Granny says it makes a difference
then, where you lie, about the resting easy. I don't know. Sometimes it
seems as though I should rest easier there."
"A dissertation on the graveyard," I began in a tone of affected
lightness, and then paused, convicted of untruth by the solemn light in
the Cradlebow's strange, grand eyes.
CHAPTER VII.
LUTE CRADLEBOW KISSES THE TEACHER.
Wallencamp had its peculiar seasons. After the season of hulled corn,
came the reign of baked beans. It was during this latter dispensation
that my courage failed considerably.
Madeline used to remark, throwing a rare musical halo about her words:
"These beans are better than they look. Ain't they, teacher?"
And I was wont to reply conscientiously enough, though with a sweetly
wearied glance at the familiar dish; "Certainly, they do taste better
than they look."
Occasionally we had what Harvey Dole called, "squash on the shell," an
ingenious term for the last of the winter pumpkins boiled in halves, and
served _au naturel_.
Grandpa, too, pined and put away his food. He used to look across the
table at me, with a feeble appeal for sympathy in his expression.
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