"Is this to be a Temperance Celebration, Mrs. Sprowle?" asked Mr. Silas
Peckham.
Mrs. Sprowle replied, "that there would be lemonade and srub for those
that preferred such drinks, but that the Colonel had given folks to
understand that he didn't mean to set in judgment on the marriage in
Canaan, and that those that didn't like srub and such things would find
somethin' that would suit them better."
Deacon Soper's countenance assumed a certain air of restrained
cheerfulness. The conversation rose into one of its gusty paroxysms
just then. Master H. Frederic got behind a door and began performing
the experiment of stopping and unstopping his ears in rapid
alternation, greatly rejoicing in the singular effect of mixed
conversation chopped very small, like the contents of a mince-pie,--or
meat pie, as it is more forcibly called in the deep-rutted villages
lying along the unsalted streams. All at once it grew silent just round
the door, where it had been loudest,--and the silence spread itself
like a stain, till it hushed everything but a few corner-duets. A dark,
sad-looking, middle-aged gentleman entered the parlor, with a young
lady on his arm,--his daughter, as it seemed, for she was not wholly
unlike him in feature, and of the same dark complexion.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275