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[WRITTEN FOR THE SUNDAY GAZETTE.]
“YOU are the no-countest, laziest, meanest dog that ever wore breeches!
Never let me see you again!”
Thus Mrs. Tag to Mr. Tag, her husband; she standing in the door, her
arms akimbo, and, cat-like, spitting the words at him.
Mr. Tag made no reply. He did not even put up his hands in evasion. He
stood dazed and bewildered, as one who hesitates in a sudden shower, and
then turning, pulled his old hat down over his shoulders, as if she was
throwing rocks at him instead of words, and shambled off in silence,
quickening his retreat by a pitiful little jerk, every time she launched
a new volley at him.
This she did as often as her brains could forge them and her tongue send
them. She stood there, the very picture of fury. And at length, with
disgust on every feature, she turned, sprawled a weevilly little child
that was clinging to her skirts, and went into the house.
As for Mr. Tag, he hurried on, never once looking back until he had
reached a hill, against which the sun was setting. He then slowed up a
little, lifted the flap of his hat cautiously, as if to be sure he was
out of ear-shot—then stopped. He pulled off his hat, shook it to and
fro—unconsciously, I think—in his hand as one who comes out of the
storm. He looked about him a while, as if undetermined, and then browsed
about vaguely in the sunset, until his bent, shambling figure seemed
melting into the golden glory that enveloped it; and his round, chubby
head was tipped with light.
I thought probably he wanted to see me, so I climbed up the hill. He
seemed to approve of my coming, and walked down in the shade to meet me.
“Ann was sorter rough to me, wan’t she?” he said, with a chuckle of
deprecation.