I then and there learned
that the foreign milk was poor and thin because it was skimmed. The idea
of putting skimmed milk on the table was unknown in the Old Colonie.
I could not or would not touch the abominable brown bread, and, while
waiting for the girls to serve the eggs or chops or whatever there was
for supper, passed the time in trying to make out the meaning of the
chatter and laughter that filled the room with merriment. There seemed
to be a gleam of sense discoverable now and then, but, on the whole, it
was impossible to catch the significance of the rapid-fire talk
volleying from table to table. Indeed, it was always difficult for a
stranger to swing into the current of general conversation at Brook
Farm. The bright young enthusiasts there were all of one mind, in a way;
in close sympathy and quick to understand each other. A word, a look, a
gesture expressed a thought. An allusion, a memory, an apt quotation
suggested an idea which was clearly apprehended by ready listeners; and
a flash of wit was instantly followed by a peal of mirth, echoed to the
limit.
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