ing
hillocks covered with sedge-grass that lisped in the breeze. The grass
hollows were filled with quiet and the sound of hovering flies. Beyond
was a hill shiny with laurel.

They dug for Little-Neck clams in the mud by the Pond, they discussed
the cranberry bog and the war and the daily catch of the traps; they
interrupted their sage discourse to whoop at a mackerel gull that
flapped above them; they prowled along the inlet to the Outside, and
like officials they viewed a passing pogie-boat. Uncle Joe Tubbs ought
to have been washing dishes, and he knew it, but the coming of the
Applebys annually gave him the excuse for a complete loaf. Besides, he
was sure that by now Mother Appleby would be in apron and gingham,
helping the protesting yet willing Mrs. Tubbs.

The greatest philosophical theory in the world is that "people are
people." The Applebys, who had mellowed among streets and shops, were
very much like the Tubbses of Cape Cod. Father was, in his unquenchable
fondness for Mother, like Romeo, like golden Aucassin. But also in his
sly fondness for loafing on a sunny grass-bank, smoking a vile pipe and
arguing that the war couldn't last more than six months, he was very
much like Uncle Joe Tubbs. As for Mother, she gossiped about the ancient
feud between the West Skipsit Universalists and Methodists, and she said
"wa'n't" exactly like Mrs. Tubbs.

There were other boarders at the Tubbses', and before them at supper
both of the old couples maintained the gravity with which, vainly, Age
always endeavors to impress Youth. Uncle Joe was crotchety, and Mrs.
Tubbs was brisk about the butter, and the Applebys were tremendously
dignified and washed and brushed, and not averse to being known as
superior star boarders from that superior city, New York, personages to
whom the opera and the horse-show were perfectly familiar. Father
dismissed a small, amateurish war debate by letting it be known that in
his business--nature of business not stated--he was accustomed to meet
the diplomatic representatives of the very choicest nations, and to give
them advice. Which, indeed, he did--regarding shoes. For Pilkings & Son
had a rather elite clientele for Sixth Avenue, and Father had with his
own hands made glad the feet of the Swedish consul and the Bolivian
trade agent.

A man from South Bromfield started to cap the pose, as low persons
always do in these boarding-houses, but Father changed the subject, in a
slightly peppery