Immediately after breakfast, he set out for the barn, ostensibly to "see
to the chores;" really, I believe, to obtain a few moments' respite,
before worse evil should come upon him.
Pretty soon Grandma was at the back door calling in firm though
persuasive tones:--
"Husband! husband! come in, now, and get ready."
No answer. Then it was in another key, weighty, yet expressive of no weak
irritation, that Grandma called "Come, pa! pa-a! pa-a-a!" Still no
answer.
Then that voice of Grandma's sung out like a trumpet, terrible with
meaning--"Bijonah Keeler!"
But Grandpa appeared not. Next, I saw Grandma slowly but surely
gravitating in the direction of the barn, and soon she returned, bringing
with her that ancient delinquent, who looked like a lost sheep indeed and
a truly unreconciled one.
"Now the first thing," said Grandma, looking her forlorn captive over;
"is boots. Go and get on yer meetin' gaiters, pa."
The old gentleman, having invested himself with those sacred relics, came
pathetically limping into the room.
"I declare, ma," said he; "somehow these things--phew! Somehow they pinch
my feet dreadfully. I don't know what it is,--phew! They're dreadful
oncomf'table things somehow.
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