"What?"
"I'm going to send over and _buy some of the Wigginses' parsnips_."
"Ruth!" But it seemed to Serena as if there was a flash of red and green
light through the room, and Ruth had gone. Serena gave a little gasp,
and stood looking.
"What's the matter?" asked her father, coming in--an old man in
checkered shirt sleeves, yet with a certain rustic stateliness about
him.
"Oh, nothing," said Serena; and she fell to slicing the bread for
supper.
While her father had gone to the well to draw a pail of water Ruth came
in, breathless, but rosy with daring and triumph. Ben White, Mrs.
White's grown-up son, was going to drive over to the Wigginses and buy
some parsnips; his mother was to have some, and Ruth a noble portion for
the next day's stew.
Serena dropped into a chair and giggled feebly; the humor, of it was so
forcible that it seemed to fairly rebound in her face. "Ask the
Wigginses to dinner to have a parsnip stew, and then--buy their own
parsnips for it!" she gasped.
Ruth did not laugh at all; she saw nothing but the seriousness of the
situation. "Mind you don't tell mother till after it's all over," said
she. "I don't want her to know where those parsnips came from till after
the Wigginses have gone, she'll be so upset. I'm just going to tell her
how I carried the honey over there, and how they're coming. I do hope
Ben will bring the parsnips before mother gets home."
"Suppose Ben should bring 'em in when mother was here," chuckled Serena.
"I told him to shy into the shed with 'em," replied Ruth, severely.
"Hush! father's coming, and we'd better not say anything to him till
afterwards."
Mrs. Whitman did not return until quite late; her married daughter Lucy
Ann and her teething baby did not generally release her in very good
season. When she came into the kitchen she found a great pan of parsnips
all washed and scraped, and heard the news how the Wigginses were over
their ill-tempers and were coming the next day. Mrs. Whitman dropped
into a chair, her large mild face beamed, and tears stood in her eyes.
"Well, I'm dreadful glad if we can patch it up," said she; "I never had
any fuss with any of my folks before in the world, and I hate to begin
now. I've always thought a good deal of the Wigginses." And her mouth
quivered.
The next morning a parsnip stew of noble proportions was prepared. At
eleven o'clock the great kettle, full to the rim, hung over the fire,
and the room was cloudy with savory steam. The Wigginses were expected
every minute. Uncles Silas and Caleb Whitman could be seen from the
kitchen window out in the field with their brother bending over the
plough furrows, and they kept righting themselves and looking at their
old silver watches. At half-past eleven Mrs. Whitman and Serena began to
think it was strange that the Wigginses did not come. At quarter of
twelve there was a little stir out in the yard, and they ran to the
windows. There was Mr. Wiggins with a wheelbarrow and an empty grain
sack and a half-bushel basket of russet apples in it.
Mrs. Whitman and Serena stood wonderingly in the door. "Where's the
folks?" asked Mrs. Whitman.
Then Mr. Wiggins, standing by the wheelbarrow, explained how Hiram Green
had had to use the horse for ploughing up in the six-acre lot, how he
had promised to hire it to him, and his wife hadn't known it, and how he
had had to go to the store for grain with the wheelbarrow, and his wife
had got him to stop and tell Mis' Whitman she was dreadfully sorry it
happened so, but she didn't see how they could walk, and they would come
over the first day they could have the horse; and she didn't know but
what Mis' Whitman's apples had give out, so she sent her over a few of
their russets; they had 'most two barrels left, and they were spoiling
fast, and they wanted to get rid of them.
When Ruth came home from school she found an immense kettle of parsnip
stew, her father and her uncles Silas and Caleb again forming a pleasant
expectant semicircle before the fire, but no Wigginses. To-day the stew
was seasoned daintily, and salt had taken the place of saleratus. There
was no stint as to quantity, but there were not enough partakers. Mrs.
Whitman filled a great bowl for Lucy Ann; she sent a dish over to the
Whites; father and Caleb and Silas ate manfully, and passed their plates
again and again; Serena and Ruth and their mother ate all they could,
and the cat had her fill; but the Whitmans, with all their allies, could
not eat their own share and that of the Wigginses. But the stew was
delicious, and as the family ate, their simple homely little feud was
healed, and the parsnip stew smoked in their midst like a pipe of
peace.