He sells
lots, now and then a house, writes insurance and draws up wills,
collects bills or rather coaxes careless neighbors to settle their
accounts, and he absolutely does not believe in divorce or woman
suffrage. These two matters stir the gentle little man to great wrath.
His wife is even a gentler soul than he is. She is the eldest of the
Tumleys, sister of George Hoskins' wife and to Joe Tumley, the little
man with a voice as sweet as a skylark's.
You go to Mr. Dunn's office through a little low gate and you find an
old, deep-eaved, gambrel-roofed house with a hundred little window
panes smiling at you from out its mantle of ivy. You love it at once
but you don't go in right away, because the great old trees won't let
you. You go and stand under them and wonder how old they are and lay
your hand caressingly on the fine old trunks. And then you see the
myrtle and violets growing beneath them and near the house clumps of
daisies and forget-me-nots. And then you spy the beehives and the
quaint old well and you walk through the cool grape arbor right into
the little kitchen, where Mrs. Dunn, as likely as not, is making a
cherry pie or currant jell or maybe a strawberry shortcake. She is a
delicious and an old-fashioned cook.
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