Mary Emma & Company by Ralph Moody Page B

have stopped her without hurting her feelings, and she says I will do all right as soon as my blisters heal and I get into my . . . my stride.”
    â€œWell, I still think it’s foolishness for you to go on with it,” Uncle Frank said, “but your friend Bessie might be right about your hitting your stride. You know, an athlete never wins a race until he learns to run relaxed; your biggest trouble might be that you’re all tightened up and trying too hard. Think about the whole thing over Sunday, and if you do go back Monday morning, try taking it easier. I have a notion that might cure a lot of your troubles.”
    We all went to church and Sunday School the next day, just as we had the Sunday before, even to Mother’s staying to talk to the minister. When we got back to the house Uncle Levi was there. He was Grandfather Gould’s bachelor brother who lived in Boston, and he’d come out to see us, loaded with all the fruit and nuts and candy he could carry. From the smell of his breath and the way he acted when Mother first came in, I thought he might be loaded with something more than just fruit and candy. As soon as she opened the door he ran to her, threw his arms clear around her, and lifted her off her feet. As he hugged her he rubbed his chin into her neck and said, “By hub, Mary Emma, your old uncle’s awful glad to lay eyes on you. Didn’t calc’late I’d ever see you again when you and Charlie went off to Colorado. It’s a God’s wonder, havin’ you back again with all these healthy-lookin’ little shavers.”
    He stood her down, held her away at arm’s length, and looked at her as if he were studying her face. “Curious how time gets away,” he said slowly. “Here you be, a woman going on . . . forty, ain’t it?”
    Mother’s face looked as surprised and happy as it had when she first opened the door and saw him. “Why, Uncle Levi! How did you remember?” she asked. “Yes, it will be forty in the autumn. I’m getting to be an old lady. Didn’t you notice the gray that’s coming into my hair?”
    â€œHouse always looks homier with a little snow on the roof,” he told her, “and forty ain’t more’n a starter for a Gould. Father, he lived to be ninety-six. But ain’t it curious how the time gets away from a body? Don’t seem more’n a year or two agone since I was daddlin’ you on my knee. Recollect how you used to make me sing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ and ride you on my foot? By hub, I can see you now as plain as if ’twa’n’t more’n a week agone, ’stead of nigh onto forty years; no bigger’n a pint o’ cider, fat cheeks blazin’ red, pigtails a-flyin’, and squealin’ fit to kill. It’s a God’s wonder you didn’t wear the both of us out; never did seem to know when you’d had enough.”
    If I’d ever seen Uncle Levi before, I couldn’t remember it, and I was having so much fun listening to him that I forgot that anyone else but Mother was there until Uncle Frank said, “She don’t know it any better now than she did then, Levi.” He always left the “Uncle” off.
    Mother could be awfully quick about heading something off if she didn’t want it talked about, and she was quicker than usual that time. Before Uncle Frank had the last words out she was peeking over Uncle Levi’s shoulder at him, laughing and shaking her finger as if she were playing. “Now don’t you give me away, Frank,” she told him. “While Uncle Levi’s here we’re going to have fun, and I’ll bet a cookie he came just as he used to when I was a little girl on the old farm: loaded to the chin with fruit and candy.”
    Mother had stepped close to Uncle Levi when she peeked over his shoulder, and as soon as she’d said we were going to