Bridge, for instance, which is a corruption of ’Lostwithiel,‘ one of the towns in old Cornwall.” He pointed his cigar to the house next to the post office. “And when Gwydeon Penrose built that house over there, he named it Penzance House, but it’s come down to us as ’Penance‘ House.”
The horse-drawing contests had begun, and presently the Widow Fortune appeared with some friends, seating herself at a table under a nearby tree. The old lady set down her piece-bag, her splint basket, and her black leather valise, then arranged her skirts and shears while others drew around her and opened various baskets and hampers from which they produced an array of provender. Another lady came with a tall glass of tea, holding it while the Widow reached in her basket and broke off a sprig of mint, crushed it, and put it in the tea.
“Say hello to the Widow, dear,” Maggie prompted Robert.
“How do, Widow,” Robert called, and she called back, putting her tea aside as one of the ladies offered her an ear of corn in a napkin.
Maggie laughed. “Look how she takes that corn off the cob. My teeth wouldn’t stand for it. Isn’t it amazing how she keeps her faculties? And her energies. You’ll see—after her lunch she’ll sit there and quilt the whole afternoon, she and Mrs. Brucie and Mrs. Zalmon.”
“A quilting bee?” Beth asked.
“Quilting’s become fashionable everywhere these days, but it’s never stopped in the Coombe. Our ladies can turn out a dozen quilts a month.”
“Patchwork quilts bring a lot of money down in New York,” Beth said speculatively.
Out on the field, Fred Minerva had hitched his team to a skid with wooden runners like a sled. Worthy explained that this was called a stoneboat, onto which sacks of sand had been loaded. Deftly manipulating the reins, Fred encouraged his horses to pull the stoneboat along the turf, and at a certain point he unhitched his team and another took his place. The various pairs of horses were decked out in bell-laden harness, and I saw that Justin’s team had little corn rosettes stuck up behind the blinders.
I turned back to Robert. “The thing I don’t understand is how, in a day of modern technology and machinery, farmers still continue to use a horse and plow in place of tractors.”
“They don’t
believe
in tractors,” Maggie said.
Worthy sat up, attentive to the conversation, as Robert said, “The farmers hereabouts discovered long ago what farmers elsewhere are just coming to realize. There’s a good deal of work on a farm that can be done more cheaply by animal power than by gasoline. And your seed will go in early, before you can use a tractor on the wet ground.”
“Maybe you lose a little time at early planting, Professor,” Worthy put in, “but in the long run you make it up. And I’ll bet if I hitched my tractor onto that skid I could move it farther and faster than all those horses put together.”
“Hot, hot, hot. Never saw a fair day so hot.” It was the redoubtable Mrs. Buxley, the parson’s wife, accompanied by her husband. Wearing a flyaway hat and billowing chiffon, like a four-masted schooner in a high gale she descended upon us. She blew out her cheeks and lowered her bottom into one of the chairs Mr. Buxley had brought along. “Can’t remember a fair day hot as this, not since—James, can’t you bring your chair closer and join us?—the year of the last great flood. That was the year you and Robert came to us, wasn’t it, Maggie? Remember, Robert?”
“I remember.” Robert laughed shortly.
“Gracious, that was fourteen years now, hardly seems possible.” She lavished a smile on Beth. “And for you, this will be your first. We don’t see you in church—do we, James?”
Mr. Buxley’s reply was inaudible. Mrs. Buxley wrinkled her brow, her smile becoming one of infinite patience. “And we miss seeing your little girl for Sunday School—isn’t that so, James? You know that I take the Sunday School
The horse-drawing contests had begun, and presently the Widow Fortune appeared with some friends, seating herself at a table under a nearby tree. The old lady set down her piece-bag, her splint basket, and her black leather valise, then arranged her skirts and shears while others drew around her and opened various baskets and hampers from which they produced an array of provender. Another lady came with a tall glass of tea, holding it while the Widow reached in her basket and broke off a sprig of mint, crushed it, and put it in the tea.
“Say hello to the Widow, dear,” Maggie prompted Robert.
“How do, Widow,” Robert called, and she called back, putting her tea aside as one of the ladies offered her an ear of corn in a napkin.
Maggie laughed. “Look how she takes that corn off the cob. My teeth wouldn’t stand for it. Isn’t it amazing how she keeps her faculties? And her energies. You’ll see—after her lunch she’ll sit there and quilt the whole afternoon, she and Mrs. Brucie and Mrs. Zalmon.”
“A quilting bee?” Beth asked.
“Quilting’s become fashionable everywhere these days, but it’s never stopped in the Coombe. Our ladies can turn out a dozen quilts a month.”
“Patchwork quilts bring a lot of money down in New York,” Beth said speculatively.
Out on the field, Fred Minerva had hitched his team to a skid with wooden runners like a sled. Worthy explained that this was called a stoneboat, onto which sacks of sand had been loaded. Deftly manipulating the reins, Fred encouraged his horses to pull the stoneboat along the turf, and at a certain point he unhitched his team and another took his place. The various pairs of horses were decked out in bell-laden harness, and I saw that Justin’s team had little corn rosettes stuck up behind the blinders.
I turned back to Robert. “The thing I don’t understand is how, in a day of modern technology and machinery, farmers still continue to use a horse and plow in place of tractors.”
“They don’t
believe
in tractors,” Maggie said.
Worthy sat up, attentive to the conversation, as Robert said, “The farmers hereabouts discovered long ago what farmers elsewhere are just coming to realize. There’s a good deal of work on a farm that can be done more cheaply by animal power than by gasoline. And your seed will go in early, before you can use a tractor on the wet ground.”
“Maybe you lose a little time at early planting, Professor,” Worthy put in, “but in the long run you make it up. And I’ll bet if I hitched my tractor onto that skid I could move it farther and faster than all those horses put together.”
“Hot, hot, hot. Never saw a fair day so hot.” It was the redoubtable Mrs. Buxley, the parson’s wife, accompanied by her husband. Wearing a flyaway hat and billowing chiffon, like a four-masted schooner in a high gale she descended upon us. She blew out her cheeks and lowered her bottom into one of the chairs Mr. Buxley had brought along. “Can’t remember a fair day hot as this, not since—James, can’t you bring your chair closer and join us?—the year of the last great flood. That was the year you and Robert came to us, wasn’t it, Maggie? Remember, Robert?”
“I remember.” Robert laughed shortly.
“Gracious, that was fourteen years now, hardly seems possible.” She lavished a smile on Beth. “And for you, this will be your first. We don’t see you in church—do we, James?”
Mr. Buxley’s reply was inaudible. Mrs. Buxley wrinkled her brow, her smile becoming one of infinite patience. “And we miss seeing your little girl for Sunday School—isn’t that so, James? You know that I take the Sunday School
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