) When somebody wrote a little booklet about "The Sage of
Redfield" and described me as a "rural Xantippe" and "the domestic
balance-wheel that kept the great writer close to the homely
realities of life" I made up my mind to give Andrew some of his own
medicine. And that's my story.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a fine, crisp morning in fall--October I dare say--and I was
in the kitchen coring apples for apple sauce. We were going to have
roast pork for dinner with boiled potatoes and what Andrew calls
Vandyke brown gravy. Andrew had driven over to town to get some
flour and feed and wouldn't be back till noontime.
Being a Monday, Mrs. McNally, the washerwoman, had come over to take
care of the washing. I remember I was just on my way out to the wood
pile for a few sticks of birch when I heard wheels turn in at the
gate. There was one of the fattest white horses I ever saw, and a
queer wagon, shaped like a van. A funny-looking little man with a
red beard leaned forward from the seat and said something. I didn't
hear what it was, I was looking at that preposterous wagon of his.
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