On Reaching The Ridge Of The Hill, The Lovely Valley In Which Our
Future Home Lay Smiled Peacefully Upoon Us From Amidst Its Fruitful
Orchards, Still Loaded With Their Rich, Ripe Fruit.
"What a pretty place it is!" thought I, for the first time feeling
something like a local interest in the spot, springing up in my
heart.
"How I wish those odious people would give us possession of
the home which for some time has been our own."
The log hut that we were approaching, and in which the old woman,
R - -, resided by herself - having quarrelled years ago with her son's
wife - was of the smallest dimensions, only containing one room,
which served the old dame for kitchen, and bed-room, and all. The
open door, and a few glazed panes, supplied it with light and air;
while a huge hearth, on which crackled two enormous logs - which are
technically termed a front and a back stick - took up nearly half the
domicile; and the old woman's bed, which was covered with an
unexceptionally clean patched quilt, nearly the other half, leaving
just room for a small home-made deal table, of the rudest
workmanship, two basswood-bottomed chairs, stained red, one of which
was a rocking-chair, appropiated solely to the old woman's use, and
a spinning wheel. Amidst this muddle of things - for small as was the
quantum of furniture, it was all crowded into such a tiny space that
you had to squeeze your way through it in the best manner you
could - we found the old woman, with a red cotton handkerchief tied
over her grey locks, hood-fashion, shelling white bush-beans into a
wooden bowl.
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