Lydia of Lebanon

Front matter

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Chapter I

It was back in the seventies, in eighteen hundred, on a sunny autumn afternoon, that the daily stage from Alderson to Alden Center — a distance of about ten miles — slowly woimd its way in a lazy manner up the steep mountain-road, the lead horse nosing its way in a zigzag fashion from one side of the road to the other, as is customary with mountain-road horses, and stopping at all level places to rest a bit and, if possible, snatch a nip from the low birch bushes or sweet-fem shrub that lined either side of the stony road.

An early frost had touched the sumac and soft maple leaves, bringing out their wondrous hidden beauty of crimson and gold, with soft brown shades that harmonized perfectly. An occasional flash of blue like bits of fallen sky showed from the old stiunp fences or field stone walls, as the bluebirds were arranging for their final leave-taking to a warmer climate. Now and then, the chatter of chipmonk or ground-squirrel was heard as they raced in unbounded freedom from rock to stump or scampered up the lofty trees. The sun was slowly sinking on the other side of Old Baldy, a western knob of the Green Mountains, and an occasional whiff of crisp, cool air swept up from the valley beyond.

The Overland, for such was the name of the heavy platform spring-wagon more familiarly called “the stage,” had a dusty drab-colored body, plentifully striped with deep vermilion, a top of heavy drab canvas, and side-curtains of same material, these to be rolled up tight in pleasant weather and buttoned down snug to keep out winter storms, or the heavy summer thunder-showers that came up so suddenly at times. Its capacity was three seats inside and a high driver’s seat in front. On the back of the Overland’s body was a wooden rack to hold heavy luggage, express, or freight, and to the dashboard, beside the whip-socket, was lashed a leathern pouch that held a great brass horn. One long, shrill toot of this horn warned the dwellers along the line that a letter, paper, or parcel was forthcoming for some member of the family, before whose house the Overland stopped, and two long blasts was a welcome warning to the distant mountain-folk for the same purpose.

It was getting late in the season, and passengers from the world beyond the mountains were rare. On this particular autumn afternoon, the stage was empty, but, perched on the high seat beside the driver, sat a stranger — a small, middle-aged woman. She was dressed in the plain, gray garb of the Quaker, a little close bonnet of shirred gray silk, with shawl and gloves of the same color, which matched exactly the soft, wool merino dress she wore. A snowy kerchief of finest lawn, neatly crossed on her bosom, completed the costume of Si Newman’s passenger.

Si wore a faded black coat, blue flannel shirt turned in well at his sun-tanned throat, and a pair of homespim trousers, tucked into his cowhide boots. Though late in the season, he still clung to a dingy straw hat, from under the brim of which a pair of kindly, soft-gray eyes took in every move of the stranger beside him.

The little woman had been strangely silent during the entire journey, speaking only in answer to the driver’s questions. They were slowly nearing their destination, and were within a couple miles of Alden Center, the end of the stage-route. They were now traveling on the level. On one side, green meadows and great brown fields stretched off toward the mountains; on the other, the ground sloped gradually down to the valley below. Groves of fir and spruce intervened and the passing breezes were fond of shaking out that delightful resinous, woodsy odor that time and again was wafted up to the driver and his companion.

Down in the valley, a stream from Alden wound its snakelike way through patches of silver birch and whispering willows. Away on the far side was an immense maple grove. Close to its edge and near the stream was plainly visible a long, low weather-beaten shanty with its field-stone chimneys on either end, stretching up to the clouds. This was a sugar-camp and, every spring, the woods swarmed with men, many of whom were Canucks from across the Canadian line. Some tapped the trees, some gathered sap, others hauled wood and kept up good fires for the boiling of the sap and condensing it into syrup, or “sugaring off.”

Still farther down, there stood out in magnificent outline or relief the famous Parker apple-orchards, the largest and finest in the state.

“Can thee tell me about that great plantation of trees yonder?" asked the woman.

Si Newman shifted the quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other, gave a sly squirt of tobacco juice behind his hand, drew in the leg that had been swinging outside the wagon, and, pulling a little tighter rein on the horses, replied; “Wall, I jest reckon I kin inform yer on thet subject, ma’am. I hain’t been travelin’ these ’ere mountains an’ hills fer forty odd year fer nothin’. Yes, ma’am, I kin tell yer all erbout it. Ye see, it wuz like this: it wuz ’way back in ther forties when old man Parker come up ’ere frum Massachusetts; he come ’ere fiu: his health. Arter erwhile, he closed a bargain fer thet hull mountain-side, bought it fer a song nigh erbout. It wuz covered with ther finest uv timber. Wall, he hired er crew of Canucks who cut an’ felled emuf ter build er cabin fer him an’ his new wife, an’ they settled right down ter livin’.

“Wall, Stuart Parker cleared thet hull mountain-side; patch arter patch uv timber come down; an’ all the time he wuz growin’ stronger. One day, ther wuz er leetle baby come ter him an’ his good wife, Susan, an’ ermong ther presents sent up from Boston wuz a basket uv apples, an’ Stuart Parker saved every dam seed. Wall, he planted ’um out ther next spring. A good many uv ’um sprouted an’ growed. Old Parker — but he wuz young then — planted ’um over. Then he planned out thet orchard an’ ev’ry time ther wuz er new baby corne, he planted out er tree an’ every time er visitor come, he planted er tree. He’d set er Spy fer er boy an’ er Jilly Flower fer er gal. Wall, it went on thet way until ev’ry child an’ visitor wuz favored with er tree planted fur ’um until ther wuz ther finest an' biggest orchard in ther hull uv Verrnont. Gosh all fish-hooks, ma’am, no, they wuzn’t ail frum them ther seed. Wall, thet air orchard is now called ther great ‘Parker Memorial Orchard’ thet yer read erbout. Them air apples has took ther blue ribbon more then once an’ don’t yer fergit it.”

The beautiful stream below ran through a rich farming-district. Occasional farmhouses could be seen snuggled in green hollows or perched on the breezy hilltops. On beyond, the distant village could be seen with its rustic one street that ran parallel with the stream. Its buildings were strung along like an old-fashioned button-string. First among the buildings of importance were the churches. Alden Center boasted of two, one the old South Baptist meeting-house with its tall, slim spire reaching heavenward. Along its east side, ran a row of sheds to accommodate the teams, and there Sunday morning, could be found almost any kind of a vehicle from a farm-wagon to a family-chaise. It was surrounded by its ‘‘God’s Acre,” or graveyard as it was commonly called. On the north side, was the Presbyterian Church, with almost identical surroimdings. Then, came the Academy, which yearly turned out a goodly number of graduates to be scattered in various directions; some went to college, some were apprenticed to tradesmen in Alderson or Bolton, some back to the old farm-life, and some drifted out to the larger cities.

Lem Sawyer owned the village general store, and here everything was kept from a nutmeg to a hayrake, and Lemuel had also the honor of being postmaster. Here, daily, was the usual exchange of neighborhood gossip that was greatly enjoyed, especially when Si Newman, the stage-driver, woiild bring in an interesting batch from ^ong the line.

The farmers, whose horses stood hitched in a row to a pole held in place by two upright posts that stood in front of the geneml store, swapp^ politics, gossip, or religion, as the notion took them. Next to this store, stood the village tavern. Its narrow white sign-board on which was painted in big, black letters, “Alden Tavern,” swayed and creaked on its rus^ hinges, with every passing breeze. The low, broad veranda, with benches running the whole len^h, invited the bystanders to a place of rest, and here daily loafed all that could spare the time to watch the stage come in. A few dull-gray houses of various sizes and kinds, many with neat front yards and white-washed palings, farther down a blacksmith-shop with one end partitioned ofiE for a cobbler’s shop, the cobbler acting as barber when the occasion demanded — completed the business part.

Not far down the road, and well set back, was a fine native-stone house with brick trimmings, deep, mulhoned windows with broad stone sills, broad verandas, weU-kept lawn with neatly tr imm ed hedges, and wide brick walks. It was called the Grange, and was both the envy and the admiration of the surrounding country.

At sight of the distant village, the stranger again inquired of the driver about its inhabitants and asked who lived in the great house, the chimneys of which were visible among the distant tree tops, remarking that it was an imusual sight in such a

LYDLA. OF LEBANON remote place. Si Newman again shifted his quid, gave the customary squirt and replied :

“Wall, ma'am, I guess I kin satisfy yer curiosity. I jest happen ter know ther inhabitants uv thet place. Thet is ther home uv old Squire Granger, who hez ez fine er gal ez ye'd find in er day's travel. No, ma'am she's not his darter. He calls her his ward an' is mighty fond uv her. Her name is St. Clair, Miss Lillian St. Clair."

The stranger gave a slight start and again inquired who lived m the farmhouse they were approachiag. It was a medium-sized frame house, set weU back from the road, neat in appearance, and surrotmded by both fruit and forest trees, which made it very attractive to the eye.

“Wall, ma'am. Uncle Nat Wilbur an' his wife, Aimt Rhue, lives thar, an' er likely couple they air, too."

“Wilt thou kindly stop at the little bridge we are co min g to and help me off, and, to-morrow, stop thy horses at yonder farmhouse gate, for I desire to return to Alderson with thee."

“Yes, ma'am. I'll do it an' mighty glad uv yer company, fer it's er little tejus travelin’ over the^ hills erlone. I guess ther 'Samist imderstood his bizness when he talked erbout ther hills so much. By ther way, do yer happen ter know Unde Nat's folks, ma'am," and he slyly spit over the wheel as he ducked to his horses.

“Thee should not be so inqiiisitive, my friend, but I will answer thee, nay, and ask thee if thee knows Friend Wilbur thyself."

“Ha, ha, ha! Wall, thet's er purty question ter ask me — do I know Unde Nat Wilbur? Wall, I guess yes, an’ thet’s not all: I know Aunt Rhue ez my own mother an’ leetle Lyddy, too. Yes, ma’am, I do know them all an’ mighty proud uv ther knowin’, fer they air er prime lot.”

As Si drew near the little bridge, he stopped and slid down from the off side; then, he gently helped the little lady to the ground.

“Say, ma’am, shall I tell Aimt Rhue ye air cornin’? Yer see, I hev ter stop thar an’ leave some kind uv er tamal riggin’ uv er chair an’ it beats all creation whar it come frum, but I’m sure glad fur it, fer, since Uncle Nat hed his legs broke an’ his leetle granddaughter hed ther fever, it’s bin er purty uphill job with only Aunt Rhue ter manage.”

“No; keep silent, please, that I came with thee. I will rest a while and then walk on and announce myself.”

“All right, jest ez yer say, not ez I keer,” and, putting one foot on the hub of the wheel, he swung himself up to his seat and, with a cluck to his horses, said to himself: “Gosh all fish-hooks, I wonder who in thimder thet ther woman is an’ what she wants at Nat Wilbur’s!”

The little woman in gray sat down on a stone and, dropping her tired head in her hands, said: “I am so tired. Why, oh, why did I come? But the hand of Providence has guided me and I will abide by the consequences.”

The stage rattled along the dusty road and drew up before the farmhouse. Then Si gave his horn a shrill toot, turned and looked back toward the bridge, and waited.

“0, Grandma, come quick! Uncle Si has stopped and has blowed his hom before our own gate. Do come quick, Grandma.”

“La, Lyddy, compose yerself. I’ll jest slip on this fresh gingham. Hand me my sunbonnet, child, while I smooth my hair. Ye fluster me when yer hurry me so,” and Aunt Rhue brought her hands down each side of her face with a smoothing motion while she spoke.

“O, Grandma, hurry, please. Why, Uncle Si is taking down some queer-looking thing. He surely has made a mistake, for it can never be for us.”

“Now, Lyddy, don’t get excited. Yer Uncle Si knows his bizness an’ we will soon know all erbout it,” and, putting on her sunbonnet, she went out the kitchen-door.

“Hello, Aunt Rhue,” called the stage-driver. “I ’low yer must hev friends somewhar, fer here’s er pair uv ther finest lambs I ever sot eyes on, reg’lar Southdowns.”

“Goodness gracious. Si, do yer mean ter say them lambs air fer me?”

“Yes, siree, they air your’n. Aunt Rhue; yer name’s writ right on ter ther rack ez plain ez day — ‘Mrs. Rhuia Wilbur, Leb’non, near Alden Center, care Mr. Si Newman, via The Overland.’ Now, Aunt Rhue, what in thunder’s ‘via’? An’ here’s er letter fer Lyddy. How’s ther leetle gal gittin’ on an’ how’s Uncle Nat?”

“Lyddy ’s gettin’ on fair ter middlin’, Si, but I feel downright sorry fer Father. He’s nigh erbout heart-broken. It’s gittin’ late an’ ther’s so much to do on ther farm this fall. It’s mighty tejus. Si, ter lie like Father does, day in an’ day out. But, Si, what’s this thing?” laying her hand on the chair “Surely, this is not fer us. Why, this thing’s frum Bolton.”

“Yes, it is. Aunt Rhue, an’ erbout ther tamalist, confoundest thing ter handle yer ever saw. Why, it’s erbout ez onery ez thet stringed harp instrument, ther kind yer hev ter sit down ter play on, ther kind I brung up fer Miss St. Clair last summer. Tell Uncle Nat I’ll be up arter supper an’ chore-time ter shave him an’ ter look into this ’ere pesky consam an’ help get him inter this new-fangled riggin’. It says on it ‘Improved Invalid Chair.’ Wall, all I hope is, it’ll improve ther invalid.” Then, he placed his foot on the hub and swung into place, cracked his whip, and the Overland bounded along the dusty road, out of sight.

Aunt Rhue stood dumbfounded, arms akimbo, looking at first one, then the other.

“Whar under ther light uv ther sim, moon, an’ stars did these things come frum? They sure must be fer us, fer ther name is writ ez plain ez day on ’um. But whar did they come frum?”

She walked quickly to the house, waving the letter, and, as she entered the door, she said: “Here, Lyddy, is a real letter fer yer, an’ yer name is writ in full on it, an’ thar’s a pair uv ther purtiest lambs out thar yer ever sot eyes on, beside er new-fangled chair uv some kind fer yer grandpa. I must call Jake at once ter help me git ther lambs eround ter ther bam before it gits any later, an’ he must bring thet air chair in, too.”

hfLydia took the letter, looked at the address thoughtfully, turned it over again and again. “Perhaps I had better wait until Grandma comes in,”

she ^id to herself, and laid the letter on the table. Lydia was between nine and ten years old. She had great, brown lustrous eyes and a crop of dark chestnut-brown hair that in the simlight glinted a burnished-copper hue. Although it was combed straight back from a broad, fair forehead and braided tight into a pigtail that was tied with a narrow black ribbon, tiny, kinky tendrils sprung up over her head. She was hollow-eyed and her high cheek bones were painfully visible. She was slender, tall for her age, and very thin. Her linsy-woolsy dress came just below her knees and her long, brown ankles were bare. She had recently recovered from a long spell of fever, and her convalescence was slow. She had been deprived of the tender, crooning mother love, and her loving, restless, unquiet little heart had never really been understood. She had a yearning love for everything beautiful far beyond her years and fully enjoyed her mountain-home surrounded by natime’s lavish hand. But there was ever an indescribable longing for something she could not understand nor explain; consequently she never mentioned it but to her grandmother.

Her child-life had been somewhat dreary — many a drab day with no brightness or change except what her fancy embroidered. There was no source on this remote mountain-home from which to draw childhood’s happiness, but she built her castles and lived in them. Her grandparents idolized her in their quiet way and were kind and good to her, for the only real heart-love she knew was from them. Her dream-house, as she called it, gave her much innocent satisfaction. By its imaginary fires, she warmed into life many companions. She often tried to imagine her parents had gone away for a time and that some time they would surely return for her, and often fell asleep, dreaming she was cuddled up in her mother’s arms.

All through her childhood, she lived in that imaginary frame of mind. Her dream-home in the summer was under a large clump of sweet elder. Here, she would cuddle down, folding her bare feet beneath her, then with elbows on her knees, and chin resting in the palms of her hands, give herself up to her dreams or reveries. At times, she actually hungered for the mother love, yet, despite her double orphanage, she was very happy on Lebanon.

Child though she was, she had wonderful dreams of glorious achievements. Some day, she would go out into the great world beyond. O, happy child! “Close your alabaster box of ambition and lock it in the sanctuary of content!’’ Just be happy while you can. Her love and tender care for her grandparents was pathetically touching. There was ever a depth of gentleness and tenderness shown them far beyond her years, and her grandparents would quickly resent the least intimation that they did not love her ; yet it was impossible for them to understand the delicate, sensitive little soul with whom they had to deal. They idolized her in their way, and the homely, wholesome discipline she daily received was unconsciously paving the way for a useful and delightful future.

She picked up the letter and looked at it longingly. She could resist the temptation no longer to open and read it. Carefully, she broke the seal and drew forth the letter, scanning it over quickly.

Then, she darted into the next room where her grandfather was lying.

“O, Grandpa! here is a really, truly letter for me, and who do you suppose it is from? It is from that lovely Mr. Armstrong who boarded here this stunmer. Don't you remember? He left just after you broke your legs. Just listen. Grandpa, he writes that he has ordered a chair for you that he thinks will make you more comfortable, and some lambs for me. The very thing I have wanted so long. O, I am so happy. Do you think Grandma will be disappointed because they are not for her?"

‘Tut, tut, my child, now don’t go ter worryin’ erbout thet. Yer grandma’ll be glad ther fer yer."

“Grandpa, why do you suppose that fine gentleman sent those lovely things to us? He says when he comes this way again, he will surely stop, for he enjoyed Lebanon so much with us."

“I don’t know, Lyddy; p’raps he hed been readin’ ther passage uv Scripter thet says: ‘Inasmuch as ye do it unto ther least uv them, ye do it unto me.’ ’’

‘‘Grandpa, can you spare me for a few minutes, just long enough to run out to the bam and see the lambs?"

‘‘Yes, yes, child, mn erlong; er breath uv fresh air’ll do yer good."

As the happy child darted out of the door. Uncle Nat took a long sigh and said: “Wall, wall, uv all things! Who would hev thought thet young Armstrong would hev remembered us way off ’ere on Lebanon? He wuz always so tamal busy nosin’ eround arter rocks an’ stuns an’ readin’ an’ writin’, yer’d never think he hed time ter think uv anybody’s trouble an’ affliction. But he wuz er clever sort uv er chap, arter all, an’ seemed ter set great store by Lyddy. I’m certainly thankful fer anything that’ll help git me out uv ’ere; an’ ez fer Lyddy, pore little gal, it’ll help her ter pass ther time pleasant-like, lookin’ arter ther lambs.”

He slowly raised his thin, bony hand, running his fingers through his grizzled grey hair and beard; then he said: “Oh, Lord, how much longer hev I got ter lie here? There’s ther com sufferin’ ter be cut an’ shocked, ther late pertaters ter dig, thet lean-to ter fix fer winter shelter fer ther sheep an’ cattle, ter say nothin’ erbout them tamal bees. They must be looked arter fer all thet honey an’ beeswax’ll be clear gain ef we kin only git it looked arter an’ off ter market. Mother can’t ever go ter makin’ thet air journey erlone, an’ we can’t spare Jake, an’ Philip an’ Lyddy air too young. I jest tell ye. Lord, we are up ag’inst er hard problem jest at present, with no solution ter fit it either. If we pay ther intmst cornin’ due January, it’ll leave mighty little ter ’ply on ther mortgage, an’ me lyin’ here jest good fer nothin’. But I must not complain. Mother’s got all she kin ’tend ter without listenin’ ter my whinin’.”

As Lydia and her grandmother came in, a sharp rap came to the living-room door.

“Run ter ther door, Lyddy, fer I hain’t fit ter be seen. I’ve no doubt it’s Parson Riggs come ter see yer grandpa.”

Lydia hastened to open the door and saw a lady standing there.

“Good evening, little girl; is thy mother at home?”

“Will you please come in? I have no mother.

ma’am, but Grandma will be pleased to see you,” and she drew forward an old-fashioned rocker for the stranger. “Please to sit down and I will call Grandma,” and, making a little courtesy, she left the room.

The stranger took her seat, then cast her eyes in mental survey around the room. Everything was in order. The green paper shades at the windows was neatly draped with plain but snowy muslin curtains, a bright, home-made rag carpet covered the floor; on the opposite side of the room was a large fire-place and the mantel-shelf over it was ornamented with two large brass candle-sticks, each holding a fresh tallow-dip candle, and brass snuffers and tray set between them. A couple of pewter porringers, scoured to silver brightness, completed the mantleornamentation. Over the mantle and crossed, hung a carbine and sword, silent reminders of Civil-War times.

At her right, stood an old clock, its top reaching almost to the ceiling; its white dial-plate, worn in many places, gave mute testimony of its usage for years. On the opposite side, a comfortable bedlounge with tick neatly covered with turkey red calico, and a row of pillows well shaken and patted into shape and covered with the same material, bade a silent welcome to tired and weary bodies. On a small table, stood a good-sized glass fluidlamp, quite a luxury in those days, while several rush-bottomed chairs and a little rocker of the same kind completed the furnishings. Several gay braided rugs added much to the comfortable and thrifty atmosphere of the room.

Hearing a step, she arose to meet Aunt Rhue, saying: “Have I the pleasure of meeting Sister Wilbur, of Lebanon? I am Margaret Filmore, of Philadelphia, and beg that thee will keep me over night in the shelter of thy home. My nephew, Philip Armstrong, has told me of thee.”

Aunt Rhue stood silent for a moment, then said; “We know yer nephew, Philip Armstrong, ef so he be. Be seated, madam. I’ll speak ter Father.” She quickly returned, saying: “Sartin, Mrs. Filmore, ye air welcome; I will gladly keep yer over night.” Then, crossing the room, she threw open a door and, motioning to the stranger, said: “Take off yer things and make yerself ter home. Ye kin jest lay ’em on ther bed fer now. Supper’ll soon be ready.”

The little Quakeress crossed the room. Removing her bonnet and shawl, she laid them on the bed, placed her handbag at the foot, and glanced around. The same air of thrifty, painstaking housewifery that pervaded the living-room was in evidence here. Ever^hing was scrupulously clean, but severely plain. A neat patchwork quilt of “goose chase” pattern covered the bed; there were snowy pillows of softest down, covered with homespun linen, neatly made by hand and trimmed with a narrow edge of knitted lace. The old-fashioned bureau and the wash-stand with glass knobs were covered with homespun linen bleached to snowy whiteness.

On the wash-stand, stood a bowl and pitcher of common white delf, and a little white saucer held a piece of transparent soap. A pair of towels, neatly folded, were laid over the pitcher and, on the foot of the bed, ready for use, was laid a couple of handwoven wool blankets. Over the bureau, hung a small looking-glass, the upper half of which was a gay picture of a little church amid the green trees. There was only one window, but it was hung with neat dimity curtains, looped back with stiffly starched bands of the same material, and a strip of new rag carpet was laid beside the bed. Everything was immaculate and bespoke the most thrifty housekeeping and careful usage. Margaret Filmore long remembered the impressions she received in that humble little room.

There was a gentle tap at the door, and, when opened, Lydia said: “Grandma said will you please come to supper?”

Mrs. Filmore followed the child into a large, clean kitchen. In the middle of the room, stood a square table. Its cloth of homespun linen was spotless. The fragrance of newly brewed tea was a delightful odor to the tired traveler. A plate of steaming cream biscuit, another of new honey, a glass dish held a pat of fresh golden butter, a dish of creamed potatoes, and a small mulberry platter held fresh eggs, poached to perfection. Cottage-cheese and fresh ginger cake, sweetened with maple molasses completed the supper that greeted the little woman in gray.

At the table, sat Jake Dunston, the hired man, who pulled his foretop and said, “Howdy,” and Philip Strong, the boy who worked for his board and clothes and went to school with Lydia in the winter. Between them, sat Lydia, with hair brushed back with unusual smoothness.

Aunt Rhue, with teapot in hand, motioned to the table with the other, saying: “Set right down an' hev er cup uv tea. It'll rest yer 'mazin’. It's ther real imperial kind an' is good fer tired nerves.”

When Aunt Rhue was seated, they all bowed their heads. Lydia clasped her hands and, closing her eyes, said: “God is great; God is good. We thank Him for this food. Amen. And please, dear God, bless the stranger with us this night.”

Margaret Filmore looked up with moist eyes and said: “Thee is a good child, and I do feel grateful for the shelter of this peaceful home, and may the God you thanked for this food bless every member of this family.”

About the time they had finished supper, there came a rap at the door.

“Come in,” called Aunt Rhue. The door opened and there stood Si Newman. Removing his hat, he called out in his cheery voice :

“Good evenin’, ma’am. Howdy, boys. Evenin’, Aunt Rhue an’ Lyddy. I’ve come up ter shave Uncle Nat an’ give him er lift into thet new-fangled cheer. Shall I go right in?”

“Yes, Si, an’ I thank ye, too. Father’ll be glad ter see yer.”

Si crossed the room and, in a moment, there came from within: “Jerusalem artichokes! How are yer. Uncle Nat?”

“Tip-top fer me. Si. I reckon I’m on the gain.”

“Well, Uncle Nat, ez soon ez Jake’s through supper, we’ll hev yer out uv thar. Jake an’ me’ll do ther liftin’ an’ Aunt Rhue kin do ther bossin’.”