Men came from near and far to examine that wagon, felt
critically of every wheel, admired the shining coat of dark-green paint,
and would always wind up with: "I vum, if that 'ere wagon ain't fine!
Why, it's wuth fifty dollars, now, ef it's wuth a cent!" After a hard
day's work, it seemed a gratification to them to come with lanterns to
renew their critical survey, making a fine Rembrandtish study as they
stood around it and wondered. A sleigh was bought for three dollars
which, when painted by our home artist, is both comfortable and
effective.
At one auction, where I was the only woman present, I bid on three
shovels (needed to dig worms for my prize hens!) and, as the excitement
increased with a rise in bids from two cents to ten, I cried, "Eleven!"
And the gallant old fellow in command roared out as a man opened his
mouth for "Twelve!": "I wouldn't bid ag'in a woman ef I'se you. Let 'er
have 'em! Madam, Mum, or Miss--I can't pernounce your name and don't
rightly know how to spell it--but the shovels are yourn!"
Attending auctions may be an acquired taste, but it grows on one like
any other habit, and whenever a new and tempting announcement calls, I
rise to the occasion and hasten to the scene of action, be the weather
what it may. And many a treasure has been picked up in this way. Quaint
old mirrors with the queerest pictures above, brass knockers,
candlesticks of queer patterns, cups and saucers and plates, mugs of all
sizes, from one generous enough to satisfy the capacities of a
lager-soaked Dutchman to a dear little child's mug, evidently once
belonging to a series.
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