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"I don't want her to be sorry, but I do wish she'd try just a little to be kind one day she promises to marry Abel and the next you'd think she'd taken a liking to Jim Halloween." "Perhaps she has a secret sentiment for the rector?" he suggested, to pique her. "But I don't believe he will marry anybody around here," she insisted, while the colour flooded her face.
His mouth was open, and from time to time he shook his head and muttered to himself in an undertone a habit he had fallen into during the monotonous stretches of Mr. Mullen's sermons. Across from him sat Jim Halloween, and in the middle of the hearth, Solomon Hatch stood wiping the frost from his face with a red cotton handkerchief.
The girl was pleasantly aware that the eyes of the miller and of Jim Halloween followed her disapprovingly as she went; and she thought with complacency that she had never looked better than she did in her white felt hat with its upturned brim held back by cherry-coloured ribbon.
"Halloween," a picture of rustic merrymaking, and "The Twa Dogs" a contrast between the rich and poor, are generally classed among the poet's best works; but one unfamiliar with the Scotch dialect will find them rather difficult.
You see the plain, insignificant people are so apt to be nearest the good time!" "I like to satisfy everybody." "You won't, with a squirm-fence!" If it had not been for Ruth, we should have gone on just as innocently as possible, and invited them Marchbankses and all to our Halloween frolic. But Ruth was such a little news-picker, with her music lessons!
While the terror he had inspired was still fresh on the minds of the people, he returned at the exact hour of twelve on the subsequent Halloween. He brought again his bottle of red liquor, was dressed in the same style, wore the same red cravat, and was invested with the same sublimating powers of extravagant merriment.
They rotted quickly, and at one stage became slightly phosphorescent; so that nocturnal passers-by sometimes spoke of witch-fires glowing behind the broken panes of the fetor-spreading windows. We never even in our wildest Halloween moods visited this cellar by night, but in some of our daytime visits could detect the phosphorescence, especially when the day was dark and wet.
"My Nat's a Peel!" she would say. "Can't never tell how he'll turn out." The farmers thereabouts thought they could tell her. Nat was into one scrape after another nothing especially wicked; but a compound of the bubbling mischief in a too ardent life robbed orchards, broken windows, practical jokes, Halloween jinks, vagrant whimsies of an active imagination.
Out of it grew fourteen incomparable Thursday evenings. Pretty much all we can do about them is to tell that they were; we should want fourteen new numbers to write their full history. It was like Mr. Hale's lovely "Ten Times One is Ten." They all came from that one blessed little Halloween party of ours. It means something that there is such a thing as the multiplication-table; doesn't it?
After the first shock of real experience that old make-believe side of things lost all attraction for me. I could no more go back to flirting with Mr. Mullen or with Jim Halloween than I could sit down in the road and make mud pies for an amusement. How is Mr. Mullen, by the way?" she inquired in a less serious tone. "Just the same. He's had a call." "And old Adam? Is he still living?"
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