Mrs. Rucker in a clean print
dress and with glossy and uncompromisingly smoothed hair stood at the
newly whitewashed front gate. "Send him on home, Rose Mary, or
grass'll grow in his tracks and yours, too, if he can hold you long
enough," she added by way of badinage.
"I'm a-coming, Sally, right on the minute," answered the
poet-by-stealth, and he hurried across the street with hungry
alacrity. The poem-maker was tall and loose-jointed, and the breadth
of his shoulders and long muscular limbs decidedly suggested success
at the anvil or field furrow. He made a jocular pass at placing his
arm around the uncompromising waist-line of his portly wife, and when
warded off by an only half-impatient shove he contented himself by
winding one of her white apron strings around one of his long fingers
as they leaned together over the gate for further parley with the
Alloways across the road.
"When did you get back, Mrs. Rucker?" asked Rose Mary interestedly, as
she rested her arms on the wall and Uncle Tucker planted himself
beside her, having brushed away one of the long briar shoots to make
room for them both.
"About two hours ago," answered Mrs. Rucker. "I found everybody in
fine shape up at Providence, and Mis' Mayberry sent Mr. Tucker a new
quinzy medicine that Tom wrote back to her from New York just day
before yesterday. I made a good trade in hogs with Mr. Hoover for
myself and Bob Nickols, too. Mr. Petway had a half-barrel of flour in
his store he were willing to let go cheap, and I bought it for us and
you-all and the Poteets.
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