So she made the dismal room so doleful with her talk that aunt
Corinne began to feel terribly about life, and Robert Day wished he
had gone to the barn with Zene.

Then the supper-bell rung, and the landlady showed them into the big
bare dining-room where she forgot all her troubles in the clatter of
plates and cups. A company of men rushed from what was called the bar-room,
though its shelves and counter were empty of decanters and glasses.
They had the greater part of a long table to themselves, and Zene sat
among them. These men the landlady called the boarders: she placed
Grandma Padgett's family at the other end of the table; it seemed the
decorous thing to her that a strip of empty table should separate the
boarders and women-folks.

There were stacks of eatables, including mango stuffed with cabbage
and eggs pickled red in beet vinegar. All sorts of fruit butters and
preserves stood about in glass and earthen dishes. One end of the
table was an exact counterpart of the other, even to the stacks of
mighty bread-slices. Boiled cabbage and onions and thick corn-pone
with fried ham were there to afford a strong support through the
night's fast. Nothing was served in order: you helped yourself from
the dishes or let them alone at your pleasure. The landlord appeared
just as jolly as his wife was dismal. He sat at the other end of the
table and urged everybody with jokes to eat heartily; yet all this
profusion was not half so appetizing as some of Grandma Padgett's
fried chicken and toast would have been.

After supper Bobaday went out to the barn and saw a whole street of
horse-stalls, the farthest horse switching his tail in dim distance;