Maidens in their finery and young fellows rigged out from the pack
of the nomadic Hebrew walked about, glancing shyly at one another. On
the grass beneath the trees, lying, squatting, sitting, old men talked
of early frosts and late snows, of strange and wonderful things that
had happened away back in the days of misty tradition; one man's father
had seen a ghost, and another man's grandfather, while leading to the
altar a beautiful girl, was suddenly horrified to see her turn into a
hideous witch. When Jasper's "haul" had got out of the wagon, and while
the women were shaking out their skirts, Laz Spencer came along in
jacket and shrunken trousers.
"Laz," said Jasper, "you ought to sue that peddler. Yo' britches hain't
shrunk the same. One leg's shorter than tuther."
"So I hearn," Laz replied, looking first at one leg and then at the
other. "But britches ain't whut's a troublin' me at the present writin'.
Miss lady's duds is what's a ailin' of me. Mag Bailey 'lowed she'd meet
me over here, but she didn't come. I'd ruther be deceived by ten men
than one woman.
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