IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND

And the next morning a threatening, scowling, tossed-cloud dawn brought the day over the head of Old Harpeth down upon little Sweetbriar, which awakened with one accord to a sense of melancholy oppression.  A cool, dust-laden wind blew down Providence Road, twisted the branches of the tall maples along the way, tore roughly at the festoons of blooming vines over the gables of the Briars, startled the nestled doves into a sad crooning, whipped mercilessly at the row of tall hollyhocks along the garden fence, flaunted the long spikes of jack-beans and carried their quaint fragrance to pour it over the bed of sober-colored mignonette, mixing it with the pungent zinnia odor and flinging it all over into the clover field across the briar hedge.  The jovial old sun did his very best to light up the situation, but just as he would succeed in getting a ray down into the Valley a great puffy cloud would cast a gray shadow of suppression over his effort and retire him sternly for another half hour.

And on the wings of the intruding, out-of-season wind came a train of ills.  Young Tucker Poteet waked at daylight and howled dismally with a pain that seemed to be all over and then in spots.  When he went to take down the store shutters Mr. Crabtree smashed one of his large, generous-spreading thumbs and Mrs. Rucker’s breakfast eggs burned to a cinder state while she tied it up in camphor for him.  In the night a mosquito had taken a bite out of the end of Jennie’s small nose and it was swelled to twice its natural size, and Peter, the wise, barked a plump shin before he was well out of the trundle bed.  One of young Bob’s mules broke away and necessitated a trip half way up to Providence for his capture, and Mrs. Plunkett had Louisa Helen so busy at some domestic manoeuvers that she found it impossible to go with him.

And before noon the whole village was in a fervid state of commotion.  Mrs. Rucker had insisted on moving Mr. Crabtree and all his effects over into the domicile of his prospective bride, regardless of both her and his abashed remonstrance.

“Them squeems are all foolishness, Lou Plunkett,” she had answered a faint plea from the widow for a delay until after the ceremony for this material mingling of the to-be-united lives.  “It’s all right and proper for you and Mr. Crabtree to be married at night meeting Sunday, and his things won’t be unmarried in your house only through Saturday and Sunday.  I’m a-going to pack up his Sunday clothes, a pair of clean socks, a shirt and other things in this basket.  Then I’ll fix him up a shake-down in my parlor to spend Saturday night in, and I’ll dress him up nice and fine for the wedding you may be sure.  We ain’t got but this day to move him out and clean up the house good to move Rose Mary and the old folks into early Saturday morning, so just come on and get to work.  You can shut your eyes to his things setting around your house for just them one day or two, can’t you?”