"His house is so full, and I need a lot of space to carry on my work," I
answered him, with the words I have used so often in the last two weeks
that they start to come when the Petunia asks me if I want waffles or
batter-cakes for supper.
"Well, Sallie Carruthers will get him, and then there'll be a dozen more
to run the measure over--children--hey? All girls! A woman like Sallie
would not be content with producing less than a dozen of her
kind--hey?"
His chuckle was so contagious that I couldn't help but join him, though
I didn't like it so very much. But why shouldn't I? Sallie is such a
gorgeous woman that a dozen of her in the next generation will be of
value to the State. Still, I didn't like it. I didn't enjoy thinking of
Cousin James as so serving his country.
"Carruthers left her to James--he'll have to take care of her. Henry
turned toes in good time. Piled rotten old business and big family on to
James's shoulders, and then died--good time--hey? Get a woman on your
hands, only thing to do is to marry or kill her. Poor James--hey?" He
peered at me with a twinkle in his eyes that demanded assent from me.
"Why, Uncle Peter, I don't know that Sallie has any such idea. She
grieves dreadfully over Mr. Carruthers, and I don't believe she would
think of marrying again," I answered, trying to put enough warmth in my
defense to convince myself.
"Most women are nothing but gourd-vines, grow all over a corn-stalk,
kill it, produce gourds until it frosts, and begin all over again in the
next generation.
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