SILAS: Does in your house. You somehow know how it is for the other
fellow more'n we do.
GRANDMOTHER: Well, Silas Morton, when you've your wood to chop an' your
water to carry, when you kill your own cattle and hogs, tend your own
horses and hens, make your butter, soap, and cook for whoever the Lord
sends--there's none too many hours of the day left to be polite in.
SILAS: You're right, mother. It had to be that way. But now that we buy
our soap--we don't want to say what soap-making made us.
GRANDMOTHER: We're honest.
SILAS: Yes. In a way. But there's another kind o' honesty, seems to me,
goes with that more seein' kind of kindness. Our honesty with the
Indians was little to brag on.
GRANDMOTHER: You fret more about the Indians than anybody else does.
SILAS: To look out at that hill sometimes makes me ashamed.
GRANDMOTHER: Land sakes, you didn't do it. It was the government. And
what a government does is nothing for a person to be ashamed of.
SILAS: I don't know about that. Why is _he_ here? Why is Felix Fejevary
not rich and grand in Hungary to-day? 'Cause he was ashamed of what his
government was.
GRANDMOTHER: Well, that was a foreign government.
SILAS: A seeing how 'tis for the other person--_a bein'_ that other
person, kind of honesty.
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