Running To Waste. Baker George Melville
matter-of-fact Teddy, who failed to see anything time-shortening in Becky’s project.
“We know Mr. York, who’s got the consumption.”
“Well, we might go and catch some fish and take to him – only I’ve lost my line.”
“No; something better than that, Teddy. Now you run and get a basket. I know what to take.”
Teddy went into the wood-shed and soon returned with a very dilapidated basket.
“That will do nicely. Now let’s see what we can find to put into it,” said Becky, as she opened the door of the cupboard. “Here’s a bottle of currant wine; I guess that’s good for consumption; we’ll take that. And here’s a jar of preserves; they always give them to sick folks; we’ll take that. And here’s a box of sardines. I don’t know about that. Well, we’ll take it, any way.”
“Why, Becky, these things are what Mrs. Thompson sent to Aunt Hulda,” said Teddy, a little alarmed at Becky’s proceedings.
“So they are;” and Becky wavered a moment. “No matter; she’ll send her some more, I guess. Besides, Aunt Hulda won’t care, for we’re going to do good with them. There’s a pair of chickens, too; but I guess they’re most too hearty for sick folks. Now let’s be off.”
With the basket between them, they crept into the wood-shed, from there into a pasture behind the house, crossed that, climbed a fence, and struck into the Foxtown road. The Yorks lived upon this road, a good mile and a half from Mrs. Sleeper’s. The basket was a heavy, unwieldy affair, in which the “good things” bounced about in a very unsatisfactory manner; and the couple “changed hands” many times before they reached their destination.
In answer to Becky’s knock, the door was opened by Mrs. York, a short, buxom woman with a very pleasant face.
“Becky Sleeper – of all things! What in the world brought you here? and what have you got there?”
“Thought we’d come over and bring something to Mr. York. He’s sick – ain’t he?” answered Becky.
“Why, you good little soul! Come right in; my poor man will be dreadful glad to see you.”
Becky and Teddy accepted the cordial invitation, and were ushered into the presence of the “poor man.” Mr. York was by no means so far gone as people imagined. True, there were about him symptoms of the dread disease which New England makes a specialty; but he was a very lazy man, and took advantage of any slight cold to house himself and be nursed by his wife. Mrs. York was not an idle woman; she washed, ironed, and scrubbed in the neighborhood, when her husband worked at his trade; the moment he “felt bad” she dropped all outside labor, and gave her attention to him, magnifying his troubles by her sympathy, and thus making a “baby” of a man who was strong enough to support his family, had he the inclination. Of course, in this state of affairs, there was no income, and the active charity of Cleverly had a loud call in that direction.
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