OVER PARADISE RIDGE



I

THE BOOK OF FOOD


Nobody knows what starts the sap along the twigs of a very young,
tender, and green woman's nature. In my case it was Samuel Foster
Crittenden, though how could he have counted on the amount of
Grandmother Nelson that was planted deep in my disposition, ready to
spring up and bear fruit as soon as I was brought in direct acquaintance
with a seed-basket and a garden hoe? Also why should Sam's return to a
primitive state have forced my ancestry up to the point of flowering on
the surface? I do hope Sam will not have to suffer consequences, but I
can't help it if he does. What's born in us is not our fault.

"Yes, Betty, I know I'm an awful shock to you as a farmer. I ought to
have impressed it on you more thoroughly before you--you saw me in the
act. I'm sorry, dear," Sam comforted me gently and tenderly as I wept
with dismay into the sleeve of his faded blue overalls.

"I can't understand it," I sniffed as I held on to his sustaining hand
while I balanced with him on the top of an old, moss-covered stone wall