“Here’s the flour,” the young man said, picking up a large sack from the wagon. Someday we’ll have our own mill to grind our own flour, won’t we, Birdie?”
“We sure will, Harv. You can do anything you put your mind to,” Birdie’s green eyes sparkled as she praised her tall, blond husband. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with a square chin and deep set eyes.
Birdie’s red hair glistened in the sunlight as Harvey looked down at her. The sight was so lovely, he thought, I’d do anything for you. But, he swallowed the words, and turned to the wagon. Pulling out the next sack, he continued, “And here’s the cornmeal,” he lifted it up, stowed it in his other arm and carried them into the house.
After putting them down on the table, he dug in his pocket. “Here’s the thread you needed and your new needle,” he said proudly handing over the sewing supplies. Harvey winked as he dug in another pocket, “And, guess what? Lowell was at the mill and I got us some popping corn!” He pulled out his handkerchief that bulged with the prize.
“Oh!” she clapped her hands and turned toward little Harvey, “We’re going to have popped corn!” Birdie squatted down to her baby’s level, which was getting harder with his little brother or sister on the way. She asked him, “Now, what do you think about that?”
“Pa corn,” he tried to repeat as he clapped his hands and giggled. The tow-headed toddler stomped his feet as he circled and clapped his hands. “I think he likes it,” Harv smiled
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