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Updated: June 7, 2025
Her pretensions imposed not a little upon the cellar-master, who treated her with a certain respect; but the poet was unmindful of her social claims, and perhaps took a pleasure in showing his independence of her rule. Rule it was, for she condescended to cook for "those poor men folks," as she called them.
The cellar-master, who had been helped into a sleigh to attend, remarked that it was a charming funeral; he did not know when he had enjoyed himself so much as on the late occasion. "What luck he had to come in for the bell!" said Gull; "he was just in the nick of time.
"You are not going to risk yourself out looking for him!" said the cellar-master, now fairly awake. "You are right down crazy. Quiet yourself. He'll be coming in soon, and making rhymes about his trip. You don't look over hearty. I should think you would be afraid to risk it." "Afraid!" said Johanson. "Have you ever been in a tornado? Have you been in an earthquake?
It was used occasionally for a letter to the nearest large city, and such a missive was generally followed by a parcel, which was stowed away at once in the capacious chest appointed for his use. The cellar-master was sure that it was on sheets ruled like music-paper that Johanson was almost constantly writing, though they were locked up in his chest almost before they were fairly dry.
He's willing enough to hide it now; he don't want to shame such parents, and that's the only good thing I see about him. I found it out, and I know it; but I won't tell anybody but you." "That's Alf! And I helped to make him so! My wife said I'd rue the day. Now I do. It's very fine to be called 'cellar-master' when you sit fast in the poorhouse; but it's a bad business dragging people down.
Gull had come to the cellar-master with a choice bit of news to tell. A stranger had bought the land where the major's home and stood, and buildings were to be put up there immediately. The long lonely spot was soon a busy scene, as the architect, with plans in hand, was hurrying about among the skilful workmen.
We may be thankful that we have the little bell rung once a week for poor folks' funerals in this parish; it is not so everywhere." "It would seem more solemn to see the pastor in his black gloves if he didn't wear them always," said the cellar-master. "Why does he do it? I never happened to meet anybody that knew. He's still-like himself, and nobody likes to ask him questions.
Some people say it is to make him look grand with fine folks, and to kind of put down them that have bare hands used to work." "Don't you know about his hands?" asked Gull, with surprise. "I've known it so many years, it seems as if everybody must have heard that." "I don't happen to have inquired into the matter," said the cellar-master, somewhat humiliated. "I have never been one to gossip."
What if the pastor and his wife should find out who's who!" she continued, pointing over her shoulder at the supposed sleeper. The cellar-master gave a stupid look at her mysterious face. "That's the major's son over there," she whispered "Alf, who ran off and never came back. I must tell somebody, if I should die for it. But you mustn't breathe it to a living soul."
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