Mrs. Peterson spoke first--she always did--"For my part I wish we could study or read something or other that would give us something to talk about when we meet in sewing society and other places. I'm tired going to sewing society and sitting perfectly mum by the side of my next neighbour, because I don't know what under the sun to say. After we have done up the weather and house cleaning and pickling and canning, and said what a sight of work it is, and asked whether the children took the measles and whooping-cough, and so on, I'm clear run out, for I _won't_ talk about my neighbours, and I don't keep any help; I've noticed 'hired girls' is a subject that doesn't seem to run out very soon."
"Let us form a literary society," said one; "prepare essays, and discuss some subject that will require considerable study in posting ourselves." This lady was newly married, and "boarded;" therefore time was one of the things that she possessed in the greatest abundance.
"That will never do," said a busy little mother, "every lady that was to prepare an essay would be sure to have a sick baby, or a house full of company; then the most of us can only give little snatches of time to this, besides the afternoon or evening that we meet; that would surely be a failure; we want something that will not end in smoke after a few weeks."
Mrs. Lewis spoke next. When Mrs. Lewis spoke everybody always paid attention. She was a large, fine looking lady of seventy or thereabouts. Old age had crowned her with a halo of soft snowy hair, while her dark eyes still glowed with almost the brightness of youth. Her naturally fine mind, enriched by extensive reading, and her deep religious experience, combined to constitute her almost an oracle in the little town. In all their gatherings she was the centerpiece, a very queen for dignity and elegance, in her invariable black silk, and soft white cap. "Let us study the Bible," said Mrs. Lewis. "I don't know of any book we are more ignorant of."
"Oh, Mrs. Lewis! You wouldn't make us into a Sabbath-school class, I hope," said feathery little Mrs. Etheridge. "I thought we did that up years ago. I am sure I can repeat quantities of it," and she tossed back her pretty head and looked wise. "The Bible is all well enough for the Sabbath, but I should dearly love to read the poets. I am passionately fond of Byron; some of his poems are just too sweet for anything."