'No, sir,' says I. 'No light-en-ing rods
upon this house whilst I stand here,' and with that I walk-ed away,
and let Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on.
His eyes flash-ed fire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but
when he saw the dog he did forbear. As it was then near noon, I
strode away to feed the fowls; but when I did return, I saw a sight
which froze the blood with-in my veins--"
"The dog didn't kill him?" cried Euphemia.
"Oh no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "You'll see that that wasn't it. At
one corn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed
this man, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus
attrack-ing to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile
intrig-er of a light-en-ing rod-der had brought a lad-der to the
other side of the house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on
the roof. What horrors fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed!
This," continued Pomona, "is the end of the novel," and she laid
her foolscap pages on the porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had
just reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard
nothing yet about that affair of the taxes.
"You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out the
chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures,
that I hadn't time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what
happened after that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so
she went on, much more glibly than before, with the account of the
doings of the lightning-rod man.
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