Which, as the veriest cub reporter can testify, is no way
to begin an interview.
A hundred happy memories filled the little
low room as Alma Pflugel showed me her treasures. The
cat purred in great content, and the stove cast a rosy
glow over the scene as the simple woman told the story of
each precious relic, from the battered candle-dipper on
the shelf, to the great mahogany folding table, and
sewing stand, and carved bed. Then there was the old
horn lantern that Jacob Pflugel had used a century
before, and in one corner of the sitting-room stood
Grossmutter Pflugel's spinning-wheel. Behind cupboard
doors were ranged the carefully preserved blue-and-white
china dishes, and on the shelf below stood the clumsy
earthen set that Grosspapa Pflugel himself had modeled
for his young bride in those days of long ago. In the
linen chest there still lay, in neat, fragrant folds,
piles of the linen that had been spun on that
time-yellowed spinning-wheel. And because of the tragedy
in the honest face bent over these dear treasures, and
because she tried so bravely to hide her tears, I knew in
my heart that this could never be a newspaper story.
"So," said Alma Pflugel at last, and rose and walked
slowly to the window and stood looking out at the
wind-swept garden.
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