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that hung from her
porch--was blissfully unconscious of the disapproving eyes. I wish one
of us had just stopped to call good morning to her over the fence, and to
say in our neighborly, small-town way: "My, ain't this a scorcher! So
early too! It'll be fierce by noon!"
But we did not.
I think perhaps the evenings must have been the loneliest for her. The
summer evenings in our little town are filled with intimate, human,
neighborly sounds. After the heat of the day it is pleasant to relax in the
cool comfort of the front porch, with the life of the town eddying about
us. We sew and read out there until it grows dusk. We call across lots
to our next- door neighbor. The men water the lawns and the flower
boxes and get together in little, quiet groups to discuss the new street
paving. I have even known Mrs. Hines to bring her cherries out there
when she had canning to do, and pit them there on the front porch
partially shielded by her porch vine, but not so effectually that she was
deprived of the sights and sounds about her. The kettle in her lap and
the dishpan full of great ripe cherries on the porch floor by her chair,
she would pit and chat and peer out through the vines, the red juice
staining her plump bare arms.
I have wondered since what Blanche Devine thought of us those
lonesome evenings--those evenings filled with friendly sights and
sounds. It must have been difficult for her, who had dwelt behind
closed shutters so long, to seat herself on the new front porch for all the
world to stare at; but she did sit there--resolutely--watching us in
silence.
She seized hungrily upon the stray crumbs of conversation that fell to
her. The milkman and the iceman and the butcher boy used to hold
daily conversation with her. They--sociable gentlemen--would stand on
her door- step, one grimy hand resting against the white of her doorpost,
exchanging the time of day with Blanche in the doorway--a tea towel in
one hand, perhaps, and a plate in the other. Her little house was a
miracle of cleanliness. It was no uncommon sight to see her down on
her knees on the kitchen floor, wielding her brush and rag like the rest

of us. In canning and preserving time there floated out from her kitchen
the pungent scent of pickled crab apples; the mouth-watering smell that
meant sweet pickles; or the cloying, divinely sticky odor that meant
raspberry jam. Snooky, from her side of the fence, often used to peer
through the pickets, gazing in the direction of the enticing smells next
door.
Early one September morning there floated out from Blanche Devine's
kitchen that fragrant, sweet scent of fresh-baked cookies--cookies with
butter in them, and spice, and with nuts on top. Just by the smell of
them your mind's eye pictured them coming from the oven-crisp brown
circlets, crumbly, delectable. Snooky, in her scarlet sweater and cap,
sniffed them from afar and straightway deserted her sand pile to take
her stand at the fence. She peered through the restraining bars, standing
on tiptoe. Blanche Devine, glancing up from her board and rolling pin,
saw the eager golden head. And Snooky, with guile in her heart, raised
one fat, dimpled hand above the fence and waved it friendlily. Blanche
Devine waved back. Thus encouraged, Snooky's two hands wigwagged
frantically above the pickets. Blanche Devine hesitated a moment, her
floury hand on her hip. Then she went to the pantry shelf and took out a
clean white saucer. She selected from the brown jar on the table three
of the brownest, crumbliest, most perfect cookies, with a walnut meat
perched atop of each, placed them temptingly on the saucer and,
descending the steps, came swiftly across the grass to the triumphant
Snooky. Blanche Devine held out the saucer, her lips smiling, her eyes
tender. Snooky reached up with one plump white arm.
"Snooky!" shrilled a high voice. "Snooky!" A voice of horror and of
wrath. "Come here to me this minute! And don't you dare to touch
those!" Snooky hesitated rebelliously, one pink finger in her pouting
mouth.
"Snooky! Do you hear me?"
And the Very Young Wife began to descend the steps of her back porch.
Snooky, regretful eyes on the toothsome dainties, turned away
aggrieved. The Very Young Wife, her lips set, her eyes flashing,
advanced and seized the shrieking Snooky by one arm and dragged her

away toward home and safety.
Blanche Devine stood there at the fence, holding the saucer in her hand.
The saucer tipped slowly, and the three cookies slipped off and fell to
the grass. Blanche Devine stood staring at them a moment. Then she
turned