"
The cranberries, it seems, were not doing well over the fire in Judith's
department, and she had hesitatingly proposed that they should be
promoted to the parlor grate, where, after due apologies, they were
placed. They soon began to simmer; then one would burst, and then
another, we pausing unconsciously to hear them surrendering themselves
to their fate, while one mouth, at least, watered at the thought of the
delicious dish which they were to furnish; the rich, ruby color of their
juice in the best cut-glass tureen, and the added spoonful, as a reward
for not spilling a drop on the table-cloth the last time they were
served, coming to mind, with thoughts of early days. And here I was
discussing slavery. Now, while the cranberries were over the fire,
making one feel domestic and also bringing back young days, it was
impossible to be disputatious, had we been so inclined. The Northern
cranberry-meadow and the Southern sugar-plantation seemed mixed up in my
feelings on this subject, qualifying and rectifying each other. Perhaps
the soothing presence of the cranberry saucepan was timely; for, without
any design, a phase of our subject next presented itself which was not
the most agreeable.
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