Giới thiệu truyện
The Deacon's Whistle
BY HARRIET FRESCOTT SPOFFORD
"I S'POSE you heered Steve Manners is back agin, Marthy," said the caller, a little, dark woman, bristling with life and spirit, and alive to the tips of her hair. Steve Manners had once said of her that she would have been hung for a witch two hundred years ago.
"Yes," said Marthy, a long, lean woman, looking in her gray gingham like the shadow of some one else. " 'A bird o' the air shell carry the voice an' that which hath wings shell tell the matter,' and ev'ry dog in town knows it, soon's he's come."
"Lemme see. It's mos' twenty year, ain't it, sence Steve fust come tellin' abeout w'at he called life? I was jes' startin' out tailorin' an' nussin?"
"There didn't seem ter be a mite o' harm in the feller, though, as I rekerick," said Marthy, smoothing down her soft gray hair with both hands.
"Wal, he jes' bewitched folks 'ith his talkin' an' his smilin' an' his singin'. He knowed all the songs 't ever was sung, an' his voice was like a bee in a flower—"
"An' them thet he didn't set all by the ears fer gilt saloons an' dice-throwin' an' hoss-racin' hankered fer the wild Injin life an' the buffalo-hunts an' bear-fights he telle
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