September's round moon waned; Indian summer was over. One morning in
October Miss Beal, the dressmaker, had taken her sewing to Mr.
Jeminy's, in order to spend the day with Mrs. Grumble. There, as she
sat rocking up and down in the kitchen, the fall wind brought to her
nose the odor of grapes ripening in the sun. The corn stood gathered
in the fields, and in the yellow barley stubble the grasshopper, old
and brown, leaped full of love upon his neighbor. Mrs. Grumble, beside
a pile of Mr. Jeminy's winter clothes, sorted, mended, and darned,
while the sun fell through the window, bright and hot across her
shoulders. She kept one eye on the oven where her biscuits were
baking, counted stitches, and listened to Miss Beal, who tilted
solemnly forward in her chair when she had anything to say, and moved
solemnly back again when it was over.

"Mrs. Stove," declared Miss Beal, leaning forward and looking up at
Mrs. Grumble, "won't have a new dress this year. Well, she's right,
material is dreadful to get. As I said to her: Mrs. Stove, your old
dress will do; just let me fix it up a little. No, she says, she'll
wear it as it is."

"Look at me," said Mrs. Grumble. "Here's an old rag. But I get along."

"Indeed you do," said Miss Beal. "Still," she added, speaking for
herself, "one has to live."

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Grumble airily.

"Goodness," exclaimed the dressmaker. "Gracious, Mrs. Grumble."

"I declare," avowed Mrs. Grumble, "what with things costing what they