Anderson and Annie,
who have just brought out jugs of ale. I naturally stop to say a few
words to Annie and watch the threshing. Anderson is grinding out some of
last year's oats for the cattle.
Son Robert comes to take a pull out of Annie's jug. "That's prime,
measter, ain't it?" he says to me, and wipes his mouth with the back of
his hand. I go in thoughtfully. Is son Robert exactly the sort of man I
should care to call brother-in-law?
April 11, 12.--These two days I have been casting up the pros and cons
of a marriage with Annie. Shall it be--or not be? I suffer from a
Hamlet-like perplexity. On the one hand I get a good, an amiable, an
adoring little wife, who would forestall my slightest wish, who would
warm my slippers for me, for whom I should be the Alpha and Omega of
existence. She would never argue with me, never contradict me, never
dream of laughing _at_ me; would never laugh at all unless I allowed
her, for she would give into my keeping, as a good wife should, the key
of her smiles and of her tears. But of course I should wish her to
laugh. I should wish the dear little creature to remain as merry and
thoughtless as possible.
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