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"
But
a
bag
of
cheap
candy
—
"
"
Do
you
suppose
it
might
be
a
grave
simplicity
?
"
"
I
don
’
t
understand
.
"
"
His
wife
is
dead
.
He
has
neither
chick
nor
child
.
He
’
s
getting
old
.
Maybe
—
well
,
maybe
he
’
s
lonely
.
"
"
He
never
has
been
here
before
.
While
he
’
s
lonesome
,
you
should
ask
him
for
a
raise
.
He
doesn
’
t
drop
in
on
Mr
.
Baker
.
It
makes
me
nervous
.
"
I
gauded
myself
like
the
flowers
of
the
field
,
decent
dark
suit
,
my
burying
black
,
shirt
and
collar
so
starchly
white
they
threw
the
sun
’
s
light
back
in
the
sun
’
s
face
,
cerulean
tie
with
cautious
polka
dots
.
Was
Mrs
.
Margie
Young
-
Hunt
whomping
up
ancestral
storms
?
Where
did
Marullo
get
his
information
?
It
could
only
be
Mr
.
Bugger
to
Mrs
.
Young
-
Hunt
to
Mr
.
Marullo
.
I
do
not
trust
thee
Margie
Young
,
the
reason
why
I
cannot
tongue
.
But
this
I
know
and
know
right
spung
,
I
do
not
trust
thee
Mrs
.
Young
.
And
with
that
singing
in
my
head
I
delved
in
the
garden
for
a
white
flower
for
my
Easter
buttonhole
.
In
the
angle
made
by
the
foundation
and
the
sloping
cellar
door
there
is
a
protected
place
,
the
earth
warmed
by
the
furnace
and
exposed
to
every
scrap
of
winter
sunlight
.
There
white
violets
grow
,
brought
from
the
cemetery
where
they
grow
wild
over
the
graves
of
my
ancestors
.
I
picked
three
tiny
lion
-
faced
blossoms
for
my
buttonhole
and
gathered
a
round
dozen
for
my
darling
,
set
their
own
pale
leaves
about
them
for
a
nosegay
,
and
bound
them
tight
with
a
bit
of
aluminum
foil
from
the
kitchen
.
"
Why
,
they
’
re
lovely
,
"
Mary
said
.
"
Wait
till
I
get
a
pin
,
I
’
ll
wear
them
.
"
"
They
’
re
the
first
—
the
very
first
,
my
creamy
fowl
.
I
am
your
slave
.
Christ
is
risen
.
All
’
s
right
with
the
world
.
"
"
Please
don
’
t
be
silly
about
sacred
things
,
dear
.
"
