And that fist there is the Almighty, not meanin' anything irreverent.
I rake, same as I'm doin' this mornin'. The yard's all cleaned up.
Then--zing!" Lute's clenched fist swept across and knocked the
offending finger out of the way. "Zing! here comes one of the Almighty's
no'theasters, same as we're likely to have to-morrer, and the consarned
yard is just as dirty as ever. Ain't that so?"

I looked at the yard. "It seems to be about as it was," I agreed, with
some sarcasm. Lute was an immune, so far as sarcasm was concerned.

"Yup," he said, triumphantly. "Now, Dorindy, she's a good, pious woman.
She believes the Powers above order everything. If that's so, then ain't
it sacrilegious to be all the time flyin' in the face of them Powers by
rakin' and rakin' and dustin' and dustin'? That's the question."

"But, according to that reasoning," I observed, "we should neither rake
nor dust. Wouldn't that make our surroundings rather uncomfortable,
after a while?"

"Sartin. But when they got uncomfortable then we could turn to and make
'em comfortable again. I ain't arguin' against work--needful work, you
understand. I like it. And I ain't thinkin' of myself, you know, but
about Dorindy. It worries me to see her wearin' herself out with--with
dustin' and such. It ain't sense and 'tain't good religion. She's my
wife and it's my duty to think for her and look out for her."

He paused and reached into his overalls pocket for a pipe. Finding it,
he reached into another pocket for the wherewithal to fill it.

"Have you suggested to her that she's flying in the face of Providence?"