Aunt Jane's Nieces at Work
"
"Well, then; come in," she replied, tartly. "Thank the Lord this thing
is nearly over, and we'll have a few weeks of peace."
"It is rather imposing on you," remarked the man, following her to the
sitting-room, where he sat down with his hat in his hands. "A political
campaign is trying to everybody. I'm tired out and sick of the whole
thing myself."
"Then why don't you chuck it," she retorted, scornfully, "and go to work
makin' an honest living?"
"Oh, this is honest enough," he said, mildly.
"I don't believe it. All them secret confabs an' trickery to win votes
can't be on the square. Don't talk to me! Politics is another name for
rascality!"
"Perhaps you're right, ma'am; perhaps you're right," he said, with a
sigh.
She looked at him sharply.
"You don't belong in Elmwood."
"No, ma'am; I'm from beyond Fairview. I've come to see your husband on
business."
She sniffed, at that, but picked up her darning and relapsed into
silence. The little man was patient. He sat quietly in his chair and
watched her work.
His mildness disarmed Mary Hopkins. She was not especially averse to
having him sit there. It relieved the loneliness of her occupation. On
occasions she loved to talk, as Erastus had long ago discovered; and
this visitor would not try to shut her up the way Erastus did.
"You don't often get out, ma'am; into society, and such like," ventured
the caller, presently.
"What makes you think that?" she demanded.
"A woman can't keep a house neat and trim like this, and be a social
gadder," he observed.
"You're right about that," she returned, somewhat mollified. "If I was
like them girls up at Elmhurst, fussin' round over politics all the
time, this house would go to rack an' ruin."
"Oh, them!" he said, with mild scorn. "Them girls 'll never be
housekeepers."
"Not for a minute," she affirmed.
There was another pause, then; but the ice was broken. A subtle sympathy
seemed established between the two.
"What do you think of 'Rast's chances?" she asked, presently, as she
threaded new cotton into her needle.
- Page:
- 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
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- 99
- 100
- 101
- 102
- 103
- 104
- 105
- 106
- 107
- 108
- 109
- 110
- 111
- 112
- 113
- 114
- 115
- 116
- 117
- 118
- 119
- 120
- 121
- 122
- 123
- 124
- 125
- 126
- 127
- 128
- 129
There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
© 2013-2019 FairyTales
Almost all texts on this website are from the Public Domain.