"You wouldn't be sadisfied in heaven," said Shad.
"Maybe not," she sighed.
Mollie got up and began stirring the supper pots, for the sun was low. As she moved about her work she pitched her thin high voice in the song she favored most, and sung with a peculiar note of lamentation as unfitting to its frivolous theme as a glove to a foot:
Old man, old man, I'll never give you rest,
Till you fetch me the feathers from a skeeter's nest.
Till you fetch me the feathers from a skeeter's nest.
Shad looked at Dunham, nodding with an air of finality, like a lawyer submitting his incontrovertible evidence.
"Yes, and if a feller was to fetch 'em to her," he complained, "she'd say she wanted a hummin' bird's wishbone."
