Poor mamma
could never bring herself to touch them after that. While in the
middle of dessert he would stop to argue with my Uncle Paul whether
pig's blood or bullock's was the best for grape vines. I remember
the year before Emily came out her favourite pony died; I have never
known her so cut up about anything before or since. She asked papa
if he would mind her having the poor creature buried in the garden.
Her idea was that she would visit now and then its grave and weep
awhile. Papa was awfully nice about it and stroked her hair.
'Certainly, my dear,' he said, 'we will have him laid to rest in the
new strawberry bed.' Just then old Pardoe, the head gardener, came
up to us and touched his hat. 'Well, I was just going to inquire of
Miss Emily,' he said, 'if she wouldn't rather have the poor thing
buried under one of the nectarine-trees. They ain't been doing very
well of late.' He said it was a pretty spot, and that he would put
up a sort of stone. Poor Emily didn't seem to care much where the
animal was buried by that time, so we left them arguing the
question. I forget how it was settled; but I know we neither of us
ate either strawberries or nectarines for the next two years.
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