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He seized the bean-pot and pulled. But his paws were so greasy with butter that he couldn't get a good grip on it. The pot still stuck on his nose as fast as ever. Cuffy grunted. He couldn't really have said anything, with his mouth deep in the iron pot. So he just grunted in a pouting sort of way; and then he gave the pot a sharp rap against a rock. That hurt his nose.
A canvas of Corot looked down upon a grotesque, grimacing Japanese idol, a beautiful bronze reproduction of a vase by Michael Angelo stood shoulder to shoulder with a bean-pot full of tobacco; a crumpled cravat was thrown carelessly over the arm of a dancing faun, while a cluster of Barye's matchless animals were apparently making their way with great difficulty through a collection of pipes, broken modeling tools, faded flowers and loose papers.
I didn't know what I was dropping in on when I fell down that hill. But it's all right, hey? I'm on the road. My name is Boston Fat, and my monacker is a bean-pot." The brown eyes moved slowly from the grinning face to the garments heaped in the man's arms. They were cold and critical eyes and there was no humor in them. "I do not do business during my lunch-hours, my man.
Broxton Day's letter beside this; there were intimate little things that Janice would have shown to nobody; but downstairs she read aloud all Daddy's jolly little comments upon the country and the people he saw; and about his eating beans so frequently that he dreamed he had turned into a gigantic Boston bean-pot that was always full of steaming baked beans.
"Them is the real New England beans," he continued, taking a black bean-pot with a wooden spoon from the ashes. "There's the bone and sinner of New England's sons right here. I'm master-fond of 'em; never sails withaout a pot or so. Every time I see a pot it makes me think of old Joe Muggridge, a deacon of aour taown.
He stood up and gave a good, hard push against the ground. And so he managed to squeeze his nose a little further into the bean-pot. And now, to his huge delight, he could just reach the bottom of the pot with his long under-lip. In a twinkling Cuffy had all the beans in his mouth.
That viand was never seen on the table except with the baked beans always served on Sunday; Mother Rykeman managing to keep on hand a supply of middlings for the bean-pot. Hawthorne cherished kindly memories of Brook Farm and these memories embodied in the Blithedale Romance show his warm and appreciative interest in the life of the community.
Because of the weight and bulk, Jeff omitted from this list the tea, the condensed milk and butter, and while the supply in other respects was the same, respectively, for himself and McCabe, that of the boys was cut down about one third; for besides the food, the party were compelled to take with them a frying-pan, a water-kettle, a Yukon stove, a bean-pot, a drinking-cup, knives and forks, and a large and small frying-pan.
And this time he growled as well as he could. But all his grunting and growling didn't frighten the bean-pot the slightest bit. There it stayed, perched on his nose just as if it would never come off. All this time the mowing-machine kept up a click-clack-click-clack! And Cuffy thought that he had better get out of sight. So he plunged into the forest and started toward home.
Her artistic eye has been caught by the tight bean-pot, and her fingers are employed in trying to give a little air of ease and liberty to its crowded inmates. Then, thank God, the others come in, and dinner is announced, and the situation is ended. Then, at last, he realizes Roger's bad taste, and we go in. As soon as we are seated, I look about me. It is a round table.
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