Oftentimes he sighed deeply, and related anecdotes redolent of "red
salmon" and "deer flesh," "strawberries as big as teacups" and "peaches
as big as pint bowls," in places where he had sailed.
Once, he ventured to remark, apologetically, referring to the beans and
pumpkins, that "bein' sich a mild winter, somehow he didn't hanker arter
sech bracin' food, and he guessed he'd go over to Ware'am, and git some
pork."
"Wall, thar' now, pa!" said Grandma; "seems to me we'd ought ter consider
all the fruits o' God's bounty as good and relishin' in their season."
"I call that punkin out of season," said Grandpa, recklessly. "Strikes me
so."
"I was talkin' about fruits. I wasn't talkin' about punkins," said
Grandma, with derisive conclusiveness.
"Wall," said Grandpa, very much aroused, "if you call them tarnal white
beans the fruits of God, I don't!"
"Don't you consider that God made beans, pa?"
"No, I don't!"
"Who, then--" continued Grandma, in an awful tone--"do you consider made
beans, pa?"
Grandpa's eyes, as he glared at the dish, were large and round, and
significant of unspeakable things.
"Bijonah Keeler!" Grandma hastened to say; "my ears have heard enough!"
As for Grandma, neither her appetite, nor her spirits, flagged.
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