Grandma Padgett constantly polished her glasses on the backward road.
Nothing was said about making a halt for supper or any kind of cold
bite. The carriage was silently turned as one half the sun stood
above the tree-tops, I and it passed the wagon without other sign.
The wagon turned as silently. The shrill meadow insects became more
and more audible. Some young calves in a field, remembering that it
was milking time, began to call their mothers, and to remonstrate at
the bars in voices full of sad cadences. The very farmhouse dogs,
full-fed, and almost too lazy to come out of the gates to interview
Boswell and Johnson, barked as if there was sickness in their
respective families and it was all they could do to keep up their
spirits and refrain from howling.
The carriage and wagon jogged along until the horizon rim was all of
that indescribable tint that evening mixes with saffron, purple and
pink. Grandma Padgett became anxious to reach Richmond again. The
Virginian might have returned over the road with news of her
children. Or the children themselves might be at the tavern waiting
for her. Zene drove close behind her, and when they were about to
recross a shallow creek, scooped between two easy swells and floating
a good deal of wild grapevine and darkly reflecting many sycamores,
he came forward and loosened the check-reins of Hickory and Henry to
let them drink.
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