Parson Blake And The Farmer’s Wife

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By my fireside rests the brass kettle from Great-grandmother’s home—a repository for the daily papers of 1965, full of the sound and fury of a world that Great-grandmother never dreamed of. How far apart the years have taken us. Yet there we are, she in her century and I in mine, sharing those “holy labors” by which life is carried on into the future, and trying along the way to live as “prettily” as we can.