old woman. The old man carried the chairs into the kitchen, and when I followed the girls were seated. The chairs were so low that their chins came barely over their plates, and demure and serious as they were they surely looked most comical. There was the usual bacon and corn-bread and potatoes and sour milk, and the two girls struggled with the rude fare nobly.
After supper I joined the old man and the old woman with a pipe—exchanging my tobacco for their long green with more satisfaction probably to me than to them, for the long green was good, and strong and fragrant.
The old woman asked the Blight and the little sister many questions and they, in turn, showed great interest in the baby in arms, whereat the eighteen-year-old mother blushed and looked greatly pleased.
“You got mighty purty black eyes,” said the old woman to the Blight, and not to slight the little sister she added, “An' you got mighty purty teeth.”
The Blight showed hers in a radiant smile and the old woman turned back to her.
“Oh, you've got both,” she said and she shook her head, as though she were thinking of the damage they had done. It was my time now—to ask questions.
They didn't have many amusements on that creek, I discovered—and no dances. Sometimes the boys went coon-hunting and there were corn-shuckings, house-raisings and quilting-parties.
“Does anybody round here play the banjo?”
“None o' my boys,” said the old woman, “but Tom Green's son down the creek—he follers pickin' the banjo a leetle.” “Follows pickin' “—the Blight did not miss that phrase.
“What do you foller fer a livin'?” the old man asked me suddenly.
“I write for a living.” He thought a while.
“Well, it must be purty fine to have a good handwrite.” This nearly dissolved the Blight and the little sister, but they held on heroically.
“Is there much fighting around here?” I asked presently.
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