* * * * *
About the spectacles, I may as well confess that I was the means of
their being lost.
One day Uncle Jacob came into the office hastily, and, with a look of
distress, said to me very solemnly,--
“Mr. Fry, if you can, I want you to leave everything, and ride out with
me!”
“Oh! what is the matter?” I exclaimed.
“Why,” said he, “ever since we sent out word about old clothes, they’ve
been coming in so fast the rooms are all filled up, and we don’t know
where to go!”
He then went on to tell that the notice had spread into all the
neighborhoods round about, and that bundles of every description were
constantly pouring in. They were left at the back door, front door, side
door, dropped on the piazza, and in at the windows. Men riding by tossed
them into the yard, and little boys came tugging bundles, bigger than
they could lift, or dragged them in roller-carts, or wheeled them in
wheelbarrows. He said he found bundles waiting for him at the store, at
the post-office, and he could hardly ride along the street without some
woman knocking at the window, and holding up one, and beckoning with her
forefinger for him to come in after it! Even in the meeting-house
somebody took a roll of something from under a shawl and handed him! He
would have brought, the parcels, or a part of them, but there was every
kind of a thing sent in,--white vests and flounced lace or muslin gowns,
and open-work stockings; and some things were too poor, and some were
too nice, and his folks thought Mr. Fry should come out.
So what could I do but go? And, as it happened, I could “leave
everything” just as well as not, and was glad to.
* * * * *
Grandmother received me in the kindest manner, gave me a pair of black
yarn stockings, asked about the contrabands, talked about Billy, read me
his letters, and, on the whole, seemed much easier in her mind
concerning him than when I saw her before.
She was skimming pans of milk. With her permission I watched the
skimming, for pans of milk to a city man were a rare sight to see! I was
also given some of the cream, and a baked Summer Sweeting to eat with
it.
The cream was put into a large yellow bowl, and the bowl set in a
six-quart tin pail. It was then ready to be lowered into the well; for,
as country people seldom have ice, they use the well as a refrigerator,
and it is there they keep their butter, cream, fresh meat, or anything
that is likely to spoil.
“Do let me lower it down the well for you,” I said; seeing that her hand
trembled a little; and besides, I hardly thought it prudent for her to
go out, as the grass was damp, there having been quite a sprinkle of
rain.
“Well, if you’ve a mind to take the trouble,” she said, as she handed me
the pail, at the same time telling me to be particular about putting
stones around the bowl, in the bottom, to steady it. She then handed me
the line, and cautioned me about hitting another pail, which was already
down the well.
Just as I went out Uncle Jacob passed through the gate into the garden,
to pick his mother some beans.
“Sha’ n’t I do that?” he asked.
“O no,” said I; “I am very glad to make myself useful.”
Little Tommy stood by the well watching me, and I was talking to him and
playing with Towser, and by not attending to my business, I must have
tied a granny-knot, though I meant to tie a square one; and about
half-way down the pail slipped off, and went plump to the bottom.
Little Tommy ran into the house calling out, “Grandmother! Grandmother!
that man lost your pail! Mr. Fwy let go of your pail!”
Grandmother came running out and looked down. Her spectacles were tipped
up on top of her head; and when she bent over the well-curb they slipped
off, just touched the tip of her nose, and were out of sight in a
moment.
Uncle Jacob came up laughing and said, “Of course the specs must go down
to see where the cream went to!” But Grandmother thought it was no
laughing matter.
Mr. Carver and Uncle Jacob had a good many spells of fishing in the
well. At last Uncle Jacob was lucky enough to catch the handle of the
pail with his hook, and then he drew the pail up. It was found to be in
quite a damaged condition. The water looked creamy for some time. The
glasses never came to light. It seemed, therefore, no more than my duty
to send Grandmother another pair, which I did soon after in a bright new
six-quart pail, wishing with all my heart they were gold-bowed ones. But
I could not afford to do more than replace the lost ones.