The Pageant

"I hear some of the cars coming," announced Mrs. Cockrell, as she began
to crochet furiously at the last petal of a rose. "Is my cap straight? I
do so want to finish this row and can't go in to look."

"You'll put out St. Peter's eye with a crochet needle while he's
unlocking the pearly gates for you, Lettie Cockrell," said Mrs. Sproul,
as she rose and stood with ceremony at the head of the steps to meet
the Governor and Mr. Jeffries and father as they came up her front walk.

Mrs. Sproul always has the most delightful old world sort of midday
dinners and it was two o'clock before we all arose from her long table,
at one end of which had been demolished a spiced ham and from the other
end had disappeared two fat summer turkeys. A saddle of lamb had been
passed in between and we had wound up with sweet potato custards, apple
float and ice cream.

"I understand now," said Mr. Jeffries, as his keen old eyes twinkled
down the table at Nickols. "This food should produce geniuses. The South
feeds for it."

"Yes, we eat, drink, are merry and do it all over again to-morrow," said
Mark, as he walked beside Mrs. Sproul from the devastated dining room.
"And we must all hurry if we are to see your young ideas begin to shoot.
This day isn't really hot, but just thinks it is. Look at those clouds
boiling up back of Old Harpeth as if wanting to storm, but afraid to
begin it. There's not a breath of air stirring. Wish it would shower,
for I believe the colors of Goodloe's pageant would run and I'd like to
see the true hue of this melee of his come out in the wash. It would do
Charlotte good to fade a bit. She has been hectic since daylight and the
rest of my juvenile family with her. Jimmy is S and Z in the alphabet
and Sue has got a huge A sewed on her back. Goodloe intends that
education shall be nailed to 'em."