"Have we enough to feed them. Jasper?" she turned and asked in still
further alarm.
"Nothing never give out in Glendale yit, since we took the cover offen
the pits for Old Hickory in my granddad's time," he answered, with a
trace of offense in his voice, as he stood over a half tub of butter
mixing in his yarbs with mutterings that sounded like incantations. I
drew Jane away for I felt that it was no time to disturb him, when the
basting of his baked meats was just about to begin.
I was glad that about all the countryside had gathered, unhitched their
wagons, picketed their horses, and got down to the enjoyment of the day
before the motor-cars bringing the distinguished guests had even started
from Bolivar. It was great to watch the farmers slap neighbors on the
back, exchange news and tobacco plugs, while the rosy women folks
grouped and ungrouped in radiant good cheer with children squirming and
tangling over and under and around the rejoicings.
"This, Evelina," remarked Jane, with controlled emotion in her voice and
a mist in her eyes behind their glasses, "is not only the bone and sinew
but also the rich red blood in the arteries of our nation. I feel
humbled and honored at being permitted to go among them."
And the sight of dear old Jane "mixing" with those Harpeth Valley farmer
folk was one of the things I have put aside to remember for always. They
all knew me, of course, and I was a bit teary at their greetings.
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