Then he had gone up to Throng's
bedroom and straightened out and shook and "made" the corn-husk bed,
which had gathered into lumps and rolls. Before he came down he opened
a door near by and entered another room, shutting the door, and sitting
down on a chair. A stovepipe ran through the room, and it was warm,
though the window was frosted and the world seemed shut out. He looked
round slowly, keenly interested. There was a dressing-table made of an
old box; it was covered with pink calico, with muslin over this. A cheap
looking-glass on it was draped with muslin and tied at the top with a bit
of pink ribbon. A common bone comb lay near the glass, and beside it a
beautiful brush with an ivory back and handle. This was the only
expensive thing in the room. He wondered, but did not go near it yet.
There was a little eight-day clock on a bracket which had been made by
hand--pasteboard darkened with umber and varnished; a tiny little set of
shelves made of the wood of cigar-boxes; and--alas, the shifts of poverty
to be gay!--an easy-chair made of the staves of a barrel and covered with
poor chintz. Then there was a photograph or two, in little frames made
from the red cedar of cigar-boxes, with decorations of putty, varnished,
and a long panel screen of birch-bark of Indian workmanship. Some
dresses hung behind the door. The bedstead was small, the frame was of
hickory, with no footboard, ropes making the support for the husk tick.
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