lookin‘ fine for fair day. Now all we can hope for is the right choosin’.” She angled her head as though awaiting reply. I moved away, affording her a larger measure of privacy for this genial dialogue between the quick and the dead, which for some reason seemed to me a perfectly natural thing.
At length she broke off, raised her head, and, catching my eye, smiled. She came toward me, stopping at one point to look down at another headstone.
“Well, Loren, well,” she murmured, stooping to pinch off a flower whose stem was broken. “Loren’s gone, too, and that’s in the manner of things. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh.”
I looked down at the stone. The inscription read:
Loren McCutcheon
Who Hoped but Failed
Age 28
“How did he die?” I asked.
“Of drink.”
“At twenty-eight?”
“ ‘Twa’n’t the drink so much—but the fall he took while drinkin‘. Slipped off the barn in the night.”
I was about to ask what misfortunes had caused the unknown Grace Everdeen’s exile, but the Widow, giving short shrift to the dear departed, lifted her skirts and marched from the cemetery, shears swinging on their ribbon.
The street was quiet and deserted, except for the postmistress, who came along the sidewalk on the far side, leading her daughter, Missy, by the hand. When she got to the post office, she turned the child toward the grazing sheep, gave her a pat on the bottom, and sent her off, then unlocked the post-office door and went inside. The child ambled across the roadway and onto the Common, where she slowly made her way among the flock.
Meanwhile the Widow, hands planted on hips, was surveying the old bell ringer, still dozing in the sunshine.
“He’s a codger, Amys.” She chuckled and accepted my hand as I assisted her into her seat. “Forty years our sexton and still he don’t hold with Agnes Fair. Nor much of anything, if it comes to that.” She clucked up the mare and the buggy rolled onto the roadway. “Good Missy,” she called to the child, who did not look up but only stared at the sheep as they moved around her, their bells making a pleasant tinkling sound. The Widow snapped the reins on the mare’s flanks, a swarm of flies arose, and the horse stepped out at a smart pace, back the way we had come, heading out the country end of Main Street.
5
“How’d you come by that wart there?”
She had handed me the reins and now she brought my hand closer to her spectacles to examine the growth on my finger. I explained about the pressure from my brushes, and said I’d been meaning to see a doctor about it.
“Ha! You do that. Old Doc Bonfils over to Saxony. Maybe he’ll rid you of it—maybe he won’t. What you need is a little red bag—that’ll take care of your wart, and then some.”
“Little red bag?”
She laid her finger alongside her nose and closed one eyelid. “What we call the Cornwall cure. We’ll see to it,” she added mysteriously, giving me back my hand.
We were proceeding along the winding road, called the Old Sallow Road, which leads to Soakes’s Lonesome and the Lost Whistle Bridge. In the east the sun rose higher in a sky already pure cerulean. The corn grew tall on either side of the road, and when I commented that the year promised a good crop, the Widow agreed.
“I knew t’would be. I been listenin‘ all summer to the corn a-growin’. Oh yes sir, you can hear it all right. You come out with me one night next year—don’t smile, I’m not talkin‘ about country matters—and you’ll hear it too. The softest rustle of leaf, soft as fairies’ wings, and you know them stalks is stretchin’ up to the sky, the tassels is length’nin‘, the ears is bit by bit gettin’ fatter, till you can hear their husks pop. That’s somethin‘, on a hot dark night, standin’ by a cornpatch in the light o‘ the Mulberry Moon, and hearin’ the corn grow. Then you can say the earth has returned the seed ten thousandfold.”
She pointed upward. “See
At length she broke off, raised her head, and, catching my eye, smiled. She came toward me, stopping at one point to look down at another headstone.
“Well, Loren, well,” she murmured, stooping to pinch off a flower whose stem was broken. “Loren’s gone, too, and that’s in the manner of things. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh.”
I looked down at the stone. The inscription read:
Loren McCutcheon
Who Hoped but Failed
Age 28
“How did he die?” I asked.
“Of drink.”
“At twenty-eight?”
“ ‘Twa’n’t the drink so much—but the fall he took while drinkin‘. Slipped off the barn in the night.”
I was about to ask what misfortunes had caused the unknown Grace Everdeen’s exile, but the Widow, giving short shrift to the dear departed, lifted her skirts and marched from the cemetery, shears swinging on their ribbon.
The street was quiet and deserted, except for the postmistress, who came along the sidewalk on the far side, leading her daughter, Missy, by the hand. When she got to the post office, she turned the child toward the grazing sheep, gave her a pat on the bottom, and sent her off, then unlocked the post-office door and went inside. The child ambled across the roadway and onto the Common, where she slowly made her way among the flock.
Meanwhile the Widow, hands planted on hips, was surveying the old bell ringer, still dozing in the sunshine.
“He’s a codger, Amys.” She chuckled and accepted my hand as I assisted her into her seat. “Forty years our sexton and still he don’t hold with Agnes Fair. Nor much of anything, if it comes to that.” She clucked up the mare and the buggy rolled onto the roadway. “Good Missy,” she called to the child, who did not look up but only stared at the sheep as they moved around her, their bells making a pleasant tinkling sound. The Widow snapped the reins on the mare’s flanks, a swarm of flies arose, and the horse stepped out at a smart pace, back the way we had come, heading out the country end of Main Street.
5
“How’d you come by that wart there?”
She had handed me the reins and now she brought my hand closer to her spectacles to examine the growth on my finger. I explained about the pressure from my brushes, and said I’d been meaning to see a doctor about it.
“Ha! You do that. Old Doc Bonfils over to Saxony. Maybe he’ll rid you of it—maybe he won’t. What you need is a little red bag—that’ll take care of your wart, and then some.”
“Little red bag?”
She laid her finger alongside her nose and closed one eyelid. “What we call the Cornwall cure. We’ll see to it,” she added mysteriously, giving me back my hand.
We were proceeding along the winding road, called the Old Sallow Road, which leads to Soakes’s Lonesome and the Lost Whistle Bridge. In the east the sun rose higher in a sky already pure cerulean. The corn grew tall on either side of the road, and when I commented that the year promised a good crop, the Widow agreed.
“I knew t’would be. I been listenin‘ all summer to the corn a-growin’. Oh yes sir, you can hear it all right. You come out with me one night next year—don’t smile, I’m not talkin‘ about country matters—and you’ll hear it too. The softest rustle of leaf, soft as fairies’ wings, and you know them stalks is stretchin’ up to the sky, the tassels is length’nin‘, the ears is bit by bit gettin’ fatter, till you can hear their husks pop. That’s somethin‘, on a hot dark night, standin’ by a cornpatch in the light o‘ the Mulberry Moon, and hearin’ the corn grow. Then you can say the earth has returned the seed ten thousandfold.”
She pointed upward. “See
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