He hardly
ever looked at the Sears Roebuck catalogues any more, and after
Mr. Decameron came to visit us and suggested that Andrew write
a book of country poems, the man became simply unbearable.
And all the time I was counting eggs and turning out three
meals a day, and running the farm when Andrew got a literary
fit and would go off on some vagabond jaunt to collect
adventures for a new book. (I wish you could have seen the
state he was in when he came back from these trips, hoboing it
along the roads without any money or a clean sock to his back.
One time he returned with a cough you could hear the other
side of the barn, and I had to nurse him for three weeks.)
When somebody wrote a little booklet about "The Sage of
Redfield" and described me as a "rural Xantippe" and "the
domestic balance-wheel that kept the great writer close to the
homely realities of life" I made up my mind to give Andrew
some of his own medicine. And that's my story.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a fine, crisp morning in fall--October I dare say--and
I was in the kitchen coring apples for apple sauce. We were
going to have roast pork for dinner with boiled potatoes and what
Andrew calls Vandyke brown gravy.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25