“This is my son,” said Papa.
The Widow Mitchell looked at Samuel.
“And does your son have a name?” she said.
“My name is Samuel, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Is it now?” she said. “My husband’s name was Samuel.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Samuel. “I’ll sweep off the porch, if I may borrow a broom.”
The Widow Mitchell looked up at the clouds. “No need,” she said. “A great deal more will be coming down before long.”
“We’ve stopped to see if you might be interested in a trade,” said Papa.
The Widow wrapped her dark shawl around herself. “I rarely trade,” she said.
“So I understand,” said Papa. “But I remember your library, and I wondered if you might be interested in a collection of poetry.” He brought the Perrys’ book out from under his coat.
The Widow Mitchell looked at the book. “You had better come inside,” she said. “You as well, Samuel.”
Samuel followed his father down the hallway. He passed paintings and small tapestries hanging on the walls. He passed mantels with silver candlesticks. He passed floors with thick red carpets. Finally, in a brightly lit room, the Widow Mitchell sat in a rocking chair and took the book. She opened it and began to read. Papa and Samuel waited, their hats in their hands.
“This is a splendid collection,” said the Widow at last, “and a splendid book.”
“I’m pleased you think so,” said Papa.
The Widow looked at Samuel. “Samuel, in the kitchen, on a table by the window, there is a blue-and-white pitcher. Bring it here.”
Samuel found the kitchen, and the pitcher, and brought it back to the bright room. He brought it back very carefully.
“I purchased this pitcher last spring, but I find it is too heavy for me to use when it is full.”
Papa took the pitcher from Samuel. He turned it over in his hands.
“Samuel,” said the Widow, “since you’ve come with your father this morning, you may just as well offer an opinion. Would you see the pitcher as a fair trade for this book?”
Samuel knew his mother would be happy with the blue-and-white pitcher, and it would not be too heavy for her to lift—even if it were full of creamy milk.
“I think it would be a fair trade,” he said.
Samuel’s father nodded.
“That is that, then,” said the Widow Mitchell.