movin' down to his house for a minute, 'n' it was a question 's to a stove in father's room or givin' him double windows for a weddin' present.

"'N' then, all of a sudden, he come out with wantin' you!

"Well, Mrs. Lathrop, I jumped—I really did. Him so tidy 'n' goin' out on the porch half a dozen times a day to brush up the seeds under the bird-cage—'n' wantin' you! I couldn't believe my ears at first, 'n' he talked quite a while, 'n' I did n't hear a word he said. 'N' then, when I did find my tongue, I jus' sat right down 'n' did my duty by him. Mrs. Lathrop, you know 's well 's I do how fond I am o' you; but you know, too, 's well 's I do 't no woman 's calls herself a Christian c'd sit silent an' let a man keep on supposin' 't he c'd be happy with you. I talked kind, but I took no fish-bones out 'o the truth. I give him jus' my own observation, 'n' no more. I told him 't it was n't in me to try to fool even a deacon; an' so when I said frank and free 't even your very cats soon give up washin' their faces, he c'd depend upon its bein' so. I says to him, I says: 'Deacon White, there's lots o' worse things 'n bein' unmarried, 'n' if you marry Mrs. Lathrop you 'll learn every last one of 'em. Your first wife was deaf,' I says, ''n' Mrs. Lathrop c'n hear. She 's a very good hearer, too,' I says (for you know 's I'd never be one to run you down, Mrs. Lathrop); 'but anythin' 's is more of a' effort than listenin' never gets done in her house. You 're tidy in your ways, Deacon White,' I says; 'any one as's ever passed when you was hangin' out your dish-towels 'd swear to that; an' such bein' the case, how c'd you ever be happy with them 's spreads their wash on the currant-bushes or lets it blow to the dogs?' Maybe I was a little hard on 

 Prev. P 12/74 next