The Collected Stories of William Humphrey Read Online Free PDF

Spotsylvania.”
    It was one of my favorite incidents.
    â€œWas it?” said Mr. Forester.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    I looked at my father. He was glaring at me.
    â€œIt was Jeb Stuart,” I said.
    â€œThe boy is probably right,” said Mr. Forester. “It’s a long time since I went to school—and you, too, John, for that matter. Whoever it was, it is a good story. And in any case it was a Southerner who said it. But I am glad to see that they still teach them about the war in school.”
    â€œOh, school!” said my father. “He reads all that on his own. I will say that for him. If you depended on what they teach them at school—!”
    My mother came in. We rose.
    â€œThe schools!” she cried. “You wouldn’t believe it was Texas, Mr. Forester, the things they teach them in the schools nowadays!”
    â€œNow, now,” said Mr. Forester, “things can’t have had time to change much since your own school days.”
    My mother turned red with pleasure. “Oh, Mr. Forester!” she cried. And she was so carried away she forgot what she had come in for and my father finally had to ask was she hatching those birds out there before she remembered with a cry, “Oh! That’s it! It’s served!”
    The table had the leaf in. It was lighted by three tall slender candles in a triple-branched holder. The shadows on the silver and glasses were deep, and the highlights seemed thick, the way the white paint is laid on in old pictures. The water flask seemed filled with trembling quicksilver. Side dishes of black and green olives and pearl-like pickled onions were stationed around the center platter, in which, nested in fried potatoes as yellow and as slender as straw, were the golden-crusted quail. Nearby was a basket of smoking rolls blanketed with a white napkin. There were bowls of deviled eggs, brandied peaches, creamed onions, peas, mustard greens, whipped yams topped with toasted marshmallows, and a bowl of green salad shimmering with oil. Stacks of dishes stood waiting on the buffet and a bank of apples on a dish there glowed like dying coals. I could hardly believe I was in my own home.
    When we had spread our napkins there was a silence and everyone looked at me. I bent my head, closed my eyes, and said, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which through Thy bounty we are about to receive through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
    â€œAmen,” said Mr. Forester.
    We were very hungry, for it was long past our usual supper-time. Mr. Forester was very hungry, too. So after everyone had servings of everything and Mr. Forester had praised each dish, for a few minutes there was no sound—not even the clatter of silver, since we were all mainly interested in the quail and this was eaten with the fingers—except, occasionally, the clink of a birdshot dropped on a plate.
    When our first pangs had been assuaged my father signified the time for talk by leaning back in his chair, patting his stomach, and looking gratefully at my mother.
    â€œI seem,” said Mr. Forester, “to recall having heard these birds disparaged earlier in the day.”
    â€œWell, you may thank old man Walter Bledsoe,” said my father. “We got these birds in his oat field. It seems he gave up about halfway through this year, and left more oats standing than he took in to the barn.”
    Mr. Forester shook his head sadly.
    â€œAnd to think,” said my mother, “what the name Bledsoe once stood for.”
    â€œThey have gone even further downhill,” said my father. “Me and the boy were up to the house today to ask permission to hunt. You ought to have seen the place. Gate hanging loose, weeds grown up, junk in the yard—just one step away from white trash now.”
    â€œAnd I myself,” said my mother, “remember when old Miss Jane Bledsoe thought nothing of going over to Europe every other year and bringing back