else to think about, 'n' that was himself, first, last, and all the time.
His store was down to bottom of the hill, 'n' when he come up to his meals,
he used to set where he could see the door; 'n' if any cust'mer come,
he could call to 'em to wait a spell till he got through eatin'. Land!
I can hear him now, yellin' to 'em, with his mouth full of victuals!
They hed to wait till he got good 'n' ready, too. There wa'n't so much
comp'tition in business then as there is now, or he'd 'a' hed to give up
eatin' or hire a clerk. . . . I've always felt to be thankful that the house
was on this rise o' ground. The teams hev to slow up on 'count o'
the hill, 'n' it gives me consid'ble chance to see folks 'n' what they've
got in the back of the wagon, 'n' one thing 'n' other. . . . The
neighbors is continually comin' in here to talk about things that's goin'
on in the village. I like to hear 'em, but land! they can't tell me
nothing'! They often say, `For massy sakes, Lucindy Bascom, how d'
you know that?' `Why,' says I to them, `I don't ask no questions,
'n' folks don't tell me no lies; I just set in my winder, 'n' put two
'n' two together,--that's all I do.' I ain't never ben in a playhouse,
but I don't suppose the play-actors git down off the platform on t'
the main floor to explain to the folks what they've ben doin', do they?
I expect, if folks can't understand their draymas when the're actin'
of 'em out, they have to go ignorant, don't they? Well, what do I want
with explainin', when everythin' is acted out right in the road?"

There was quite a gathering of neighbors at the Bascoms'
on this particular July afternoon. No invitations had been sent out,
and none were needed. A common excitement had made it vital
that people should drop in somewhere, and speculate about certain
interesting matters well known to be going on in the community,
but going on in such an underhand and secretive fashion that it
well-nigh destroyed one's faith in human nature.