A Gathering of Days: Chapters 9–11

There is consternation here lest the warmer weather bring an early end to the sap.

The aging grandad sinks so low the family thinks him gone. Then is the oldster up and about, spry and bright as you please.

As feared, the sugaring was halted early by the quirky weather.

As has now been learned hereabouts, pirates attacked when the ship was mid-ocean and the youth became a hero! For but for his wit, and courage too, the frigate would have been over-run and all its men taken captive.

When, resplendent, he stood before the humble man whose service he’d escaped, the stranger announced most ringingly, “I, sir, am Count Zincheroff, of St. Petersburg.”

Yesterday, on conceiving the trick, I pared down a firm white turnip to resemble the end of a candle.

Now indeed did he lose his temper, calling on spirits of every sort, and cursing the damp of a Spring-time morning which made the wick—or so he thought—so stubborn and refractory to the flint’s persuasion.

“The best prank ever,” he then pronounced and added with mock severity, “But next time thrashing awaits such sisters as make the father the fool!”

I suppose Cassie’s mother will say of the cloth, “Remember, Charles, that blue shows soil and would not homespun do?”

“What promise, Cath?” he asked me, vexed. “I swear you’re making no sense at all. Come now, you can do it.”

He copied it down and hurried off, the paper shoved firmly into a pocket, which threatened to reduce it to shreds, as its predecessor.

Then he vaulted the wall at the property line, and struck out through the meadow, and by that means, to home.

We all did nicely with the spelling matches, saying of pieces, and recitations—even the abcedarians left naught to be ashamed of and made many a parent proud.

Over all of this our teacher presided—presided with a flourish I might say, as if he were determined to show that one might challenge his politics but never fault his teaching.

Asa proposed we cross through the woods. How different it looked—all dappled and warm—than it had done that Winter’s day when Cassie and I came bearing our quilt to do an act of charity (or folly) for fugitive (or villain).

Also, cut and packed in blocks, is maple sugar—the work of hours—to sweeten city palates.

These things will allow him for cash, or in trade, to obtain the next season’s supplies: such foods and herbs as we can not grow, items for mending tools and the like, and parts for the larger contraptions required by the farm.

However, the darkness obscur'd his form even before the curving road took him from our sight.

I always find it quaint to see how shirts and trousers rise to the surface, the former waving their empty sleeves, and presently seeming to vanish beneath the sudsy, steaming waves.

The week is wearisome and long. The house, without Father, is empty and still and Matty shadows my every step as an infant will.

I and Matty had much to say, whereat he called us “Magpies, both!” and claimed to have the best news of all would we but let him tell it.

Her labour being exchanged for the lodging she hadn’t felt beholden to him; and there she had stayed these twelve, thirteen, years; and there she had met my father.

Then he explained that when first on the road he sold his wares as cheap as he might so to increase his trade. But customers told of his prices believed he carried tawdry stuff.

Then he explained that when first on the road he sold his wares as cheap as he might so to increase his trade. But customers told of his prices believed he carried tawdry stuff.

Such a curious fellow, and likeable in his candor. I hope when he comes by again he’ll not neglect to call.

Cassie, known to be delicate, is this week indisposed.

Yesterday’s letter abounded with questions which Father read aloud.

Even Cassie who is my friend is wont to take her side! “After all, Catherine,” she enjoins. “It must be ever so different for her, living in Boston till now.”

“We thought you might be tired a bit, from the exhaustion of the journey—and here, you see, we’ve brought you some pudding—’tis simple fare, but we’re farmers here, but my sister, who is from Salem, enjoys it when she’s here.”

Yet she, on this occasion of meeting, was awkward and out of grace. Perhaps she feared the Boston woman would scorn her country ways.