Mary Louise in the Country | Page 9

days
together, sometimes. Once I saw him--"
She suddenly checked herself and cast an uneasy, sidelong glance at
her companion. Mary Louise was rolling the washtub back to the stoop.
"The only thing that will bother us, Ingua," she said, "is those dishes.
Let us try to count the broken ones. Do you know how many there
were?"
"Sure I do," answered the girl, removing the battered dishpan from the
heap of crockery. "Two plates, two cups-'n'-saucers, a oatmeal dish, a
bread plate an' the pork platter. Gee! what a smash. One cup's whole--
an' the oatmeal dish. The rest is gone-up."
"I'm going to dig a hole and bury the broken pieces," said Mary Louise.
"Have you a spade?"
"There's an ol' shovel. But it won't do no good to bury of 'em. Gran'dad
he counts ev'ry piece ev'ry day. He counts ev'ry thing, from the grains
of salt to the chickens. Say, once I tried to play a trick on him. I'd got so
hungry fer meat I jes' couldn't stand it, so one day I killed a chick'n,
thinkin' he wouldn't miss it. My--my! Wha' d'ye s'pose? Say, ye never
told me yer name yit."
"I am Mary Louise Burrows."
"Highflyin' name, ain't it? Well, I killed thet chick'n, an' cut it up an'

fried it, an' et jes' a leg an' a wing, an' hid the rest under my bed in the
peak up there, where Ol' Swallertail never goes. All the feathers an' the
head I buried, an' I cleaned up the hatchet an' the fry-in'-pan so's there
wasn't a smitch of anything left to prove I'd murdered one o' them
chicks. I was feelin' kinder chirky when Gran'dad come home, 'cause I
thought he'd never find out. But what did the ol' vill'n do but begin to
sniff aroun'; an' he sniffed an' he sniffed till he says: 'Ingua, what
chick'n did ye kill, an' why did ye kill it?'
"'Yer crazy,' says I. 'What're ye talkin' 'bout?'
"Then he gives me one sour look an' marches out to count the chick'ns,
an' when he comes back he says: 'It's the brown pullet with white on the
wings. It were worth forty cents, an' forty cents'll buy ten pounds o'
oatmeal. Where's the chick'n, girl?' 'Et up,' says I. 'Yer lyin',' says he.
'Go git it! Hustle!'
"Well, I saw his claws beginnin' to work an' it scared me stiff. So I goes
to my room an' brings down the chick'n, an' he eyes it quiet-like fer a
long time an' then eats some fer his supper. The rest he locks up in the
cupboard that he allus carries the key to. Say, Mary Louise, I never got
another taste o' that chick'n as long as it lasted! Ol' Swallertail et it all
himself, an' took a week to do it."
During this recital the broom and mop and scrubbing-brush had been
picked up and restored to their proper places. Then the two girls got out
the old shovel and buried the broken dishes in a far corner of the yard,
among high weeds. Mary Louise tried to get the dents out of the old
dishpan, but succeeded only indifferently. It was so battered through
long use, however, that Ingua thought the "jams" would not be noticed.
"Next," said Mary Louise, "we must replace the broken pieces. I
suppose they sell dishes at the village store, do they not?"
"That's where these come from--long ago," replied Ingua; "but dishes
cost money."
"I've a little money in my purse; enough for that, I'm sure. Will you go

to town with me?"
Ingua stared at her as if bewildered. The proposition was wholly
beyond her understanding. But she replied to her new friend's question,
saying slowly:
"No; I won't go. Ol' Swallertail'd skin me alive if he caught me in the
village."
"Then I'll go alone; and I'll soon be back, though I must run over to my
own house first, to get my purse and my hat. Let me have one of the
cups for a sample, Ingua."
She left the child sitting on the plank runway and looking rather solemn
and thoughtful. Mary Louise was somewhat fearful that she might run
away in her absence, so she hurried home and from there walked into
the village, a tramp easily accomplished in ten minutes.
The store was the biggest building in town, but not very big at that. It
was "clapboarded" and two stories in height, the upper floor being used
by Sol Jerrems, the storekeeper, as a residence, except for two little
front rooms which he rented, one to Miss Huckins, the dressmaker and
milliner, who slept and ate in her shop, and the other to Mr. Cragg. A
high platform had been built in front