Pomona had said it was all right,
but she could not have paid the taxes--however, I would wait; and I
went to the barn.
When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said
she was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went
in, and we sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona,
producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper
step.
"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she,
"as you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I'd make it
like a novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more amusin'.
I suppose you don't mind?"
No, we didn't mind. So she went on.
"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out
to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the first
chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parentage and my
early adventures. I'll just come down to what happened to me while
you was away, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that.
All that's written here is true, jus' the same as if I told it to
you, but I've put it into novel language because it seems to come
easier to me."
And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as
if the "novel language" demanded it, she began to read:
"Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was
I left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed
the lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my
fru-gal repast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-
collections of the past and also foresights into the future.
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