Aunt Deel and I began to laugh at this good-natured, make-believe
scolding of Uncle Peabody and the emotional strain was over. They led me
into the house where a delightful surprise awaited me, for the rooms had
been decorated with balsam boughs and sweet ferns. A glowing mass of
violets, framed in moss, occupied the center of the table. The house was
filled with the odors of the forest, which, as they knew, were dear to
me. I had written that they might expect me some time before noon, but I
had begged them not to meet me in Canton, as I wished to walk home after
my long ride. So they were ready for me.

I remember how they felt the cloth on my back and how proudly they
surveyed it.

"Couldn't buy them goods 'round these parts," said Uncle Peabody. "Nor
nothin' like 'em--no, sir."

"Feels a leetle bit like the butternut trousers," said Aunt Deel as she
felt my coat.

"Ayes, but them butternut trousers ain't what they used to be when they
was young an' limber," Uncle Peabody remarked. "Seems so they was
gettin' kind o' wrinkled an' baldheaded-like, 'specially where I set
down."

"Ayes! Wal I guess a man can't grow old without his pants growin' old,
too--ayes!" said Aunt Deel.

"If yer legs are in 'em ev'ry Sunday they ketch it of ye," my uncle
answered. "Long sermons are hard on pants, seems to me."

"An' the longer the legs the harder the sermons--in them little seats
over 't the schoolhouse--ayes!" Aunt Deel added by way of justifying his
complaint. "There wouldn't be so much wear in a ten-mile walk--no!"

The chicken pie was baking and the strawberries were ready for the
shortcake.

"I've been wallerin' since the dew was off gittin' them berries an'
vi'lets--ayes!" said Aunt Deel, now busy with her work at the stove.

"Aunt, you look as young as ever," I remarked.

She slapped my arm and said with mock severity:

"Stop that! W'y! You know better--ayes!"

How vigorously she stirred the fire then.

"I can't return the compliment--my soul! how you've changed!--ayes!"
she remarked. "I hope you ain't fit no more, Bart. I can't bear to think
o' you flyin' at folks an' poundin' of 'em. Don't seem right--no, it
don't!"

"Why, Aunt Deel, what in the world do you mean?" I asked.

"It's Purvis's brain that does the poundin', I guess," said my uncle.
"It's kind o' got the habit. It's a reg'lar beetle brain. To hear him
talk, ye'd think he an' you could clean out the hull Mexican
nation--barrin' accidents.