The shop itself had a cheery look, with its
weather-stained shingles, its small square windows, and its
hospitable door, half as big as the front side of the building.
The step was an old millstone too worn for active service, and
the piles of chips and shavings on each side of it had been there
for so many years that sweet-williams, clove pinks, and purple
phlox were growing in among them in the most irresponsible
fashion; while a morning-glory vine had crept up and curled
around a long-handled rake that had been standing against the
front of the house since early spring. There was an air of cosy
and amiable disorder about the place that would have invited
friendly confabulation even had not Uncle Bart's white head,
honest, ruddy face, and smiling welcome coaxed you in before you
were aware. A fine Nodhead apple tree shaded the side windows,
and underneath it reposed all summer a bright blue sleigh, for
Uncle Bart always described himself as being "plagued for shed
room" and kept things as he liked at the shop, having a "p'ison
neat " wife who did exactly the opposite at his house.
The seat of the sleigh was all white now with scattered fruit
blossoms, and one of Waitstill's earliest remembrances was of
going downhill with Patty toddling at her side; of Uncle Bart's
lifting them into the sleigh and permitting them to sit there and
eat the ripe red apples that had fallen from the tree.
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