Three nights ago I went to sleep in a nice orderly old town, and I
awoke the next morning in the middle of a great white and pink and
green bouquet, which must smell up at least to the first of the seven
heavens, and which is buzzing so with bees that it sounds like an
orchestra getting ready to burst out into some kind of a new, great
hymn. And everybody in Byrdsville is buzzing around in a chorus with
the bees, cleaning house and going visiting and shopping at the stores
down on the Square. I am as industriously doing likewise as I can, and
have bought things from almost everybody until my brain is feeble from
trying to think up things to ask for in the different stores. Oh, the
things I could buy if Roxanne would just let me!
One trouble is, there are no really poor people in Byrdsville, and
those on the verge of it are taken care of by the different church
societies, which look after them so carefully that they come very near
stepping on each others' toes. The incident of old Mr. and Mrs.
Satterwhite came near being a case in point. Mr. Satterwhite has
always been a Presbyterian, and Mrs. Satterwhite disagreed with her
husband seriously enough to be a Methodist.
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