A rustic fence, built by her old husband, "Uncle Abe"
(long since dead), enclosed a small yard, where grew all kinds of
bright, gaudy "posies," with here and there a bunch of mint or parsley
or sage, and an occasional stalk or two of cabbage. Over the little
porch were trained morning-glories and a flourishing gourd vine.
Beneath, on each side, ran a wide seat, where, in the shade, Maum
Winnie used to sit with her knitting, or nodding over the big Bible
which on Sunday evening she always pretended to read. The neat fence
was now broken down, the bright flowers all trampled and crushed by
the feet of men and horses. Inside also, the once spotless floor was
muddy and stained with tobacco, all the old woman's treasures being
broken and scattered. Amid all this confusion, in the little front
room, once the pride of Winnie's heart, was carefully placed almost
the only thing saved from the burning, an easy-chair, cushioned upon
the back and sides, and covered with old-fashioned chintz. How the
faithful soul had managed to get it there no one could have told, but
there it stood, and Winnie said, "Dat ar wos ole mistes' cheer, and
she sot in it plum twill she die.
Pages:
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363