"Everybody could help, and it could be made real pleasant with the
men asked to come in after supper. Everything could be gave from
stovewood to the Deacon some new Sunday pants. We did that once
before, five years ago to his birthday, and they was mighty pleased.
Let's do it again."

"But that was before this disgrace of Will happened, and they didn't
downright need the things then--it were all sort of complimentary.
When needs are gave it's charity, but what you don't want is just a
present. We've got to find a way to do up needs in a present package
for 'em. I declare, I feel right put to know what to do." Mother
Mayberry's voice was actually worried, and she paused with her
scissors ready to snip a bit of the gingham into narrow bands.

"Well, we oughter be thankful we've got the things to give, and
we'll find some sort of way to slip up on the blind side of them
about the taking of them. The Deacon's britches is one pressing
thing. Can't we take some of the church carpet money and get Mr.
Hoover to buy him a pair when he hauls corn to town Monday?"

"Yes, indeed, we can," answered Mother Mayberry, radiant at the very
thought of this relief proposition. "It's a heap more important to
carpet the Deacon with britches than the church floor right now.
Between them and her old bombersine, Mis' Bostick have spent the
year with her patch-thimble on her finger."

"I declare, it hurts me so in church to look at her elbows and back
seams that I can't hardly listen to the Deacon pray. Patching is the
most worrisome job a woman has to do, according to my mind," said
the widow, with an expression of distaste on her beaming face. "I've