Crabtree. "And you can't know
till you've tried what a pleasure and a comfort a second husband can
be if you manage 'em right. Single folks a-marrying are likely to gum
up the marriage certificate with some kind of a mistake until it
sticks like fly-paper, but a experienced choice generally runs smooth
like melted butter." And with a not at all unprecedented feminine
change of front Mrs. Rucker substituted a glance of unbridled pride
for the one of scorn she had lately bestowed upon the poet, under
which his wilted aspect disappeared and he also began to bloom out
with the joy of approval and congratulation.
"And I say marrying a widow are like getting a rose some other fellow
have clipped and thorned to wear in your buttonhole, Crabtree; they
ain't nothing like 'em." Thus poet and realist made acknowledgment
each after his and her own order of mind, but actuated by the
identical feeling of contented self-congratulation.
"I'm a-holding in for fear if I breathe on this promise of Mis'
Plunkett's it'll take and blow away. But you all have heard it spoke,"
said the merry old bachelor in a voice that positively trembled with
emotion as he turned and mechanically began to sort over a box of
clothespins, mixed as to size and variety.
"Shoo, Crabbie, don't begin by bein' afraid of your wife, jest handle
'em positive but kind and they'll turn your flapjacks peaceable and
butter 'em all with smiles," and Mr. Rucker beamed on his friend
Crabtree as he wound one of his wife's apron strings all around one of
his long fingers, a habit he had that amused him and he knew in his
secret heart teased her.
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