the sweet orange tree’s branches do offer their fruit to any seated there like a gift. Of course Miss May did then run to her papa, fling herself in his lap and pull gently upon his ears until he made promise that—(reader, please pay attention, for I will write these words but have little understanding of them)—the scenery for a photograph likeness that the three girls were to have made in a studio within the town would show them before the ruined castle, and not before the table containing a vase of flowers.
My son who, at first, struggled to remain stern, was soon chuckling like a tickled babe before he cried, ‘Yes.’ Once Miss May had fled to trouble someone else and all was quiet as it could be within this raucous household, my son was at last free carefully to peruse my ending. Here below, reader, are the very words that my son read that day:And so our July did have to leave the great house at Amity, which was locked and boarded for the next owner to find. She packed up her belongings into a cloth bag and walked in upon the town. And there she did rent for herself a fine shop. Oh yes. This was not some broken-down stall upon the side of the road from which Miss Clara had once been obliged to hawk her wares. The door to July’s shop could be closed and locked. And it was from behind those doors that our July did cook up some of the finest jams and pickles to be found anywhere upon this island. They did not rival Miss Clara’s, for Miss Clara’s were quite forgot. ‘Miss Clara’s guava jelly? No. Bring me Miss July’s naseberry preserve and do not forget to fill a jug with more of her hot-pepper pickle,’ was demanded from this island’s whites, coloureds and negroes alike—for all craved them.
And our July did grow so rich and old and happy upon her wit, that she did purchase a little boarding house. Miss Clara’s lodging was nearly put from business once Miss July’s guest house opened for trade. Naval men and their families and travellers of the highest ranking did lodge with her when visiting within the town. And so often did these good guests return, that her reputation roamed the world and beyond without her. An English gentleman, who did write plenty fine books in England, did tell of Miss July’s clean and comfortable boarding house in a small volume. This gentleman (whose name does here escape me), did urge his readers to visit Miss July’s establishment should they ever find themselves in closeness to it.
So reader, do not feel pity for the plight of our July, for my tale did not set forth to see her so wounded. And though other books and volumes (wrapped in leather and stamped in gold) might wish you to view her life as worthless, I trust you have walked with her too long and too far to heed that foolishness when it is belched upon you. No. July’s tale has the happiest of endings—and you may take my word upon it.
Once my son had completed his reading of the fine style and clever sentiment that you have also perused, he first stared aghast upon me, like his mama had just floated in through the window upon the devil’s tail and then he start to laugh. So long did I have to endure his merriment that I had time enough to notice that some of his hair was indeed lost to him, for it was so light and grey upon his head as to appear thin as dust settled upon a table top.
But now, reader, now is the time you must recall those three ill-disciplined girls and Lillian’s entirely ignored nasty peppered pork. Then you might have heart enough to grasp the injury your storyteller did feel when my son—finally summoning a scolding spirit—told his old-old mama, ‘But this is no good. This will not do. No, no, you must do this again.’ For as I did tell earlier, only I can rouse my son to quarrel.
‘What be wrong?’ asked I.
‘Mama, this is not written in truth,’ says he.
‘It is so true,’ says I.
‘No, it is not,’ replies he.
I will not here repeat the length of this yes-it-is, no-it-is-not argument that was provoked. But know this, if your storyteller had had sufficient paper you, reader, would now be turning, one, two, three, four pages with nothing