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Updated: May 26, 2025
She knew him, and wrinkled her nose and drew her upper lip back from her worn teeth, to show that she liked being petted. She let him touch her foot and examine her leg. When Claude reached the kitchen, his mother was sitting at one end of the breakfast table, pouring weak coffee, his brother and Dan and Jerry were in their chairs, and Mahailey was baking griddle cakes at the stove.
On days like this, when other people were not about, Mahailey liked to talk to Claude about the things they did together when he was little; the Sundays when they used to wander along the creek, hunting for wild grapes and watching the red squirrels; or trailed across the high pastures to a wild-plum thicket at the north end of the Wheeler farm.
"You tell 'em over there I'm awful sorry about them old women, with their dishes an' their stove all broke up." "All right. I will." Claude scraped away at his chin. She lingered. "Maybe you can help 'em mend their things, like you do mine fur me," she suggested hopefully. "Maybe," he murmured absently. Mrs. Wheeler opened the stair door, and Mahailey dodged back to the stove.
For as she reads, she thinks those slayers of themselves were all so like him; they were the ones who had hoped extravagantly, who in order to do what they did had to hope extravagantly, and to believe passionately. And they found they had hoped and believed too much. But one she knew, who could ill bear disillusion... safe, safe. Mahailey, when they are alone, sometimes addresses Mrs.
Claude," she would say as she stood at the sink washing the supper dishes, "it's broad daylight over where Miss Enid is, ain't it? Cause the world's round, an' the old sun, he's a-shinin' over there for the yaller people." From time to time, when they were working together, Mrs. Wheeler told Mahailey what she knew about the customs of the Chinese.
We ain't had no spare-ribs for ever so long." What with the ache in his back and his chagrin at losing the pigs, Claude was feeling desperate. "Mother," he shouted, "if you don't take Mahailey into the house, I'll go crazy!" That evening Mrs. Wheeler asked him how much the twelve hogs would have been worth in money. He looked a little startled.
The rough pasture was like a smooth field, except for humps and mounds like haycocks, where the snow had drifted over a post or a bush. At the kitchen stairs Mahailey met him in gleeful excitement. "Lord 'a' mercy, Mr. Claude, I can't git the storm door open.
The air was not cold, only a little below freezing. When they came in for supper, the drifts had piled against the house until they covered the lower sashes of the kitchen windows, and as they opened the door, a frail wall of snow fell in behind them. Mahailey came running with her broom and pail to sweep it up. "Ain't it a turrible storm, Mr. Claude? I reckon poor Mr.
I guess you'll have to change for once, Dan, or go to bed without your supper." She laughed quietly at his dejected expression as he slunk away. "Mrs. Wheeler," Mahailey whispered, "can't I run down to the cellar an' git some of them nice strawberry preserves? Mr. Claude, he loves 'em on his hot biscuit. He don't eat the honey no more; he's got tired of it." "Very well.
Wheeler baked pies and cakes and bread loaves as fast as the oven would hold them, and from morning till night the range was stoked like the fire-box of a locomotive. Mahailey wrung the necks of chickens until her wrist swelled up, as she said, "like a puff-adder." By the end of July the excitement quieted down.
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