Chapter III

“Wife, where is the piece of meat I sent home for dinner?” asked Farmer Somes, as he and the boys came in for their noonday meal, on the day following the tea party.

The farmer glanced inquiringly at the table which was spread before him. Involuntarily his nasal organ contracted longitudinally; it would not be polite to say he “turned up his nose,” though such was the fact beyond the possibility of denial.

Farmer Somes was not, in any sense, an epicure. He liked a plain, substantial diet, that “which was good, and enough of it,” as he forcibly expressed his ideas of table economy.

Lest the reader should suppose he was one of those grouty, ill-natured “feeders,” who would grumble at the ambrosia and nectar of the gods, we deem it necessary to particularize the articles on the board of the lady who placed four kinds of cake before company.

Certainly there was variety enough to satisfy the most fickle taste. On a broken plate—the best dishes were religiously reserved to the use of company—was the half of one sausage and two thirds of another, making one sausage and one sixth, all told. They were partially embedded in a petrified sea of suspicious-looking fat, and altogether, the aspect of the dish was singularly forbidding.

On a white plate, with a long black fracture extending quite across it, lay, in an aggregated mass, three dozen baked beans, and an infinitesimal fragment of a pork rind. This was an antiquity. Farmer Somes and the boys had a very distinct remembrance of having seen this dish every day during the previous fortnight, proving that Mrs. Somes was not only one of the most economical, but one of the most persevering dames in the world. The farmer and the boys had virtually said they would not eat those same beans, and Mrs. Somes virtually said they should.

On a worn-out blue plate, superannuated, and “nicked” in a thousand places, were four pork bones, looking as though they had been preyed upon by that army of mice which Whittington’s cat destroyed. These bones had seen service during the last twelve days; the joint, of which they were the disintegrated members, had graced the table just a fortnight before.

There were sundry other articles, antique, old fashioned “titbits,” which might have been set before Noah and his friends in the ark. Six long red potatoes, unpeeled, even unsprouted, completed the array of edibles, ornamental and substantial.

The farmer’s nose contracted as before related.

“Where is the meat I sent home?”

“Hanging in the well.”

“Hadn’t we better eat it?”

“I want it for company next Sunday.”

“The —— ahem! Company again?”

“I expect my brother will dine with us then, and I want something fit to set before him.”

Mr. Somes looked sulky.

“And you mean to starve me and the boys in the mean time?”

“I should like to know if there is not enough for you?” said the dame, pointing at the table.

Farmer Somes turned up his nose.

“Did I ever refuse to buy victuals when you wanted it?” said he, rather sternly.

“Not that I know of; but I didn’t suppose you wanted to buy fresh meat every day,” returned the wife, sourly. “I am sure I try to be as economical as I can.”

“Four kinds of cake, which nobody would touch, I suppose is prudent, ain’t it?”

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Somes; I am glad to find you at home,” said Mr. Meeklie, walking into the room unannounced.

Good gracious! the minister, and with such a table as that spread before the family! What a commentary on four kinds of cake for company!

Mrs. Somes was all confusion. Though the parson intended to look right at the farmer, she could see that more than once his eyes wandered over the table.

“Glad to see you, parson; sit down and take some dinner with us,” said Mr. Somes, shaking the minister’s offered hand.

“Thank you; I don’t care if I do,” replied Mr. Meeklie. “I have a long walk to take before I return home.”

Farmer Somes was pointing him to a chair, when the lady interposed.

“We have got a picked-up dinner to-day. Husband sent home a joint of veal; but it didn’t get here till half after eleven; so I had no time to cook it.”

“Got here by eight o’clock,” said Farmer Somes; “no fibs to the parson.”

“But if you will wait only a few moments, I will fry some of the veal.”

“Sit down, parson; it is every day fare; but then, what is good enough for me is good enough for my friends.”

“Right, Mr. Somes,” replied the minister, drawing up his chair. “My business relates to the new bell for the meeting house. I am carrying round the subscription paper.”

“I am with you, parson.”

Farmer Somes was in most malicious good humor, and, with a broad laugh on his honest phiz, he opened the paper the minister gave him.

“Smith, twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Somes; “I should not think he could afford it.”

“He gives his friends nothing but gingerbread,” said the farmer. “Put me down for thirty; we have four kinds of cake.”

The parson consumed one “long red,” and one of the vulgar fractions of a cold sausage. He preferred brown bread to white, and wouldn’t touch any of the pies which the prudent housekeeper set before him.

Mrs. Somes was awfully mortified. Her reputation was sacrificed, and Farmer Somes never again had occasion to find fault with her for making a vain show of three kinds of pies, two kinds of preserves, and four kinds of cake.