And speaking about Dick
reminds me of the man's wife, with those peculiar ideas of hers. You
remember about them, don't you? Would you believe, Auntie dear, that all
the other women about here are just as bad? They seem to be matchmakers
of the most virulent sort. They boldly ask me if I am going to marry the
doctor, and when, the poor silly things, and if I deny the impeachment
they bring forth little smiles of unbelief.
When I showed my last stocking to Granny Lasher she announced that it was
much too small.
"Didn't yer ever look at the big feet o' he?" she asked.
"The big feet of who?" I asked, in an elegant form of speech.
"Th' doctor," she answered.
"But these are for my father," I objected.
"Sure, I ought ter have knowed that," she replied. "Ye'll be practicin'
on he first, and when yer does real good work ye'll be knittin' 'em fer
th' doctor."
"Mrs. Sammy knits stockings for him," I said, severely.
"Well, when he's yer man ye'll not be lettin' other wimmin folks do his
knittin' fer he," persisted the ancient dame.
I simply refuse to argue any more with them. They have that idea in their
hard old heads and it cannot be dislodged. If you and I had been
Newfoundlanders, Auntie dear, we would have married early and been
expected to knit stockings, in the intervals of work on the flakes, for
the rest of our natural lives. The maidens of this island entertain
visions of coming years devoted to the rearing of perfect herds of
children, to assorted household work, to drying fish and knitting
stockings for their lords and masters, until the end.
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