With quaking heart I handed up my jar, and climbed
in, covering all those ten miles in the June sunshine, on a board
laid across e wagon bed, tightly clasping the two-gallon jar in my
aching arms. The farmer's wife was quite concerned about me. She
asked if I had butter, and I said, "Yes, the kind that flies."
I slipped the bonnet enough to let them peep. She did not seem to
think much of it, but the farmer laughed until his tanned face was
red as an Indian's. His wife insisted on me putting down the jar,
and offered to set her foot on it so that it would not `jounce'
much, but I did not propose to risk it 'jouncing' at all, and
clung to it persistently. Then she offered to tie her apron over
the top of the jar if I would put my bonnet on my head, but I was
afraid to attempt the exchange for fear my butterfly would try
to escape, and I might crush it, a thing I almost never had allowed
to happen.
The farmer's wife stuck her elbow into his ribs, and said, "How's
that for the queerest spec'men ye ever see?" The farmer
answered, "I never saw nothin' like it before.
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