CHAPTER III.
THE BEAUX OF WALLENCAMP PERFORM A GRAVE DUTY.
"We have our r'al, good, comfortin' meal at night," Grandma Keeler had
said, and the thought was uppermost in my mind at the close of my first
day's labor in Wallencamp. I had taken a walk to the beach; a strong east
wind had come up, and the surf was rolling in magnificently; a wild
scene, from a wild shore, more awful then, in the gathering gloom. The
long rays of light streaming out of the windows of the Ark guided me back
across the fields. Within, all was warmth and cheer and festive
expectation. Grandma Keeler was in such spirits; a wave of mirthful
inspiration would strike her, she would sink into a chair, the tears
would roll down her cheeks, and she would shake with irrepressible
laughter. It was in one of her serious moments that she said to me:--
"Thar', teacher, I actually believe that I ain't made you acquainted with
my two tea-kettles." They stood side by side on the stove, one very tall
and lean, the other very short and plump. "This 'ere," said Grandma,
pointing to the short one; "is Rachel, and this 'ere," pointing to the
tall one, "is Abigail, and Abigail's a graceful creetur' to be sure,"
Grandma reflected admiringly; "but then Rachel has the most powerful
delivery!"
I was thus enabled to understand the allusions I had already heard to
Rachel's being "dry," or Abigail's being as "full as a tick," or _vice
versa_.
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