It couldn't make it up
to her, but as I laid the pretty posies against the leaning
headstone on which is written:
"A Loving Wife , a Mother Dear,
Faithful Friend Lies Buried Here."
I believe she 'd get word of it somehow, and understand what I was
trying to say by it.
I'll ask to be let off the committee that judges the rest of the
exhibits in the Fine Arts Hall, the quilts and the Battenberg, and
the crocheting, and such. I know the Log Cabin pattern, and the
Mexican Feather pattern, and I think I could make out to tell the
Hen-and-Chickens pattern of quilts, but that's as much as ever.
And as to the real, hand-painted views of fruit-cake, and grapes
and apples on a red table-cloth, I am one of those that can't make
allowances for the fact that she only took two terms. I call to
mind one picture that Miss Alvalou Ashbaker made of her pap, old
"Coonrod" Ashbaker. The Lord knows he was a "humbly critter," but
he wasn't as "humbly" as she made him out to be, with his eyes
bulging out of his head as if he was choking on a fishbone. And,
instead of her dressing him up in his Sunday clothes, I wish I may
never see the back of my neck if that girl didn't paint him in a
red-and-black barred flannel shirt, with porcelain buttons on it!
And his hair looked as if the calf had been at it.
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