"You've jest put your own eyes out."
And after-events proved that Hannah was right. Silas Berry's cherry
orchard was subjected to a species of ostracism in the village. There
were no more picnics held there, people would buy none of his
cherries, and he lost all the little income which he had derived from
them. Hannah often twitted him with it. "You can see now that what I
told you was true," said she; "you put your own eyes out." Silas
would say nothing in reply; he would simply make an animal sound of
defiance like a grunt in his throat, and frown. If Hannah kept on, he
would stump heavily out of the room, and swing the door back with a
bang.
This season Hannah had taunted her husband more than usual with his
ill-judged parsimony in the matter of the cherries. The trees were
quite loaded with the small green fruit, and there promised to be a
very large crop. One day Silas turned on her. "You wait," said he;
"mebbe I know what I'm about, more'n you think I do."
Hannah scowled with sharp interrogation at her husband's shrewdly
leering face. "What be you agoin' to do?" she demanded. But she got
no more out of him.
One morning about two weeks before the cherries were ripe Silas went
halting in a casual way across the south yard towards his daughter
Rose, who was spreading out some linen to bleach. He picked up a few
stray sticks on the way, ostentatiously, as if that were his errand.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130