Market — and literature –day. Always a bustling morning, although not so bad as in the depth of winter, when there is so much to be done before daylight. Whether we drive or go by train — we are fortunately situated within five minutes of the station — a start must be made shortly after nine for the sale is practically over by before noon.
How those people manage who have to drive some 25 miles from some remote dale and with a cart too, in fruit time and the potato season, I do not know; for the very air of our house is strained to get those marketers safely off with all their goods at nine o’clock
Butter this week, 1s 3d; eggs nine for ls; fruit very cheap; nice plums for ls a stone. A certain energetic member of the family cannot rest till the plums are boiled in that bramble jelly, and while I am looking over the mags (for Thursday is naturally our weekly literature day) she comes in with a comically tragical countenance. “Can you guess what I have put among the fruit for sugar? Washing soda!”
There happened to to be a bag, exactly like a sugar-bag, standing where the sugar alone is kept. Who put that bag there? Nobody. So there was one boiling lost.
As I said before, a bundle of papers and books comes home on market-days. The mother, remembering the days when a single weekly went round half the parish, cannot altogether approve such dissipation and extravagance. “Nae wunner we’re puir,” she says, but she misses few of them herself, being quite a modern elderly woman. I should have missed out the “elderly” for she does not like to be described as “old” by anyone but herself.