GRANDMOTHER: We worked. A country don't make itself. When the sun was up
we were up, and when the sun went down we didn't. (_as if this renews
the self of those days_) Here--let me set out something for you to eat.
(_gets up with difficulty_)
SMITH: Oh, no, please--never mind. I had something in town before I came
out.
GRANDMOTHER: Dunno as that's any reason you shouldn't have something
here.
(_She goes off, right; he stands at the door, looking toward the hill
until she returns with a glass of milk, a plate of cookies._)
SMITH: Well, this looks good.
GRANDMOTHER: I've fed a lot of folks--take it by and large. I didn't
care how many I had to feed in the daytime--what's ten or fifteen more
when you're up and around. But to get up--after sixteen hours on your
feet--_I_ was willin', but my bones complained some.
SMITH: But did you--keep a tavern?
GRANDMOTHER: Keep a tavern? I guess we did. Every house is a tavern when
houses are sparse. You think the way to settle a country is to go on
ahead and build hotels? That's all you folks know. Why, I never went to
bed without leaving something on the stove for the new ones that might
be coming. And we never went away from home without seein' there was
a-plenty for them that might stop.
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