Aunt Sonora dropped in "to take a breath," as she said. Mrs. Bird and Mrs. Beagle had to repeat to her the new developments in the Longbow family, with some new additions.
Aunt Sonora said she never did have any faith in second wives. "Depend upon't," said the old lady, "no good comes out on 'em. And the old maids were the _very_ worst on 'em all. They were the awfullest dead-settest people she ever know'd. They _will_ have their way. They allers rule the roost. She guessed that her old man knew when he was well off. He hated second marriages like pizen."
Finally, the women, after exhausting themselves, all agreed to adjourn to the house of Mrs. Swipes, to see what could be done to improve the domestic arrangements of the Longbow family. Mrs. Bird said at first she wouldn't move an inch, to see Mrs. Swipes or anybody else, for it wasn't no business of her'n, but then she know'd that, if it was _her_ child, and _she_ was dead, and Mrs. Longbow wasn't dead, Mrs. Longbow would do just as she did.
Mrs. Swipes was delighted to see such a crowd of her friends, but declared "she couldn't for the life of her tell what was up."
By the time the "ladies" had arrived at the house of Mrs. Swipes, they were very highly charged with electricity. They had lashed themselves into a very respectable sort of fury. Even Aunt Sonora, amiable as she was, muttered to herself, while crossing the road--"Starve a child!"
Nobody ever told Mrs. Swipes any news--that was not possible--she had always heard of it, seen it, or expected it; the most astounding development was no more than she had "allers known would come about." There was no story so large that it was unexpected, or beyond her power to add a little to it--no black so black, that she couldn't make it a little blacker--no slander so public, but that she had heard a little more than her neighbors of it. A piece of scandal melted like sugar in her mouth, and it seemed to send a glow over her whole being while she digested it; it braced her up for a whole day, and carried her through the most fiery domestic trials--no story, therefore, ever lost strength or sting while in her keeping--it gathered weight and power like a snowball--she paid it out with interest. Her husband, Zeb Swipes, she didn't like, for he did not care a pin about his neighbors, "'specially the women folks," as he said; and Mrs. Swipes declared she never could interest him in the wickedness of the place. Many a time she had talked him to sleep, flaring, and foaming, and fretting about Puddleford.