THE STOLEN PRESERVES
ABOUT the time of our recovery, the housekeeper, “Irish Mary,” took the measles and was quite sick for some days. She had been in the habit of giving out the linen and towels for the bedrooms and always carried the key to the linen closet, a large wardrobe which stood in one end of the hall. During her illness each lady boarder looked after the supplies for her own room, and would obtain the key when anything was needed. One day a doctor’s wife, an intimate friend of ours, came to our room in great excitement, saying she had found a large jar of peach preserves in the wardrobe, and that she “was going to have some of them.” She rushed down stairs to the dining room, secured a saucer and spoon, returned and dipped out a bountiful supply. By this time several other ladies had “caught on,” and they all swarmed about that jar as flies around a molasses barrel. One lady with a “down-east” accent, who always said “gude” for good, ate her portion, smacked her lips and said, “My, but they are gude!”
I do not mention these ladies’ names, but it is not because I have forgotten them. I remember their names and faces distinctly, and should they ever see this word picture they will readily recognize themselves and their part in it. It is needless to say that I came in for my share of the “stolen sweets.”